From Esther to Today: Jewish History’s Complicated Story of Belonging

Purim is a celebration of Jewish survival and triumph. But for Jews like myself—those whose ties to the community aren’t rooted in family heritage—participating in religious events like a Purim spiel or a shiva call can stir questions of belonging. Sometimes, these moments feel less like opportunities for connection and more like reminders of the barriers that complicate my observance of faith and sense of belonging within the community. As I’ve learned, these tensions around identity and inclusion aren’t just modern challenges; they’re woven into our history, from the Book of Esther’s complex depiction of conversion to today’s ongoing conversations about who belongs within the Jewish people.

At a recent film screening on end-of-life care centering a Jewish family’s experience—a topic I was drawn to because of my volunteer work with Jewish burial societies—I encountered an all-too-familiar moment. During the pre-screening social hour, I mentioned my involvement with a local Jewish nonprofit. One person responded, “My Jewdar didn’t go off when I met you,” then reached for my name tag to inspect it more closely. Calmly but firmly, I replied, “If you Google my first and last name with the word ‘Jewish,’ you’ll find about five pages of results.” This wasn’t an off-the-cuff remark; I’d rehearsed it. Experiences like this, and the invasive questions that often follow, have become common enough that I’ve learned to anticipate them.

These moments highlight the complexities of Jewish identity and inclusion—challenges deeply rooted in both our history and traditions.

But what does this have to do with Purim? An often-overlooked verse near the end of the Book of Esther offers an unsettling twist: “And in every province and in every city, wherever the king’s order and his edict reached, there was joy and gladness for the Jews… and many of the peoples of the land became Jews because the fear of the Jews was upon them” (Esther 8:17). This verse challenges the common modern view of Judaism as an exclusively closed practice shaped solely by Jewish theology rather than by historical interactions with non-Jewish populations. In a faith that has overwhelmingly emphasized voluntary commitment to conversion—or discouraged converts entirely—what do we make of moments when joining the Jewish people wasn’t about spiritual conviction, but about survival?

I’ve often thought about this complexity. Several years ago, at a Purim spiel I helped organize through my work with Hillel, the performers breezily mentioned the violent aftermath of Haman’s downfall. After narrating Haman’s execution, one performer quipped, “And then there was a massacre,” only for another to chime in, “But we won’t talk about that!” It got a dark half laugh from the crowd, but I couldn’t shake the thought that this “messy” part of the story mirrors real tensions at various points in Jewish history.

The complexities of power and conversion didn’t end with Purim. They reappeared at various points in Jewish history, including during the Hasmonean period, when John Hyrcanus, a descendant of the Maccabees—heroes of Hanukkah—used his power to forcibly convert the Idumeans. While we celebrate the Maccabees for resisting assimilation, their successors imposed Jewish identity on others, echoing Esther’s unsettling conclusion. These stories complicate our modern understanding of Judaism as a faith that has always rejected proselytization.

But these moments of coercion are only one side of Jewish history—there have also been eras when Judaism actively welcomed seekers. In the early Roman era, particularly before the First Jewish–Roman War began, Judaism flourished as an attractive religious option for many non-Jews. In the Christian Bible Matthew 23:15 even critiques Pharisees for “crossing land and sea to make a single proselyte,” suggesting how widespread Jewish outreach was at the time. Notable figures in Jewish history such as Aquila of Sinope and Queen Helena of Adiabene embraced Judaism alongside many whose names are not remembered but whose larger presence is known through references in both traditional Jewish and Christian texts. Learning about this period of Jewish openness was transformative. It gave me confidence in my identity as a convert, knowing I’m part of a long, rich history of people who chose Judaism out of a deep spiritual connection. When people ask, “Who’s the lucky girl?” assuming I converted for a relationship, I now think of Queen Helena of Adiabene—and countless others—who walked this path long before me. Their stories validate my journey and remind me that converts have been integral to the Jewish people since the mixed multitude—those who joined the Israelites during the Exodus—left Egypt.

A similar universalist vision reemerged in the mid-19th century with American Reform Judaism. Leaders like Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise envisioned Judaism as a faith with global ethical significance, welcoming seekers who found meaning in its teachings. The American Israelite, a leading Reform Jewish publication, frequently celebrated conversions as a natural extension of Judaism’s enduring relevance. Reform synagogues across the United States in the late 19th and early 20th centuries etched Isaiah 56:7—“For My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples”—into their facades, reflecting this universalist ethos. This verse can still be seen on prominent synagogues such as Temple Israel in Minneapolis and the Free Synagogue of Flushing. This era contrasts sharply with the fear-driven conversions of Purim and the Hasmoneans. During this period, Judaism remained distinct yet welcomed seekers with confidence.

