In the Haggadah’s rendition of the Four Sons, arguably one of the most popular sections of the seder liturgy, family dynamics mix with matters of heritage and legacy. Drawing on biblical verses and rabbinic commentary, the reading imagines a father who recognizes each of his sons for who he is and gives each the appropriate rejoinder.

Biblical stories about fathers and sons are far more complicated. Isaac and his twin sons, Jacob and his quarrelsome brood, David and the rebellious Avshalom – elemental feelings pull at these relationships in powerful and complex ways. Over time, feelings shift and are recalibrated, and the generations struggle with the mix of love, aspiration, disappointment, betrayal, misunderstanding, miscommunication, missed opportunities and, sometimes, reconciliation.

But the Four Sons of the Haggadah never change. Year after year, they ask the same questions of their father, and he tenders them the same response. They are, of course, types, not real children. Literary creations, they are intended to exemplify attitudes toward the seder, specifically, and Jewish tradition more generally.

The wise one asks his question precisely because he is wise, the wicked son’s question is proof of his wickedness, and so on. The text presents their characters as a given. From year to year, the wise one remains wise; the wicked one, wicked; the simple one, simple, and the fourth one never does learn to question.

But sometimes, when we reach that section of the Haggadah, I find myself pulling the Four Sons and their father out of their storylessness and giving them shape, dimension, colour – as well as a past and a future.

What a family! The wise son always comes first, and the wicked one gets rapped even though his question is not so different. The simple and mute sons are subordinate to the high family drama, pushed out of the limelight by their more sharply defined siblings. The father favours the wise son, because he sees in him his own character and values. He can’t understand the wicked son. He spars with him, even tries tough love. But these two boys are locked into position, playing off one another and pushed into polar opposite roles. The other two sons, the quieter ones, can’t seem to get their father’s attention. The favouritism and arguments drive them inward. They keep their own counsel. Who knows what they think?

The intense and complicated connection between fathers and sons is embedded in the meaning of Pesach. On the Shabbat immediately preceding the festival, Shabbat HaGadol, we read a special Haftorah from the book of Malachi, the last of the Tanach’s twelve minor prophets. Foretelling the redemption of the people of Israel from suffering and exile, Malachi presents the ultimate reconciliation between God and his people in familial terms – a relationship between a loving father and his loving son: “My treasured possession; I will be tender toward them as a man is tender toward a son who ministers to him.” The reading closes with the image of the prophet Elijah, Eliyahu Hanavi, a figure strongly associated with Pesach and the theme of messianic redemption. Here, Elijah’s task is to “restore the hearts of the fathers to their sons and the hearts of the sons to their fathers.”

Fleshed out in our imagination, the Four Sons of the Haggadah may be seen not so much as types but as a snapshot of a family, arrested at a particular moment. Perhaps they are Jacob’s sons, placed anachronistically around a seder table: the favoured one, the rebellious one, several who mutter among themselves while their father pays little mind. Perhaps they are families much like our own. Eventually, the father begins to see different dimensions in each of his children: wisdom, rebelliousness, envy, nobility, anger, insecurity, shrewdness, maturity. He accepts the sons he has, instead of refashioning them into the sons he wants. If he is fortunate – if they are fortunate – he helps them to navigate their individual personalities.

For us, too, the seder offers a snapshot of our lives at a particular moment. The image may be static, but a series of such images, accumulated yearly and over a long time, tells a story about life, relationships, desire, loss, growth and change. The spiritual inheritance that Pesach represents may be passed along generational lines, like David’s dynasty. Or it may jump families, to be shared with friends, or imparted to strangers. There’s no telling who will appear at next year’s seder.

And perhaps, we may hope, even the wicked son will be redeemed.