Passover is, fundamentally, a holiday of presence. Families and friends gather together around tables laden with symbolic foods, recounting an ancient story of liberation from slavery and reflecting upon themes of freedom, redemption, and renewal. The seder, with its meticulously structured rituals and deeply embedded symbolism, is perhaps Judaism’s most intimate and personal communal experience. Yet each year, many of us find ourselves confronting an achingly poignant symbol: the empty seats at our tables.
The presence of empty chairs at the Passover seder is not a recent innovation, nor is it mere happenstance. Historically, Jews have consciously left seats vacant to represent those who cannot join, serving both as a silent tribute and a poignant call for action. During the era of Soviet Jewry, families around the world reserved seats to acknowledge Jews trapped behind the Iron Curtain, unable to openly celebrate their identity or practice their faith. These chairs were powerful symbols, visible reminders of freedom denied, of silence imposed, and of hope sustained through collective memory and communal action.
Similarly, in the aftermath of the Holocaust, many Jewish families incorporated empty seats as physical manifestations of loss and remembrance. Each vacant chair spoke volumes, silently echoing with the lives and stories of those brutally taken away. For survivors and their descendants, these seats were more than symbolic gestures; they were necessary markers of grief, testimony, and the enduring strength of memory. They served as prompts for conversations about resilience, survival, and the moral obligations of remembrance, creating space for reflection amid communal celebration. Memory, often described as a Jewish sixth sense, allows us to connect deeply with the past, turning historical experiences into lived realities and guiding our ethical compass.
Today, the tradition of the empty seat continues to evolve, adapting to our contemporary realities. In recent years, especially following the tragic events in Israel and around the globe, the empty chair has once again emerged as a powerful symbol—this time for those held hostage, victims of violence, and soldiers missing in action. For many Jewish families this Passover, these empty chairs are not abstract representations but deeply personal acknowledgments of loved ones who are missing, taken from their tables by violence or conflict. Families in Israel and the diaspora are faced with the excruciating reality that these chairs may remain empty indefinitely, serving as stark reminders of ongoing conflict, vulnerability, and communal grief.
Yet the empty seat at our seder table carries with it theological implications that are profoundly complex. Passover commemorates freedom and liberation—core values celebrated with joy and gratitude. But how do we authentically engage with such celebration when confronted with absence, loss, and injustice? Judaism, characteristically, does not shy away from such tensions. Instead, it embraces them, weaving grief and joy, absence and presence, into the very fabric of ritual. The empty seat thus becomes not only a symbol of loss but also a spiritual prompt, urging us toward deeper empathy, greater communal responsibility, and more active engagement in the pursuit of justice.
In the words of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the seder night challenges us to hold multiple truths simultaneously: joy in freedom, sorrow in loss, hope in uncertainty. The empty chair embodies this spiritual paradox, compelling each of us to reflect deeply on our responsibilities towards one another. It reminds us that freedom celebrated alone, without mindfulness of those who remain unfree or absent, is incomplete. The seder, therefore, is not merely a celebration of historical redemption but an annual recommitment to the ethical imperatives that freedom demands of us.
This recommitment calls us into action. The presence of the empty chair at our seder table should not merely serve as a passive memorial. Rather, it should propel us toward greater advocacy, solidarity, and tangible support for those affected. We must use these reminders to galvanize our communities, to learn the names and stories of those who cannot join us, and to work actively for their liberation or memory. Whether through supporting organizations dedicated to freeing hostages, engaging in educational efforts about contemporary injustices, or simply reaching out personally to those grieving, our seder becomes more than ritual—it transforms into meaningful action. I strongly recommend listening to the recent episode of the ‘Call Me Back’ podcast featuring Rachel Goldberg-Polin, who poignantly discusses the profound significance of Passover amidst the ongoing captivity of her son, Hersh, and others held in Gaza. Her powerful reflections underscore the urgent moral and ethical implications that resonate deeply with the holiday’s themes. (https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-paradox-of-passover-2025-with-rachel-goldberg-polin/id1539292794?i=1000702442883)
Additionally, the empty seat invites personal reflection. Each of us, at some point, confronts empty chairs around our tables, symbols of those we have personally lost—grandparents, parents, siblings, or friends. These chairs embody our personal grief, demanding space within our rituals for individual mourning alongside communal celebration. As we gather around our tables, we inevitably recall voices now silenced and faces we miss dearly. The seder offers a sacred space in which this grief is acknowledged openly, intertwined with our collective historical narrative. By intentionally making room for personal loss in our communal practice, we foster environments of healing, remembrance, and spiritual resilience. Memory, our uniquely Jewish sixth sense, ensures that those we have lost continue to influence and inspire our lives and actions.
Ultimately, Passover and its empty chairs remind us of Judaism’s profound understanding of human complexity. Our tradition recognizes that celebration and sorrow are not mutually exclusive but deeply intertwined aspects of human existence. It teaches that genuine freedom—whether personal, communal, or national—is always marked by empathy, remembrance, and moral responsibility. Each empty chair calls us toward an active, engaged spirituality, reminding us that our liberation is inseparable from our obligation to remember, to advocate, and to act.
Thus, as we gather this Passover, let us honor those empty seats intentionally and meaningfully. Let us speak openly of those missing, tell their stories, and allow their absence to resonate deeply within our hearts. In doing so, we transform these empty chairs from symbols of loss alone into powerful motivators for ethical reflection and moral action. Our seder tables, filled with voices present and memories of those absent, will remind us that true liberation is not yet fully achieved until all chairs are filled, and all voices can freely join in our songs of freedom.