Passover: The New Year of “We”

How our most communal holiday offers joy, purpose, and belonging—if we let it.

Let me tell you something upfront: I love Pesach (Passover). It is my favorite holiday of the year. The smell of freshly cooked food in a chametz-free kitchen, the anticipation of gathering around the table, the storytelling, the singing, the symbolic foods—it all makes me feel more Jewish, more connected, more alive.

If you’re dreading it, you might be doing it wrong.

I know not everyone feels that way. For many, Pesach sounds stressful—something between a spiritual cleanse and a spring cleaning boot camp. But here is my take: if you are dreading it, you might be doing it wrong. Yes, there are rules about what we can and cannot eat. And yes, we take those rules seriously. But scrubbing the baseboards with a toothbrush? Obsessing over crumbs behind your stove? That is not Judaism—that is anxiety. The rabbis did not want us to fear Pesach. They wanted us to experience it: to sit with family, to welcome guests, to tell our story, and to see ourselves as if we were the ones who went free.

Which brings me to a deeper point. Most Jews instinctively associate Rosh Hashanah with the New Year. And for good reason: it launches a season of awe, personal reflection, and spiritual reckoning that crescendos with Yom Kippur and culminates three weeks later with Shemini Atzeret. This sacred arc is focused on bein adam la-Makom—the relationship between a person and God. It is, in every sense, a spiritual New Year.

But the Torah gives us another beginning, a different kind of New Year—one that starts not in the fall month of Tishrei, but in the spring month of Nisan, the month of Pesach. “This month shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you” (Exodus 12:2). Spoken on the threshold of the Exodus from Egypt, this declaration is not merely calendrical—it is foundational. And if Rosh Hashanah is the spiritual New Year for the individual soul, then Pesach is the interpersonal New Year for the Jewish people as a collective.

Where Rosh Hashanah centers the individual’s relationship with God, Pesach begins a journey of bein adam le-ḥaveiro—between a person and another. It marks the transformation of a group of slaves into a people with shared memory, collective responsibility, and sacred purpose.

The Mishnah teaches that there are four New Years in Jewish tradition (Mishnah Rosh Hashanah 1:1). Nisan is identified as the New Year for kings and festivals—for public leadership and communal timekeeping. This framing underscores that Pesach is not just a story of personal liberation but the beginning of Jewish peoplehood.

The seder (Hebrew: “order”), the ritual meal that begins the Pesach festival, [repeated the second night for those of us outside of the Land of Israel], is itself a profoundly communal experience. Every aspect—from reclining together to retelling the Exodus narrative to sharing symbolic foods—reinforces our interconnectedness. One of the most moving moments in the Haggadah comes right at the beginning, when we declare: “Let all who are hungry come and eat!”

In my family, this has never been just a line to read—it is a principle to live by. Every year, growing up, our table was full of guests: friends or my parents' colleagues who did not have a seder to attend, students far from home, and even non-Jewish neighbors curious to experience a Pesach meal. There was always room for one more chair. It was understood: Pesach is not truly Pesach unless someone new is there.

That instinct—to open the door, to extend the table—is built into the holiday’s very design. The Torah commands: “If the household is too small for a lamb, let it share one with a neighbor” (Exodus 12:4). The korban Pesach (Passover offering) could not be eaten alone. It had to be shared, eaten by a ḥavurah—a fellowship of people joined by covenant and care. The very structure of the ritual required collaboration; the mitzvah (commandment) could not be fulfilled in isolation.

This New Year season of “we” begins with Pesach and culminates with Shavuot, the festival that commemorates the receiving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. From redemption to revelation, from freedom to responsibility, the seven-week journey of the Omer (the counting period between Pesach and Shavuot) bridges personal transformation and communal covenant.

At Sinai, the Torah states, “Israel encamped there in front of the mountain” (Exodus 19:2). Rashi, the 11th-century French commentator, notes that the verb “encamped” appears in the singular—indicating unity: “K’ish echad b’lev echad”—“Like one person with one heart” (Rashi on Exodus 19:2). That is the endpoint of the Pesach season—not merely freedom from oppression, but unity in sacred purpose.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik described this duality as the difference between a brit goral (“covenant of fate”) and a brit ye’ud (“covenant of destiny”). In Egypt, the Israelites were bound by fate—suffering together under slavery. But at Sinai, they chose a destiny—to accept a shared mission and vision of holiness.

Modern voices continue this theme. As Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks explains, Judaism begins not with abstract theology, but with historical experience, shared memory, and mutual obligation. The Pesach story, he teaches, calls on us to “befriend the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:19). The point of liberation is not self-congratulation, but moral expansion.

Even the mourning practices during the Omer reflect this interpersonal ethic. The Talmud recounts that Rabbi Akiva’s students died in this period “because they did not treat one another with respect” (Babylonian Talmud, Yevamot 62b). In other words, freedom alone is not enough—moral development and ethical relationships must follow.

This year, as we gather around our tables to tell the story of liberation, it is impossible to do so without thinking of those who are still not free. As of this writing, 59 hostages remain in Gaza, held in darkness while we prepare to light our holiday candles and open our doors to guests. Pesach demands that we tell the story as if we ourselves had gone out from Egypt. But it also demands that we remember those who are still trapped—physically, emotionally, or spiritually. This is not just their story; it is ours.

So as Pesach approaches, I hope you will consider this: The holiday is not just about cleaning and cooking. It is about connecting. It is the chag hacherut (“festival of freedom”), yes—but also the Rosh Hashanah of our relationships. It is our collective birthday. It is the beginning of a New Year of bein adam le-ḥaveiro, culminating in Shavuot, when we stood at Sinai and declared, “Na’aseh v’nishma”—“We will do and we will listen” (Exodus 24:7).

So go ahead—prepare your kitchen, clear out the chametz (leaven), and polish your silver if it brings you joy. But also prepare your heart. Make an extra place at your table. Share your story. And welcome someone new.

Because in the Jewish calendar, there are two beginnings. And Pesach is the beginning of us.

References

Soloveitchik, J. B. (2006). Kol Dodi Dofek: Listen—My Beloved Knocks (D. Z. Gordon, Trans.; J. R. Woolf, Ed.). Ktav Pub & Distributors Inc.

Sacks, J. (2001). Radical Then, Radical Now: The Legacy of the World’s Oldest Religion. HarperCollins.