National Scholar Updates

Parallels Between Esther and Joseph: Hidden Identity, Providence, and
Redemption 1

The Megillah is often read as a suspenseful court drama, a tale of unlikely
salvation and national reversal. But many commentators and scholars, both traditional
and academic, have recognized deeper narrative and theological currents beneath the
surface. Among the most striking is the intertextual relationship between Esther and the
Joseph narratives in Genesis. The similarities go beyond passing resemblance—they
suggest a deliberate literary modeling that invites us to read Esther through the lens of
Joseph’s story. These connections frame Esther not merely as a story of political survival,
but as a religious reflection on exile—mirroring Joseph’s arc of hidden providence and
redemptive self-disclosure.

A Shared Arc: From Exile to Elevation

Joseph, Mordecai, and Esther rise to prominence in foreign courts after being
swept into exile by circumstances beyond their control. Joseph is sold into Egypt by his
brothers, and Esther is taken into Ahasuerus’s palace. Neither seeks power, yet both
achieve it, dramatically transformed through their ordeals. Like Joseph, Esther conceals
her Israelite identity and adopts the external trappings of the host culture to thrive in the
royal court.

Each character’s transformation reaches its turning point with a moment of moral
courage: Joseph refuses the advances of Potiphar’s wife; Mordecai refuses to bow to
Haman. Both acts, born of fidelity to Jewish principles, bring danger rather than reward.
Yet they also mark the beginning of the protagonists’ ultimate vindication.

Both Joseph and Mordecai are connected to pivotal moments involving two court
officials—Pharaoh’s butler and baker in Joseph’s case, and Bigtan and Teresh in
Mordecai’s. Their heroic interventions are initially forgotten, then later remembered at
precisely the moment they are needed to change the course of history. Each story features
a sleepless monarch whose introspection opens the path to the heroes’ rise.

Even the details of their honors align. Both are publicly honored by a royal
procession: Joseph by Pharaoh (Genesis 41:43), Mordecai by Ahasuerus (Esther 6:11).
Each is elevated to a position just beneath the throne. The drama in both stories climaxes
when the hero’s true identity is revealed—Joseph to his brothers, Esther to Ahasuerus.

Beyond Conceptual Echoes: Linguistic Parallels

The parallels are not only thematic. The author of Esther appears to weave
linguistic allusions into the narrative structure with literary precision. 2 There are specific

(1 Many scholars have observed parallels between the two narratives. I found the work of
Gabriel H. Cohn (Textual Tapestries: Explorations of the Five Megillot [Jerusalem:
Maggid, 2016], Yonatan Grossman (Esther: Megillat Setarim [Jerusalem: Maggid, 2013],
Moshe Sokolow (Ki En Lah Av VaEm: Essays on Purim and Megillat Esther Presented
on the Yahrzeits of Joseph and Hannah Sokolow, a”h [self-published, 2018], and the
material at alhatorah.org most helpful in summarizing the critical issues.)

linguistic echoes that strengthen the argument for intentional literary borrowing. Phrases
such as “day after day” (yom yom) appear in both stories to describe repeated moral tests
(Genesis 39:10; Esther 3:4). The king’s removal of his signet ring appears only in these
two narratives (Genesis 41:42; Esther 3:10; 8:2). The similarity in language and structure
suggests that the author of Esther was intentionally evoking the Joseph narrative, inviting
the reader to compare and contrast the two texts.

Midrashic literature was already sensitive to these connections. Esther Rabbah
(7:7) links Mordecai’s steadfastness to Joseph’s, noting that both were descendants of
Rachel who resisted powerful adversaries on a daily basis. Gabriel H. Cohn and others
suggest that these parallels teach a moral lesson: that true deliverance emerges from
principled resistance to evil.

Providence Behind the Curtain

Joseph famously tells his brothers, “God sent me ahead of you to preserve life”
(Genesis 45:5), acknowledging the hidden hand of Providence in his journey. Even in
Joseph’s account, where God is explicitly mentioned, the divine plan is only gradually
revealed; in Esther, God is not named at all. And yet, the sense of divine orchestration
pervades the story. As Yonatan Grossman observes, this absence is itself a theological
message: we are called to recognize God’s presence even when it is hidden.

A Rematch with Amalek

Another axis of interpretation places Esther within the biblical arc of Israel’s
struggle with Amalek. On five occasions in the Megillah, Haman is called an “Agagite.” 3
Several early traditions consider this appellation a reference to Haman’s descent from
King Agag of Amalek, whom Saul defeated (I Samuel 15). 4

Similarly, several midrashic traditions identify the Kish of Mordecai’s pedigree
(2:5) with Saul’s father (I Samuel 9:1). 5 From this vantage point, Mordecai’s recorded
pedigree spans some five centuries in order to connect him and Esther to Saul. If Haman
is indeed of royal Amalekite stock, and Mordecai and Esther descend from King Saul,
then the Purim story may be viewed as a dramatic rematch of the battle between Saul and
Agag.

(2 See Adele Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary: Esther (Philadelphia: Jewish
Publication Society, 2001), xlv–lii, who discusses the literary artistry and intertextual
structure of the Megillah, including parallels with the Joseph narrative. See also Michael
V. Fox, Character and Ideology in the Book of Esther (Columbia, SC: University of
South Carolina Press, 1991), 195–200, who explores narrative echoes and the intentional
crafting of Esther’s plot in relation to earlier biblical models.)
(3) See Esther 3:1, 10; 8:3, 5; 9:24.
(4) Mishnah Megillah 3:4 requires that Parashat Zakhor (Deuteronomy 25:17–19) be read
the Shabbat preceding Purim. Mishnah 3:6 mandates that the narrative of Amalek’s attack
on the Israelites in the wilderness (Exodus 17:9–17) be read as the Torah portion of
Purim. Josephus (Antiquities XI:209) similarly asserts that Haman was an Amalekite.
(5) See, for example, Megillah 13b.

