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By Jordyn Rozensky
For some of us in interfaith homes, December can highlight sticky situations. There are questions of how to balance traditions, how to keep in-laws happy and complicated questions about religion. But December also offers a unique opportunity to embrace new traditions. In my own interfaith home, for example, each year we trim a tree made out of blue tinsel, which we fondly call our âHoliday Neutral Tree.â
Recently I met up with friends to honor Christmas and Hanukkah by baking a batch of Hanukkah themed Christmas cookies and talking with a 10-year-old and a 5-year-old about the holiday traditions in their family. (Spoiler: Thereâs not much of a dilemma here). In case youâre interested in trying this at home, hereâs what youâll need:
Step one: We started our afternoon by chatting about our favorite aspects of the holidays as we set out our ingredients. As the oven preheated to 400 degrees, I asked the 10-year old his favorite part about Hanukkah. âThe presents. And family.â I asked the same question about Christmas: âThe presents. And the tree.â
Step two: We grabbed a large bowl and started mixing. First, we combined the butter and sugar. Next, we carefully cracked the eggs and stirred in the vanilla. Finally, we took turns adding and mixing in the flour, baking powder and salt.
Step three: While the dough chilled, I turned my journalistic attention to the 5-year old. His answers were much like his older brotherâs. One of the main things I noticed was that neither of the boys seemed too confused or upset about the holidaysâin fact, the only concern about Hanukkah and Christmas happening at the same time was the fact that there were fewer days dedicated to holidays this year!
Step four: After the dough was mixed, chilled and ready, we rolled it out on a floured surface and began cutting the shapes. Our cookie cutters were the shape of a menorah, a Star of David and a dreidel. My next question: Do other kids at your school bake Hanukkah and Christmas cookies? Both boys looked at me and shruggedâif other families were struggling around balancing the holidays, it didnât seem to trickle down to fifth grade or pre-school.
Step five: We placed the cookies in the oven and set them to bake for 6 to 8 minutes. While we waited for them to cook (and then cool), we paused to learn a bit about latkesÂ and check out the Christmas tree. During this moment of perfect synergy, I turned to the parents: âI think celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah together is pretty normalized in your family. The kids seem to be pretty OK with how this all works out!â
Step six: As we mixed together the ingredients for the Hanukkah cookie glaze, I learned more about how the holidays work in this family. âWhen we first married, we spoke about how important Christmas was as a tradition. Ultimately, thereâs not a lot of religion or church in how we celebrateâbut there is a lot of tradition. If you think about it, celebrating tradition is as Jewish as it gets.â
Step Seven: We coated our cookies with glaze and got to decorating. Hereâs where imagination took overâand our Hanukkah cookies turned in Hanukkah, Christmas, Valentineâs Day, Halloween AND Star Wars cookies. There wasnât a lot of dilemma, just a lot of love, a lot of tradition and a whole lot of sugar.
We were late. âTwas the night before Christmas, and all through the aisles of Target, my husband and I were doing our version of stuffing stockings. We were running so fast we were practically sliding to try to fill his stocking and my festive Chinese takeout box before we left for his parentsâ house.
We each picked up cookie cutters for the other person, but unfortunately Target is not known for its Jewish cookie cutters. Although I found a package of winter cookie cutters for him, they still included a tree. I love Target and would buy out the entire store, but itâs not our go-to for Jewish holiday foods or items. We were lucky to find a menorah at one store the year before, though. (Whatâs funny is that my husband is the one who usually remembers to light our Hanukkah candles.)
We did our best, but in the end he still couldnât find cookie cutters for Hanukkah at Target. I think this exemplifies how I feel at Christmas: Takeout boxes and menorahs aside, it ainât easy beinâ Jewish.
Growing up in a college town in Iowa, mine was one of the few Jewish families around. I still remember wanting to connect with other kids celebrating Christmas while we were ordering Chinese food and going to the movies. So although I feel guilty about it, thereâs a part of me thatâs happy that I finally get to celebrate Christmas. We open presents and bake cookies. It all works like clockwork until I go to church with my in-laws on Christmas Eve and hear the word âJesusâ one too many times. And, suddenly, I feel more alone than ever.
The winter holidays are easier and harder since I met my husband. Now I have the right person to celebrate them with, but it has come with a conflicted sense of identity. Instead of the clearly defined separation from Christmas that I grew up with, I canât remain on the outside of the holiday and culture that surrounds us in the States. I still want to remain outside, but Iâm also inside the phenomenon.
