Purimfest 1946 and Beyond: Villains, Heroes and Revealing the Courage Within

Nazis on trial in Nuremberg 1946 & freed Israeli hostage Alon Ohel as a 6-year-old

Purim is neither simple nor superficial. 

Beyond the noise of the groggers and behind the masks of celebration lies a profound Jewish struggle: How do we make sense of Jewish history marked by suffering, resilience, and improbable survival? 

The answer lies not in easy explanations or metaphysical certainties, but in Megillat Esther itself. It is more than a Biblical book; it Is a scroll that reveals how meaning is found in the most hidden places. The very name Megillat Esther captures this experience. Megillah - a scroll that also means to reveal. Esther - a name with the root hester, concealment. God’s name is absent from the narrative, yet divine presence peeks through in human courage and timing. The Purim story does not give us a doctrine of history.

Megillat Esther teaches us how to read history as a story of revelation amidst concealment.

One of the most striking “Megillah” encounters between ancient and modern history occurred right after the Holocaust. As Julius Streicher, a principal architect of Nazi antisemitic propaganda, marched to the gallows at Nuremberg on October 16, 1946, he cried out, “Purimfest 1946!” That phrase struck a chord with Jewish memory because it suggests that even the villains of history sense the power of the Purim narrative. Streicher had pored over books about Purim, marked passages about Haman, and twisted the ancient story into propaganda. At his death, his cry revealed not triumph, but the haunting recognition that Jewish history would not be extinguished.

“Purimfest 1946” invites us to read Jewish history like a Megillah. We see villains in every generation: Haman in Shushan, Nazis in Europe, Hamas today. They are the enemies we dread, the forces that seek to end Jewish life and memory. Yet, like Haman, their downfall becomes part of our story, a painful but undeniable pattern of survival.

Rabbinical commentators found coded allusions to future judgment and justice in the Megillah. The small letters taf, shin, and zayin are written in the scroll within the names of Haman’s ten sons being hung. These letters have the numerical value corresponding to the year Streicher was executed – 5707/1946. A coincidence or a connection between the Haman’s ten sons and ten Nazis hanged two millennia later.

Certainly, we are justified in drawing parallels. But Purim does not reduce history to symbols or secret codes. The real lesson of Megillat Esther is that patterns in history do not replace human responsibility; they invite us to find meaning while resisting simplification.

The Purim story is not only about villains. It is equally about heroes whose courage and moral clarity reveal something hidden in history.

U.S. Army Master Sergeant Roddie Edmonds will be awarded the Medal of Honor this coming Monday, Purim Eve, for protecting Jewish soldiers in a German POW camp during World War II. When commanded by a Nazi officer to separate the Jewish prisoners from the others, Edmonds refused, declaring, “We are all Jews here.” He stood between evil and the vulnerable, saving countless lives at great personal risk. Edmonds is a Purim hero, a modern-day Mordecai. He did not seek honor; he acted with steadfast righteousness.

Roddie Edmonds’ courage reveals something essential. Heroes in the Jewish story often emerge not from extraordinary power, but from ordinary people who choose moral courage over cowardice. Our age, too, produces its own Purim heroes - not only on battlefields but ordinary people facing down extraordinary situations. 

Last year, musician John Ondrasik, best known as Five for Fighting, released a new version of his hit song "Superman" dedicated to the Israeli hostages who were then still being held in Gaza. He wanted to bring more global attention to their ordeal. Ondrasik said the inspiration for the project came from the parallels between the October 7 Hamas attacks in Israel and the trauma Americans experienced on 9/11. "It became very clear that ‘Superman’ should be the song," he said. "With the history of 9/11, and the fact that, for Israel, October 7 is their 9/11."

When reworking the song, Ondrasik said one image stood out: a childhood photo of hostage Alon Ohel wearing Superman pajamas. "Seeing the picture of him in his Superman jammies as a toddler made it very clear," Ondrasik said. The hostage families’ strength and perseverance over months of unimaginable torment and devastation, often seems superhuman. 

"One does not have to be Jewish to support Idit, her family, Israel. One merely needs to be human, have a heart, have a soul." Ondrasik says he dreamed of being able to play the song with Alon at his side. This Monday, he got his chance. At AIPAC’s Congressional Summit in Washington, Alon accompanied John on the piano to sing “Superman” in front of thousands of incredibly moved pro-Israel activists. 

Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. It’s a modern Purimfest anthem: not a celebration of might, but of human heart, resilience, and solidarity.

The Superman of comic lore is a figure of power, but the Jewish heroes of our day - like Roddie Edmonds or the men and women who risk everything for others - are symbols of power rooted in compassion and in choosing to move forward through the fear. That is the true spirit of Purim: not merely victory, but meaningful victory shaped by courage and covenant.