However, neither assumption is rooted in the text of the Megillah. The etymology
of “Agagite” is uncertain; while it could mean “from King Agag of Amalek,” it may be a
Persian or Elamite name. 6 Had the author wanted to associate Haman with Amalek, he
could have dubbed him “the Amalekite.” The same holds true for Mordecai and Esther’s
descent from King Saul. If the Megillah wished to link them it could have named Saul
instead of Kish in 2:5 (Ibn Ezra). It is possible that the Kish mentioned in the Megillah is
Mordecai’s great-grandfather rather than a distant ancestor. 7

Even if the textual grounding of these identifications is uncertain, the thematic
resonance is undeniable. In this case, the association can be inferred from the text of the
Megillah itself. 8 Thus, the midrashic identification may provide narrative closure to the
Saul-Agag encounter. The conflict between Mordecai and Haman as symbolic of a
greater battle between Israel and Amalek is well taken conceptually, but it is tenuous to
contend that the biological connections are manifest in the text. As the rabbinic maxim
goes: ve-im kabbalah hi, nekabbel—if it is a received tradition, we accept it.

Sinai Revisited

A passage in the Talmud (Shabbat 88a) declares that at Sinai, the Israelites were
compelled to accept the Torah—God suspended the mountain over them like a cask:
And they stood under the mount (Exodus 19:17): Rabbi Avdimi b. Hama b. Hasa
said: This teaches that the Holy One, blessed be He, overturned the mountain
upon them like an [inverted] cask, and said to them, ‘If you accept the Torah, ‘tis
well; if not, there shall be your burial.’ Rabbi Aha b. Yaakov observed: This
furnishes a strong protest against the Torah. Said Rava, Yet even so, they re-
accepted it in the days of Ahasuerus, for it is written, [the Jews] confirmed, and
took upon them [etc.] (Esther 9:27): [i.e.,] they confirmed what they had accepted
long before. (Shabbat 88a)

Only during the days of Ahasuerus, says Rava, did they accept the Torah
willingly, with full freedom. In this reading, the Purim story is not only a national

(6 Yaakov Klein, Mikhael Heltzer, and Yitzhak Avishur et al. (Olam HaTanakh: Megillot
[Tel Aviv: Dodson-Iti, 1996, 217]) note that the names Haman, Hamedata, and Agag all
have Elamite and Persian roots.)
(7 Cf. Amos Hakham’s comments to 2:5 in Da’at Mikra: Esther, in Five Megillot
(Hebrew) (Jerusalem: Mossad HaRav Kook, 1973); Aaron Koller, “The Exile of Kish,”
Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 37:1 (2012), 45–56.)
(8 Hakham suggests that “Agagite” may be a typological name, intended to associate
Haman conceptually with “Amalek,” i.e., he acts as one from Amalek (the same way
many contemporary Jews refer to anti-Semites as “Amalek” regardless of their genetic
origins). Jon D. Levenson (Old Testament Library: Esther [Louisville, KY: Westminster
John Knox Press, 1997], 56–57) adds that Saul lost his kingdom to David as a result of
not killing Agag; now Mordecai will reclaim some of Saul’s glory by defeating Haman
the Agagite—although the Davidic kingdom stopped ten years after Jeconiah was exiled
(Esther 2:6).)

rescue—it is a spiritual completion of the covenant. What was imposed at Sinai is
embraced during Purim, in the very absence of explicit divine command or overt miracle.
That message resonates powerfully today, in an age where our faith must often flourish
without supernatural proofs.

Esther and the Ethics of Self-Defense 9

Jews generally have interpreted the Megillah in terms of the ongoing problem of
anti-Semitism, and on God’s role in helping the Jews behind the scenes. Jews need to be
faithful, unite, and help one another.

In stark contrast, several Christian interpreters condemned the book’s violence
and lack of overt theology. Martin Luther declared that he wished Esther did not exist: “I
am so hostile to this book that I wish it should not exist, for it Judaizes too much and has
too much heathen naughtiness.”

In later centuries, especially in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Germany,
these critiques were reshaped through scholarly discourse but often retained disturbing
anti-Semitic assumptions. Ignoring how the Jews’ lives were threatened, these scholars
interpreted the book as a celebration of Jewish greed and bloodthirstiness. Elias
Bickerman (Four Strange Books of the Bible, 1967) observed that these despicable types
of interpretation began in Germany, but eventually gained traction in the scholarship of
England and the United States as well.

To cite a couple of examples that reflect the disturbing biases of their time: In
1908, Lewis Paton published the International Critical Commentary, which has been
reprinted many times. Here is an excerpt of his evaluation of the Jews’ behavior:

Esther…is relentless toward a fallen enemy, secures not merely that the Jews
escape from danger, but that they fall upon their enemies, slay their wives and
children, and plunder their property (8:11; 9:2–10). Not satisfied with the
slaughter, she asks that Haman’s ten sons may be hanged, and that the Jews may
be allowed another day for killing their enemies in Susa (9:13–14)…
Mordecai…displays wanton insolence in his refusal to bow to Haman, and helps
Esther in carrying out her schemes of vengeance. All this the author narrates with
interest and approval. He gloats over the wealth and the triumph of his heroes and
is oblivious to their moral shortcomings.

His commentary reveals the degree to which anti-Jewish prejudice distorted interpretive
judgment.

Another scholar named Max Haller wrote (in 1925): “Far more numerous are the
despicable, negative character traits of this people, especially their unrestrained lust for
revenge.” Elsewhere in his commentary, Haller argues that the Jews stirred hatred against
themselves by being socially isolated, stoking jealousy because of their wealth, and
inviting violence because of their political weakness. According to Haller’s logic, the
Jews are to blame for anti-Semitism.

