Every year, people co-opt Passover to push partisan agendas. This year, Jewish human rights groups are already promoting Passover Haggadah materials that urge people to put “social justice on your seder table” and confront “racism,” poverty, authoritarianism, and the climate crisis. Instead of letting the holiday change us, we keep recruiting it to endorse causes.
Predictable columns recast the holiday as a lesson in immigrant rights. Reform Judaism even encourages adding modern political symbols to the seder plate, like olives in solidarity with Palestinians, oranges to symbolize LGBTQ+ inclusion, fair-trade chocolate to represent labor rights, and acorns to honor American Indians.
I’m guilty of this myself. I once wrote a column arguing that including the “wicked child” at the Seder table symbolically rejects cancel culture, and an article arguing that the Exodus story defends free speech because Moses demanded that Pharaoh “let my people go,” and the Israelites merited redemption, in part, by preserving their language under slavery.
But politicizing religion risks overshadowing its personal and spiritual essence.
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Progressives do this. Conservatives do too. The right invokes the Bible to oppose abortion and defend traditional family values. The left invokes it to champion social justice.
Pope Leo XIV used a recent address to the diplomatic corps to insist that “every migrant is a person” with “inalienable rights” and to warn governments against using crime and trafficking as excuses to erode migrant dignity. Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, who in the name of God publicly called for mercy toward refugees after President Donald Trump’s inauguration last year, has reentered the immigration fight by appearing at anti-ICE protests in Minnesota in January 2026.
Each side finds its cause, often citing contradictory verses to prove its case. Nehemiah 4:13-14 is used to justify border security by comparing it to defending Jerusalem’s walls, while Leviticus 19:34 is used to advocate for a more permissive immigration policy because it commands kindness toward the foreigner. Genesis 2:15 supports environmental policy because it presents humans as caretakers, while Genesis 1:28 speaks of dominion over nature and can be used to justify exploiting natural resources.
When religion is reduced to political ammunition, it loses meaning. It becomes performative instead of transformative.
Of course, faith can also be a force for moral clarity in public life. The Exodus inspired abolitionists. Rabbis marched for civil rights. But faith should do more than fuel activism. Faith is deeply personal.
It’s like the old ethical teaching about a person who spends his life trying to change the world, his country, his town, and his family before finally realizing he had to change himself first if he wanted to make the greatest impact. Passover makes the same demand. Before we use the holiday to fix the world, it asks us to confront our own demons.
I have felt this tension at my Seder table. Instead of soul-searching, I mindlessly skim the Haggadah, muse about scientific explanations for the splitting of the sea and the ten plagues, or drift into politics. Anything but inner work.
But Passover is not about figuring out the world’s problems. It is about the bondage within ourselves. It is about allowing the story to transform us. The Haggadah commands each person to see themselves as if they personally left Egypt. It is not a metaphor for someone else’s struggle, for whichever political leader you think Pharaoh represents, or for whichever oppressed people mirror the Israelites. It is a challenge to confront our own constraints and pursue our own redemption, one good deed at a time.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe rebuilt Jewish life from the ashes of the Holocaust through this principle. As documented in “Letters for Life,” the Rebbe focused not on politics or ideology but on encouraging one positive act, one mitzvah, at a time to create lasting transformation. Psychology backs this up. Behavioral activation therapy, used to treat depression, shows how purposeful action can reshape the mind even before motivation arrives.
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The Seder reflects the same idea. The four cups of wine represent stages of breaking destructive patterns, embracing positive change, developing ethical awareness, and internalizing growth.
Through ritual and storytelling, we make our way toward liberation. We do not just remember the Exodus. We live it.
Even matzoh teaches us. Unlike bloated bread, it is flat and humble. It stands in stark contrast to a culture obsessed with image and ego. In a world that rewards puffed-up self-importance, matzoh reminds us that true liberation begins with humility. You cannot escape Pharaoh if you are still enslaved to your own ego.
We eat bitter herbs at the Seder not only to remember our ancestors’ suffering but also to confront our own, to taste the bitterness we carry and draw out what we have buried.
Egypt is not just a historical place. It is a personal metaphor. Mental chains are just as real as physical ones. Fear, shame, addiction, and resentment are our modern Pharaohs. The Seder gives us a spiritual roadmap to break free.
Faith is not meant to serve our platforms or confirm our political biases. It is meant to challenge us and transform us into better human beings.