The phrase âDecember dilemmaâ implies thereâs a conflict. But while itâs easy to say itâs external, between spending time decorating the tree or lighting Hanukkah candles, isnât it more internal? Itâs the cognitive dissonance between being with people you love and hearing about the one they adore, and needing to escape into the lobby of the church. Itâs making Christmas cookies and needing to avoid most of the cookie cutters because theyâre outlining the differences youâre not discussing.
Now, however, Iâm trying a different strategy. For my husband, the holiday season was incomplete until we had a Christmas tree in our home. I still have trouble unfolding this umbrella tree (and not just because itâs larger than I am), but now I try to see it as a traditional symbol, not a religious one. Indeed, the tree is a fake one that my in-laws took with them when they moved from house to house; itâs literally part of their familyâs history.
Helping my partner lug the tree up our basement stairs is part of helping him observe his holiday. (Our cats try to help set up the tree, too, but their version involves eating the tinsel instead of putting it up.) Itâs all part of our life together. I used to walk through the store aisles, see menorah and dreidel ornaments and feel confused. Now I understand that these are pieces of new traditions we are creating. In a way, when we add these to a Christmas tree, we are resting symbols of a smaller Jewish holiday on the branches of a much bigger Christian one. We all make choices. I never anticipated having a Christmas tree in my home, but I always knew there would be a menorah shining out the window.
Christianity started when people began following a Jewish man. He searched and others found him to be so wise they thought he was the Messiah. Although Jews think he was a good man, we disagree with the Christian conclusion. This could be considered, simply, a major difference of opinion. The weird part is that itâs between Christians and Jews, rather than between two Jews (who would, of course, have three opinions).
We hold different beliefs and lug different traditions out of our storage closets. And Target may or may not have our cookie cutters. But in the end, I think each of us would like a secure place to keep whatever cookie cutters weâve bought, and family to help us fill them with dough. My mother-in-law has a fabulous recipe, and although she keeps it close, I think it involves elements found in many kitchens: love, warmth and laughter. Â Maybe a little bit of teasing and schmaltz, too.
1.Â Thoroughly cream shortening, sugar and vanilla. Add egg; beat until light and fluffy.Â Stir in milk. Sift together dry ingredients, then blend into creamed mixture.Â Divide dough in half. Chill 1 hour.
2.Â On lightly floured surface, roll half of dough to 1/8-inch thickness.Â Keep other half of dough chilled until ready to use.Â Cut into desired shapes with cookie cutters.Â Bake on greased cookie sheet at 375 degrees about 6 to 8 minutes. Cool slightly, then remove from pan.Â Makes two-dozen cookies.
ByÂ Elizabeth Vocke
My husband jokes that I only married him so I could finally celebrate Christmas. And I admit that I do love Christmas. I love the anticipation and excitement, the coziness of the season, the decorations. I also love Hanukkah, but I think itâs more difficult to create that same sense of excitement, though for the sake of our 8-year-old daughter, we do try.
Itâs taken all 11 years of marriage to figure out how to celebrate both Christmas and Hanukkah, and we still donât have it all figured out. This year will be even more difficult because Hanukkah starts on Christmas Eve. I like to make a big deal out of the first and last nights of Hanukkah, but this year I donât see that happening.
I vividly remember the first year I decorated our house for Christmas. I enjoyed creating a snow scene using white and blue ornaments in a crystal bowl, plus a beautiful white garland. It didnât feel religious, just festive, but was definitely meant for Christmas.
My husband walked in and said, âOh, look, you decorated for Hanukkah!â Well, no, actually. I decorated for your Christmas holiday, dude!
In fact, decorating for Hanukkah was not something I thought Jewish people even did, and itâs only been bit by bit over the years that Iâve started adding Hanukkah items to our holiday decorations.
Fast forward to today and we have a house loaded with Christmas decorations, plus menorahs and dreidels, and Iâve made peace with it all. But we still donât have all the answers.
We do have annual traditions.
We have a big Hanukkah celebration with my family that is fun and festive and raucous. We host a latkes and hot dogs party for the neighborhood kids (most are not Jewish), and every year I go into my daughterâs class and teach the students about Hanukkah and how to play dreidel. I love these things.
Every year we also drive around looking at decorations on Christmas Eve, watch National Lampoonâs Christmas Vacation, read âTwas the Night Before Christmas and enjoy a big Christmas celebration with my husbandâs family. I love these things, too.
Yes, our holidays are filled and busyâbut fun! And so by now we should have it all figured out, right? Well, no.
Every year we discuss (debate?) if weâre going to church for Christmas Eve with my mother-in-law. My husband is actually the one who doesnât want to go. Ironic, right? Some years we go, and some we donât.
Christmas Eve, a night I really love, is often rushed and stressed trying to cram everything in (see above). Hanukkah still sometimes feels anti-climactic, and weâve been known to forget to light candles a night or two. Hanukkah presents are also often less exciting. Letâs face itâone present just doesnât compare to a pile. In fact, our daughter tells us that she asks Santa for the big, expensive presents because she figures heâll bring them to her, and for Hanukkah sheâs open to whatever we want to give her. Little does she know.
So, like most things in life, in marriageâand especially an interfaith marriageâweâll keep trying and tweaking until we get it right. And by that time our daughter may be married with kids of her own!
Growing up with a dad who was a Navy pilot, my family celebrated Jewish holidays in some pretty far-flung places around the world. We gathered with other Jewish military families or new Jewish friends in whatever country we happened to be living in. Seders were lovely, multi-cultural and welcoming.
In Morocco, we sang Passover songs with Sephardic melodies. In Iceland, my parents welcomed the only other Jewish family they could find for a small, intimate seder. Stationed in Virginia Beach, we heard the hagaddah read with a southern accent.
Each year weâd celebrate with new friends in a new location somewhere in the world.Â Far from our extended family in Boston, seders became a way for us to feel close to something from homeâJudaism.
I asked my mom Mary, who was raised Irish Catholic and converted when she married my dad, what those seders were like for her. She said, âI remember thinking, âSo this is what itâs like to be Jewish. Youâre linked to all these people around the world; Jews who come together to celebrate their ethnicity and their community.ââ She had never experienced anything like it.
Then, when I was 10, my dad retired after 20 years in the Navy and my parents moved back to Boston to be closer to their families. Thatâs when we started going to seders at my Jewish grandparentsâ home. Tovah and Jacob attended an Orthodox synagogue and kept kosher. Their seders were more serious affairs. They were completely in Hebrew and lasted for hours.
My parents, brother and I didnât understand much Hebrew and Passover suddenly became a stressful holiday. I felt lost at the seder, often on the wrong page of the hagaddah and afraid to make a misstep. I didnât want to read the Four Questions, terrified that I might mispronounce the transliterated Hebrew. While I respected (and still do) my grandparents’Â approach to Passover, it just didn’t feel accessible to me.
Seders lost their joy for me, and so I opted to avoid them. It wasnât until recently, with my own children, that I have started to rediscover and re-imagine the tradition, especially as an opportunity to pause and be thankful for our freedom and remember those who still are not free.
This year, my husband and I are inviting our families to a personalized, less structured seder. In addition to telling the Passover story, weâll spend time talking about refugees in the world today, fleeing war in search of a safe place to raise their children.
Weâll explain everything to our kids as we go along and answer all their questions, so no one feels left behind. In addition to the traditional items, our seder plate will feature an orange, a symbol of people around the world who are marginalized or excluded.
Our little girl, Molly, 8, will read the Four Questions and weâll sing songs and share stories.Â Weâll try to recapture the charm and magic of my familyâs seders in Reykjavik, Casablanca and beyondâŚÂ in hopes that our children grow up looking forward to Passover as a meaningfulÂ and inclusive holiday.
By Dana Marlowe
This article was reprinted with permission from Kveller.com, a fast-growing, award-winning website for parents raising Jewish and interfaith kids. Follow Kveller on Facebook and sign up for their newsletters here.
When I explain Purim to those less familiar with the holiday, I tell them itâs kind of like Jewish Halloween. Not so much because of the history and story behind each (Purim has no ghosts), but related to the joyful spirit, costumes, food, and fun.
Full disclosure: My neighborhood doesnât celebrate Halloween in the way other areas decorate with cobwebs, spiders, and screaming doormats. In my little suburban neighborhood nestled in Silver Spring, Maryland, the population is predominately Orthodox. I might be a bit of an outsider with my cultural Jewish upbringing and unaffiliated interfaith family, but luckily our âhoodâ doesnât check your synagogue membership at all. The arms of the community are always open, especially this month.
In our community, we celebrate Purim in our neighborhood with hundreds of kids running from house to house. Bedazzled with costumes of Batman and Mordechai, they load in and out of cars, dropping off and picking up mishloach manot. We have a large street in the neighborhood that closes off to have a âPurim on Fulhamâ festival, which is all driven by the folks who live on that long block.
The celebration doesnât stop there. There are also countless carnivals and events held nearby. My kids love assembling the mishloach manot, handing them out to a neighborhood in a candied frenzy state. My husband, the engineer, marvels at the endless creative themes of the mishloach manot, ranging from international food themes to play on words baskets, along with LEGO groggers and gourmet hamentaschen. The excitement mounts in my house as my children stuff the paper bags and draw on the outside of the sacksâand itâs only matched by the myriad of moon bounces that pop up on street corners.
For us, itâs a fun day. The fact that we donât do the more observant part of the holidayâlike attend a megillah reading or fast beforehandâis inconsequential. People welcome us regardless, but like any neighborhood, itâs a two way street in respect. We are careful to make sure theÂ mishloach manot include the diverse food items needed for differing blessings, and that everything has clear kosher labels. Purim is a joyful holiday. Our joy is increased by bringing Kosher wine to the meals we are invited to and by our friends translating the blessings into English for us.
In addition to Purim, while my husband and I often work on these holidays that are deemed of the utmost significance in Judaism, our Orthodox friends donât judge us or make us feel wrong. There is such a deeply rooted understanding that we all celebrate our Judaism and other holidays in our own respective ways.
Purim by nature is an interfaith holiday: Esther saves the Jewish people by teaching tolerance to Ahashverosh to save her people and have them co-exist in Shushan together. I feel that same spirit of inclusion daily in our neighborhood.
In a conventional neighborhood, people are united simply by geography. Literally, of course, we share a zip code, garbage day pick-up schedule, a post office, and the same unfortunate power grid in winter storms. But a neighborhood can be so much more than a regional district. Itâs a shared identity. In a close-knit community, people are united by common goals, collective activities, and group events that give the residents a sense of true belonging. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the countless instances witnessed over the past years and the holiday season. My neighbors have opened their homes, hearts, and kitchens to us during the holidays, and for Shabbat meals.
When someone has a sick family member, the neighborhood provides food. Neighborhood Facebook pages exist for toy and costume swaps as well as: âI just need one thing from Costcoâ which comes in handy more times than you can count. One such helpful example was when I needed to bring my older son to the emergency room when my husband was out of town for business. I posted a message and within minutes, friends showed up to babysit.
I recently heard a community described as a circle to which you feel you belong. If youâre away, that circle will miss your presence; it reaches out to you when youâre absent, and you long for it when youâre not there.
We are happy to celebrate another Purim here. Our minivan will brim with hamantaschen and smiles. As we drive up the streets sharing in the festivities, we celebrate in our own way, and our neighbors in another. And I know that just as we get pumped up to celebrate Purim, our friends and neighbors will be excited to see my interfaith familyâs Easter egg hunt just a few weeks after we put away the groggers and masks. Because thatâs how we, as a community, roll.
By Jared David Berezin
When our eyes begin to burn and tear up my wife and I look at each other and laugh. Thatâs when we know the horseradish is ready. We also bake our own homemade matzah, and the unleavened flat bread resembles pita or injera (Ethiopian bread). Preparing Passover-friendly food from scratch and arranging the seder table is a ritual my wife and I enjoy as much as the seder itself.
For many people, Passover is a journey that begins well before the first cup of wine (or grape juice). Some have been to dozens of seders in the past. Indeed, some of our seder guests may have attended a different seder (or two!) earlier in the week, while others have never been to a seder before. Regardless of a personâs experience or faith, everyone comes to the table with conscious and unconscious expectations, desires and concerns.
Ever since I can remember, Passover has always been my favorite holiday. As a restless kid, I could attend the Passover âserviceâ (our familyâs seder) without dressing up and going to synagogue, which also meant not having to sit still for an hour. My grandparents would host our family seder, and as they grew older my mother and aunt assumed the responsibility. Our family seders were always quick, predictable and familiar. I loved being surrounded by family, food and singing. As a teenager Iâd just bring my guitar; it was always nice being able to simply arrive and have everything already prepared and laid out on the table.
