Every Passover, Jews around the world sit down to retell the story of liberation, anchoring ancient tradition to contemporary realities. The seder compels us not only to remember our past but to examine our present and imagine a more just future. Among the most compelling and evocative moments in the Haggadah is the narrative of the Four Children—archetypes traditionally labeled the wise, the wicked, the simple, and the one who does not know how to ask. These figures invite introspection and communal dialogue, urging each generation to ask anew: who are these children at our tables today? What roles do we embody, and which do we hope for our children to fulfill? In 2025, amid deep generational divides, widespread ideological polarization, and ongoing communal traumas, these questions resonate with particular urgency.
Throughout Jewish history, these archetypes have continuously evolved. In 1948, as the State of Israel emerged from the shadow of the Holocaust, the wise child was perhaps the pioneer driven by idealism and necessity, rebuilding Jewish dignity and sovereignty. The wicked child, by contrast, might have been skeptical of nationalism or fearful of the potential ethical pitfalls in wielding power. During the Soviet Jewry movement of the 1970s and 1980s, the wise child might have been the passionate activist dedicated to freeing Jews from oppression, while the wicked child challenged the community’s confrontational strategies, perhaps arguing for quiet diplomacy or even questioning the communal investment in distant struggles.
Today’s context invites a deeper and more nuanced exploration. Let us first consider the so-called wicked child, whose provocative question—”What does this ritual mean to you?”—has often been interpreted as defiance or rejection. Yet, in 2025, this child might represent the voice of a younger generation genuinely wrestling with inherited trauma, institutional failures, and profound disillusionment with the world they have inherited. This “wickedness” is no longer mere rebellion; it signals an earnest longing for authenticity and relevance in a time of climate catastrophe, social upheaval, and resurgent antisemitism. When young Jews ask whether Judaism is worth holding onto, it is not to antagonize but rather to push us towards essential introspection. Judaism must respond meaningfully and convincingly, or risk irrelevance in their lives.
Next, we turn to the wise child, traditionally celebrated for intellectual curiosity and meticulous observance. Yet, wisdom in 2025 demands more than knowledge and adherence to tradition. Today’s wise child navigates profound complexity, refusing simplistic binaries and moral certainties. They hold in tension progressive values and Zionist pride, tradition and innovation, universalism and particularism. They understand that authenticity requires the courage to embrace contradiction and ambiguity. They model for us how to ask deeper questions and challenge our communal and personal assumptions, guiding us toward a Judaism that is simultaneously vibrant, reflective, and inclusive.
The simple child, historically portrayed as unsophisticated or naïve, might represent today’s Jews who grapple openly with uncertainty. Rather than simplistic or superficial, their stance embodies profound vulnerability and openness. In a society overwhelmed by information, polarized by ideological conflict, and driven by performative certainty, admitting genuine uncertainty becomes an act of radical honesty. This child openly acknowledges their Jewishness but struggles to articulate why it matters, inviting communities to offer meaningful engagement rather than rote practice. In many ways, simplicity becomes a form of bravery—a willingness to sit authentically with questions rather than prematurely offering answers.
Finally, the child who does not know how to ask is perhaps the most poignant figure in 2025. Their silence reflects neither ignorance nor indifference but rather deep disconnection, despair, or fear. This child might be overwhelmed by the vitriol on social media, the toxic discourse on campuses, or the politicization of Jewish identity. Their silence should alarm us—not because it signifies a lack of interest, but because it reveals the breakdown of trust, dialogue, and communal connection. As a community, we bear a responsibility to bridge divides, cultivate genuine relationships, and create safe spaces that encourage questions and dialogue rather than discourage them. Our task is to reach out compassionately and persistently, knowing that liberation and redemption cannot be complete without their voice.
The profound strength of the Four Children archetype lies in recognizing that we are not permanently fixed in any single category. At different points in our lives—or even within the span of a single seder—we may move fluidly between roles. The wicked child’s provocation invites us toward authenticity and deeper meaning. The wise child’s nuanced approach teaches us to hold contradictions gracefully. The simple child’s courage in uncertainty reminds us of the beauty in vulnerability. And the silent child’s painful absence demands that we actively foster safe spaces for reconnection and dialogue.
This Passover, as we reflect upon these archetypes, let us acknowledge that each one exists within us and within our communities. Let us commit to nurturing curiosity, authenticity, nuance, and vulnerability, recognizing that these qualities are essential for genuine liberation. The seder’s timeless wisdom is its insistence that redemption remains incomplete until every child—indeed, every voice—is genuinely heard and valued.
In 2025, our seder tables are more than ritual spaces; they are places of healing, growth, and communal renewal. As we navigate these complex roles and questions together, may we move ever closer to the promise of collective redemption, fully embracing the messy, profound humanity of each and every child.