Purim does not offer a neat theology of history; it invites us into a lifelong pursuit of interpretation, purpose, and action. We celebrate a God Who remains hidden, yet Whose presence is discernible in the courage of the righteous and the survival of the Jewish people against all odds.

Enemies will rise. Villains will plot. History will hurt. But courageous acts - acts of kindness, defiance, and moral clarity - reveal glimpses of divine purpose. That is the hidden meaning we seek in the Megillah. That is why we celebrate Purim not simply as a story of ancient reversal, but as a living tradition that teaches us to read history as a narrative of concealment and revelation, to recognize both the villains and the heroes, and to find in every generation its own Purimfest of ora, v'simcha, v'sasone, vi'yekar  - light, joy, jubilation, and courage. Kein tihye lanu - So may it be for all of us!

Around The Shulchan, Tisch, or Table: Where Judaism Comes Alive

For thousands of years, people have gathered around the table.

The word itself comes from the Latin tabula, a simple plank. A functional surface. Nothing glamorous. And yet, that plank has quietly shaped families, cultures, and civilizations.

The dining room table, as we know it, is a fairly modern invention. Until the late 18^th century, there were no dining rooms at all. Families ate off small tables, often separately. Around the time of the American Revolution, wealthier homes began building rooms centered around large tables meant to host many people. By the early 20^th century, family dinner around the table had become an American institution. Many of us grew up with both a breakfast room and a dining room - each with its own role.

Then, slowly, things reversed. Kitchens grew larger. Television entered the home. TV dinners appeared. The dining room became reserved for special occasions. And today? Many families barely eat together at all. Meals are rushed, eaten on the go, or consumed alone. The table has become a drop zone for mail, laptops, and Amazon packages.

Yet research confirms what tradition has always known: Gather round the table! Anne Fishel, a professor at Harvard Medical School and co-founder of The Family Dinner Project, wrote an article entitled, “The most important thing you can do with your kids? Eat dinner with them.” Family meals improve learning, physical health, emotional resilience, and behavior. Around the table, minds open, bodies are nourished, and souls are shaped.

Judaism has always understood this intuitively. The table is not peripheral to Jewish life. It is central. Shabbat and holidays ensure that, no matter how busy life becomes, we come together. But the table is about far more than gathering. The table is where Judaism is lived. That is why, throughout Jewish history, when leaders sought to make Judaism more vibrant, relevant, and alive, they didn’t only build institutions, they gathered people around tables.

The rise of Chasidut offers a powerful example. In the 18^th century, Jews were learning, davening, and observing, but for many, Judaism felt distant and heavy. Enter the movement inspired by Baal Shem Tov, who emphasized warmth, presence, joy, and lived spirituality. One of the most enduring expressions of that vision was the tisch, literally, the table. Around a table, chasidim gathered with their Rebbe. There were niggunim, words of Torah, stories, l’chaim, shirayim (food), silence, and soul. Torah was no longer confined to the study hall; it was absorbed through experience, relationship, and shared humanity. The tisch transformed eating into elevation and conversation into connection. Judaism wasn’t just learned, it was felt. The table is not a substitute for Torah; it is one of Torah’s most powerful classrooms.

This idea echoes a teaching of Rabbi Meir Shapiro, the founder of the famed Yeshivat Chachmei Lublin in pre-war Poland. A verse was inscribed on the gates of the building: “Lechu banim, shim’u li - Go, my children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of God” (Tehillim 34:12). Why does the pasuk begin with lechu, go? Why not begin with a word that indicates learning? Rabbi Shapiro explained that Torah study, while essential, is incomplete unless it is carried into real life. Success inside the yeshiva is not the true test. The test is what happens when students go out into the world. Do they carry the lessons they learned with them? Does it shape how they eat, speak, and live?

In medieval France, Jews gave this idea a striking physical expression. Rabbeinu Bachya records a custom in which some people used the wood of their dining room table to construct their coffin. The message was profound: may the merit of what we do around our tables accompany us into Olam Habah, the World to Come.

The Mishkan’s Shulchan (Table) was made from atzei shittim, acacia wood. Rabbeinu Bachya cites a Midrash explaining that the letters of shittim represent the essential values of a Jewish table: 

- Shalom – peace and togetherness
- Tovah – gratitude and goodness
- Yeshuah – spiritual elevation and redemption
- Mechilah – forgiveness and repair

The symbolism of the Tabernacle and Temple vessels carries forward into our homes today. The Talmud (Chagigah 27a) teaches that our tables have taken on an important religious role in the absence of the Beit Hamikdash.

