The Hero’s Journey: Cinderella, Ruth, and the Path of Enduring Commitment

Shavuot calls us into a covenant, to paths consciously chosen. But what if that path begins in desolation, in a landscape of famine, loss, and the unknown? It is here, in such a landscape, that we first encounter Ruth, and as we prepare to read and reflect on Megillat Ruth tomorrow, we find this seemingly simple tale explores profound themes—of heroism and resilience, of famine and family, of faith, kindness, and the rebuilding of society. Many of its messages speak not only to Biblical times of the Judges but also resonate deeply with the complexities of our own world, challenging us to consider where true strength and value lie. Much of what I’ll be sharing draws on the insightful teachings of Rabbi Dr. Joshua Berman of Bar Ilan University, whose work illuminates many of these connections.

To frame our reading, it’s helpful to revisit some of the ideas of Carl Jung, the pioneering psychologist who so compellingly explored the deep, universal patterns of human experience. Jung developed the concept of archetypes—universal symbols or motifs found in storytelling across cultures. One such pattern is the Hero’s Journey, later popularized by Joseph Campbell and echoed in countless narratives, from ancient myth to Star Wars. The hero’s journey is a narrative pattern we might even recognize in our own lives, as we navigate our personal calls to adventure, face our trials, and emerge transformed.

A surprisingly relevant archetypal tale, in this context, is that of Cinderella. Long before Disney, this story was told across cultures. A quick Google search, for instance, traces the earliest written versions to 9th-century China. And yet, I believe we find in the Book of Ruth a profound, and perhaps even foundational, expression of this archetypal story—one that resonates with a unique spiritual depth and may well offer an even more ancient echo of these universal themes.

Today, I want to explore the intriguing similarities and the vital differences between the Cinderella story—especially the French version—and the narrative of Ruth. As we’ll see, both Cinderella and Ruth can be seen as heroines on a hero’s journey. Comparative literature often highlights these fascinating overlaps between stories. But just as importantly, it is often the key differences that illuminate the Torah’s unique moral vision and the values that continue to shape Jewish life and our understanding of a meaningful existence.

Both stories begin with profound, wrenching loss and dislocation, plunging their heroines into vulnerability. Cinderella’s mother dies, followed by her father, leaving her isolated and in the hands of a cruel stepmother and stepsisters. Ruth’s world is similarly shattered: her husband Machlon, her brother-in-law, and her father-in-law all die, leaving her and Naomi in an utterly precarious position, facing famine and bereavement. In both tales, we encounter a woman surrounded by other women, but often starkly alone in her goodness and resilience.

Ruth, like Cinderella, is an outsider—unnoticed, initially unnamed in terms of her future significance, unacknowledged. Remarkably, the first time Ruth is explicitly referred to as “the Moabite” is at the end of Chapter 1, just as she crosses a threshold into a new society, a stranger in a strange land:

וַתָּ֣שׇׁב נׇעֳמִ֗י וְר֨וּת הַמּוֹאֲבִיָּ֤ה כַלָּתָהּ֙ עִמָּ֔הּ הַשָּׁ֖בָה מִשְּׂדֵ֣י מוֹאָ֑ב… “So Naomi returned, and Ruth the Moabite, her daughter-in-law, with her, who returned from the fields of Moav…”

This naming highlights a truth: sometimes, we only truly discover or have others define aspects of our identity when we step out of the familiar and into a world that sees us as “other.” This experience of being an outsider, of course, resonates through Jewish history and for many in our modern world seeking belonging and refuge.

And yet, both women persist in doing good amidst adversity. Cinderella endures, taking care of the household despite mistreatment. Ruth, too, takes courageous initiative—going out to glean food not primarily for herself, but with unwavering dedication to support Naomi.

Both stories also include a blend of what we might call Siyata D’shamaya—divine assistance or auspicious circumstances—and hishtadlut—human effort and agency. In Cinderella, the fairy godmother offers supernatural help, but Cinderella must also provide the raw materials: the pumpkin, the mice, and critically, the effort to attend the ball with the driver. In Ruth, we read:

וַיִּ֣קֶר מִקְרֶ֔הָ חֶלְקַ֤ת הַשָּׂדֶה֙ לְבֹ֔עַז… “And she happened to come to the part of the field belonging to Boaz…”

There’s a deliberate ambiguity here, a “happy chance.” She just happens upon the right field, yet it is her brave initiative, her hishtadlut in going out to glean in an unfamiliar place, that positions her for this “chance” encounter. The chance is understood as God directing the unfolding events. A curious motif in both stories involves food—gathering it, sharing it, and being interrupted while enjoying it. In the French Cinderella tale, she thoughtfully brings oranges for her stepsisters—a small act of continued kindness. In Ruth, she diligently brings gleaned grain home to Naomi. But both scenes of connection or sustenance are cut short: in Cinderella, the clock strikes midnight, breaking the spell; in Ruth, she and Boaz part ways before dawn to preserve modesty and propriety.

