This week, coming out of watching the film Nuremberg, I found myself unsettled — not only by the horrors of history, but by the psychology of leadership. That unease stayed with me as I turned to the parsha that follows Terumah: Parshat Tetzaveh, the parsha of garments, ceremony, and sacred leadership.

At first glance, the connection seems distant. One deals with the Kohen Gadol’s clothing; the other with Nazi war crimes. But beneath the surface, both ask the same uncomfortable question:

Why is leadership so complex — and so dangerous?

Why is leadership so complex — and so dangerous?

The Power of Clothing, Ceremony, and Image

Tetzaveh devotes extraordinary detail to the garments of the Kohen Gadol — gold, precious stones, woven fabrics, bells, inscriptions. This is not incidental. Judaism understands that power expresses itself visually. Clothing creates authority. Ceremony creates distance. Pomp creates awe.

But the Torah’s message is subtle and sharp: The garments are holy — not the man.

The uniform does not glorify the individual; it restrains him. The Kohen Gadol wears the names of the tribes on his shoulders and over his heart. Leadership is weight, not privilege. Responsibility, not entitlement.

This is Torah’s first warning: when leaders begin to believe that the symbolism belongs to them, not the role they temporarily occupy, leadership begins to rot.

Nuremberg and the Seduction of Charm

Nuremberg is disturbing not because Göring is portrayed as a monster, but because he is portrayed as human — intelligent, articulate, charming, cultured, even a family man. The psychiatrist assigned to evaluate him is slowly drawn into his world. He respects his intellect. He feels his charisma. He is almost seduced.

And that is the danger.

Göring was not a raving lunatic. He was a narcissist with discipline, intelligence, and moral compartmentalization. He could love his family and remain utterly disconnected from the millions who suffered under his command.

The most frightening realization is this: Evil does not always announce itself as evil. It often wears fine clothing, speaks well, loves selectively — and destroys without remorse.

The Split Soul: Family Man and Narcissist

This leads to a difficult question: How can someone be a devoted family man and still be responsible for mass cruelty?

Psychologically, the answer is clear: compartmentalization.

Narcissistic leaders often:

Divide the world into “us” and “them”

Limit empathy to their inner circle

Separate private virtue from public brutality

Experience dissent as personal attack

They are not devoid of feeling. They are morally fragmented.

Judaism rejects this model outright. There is no “private morality” and “public exception.” No Shabbat self and weekday self. No compassion for family and cruelty for the rest.

The Torah insists on moral integration.

Lessons from Purim Two Leadership Failures

At the Nuremberg executions in 1946, Julius Streicher — one of the most virulent Nazi propagandists — shouted “Purimfest 1946” before he was hanged. He understood the symbolism. In the Book of Esther, Haman’s ten sons were hanged. In Nuremberg, ten Nazi leaders were executed. Even at the end, he framed his death through the lens of Jewish destiny. There was no repentance — only defiance.

This week, we celebrate Purim.

Megillat Esther introduces us to Achashverosh — king of Persia, and Haman, his chief of staff.

Unlike Haman, He is not driven by burning hatred. He is something more subtle and, in its own way, more dangerous.

He throws extravagant banquets to display wealth and control. He reacts impulsively to perceived disrespect. He is easily influenced by advisors. He signs decrees without probing their consequences.

Haman proposes annihilation. Achashverosh approves it.

He does not draft the evil.

History often turns not only on ideologues — but on rulers who lack the depth or courage to say no.

Megillat Esther gives us two leadership archetypes that echo through history.

History is filled with such leaders. They do not create evil — they enable it.

Haman is different. He is the narcissist. He needs affirmation. He cannot tolerate one Jew who will not bow. His wounded ego becomes national policy.

“All this is worth nothing to me,” he says, “as long as Mordechai does not bow.”

This is not ideology. This is psychological fragility with power.

Persia Then — Iran Now

Purim takes place in ancient Persia.

Haman seeks “to destroy, to kill, and to annihilate” the Jewish people.

When we hear those words today, it is difficult not to think of modern Iran — the geographic heir to ancient Persia — whose leadership has repeatedly called for Israel’s elimination.

The contexts are different. The world is different. The Jewish people today are sovereign and strong.

And yet the language echoes.

History does not replay itself exactly, but it often rhymes.

Purim is not merely an ancient fairy tale. It is a reminder that rhetoric matters. Leadership matters. Ideology matters.

The 20th Century’s Lesson — and Its Cost

We have seen what happens when ideology fuses with unchecked power.

Hitler’s regime murdered 6 million Jews. World War II as a whole cost an estimated 70–85 million lives worldwide.

Stalin’s policies caused roughly 15–20 million deaths. Mao’s campaigns led to an estimated 30–45 million deaths. Pol Pot eliminated nearly a quarter of his country’s population.

These were not medieval tyrannies.

They were modern states. Educated societies. Industrial powers.

Different ideologies — fascism, communism, ultra-nationalism.

The pattern was consistent:

Suppression of dissent

Centralised authority

The 20th century was not lacking intelligence.

It was lacking restraint.

And despite memorials and the vow of “Never Again,” eliminationist rhetoric has not vanished from our world. Authoritarian systems still exist. Personality-driven politics still seduces.

We have progressed technologically. Morally, the test remains.

The lesson from Göring is that charm is not morality.

The lesson from Achashverosh is that weakness in leadership enables destruction.

The lesson from Haman is that wounded ego, when fused with power, becomes lethal.

And the lesson from Tetzaveh is that leadership must answer to something beyond itself.

The Kohen Gadol wears holiness on his forehead.

He is reminded that he serves — he does not rule absolutely.

Perhaps that is the enduring message as we approach Purim:

Evil rarely announces itself as evil. It often appears rational. Civilised. Even pleasant.

The real question is not whether a leader appears strong or charismatic or even “nice.”

The real question is:

Because history has already shown us what happens when nothing does.

The Torah was never primarily worried about political systems. It was worried about unrestrained ego.

And while today’s world is different in scale and structure, the psychological playbook feels familiar:

Intolerance of dissent

Moral self-righteousness

The Torah’s question remains timeless: What restrains power?

Tetzaveh’s Quiet Counter-Model

There is a striking detail in Tetzaveh: Moshe’s name does not appear.

The parsha about sacred leadership erases the greatest leader in Jewish history. This is not accidental.

Torah leadership is not personality-driven. It is covenantal, structured, restrained.

The garments outlive the man. The institution matters more than charisma.

This is the opposite of narcissistic leadership, where the leader is the system — and when he falls, everything collapses.

Purim’s Deeper Message

Purim is often read as a story of survival. It is also a story of leadership.

Mordechai has no uniform, no ceremony, no spectacle. Esther leads not through ego, but through self-effacement and courage.

God is hidden. Power is quiet. The loudest voices are the most dangerous.

Purim reminds us that redemption often comes not through grandeur, but through moral clarity.

Leadership Today: The Uncomfortable Lesson

From Nuremberg, we learn:

Intelligence is not moral depth

Charm is not goodness

Family devotion is not ethical leadership

From Tetzaveh, we learn:

Leadership must be visibly accountable

Power must be ritualized into humility

Leaders must carry the people, not the people carry the leader’s ego

From Purim, we learn:

Passive leadership enables destruction

Narcissistic grievance escalates rapidly

Silence is never neutral

Final Reflections: Can a Leader Say No?

Watching Nuremberg, reading Purim, and studying Tetzaveh all converge on one uncomfortable truth:

Leadership is tested not when everything is calm — but when hatred is presented as reasonable.

Haman’s decree did not become law by itself.

It required Achashverosh to say yes.

He did not originate the hatred. He permitted it.

That is often how history turns.

The true test of leadership is not strength of personality. It is the capacity to say no.

No to flattery. No to grievance. No to dehumanisation. No to the easy applause of resentment.

Throughout history, the Jewish people — and now the State of Israel — have represented something that unsettles many societies: the idea that power is not ultimate.

Covenant over king. Law above ruler. God above state.

Israel’s existence is not only geopolitical. It is symbolic. It is a reminder that there is a higher moral claim beyond ideology.

And reminders can provoke hostility.

The hatred directed toward Israel, in different eras and forms, is rarely only about territory. It is often resistance to what Israel represents — moral accountability, historical endurance, a people bound to something transcendent.

The question for leaders — ancient Persia or modern capitals — is simple but profound:

Can they say no to hatred, even when hatred is popular? Can they restrain rhetoric before it becomes policy? Can they recognise moral lines that cannot be crossed?

The 20th century showed what happens when ideology and power go unrestrained. Tens of millions died — 6 million Jews among them — and the world was left asking how civilised societies could descend so far.

Nuremberg showed us that intelligence and charm are not safeguards.

Purim showed us that weak leadership can enable destruction.

Tetzaveh shows us that leadership must be structured, limited, clothed in responsibility.

Leadership is not inherently evil.

But leadership without moral restraint is dangerous.

So perhaps the question we carry into this Purim is not simply about ancient Persia, or even modern Iran, or even past dictators.

When confronted with hatred — of Jews, of Israel, of any people — will those who hold power answer to something higher than themselves?

Because history has already shown us what happens when they do not.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)