A month ago, I had the opportunity to spend a week in Israel as part of the Hartman Institute’s Rabbinic Leadership Initiative. This program brings together twenty-five rabbis from across North America who meet twice a year in Jerusalem over the course of three years to wrestle with the big Jewish questions of our time and to explore how we might shape a Torah that speaks compellingly to contemporary American Jews.
What makes this cohort so remarkable is its range. These rabbis serve very different kinds of congregations, represent multiple denominations, and hold a wide spectrum of political views. Some of my colleagues work for NGOs; others serve in Hillels on university campuses. Together, we form a multicolored mosaic of leaders deeply committed to Jewish life and to liberal Zionism, unafraid to engage in serious, thoughtful critique whenever needed.
We also share a deep love for the Jewish people. I am continually inspired by how much we care for those in our communities, and by the effort we make to hold everyone together—always balancing the desire to create a big tent with the commitment to meet people wherever they are. In a world that is increasingly polarized, it is no small task to bring Jews closer without demanding that they adhere to the same views about everything in life.
The main theme of our winter gathering was “Time as a carrier of Jewish values and ethics.” As you might imagine, the sessions explored different holidays and linked them to specific ethical questions. One teacher, for example, spoke about the High Holidays through the lens of responsibility and hope. Another reflected on Sukkot and Hanukkah, and on how we continually craft narratives around these—and other—moments in the calendar, making choices about what to highlight and what to leave in the background. A third, connected Purim to the way we live with, and respond to, trauma.
With Purim just around the corner, let me pause and linger here for a moment.
In the Book of Esther, Mordecai reacts with striking intensity when he learns of the edict the king has approved following Haman’s wicked advice. He tears his garments, puts ashes on his head, and enters a state of public mourning. No one has yet been harmed, but Mordecai is already overwhelmed by what he anticipates is coming. We can almost feel the weight of the trauma he carries. His family had been exiled from Jerusalem in the years leading up to the destruction of the First Temple, and the shadow of loss and devastation seems to awaken something deep within him, long before events unfold. He is in shock, despondent, and feeling incapable of changing the course of history.
Esther, by contrast, appears to respond very differently. When she sees Mordecai in mourning, she first seeks to calm him and understand what is happening. And when he urges her to intervene, she hesitates. She has never approached the king without being summoned. Esther seems to embody those who deal with trauma by minimizing the looming danger, hoping for the best while remaining close to power.
What is remarkable about these two models is that the story of Purim moves toward an effective resolution when Mordecai and Esther come together and chart a different path. Mordecai awakens in Esther a sense of urgency, while Esther restores in Mordecai a sense of agency. Each brings something essential to the encounter, and together they become far greater than the sum of their individual parts.
We live in traumatic times. Here, in Israel, and—really—just about anywhere in the world, there are many reasons to worry. On top of that, each of us carries challenging personal stories alongside the stories of those who came before us. There is no shortage of trauma in our midst.
If we apply the “Purim models” to our own lives, we can see that each of us has different ways of coping with grief and pain. Some respond like Mordecai, stunned by a trajectory that seems to lead to disaster. Others resemble Esther, downplaying the warning signs and justifying troubling circumstances because of a few recent benefits. On their own, neither approach will keep us safe. We need to bring agency and urgency together—overcoming the paralysis of fear while also shaking off the complacency that blinds us to real threats. It is only in the encounter between Mordecai and Esther that our redemption becomes possible.
Take antisemitism as an example. With attacks on the rise—on both the left and the right—we cannot shut ourselves down and give up hope, nor can we adopt a narrative of victimhood that depends on others to act on our behalf. At the same time, we cannot pretend these threats do not exist and live in denial. There is a deliberate rhetoric against Jews, and we will not overcome the many dangers around us if we choose to ignore them. The same applies to other pressing challenges in our country: immigrants targeted, refugees shunned, and minorities marginalized. In each case, we are called to confront reality with both awareness and action, urgency and agency—acknowledging the risks while refusing to be petrified by them.
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In a world full of uncertainty, taking the time to engage deeply with the lessons of our holidays can help us find a higher moral ground to articulate a message that is both meaningful and necessary nowadays. This is certainly not about partisan politics, nor about entering debates that continuously divide and polarize us. On the contrary, this is an opportunity to open a new, vital conversation about the core values we share—so that, together, we might see beyond our differences and remember that we are all in this together. For this, and for so many other reasons, I am grateful to be part of the Hartman Institute’s remarkable program, and that is why I wanted to share some of the insights I gathered during my time in Jerusalem.
May this upcoming celebration of Purim, with all its twists, tensions, and hidden layers, be a time of genuine joy. And may we, like Mordecai and Esther, find the courage and insight to bring our energy, compassion, and commitment to bear—working together to build a more just and caring world, for all who share in our congregations, our communities, our nation, and the State of Israel.
