I was asked this question by three separate people at last night's community seder, and probably a dozen more times throughout the year. I figure that there must be many more folks who are uncertain about it, so I thought it would be a good idea to answer the question and also offer some reflections on its meaning for contemporary Jews.

Is there one seder, or two? Is Passover seven days long, or is it eight?

In Exodus, chapter 12, the Torah says, as plain as day, that the ritual meal commemorating the exodus from Egypt—the origin of the seder—shall begin at twilight on the 14th of Nisan. It does not say anything about a meal on the evening of the 15th day, or any other. The text goes on to say:

You shall celebrate a sacred occasion on the first day, and a sacred occasion on the seventh day; no work at all shall be done on them; only what every person is to eat, that alone may be prepared for you. You shall observe the [Feast of] Unleavened Bread, for on this very day I brought your ranks out of the land of Egypt; you shall observe this day throughout the ages as an institution for all time. In the first month, from the fourteenth day of the month at evening, you shall eat unleavened bread until the twenty-first day of the month at evening. (Exodus 12:16-18, JPS Translation)

How did we end up with the idea that Passover is celebrated for eight days, when the Torah says seven? Where do we get seders on the first two nights, when the Torah only mentions a special meal on the first night?

The answer is that the rabbis instituted an additional day to all of the Torah-commanded festivals (except Yom Kippur) because of a problem in reckoning dates. In the early centuries of the common era, the new month was declared by the actual observation of the moon in Jerusalem. A month could not begin until the first sliver of the new moon was actually sighted and reported to the Sanhedrin (the chief rabbinic council). 

This, of course, created a problem for any community that was more than a day's travel from Jerusalem. A lunar month is approximately 29.5 days long. If you know what day the last month started, there are only two possibilities for the first day of the next month. It's either the thirtieth day after the last new moon or it's the thirty-first. But, how could people far from Jerusalem know which one to start on without a message from the Sanhedrin?

For Jewish communities in far away Babylon and Alexandria, information about the correct date could take weeks. The rabbis tried different methods to spread the news more quickly. A system of bonfires on mountain tops was instituted to announce the new month, but this system was easily foiled by opponents of the rabbis and Israel's enemies who set false fire signals. 

Eventually, the rabbis adopted a system in which communities outside the land of Israel were required to observe Torah-ordained festivals on two days—one day that would be correct if the previous month had been 29 days long, and one that would be correct if it had been 30 days long. All of the rituals associated with Rosh Hashanah, the first day of Sukkot, Sh'mini Atzeret, the first and last days of Passover, and Shavuot were repeated for a second day. This second day of the holiday for the diaspora, yom tov sheini shel galuyot, is the reason for two seders and for a total of eight days of Passover. 

In the fourth century, the rabbis switched to a calendar based on mathematical calculation of the lunar cycle instead of direct observation. This is the Hebrew calendar we still use. However, by that time, the practice of adding a second day to the holidays had been established as a permanent practice. In fact, the celebration of Rosh Hashanah as a two-day holiday had become so ingrained that it was observed even in Jerusalem, the city that knew the date of the new moon better than any other.

That's the way the holidays stayed until the Reform Movement arose in the 19th century. The early Reformers declared that the reason for the extra day of the holidays had disappeared more than a thousand years earlier, so they restored the biblical pattern of the holidays with only one day for Rosh Hashanah and seven days of Passover. However, the extra day of the festivals continues to be practiced today outside of the land of Israel by Orthodox and Conservative Jews. Inside the land of Israel, everyone observes the same holiday calendar. 

Just to make matters even more confusing, many Reform congregations in the diaspora, for a variety of reasons, now have re-adopted the practice of observing two days of Rosh Hashanah. Also, many Reform congregations (like the one I serve) offer a congregational seder on the second day of Passover to bring the community together on one of our most cherished holidays. We may say that, as Reform Jews, we do not observe the second day of Passover as a full holiday, but, for practical reasons, we do offer a second seder.

Is the diversity of calendars and holiday practices good for Judaism or is it bad? I find that to be a difficult question to answer. I certainly have seen Jews—some Reform and some Orthodox—who become indignant about those "other" Jews who don't observe the holidays the "right way." That kind of partisan and chauvinistic attitude separates one Jew from another is certainly not "good for the Jews."