There are moments when I have experienced this kind of confident welcome. Members of the synagogue that sponsored my conversion when I was 19 never questioned my Jewishness once I had undergone all the traditions associated with conversion. Looking back, I realize how little I knew at the time, but this support made all the difference as I found my way into a new community and into life as an adult. Several years later, a Conservative rabbi in Ithaca offered me a special Birkat HaGomel blessing during Shabbat morning services after my return from a lengthy trip abroad, which included staffing a Birthright Israel trip. I had never heard of this custom before, but its warmth and significance stayed with me as a moment where I felt truly a full part of the Jewish community. 

As the 20th century progressed, however, this openness generally diminished. The waves of Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe between 1880 and 1924, rising antisemitism in America after World War I, and the traumas of fascism and the Holocaust led many Reform leaders to shift their focus inward—prioritizing aid for persecuted Jews and ensuring communal survival over outreach to seekers. This inward turn mirrored previous historical shifts after the Bar Kokhba revolt and the Christianization of Rome, when persecution forced Jewish communities to retreat from earlier proselytizing efforts.

Yet, these historical precedents challenge the widespread belief that Judaism has always been a closed faith, reluctant to accept converts outside of marriage. For many, this history remains unknown. I felt its absence the first time I made a shiva call, four years after my conversion. Though I had studied Jewish traditions extensively, participating in this deeply personal ritual felt different—like stepping into unfamiliar territory. During the evening service, someone watched me closely as I moved through the prayers. Afterward, they approached and said, “I know you must be Jewish because you know the movements to the prayers, but you don’t look like it. Where are you from?” Lacking the confidence I had years later at the film screening, I shared my rehearsed 30-second conversion story. I don’t remember their exact response, but in these moments I typically encountered either puzzled comments like, “I don’t know why anyone would do that,” or people launching into their own complicated experiences with Judaism—complaining about Hebrew school or synagogue attendance.

But there are also vivid, joyful memories from my early days as part of the Jewish community. When I lived in Columbus, Ohio, a Chabad rabbi supported my efforts to grow Jewish student life at Capital University, despite the campus’s small Jewish population and the fact that many event participants weren’t Jewish. This same rabbi even traveled to my hometown, Lancaster, Ohio, to lead a seder—likely the first public Jewish religious activity there since the town’s only synagogue closed over 20 years earlier in 1993. All were welcomed: Jews, non-Jews, and those in the process of converting.

Today, the Jewish people are at a crossroads and have a choice. Around 86% of the world’s Jews live in the United States and Israel, two nations where Jews enjoy unprecedented visibility and religious freedom. How, then, should Judaism approach those who seek to join? In Israel, debates over the Law of Return highlight tensions over conversion. Recent cases, such as Colombian and Mexican Jews-by-choice struggling for recognition, illustrate the difficulties some face when attempting to make aliyah. In contrast to Isaiah 56:7—”My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples”—conversion policies sometimes create barriers rather than welcoming seekers. In the United States, where interfaith marriage within the Jewish community has been above 50% since the early 1990s, too many individuals who do make the choice to convert to Judaism still face barriers to full acceptance, despite the reality that most Jewish families already include non-Jews. More people than at any point since the Roman period are converting to Judaism or seeking to convert.

This moment presents an opportunity. Judaism does not need to seek converts, but it can more fully embrace those who sincerely seek to join. The existence of a modern Jewish state, the growth of interfaith families in the Diaspora, the increasing number of spiritual seekers, and the demographic challenges facing non-Orthodox Jewish communities all point to a need for greater openness. The history of Jewish inclusion shows that this idea is not new within Judaism but ties directly to the vision of the prophets and ancient Jewish communities, such as those in Alexandria and Rome at the beginning of the Common Era.

Purim reminds us of the dangers of Jewish vulnerability, but it also forces us to confront the injustices that can arise when faith becomes entangled with power. The Jewish people are no longer forced to live in exile, preserving identity in hostile circumstances. While legitimate concerns about security remain, today’s question extends beyond survival—it’s about the kind of Judaism we choose to build. Will we define our future through caution and exclusivity, or through the confidence to embrace those who sincerely seek to join us? The stories of Esther, the Maccabees, and ancient Jewish communities remind us that the doors we open—or close—don’t just shape individual journeys like mine. They shape the very future of Jewish life itself. Reclaiming our universalist vision isn’t merely honoring the past; it’s about building a vibrant, inclusive future where Judaism thrives for generations to come.

As we celebrate Purim, we must ask: How wide will we open our doors—and what kind of Jewish future are we ready to build?