Pesach also means "leap," for it requires the Israelites to make a jump—from the difficult but familiar reality of Jewish life in Egypt to the vast unknown of the desert and whatever awaits them there. Pesach concludes with a special day marking the greatest leap of all: the crossing of the Sea of Reeds. With the Egyptian army closing in from behind and the sea blocking their path forward, the Israelites find themselves paralyzed—just as we all do in certain moments of life. In the biblical narrative, the sea miraculously parts to let them pass. But an ancient rabbinic teaching tells us that the sea only opened when one man, Nachshon ben Aminadav, stepped into the waters and continued walking until they reached his head. Only then did the waters recede, allowing the Israelites to move forward and escape.

Nachshon’s leap, like Indiana Jones’, is a leap of trust. Yet perhaps both Nachshon and Indy understand that trust always carries the possibility of betrayal—a theme powerfully explored by psychoanalyst James Hillman in his work Puer Aeternus.

In the biblical story, the divine Transcendence appears to betray the Israelites almost immediately. No sooner have they crossed the sea than they are attacked by Amalek, just when they feel most secure and protected. This betrayal continues in the wilderness, as they face hardship, hunger, and thirst. As Hillman insightfully notes, betrayal can either become a catalyst for personal and relational growth, or it can lead to further betrayals—of the Other, and of the self. The rest of the Exodus narrative explores this tension, culminating in what may be the Israelites’ ultimate self-betrayal: while divine Transcendence is offering them the Tablets of the Law, they build an idol—the Golden Calf.

Hillman argues that betrayal can only occur when a relationship is based on deep trust and intimacy. He illustrates this idea with a (supposedly Jewish) story: A father teaches his son to jump from a ladder, promising to catch him every time. But when the boy leaps from a particularly high step, the father steps back, letting him fall. This act of betrayal teaches the child that where there is true trust, the risk of betrayal is always real.

So what, then, drives our two leap-takers, Nachshon and Indy—and, with them, all of us?

Above all, courage—the noblest and most essential of virtues, for it contains all others. But in these cases, courage is not blind faith in an inscrutable deity or in flawed, unreliable human beings. Rather, it is trust in a vision.

For any truly noble vision holds far greater value than the individuals who take part in it. And only this awareness can give us the strength to risk betrayal in the name of trust—to place our foot where we do not know if it will be held, or to step into waters that may well consume us.

In that act of courage, relationship is born. Intimacy, love, and life itself emerge.

There is no greater miracle.