( See especially Gabriel H. Cohn, Textual Tapestries, 423–433. The quotations from
Christian commentators are cited by Cohn.)

Yet, these critiques often ignore the context: The Jews were marked for
annihilation. The Megillah emphasizes repeatedly that they fought only those who
attacked them, and they refrained from taking spoils (8:11, 13; 9:1–2)—subverting the
logic of vengeance. The parallel phrasing between Haman’s decree and the Jews’
counter-decree (3:13 vs. 8:11) reflects a deliberate undoing, not imitation, of the original
evil decree of Haman.

Post-Holocaust Christian scholarship has, in many quarters, recognized this
misreading. Some now view Esther as a text about justified self-defense and resilience in
the face of genocidal hatred.

One German interpreter named A. Meinhold (1983) reflected on the viciously
anti-Semitic pre-World War II scholars: “From here it follows that the Christian critique
of the use of force in the Megillah is liable to raise the suspicion—in light of what is
related in the book and against the backdrop of the atrocities committed against the Jews
in the twentieth century—that it supports those forces that attempt to destroy the Jewish
people.”

Sadly, and frighteningly, we still see the pre-World War II argument all too often
regarding Israel’s right to self-defense, surrounded by people who publicly promote its
destruction. Disturbingly, similar patterns persist today, as many still frame Jewish self-
defense as aggression and shift blame for anti-Semitism onto its victims. The Purim story,
tragically, remains relevant.

The View from Shushan

What did the broader Persian population think of the Jews? The text offers only
hints. Esther conceals her identity at Mordecai’s urging (2:10, 20), but it is unclear why
Mordecai wanted Esther to retain this secrecy. A debate among our commentators stems
from opposite assumptions about the feelings of the general Persian population toward
the Jews. Perhaps Jews were despised and Mordecai wanted her to be chosen so that she
could help the Jews later on (Kara, Ralbag). Alternatively, Mordecai feared Esther would
be chosen and therefore wanted to conceal Esther’s noble Jewish roots, which would be
admired by Persians (Rashi, Ibn Ezra).

When Haman’s genocidal decree was announced, the city of Shushan was
“confounded” (3:15). Some, including Rashi and Ibn Ezra, read this as limited to Jewish
anguish; others, including Ralbag and Rabbi Yosef Hayyun, as general civic shock. 10
When the Jews are vindicated, the city rejoices (8:15). Was this joy Jewish, or universal?
Opinions vary. We are left unsure of the general feelings most Persians had toward the
Jews.

Conclusion

The narrative of Esther is not simply a tale of palace intrigue. It is a layered
meditation on exile, identity, moral courage, and divine providence. By consciously
drawing on the Joseph story, the author of the Megillah places Purim within a larger

(10 Barry Dov Walfish, Esther in Medieval Garb: Jewish Interpretation of the Book of
Esther in the Middle Ages (Albany: SUNY Press, 1993), 127.)

biblical arc of survival and redemption. And by omitting God’s name entirely, the book
invites each reader to discover where God might be found—not in visible miracles, but in
the quiet courage to act with faith and moral resolve.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Emor

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Although Jews have faced anti-Semitism from time immemorial, it always comes upon us as something new. It surprises us. We don’t understand it.

We strive to be good people, good citizens; we are kind hearted and generous. We devote ourselves to the education of our children, to the betterment of society, to justice and compassion. We have our share of faults along with all other human beings; but by and large, we are a good, responsible, hard-working community.

And yet, no matter what we do, people don’t see us as individual human beings but as a vast stereotype. They don’t care if we are religious or not religious; if we are liberals or conservatives. If we are Jewish, they are against us and want to hurt us.

It was once thought that the establishment of the State of Israel would bring anti-Semitism to an end. After all, Jews would then have a feeling of security in the world, a safe haven where no one would bother us. But the Jewish State has simply become a new target for the anti-Semites. They now couch Jew-hatred for hatred of “the Zionists.” 

Happily, there are many millions of people who feel warmly toward Jews and the Jewish State. Happily, many millions of people admire the accomplishments of the State of Israel in the face of so many obstacles; they respect Israel’s right—and obligation—to defend its citizens.

We keep telling ourselves that most people are good and that reason will ultimately prevail. The haters will eventually overcome malice and violence; they will realize the value of peaceful and respectful cooperation. In a world of over eight billion human beings, surely there must be room for the infinitesimal presence of 15 million Jews. In a world with so many countries, surely there must be room for one tiny Jewish State that wants nothing more than to be able to live in peace and security.

Saul Bellow, the American novelist who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1976, wrote in his book To Jerusalem and Back: A Personal Account: “…There is one fact of Jewish life unchanged by the creation of a Jewish state: you cannot take your right to live for granted. Others can; you cannot. This is not to say that everyone else is living pleasantly and well under a decent regime. No, it means only that the Jews, because they are Jews, have never been able to take the right to live as a natural right….This right is still clearly not granted them, not even in the liberal West.”

That’s the sad part of the story.

But that’s not the end of the story. Even if there has long been hatred and violence directed against Jews…we are still here! We continue to live, to thrive, to hope.

The late Jewish thinker, Simon Rawidowicz, wrote an essay about “Israel: the Ever-Dying People.” He noted that Jews have often felt that theirs was the last Jewish generation. Jewish survival seemed hopeless. But although we were “ever-dying,” we were in fact ever-living! We often felt despair; but hope and persistence prevailed. Jews found ways to overcome all who would decimate us.

We have drawn strength from the powerful teachings of our Torah. In this week’s parasha we read that “you shall have one manner of law, as well for the stranger as for the homeborn; for I am the Lord your God” (Vayikra 24:22).  Deep within us, we know that God has created all human beings and expects everyone to be treated fairly. 

