For Pesach 5785 (2025), as fifty-nine Israelis still languish in Hamas captivity, the Hostages Families Forum published a new Passover Haggadah telling the Pesach story through the lens of the hostages: those already released and those still yearning for their freedom. It was called, quite fittingly, The Haggadah of Freedom.
During long centuries when our national redemption was a distant dream, it is only fitting that a personal redemption should fill its space
There is nothing new about employing the biblical redemption from Egyptian bondage in the general context of liberty, and individual liberty in particular. In a seasonal piece emphasizing the individual freedom that the Pesach story teaches, Tel Aviv University concluded with a blessing: “We should all be liberated from our personal, social, physical, and psychological enslavements.” Moreover, the Chaddisic and Mussar traditions also lean toward a focus on the personal redemption of Pesach: redemption from the evil inclination and our negative character traits. During long centuries when our national redemption was a distant dream, it is only fitting that the idea of personal redemption should fill its space.
Yet, while these forms of personal redemption are worthy, they are not the principal focus of Seder Night. Pesach marks the beginning of our national journey. It is the national birthday of the Jewish People, created on Pesach by Divine hand: “This nation I have created for Myself, they shall tell My glory” (Yeshayahu 43:21). Pesach is therefore zeman cheruseinu, the time of our collective freedom, our national freedom.
The festival celebrates our national freedom. We rejoice in the freedom to be ourselves, to live life under Hashem, our own God. Our redemption is only complete at the sea with the destruction of Egypt, our national enemy, at which we burst into song. We are thus free to journey to our land, receiving the Torah (the constitution that defines our role) en route, and there constitute our national life. This is the fundamental content of the Pesach festival.
Many ramifications follow from this core insight, ranging from the issue of our hostages to the question of the Charedi draft. Below is a brief elaboration.
The Absence of Moshe Rabbeinu
The most striking feature of the Haggadah is, paradoxically, an omission: Moshe Rabbeinu, the very leader who, by Divine mission, brought us forth from Egypt, goes entirely unmentioned. Of course, this is no oversight. Considerable effort was required to ensure his name would be absent on the night dedicated to commemorating our redemption.
One reason for this omission—perhaps the more straightforward explanation—is to underscore, with singular focus, the role of Hashem Himself. As the Haggadah proclaims, it was Hashem who redeemed us in His full glory—not through an angel, not a seraph, and not through any messenger: “I am Hashem—I and none other.” Hashem’s name is absent from Megillas Esther to highlight the centrality of human action in exile; Hashem manages the affair in the dark. In the Haggadah, the spotlight is reserved for Hashem alone.
The freedom we celebrate on Seder Night is not the personal liberty so cherished in the West—a freedom that has brought great good on the one hand and moral decline on the other. Instead, it is the national freedom of a people
But there is a second reason, no less profound. In the story of our redemption from Egypt, there is no room for individuals. We did not emerge from Egypt as individuals but as a people: “a nation from the midst of another nation.” The freedom we celebrate on Seder Night is not the personal liberty so cherished in the West—a freedom that has brought great good on the one hand and moral decline on the other. Instead, it is the national freedom of a people.
Alongside its unwavering emphasis on Hashem as our sole Redeemer, the Haggadah highlights the collective—the people as a whole, a single entity through which Hashem fulfills His promise to the Avot and with whom He forges His covenant.
The Chametz of Individualism
In this sense, individualism during the days of Pesach resembles chametz. Throughout the year, we live comfortably with chametz. Rather than the embodiment of evil, it symbolizes the natural order with its goodness, pleasures, and refinements. But nature can represent evil, too. In Egypt—the birthplace of modern bread culture (leavening by means of sourdough)—these natural processes were elevated to an ideology that expelled transcendence from within the world. Nature, in the Egyptian paradigm, was divested of Divine illumination. In the pagan mindset, nature becomes divinity itself.
The speed that characterizes both the original redemption on Pesach and the annual commemoration symbolizes a departure from the rhythm of nature
In contrast, Pesach forbids chametz and celebrates matzah—a food that defies the mold of natural development. This is the essence of the “haste” (hipazon) in the Exodus from Egypt. The speed that characterizes both the original redemption on Pesach and the annual commemoration symbolizes a departure from the rhythm of nature. Pesach marks the penetration of the sacred into the world—a breach opened by a reality foreign to the ordinary processes of leavened life.
So too with our individuality. Our being individuals—each with a unique temperament, with distinct traits, strengths, and inclinations—is our nature, our personal makeup. There is nothing wrong in this. On the contrary, like the natural world, our individuality is a wondrous vessel that serves us throughout the year, both in matters sacred and mundane. Yet, during the days of Passover, we set that nature aside and highlight the national dimension that transcends our personal identities.
This is how we begin Seder Night—with a declaration of national belonging expressed in the form of an open invitation. Throughout the year, we tend to choose our guests in accordance with personal taste and temperament, according to the character of the meal, the company at hand, and the mood we wish to create. But on Leil HaSeder, we begin with a proclamation: “Whoever is in need—let them come and eat the Pesach.” We set aside our individual preferences and unite as one people.
From Family to Nation
On Seder Night, the night of national inception, we gather as families. That is to say, the family serves as a gateway to the Jewish people and our national bond with Hashem. So it was with the eating of the Pesach offering—“a lamb for each household, a lamb for the home”—and so it remains today. As families, we declare our complete belonging to the nation, a nation whose very essence is sanctity: “Israel is holy to Hashem, the first of His harvest” (Yirmiyahu 2:3). We set aside personal and familial identity—the dimension of the profane that accompanies us throughout the year—and instead emphasize our national identity, the sanctity of Israel.
