So That They Will Ask

by Rabbi Stephanie Kennedy

April 1, 2026 • 14 Nissan 5786

Malcah Zeldis, Passover Seder, 1984

On the night of Passover, the Seder does something remarkable. It centers children, not quietly, but deliberately, structurally, and even playfully.

There are surprising moments meant to spark curiosity. The Talmud teaches that we “snatch the matzah” (chotfin matzot) so that children will stay awake and ask questions (Pesachim 109a).

Today, we experience this as a familiar part of the Seder: yachatz, when we break the middle matzah and hide half for the afikoman. But imagine its origins: something happening quickly, a little unexpectedly, even a bit chaotically. A piece of matzah disappears, and a child looks up and wonders: Wait, what just happened?

In another moment, the Talmud describes removing the table before the meal has even really begun, an unusual disruption that demands a response. This too is done “so that the children will notice that something is unusual and ask” (Pesachim 115b on Sefaria). A child, seeing their food disappear, can’t help but ask: What is going on?

And then, we ask them to speak.

The Mah Nishtana, the Four Questions, are traditionally sung by the youngest child who is able. Not because they have mastered the material, but because their voice matters. Because their questions matter. Because the story cannot unfold without them.

Even the structure of the Seder acknowledges that children are not all the same. We speak of the wise child, the rebellious child, the simple child, and the child who does not know how to ask. Each one is approached differently, each one met where they are. And for the child who does not know how to ask, we are told: At p’tach lo, you must open it for them. You begin.

Even beyond the Seder itself, the day of Passover is shaped around children. The Talmud teaches that Rabbi Akiva would end his teaching early on the eve of Passover so that the children of his students could nap, so they could stay awake and participate that night (Pesachim 109a). And more broadly, we are told that there is an obligation to bring joy to our children and our households on the festival.

The Seder insists that this story is not just told to children, but through them and with them. It is an act of transmission that depends on relationship, responsiveness, and attention, and it begins with the way we shape the day itself.

And all of this is in service of something even deeper.

We are not only telling a story about what happened once, long ago. We are commanded: in every generation, a person must see themselves as if they personally came out of Egypt. The Seder is not history; it is memory reenacted. It asks each of us, and especially each child, to locate themselves inside the narrative and to feel that this story is theirs.

To inherit not only the experience of being freed, but the responsibility that comes with it.

Because our story does not end with liberation. It becomes a charge: You shall not oppress the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. Again and again, the Torah reminds us: remember what it felt like. Let that memory shape who you become.

Year after year, we return to the Seder table to practice this remembering. We create space for questions, for curiosity, for voices still finding their way. We tell the story in a way that invites the next generation to step inside it, not as observers, but as participants.

And in doing so, we pass on more than a story. We pass on a legacy: that we were once strangers, and that because of that, we are called to build a world where others are not.

May we tell it in a way that opens something, for our children, and for ourselves.