You can find written versions of this in written form and other talks at https://joidenver.com/passover

As we gather around the Passover Seder this year amidst the backdrop of war in Israel, the heart-wrenching reality of hostages still in captivity, and the rise of antisemitism around the world, I’ve been asked by so many people: How can we alter our Seder to reflect these dire circumstances? 
My answer: you don’t need to change a thing, since the Passover Haggadah, written so long ago, speaks directly to our current reality and remains as relevant today as ever. Its sacred texts and rituals, passed down through generations, carry an important message of hope and resilience.
The Jewish people are an Exodus-obsessed People. This obsession with the Exodus from Egypt is vividly displayed in our daily remembrances of it and the special rituals such as Kiddush, recited on Shabbat and other holidays, where we reaffirm our liberation from bondage. Each week and each holiday we repeat again and again how all of this is in remembrance of the exodus from Egypt. The significance of the Exodus is so profound that during the Sinai revelation—the only instance in history when God revealed Himself to a mass of people—He chose to introduce Himself not as the Creator of the world or even the God who was revealing Himself at that moment in time, but as the God who liberated the Jews from Egypt.
The reason for this, is that the slavery and subsequent exodus from Egypt was our training ground for us to become what Ken Spiro calls “The God Squad.” We focus on it daily and on special occasions but most profoundly on the holiday of Passover at our Seder.
The Seder is more than a recounting of the Exodus from Egypt; it is a profound dialogue between the past and the present, a guide for navigating through darkness towards the light. Within its structure—meticulously ordered to facilitate remembrance and reflection—lies the essence of our enduring spirit. 
This year, as we recite the ancient words, "In every generation, they rise up against us to destroy us, but the Holy One, blessed be He, saves us from their hands," we are reminded of the cyclical nature of our struggles. Yet, it is precisely this acknowledgement that strengthens our resolve and deepens our faith.
The story of Passover is a testament to the belief that even in the midst of despair, there is a plan, a reason for hope. It teaches that liberation from suffering is not only a possibility but a promise. When you say, "Next year in Jerusalem," you do not merely envision a physical location but yearn for a rebuilt Jerusalem, a symbol of peace and divine redemption. This aspiration encapsulates the collective yearning for a world transformed, where the sorrows of today give way to the joys of a brighter tomorrow.

This perspective is mirrored in the teaching of Rabban Gamliel, who explains that the main parts of the Seder are Pesach (The Pascal offering), matzah, and marror (the bitter herb). 
Pesach reminds us of the offering that was brought on the verge of our birth as a People while still in Egypt. The matzah reminds us that we left in such haste we didn't have time for the dough to rise properly. The bitter herb reminds us of the bitterness of slavery.
Isn’t this list out of order? Since we first experienced the bitterness, shouldn't that be mentioned first?
This sequence is deliberate. The Hebrew word for pain (tzar) shares the root of the word narrow (also tzar) because when you are in pain, you feel stuck, constricted. You cannot process the pain while you’re still immersed in it. You can’t see the label when you are inside the jar. Only once you’ve made it to safety and freedom can you understand how the challenges you’ve faced have made you who you are.
While I was studying and teaching at Aish in the Old City of Jerusalem, there was a woman who was working on a huge painting. For weeks, every morning she would come set up a massive canvas by the steps overlooking the Western Wall. She would paint and then every few minutes walk all the way up the stairs to take a look, and then come back down, over and over again all day. While painting, she was too close to properly see what she was doing. She only saw blurred colors. She needed to walk up the stairs to gain perspective. 
Unfortunately, sometimes in life, there just aren't enough steps to walk back and see the whole picture.
Like the artist in the Old City of Jerusalem, you are also invited to look beyond your immediate pain. While ensnared in the narrow straits of suffering, it might seem impossible to envision a brighter future. Yet, Passover implores you to lift your gaze, to remember that you are part of a larger, unfolding story. You just don’t have enough steps yet to walk back to see the full picture.