And then there’s the shoe—a pivotal symbol in both narratives, yet how differently it functions!

Cinderella’s glass slipper becomes the icon of her hidden identity, fitting only her, and its discovery leads directly to her transformation and marriage. It’s a symbol of passive identification, of being “found.” In Ruth, a shoe also plays a key role—though in a strikingly different manner, illuminating a core Jewish value. The issue at hand is yibum, levirate marriage. Since Ruth’s husband Machlon died without children, the Torah provides a path for a relative to marry the widow to continue the family line and ensure her protection. But the closer relative declines this responsibility. The text describes the ancient Israelite custom:

וְזֹאת֩ לְפָנִ֨ים בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֜ל… שָׁלַ֥ף אִ֛ישׁ נַעֲל֖וֹ… “Now this was the custom in former time in Israel concerning redeeming and exchanging: to confirm a transaction, a man pulled off his shoe and gave it to his neighbour…” And so, the kinsman performs this act: וַיִּשְׁלֹ֖ף נַעֲלֽוֹ׃ “And he drew off his shoe.”

Here, the shoe is not a fragile symbol of romantic destiny or unique identity. It is part of an active legal process, an emblem of legal transfer—of one man relinquishing his responsibility and another, Boaz, stepping up to accept it. It’s about communal obligation and continuity, not just individual desire. This contrast speaks volumes.

In both stories, we witness a transformation in social status. Cinderella not only marries a prince but, in some versions, even helps her stepsisters find matches—becoming a shadchanit of sorts. Ruth, too, is lifted from destitution and sorrow. For the first time, she is publicly praised and blessed:

Here lies a key difference, a divergence in the very definition of a “happy ending.” Cinderella’s story culminates in a wedding, a personal triumph. While Ruth’s story features a marriage towards its end, its final, powerful words in chapter 4 conclude not merely with personal happiness, but with the birth of David—and thus, the promise of Israel’s future leadership and the messianic line. The Book of Ruth meticulously traces the genealogy to the past, to Peretz, son of Yehudah, and projects it forward to the future: the House of David. In this way, it masterfully incorporates the past, present, and future into its vision of redemption.

Another profound contrast lies in the nature of the central relationships and values. In Cinderella, the prince is enamoured by appearance—he doesn’t even know her name, only her beauty at the ball. Cinderella hides her identity, plays a role, relies on enchantment. One heroine, we might say, seeks a prince through disguise and fleeting magic. Ruth, by contrast, is fully present, known, and seen for who she truly is. Her virtues are her unwavering loyalty (chesed), her integrity, and her profound kindness. Boaz doesn’t praise her looks—he praises her character: “All the people of my town know that you are a woman of worth (אֵשֶׁת חַיִל).” She finds her path to redemption through unvarnished authenticity and steadfast character.

Even the settings are deeply symbolic. Cinderella’s pivotal moment is at the royal ball—a place of opulence, competition, and appearances. Ruth’s key moments unfold in the field—a place of labour, of shared vulnerability, of simple sustenance, and ultimately, of divine blessing. In the fields of Bethlehem, people greet one another not with pomp and circumstance, but with a profound spiritual consciousness: “Hashem imachem!” – “God is with you!” And the response: “Yevarech’cha Hashem!” – “May God bless you!” (Incidentally, Ashkenazim might take note: when a Sefardi is called to the Torah, they still say Hashem imachem—to which the congregation should indeed respond Yevarech’cha Hashem.)

In the end, Ruth offers us a deeper, more resonant version of the hero’s journey—not a tale primarily of wealth and glamour, but one of quiet courage, enduring loyalty, and shared human purpose. Her story reminds us that chesed, loving-kindness, and emunah, faithfulness—these are the true markers of greatness, the bedrock for rebuilding lives and society. Ruth’s famous declaration to Naomi, “Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God,” is nothing less than her personal Kabbalat Torah, her own Shavuot moment of radical acceptance and belonging, a commitment that changed her destiny and ours. The Torah itself, received at Sinai, was an ultimate act of Divine chesed; Ruth embodies this chesed on a human scale, showing us how such kindness can transform the world.

As we prepare to stand once more at our modern Sinai this Shavuot, reaffirming our covenant and our shared story, how do we, in our own lives and as a community, draw strength from our past, engage meaningfully with our present, and build a future imbued with this spirit? May Ruth’s journey illuminate our own. May we, like her, choose paths of profound commitment over fleeting comfort, authentic kindness over indifference, and enduring substance over superficial spectacle. May her spirit inspire us to weave threads of chesed and emunah into the fabric of our lives, connecting our past, present, and future with courage, purpose, and in partnership—with one another, and with Hashem.