Current manifestations of anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism are ugly and painful, but we must take the long view of things. This isn’t the first period of Jewish history when Jews faced viciousness and violence. It likely won’t be the last period either. But long experience has taught us to stay strong, stay confident, stay positive. The challenge to our generation is to stand tall as Jews, to stand strong on behalf of Israel.

REVENGE AND “LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR”

Rabbi Uzi Weingarten

This week’s portion includes the Call to Holiness, which includes what may be the most famous

teaching in the Hebrew Scriptures, “Love your fellow as yourself” (Lev. 19:18).

It is noteworthy that this is not all that the verse says. The first part of the verse instructs us not

to take revenge or bear a grudge. Let’s first see what revenge is, and then explore the

relationship between revenge and love.

What is the ‘revenge’ that the verse forbids? The Jewish tradition uses an illustration to explain:

Tom said to Harry, Lend me your sickle” (a tool used to harvest)

Harry responded, No;

Later, Harry said to Tom, Lend me your axe;

Tom said,

I will not lend to you, just as you did not lend to me when I asked;

This is ‘taking revenge.’

(Talmud, Yoma 23a, edited for style and clarity)

Let’s notice two things about this illustration. The first is motive. The reason Tom gives is, I will

not lend to you just as you did not lend to me when I asked.” It is the intention to retaliate that

turns Tom’s refusal to lend into revenge.

The second thing we notice is context. The illustration that the Tradition gives is not about

injustice, which is a real grievance. Rather, Tom asked Harry for a kindness—to lend him

something—and Harry declined.

Nobody has a right to have an item lent to him, and so Harry’s refusal is not an injustice.

However, Tom’s ego might be bruised, and Tom now has a choice about his response.

He can interpret ‘kindness declined’ as Harry wronging him. This would lead Tom to consider it

a grievance, and choose to retaliate. The verse tells Tom to make a different choice: not to turn

Harry’s ‘kindness declined’ into a grievance, but rather to let it slide.

Let’s look now at the entire verse: we are not to take revenge or bear a grudge, but rather to

love our fellow. The verse is written in the form of: Don’t do A, and instead do B. That is, don’t

take revenge, but instead love each other. What does Harry’s refusal to lend have to do with

love?

We are more forgiving towards those we love. It helps us overlook the small slights that are

part of any relationship. The verse is telling us that in a case of ‘kindness declined,’ we are to

take a loving attitude and let it slide, rather than considering it a grievance.

The Sage teaches, “Love covers-over all offenses” (Proverbs 10:12). When there is love, people

will often forgive even a real offense. Love can certainly lead us to forgive ‘kindness declined.’

Forgiveness is the opposite of revenge.

PART TWO

Let’s look now at three situations in which Tom has the right not to lend. One is if Tom doesn’t

lend for any reason other than tit-for-tat. Paraphrasing Rabbi Joseph Bekhor Shor (France; 12 th

cent.), in his commentary to this verse:

If Tom does not lend an item because he needs it for his own use, or because it has

financial or sentimental value to him, or for any other reason, it is not ‘taking revenge.’

The Torah does not require a person to lend things that he does not want to lend…

The verse only prohibits a situation in which Tom would ordinarily lend the item, and is

not lending to Harry as an act of revenge.

In other words, lending to another person is an act of kindness, but it is not an obligation. The

only thing that the Torah prohibits is when one does not lend as an act of revenge.

Another situation is if it was not a case of ‘kindness declined’ but of injustice. What if Harry

treated Tom unjustly, whether financially or by verbal abuse or any other form of injustice, and

then asks Tom for a favor?

As we have seen, the verse prohibits taking revenge only in situations of ‘kindness declined’; it

does not address situations of injustice. According to one of my teachers, that is because the

Torah cannot address every possible situation. Each individual case has many variables

involved. (See also Ramban to Deut. 6:18.)

For example, a person may feel that it is a matter of self-respect not to lend to one who is

abusive to him, or interact with a person of poor character. The Torah leaves it up to the

individual to decide how to act.

It seems to me that a third exception has to do with reciprocity, which is a necessary

component of healthy relationships. If Harry’s refusal is a one-time event, then Tom is called

not to turn ‘kindness declined’ into a grievance, but rather act with love and let it slide.

But if Tom finds himself doing many acts of kindness to Harry, and there is a pattern of Harry

not reciprocating, then Tom may need to ask himself if this is a healthy relationship. Similarly, if

Harry has a history of borrowing and not returning, or if Tom needs to ask Harry repeatedly to

return the item, then it is legitimate for Tom to decide not to lend again to Harry.

All groups need discerning judgment. Even Orthodox Jews who restrict their broader exposure and encounter mostly rabbinic influences must differentiate between more and less reasonable voices. After all, rabbis are quite capable of uttering foolish statements. Nonetheless, the challenge of developing the ability to evaluate ideas and positions expands for Modern Orthodox Jews who expose themselves to so many elements of both higher and lower Western culture. Where have we succeeded in availing ourselves of the best that culture has to offer—and where have we failed by taking in the worst?

How does the college education Modern Orthodox Jews so value aid them in this endeavor? On a daily basis, I rely upon the wisdom and inspiration of great Gentile and secular Jewish thinkers, and that wisdom animates my teaching. Wordsworth’s Nuns Fret Not beautifully captures why structure does not necessarily crush individuality or creativity but can even enhance them, a significant point for halakhically observant Jews. Denise Levertov’s On Tolerance powerfully conveys how the positive concept in the poem’s title can turn destructive. The practical skills learned in college enable a much more robust and varied tikkun olam. Those who stay in yeshiva until age 30 are unlikely to attend medical school and engage in cancer research. The gap between more open and closed approaches expands to massive proportions in Israel where the lack of secular education in the Hareidi sector makes entering most professions extremely difficult.

