Most Messianic seders feel more like Christian plays with Jewish props than covenantal meals. Matza becomes a metaphor, wine becomes a symbol, and Jesus is slotted in as the Passover lamb—but the context, the halakha (Jewish Law), the structure that gave the lamb its meaning? Gone. What remains is a well-meaning approximation, often with little connection to the lived halakhic reality of ancient Israel or the deeper implications of covenantal identity.
This isn’t meant to be a cheap critique. It’s meant to ask a deeper question: Have we inherited a version of the Passover that skips the covenant in favor of the symbol?
And more pointedly: Who are we in relation to Judaism—and to Jesus—if we’ve misremembered the seder?
The Real Passover: Not a Pageant, but a Covenant Rite
Let’s go back to the text—Exodus 12, Leviticus 23, Deuteronomy 16. The Passover was not a commemorative teaching tool. It was a halakhic act, a covenantal rite, governed by the Qahal (the assembly) and witnessed by the edah (the congregation of Israel).
The lamb was:
• Slaughtered at twilight on the 14th of Nisan
• Roasted whole, never boiled or stewed
• Eaten in haste, with matzah and maror (bitter herbs)
• Completely consumed or burned by morning
• Only eaten by those circumcised—those in the covenant
And if a sojourner (ger toshav) was to partake, they had to join the covenant (Ex. 12:48). This wasn’t an open invitation. It was a guarded rite, with deep theological and communal boundaries.
The Lamb Was a Rebellion
We forget this: in Egypt, the lamb wasn’t just a random animal. It was sacred. Particularly in the cult of Amun, rams and sheep were held in reverence. For Israelites to publicly slaughter lambs was a theological assault on Egypt’s gods, much like killing a sacred cow in India would be today.
This casts new light on what it means to say, as Paul does in 1 Corinthians 5:7, that “Christ our Passover lamb has been sacrificed.” This isn’t sentiment. It’s subversion.
It’s an indictment of the world’s idolatrous systems. Jesus doesn’t merely fulfill the symbol—He enacts the rebellion. And the claim only makes sense within the halakhic, covenantal structure of Israel.
Paul’s Claim Is Halakhic, Not Just Typological
When Paul says Jesus is our Passover, he’s not allegorizing. He’s saying something legally and theologically profound. For those who are in Messiah, the covenant is open—but it is still a covenant.
It’s not a soft spirituality. It’s a grafting in (Romans 11), a re-entry into the guarded meal through the blood of the Lamb.
But if we don’t understand the requirements of the original Passover—circumcision, community, consumption under authority—then Paul’s statement loses its punch. We’re left with a shadow, not a substance.
What Messianic Seders Often Miss
This is where things get sticky. Many Messianic seders:
• Spiritualize the symbols
• Leave out the halakhic requirements
• Reduce the lamb to metaphor
• Forget the authority of the Qahal (assembly)
• Never mention the edah (witnessing body)
• Offer inclusion without covenant
In doing so, they reproduce a common Christian problem: claiming Jewish symbols without Jewish structure. The result is a well-meaning but theologically confused pageant.
The Crucifixion on the 14th: Fulfillment or Imposition?
John’s Gospel places Jesus’ crucifixion on the 14th of Nisan, aligning him with the slaughter of the lambs—just before the official seder would have taken place. This has been read as typological fulfillment, but there’s a legitimate question here: Did the early Christian framing impose its meaning onto the calendar to make Jesus “fit” the feast?
Regardless of how one resolves the calendar debate, what remains is this: Jesus as the Passover lamb only makes sense if we honor the framework he fulfills. Without the covenantal architecture of the real Passover, the crucifixion becomes an abstract sacrifice rather than a covenantal act of liberation.
Have We Missed the Whole Story?
This is the real question. If we’ve turned the seder into a stage play and forgotten its halakhic roots, who are we, really, in relation to Judaism—and to Jesus? Have we traded the Qahal for an audience? The covenant for a metaphor? The roasted lamb for a cracker?
The early believers were not trying to start a new religion. They were living in continuity with the covenant of Israel—expanding it through Messiah, not abandoning it. If we are grafted in, as Paul says, then we must ask: grafted into what?
Not into Christian reenactments of the seder. But into the covenantal body of Israel, with its sacred rhythms, its guarded meals, its high demands—and its gracious God.
Enter the Dog: The Syrophoenician Woman and the Sacred Table
This brings us to one of the most misunderstood passages in the Gospels: the Syrophoenician woman in Mark 7 (and Matthew 15). Her story is often read as Jesus’ moment of stern compassion—but in reality, it’s a covenantal revelation. It’s where the lamb and the dog come face to face.
