A Shehecheyanu Era: Purim’s Timeless Message Today

How an Ancient Jewish Blessing Became Our Spontaneous Response to the Moment

Who among us has not recited the Shehecheyanu blessing at least once in their lives? Whether upon lighting holiday candles, savoring a new fruit, or experiencing an ancient Jewish tradition, this blessing of gratitude has long been woven into the rhythm of Jewish life. Originating from the Talmud, this blessing, whose words literally translate as “Who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this moment,” was initially meant for joyous occasions and seasonal milestones. The rabbis of the Talmud carefully debated when exactly one should express this profound gratitude—during festivals, upon fulfilling seasonal mitzvot like the sukkah or shofar, or even when encountering a close friend after a long absence. These discussions, dating back to the Talmudic era, continue vibrantly today, extending to contemporary situations such as the extraordinary events surrounding the release of hostages from Gaza.

Indeed, in recent months, the resonance of this ancient blessing has transcended traditional moments of joy and celebration, emerging profoundly in some of the most intimate, painful, and redemptive experiences of our time.

We saw it clearly in the homecoming of Omer Wenkert. After 505 days in Hamas captivity, when Omer reunited with his parents, Niva and Shai, at an IDF facility near the Gaza border, his father, Shai, wept as he recited Shehecheyanu. Such reunions, raw and deeply personal, underscore something profound: in extreme moments of emotion—where words so often fail—this ancient blessing naturally emerges as an expression of gratitude, relief, and even sorrow. Remarkably, many of those reciting Shehecheyanu are not necessarily observant, yet instinctively, this blessing surfaces, marking the return of those once thought lost.

Eli Sharabi, another recently released hostage, offered powerful insight into the complexity of these moments. After spending 491 days in Hamas captivity—most of them deep underground in tunnels—Sharabi described his return in vivid terms, reflecting openly on both the loss and the gratitude he felt. His openness underscores the extraordinary spirit of our people—the ability to hold immense pain in one hand and profound gratitude in the other, mourning what was lost while celebrating what has been restored.

This powerful duality mirrors the essence of Purim, our ancient story of despair transforming into joy. Purim reminds us annually that redemption can arrive unexpectedly, even at the darkest hour. It teaches us about embracing complexity—how despair and redemption often coexist, creating a resilience deeply embedded in the Jewish soul.

Our Jewish tradition has provided us with more ways than we often realize to express and connect to generations of suffering, triumph, and eventual redemption. As bereaved mother Sarit Zussman powerfully declared at her son Ben’s grave: “We must believe that our story has a happy ending. Our insistence on life compels us to keep believing.” Even amid overwhelming pain, there remains an enduring conviction that redemption is not only possible but inevitable.

I recently found myself reflecting on this blessing after a meeting with a group of leading US business leaders visiting Israel. When I asked why they chose to come here now, their response struck me profoundly. They spoke of Israel’s unique energy, resilience, and spirit—a spirit that seems to pulsate even more strongly precisely during difficult periods, pushing boundaries of innovation and ingenuity. This exchange left me confident that moments of immense struggle can also become opportunities for rebuilding and growth. 

We are indeed living in a Shehecheyanu era—an era when the deepest stirrings of the Jewish soul arise not merely in happiness but at the intersection of suffering and salvation. It is an era when our emotions stretch between mourning and gratitude, where the words of our ancestors become our spontaneous cry. It reminds us, even in the most painful moments, to acknowledge the sanctity of the present—precisely because we have lived to see it.