The people of Israel serve as a Divine embassy in a world governed by the mundane, and each year on Pesach, we mark the inauguration of that embassy—the moment of our birth as a nation
That national dimension is the vessel through which Divine transcendence penetrates the natural world. The people of Israel serve as a Divine embassy in a world governed by the mundane, and each year on Pesach, we mark the inauguration of that embassy—the moment of our birth as a nation. This moment is defined by a total rejection of the Egyptian ethos, which denied the Divine presence and providence in the world. As we read in the Haftarah of Vayikra: “This people I have formed for Myself—they shall declare My praise” (Yeshayahu 43:21).
The Seder Night experience of our redemption is our point of departure. It is here that we begin. The foundational recognition that we are a people, chosen and formed to bring Divine illumination into the world, to carry its lofty values and its boundless goodness—this is the truth we internalize on this great night. Even in the pursuits that occupy us throughout the year—a time of chametz, of emphasis on individual roles and personal identities—our actions must be guided by this essential understanding.
This insight is relevant to every public issue. Today, it bears on how we view the plight of the hostages. It is also deeply relevant to the question of the Charedi draft.
Great Debates: Hostages and the Charedi Draft
On the matter of the hostages, Isareli thinker Micah Goodman is among those who advocated for their release even at the cost of ending the war and releasing thousands of terrorists, all likely to return to the ranks of a reinvigorated Hamas. In his view, the fact that the hostages are our brothers obligates such action. But while appealing to a deeply Jewish instinct, we must remember that the very notion of “brotherhood” was forged at Yetziat Mitzraim, when the families of Israel became a nation. This raises something of an internal contradiction in his statement, whereby “we must be prepared to endanger our national security to rescue our brothers from hell.”
The hostages have become a national symbol. They are not merely individuals languishing in captivity; in a certain sense, the nation itself is captive with them
I agree that the hostage issue transcends the individual dimension. The hostages have become a national symbol. They are not merely individuals languishing in captivity; in a certain sense, the nation itself is captive with them. But only in a certain sense. In the end, the Haggadah is the story of a nation, not one of individuals. Even Moshe, as noted above, goes unmentioned. It calls upon us to remain loyal: loyal to Hashem and loyal to His people, our people. From this perspective, a policy of “release at any cost” is ethically and nationally untenable.
As for the question of Charedi military enlistment, Pesach underscores the primacy of the national dimension, not only over the individual but also over the familial and communal. In earlier generations, our national identity found expression solely through personal and communal loyalty. All Jews affirmed their national fidelity through devotion to Torah and mitzvot. There was nothing else to do, and it was this fidelity that kept up our national identity.
Today, however, national loyalty demands something more. Whether we chose it or not, the State of Israel has become the political representative of the Jewish people. The entire world recognizes this—how much more so in the wake of October 7—and so do we. The national identity proclaimed on Seder Night thus calls upon us to assume responsibility for cultivating Jewish life within the framework of the state—a framework that transcends the communal experience of Diaspora Jewry. Just as individualism recedes before the idea of peoplehood, so too does communalism become insufficient when weighed against the national calling.
Charedi rhetoric tends to assert that national belonging today is no different than in previous generations. The return of millions of Jews to the Land of Israel and the establishment of a Jewish state, it claims, merely allow us to reside in the land. This is worthy and important, but the criteria for being a “good Jew” remain exactly as they were, and they are defined by fidelity to Torah and mitzvos. The matter of the Jewish state makes no difference.
Our national existence has shifted radically, and with it, our national responsibility
But the truth, known to all, is that something has changed. Our national existence has shifted radically, and with it, our national responsibility. This responsibility now extends beyond the bounds of the community. Alongside Torah and mitzvos, it demands engagement with the everyday life of nation and state—and active participation in shaping them. The cutting edge of that responsibility, of course, is military service in the IDF.
One final point: both of these issues—the hostages and Charedi enlistment (alongside a couple of others)—lie at the heart of a deep public debate. It is both good and legitimate that we argue over them. Yet, the insight of national identity and belonging obligates us to conduct our arguments in a way that preserves national unity. Without that unity, the debate itself threatens to become a destructive rupture whose damage knows no bounds.
He Shall Be Called Holy
This week, in the days leading up to Passover, I gave a shiur to a new support group of Charedi wives whose husbands serve in the reserves. On the one hand, their husbands have been away from home for many long months—some for over a year. On the other hand, these women receive little of the communal support found in non-Charedi circles, and they themselves did not grow up with the national ethos that sanctifies military service. The shiur I gave became the inspiration for this essay—a tribute to the Kiddush Hashem these women embody as they navigate such complex and trying circumstances.
It is, for now, a small group. But it is part of a growing public within Charedi society—men and women—who see themselves as an integral part of the story of the Jewish people returning to its land, including thousands who serve in the IDF. Their efforts must be strengthened and affirmed. A Charedi individual’s entry into the enterprise of Jewish sovereignty does not erase his Charedi identity, but it does affirm that his primary identity lies elsewhere: in his Jewishness, in his national belonging. In doing so, he steps into a new realm—the sanctity of the people—and becomes a vital participant in its renewal.
On Passover, and especially this year, “He shall be called holy” (Yeshayahu 4:3).
Halevai that we will see more brigades composed of Charedim in the IDF!