Author: Nicole Feldman

The New York Times famously describes itself as publishing “all the news that’s fit to print”. At times, however, the Jewish community has struggled to see that principle reflected in reality. During the 1930s and 1940s, as Jews were herded into cattle cars and murdered in streets, ghettos, and camps across Europe, the Times often failed to place those atrocities prominently on its front page.

This week, The Times published a story about Israeli efforts to influence voting in the Eurovision contest. A summary video can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwPc7q8jTP8. The article itself presents no evidence of illegal or immoral activity. Rather, it describes a country attempting to succeed within the established rules of an international competition. Yet the framing of the piece seems to hint at something more sinister, feeding into longstanding suspicions that Jews or Israelis are engaged in coordinated efforts to manipulate global institutions.

But that article is not the one that most concerns me. The article that deserves our attention is an opinion piece by Nicholas Kristof titled “The Silence That Meets the Rape of Palestinians”. To begin, we must recognize the difference between reporting in a newspaper’s news section and writing in its opinion section. Both should meet journalistic standards and rely on corroborated evidence. Both should be researched and responsibly sourced. But their purposes are fundamentally different. News seeks to inform; opinion seeks to persuade. News strives for objectivity; opinion argues a position. News presents multiple perspectives; opinion emphasizes one side of a debate. These distinctions matter because words carry consequences. As the 11th-century Spanish Jewish poet and philosopher Solomon ibn Gabirol wrote: “Before I speak, I am master of my words. After I speak, I am their slave”. Once words are published, their impact cannot be controlled.

Kristof leveled serious accusations against the State of Israel, its military, and its supporters. Such claims must be taken seriously. Sexual violence is never acceptable, regardless of who commits it or who suffers from it. That principle should be absolute and without ambiguity. At the same time, it’s also true that wherever there are imbalances of power—whether in prisons, militaries, or other institutions—there is always the possibility of abuse. This is a tragic reality seen across societies worldwide. Israel is not unique in facing allegations of misconduct within its prison system; similar abuses have occurred in the United States, France, Japan, Australia, and countless other countries. The issue is not whether misconduct can occur, but rather its scale, frequency, and whether it reflects systemic policy. That context matters, especially when considered alongside the broader editorial choices of The Times.

Why publish this as an opinion piece at the same time the paper was also amplifying accusations surrounding Eurovision? Why publish it at the same moment reports were being released documenting the sexual violence perpetrated by Hamas on October 7? Many Jews understandably feel that Israel and the Jewish people continue to receive a level of scrutiny and condemnation that is disproportionate compared to other nations and conflicts. That perception cannot simply be dismissed.

I encourage readers to examine a variety of responses and perspectives on these issues. Among them are comments from journalist Haviv Rettig Gur and Palestinian activist Ahmed Fouad Alkhatib, as well as reporting from The Times of Israel addressing some of the more inflammatory allegations that have circulated publicly.

Ultimately, Israel, like every nation, is made up of imperfect human beings. Governments, soldiers, police officers, and prison guards are all capable of wrongdoing, and when abuses occur, victims deserve justice and perpetrators must be held accountable. But accountability must not become collective condemnation. There is no evidence of a government-sanctioned system of sexual violence in Israel. The actions of individuals, however reprehensible, should not be used to demonize an entire country or an entire people.

The Jewish people should not be judged by a standard applied to no one else.

 

This week we read the double portion, בהר בחקותי / Behar–Behukotai, concluding the book of ויקרא / Vayikra / Leviticus. These two פרשיות / parshiot focus extensively on ארץ ישראל / Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel, and on what it means for the Jewish people to live in, and steward, a sacred land. We encounter laws requiring the land to rest every seventh year and the return of ancestral property during the Jubilee year every fiftieth year. We also read the powerful blessings and curses associated with life in the land. Taken literally, these blessings and curses can seem to present a simple system of reward and punishment that’s difficult to fully embrace. When religion is reduced to a kind of spiritual transaction—where actions automatically produce exact outcomes—we risk oversimplifying both faith and human experience.

