Cups Not Yet Full: A Seder Reflection
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
Yesterday, for the seventh year, I was honored to represent UJA at Citi Headquarters in New York City at their annual Pesach lunch-and-learn where I was blessed once again to share Torah with hundreds of employees from all over the world. From London. From Tel Aviv. From across the United States. Jews, non-Jews, colleagues, strangers. A global room filled with stories.
And there’s something profound that happens in that room each year. Amidst the corporate environment, people show up—earnestly, fully—to share their traditions and listen deeply to one another. This year, like last, I felt that sacred crackle of what real interfaith effort can be, moved that such depth could be part of a workplace environment.
Last year, when I spoke, I shared a core ritual of the Seder—how we spill drops of wine from our cup when we recite the Ten Plagues. Some use a pinky, some a spoon. My wife has a tradition of pouring directly from her cup, deeply emotional each time. Why do we do this? Because even as we celebrate our liberation, we recognize that freedom—holy and deserved—came at a human cost. We diminish our joy, if only by a few drops, in radical empathy for those who suffered in our story. Because our joy cannot be complete if it stands on someone else's pain, even those who caused us terrible pain.
That moment in the Seder teaches us that even in our most triumphant telling, we are commanded to remember the intrinsic worth of others. Freedom that ignores human suffering – even the Egyptians who oppressed and terrorized our ancestors - isn't true freedom from a Jewish perspective. We are not permitted to erase another's humanity, not even in moments of our own pain.
Last year, I shared these thoughts in that room at Citi, pointing to the immediate and horrific applicability in the immediate aftermath of Hamas’ attack on Israel on October 7, 2023. And after we finished, as people were heading off to lunch, a young woman approached me, tears in her eyes. She introduced herself and said, “I have lost many family members in Gaza during this war. I’m grateful that you said something about them.” I was thunderstruck, so moved that she understood how much I meant what I had shared, that her Gazan family’s loss mattered so deeply to my Jewish heart.
I was overwhelmed. Even in my pain—and we are still in pain, still fighting—I had spoken with love and respect for her family. We hugged and cried on each other’s shoulders. It was one of those sacred, human moments that stays with you. I told her then, and I believe it even more now: I want her to have a full cup too. I want her to know that her family is loved, that their lives are not worth less than my own family’s.
Just yesterday, I gave my Pesach talk at Citi again, touching once again on Pesach’s themes of universal human dignity learned from the particular Jewish story. And then, she stood up. In front of hundreds of people, she shared that last year’s Seder had moved her so deeply that she became a co-chair of Citi’s interfaith employee initiative. She has, since that day, helped organize Diwali, Christmas, Iftar—and this was her second Passover.
I sat in awe. That’s what it looks like when a community takes faith seriously, when humanity becomes the core expression of religion. And it affirmed the ancient ritual of spilling our wine—of reducing our joy in solidarity with sisters and brothers beyond the tribe.
Friends, I am morally obligated to fight for my family. I do so with conviction. And yes, that fight can make it harder to remember the humanity of the other. But I must. We must. Because the work of liberation will only be complete when everyone's cup is full.
Each year at the Seder, we open the door. As a child, I used to race to open it, certain I’d see Elijah the Prophet standing there, ready to usher in a better world. But somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting him. I grew jaded. The door creaked open, and I knew no one would be there.
But I’m working hard these days to believe again. To hope that when we open the door this year, Elijah and Miriam will be there, whispering that things are getting better. And I believe my sister at Citi is hoping for the same.
Maybe, if we remind ourselves of our shared humanity—if we insist on being seen fully and insist on seeing others fully—we will come closer to that world we dream about. A world where liberation is not a zero-sum game. Where every drop of joy lost is restored by our collective labor.
I’ve been looking at the faces of the 59 hostages still desperate to come home. I think of Tamir Adam, taken at 38 from Kibbutz Nir-Oz, and Muhammad Al-Atarash, taken at 39 from his community in Otef Azah. Two brothers from different families, both stolen from their rightful places in the world. We’ve got work to do to free them, and we will do that work.
May we do that sacred work with joy, broken hearts still beating, hands ready to open the door.
And may more people have more joy next year—because of the work we’ve done this one.