Openness enables a richer, more accurate, and less simplistic understanding of other groups. One who reads the essays of George Orwell or Atul Gawande will have a much harder time asserting that Torah provides all the required wisdom and that we should eschew non-Jewish authors. No work of contemporary Torah literature addresses the current question of care for the elderly with the insight and compassion of Gawande’s Being Mortal. Analogously, it is easier to refer to secular Zionists as an “empty wagon” when one does not witness up close their dedication to protecting and serving their nation in the IDF and when one remains ignorant of the gastronomic sacrifices made by all the vegans and vegetarians of Tel Aviv. A person who actually speaks with soldiers and reads literature about them would more likely realize the offensiveness of saying that studying Torah is more difficult and demanding than fighting on the frontlines (a statement recently said by Yitzchak Goldknopf, current head of the Agudat Yisrael party). 

The wisdom of Gentiles has proven pivotal in helping our community understand the scourge of sexual abuse. A person who only knows Shas (the entire Talmud) might not comprehend why victims could take two decades to speak up or how those who have been violated could put themselves in the identical position a second time, granting the abuser another opportunity. That person might also think that victims’ mental disorders automatically discredits their testimony instead of considering the possibilities that the abuse caused the disorder or that abusers prefer to prey upon the unhealthy and vulnerable. The knowledge generated by (Gentile) psychological research enables us to address such issues.   

A number of ideologies and institutions that admittedly include threatening elements have nonetheless proven a boon to our community. If feminism means downplaying the importance of family or seeing every spousal discussion about who should wash the dishes as part of a war to overcome the patriarchy, we correctly reject it. On the other hand, feminism and the need for an Orthodox response to the feminist challenge have led to greater educational and professional opportunities for women. We treasure the opportunity contemporary women have to encounter the profundity of our tradition first-hand and function as more learned Jews. Women can more easily make major contributions to society as doctors, lawyers, and mental health professionals. Paradoxically, the entire kollel enterprise, a world that tends to portray feminism as pernicious, only survives due to “kollel wives” in the workforce supporting their families.   

LGBTQ+ ideology often clashes with traditional Judaism but it too has had some positive impact. In 1976, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein wrote that no person naturally desires homosexual relations and those that want it are simply rebelling against God (Iggerot Moshe OH 4:115). Very few Orthodox rabbis would suggest this today, and we should honestly admit that the broader world has helped us realize how some individuals do indeed have intrinsic homosexual desires. We dare not add to their difficulties by accusing them of acting out of spite. Furthermore, justified theological commitments motivated some rabbis to too quickly support the reparative therapy of Project Jonah, which turned out to be a dangerous fraud. Here too, non-Jewish wisdom from the outside world had something to teach us.  

Finally, we have all benefited greatly from the institution of democracy. While we can marshal support for democratic themes in our tradition by citing Abarbanel (commentary on Deuteronomy 17), other rabbinic authorities such as Rambam (Hilkhot Melakhim 1:1) favored a monarchy and the idea that Judaism may not promote a specific position on the nature of national government. As Gerald Blidstein argued (Tradition Fall 1997), we can strongly endorse democracy and see it as an effective vessel for promoting Jewish values without thinking that our halakhic system necessarily calls for it. Democracy has allowed Judaism to flourish in the United States and has proven even more valuable in Israel, where it has enabled Jewish political parties who passionately disagree to function together and produce a thriving Jewish State despite immense military, economic, political, and cultural obstacles.  

In the foregoing examples, the entire Orthodox world has benefitted from these ideas, but Modern Orthodoxy is more forthright in admitting our debt to broader intellectual society and in explicitly promoting the values of democracy and feminism. However, we cannot ignore the less savory influences of Western society. Many Modern Orthodox students head off to college eager to experience the life of heavy drinking, frat parties, and sexual license. Some actively participate in secular party environments, while others bring that cultural universe to the Hillel and enter Shabbat after a pregame of alcohol in the Hillel parking lot. This represents mindless adoption of some of the worst values the larger world offers. 

Clearly, many do not view university as an opportunity to study great ideas or acquire skills for bettering humanity. These missed opportunities are certainly not unique to young adults from the Jewish community, but that is precisely the point. Too often, we emulate secular society when we should distinguish ourselves by acting differently. Many see a university education as primarily a means to achieve a plum job and a large salary. Those who pursue investment banking jobs that will keep them in the office until eleven at night apparently prize money over family. I appreciate how paying multiple annual yeshiva tuitions and camping fees plus the high cost of a house in Orthodox suburbia generate the need for a large income. At the same time, the amount of money spent on Pesah programs should give us pause. For families that can afford it, purchasing takeout food for the holiday, still saving any family member from major Passover domestic chores while paying a fraction of the hotel costs might be a better demonstration of our values. The nature of most of these programs raises questions of hedonism in addition to materialism. Does anyone truly need a barbecue between lunch and dinner, and does the tearoom always need to be open?  

Furthermore, certain intellectual attitudes work against the inspiration of education. If we fixate on Shakespeare as a dead White male who discriminated against Jews, Moors, and women, we will never appreciate the power and wisdom of his writings. The desire to debunk does not allow for any genuine enthusiasm and reverence. In response to the debunkers, I note that people are complex, and the same George Washington who owned slaves had several remarkable personal accomplishments, including not just leading the successful American Revolution and serving as America’s first president but also delivering an influential address about religious tolerance at the Touro Synagogue and giving a very powerful Farewell Address emphasizing education and morality. We can remain in awe of Rabbi Yitzhak Hutner’s brilliance even if we recognize that he was not the easiest of personalities. Additionally, many humanities programs have replaced long novels such as Middlemarch or Les Miserables with courses on film, television, and comic books. In my opinion, this entails sacrificing depth on the altar of entertainment. Too many Modern Orthodox Jews quickly endorse whatever educational trends currently pass as gospel at Harvard and Yale. 

