One of the most difficult things for me to leave behind in North America when my wife and I made aliyah 18 years ago was my voluntary service to JACS—Jewish Alcoholics, Chemically Dependent Persons and their Significant Others—and my work with its parent organization, the Jewish Board of Family and Children’s Services of New York.
JACS was born in 1979 out of a painful truth: The Jewish community had convinced itself that addiction was something that happened to other people. Shikkur iz a goy—“Drunkenness is a non-Jewish trait”—was not merely a joke; it was a shield of denial.
That myth created a double stigma. Jewish alcoholics often felt like outsiders in two worlds: in Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) or Narcotics Anonymous (NA), their Jewish identity was invisible; and in their synagogues, their addiction was unspeakable.
JACS did something revolutionary. It did not replace AA. It did not create a “Jewish AA.” It built a bridge. It affirmed that addiction is a disease that does not discriminate by religion and that recovery and Jewish identity need not be at odds.
Most importantly, JACS created a safe and open space for Jews of every background to explore the Twelve Steps without compromising who they were.
One of the highlights of the JACS weekend retreats was the “Ask the Rabbi” session, where five or six rabbis—representing different denominations, genders and perspectives—would sit together and respond collegially to questions from hundreds of alcoholics, addicts and family members. It was striking to watch Chassidic men and women gravitate toward Reform or Reconstructionist rabbis after the session, while secular participants would sit huddled with the late Rabbi Dr. Abraham (“Just call me Abe”) Twersky. In that room, labels dissolved, and recovery came first.
Nearly half a century later, the need remains urgent—not only in North America, but in Israel as well. While Israeli alcoholics and addicts don’t have to attend meetings in church basements, they face a different challenge. A troubling number of young people from North American yeshivahs and seminaries are sent to Israel after high school in the hope that a year in the Holy Land will straighten them out. It often does not.
As a result, a significant portion of Twelve Step meeting attendees in Israel are under the age of 25, many still in their teens. There has also been a significant surge in opioid use and addiction among veterans of the Israel Defense Forces and active-duty soldiers, in particular after the Hamas-led terrorist attacks in southern Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, and the subsequent war in Gaza.
Regardless of age or background, the most difficult day of the year for a Jewish alcoholic or addict is Purim, when severe intoxication is not only tolerated but sometimes celebrated as a mitzvah.
For the past two decades, my wife and I have hosted an alcohol-free Purim seudah (“festive meal”) in the heart of Jerusalem for Jews in recovery and their families. Throughout the afternoon, dozens of costumed men, women and children pass through our doors. The number grows every year. The percentage of women grows. The average age grows younger.
(We had to cancel the party during COVID and will cancel it again this year, due to IDF Home Front Guidelines, but there will be meetings throughout the day on Zoom.)
Throughout the afternoon most years, dozens of costumed men, women and children pass through our doors. The number grows every year. The percentage of women grows. The average age grows younger.
Just outside our home, one of Jerusalem’s more raucous street celebrations is in full swing—a lure for anyone trying to stay clean and sober to “just have one.” But for an alcoholic, there is no such thing as “just one.” Relapse does not end with embarrassment. It can end in the hospital, in jail or in the graveyard.
If you want to help someone you know have a safe and sameach Purim, here are a few time-tested suggestions:
• Recognize that Purim can be genuinely difficult for someone in recovery.
• Understand that being around people who are drunk or high is not festive for an addict; it is destabilizing and tempting.
• If someone declines a l’chaim, accept the first “no.” Do not press. Do not joke. Do not insist.
• Please do not say, “But even on Purim? It’s a mitzvah!” I have heard that more times than I can count — often from people who know I do not drink.
• Encourage alcohol-free celebrations and make them visible.
• Help the person fully engage the mitzvahs of the day: hearing the Megillah, giving mishloach manot, matanot la’evyonim and sharing a festive meal.
• Send mishloach manot. Sweets can help curb cravings, and kindness strengthens resolve.
• If someone wonders how to fulfill the teaching about not knowing the difference between “cursed is Haman” and “blessed is Mordechai,” suggest a nap.
Purim is a day of reversal—of hiddenness revealed, of vulnerability transformed by courage.
For those in recovery, true joy does not come from intoxication. It comes from clarity, connection and community.
There is something profoundly holy about a Jew who chooses sobriety on Purim—and about a community wise enough to celebrate with him or her.