The Torah’s vision is far deeper. With power comes responsibility, and our actions carry consequences, both good and bad. At the same time, we must be careful not to interpret suffering as divine punishment for specific behavior. Such thinking leaves us vulnerable to believing tragedies like the Holocaust or October 7 happened because of the victims’ actions. That approach not only removes responsibility from perpetrators of evil but also places blame on those who have already suffered unimaginable pain. We also cannot deny that our actions matter. What we do affects the world around us. Acts of goodness shape society for the better, while wrongdoing leaves damage in its wake. The challenge is finding the balance: recognizing that our choices carry real consequences without reducing human suffering to a simplistic theology of punishment.

The Jewish people experienced both profound blessing and profound challenge with the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. After centuries of longing, Jewish sovereignty was restored in our ancestral homeland. At the same time, self-governance brought with it the burdens and complexities of political power in a world still deeply shaped by antisemitism. Many hoped Israel could simply function like any other nation, yet the reality has proven far more complicated. The blessing of national independence carries with it the burden—and sometimes the curse—of governing.

This tension is increasingly visible within the Jewish community itself. Many Jews see Zionism as inseparable from Jewish identity, while others insist that moral and ethical concerns must be paramount in evaluating the actions of the state. Too often these perspectives are presented as mutually exclusive: one side accused of overlooking moral failings, the other of holding Israel to impossible standards.

This week, my Facebook feed has been filled with debate surrounding graduating students at the Jewish Theological Seminary protesting President Isaac Herzog serving as commencement speaker. Once again, the conversation has been framed as a clash between uncompromising Zionism and uncompromising moral critique. But this framing is itself flawed.

Zionism is not devoid of morality, nor is moral concern incompatible with support for Israel. The modern State of Israel is a democratic state governed by laws and shaped by moral aspirations, even as it struggles—as all nations do—with the realities and imperfections of governance. Israel has made mistakes, just as every democracy has. Yet the global fixation on Israel often subjects it to standards rarely applied elsewhere. A nation cannot survive on idealism alone while ignoring reality. To be a Jew is to support the State of Israel and to hold ourselves and others to moral standards. It is to recognize that love of Israel and ethical responsibility are not opposing values, but intertwined obligations.

Ultimately, to be a Jew is to live within the tension of blessing and curse, independence and responsibility, power and accountability. That tension is not a contradiction to resolve, but a reality we are called to navigate with honesty, humility, and faith.

We’re currently in the Omer period, the time between Passover and Shavuot. Each year, we count 49 days beginning on the second night of Passover, concluding on the eve of Shavuot. Within this sacred time, we observe several modern commemorations: יום השואה (Yom HaShoah/Holocaust Memorial Day), יום הזיכרון (Yom HaZikaron/Israeli Memorial Day), and יום העצמאות (Yom Ha’Atzmaut/Israeli Independence Day). We’ll also mark לג בעומר/Lag B’Omer, which is not exactly modern—but for a people as ancient as ours, even events from the past two thousand years can feel relatively recent.

Since October 7, 2023, much of the Jewish world has found itself engaged in one central, ongoing conversation: Israel. In that time, we have experienced a wide range of emotions—grief, anger, pride, confusion, and hope. Many of us have sought to deepen our understanding of both the State of Israel and the Land of Israel. In doing so, we are reminded of a fundamental truth: Israel is not simply another place on the map. It’s a cornerstone of Jewish identity—the foundation of our peoplehood and the heart of our shared heritage and destiny.
I’ve had the privilege of being in Israel for יום הזיכרון and יום העצמאות, and the experience is unforgettable. These two days, so starkly different in tone, exist side by side. In truth, they form a single, continuous 48-hour observance that tells the story of Israel—and, in many ways, the story of the Jewish people. We begin with mourning: remembering those who were lost, sitting with grief, honoring sacrifice. Then, almost seamlessly, we transition into celebration: marking independence, resilience, and life. Mourning gives way to hope; remembrance transforms into renewal.

This duality is deeply Jewish. To be a Jew is to understand that life is at once difficult and beautiful, heavy with burden and filled with possibility. It’s to live with fear and uncertainty while still holding onto optimism. It’s to feel both at home in the diaspora and, at times, like outsiders. It’s to belong wherever we are, while always carrying a sense of elsewhere.

The past few years have intensified these tensions. They’ve brought moments of deep sorrow and moments of profound pride. We’ve seen hatred and distortion directed at our people, and we rightly grieve a world that can feel unrecognizable. At the same time, we’ve witnessed extraordinary unity within the Jewish community and remarkable strength and courage in Israel’s defense of its people. These, too, are reasons to rejoice.

Each of us carries a responsibility in this moment: to stand with Israel, to support it, and to take pride in our connection to it. To be a Zionist is, at its core, to affirm a simple and enduring truth—that the Jewish people, like all peoples, have the right to live together in their ancestral homeland, the Land of Israel. Efforts to redefine or distort that idea obscure its essential meaning.

As we approach יום הזיכרון and יום העצמאות, we’re invited into that uniquely Jewish rhythm of memory and celebration. We grieve, and we rejoice. We look backward with honor and forward with hope. In doing so, we affirm not only the story of Israel, but the enduring spirit of the Jewish people.

I’ve been listening to a podcast on Jewish History Nerds about Albert Einstein and this got me thinking more about his theory of relativity. To be clear: I 100% do not fully understand any of the physics or the math behind any of it and I’m out of my league here. But I do like one of the hyper simplified explanations saying that everything is relative to the observer. One explanation I read stated “Einstein’s theory of relativity states that space and time are flexible, connected, and change based on how fast you are moving or how close you are to a strong gravity source”. (https://www.nbcnews.com/mach/science/what-relativity-einstein-s-mind-bending-theory-explained-ncna865496).

This understanding helps recognize that we don’t see the same things others see and that perspective is critical in how we see and experience the world. A person who’s color blind will not see the same sunset as a person of normal vision. People with varying levels of hearing will experience concerts differently. Depending on where you’re positioned in any experience, you’ll have one experience while someone else will have a variation of the same encounter. Hence the term “everything is relative”. I offer this explanation in preparing to tell the story of Passover, the story of the Exodus and our having been saved.

The world in which we live is broken. One need not look very far to see that all around us, near and far, people are living lives that don’t live up to their deepest hopes and dreams. All around the world, we see people living in abject poverty and suffering from both natural and man-made catastrophes. One could and should ask what has become of miracles like the 10 plagues, the splitting of the sea and the giving of the Torah.

We tell the story of the Exodus as if to say that “they all lived happily ever after…” In the eyes of the הגדה/Haggadah, it could appear that we left Egypt and became free and thus we were saved. The הגדה has many departures from this way of thinking, but nevertheless it seems puzzling to celebrate our historic redemption in a world that seems so unredeemed.

Another podcast I listened to this week was Ta Shma from Hadar, and in it Rabbi Shai Held spoke at length about this very subject. He referred to “the double edge of memory in תנ”ך/TaNaKh” in that “faith is damaged, or even dies, in the wake of experiences that seem to contradict it”. He was talking about how memory can serve as an inspiration, or as a mournful reminder. We can be inspired by the hope of what was, or pained by the reality of what is not any longer. I encourage you to listen to his talk at hadar.org/torah-tefillah/resources/why-doesnt-god-redeem-us-again-living-and-without-exodus#videos. When I listened, I was struck by how our world today is so broken and yet we still have hope. I was struck by how people can attend the same סדר/Seder and have totally different experiences (it’s all relative). One person can sit and tell and learn the story of our redemption and leave with hope in a future filled with redemption from all that ills us. Another person could leave feeling filled with sadness that our own world is not redeemable as it was in the past.

In many ways, this is something incredible about our סדר experience every year. We have the ability to be uplifted or the ability to be brought down and the choice will be ours. We can choose, as free people, to be filled with hope because of what once happened, or we can be filled with grief that the world is not yet redeemed. To know that we have choices, that we have free will, is something that liberates us rather than enslaves us. Choosing how to encounter our experience forces us to be active in our observance and religion rather than passive and unable to have a role. While our world feels so damaged, perhaps we can change to a perspective that is inspired by the possibility of redemption even in our own day. Perhaps we can have a perspective that celebrates that which was and that which CAN be. To live in a world of possibilities is to live in a world of freedom. We all have choices as to how we see our memories and how we will live our lives. Join me in choosing to live in a world that can be redeemed and inspired by the memory of the redemption of the past.

“Didn’t we just tell this story last year?” These words, or some like them, have probably been said by or to you about the holiday of פסח/Pesach/Passover and its beginning celebration – the סדר/Seder. Over generations, the Jewish people have successfully preserved this meaningful and beautiful ritual through the hard work of personalizing and innovating it. The words of the הגדה/Haggadah are very clear about the obligation to do this:

בְּכָל־דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת־עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם.

“In each and every generation a person is required to see himself as if he went out from Egypt.” This text is from the משנה/Mishnah which was codified in the year 200CE. In fact, the basic skeleton of the סדר is written in the 10^th chapter of the section of the משנה about פסח. It’s common text many of us are familiar with and it’s shared in both Ashkenazi and Sephardi הגדהות/Haggadot/Haggadah. Rabbi Marc Angel’s, A Sephardic Passover Haggadah, uses this text. But there’s another tradition that’s observed in many Sephardi הגדהות as seen in the next text:

בְּכָל-דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לְהַרְאוֹת אֶת-עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם.

“In each and every generation a person is required to show himself as if he went out from Egypt”. One little letter, in one of the words, changes the entire message from seeing oneself to showing oneself. The implication is we’re commanded to show other people and teach other people that we were slaves. This text presses us to lean into the importance of educating other people around us and not to just teach ourselves. This variant of the text comes from the רמב”ם/Rambam’s work. In theמשנה תורה/Mishneh Torah, he stated the following:

בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לְהַרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא בְּעַצְמוֹ יָצָא עַתָּה מִשִּׁעְבּוּד מִצְרַיִם (משנה תורה הלכות חמץ ומצה ז:ו)

“In each and every generation a person is required to show himself as if he, himself, went out now from the enslavement of Egypt.”

His words are much more in depth than either of the other texts and are more instructive. We’re required to show others that the story continues even now and that we’re all still leaving the Egyptian enslavement in our own time. To understand we’re each still leaving enslavement forces us to be more active in the liberation of ourselves and those around us.

The difference between seeing ourselves as slaves, and showing others we’re slaves, tells us two very different essential messages to be conveyed during the holiday. We’re required to experience the liberation ourselves, and we’re required to see that we’re a part of the continuing story. At the same time, it will never be enough for the Jewish people to see themselves, individually, as having lived this story… we must help others find their part of this story and teach them they’re also a continuing link in this generational chain.

In the הגדה we use, A Different Night by the Shalom Hartmann Institute, this page is illustrated by showing the generations of oppression to which our people have been subjected to over history. Last week we were reminded that oppression is not history but still a current event. The violent terrorist attack on Temple Israel in West Bloomfield, Michigan, was a stark reminder that we’re in this together and no matter where or when a Jew is found, they must see themselves as being part of our people and our history. We continue to look forward to the light of a world without hatred and animosity. Waiting will take longer than any of us expected to, but we know that someday it will come. On that day, we might be able to change the text again to reflect that slavery is something to be seen only as ancient history.

This Shabbat, we’ll conclude the book of Shmot (Exodus) as we read the last double-parsha “Vayakhel-Pikudei”. This Shabbat is also called Shabbat Hahodesh – the Shabbat where we announce the upcoming new month – Rosh Hodesh Nissan – which will be on Thursday. This means Spring is near, and Passover is coming!

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks asked, “What is the difference between a free human being and a slave? We tend to think it has to do with labor, toil, and effort. A slave works hard. A free person doesn’t. But in reality, some free people work very hard indeed, especially those who enjoy their work. The real difference lies in who has control over time. A free person works long hours, because at some stage, he or she has chosen to. A slave has no choice, no control over time. That’s why fixing a calendar was the first command given to the Israelites [Ex. 12:1-2]. It was as if God was saying to them: ‘if you are to be free, the first thing you must learn to master is time’”.

We take control and responsibility for our own time through Jewish communal memory and ritual. We always look back to our story of Exodus – every day, every Shabbat and every holiday. This Shabbat, we’re called to look closer at the narrative of our own identity, to the origin story of our people. We were slaves in Egypt, we were freed, brought to Mt. Sinai, given the Torah, and instructed to build up this world so God can be a part of our lives. This summary of the Book of Exodus paints freedom in a new light. Freedom begins with the memory of not being free and includes the physical emancipation where we are free from our oppressors. Had Exodus ended here, we would have been free from Egypt (Dayeinu!), but we would not know what to do with our freedom.

The Jewish concept of freedom goes further. The Torah claims that one can only be free within the confines of civilized law – within a society and a world governed by justice, righteousness, truth, accountability and responsibility. The receiving of the Torah at Mount Sinai is part of our journey of freedom, the part that tells us what to do with our freedom and newfound privilege. The book of Exodus doesn’t end until the Israelites complete the building of the Mishkan, the tabernacle – an elaborate physical tent-like structure which is meant to be the ‘house’ of God in this physical world.

May we all be blessed to take part in building holy projects. May we succeed in our shared endeavors of making and engaging with communal physical spaces in our lives that promote the presence of God and the values by which we live.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”. (A Tale of Two Cities) These words that open one of the greatest books ever written, paint the portrait of a world that is two things at one time. It paints a world where, depending on one’s perspective, everything was the best or the worst.

These words also invite us, the readers, to embrace a world that can be two things at once. As Jews today, we’re abundantly aware that we’re living in the best and the worst of times. We live in a time when we know Jewish sovereignty renewed. We live in a time when we can defend ourselves and not rely on other people to help us. We live in a time where all that we prayed for over the millennia has been realized. And yet we live in a time where we are not free from hate. We live in a time where we are not free from terror. We live in a time where we are forced to hide and forced to wonder if this will all be okay in the end. That is what it means to be Jewish in 2026.

We’ve overcome the Inquisition and the expulsions and the Holocaust only to live in the world of October 7^th. We’ve overcome all of that only to be subjected to the vicious threats and real terror by a regime hellbent on our destruction. To be Jewish today is to recognize that two truths live side by side; sometimes antagonizing one another, sometimes at peace and sometimes in a cold peace. Take war for instance: war is not good and it’s not happy, but it can be and is necessary at times, “A time for loving and a time for hating. A time for war and a time for peace”. (Ecclesiastes 3:8 /קהלת ג:ח) That’s where we find ourselves now. Nobody should be happy we’re at war, but we can and do recognize we need to be at war. Nobody should rejoice at the downfall of our enemy, “If your enemies fall, do not exult” (Proverbs 24:17 / משלי כד:יז), but we can and should breathe a sigh of relief that we don’t need to worry about their hatred or violence as much as we did. The Jewish people are a people of peace, but we’re also a people who are committed to live and to assure our continued living into the future. We’ll work for peace while assuring our own longevity. That’s the dichotomy of this war and of all wars we fight. We didn’t choose to start this war. It was forced onto us by Iran and its proxies, so we continue to fight this war.

This week we’ll learn of other dichotomies when we read פרשת כי תשא/Parshat Ki Tisa. It will also be שבת פרה/Shabbat Parah. In כי תשא we learn about the עגל הזהב/Egel HaZahav/The Golden Calf. This act of betrayal is something our people have lived with through the ages. We see the gold and the cow as being something of a legacy. An example of this is that on ראש השנה/Rosh Hashana we’re forbidden to use the horn from a bull because it would remind God of this sin. In (Numbers 19 / במדבר יט) we learn about the פרה אדמה/Parah Adooma/Red Heifer and how it was to be used to cleanse a כהן/Kohen who was made impure by having come in contact with death. The cow of the עגל הזהב and the cow of the פרה אדמה are both cows with very different affects and effects on and for the Jewish people. One recalls a sin and one provides a path to becoming pure again. One took away and one brought back. Both are cows and yet they’re each distinct for how they’re seen and what they did.

We live in the worst of times and the best of times. There’s no way to not feel the weight of that statement right now. The trick is for us to reread this statement with a bit of a twist. It’s the best of times in spite of being the worst of times. We live in times that are tough and we’re surrounded by so much hardship and adversity, yet we have many blessings and the power to shape our own future and our own world view. It’s the best of times no matter how bad today might be.

In the year 586 BCE, the First Temple was destroyed, and the Israelites were put into their first exile. While Jews remained behind in the Land of Israel without the Temple, a large number found themselves in Babylon (modern day Iraq) and other places. It was at this time the Jewish people began to undergo many changes, including adopting Aramaic as our spoken language. In ancient times, wars were the norm and lands changed hands on a regular basis so it should not be amazing or odd that in 539 BCE the Babylonians were defeated by another empire, the Persians, and all of their lands and peoples became subjects of the expanded Persian Empire. This is how the Jewish people became subjects of the Persian King. This is the background to our story of פורים/Purim.

When the Jewish people first found themselves “under new management”, the person in charge became Cyrus the Great. His vision of his conquered people was autonomy and preservation of their practices. When he found himself in charge of the exiled Jewish community, along with the community that had remained behind in Israel, he liberated them and gave them permission to rebuild and restart their lives. While many Jews returned to Israel, many did not and that meant the Diaspora community began to grow and became an established community side by side with the Land of Israel. It was then we developed into two communities, which still exist today.

It’s not a secret that the nation of Iran is the descendent of the ancient Persian Empire. The language spoken there is Farsi (Persian) and their ethnic/cultural identity is called Persian as well. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say the story of פורים began then and continues even today. The Persian Jews enjoyed safety and security and were loyal to their nation for numerous generations, and many in exile today still long to return to their land in the future. That would have been the time of Cyrus, but it was also the time of Haman, that’s the other side of this complicated relationship. The greatest threat posed to Jews today stems from Iran and their many proxies. The מגילה/Megillah says it best in a few places:

“But he disdained to lay hands on Mordecai alone; having been told who Mordecai’s people were, Haman plotted to do away with all the Jews, Mordecai’s people, throughout the kingdom of Ahasuerus.

Haman then said to King Ahasuerus, ‘There is a certain people, scattered and dispersed among the other peoples in all the provinces of your realm, whose laws are different from those of any other people and who do not obey the king’s laws; and it is not in Your Majesty’s interest to tolerate them.  If it please Your Majesty, let an edict be drawn for their destruction, and I will pay ten thousand talents of silver to the stewards for deposit in the royal treasury’”. (3:6, 8-9)

That day, Haman went out happy and lighthearted. But when Haman saw Mordecai in the palace gate, and Mordecai did not rise or even stir on his account, Haman was filled with rage at him.  Nevertheless, Haman controlled himself and went home. He sent for his friends and his wife Zeresh, and Haman told them about his great wealth and his many sons, and all about how the king had promoted him and advanced him above the officials and the king’s courtiers.  “What is more,” said Haman, “Queen Esther gave a feast, and besides the king she did not have anyone but me. And tomorrow too I am invited by her along with the king.  Yet all this means nothing to me every time I see that Jew Mordecai sitting in the palace gate.” Then his wife Zeresh and all his friends said to him, “Let a stake be put up, fifty cubits high, and in the morning ask the king to have Mordecai impaled on it. Then you can go gaily with the king to the feast.” The proposal pleased Haman, and he had the stake put up. (5:9 – 14)

These two sections identify in clear language the continued obsession Haman had then, and the Mullahs of Iran have today. We are different… we do not bend to their will… We refuse to be defeated… We stand up for ourselves… Brokenness in them drives them to hate and seek to destroy. They cannot be built up from within and so they turn their lacking to destroy others.

I just returned from an incredible AIPAC conference in Washington DC. For three days I was able to learn about Israel and the Jewish world. For three days I was able to advocate for our people and our nation state. While we were there, it was impossible to ignore the current geopolitical realities of Iran and its stated goal of destroying Israel and wiping the Jewish people off the map. The war that began on October 7^th should not be understood as the battle between Israel and Hamas or Gaza, but as the Iran Israel War. Every part of this war has been caused by the Mullahs in Iran and their inability to accept us. Hamas, Hezbollah, the Houthis, Assaad’s regime, the Shia militias in Iraq, Iran… all of it stems from Iran.

When we met with our representatives and our senators, we brought with us a request: stand with the Iranian people who are hungry to rid themselves of this oppressive regime and stand with us as we continue to fight against that regime hellbent on our destruction. Any negotiation must include zero nuclear program with no sunset clause. Any negotiation must end all Iranian support for their proxies around the world. Any negotiation must end any Iranian ballistic missile program. Any deal that does not address these three fundamentals must be rejected. As we learn from the פורים story, we will still be here after this is over. The Jewish People are eternal and are on the right side of history. As we learn from the פורים story, those who seek destruction will not succeed because the world will always recognize we’re here to build and create and not to tear the world apart.

חג שמח/Chag Sameach/Happy Purim

I am providing you with three videos from the conference to see. The first one is Yuval Raphael, Israel’s contestant for Eurovision, singing her song from this year’s contest. Yuval was a survivor of the Nova Festival, and she had never sung in public before auditioning. Her performance was stunning and pierced the heart.

https://youtu.be/8FvhOr5W1pE

The next two videos go together. Alon Ohel was abducted from the Nova Festival and was held for over two years before he was released on October 13. It was well known that he was an incredible piano player and his mother, Idit, placed a yellow piano in Hostage Square to build awareness of his plight hoping that he would one day play it. She was unrelenting in her advocacy for her son and all the hostages. She had an old picture of Alon dressed as superman and as such she connected with John Ondrasik, Five For Fighting, and got him to use his voice to advocate for Alon and all the hostages. One of Five For Fighting’s best-known songs is Superman. In these videos, you’ll see Idit, John and Alon and the power of the human spirit.

https://youtu.be/8Hd2AqFsTYI

https://youtu.be/-LiDPFuNUcc

I look forward to talking more with you about the importance of staying engaged in advocacy through organizations like AIPAC.

I had a great opportunity this week to visit Ayelet at school and learn with her. Once a week, students in high school at AJA have the opportunity to learn Jewish text for an extra hour in their “night seder” and this one week of the year parents were invited to participate. We sat together in the בית מדרש/Beit Midrash/Study Hall and learned sources in relation to the holiday of פורים/Purim. One of the sources forced us to examine the מגילה/Megillah with new eyes in a way I hadn’t thought of in the past.

וְכׇל־עַבְדֵ֨י הַמֶּ֜לֶךְ אֲשֶׁר־בְּשַׁ֣עַר הַמֶּ֗לֶךְ כֹּרְעִ֤ים וּמִֽשְׁתַּחֲוִים֙ לְהָמָ֔ן כִּי־כֵ֖ן צִוָּה־ל֣וֹ הַמֶּ֑לֶךְ וּמׇ֨רְדֳּכַ֔י לֹ֥א יִכְרַ֖ע וְלֹ֥א יִֽשְׁתַּחֲוֶֽה׃

“All the king’s courtiers in the palace gate knelt and bowed low to Haman, for such was the king’s order concerning him; but Mordecai would not kneel or bow low. (אסתר ג:ב)”

These words have always been read as heroic. מרדכי/Mordecai was standing up (literally) for our people and not willing to bend (again literally) to the will of any person. But the text doesn’t need to be read as מרדכי’s heroism. One can ask the question of what good he did by his refusal? המן/Haman was evil and maniacal and yet his demand of obedience did not “need” to be refused. מרדכי had a choice to bow or not bow. His argument was given two verses later in response to the other people asking why he wouldn’t bow:

וַיְהִ֗י (באמרם) [כְּאׇמְרָ֤ם] אֵלָיו֙ י֣וֹם וָי֔וֹם וְלֹ֥א שָׁמַ֖ע אֲלֵיהֶ֑ם וַיַּגִּ֣ידוּ לְהָמָ֗ן לִרְאוֹת֙ הֲיַֽעַמְדוּ֙ דִּבְרֵ֣י מׇרְדֳּכַ֔י כִּֽי־הִגִּ֥יד לָהֶ֖ם אֲשֶׁר־ה֥וּא יְהוּדִֽי׃

“When they spoke to him day after day and he would not listen to them, they told Haman, in order to see whether Mordecai’s resolve would prevail; for he had explained to them that he was a Jew.” (אסתר ג:ד)

It is understood that מרדכי knew that המן was an Aggagite and thus a descendent of the evil Amalek with whom we were engaged in an eternal war and as thus he could not bow to him. There is another reason given by the rabbis in the מדרש/Midrash that we’re more aware of. המן had embroidered a pagan god’s image on his clothing and thus מרדכי could not bow because that would mean bowing to a false god. (אסתר רבה ז:ה) This understanding is implied but not stated because God is not explicitly found in the מגילה but is implicitly present through parts like this. מרדכי’s refusal was linked to his faith in God and not in disobedience to המן and the kingdom.

This line of thinking is how we’ve always seen מרדכי – the hero standing up for the Jewish people.  Now, for a moment, let us flip this upside down and ask the question; did מרדכי need to do what he did? His actions led to the attempted annihilation of the Jewish people of the world. His inability to recognize the petty and narcissistic eccentricities of המן didn’t need to be elevated and made into a confrontation that led him to create a conflict where one did not exist. His prominence in Shushan and role in the Jewish community meant that he was responsible for his actions, not just to himself, but to all of us as well. The greater folly was not that he didn’t bow but that he explained his refusal by hanging it on the Jewish people and Jewish tradition and our way of life.