This connects to a penetrating insight from Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, who rejected the idea that Jewish life is centered solely in the synagogue. He taught, “The center of Jewish life is the home, the street, the shop, the nightclub, the beach, the highway…” The most important place in Judaism is wherever life unfolds. Shul is essential. Torah study is essential. But Judaism is meant to be lived consistently and authentically across all spaces. And, thus, the table is consequential.

So what do our tables say? What are we serving? Who is welcome? What tone fills the conversation? How do we speak about one another, our community, our leaders? Our tables can still be crafted from shittim - from peace, goodness, redemption, and forgiveness. That medieval custom now feels less strange. While we cannot take possessions with us, we can carry the spiritual imprint of how we lived. The wood of the table symbolically becomes part of our legacy.

If we treat our tables as sacred spaces, they will shape sacred lives. And perhaps the most powerful Judaism our children will ever absorb and that we can share with one another is what is experienced, week after week, around the Jewish table.

The Backflip on Ice and Finding Our Jewish Joy

One of the most electric moments in this Winter Olympics was figure skater Ilia Malinin’s backflip on the ice.

He backflips. On ice. With a pair of knives strapped to his feet, he sticks the landing. And he does it just because he can. 

As the Wall Street Journal noted, the move doesn’t earn the athlete any extra technical points. For nearly a half-century, the back flip on ice was banned. In 2024, the sport’s governing body finally yielded to pressure to approve the move. It was decided that skaters would no longer be penalized for a backflip, but they don’t receive any extra points in their final score either.

And yet, the crowd went wild. “First it makes them blink. Then it makes them shriek.”

Why? Because it was daring, joyful, and unexpected. It reminded everyone that they weren’t just watching a competition; they were experiencing something alive.

That reaction tells us something profound about human beings — and about religious life. We don’t just want meaning. We want to feel it.

Behavioral research shows that people are most engaged not by obligation or reward, but by intrinsic excitement - moments that surprise us, move us, and stir emotion.

Judaism has known this all along. The Torah doesn’t say simply serve God. It says: “Serve Hashem b’simchah, with joy.” (Tehillim 100:2) Simchah isn’t optional. It’s essential. In fact, the Torah warns that spiritual failure comes not only from neglecting mitzvot, but from performing them without joy (Devarim 28:47).

Rabbi Kalonymos Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczner Rebbe (Tzav v’Ziruz, Section 9) wrote, “The soul of a person loves to feel.” He goes on to note that people will seek out all sorts of experiences to get that rush of emotion. Anyone a rollercoaster junkie or horror-movie aficionado?  

“Emotion is the food of the soul; it is as much of a need of the soul as food is to the body…[Judaism] without emotion will leave a vacuum that will force the soul to search for emotion anywhere…Correct behavior matters. But presence and emotional engagement matter too.”

Malinin’s backflip didn’t help him win, but it reminded us why we watch. We long to feel.

What’s true emotionally is also true spiritually. There’s a tension. We daven, but do we mean it? We have to, but do we want to? Are we merely present, checking off a box, or are we alive in the moment?

The Talmud teaches: “The Divine Presence is present only when a person feels joy.” (Shabbat 30b) Joy. Passion. Feeling. Emotions open the heart and create receptivity. Without them, religious life can become technically correct but spiritually flat.

People disengage not because Judaism lacks depth, but because routine without resonance dulls the soul. When surprise, creativity, and emotional risk disappear, meaning becomes harder to access. That’s why the backflip is so exhilarating. It wasn’t required. It wasn’t optimized. It was expressive.

This leads to a powerful question: Where is the backflip in our religious lives?

We need to try and add small ways to bring excitement and passion back.

• Add one “unnecessary” Jewish act each week - something not required, just joyful like a melody, a verse, a moment of stillness.
• Upgrade one routine mitzvah by slowing it down and doing it with intention.
• Stop measuring spirituality only by output. Not everything meaningful needs to earn points.

The world cheered that backflip on ice because it reminded us why excellence matters in the first place - not for the score, but for the experience. Judaism asks the same of us - not perfection, but presence; not constant intensity, but moments of joy that reconnect us to meaning.

What is one small “backflip” we can add this week? Which act of Jewish life might earn no points, but might reawaken our joy? Attempting these maneuvers may not win us gold, but they will make each of us winners.

Sinai Caused Antisemitism; Sinai Is the Cure

What’s your favorite part of the Super Bowl?

For many who will be watching on Sunday night, it’s not the game at all - it’s the commercials. For 30 seconds, advertisers are granted access to more than 100 million viewers, a rare and very expensive opportunity to tell a story, make a point, or shape a conversation.

