Not Ready, And Ready: A Passover Reflection
Rabbi Menachem Creditor
But this morning, as my wife and I were cleaning for Pesach, preparing our home for the festival of freedom, I noticed the time. My daily UJA broadcast was about to begin. I looked down and realized I was still wearing a t-shirt and hoodie—my hoodie from Camp Ramah Darom in Georgia, where we’d once been blessed to celebrate a Pesach full of spirit and community. I thought, Maybe I should change? Maybe I should make myself more "presentable?"
And then I realized… no. This is presentable. This is what it means to prepare for Pesach. You do what you do when it’s time to do it. We’re cleaning, we’re cooking, we’re showing up as our whole selves. That’s what community is. That’s what authenticity is. It isn’t about fashion. It’s about presence. It’s about readiness—not the polished, perfect kind, but the honest, messy, human kind. The kind of readiness that comes from knowing we are part of something larger, something ancient, something holy.
During Pesach, we retell the story of how we ran from Egypt. We ran. We didn’t pack. We didn’t choose outfits. We ate with haste. We stayed in our homes during the final plague, trembling on the threshold of redemption. And still, we were called to believe in the possibility of liberation.
This morning, I happened to be wearing a shirt that says, “We Will. We Will. We Are United for Victory.” I got it in Israel, on October 29, 2023—day 25 after the nightmare of October 7. I was there with a group of rabbis sent by UJA. I also received on that day the necklace I’ve worn every waking moment since then. Today is day 552. And on my wrist: a yellow bracelet from SAHI, a sacred nonprofit in Israel that empowers at-risk youth. It reads: “The greatest thing in the world is doing good.”
This—this—is what it means to be dressed for Pesach.
Yes, Saturday night, I will don my white kittel. It’s tradition. My father wears one, and so do I. The kittel is a garment for holy moments—weddings, Yom Kippur, leading davening for rain, and yes, burial. It reminds us that we stand vulnerable before God. That this night isn’t like other nights. It never has been.
But truly? We can never be fully ready for Pesach. Because Pesach isn’t just about rituals or recipes or brisket or sponge cake. Pesach is about struggle. About hope. About the story.
We lean to the left, sure—but we tell a story that is uncomfortable, that is painful, that demands more of us than any one seder table can hold. We say, “Next year in Jerusalem,” and we mean it—because this year, the world is not as it ought to be.
This year, I’m thinking of Judy and Valerie on their way to Israel. I’m thinking of the stories our children will inherit. I’m thinking of how we prepare—not just our homes, but our hearts—to say, “We were there. We are here. And we are not done.”
There’s a story told about Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. A child, like so many of us, forgot where he put everything. So one night, he made a list before bed: “Glasses on the table. Pants on the chair. Shirt on the pants. Shoes under the bed. Socks in the shoes. And I am in the bed.”
Morning came. He found everything… but when he got to the final line—“And I am in the bed”—he looked and saw the bed was empty. He stood there and asked himself, “If I am not in the bed, then where am I?”
My friends, that’s the question, isn’t it?
Where are we?
We are in a moment beyond words. A moment we can barely name. A moment that future generations will one day study and tell stories about. They’ll write about this on the margins of their Haggadot. They’ll speak of what it meant to survive, to hope, to fight for freedom in 2024.
Every generation is called to see themselves as if they left Egypt. And maybe, just maybe, we understand Egypt better now than ever before. Because we’re living it. And we’re telling it. And we are choosing to be seen.
At my seder table this year will be a Haggadah created by the families of the hostages—full of heartbreak and holiness, full of truth. In it, Shlomo and Smadar Goren Alfasa write in memory of their murdered family members Avner z”l and Maya z”l, and yes, even their dog Scar. In honor of their cat George, still searching for his people on Kibbutz Nir Oz to this day.
They write about Chad Gadya, the innocent goat, and how on their kibbutz the song was replaced by a poem—a shepherd on a mountaintop, playing a flute for the people of Israel.
Their message is clear: we are not alone. The gate is guarded. The land is worked. The melody continues.
We have always told these stories. We’ve always added to the Haggadah. That is the tradition. To say what is true. To feel what is real. To sing a new song even while remembering the old ones.
So I bless us, deeply: that as we step into Pesach, we remember we’ll never be ready. Not really. The lists will never be complete. The food will never be perfect. The world will never be whole.
And yet—we show up. We say, “Hineni.” Here I am. “Hinenu.” Here we are. Not ready. And ready. Ready enough to tell the story. To fight for freedom. To whisper next year in Jerusalem even with trembling voices.
We will dance again.
Maybe even during seder this year. And if we do not dance this year, then let us promise: Next Year in Jerusalem.