The Night That Can Redefine Your Life

Many years ago, the great artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti was approached by an elderly man who asked him to evaluate some drawings.

Rossetti looked carefully and gently told him the truth: the sketches showed little talent.

The old man wasn’t surprised.

Then he asked Rossetti to look at another set, this time, drawings of a young student. Rossetti’s face lit up.

“These are extraordinary,” he said. “This artist has tremendous potential. With encouragement, he could become great.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears.

“That was me,” he said quietly. “Forty years ago. If only someone had told me then… I gave up too soon.”

That is the tragedy of a life unlived.

And that is exactly what the Seder comes to heal.

For many, the Seder is just a meal. For others, it’s long, repetitive, and even boring.

But the Seder was never meant to be endured.

It was meant to awaken you.

The Torah calls Egypt Mitzrayim, a word that also means limitations.

Egypt is not just a place. It is a state of mind.

It is the voice that says:  
“You can’t.”
“You’re stuck.”
“This is who you are.”

Like that old artist, many of us live our entire lives never realizing who we could have become. 

No one ever told us how much light we carry. Eventually, we stop believing it ourselves.

We settle.

We give up too soon.

And then comes the Seder and declares:

You are not stuck.

You are not small.

You are not finished.

You can leave Egypt.

So here is the challenge of the night:

Think of one thing holding you back.

One fear. One habit. One conversation. One risk you’ve been avoiding.

And then do something about it. 

One bold step.

That is your personal Exodus.

And then the Seder does something even more radical.

We begin with “This is the bread of affliction”—and immediately follow with:

“Let all who are hungry come and eat.”

Think about that.

We were slaves. We suffered. We were broken.

So what do we do?

Not “do unto others as they did to you.”

But the opposite.

We choose empathy over bitterness.

We take our pain and use it to heal.

A small story captures this perfectly.

A boy once went to buy a puppy. One of them was limping.

“That’s the one I want,” he said.

The owner tried to dissuade him. “It will never run like the others.”

The boy rolled up his pant leg, revealing a brace.

“I don’t run so well either,” he said softly. “He needs someone who understands.”

That is what freedom looks like.

Not escaping pain but transforming it into compassion.

And then there is one more pillar of the Seder:

Children ask. 

Adults ask.

Even if you’re alone, you ask.  

Why?

Because slaves don’t ask questions.

Free people do.

A slave accepts reality.

A free person challenges it.

A slave is silent.

A free person is curious, searching, alive.

On Seder night, we don’t just tell a story.

We become people who question, who grow, who refuse to stay stuck.

So tonight, don’t just go through the motions.

Don’t just read the Haggadah.

Live it.

See your limitations, and break them.

Feel your pain, and elevate it.

Please ask your questions and request more details.

And most importantly, don’t be the man who gave up 40 years too early.

This is your moment.

Leave your Egypt.

Become who you were meant to be.

Chag kosher veSameach,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky