Adapted from a drasha delivered at Congregation Beth Aaron, Parshas Tetzaveh, February 28, 2026.
The way we experience a story depends on where we are standing inside it. From the end, everything appears ordered. From the middle, it rarely does.
The Purim story is no different.
When we read the Megillah, the narrative moves quickly, from banquet to banquet, from decree to reversal, in the span of minutes. But in real time, the events stretched across nearly a decade.
In the third year of Achashverosh’s reign, there was a lavish 180-day feast followed by a seven-day celebration. Vashti refused. She was removed. That was Year Three. And then nothing dramatic for the Jewish people. The advisors suggested searching for a new queen. Young women were gathered from across the empire. Esther was taken to the palace. But even that was not immediate. Each woman underwent twelve months of preparation before going before the king. Esther ultimately came before Achashverosh in the tenth month of the seventh year of his reign. Four full years passed between Vashti’s removal in Year Three and Esther becoming queen in Year Seven.
In those four years, Jewish life simply continued. Mordechai sat at the king’s gate. An assassination plot was uncovered. The event was recorded in the royal chronicles. But nothing seemed to change. No miracles. No dramatic reversals. Just the steady rhythm of exile. Then more time passed. Five additional quiet years between Esther’s coronation in Year Seven and the rise of Haman in Year Twelve. We do not even know what those five years looked like. That is the point. Ordinary life. Routine. Community. Possibly complacency.
And then, in the twelfth year of Achashverosh’s reign, Haman was elevated. Mordechai refused to bow. Haman cast lots in the first month, Nissan, to determine when to destroy the Jews. The lot fell on the month of Adar. On the thirteenth of Nissan, the decree was signed. And the date of destruction was set for the thirteenth of Adar — eleven months later.
Eleven months. Almost an entire year of waking up every morning knowing there is a date circled on the calendar. Eleven months of uncertainty. Eleven months of rumors. Eleven months of whispered conversations. Eleven months of not knowing how this story ends.
But before those eleven months had passed, something happened.
In the middle of Nissan, Esther called for a three-day fast. She approached the king. There was a first banquet. That night, the king could not sleep. The chronicles were read. Mordechai was honored. There was a second banquet. Haman fell. It feels sudden.
But it is sudden only because nearly nine years of story preceded it.
When we read the Megillah, we move from banquet to banquet, from decree to reversal, in minutes. But in real time it was slow. There were long stretches where nothing seemed to be happening at all. Only later does it feel like choreography. Only later does it look like a perfectly structured narrative. Because we are reading it from the end.
Chazal tell us something striking: הקורא את המגילה למפרע לא יצא. If you read the Megillah out of order, you do not fulfill the mitzvah. On the surface, that means chronological order. But perhaps it also means something deeper. You cannot live the story backwards. You cannot begin with ונהפוך הוא and then rewind to the confusion. You do not get to experience life from the vantage point of Chapter Ten while you are still inside Chapter Three.
Reading backwards is not only rearranging verses; it is rearranging meaning. It is deciding too quickly what this moment means. It is assuming that what feels decisive now is, in fact, decisive in the larger arc. Humility in interpretation is not passivity. It is recognition that we are participants in a story whose ending we cannot yet see.
Living in the middle is hard. We want clarity. We want to know whether a moment signals ascent or decline, blessing or setback. Uncertainty generates anxiety. We fill in endings before they are written. The Megillah reminds us that most of history is lived not in the clarity of reversal, but in the opacity of process.
Twenty-four years ago, when I first came to this community, the process that led to my appointment was anything but neat. Many here do not remember the details, and some were not here at all. There is no need to rehash every chapter. But recalling some of the basic outline may help put things in perspective.
There was a search for a new rabbi. It culminated, as most search processes do, with the selection of three finalists. There were focus groups, questionnaires, discussions, and then a vote. One candidate was chosen. It was a time of real excitement.
And then negotiations broke down. For reasons that are not important to revisit, it fell apart. The community found itself having to start all over again. It is difficult to overstate how frustrating and how demoralizing that is for a community. Months of process. Emotional investment. And suddenly, back to the drawing board.
Around that time, someone on the search committee suggested that I apply. I was told quite bluntly that I essentially did not stand a chance, that this was not a realistic possibility, but that it would be a good opportunity to gain the experience. I had nothing to lose. I applied. I was invited to come for Shabbos as a candidate. Again, I was told by friends and advisors that this was unlikely to lead anywhere significant.
There were three finalists. Two days before the vote, one of them dropped out. We were down to two. The vote was held. I received a call informing me that it had gone in my favor.
My first response was not celebration. It was extreme hesitation. I remember informing the one who called me with the news, “No, I do not want to do this. I don’t actually want this position.” I was frightened. This was not really a job that was meant for me. This is not the way it was supposed to be.
And yet, here we are twenty-four years later.
Looking back now, we can see shape. Some may say that they see blessing. We can see a story that unfolded in ways none of us could have fully predicted. But that is only because now we are reading that chapter with the ending in hand.
This week, our community went through a serious and thoughtful process. There were discussions. There was responsibility. There was a vote. Votes matter. Process matters. Hishtadlus matters.
This is not a message for those who are disappointed, nor is it directed toward those who are not. It is a message for all of us. Because wherever you find yourself this week — encouraged, uncertain, relieved, unsettled — the truth is the same: none of us knows what this moment ultimately means. We are all reading in the middle.
Whatever one thinks about the outcome of this vote, that is not the subject here. This is not an evaluation of the result, in one direction or another. It is an invitation to humility in how we carry ourselves as a community while the story is still unfolding — especially when a moment feels decisive.
And it can feel decisive. It can feel final. It can feel like a turning point. But the Megillah teaches us to be cautious about moments that feel decisive. Sometimes the acts that appear to determine everything are not what determine the story at all.
This coming Monday night, we celebrate a holiday called Purim — על שם הפור. Of all the elements in the story, why name the entire Yom Tov after the casting of lots? There were many dramatic moments that could have defined the day. Esther’s courage. Mordechai’s steadfastness. The king’s sleepless night. The reversal itself. Why the lots?
Because the lot represents the illusion of control. Haman cast lots because he believed he was determining fate. He thought he was choosing the date. He thought he was shaping destiny. The Jews thought the lot meant destruction. Achashverosh thought decrees meant certainty. They were all wrong. History was unfolding on a deeper plane.
We cast votes this week — seriously, responsibly, with care. But if Purim teaches us anything, it is this: whatever we think this moment ultimately means, we should hold that interpretation lightly. We act. We deliberate. We choose. But we are not the authors of the final chapter.
One day, perhaps years from now, we will look back at this moment and see meaning that we cannot yet see. That is always how Megillot are read — not in the middle, but from the end. But we are not at the end. We are in the middle of a chapter.
And when we are in the middle of a chapter, our responsibility is not to predict how it will conclude. Our responsibility is to write our lines well. To act with steadiness. To speak with dignity. To choose achdus over division.
The Jews of Shushan did not know how their story would end. They did not have certainty. What they had was each other. They gathered. They fasted. They stood side by side.
We cannot see Chapter Ten yet. But we can choose how to live in Chapter Three. And so we turn the page — together.
To Whom It May Concern 