I don’t actually agree with this new way of seeing מרדכי because the punishment was unimaginable and didn’t fit the crime, or perceived crime. I don’t subscribe to this view because מרדכי was declaring himself unified with the Jewish people even when it was hardest. In fact, what’s even more incredible is that because of מרדכי’s independent act of defiance, the entirety of the Jewish people were lumped together and condemned to death.

The Jewish people have always been a distinct group in the world that’s seen as “other” by the non-Jewish world. This antisemitic trope is ancient and can be traced back to this story, and the one of the Exodus as well, and we still experience this today. It doesn’t matter that we see ourselves as being diverse and that Jews are a collection of many different people, the world has always seen us as one singular people. We need to work hard to see ourselves the way others do… as a united singular people. Our actions have an impact on all of us. Our strengths belong to all of us, as do our weaknesses. When Jews do great things for the world, we should rejoice because those are our collective accomplishments. The opposite is also true when Jews do shameful things. We need to see that those actions have soiled the name of our people, because in good and bad we are one people. Our unity needs to be a cause we all fight for. We need to be a Jewish people that sees our people as one giant, albeit at times dysfunctional, family that sees the world differently but is nevertheless unified.

I’m honored to be writing to you as the new Executive Director of Congregation Or VeShalom. My hope is to serve this holy community with warmth, clarity, and care, and to help strengthen the beauty that already lives here. As we move toward Purim, I wanted to share a short reflection that has been on my heart.

  

Not the Title, Not the Costume: Remembering the Real Self

We are surrounded by the world of externals, the physical, the noise. The world constantly tells us: be the brand, wear the right thing, curate the image, earn the title, hold the position. But we are not what we wear. We are not our clothes, our labels, our “brand positioning”, or even our titles.

Yes, I hold the title of Executive Director. But I don’t see it as mine. I see it as coming from Hashem, as a responsibility, a placement, a piece of holy work. God gives each of us a purpose, and places us exactly where we are meant to be, where He knows we can use what He gave us to light up a corner of the world that only we can light, in the specific way God wants to work through us.

Purpose isn’t one big moment. It’s a way of moving through the world so that whatever you touch leaves a little more light than it found. It isn’t only what you do – It’s who you choose to become, again and again, with God at the center.

We often believe we are in control of our lives, our spouses, our careers, even who we “choose” to marry. But what God has shown me over the past 30 years is that He is in control. And honestly… I love that. Because then our job becomes simpler: get a little quiet, soften the grip, and listen for His voice leading us where we need to go.

And here is what I learned: I’ve tried searching “out there”, but the real work is always inward, removing what covers our light, our true essence and returning to God. Not becoming someone else but remembering who we already are. And this is exactly why Purim preparation begins before Purim.

As Jews, we don’t wait for the moment to arrive. The fast of Esther is the spiritual doorway into Purim. Before the costumes, we remove a layer. Esther asked the Jews to fast and pray before she entered the palace because the salvation wasn’t going to come from human effort alone. It would come when we turned back to Hashem. For a few hours we step back from the external world and let our heart speak, so Purim can meet us more deeply.

On Purim, we dress up to reveal who we really are.  When a child wakes up on Purim morning, the excitement is contagious. A crown is placed just right. A cape is tied. A wand is proudly held in one hand and a bag of treats in the other. But of course, it’s still the same child. Same eyes. Same soul. Same essence, just covered in costume.

That’s the secret Purim comes to teach us. The costume is a gentle, playful way to teach a very serious truth: you are not what you wear, what you do, or what people expect of you. You are your Neshama/Soul, the Divine spark within. Purim makes external vs. internal impossible to ignore. When you see someone dressed as a king, you instantly know that crown isn’t the person. Purim uses that same clarity to remind us that our roles and titles are also outer garments. Beneath them is the real you.

And this mirrors the Megillah itself. God’s Name isn’t openly written, yet His Presence is everywhere, hidden and still guiding. In the same way, our true self can be covered by personality and habit, but it remains there beneath it all, quietly yearning to return.

So as we move toward Purim, let’s prepare in a meaningful way. Choose one small practice that helps the soul lead: one bracha/blessing with intention, one act of quiet tzedakah/charity, one extra moment of tefillah/prayer, and even one honest conversation with Hashem in your own words, exactly as you are. Tell Him what you’re carrying. Ask for help. Say Thank You. These are the steps that help the mask fall away.

May we merit to enter Purim with open hearts, clear eyes, and the joy that comes from closeness to God.

Mia Rose Goldglanz
Executive Director