This brings us to one of the most misunderstood passages in the Gospels: the Syrophoenician woman in Mark 7 (and Matthew 15). Her story is often read as Jesus’ moment of stern compassion—but in reality, it’s a covenantal revelation. It’s where the lamb and the dog come face to face.
“Let the children be fed first, for it is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.”
— Mark 7:27
— Mark 7:27
To modern ears, this sounds harsh. But Jesus isn’t being rude. He’s stating the order of the covenant. The bread—like the lamb—is not for everyone. It belongs first to the children, the members of the Qahal.
In Torah terms, the bread of the table—like the sacred meat of the Passover—was for those in the household of faith, those circumcised, those marked by the covenant.
And so Jesus speaks as any Torah-honoring teacher would: the sacred food is not for outsiders, for the “dogs.”
But then comes the turn.
“Yes, Lord; yet even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
— Mark 7:28
She doesn’t argue the order. She accepts the halakhic boundaries, yet appeals to the overflow of mercy. She places herself not as a usurper, but as a ger toshav—a sojourner at the edge of the table. She speaks the language of covenant humility and recognizes the sanctity of the meal.
“For this saying, you may go your way; the demon has left your daughter.”
— Mark 7:29
Jesus grants her request because of this profound understanding. She has entered the story of Israel not through replacement but through humble participation. She sees the Lamb. She smells the bread. She knows that even crumbs from a covenant table can heal.
The Dog Who Understood the Lamb
This woman is the surprise guest at the seder. Not because the seder is universalized or sentimentalized—but because she knows where she is and what is at stake. She doesn’t need a new religion or a messianic spectacle. She needs one crumb from the covenant meal, and she knows that it’s enough.
This woman is the surprise guest at the seder. Not because the seder is universalized or sentimentalized—but because she knows where she is and what is at stake. She doesn’t need a new religion or a messianic spectacle. She needs one crumb from the covenant meal, and she knows that it’s enough.
She is the model for the outsider who becomes insider. She doesn’t demand inclusion. She enters the covenant by faith, humility, and reverence—the same traits that defined the original sojourners who ate the Passover lamb in Egypt. She speaks the language of Torah-faith without claiming to be part of the Qahal, yet her words open the door.
In her, we see what much of modern Christian and Messianic practice has missed: a right understanding of the sacred table. Not entitlement. Not theater. But submission, faith, and the hope that even a crumb from God’s table heals.
This is where A.B. Simpson, the founder of the Christian and Missionary Alliance, stands in surprising alignment with her.
Though Simpson didn’t frame it in halakhic terms, he understood the sacred power of the table. For him, the bread and cup weren’t just symbols—they were places of encounter, of healing, of kingdom power. He preached that Christ is our Passover, not just in fulfillment of Exodus, but in real-time deliverance, healing, and sanctification.
“There is healing in the broken bread. There is life in the cup. He did not just die to forgive us. He died to make us whole.”
— A.B. Simpson
Simpson’s theology invited the nations to the table—not by flattening the covenant, but by extending its healing mercy to the humble. Like the Syrophoenician woman, he understood that there’s enough in the crumb to heal the world—but only if we honor where the crumb came from.
He believed that Jesus didn’t replace Israel’s table—He opened it through Himself.
That through the broken lamb, even the gentile dog could rise and walk.
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The Lamb and the Dog
So what do we miss at the seder?
So what do we miss at the seder?
We miss the gravity. The order. The authority. The guarded joy of the covenant.
We rush to symbols and skip the substance.
We speak of the Lamb but forget the altar.
We offer crumbs before understanding the meal.
But if we let the lamb and the dog meet—if we let the covenant stand in all its weight and let humility do its work—then the table becomes what it always was: a place of liberation, belonging, and divine judgment against the idols of Egypt.
And the beauty?
There’s always enough bread.
Even for the dog who believes.
If we want to reclaim the meaning of the Last Supper, the crucifixion, and the resurrection, we must re-enter the halakhic reality of the Passover.
Not in a legalistic way, but in a covenantal one.
Not as cultural tourists, but as sojourners and grafted-in heirs, partaking not just in the matzah, but in the whole story.
The lamb was never just a symbol.
It was a test of allegiance.
A rejection of Egypt’s gods.
A meal of identity.
So too is Jesus.
We’re not just invited to remember.
We’re called to belong.
An Orthodox Jew explains Jesus and the Passover