This year, for New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft, the Super Bowl is about more than his team’s 12^th shot at a championship. It is a national platform for his effort to combat antisemitism. His organization, The Blue Square Alliance against Hate (formerly called the Foundation to Combat Antisemitism), will premiere a new ad entitled “Sticky Note.” It depicts a Jewish student being bullied in a school hallway, a note reading “dirty Jew” slapped onto his backpack. Students giggle and wonder whether they should tell him. One classmate purposefully steps in and quietly places a blue square over the hateful label. “Do not listen to that,” he says.

It’s a powerful image. And it reflects something very real: There is enormous attention being paid to antisemitism today. Dozens of organizations and initiatives. Tens of millions of dollars invested. Definitions, advocacy campaigns, educational mandates, awareness efforts. Many are quite sincere and well-meaning. And yet, antisemitism stubbornly persists.

The source of all this hatred is not new. It is ancient. Its name is Sinai.

The Talmud (Shabbat 89a) makes a startling claim: Mount Sinai was called Sinai because from there descended sinah, hatred, toward the Jewish people. In other words, the moment of Matan Torah and divine revelation was not only the birth of Judaism; it was also, in a sense, the birth of antisemitism.

Why?

Because at Sinai, the Jewish people accepted a mission no other nation stepped forward to claim: “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6). We have been tasked with moral responsibility, with covenantal discipline, and with the audacious belief that God cares deeply about how human beings treat one another. Sinai introduced into the world the aspirational ideals of purpose, meaning, and accountability.

History has never been kind to its conscience.

The nations did not begin to hate Jews because of our numbers, power, or wealth. They hate us because of our message. Judaism insists that there is a higher standard than convenience, force, or fashion. That life is sacred. That power has limits. That law applies equally to the strong and the weak. As historian Paul Johnson wrote, many of the moral ideas we now take for granted - human dignity, equality before the law, individual ethics - entered the world through the Jews. Without Jews, the world might have been a much emptier place.

Antisemitism, then, is not fueled primarily by Jews. It is fueled by Judaism.

This explains a painful paradox of Jewish history. Assimilation has never saved us. Twentieth-century German Jewry was among the most integrated, educated, and patriotic communities in Europe, and it did not protect them. It has been noted that Judaism provokes two extreme reactions: Judeophobia, resentment toward the moral voice Jews represent, and Judeophilia, admiration and a desire to learn from it. Either way, one thing history makes painfully clear: Judaism is a distinction Jews cannot hide from. When Jews abandon their mission, hatred does not disappear; the world simply loses its moral torchbearers.

One of my favorite quotes of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks is: “Non-Jews respect Jews who respect Judaism, and they are embarrassed by Jews who are embarrassed by Judaism.” This insight has taken on renewed urgency today as the Jewish community seems to focus more on the problem of antisemitism than the solution.

At a recent 92Y talk, Bret Stephens argued - provocatively and persuasively - that the Jewish community is spending enormous sums fighting antisemitism in ways that are not strengthening Jewish identity or continuity. Holocaust education, advocacy campaigns, and formal definitions matter. But they are not moving the needle. A generation whose Jewish identity consists mainly of having seen Schindler’s List or visited a Holocaust museum is not a generation rooted in Jewish meaning.

Stephens’ alternative response is deeply Sinaitic: the proper defense against Jew-hatred is not endless apology, nor defining ourselves by our enemies, but leaning into our Jewishness as far as each of us can - regardless of what anyone else thinks. Invest in Jewish schools. Jewish learning. Jewish pride. Jewish fluency.

Anne Frank understood this with heartbreaking insight. On April 11, 1944, she wrote in her diary:
 

Who has made us Jews different from all other people…It is God Who has made us as we are, but it will be God, too, who will raise us up again. Who knows – it might even be our religion from which the world and all peoples learn good, and for that reason and that reason alone do we now suffer. We can never become just Netherlanders, or just English, or representatives of any other country for that matter. We will always remain Jews.

In 1962, before young Jewish leaders traveled to Auschwitz, they asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe what meaning could possibly be found in such horror. His answer was not only about memory, but about mission. Hitler, he said, sought not only to destroy Jewish bodies, but to annihilate Jewish spirit. The true defeat of Hitlerism is not only “never again,” but “again and again.” Jews continuing to live visibly, proudly, joyfully as Jews. Jewish homes. Jewish learning. Jewish commitment in public view.

“When you go to Auschwitz,” the Rebbe said, “you must profess there that Auschwitz cannot happen again. You assure it by becoming a living example of a living Jew.”

There is a great deal of talk today about antisemitism. Much of it is necessary, but Sinai teaches us something deeper. If sinah began at Sinai because the Jewish people accepted a moral mission, then the most authentic way to fight antisemitism is not by running from that mission but by doubling down on it.

Not only by covering hateful labels with blue squares, but by filling Jewish lives with Torah, mitzvot, meaning, and pride.

If Sinai was the source of the problem, living by Sinai is the solution.