(RNS) — Purim, the Jewish holiday that falls this year on Monday (March 2), is often regarded as a joyful, even raucous holiday — costumes, laughter, drinking and noise meant to drown out the name of Haman, the evil counselor to the Persian emperor, King Achashverosh. But beneath the celebration lies a complex ethical question: When does personal risk become a moral obligation?

The Purim story, told in the Bible’s Book of Esther, focuses on the plot by Haman to kill all the Jews in Persia after he takes offense when Mordechai, another Jewish figure at court, refuses to bow to Haman. When Mordechai hears of Haman’s plot, he goes to his cousin Esther, a young Jewish woman who has been forced to become Achashverosh’s queen, and asks her to expose the plot to the king.

Esther’s initial response is fear and hesitation. Approaching the king without being summoned is a capital offense, and revealing that she had concealed her Jewish identity before their marriage endangered her further. 

Silence would be safer for her, but it would mean abandoning her community. To help Esther muster her courage, Mordechai asks, “Who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” Though she was right to be afraid, Mordechai tells her there was a greater purpose to her being queen — perhaps a divine plan led her to this moment, so she can intervene on behalf of the Jewish people.

When Esther summons the nerve to tell the king to save the Jews in Persia, she shows that moral courage doesn’t require you to cast aside your fears. Rather, it challenges us to rise to the occasion, despite our fears, in moments of potential danger and uncertainty.

This year, Purim arrives amidst a crackdown in immigration enforcement, ICE activity and deportations that have left communities feeling helpless and fearful. Many feel an understandable urgency to act — even by attempting to physically intervene when ICE seeks to detain someone.

While that impulse comes from compassion and moral courage, such confrontations can be construed by law enforcement as obstruction of justice and may escalate already volatile situations or embolden ICE officers to respond more aggressively. Actions with righteous intent have led to more tragic outcomes, such as the horrific killings of protesters Renee Good and Alex Pretti. 

In an American society with leaders truly dedicated to upholding the rule of law and ensuring that those who break it are held accountable, nobody would have to fear being shot or killed for protesting — or even “obstructing justice.” We should expect our law enforcement personnel to act with the professionalism and restraint they are (supposedly) trained for.

In the harsh reality of this administration, however, our situation is more like Esther’s — in protecting others, we must exercise vigilance to protect ourselves. Jewish tradition affirms that preserving life — “pikuach nefesh” — is itself a sacred value. Even as we embrace our inner moral courage, endangering yourself to protect another should be avoided if another option is available.

Not all of us are cut out to face danger head-on as Esther did, but we can learn moral courage from her example. Esther fasts; she consults with others; she builds support. Her courage is deliberate and strategic. 

The question, then, is not whether to act, but how to act wisely and effectively. Purim points us toward forms of courage that are less dramatic but more enduring: being vocal about our values, showing up consistently to advocate for humane and compassionate immigration reform, lobbying elected officials, supporting legal and community organizations and insisting on policies that protect dignity and due process and hold officers accountable when they violate the law or use excessive force.

These actions may lack the immediacy of confrontation, but they are far more likely to produce lasting change. 

Esther’s greatness lies not only in her willingness to speak truth to power, but in choosing the strategic moment and method for doing so. This Purim, as we celebrate survival against all odds, we are invited into that same discernment: to take risks that are brave but not impulsive or goading, grounded in the hope that thoughtful, collective action can still bend history toward justice.

(Olivia Brodsky is the cantor and co-clergy of East End Temple in Manhattan. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Religion News Service.)