On the other hand, diversity within the family of the Jewish people can also be seen as a good thing. It keeps us thinking about why we do what we do and it opens up our minds to new possibilities. Reform Judaism has become better in recent decades because it has faced the challenge represented by Orthodoxy and has responded by re-imagining rituals that were once discarded—like immersing in the mikveh and wearing a talit—and has injected new life and meaning into them. Orthodoxy, too, has become better by adopting worship practices that were innovated by Reform Judaism—like communal singing in worship services and greater roles for women. 

Whether you observed Passover this year with one seder or two, it is likely that your seder was different than the one your grandparents observed fifty years ago. That difference, in all likelihood, can be traced back to an influence inspired by the diversity of Judaism in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. 

Let a thousand seders bloom.


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Tonight's seder for the second night of Passover also coincides with the end of Shabbat. Traditionally, an extra paragraph is added to the blessing over the first cup of wine to make the havdalah blessing for the end of Shabbat. We do not use the usual twisted candle for havdalah; the blessing for "eish" (fire) is made over the festival candles.

The blessing ends on what sounds like an odd note. Usually, at the end of the havdalah ritual, we bless God, hamavdil bein kodesh l'chol,  "who makes distinction between sacred and ordinary." That is, we acknowledge that God makes a distinction between Shabbat, a holy day, and the ordinary days of the week. Tonight, however, when Shabbat is immediately followed by a second day of the festival, the blessing changes to hamavdil bein kodesh l'kodesh, "the One who makes distinction between sacred and sacred."

We make a blessing to acknowledge that there is a difference between the sanctity of Shabbat and the sanctity of Passover. There is something interesting and, perhaps, even profound about the idea that sanctity comes in different flavors. The blessing seems to be an secret invitation for us to discover and name all the different families, genera and species of holiness.

Is there a holiness of human beings that is different from the holiness of plants and other animals? In Jewish tradition, we make blessings for getting out of bed in the morning, for drinking a glass of water, and for using the bathroom. Do each of these everyday activities have a different type of holiness? Is the holiness of a sunrise different from the holiness of a sunset? 

Whenever I meet with people in my synagogue office, I try to recognize each person as a holy representation of the image of God. It is helpful, somehow, to recognize that each person may posses a different kind of holiness. We each are different and each bring a different aspect of divinity into the world. Blessed is the One who makes distinction between my sacredness and your sacredness.

To carry the thought a bit further, there is also this. The day I married my wife is sacred to me. The day each of my children was born is sacred to me, and each in different ways. The day each of my grandparents died, the day I first walked in the land of Israel, the day I became a rabbi, the day that I began to serve the congregation that is my spiritual home…all of these moments are sacred to me, each in its own way. 

Part of the challenge of religious living is to seek out the holiness in each moment. Each experience and each moment of our lives can be sacred in a different way. Whether it is a moment when I am laughing with my children, a moment when I am frustrated with a student, a moment when I am washing the dishes, or a moment when I am holding the hand of a person who is sick, each moment can be a holy moment in the rainbow of holy moments. 

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha-Olam, Hamavdil bein Kodesh l'Kodesh.


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My younger daughter and I made matzah yesterday evening. (It’s surprisingly easy). I do this most years in preparation for Passover and we use the homemade matzah to fulfill the mitzvah of eating matzah at the seder. My daughter begged to help me; making matzah is a lot of fun for kids.

I had this moment of realization while making the matzah that seems to strike me every year, as if for the first time. While squishing the dough between my fingers, I remembered why all matzah must be baked before the holiday begins. Once Passover starts, no more matzah can be made.

The reason is surprising, simple and paradoxical: It is impossible to make matzah without also making chameitz.

So, I need to give a bit of background here. Matzah is the flat, unleavened bread that is eaten during Passover as a sacred obligation. It is made by combining flour and water, mixing them quickly, and placing the flattened dough into a very hot oven within eighteen minutes, before it has time to rise.

We usually think of chameitz as the opposite of matzah. It is any food made from grain that is not matzah. Bread, cookies, cake, beer, pasta, cereal and grain-based liquors are all examples of chameitz. All are forbidden during Passover. Chameitz, during Passover, represents our “puffy” egos and inflated sense of self. Not only is it not permitted to eat these foods, according to traditional Jewish law, one is not even permitted to own chameitz during Passover. 

And this is the reason why you cannot make matzah during Passover. In the simple act of combining flour and water, chameitz is a necessary by-product. Any water-flour combination that does not enter the oven within eighteen minutes becomes chameitz. 