Moderns tend to emphasize choice and consent as values that supersede all others. This year, a very thoughtful student of mine has struggled to understand why “open marriage” is problematic if each spouse agrees to the arrangement. The convictions that certain things should not be done even to someone who consents or that some obligations do not stem from agreement seem foreign to her. People bear debts of gratitude to their parents despite the lack of choice involved. To some degree, the same applies to peoplehood and offers a reason why born Jews should feel a connection to their fellow Jews. Furthermore, a person can say that entering marriage requires consent but still believe the institution demands a single-minded loyalty and commitment to one’s spouse for it to flourish. I decide to get married but do not determine what a thriving marriage relationship consists of. 

As mentioned, feminism brought about many positive changes. However, some feminist assertions on behalf of women actually hurt women. When I suggest that college women should not attend the kind of parties where date rape represents a lurking danger, I am criticized for blaming the victim. Would anyone suggest that purchasing a good lock in a neighborhood known for robberies is blaming the victim? Clearly, the male perpetrators are the evildoers in this story—but we can still encourage potential victims to avoid giving criminals an opportunity.                

I am very sympathetic to women upset that so much Orthodox discourse revolves around tzeniut and dress codes. Modesty applies to men as well; it is about attitude and not just dress, and it should not dominate any seminary curriculum. On the other hand, the larger Western world’s attitude to women’s dress does women no favors. Do women walking around with extremely revealing attire empower them and encourage engaging with them as serious and thoughtful individuals? I have watched a number of Academy Awards YouTube videos and I am always struck by the juxtaposition of justified complaints that women over 45 cannot get major Hollywood roles expressed at an event where many of the women are half undressed but none of the men are. Female hosts criticize women being judged by their looks while wearing clothing that encourages that very message. 

Complaining about social media has become a cliché, but only because the complaints are valid. TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter are for the most part time-wasters, shallow instruments, training in the need for instantaneous gratification, and a replacement for genuine discourse with friends. The institution of Shabbat helps observant Jews reduce these addictions, but some restrictions of usage need to carry over into the week as well. Though it is an uphill battle, schools and parents need to jointly fight against constant smart phone usage. 

For me, no live options exist beyond Modern Orthodoxy. Denominations on the left lack firm commitment to our tradition regarding both knowledge and practice, while groups to our right have too many ethical and intellectual shortcomings. As Dr. Daniel Gordis once questioned, why is there a need for rabbinical schools from other denominations to offer courses in basic Hebrew when one needs much more knowledge than that to begin studying for the rabbinate? Conservative Jews on campus who care about Shabbat and kashruth are often sociologically forced into the Orthodox community. Secondly, regarding which issues have our co-religionists to the left sided with our tradition over current Western mores? Conversely, focusing on the Israeli scene, an entire community exempting itself from army service ends any thought of entering Hareidi society for me. On an intellectual level, the Hareidi world’s monolithic portrayal of Jewish thought, its whitewashing of the sins of biblical heroes and its insistence that Hazal (the Sages of the Talmud) knew contemporary science are not tenable positions. 

The Gemara (Sanhedrin 39b) faults Am Yisrael for following the corrupt among the non-Jews rather than the noble among them. For Modern Orthodoxy to succeed, we need to diametrically reverse that equation. Reviewing the list enumerated in this essay indicates that we have work to do. 

Kedoshim:

What Is Holiness?

The opening half of the Book of Leviticus revolves around a single sacred center: the Mishkan, Tabernacle. Chapters 1–7 detail the sacrificial system; chapters 8–10 describe the dedication of the Mishkan, alongside the tragic cautionary tale of Nadab and Abihu, who approached improperly. Chapters 11–15 delineate who may not enter the Mishkan, and how one may regain access through purification. Finally, chapter 16 outlines the purification of the Mishkan itself, ensuring that God’s presence can continue to dwell among Israel.

Beginning in chapter 17, however, the Torah pivots. The focus shifts from sacred space to sacred life. The laws of chapters 17–26 extend holiness into every sphere of existence—dietary practice, interpersonal ethics, sexuality, ritual observance, and beyond. Already in Leviticus 11:44–45, within the earlier section, the Torah introduces the foundational principle: “You shall be holy, for I am holy.” This refrain reappears as a governing theme in our parashah (19:2) and beyond (20:7; 21:8).

Yet, we must ask: what does holiness actually mean?

Holiness as Imitation of God

The Torah’s central formulation—“You shall be holy, for I am holy”—defines holiness relationally—as a response to God’s own nature. Holiness is not an abstract state, but a call to emulate God. Scripture repeatedly refers to God as kadosh (e.g., Isaiah 40:25; 57:15; Habakkuk 3:3), and rabbinic tradition crystallizes this idea through imitatio Dei: just as God is compassionate, gracious, and just, so too must human beings strive to embody those traits (Sotah 14a; Shabbat 133b).

On this view, holiness is not confined to ritual precision. It is a mode of living in which one’s entire life reflects God’s values.

Two Classical Models: Restraint or Refinement

Medieval commentators debate how this ideal is realized in practice.

Rashi, following Leviticus Rabbah (24:6), understands holiness primarily as restraint—specifically, refraining from prohibited behavior. This interpretation fits the immediate context of chapters 18–20, which emphasize sexual prohibitions. For Rashi, the root k-d-sh conveys separation: to be holy is to set oneself apart from that which is forbidden. The same root can even describe something “set aside” for prostitution (kedeshah), underscoring that holiness is fundamentally about designation and separation.

Ramban, however, pushes further. Drawing on Yevamot 20a, he argues that one can technically avoid all prohibitions and still live a coarse, self-indulgent life. Such a person, though legally compliant, fails to achieve holiness. For Ramban, holiness is refinement—a disciplined, elevated mode of existence shaped by the spirit, not just the letter, of the law. The commandments aim to cultivate a morally and spiritually refined personality.

