Passover is a holiday centered around the number four. Four cups of wine, four questions, four sons, and more. The number four appears repeatedly in the Haggadah. Because of this, I decided to write four special posts—one each week before the holiday—focusing on four different aspects of Passover. I have a strong connection to Passover; my parents named me Pesah in Hebrew. I can’t say if that has anything to do with my love for the holiday, but it is definitely my favorite.
First, I want to discuss the origins of the holiday. Where did it come from? Why do we celebrate it, and how has it evolved over the years?
The origins of Passover are found in the Torah, where it begins as two separate springtime observances: Pesach, the sacrifice of the lamb on the night of the Exodus, and Chag HaMatzot, the festival of unleavened bread, the spring harvest holiday that follows. Over time, these originally distinct observances merged into a single celebration, both a remembrance of liberation and an expression of thanks for the spring harvest.
During the Second Temple period, Passover gained a new communal meaning centered in Jerusalem. Pilgrims from all over brought their offerings to the Temple, and families gathered to share the sacrificial meal within the city walls. The focus was no longer just on the historical Exodus but also on the living expression of covenant and worship. The experience must have been extraordinary—the city alive with music, prayer, and the aroma of roasting lambs.
After the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, Jewish life experienced a major transformation, and so did Passover. Without the paschal sacrifice, the holiday moved from the altar to the home table. The earliest rabbinic texts show the sages trying different ways to keep the spirit of the festival alive through words, foods, and shared stories.
One of the most fascinating glimpses into this transitional period is the tenth chapter of Tosefta Pesachim, which many view as capturing an earlier stage of the post-Temple Passover meal. The Tosefta’s account of the night highlights extended teaching and discussion of the laws of Pesach and the Exodus story, extending late into the evening. Some elements that seem fundamental to us are subdued or absent, creating the impression of a simpler, less structured gathering that is still in the process of forming its ritual identity.
In contrast, the Mishnah’s tenth chapter of Pesachim presents a more organized view of the night. Here, we see familiar elements of our Seder: multiple cups of wine, the child’s questions, the duty to explain the Exodus, and a structured progression of the meal. Following Rabbi Judith Hauptmann’s approach, we can see the Tosefta as maintaining an earlier stage while the Mishnah offers a later, more systematized version, bringing the evening closer to what we recognize today. On the page, you can almost observe the Seder developing—from a more informal night of learning into a carefully planned sequence of rituals.
Over the centuries that followed, especially during the Geonic and medieval periods, the Seder and Haggadah continued to develop. Early Haggadah texts were passed down by the Geonim, and by the Middle Ages, the core structure of our Haggadah—the blessings, Ha Lachma Anya, Mah Nishtanah, Rabban Gamliel’s teachings on Pesach, matzah, and maror, and the closing songs—was mostly established, even as wording and customs varied between communities. Later printed Haggadot didn’t create the Seder but rather documented a living tradition that had been evolving for generations.
If we follow the story of Passover further, one of the most beautiful threads we can trace is art. For centuries, Jews have not only recited the Haggadah but also painted, carved, and printed it, turning the Exodus into something you can see and touch. Medieval illuminated Haggadot from Spain and Ashkenaz—like the Golden Haggadah or the Sarajevo Haggadah—surround the text with vibrant miniatures of biblical scenes and Seder rituals, transforming the book into a kind of visual midrash. These were expensive, communal treasures, but they show that even then, Jews wanted the story of leaving Egypt not just on their lips but also on the page in color and gold.
With the rise of printing, Haggadot became more accessible, along with illustrated versions. By the early 16th century, editions like the Prague Haggadah combined the familiar text with woodcut images that guided readers through the Seder: families around a table, baking matzah, scenes of the plagues. These early printed illustrations set the template for generations of later Haggadot, making what the great manuscripts did for a select few available to ordinary families and giving them a chance to “see” the story as they read it.
In the last century, Haggadah art has diversified in style and purpose. Modern artists have reimagined the Exodus with bold line drawings, collage, photography, and new illumination techniques. Some contemporary Haggadot incorporate visuals as direct commentary on oppression and hope; others utilize design and typography so that the page layout itself becomes part of the spiritual experience.
Along with this visual creativity, the themes of the Haggadah have expanded. New Haggadot have been made for labor movements, Zionist groups, feminist Seders, LGBTQ+ communities, peace organizations, and many others, each using the story of liberation to speak to its own struggles and hopes. The language of moving from slavery to freedom has been used for civil rights, refugees, political prisoners, and deeply personal journeys. The artwork in these Haggadot often reflects these concerns: images of protests, open doors, broken chains, and diverse faces gathered around one table.
When I look at this long arc—from biblical lamb and matzah through the experimental Seders of the Tosefta and the ordered meal of the Mishnah to medieval illuminations, early woodcuts, and today’s artist Haggadot—I’m struck by how Passover continuously invites each generation to add its own layer. The core story remains fixed, but its telling is never complete. Every new ritual detail, every illustration, every themed Haggadah offers another way of answering the same question: what does it mean, here and now, to say that we were slaves and now are free?