Hosting Our Own Inclusive SederÂ
In my twenties, I became more curious about Judaism, particularly its intellectual and social justice elements. A few years later I met the love of my life who was raised Christian and has developed a dislike of all organized religion. Amidst my growing curiosity of Judaism and my love for my girlfriend (now my wife), I began to dream of more inclusive and meaningful Jewish moments and celebrations. I wondered what it would be like to host our own seder, one that could be welcoming for our friends of various faiths and (dis)comfort levels when it comes to religious activities.
Initially, I tried to formulate a highly-strategic seder and haggadah that would satisfy the needs of every person who might happen to join usâfrom Conservative Jews to Buddhists to atheists. I soon realized that although itâs important to be aware of oneâs audience, I found myself drowning out my own individual spiritual beliefs and values. The early drafts were too distant from my vision of an inclusive experience; I had to accept that if I wanted to try new things, my guests and I would simply have to wander through the newness together. Fortunately, the story of Passover centers on faith and risk.
When in Doubt, Look AboutÂ
When I worked in marketing years ago a colleague would often say, âWhen in doubt, look about.â I searched online and read through all of the haggadot I could find, along with any Passover-related information on InterfaithFamily.com and other websites. I wanted to learn how others approach the holiday, along with any stories and songs that I hadnât heard before.
I also reached out to several friends to hear about their seder experiences, as well as my dear friend, Rabbi Lev Baesh, a longtime champion of interfaith marriage and inclusiveness, who is a consultant with InterfaithFamily. My wife and I had performed music the year prior at a seder led by Lev. He interpreted the Passover story in many different waysâsocial, political, economic and psychologicalâand helped me understand how themes from an ancient tale can become relevant and inspire urgency among people of different faiths and backgrounds.
Our Interfaith-Humanist-Vegan Seder ExperimentÂ
What emerged from my research and spiritual searching was a heightened awareness of my own values, questions and priorities. The result was the creation of an imperfect and ever-changing Interfaith-Humanist-Vegan seder that my wife and I have hosted for the past four years. Most of the guests at our seder tend to be interfaith couples with one Jewish partner as well as couples and friends of other faiths. Every year we invite at least one person who has never attended a seder before.
Our accompanying interfaith-humanist-vegan haggadah, which I also revise each year, includes original writing as well as a patchwork of borrowed text, images and songs. The introductory pages of the haggadah recount the Passover story, and explore questions such as âWhy Celebrate if the Story Isnât True?â and âWhy a Vegan Passover Seder?â These questions, and others in the haggadah, offer a way of inviting everyone to explore and question the Passover rituals and their purpose in our lives in new ways. Rather than dump my ideas and beliefs on my friends, I try my best to steer conversations and lead rituals that allow me to learn from them, and all of us to learn from each other. For example, rather than declare what the various items on the seder plate signify, our haggadah asks: âWhat do you think the items on the seder plate represent? How might they connect with oppression, slavery and freedom?â These open-ended questions for which there are no âcorrectâ answers allow guests of all faiths to contribute their perspective and enhance everyone elseâs understanding.
An Incomplete HaggadahÂ
I think the best conversations and learning occur when people are present and looking at one another. When a haggadah has all the information we need, everyone is looking down at their booklets for hours. In contrast, our haggadah is intentionally sparse and incomplete. Before the start of the seder I ask each of our friends, individually, if theyâd like to read a short excerpt of text that I provide. The readings include writings from intellectuals, feminists, rabbis, writers, activists and philosophers of all faiths, and I âscheduleâ them to read at different points in the seder. Itâs fun to pick out certain readings that relate in some way to each of my friends. As the seder progresses and friends share the words on their respective slip of paper, we all in a way become pages in a âhaggadah,â and together we make the seder complete.
Music adds a fantastic quality to any evening, and itâs a huge part of our seder. At the very beginning of the meal, rather than jump right into the Passover story, we all sing a song together. The first year we sang David Crosbyâs âMusic Is Love.â Itâs easy since the repeated lyric is almost a chant: âEveryoneâs sayinâ that music is love, everyoneâs sayinâ itâs love.â My wife and I scatter percussive shakers, drums and a couple acoustic guitars around the room for folks to play, and of course, everyone brings their voices.
In addition to familiar seder songs, such as the African-American Spiritual âGo Down Mosesâ and Dayenu, there are a host of secular songs that touch upon various Passover themes: slavery, oppression, freedom and of course the need to continually ask questions of ourselves and our world. And on the ânight of questions,â I canât help but want to sing Bob Dylanâs âBlowinâ in the Wind,â a song with questions in every verse.