Halakhic observance alone does not necessarily produce ethical or spiritual excellence. Yet at the same time, the Torah insists that the path to holiness must pass through the framework of mitzvot.

Ethics at the Center of Holiness

Several nineteenth-century thinkers, including R. Yisrael Salanter, R. Moshe Sofer (Hatam Sofer), R. Hirsch, and Netziv, emphasize that holiness is most visibly expressed in ethical conduct, especially honesty in business and interpersonal integrity. In their view, one’s treatment of others is the truest measure of religious life.

This position captures a vital truth—but it risks reduction. Holiness in the Torah is inherently religious and cannot be limited to ethics alone.

Jacob Milgrom therefore offers a more precise formulation: what distinguishes the Torah is not ethics alone, nor ritual alone, but their integration. Ethical conduct is not optional—it is an essential component of holiness alongside ritual observance. Jeremiah Unterman sharpens this point further: in the ancient Near East, legal systems prohibited wrongdoing but did not mandate active care for the vulnerable. The Torah uniquely mandates care for the vulnerable as an obligation of justice.

Holiness, then, is not only about avoiding harm, but about actively building a just and compassionate society.

Holiness as a National Calling

A striking perspective emerges from Joshua Berman. In Tanakh, individuals are almost never described explicitly as kadosh. The lone narrative exception is the Shunammite woman’s description of Elisha as an ish kadosh, holy man (II Kings 4:9)—and even there, it is her perception, not the Torah’s or God’s designation.

By contrast, the nation of Israel is repeatedly called a holy nation (goy kadosh) beginning at Sinai. The concept of holiness, Berman argues, is fundamentally collective and covenantal. It arises only with the formation of Israel as a nation bound to God through law and mission.

Holiness, in this sense, is not merely personal piety. It is a national identity expressed through shared practices, boundaries, and commitments that distinguish Israel from other nations. Even when applied to individuals—such as priests or Nazirites—holiness is institutional, defined by roles within the broader covenantal system.

This framing yields a powerful corollary: when Israel lives up to its calling, God is sanctified in the world. When it fails, the result is hillul Hashem, a desecration of God’s name. Holiness is thus both privilege and responsibility, inseparable from the public and national life of the people.

Conclusion: A Multi-Dimensional Ideal

The command “You shall be holy” resists reduction to a single definition. It encompasses:

• Separation from the prohibited (Rashi),
• Refinement of character and conduct (Ramban),
• Integration of ritual and ethical life (Milgrom, Unterman),
• Imitation of God’s attributes (rabbinic tradition),
• And participation in a national covenantal mission (Berman). 

Together, these perspectives reveal that holiness is not a single trait, but a multi-layered religious ideal. Holiness is not one dimension of religious life—it is its totality. It demands discipline and aspiration, law and spirit, individual growth and collective identity. Above all, it calls upon Israel to live in such a way that the presence of God is reflected not only in sacred spaces, but in the entirety of life.

Angel for Shabbat: Aharei Mot/Kedoshim

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

     “Inclusive Orthodoxy” was Rabbi Jonathan Sacks’ way of describing how the majority of Jewish

congregations operate in Britain and the Commonwealth. In these communities most

synagogues are run along Orthodox lines with an Orthodox Rabbi, and some

members who are observant. However, most congregants are more traditional than

strict in their religious practice. Nevertheless, they are part of an Orthodox

congregation, and when the model is working at its best, they feel at home there, are

actively welcomed and valued, and they may even grow in their religious

commitment. Beyond their commitment to maintaining Orthodox communal

standards, these congregations are not part of a dedicated ideological project of any

particular variety, but religious communities that seek to provide a home to as many

Jews as possible.

     That is the model of the United Synagogue in London, similar congregations around

Britain, and in other countries including Canada, New Zealand, South Africa and my

own home in Australia. I have been the Rabbi of one such congregation, The Great

Synagogue of Sydney, for just over ten years now. In that time I have had to reflect

on how a Rabbi can and should lead an Inclusive Orthodox community. It is not

straightforward, and raises several quandaries. How can the Rabbi uphold Orthodox

standards while still welcoming everyone? How can he make everyone feel at home

even though they might have very different lifestyles to his own, and very different

from a halakhic ideal? How can he promote increased Jewish observance without

alienating his congregation?

     I cannot claim to have all the answers to these questions, but I think that the bridge

that needs to be built may rest on three pillars: Embracing, Exemplifying and

Encouraging. Just as Rabbi Sacks argued that Inclusive Orthodoxy as a whole was

not an accommodation, but an ideal, certainly in the context of the modern world as it

actually exists, I submit that this rabbinic approach is not just a strategic choice, but

is also a religious imperative.

     First comes Embracing. It is the job of the Rabbi of any congregation, and especially

a congregation where the members are not uniform in their level of religious

observance, to embrace each and every person. My young children have a board

book called We Go To Shul (by Douglas Florian and Hannah Tolson), which includes

the line “rabbi greets all those he meets”, which captures this responsibility

perfectly. Everyone who wants to come to any activities of the congregation should

be greeted, embraced, genuinely welcomed and valued, and they should feel that is

the authentic disposition of the Rabbi. This is a different concept to being non-

judgmental. Choosing not to be judgmental implies that I harbor an unexpressed

judgement, and I am making the decision not to bring it out, but it exists and I could if

I wanted. Embracing puts all that aside, and sees only a person who wants to

connect, and celebrating and facilitating that desire. Although, as I will go on to

argue, the Rabbi can and should be ambitious for each person’s religious growth,

authentic embrace is not a tool to bring about that growth but a fundamental

expression of Jewish values in its own right. When Maimonides codified the

obligation to love another Jew in Hilkhot Deot 6:3 he did so without qualification:

“Each person is commanded to love each and every one of Israel as themselves.” It

is not dependent on the level, actual or prospective, of religious observance.