As Steve Jobs put it “You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to live life with the faith that one day those dots will somehow connect.”
The Hagaddah addresses the Jewish People’s current pain with the awareness that while we are still in it we cannot make full sense of our pain. Now is the time to feel the pain and bitterness, and to hold onto the hope and conviction that things will get better. God has a plan.
It may seem contradictory but we can do both at the same time. We can feel the pain of our current reality and at the same time hold on to the faith and trust that this pain is part of a plan that we may never fully comprehend. It is for this reason that we don’t just eat matzo and marror. We also eat them together as a sandwich like Hillel used to. This reminds us of the power of ‘and.’ We sit in the pain and simultaneously manifest the joy of the redemption.
This idea is well exemplified by what Jim Collins calls the Stockdale Paradox, named after Admiral Jim Stockdale, who was the highest-ranking United States military officer in the "Hanoi Hilton" prisoner-of-war camp during the Vietnam War. Stockdale was imprisoned for eight years under brutal conditions and subjected to frequent torture. Collins was intrigued by Stockdale's resilience and survival and once asked him how he managed to survive such an ordeal. 
As they walked, Stockdale, limping from permanent injuries sustained during his captivity, responded with profound simplicity. He explained that he never lost hope—not only hope for survival but also that he would prevail, making this horrific part of his life a defining moment, so much so that he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
“Well," asked Collins, “who didn’t survive?” Stockdale replied: “the optimists.”
“The optimists? Weren’t you one of the optimists? You said you never lost hope that you would survive and make this the defining moment of your life. What could be more optimistic than that?”
He explained that the optimists were those who kept believing they’d be released by specific dates—springtime, New Year’s, and so on. Each passing milestone without release led to profound disappointment. According to Stockdale, this cycle of optimism followed by disappointment was devastating, and many died from a broken heart, unable to cope with the repeated blow to their hopes.
Stockdale believed that one must confront the brutal facts of the current reality, whatever they might be, without ever losing faith in the end of the story. This duality involves not misleading oneself about the severity of the situation while maintaining a firm belief that one will prevail in the end, despite the seemingly insurmountable obstacles. This resilience and perspective were what allowed Stockdale to survive his years of captivity and consider them a defining experience of his life.
In our case, the enduring nature of Jewish hope is not based merely on wishful thinking but on a covenant with God, promising that we will be an eternal People and will eventually make it to the happy ending of the story. The historical narrative of the Jewish people, including predictions of calamities like the Holocaust, concludes with divine reassurance of perpetual support and eventual salvation.
When my father was a teenager, he and his father—my grandfather of blessed memory—traveled to Israel to explore various yeshivas, institutions of higher Jewish learning. During their journey, they visited a small Holocaust memorial situated on Mount Zion. This was not the vast Yad Vashem, but a smaller, more intimate memorial.
Within this museum, a particular exhibit caught their attention and would forever be etched in their memories. On display were a pair of shoes, but these were no ordinary shoes. They were crafted from the leather of Torah scrolls, desecrated by the Nazis in an act that symbolized the depth of their cruelty. 
What made these shoes extraordinarily poignant was the scripture that they bore. On the left shoe was the "tochacha" — the rebuke, detailing the calamities that would befall the Jewish people, eerily presaging the Holocaust itself. On the right shoe, however, was a verse filled with hope, promising that the Almighty would gather the scattered remnants of the Jews and bring them to the Promised Land.
This pair of shoes encapsulated the tragic and redemptive arc of Jewish history — the profound lows of despair and the soaring highs of salvation. They served as a stark reminder of the horrors faced and the enduring faith that despite everything, a time of peace and redemption would come with the arrival of the Moshiach.
The impact of seeing such a tangible artifact of faith and cruelty interwoven was profound. It highlighted for my father and grandfather the resilience embedded within their heritage, a resilience that carries forward. It brought home how we as a people are always looking forward.