March 31, 2026|י"ג ניסן ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Still at the Table: Why Jewish identity matters By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

A teacher once asked her students what religious objects they had in their homes. One child described a painting before which his mother knelt each day. Another spoke of a statue with incense burning before it. A third said, “In our bathroom we have a little platform with numbers on it. Every morning my mother stands on it and screams, ‘Oh my God!’”

We all have “religious objects.” The real question is what they mean.

For Jews, religious identity is classically defined through halachah – through mitzvah observance. We are Jews because we are Jewish according to Jewish law, and we express that identity through learning Torah and keeping mitzvot. But what about cultural Jewish identity? What about bagels and lox, Jewish humor, Hebrew names, or showing up to a Seder even if one is not fully observant? Is there any value to being culturally Jewish?

The Pesach story, especially as understood by Chazal, offers a fascinating lens through which to explore this question.

If you read the Torah’s account of slavery in Egypt, you might assume Bnei Yisrael were faithful monotheists. The Torah tells us that when Pharaoh died, the people cried out and their cries rose to God. Later, in recalling that period, they say explicitly that they cried out to God. On the surface, they appear spiritually intact.

But Sefer Yechezkel paints a starkly different picture. God rebukes the people for clinging to idolatry in Egypt. According to this account, they were steeped in the very practices of the Egyptians and nearly worthy of destruction.

So which is it? Were they believers – or idolaters?

Some, like the Rambam, take Yechezkel at face value: aside from Shevet Levi, the Bnei Yisrael succumbed to idolatry, and redemption came only because of God’s promise to Avraham. Others, such as the Ran and Rav Chasdai Crescas (cited by the Abrabanel), argue that the majority remained faithful, and Yechezkel refers only to a minority.

But a third approach is particularly striking. The Mechilta teaches that even if they were spiritually compromised, they possessed redeeming qualities. They did not change their names. They did not change their language. They maintained distinctive dress. They were morally restrained and did not betray one another.

In other words, even if they faltered religiously, they retained a cultural distinctiveness. They remained recognizably Jewish.

That cultural identity mattered.

In the 19th century, rabbinic leaders debated whether these Midrashim establish a lasting ideal. The Chatam Sofer, in his commentary on the Haggadah and in his ethical will, emphasized that the Jews were “metzuyanim” – distinguished – in Egypt through shem, lashon, and malbush (name, language, and dress). He warned his descendants not to abandon these markers.

His student, Rabbi Akiva Yosef Schlesinger, went even further, suggesting that distinctive identity markers are foundational – almost the body that carries the soul of mitzvot.

Yet in 1980, Rav Moshe Feinstein addressed a related question: may one name a child after a relative who bore a foreign name? Rav Moshe ruled leniently and reinterpreted the Midrash. Before Matan Torah, external markers were the only way Jews could distinguish themselves. After the Torah was given, mitzvot themselves define Jewish distinctiveness. Unique dress or language is no longer necessary.

So where does that leave us? Is cultural identity merely a relic of pre-Sinai Jewish life – or does it still hold value?

In The Dignity of Difference, Jonathan Sacks argues that religion’s particularism is not a threat to humanity but a gift. Universalism, when absolutized, can lead to coercion: if I have the only truth, then you must be corrected. Some of history’s worst atrocities – religious and secular – grew from that impulse.

The Torah’s vision is different. God makes a covenant with all humanity – and then chooses one people and commands them to be different. Particularism becomes a way of teaching the world to make space for difference.

Pesach is the founding story of that difference. Egypt, the superpower, could not tolerate distinctiveness. Redemption was not only about freedom from slavery; it was about the right to be different without being crushed.

When we live publicly as Jews – with pride – we affirm that difference is not dangerous. It is dignified.

What about Jews whose identity is primarily cultural?

Consider the rasha of the Haggadah. Unlike the wise, simple, or silent child, the rasha is defined morally. He distances himself: “What is this service to you?” Yet he is at the Seder table.

That matters.

He may reject mitzvot. He may challenge fundamentals. But he has shown up. There is something to work with. Cultural affiliation creates an opening for conversation.

Contrast that with the mumar who converts to another religion. The Rema rules that although such a person remains halachically Jewish, rabbinic law requires immersion in a mikvah upon return – a symbolic rebirth. The rasha, by contrast, needs no such process. He never left the table.

Perhaps Pesach is teaching us that even if our ancestors were spiritually compromised, their cultural distinctiveness preserved a thread of connection. God did not give up on them. As long as a Jew sits at the Seder table – even skeptically – there is hope.

Cultural identity is not the endpoint. But it can be the bridge.

For observant Jews, is cultural identity redundant?

History suggests otherwise. In early 19th-century Germany, the founders of the Reform movement initially introduced changes that were largely aesthetic: shorter services, sermons in the vernacular, choral music with organ accompaniment. These shifts were motivated in part by embarrassment. Judaism seemed archaic; refinement required adaptation.

Those cultural concessions became the first steps toward substantive halachic departures.

Rav Moshe famously remarked that the phrase capturing first-generation American Jewish decline was, “Es iz shver tzu zayn a Yid” – it’s hard to be a Jew. When Jewish life feels burdensome rather than beautiful, observance erodes.

Halachic obligation is essential. But pride is transformative. Without pride, mitzvot become boxes to check. With pride, halachah is not the ceiling but the floor.

There is a subtle tension in how we conduct the Seder. The Mishnah emphasizes expounding the verses of “Arami oved avi” – telling the story. The Mechilta suggests that when the wise son asks, we teach him halachic details until the laws of the afikoman.

Is Pesach about law – or about story?

The Haggadah answers through narrative. It recounts the five rabbis in Bnei Brak who spoke of the Exodus all night until their students informed them it was time for Kriat Shema. These were giants who knew the halachot thoroughly. Yet they lingered in the story. They sang Hallel deep into the night.

Pesach is not only about obligation. That is Shavuot – the mountain held over our heads. Pesach is about being chosen, loved, redeemed. It is about pride.

And that pride is not just for children with finger puppets. It is for us.

Cultural identity – names, language, dress – may not be halachically required in every era. Rav Moshe may be correct that mitzvot now define us. But what those markers represented in Egypt – confidence, cohesion, pride – remain indispensable.

Pesach calls on us to:

• Celebrate difference without arrogance.
• Keep the culturally affiliated Jew at the table.
• Infuse observance with joy and dignity.

When a Jew walks into work wearing a kippah without apology, when we sing zemirot even after the children have gone to sleep, when we speak about our people with admiration rather than embarrassment – we embody Pesach.

We were redeemed not because we were perfect, but because we were still us.

May we tell our story this year not only as a legal obligation, but as a declaration of pride – and may that pride deepen our commitment, strengthen our community, and remind us that being different is not a burden.

It is our blessing.