As I was making the matzah with my daughter, we were constantly cleaning off the white, sticky dough that covered the rolling pins, the counter, our hands and our aprons like glue. All of it becomes chameitz; all of it would be forbidden to be in our house after Passover begins on Friday evening.

This is the paradox of matzah and chameitz. They are not really opposites. Rather, the distinction is only in the arbitrary conceit that flour and water turn into chameitz in eighteen minutes. Matzah and chameitz are separated only by the fire of the oven and the fire of our imaginations. 

There is a teaching about this narrow distinction between matzah and chameitz based on the similar spellings of the two words in Hebrew. Matzah is spelled mem, tzadi, hey. chameitz is tzadi, mem, chet. The two words are as close to each other as the two letters hey (ה) and chet (ח)—distinguished only by a small gap in the hey. The only difference between matzah and chameitz is in that gap, a narrow space in which we allow God to enter.

The fact that we cannot make matzah without making chameitz reminds us during Passover that we cannot create any holiness in our lives without also introducing the possibility of its shadow. We cannot make ourselves more holy without also introducing arrogance and self-aggrandizement into our egos. We cannot purify ourselves spiritually without also risking the possibility that we will thereby separate ourselves from others. Like matzah and chameitz, sacred holiness and gross arrogance are not really opposites. They are separated only by the small gap of how we invite God into our consciousness.

The matzah we made with our own hands is, like us, both spiritual and earthy. It is bound up in the sweat and labor of ploughing fields, growing grain, grinding, kneading and baking. At the same time, it is elevated to the sacred by careful attention to our intentions. By noticing the subtle differences between pious humility and arrogant self-righteousness, between hey and chet, between matzah and chameitz, we discover how we can be both material and divine.


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There is no Jewish ritual that requires more planning than the Passover seder. It is not just the cleaning and removal of chameitz from the house. It is not just the meal planning, the shopping, the baking and cooking. It is not just setting the table, reviewing the Haggadah, and planning the seder. On top of all of that, the really hard part is doing it all in ways that inspire us, spiritually move us, and fill us with joy. 

Here are some ways to plan joy into your seder:

1) Answering children's questions is the main purpose of the seder and it is the experience that gives the seder a heart and soul. Get started early on helping the children attending your seder to have questions that they are genuinely curious about. Read Passover stories with them and start writing down the questions they ask. Even better, get them to tell you the story and find the questions together with them. The haggadah reminds us that we have an obligation to teach each child in a way that is appropriate to his or her abilities and interests. Make sure that you get older and more curious children to ask deeper questions in a way that will keep them interested—How do we experience slavery in our lives today? Where is Pharaoh in the world today and where is Pharaoh in our own hearts?

2) Keep a balance between traditions and new innovations. Many of the joys of the seder come from doing things exactly as they have been done in the past—with cherished ritual objects, favorite recipes, and the little details that make the seder your own. Be aware, though, of the places where traditions have outlived their purpose or have grown stale. My family use to conduct our seder under a tent in the living room as a way to give us more room and make the seder more exciting for the kids. After a few years, though, the innovation turned into a just another "thing we're supposed to do," so we dropped it. Try at least one new thing every year.

3) Don't turn the Haggadah into an idol. I love the poetry of the Haggadah, but I know that there are plenty of seders in which reading the words becomes more important than finding meaning in them. It is helpful to remember that the Haggadah developed over centuries. In its original form, the Haggadah was little more than an outline of topics and a series of suggestions for conducting the seder. Give the Haggadah its due, but make sure its message doesn't get swallowed up in its words.

4) Sing. Sing. Sing. The seder has some of the funniest and oddest music in the entire repertoire of Jewish liturgy. Enjoy it and sing it out. When else during the Jewish year do we sing a sacred song about how "it would have been enough" for God to deliver us from Egypt even if we never got the Torah? How odd is it that we ask our children to sing a song of questions that we never completely answer? Who can explain a song that is the Jewish equivalent of "There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly"? Have fun with them all.

5) Share your seder. There is a moment in the seder in which we open the door and invite all who are hungry to join us. It should not be just a symbolic gesture. There are plenty of people who hunger for food and there are plenty of people who hunger for spiritual and community connection. Invite them to your seder and discover how much more joyful your seder can be when you welcome others to join you, especially those who may not otherwise have any seder to attend.

What are your suggestions for a more joyful seder? Let us know in the comments.