     Sometimes this can be difficult, on a personal or a religious level. Some people are

difficult, they are prickly characters, or simply have a personality that does not click

with the Rabbi’s. Sometimes the Rabbi may feel frustration or disappointment with a

congregant’s religious observance. He might feel the congregant could do more, or

has even slipped backwards. He might feel that his hopes for that congregant have

not borne fruit, or that he has poured care and effort without experiencing reciprocity.

     There are two ways for the Rabbi to address this, and they are both internal work.

The first is to try to set all these considerations aside, and return to the core values

of universal and unconditional embrace. If that is not immediately or always possible,

then it is worth remembering that religious-pastoral relationships play out over a long

time. What does not happen this year may happen next year, or in ten years.

     Patience and persistence are the keys to both a happy and a successful rabbinate.

The second pillar is Exemplifying. Yelling at people to do more or do better probably

never worked well, and certainly cannot work today. A Rabbi makes clear their

standards not by demanding them of others but by living up to them, as much as

possible, himself. Again Maimonides points us towards this, when he advises

(Hilkhot Talmud Torah 4:1) that however wise a teacher may be, he should only be

followed if his behavior exemplifies proper conduct, because teaching ultimately

resides in actions more than words. The Rabbi must therefore be scrupulous in how

he speaks and what he eats, in timely and reliable attendance at services, visible

enthusiasm for the study of Torah, hospitality, generosity, acts of personal kindness.

As the Talmud states in Yoma 86a, he should prompt observers to say of him “how

pleasant are his ways, how proper are his deeds”.

     This should not make the Rabbi appear angelic, because the Torah was not given to

the angels. He can thoughtfully give insight into his struggles, because questioning

and doubt are inevitable parts of the religious experience, and his congregants

should not be misled into believing they alone face these challenges. That would be

both dishonest and unhelpful. In a careful way, the Rabbi can share the practical

struggles of, say, raising a young family while also attending to religious and

communal obligations, or the theological struggles that come from seeing the

innocent suffer.

     The Rabbi must also demonstrate palpable intellectual integrity and moral clarity. If

he feels the need to teach difficult lessons or transmit challenging ideas, he must do

so, but not in a way that demands agreement or compliance. The stance of the

Rabbi should be “you have asked me to be your teacher, and that gives me an

obligation to teach the truth as I see it. No one is obliged to agree with me, but you

have a right to know what I think, if I believe the circumstances call on me to tell you.”

     That combination of courage and conviction with humility and openness is a

contribution in itself and also makes even the hardest messages possible to give and

receive without destabilizing relationships. They reveal a Rabbi who might be wrong,

and knows he might be wrong, but who is not prepared to be a liar or a coward. Of

course, knowing when not to speak, and how not to speak is just as important, and

verbal recklessness is no more a quality in a Rabbi than it is in anyone else. What is

true, is that with the growth of love and trust, more can be said.

     Have I detailed impossibly high standards? Probably. Which means in turn there can

be modelling of living with imperfection, honesty about falling short, the need for

repair following rupture and a continual attempt to do better.

     The final pillar is Encouraging. The challenge is to nudge without becoming a

‘noodge’. In an Inclusive Orthodox congregation the Rabbi cannot rely on a shared

understanding of the practical binding force of Halacha, or on peer pressure and

social expectations, but he still wants to see his congregants grow in their religious

observance. He is not presiding over what is sometimes called a “kiruv shul”, a place

where everyone is consciously and deliberately on a journey towards greater

religious observance and they want the Rabbi to help them on that path. That is

probably not the project or the consensus of the membership of an Inclusive

Orthodox community. What, then, can the Rabbi do? He can and should encourage.

He should engage with his congregants, as Maimonides counsels “patiently and

Gently” (Hilkhot Deot 6:7). Suggesting to someone who rarely attends services to

come, not just more often in general but on a specific occasion, whether Shabbat,

Yom Tov, or weekday; offering to take time to learn Torah with them; not just laying

tefillin for them, but teaching them how to put on tefillin; teaching them how to read a

Haftarah, perhaps the Torah, or lead a service; giving them an active role in services

as a shamash or gabbai. This is aside from a role in lay leadership, such as joining

the synagogue board; it is about deepening specifically religious activity.

     Not everyone will agree to try to do more, some will agree but not follow through,

some will follow through for a while and then participation will tail off, but the more

and the wider the Rabbi’s encouragement the greater will be the results. This

encouragement has to be personal. I have not seen exhortations from the pulpit or

appeals in emails have much effect. Success comes most often from personal

invitations made in the context of personal relationships. The greatest success for

the Rabbi is when, in the case of an individual, he no longer needs to encourage,

because that person now attends and participates because of their own internal

enthusiasm and not because of an external intervention. Of course, no longer

making specific suggestions should never mean the relationship is allowed to

atrophy. Anyone can see when the Rabbi loses interest because their presence is

taken for granted, is regarded as “in the bag”.  Instead what starts out as drawing

people in can become a warm, close and settled relationship of fellowship and

appreciation. No one should feel looked down upon because they do less, but they

should feel celebrated when they do more.

     While these three pillars represent an ideal rather than a claim of personal

achievement, they are perhaps parts of a vision to which an Inclusive Orthodox

Rabbi can aspire and strive. They are a route to combining openness with integrity, breadth with growth, 

and authenticity with ambition. For a Rabbi called to this type of community and the challenges 

and opportunities it will bring, I submit these suggestions as an approach worth attempting.

Book Launch: The Grand Worldview of Rab Uziel will happen on Tuesday, February 17, 7pm at Shearith Israel, New York.