Thinking About Hosting Your Own (Alternative) Seder?
For those who want to embark on your own journey of hosting a seder (or any holiday) in a new way, keep in mind that certain aspects of your alternative rituals and ideas may stir strong reactions (positive or negative) among some of your guests. Inspiration can look and sound different for each of us.
As I was planning my first seder, I remembered Rabbi Lev Baeshâs sage words: âJust remember that Moses had lots of whining to deal with in the story.â Humor is critical! Iâve laughed at myself many times during our seders, particularly when Iâm taking myself too seriously, and laughter creates more laughter and openness. Dig into both the rich traditions of the past and present. Experiment. Do what feels right, and see what happens.
These types of homegrown celebrations take effort on our part, otherwise they wouldnât exist. I think thatâs part of the magic and meaningfulness: the effort, creativity, and time it takes to create a relevant and inclusive Jewish experience. My favorite moments during our seder are when I find myself wandering through the desert behind my guests who have taken the conversation in new directions.
A piece of logistical advice: A seder can be held any evening during Passover. Scheduling ours toward the end of the holiday week allows us to join my familyâs traditional first or second night seder, and our Jewish guests can do the same. Beyond avoiding scheduling conflicts, setting an atypical seder date sets the stage for something new and different, and prepares your guests for a different kind of seder experience.
If you decide to create your own kind of seder, itâs important to remember that if youâre inspired and engaged, those around you will want to participate and be inspired too. Togetherness, making connections, and generating meaning is really what itâs all about. And remember, whatever happens, thereâs always next year!
For more information about Passover and the seder, check out our Guide to Passover for Interfaith Families
By Lela Casey
The first time I really celebrated Purim was when I was 9 years old on vacation in Israel with my family. I remember being in awe of the sea of kids pouring through the streets dressed in colorful costumes and shaking noise makers. It was a party like I’d never seen before and I was thrilled to join in.
My next Purim experience didn’t come until my junior year of college when I did a semester at Tel-Aviv University. The night of Purim, we all piled into an enormous bus which took us to Jerusalem where we drank rum punch and danced with students from all around the world until the sun came up. The spirit of that evening inspired me to be a different person than the thoughtful, fairly prudish girl that I had been until then. By the end of the night my angel costume had shifted into something more like a toga, I was more tipsy than I’d ever been before and I’d lost track of the number of boys I’d kissed. It was one of the happiest, most free-feeling nights of my life.
When my own children came along, I made a point of taking them to Purim festivities. As the Jewish partner in an interfaith marriage, I felt a responsibility to share with them that same freedom, that same lightness of the soul that I’d felt. And, while they did enjoy the celebrations, something about the holiday began to concern me.
Yes, there is a joy and lightness about Purim, but there is a darkness that few people ever mention. Purim is essentially a celebration of the blotting out of our enemies…and not just the infamous Haman. During Purim we drink to the destruction of the entire nation of Amalek, a genocide that is mandated to be read about in the Torah every year. It is, in essence, a celebration of a bloody act of retribution.
The first time that I learned of this part of the Purim story, I began to think back again to that night in Jerusalem. Yes, it was fun and free, but I also did things that I would never have done as my usual self. The spirit of the holiday, along with the alcohol and costumes, took me outside myself. Could the mandate to drink on Purim be, in essence, a way to shut out the âgoodâ voices in your head? Could it be symbolic of how Biblical Jews had to silence those voices in order to commit genocide?
There are a lot of frightening things happening in the world today. People are being categorized by ethnicity and religion and immigrant status and painted as the enemy. There is a sweeping movement across America to blame others for our misfortuneâa movement eerily familiar to other dark times in history. Extolling peace and acceptance is paramount on my mind right now.
As Purim gets closer, I find myself struggling with how to justify glorifying genocide with the desire to have my kids enjoy the joyousness of the holiday. Should I simply ignore that part of the story with them and focus on the merriment and hamentaschen (Purim cookies)? Or is it better to discuss the darkness of the day with them and let them come to their own conclusions? Perhaps should we just forgo Purim entirely?
One of my favorite things about Judaism is that it encourages questions and discussions. So, I ask you: Is it possible to celebrate the lightness of Purim while also addressing the dark side?