Purim
Purim can look a little chaotic from the outside. There are costumes, noise, drinking, triangular cookies, and a lot of laughter. But underneath the party energy is a story about survival, courage, hidden identity, and the stubborn refusal of a small people to disappear.
Purim comes from the biblical Book of Esther. The story takes place in ancient Persia, in the court of King Ahasuerus. The Jewish people are living in exile. They are a minority in a vast empire, scattered and vulnerable.
Enter Esther. She is a young Jewish woman who becomes queen after the king banishes his previous wife. Esther does not initially reveal that she is Jewish. Her cousin Mordecai, who raised her, advises her to keep that part of herself hidden. That detail matters later.
The villain of the story is Haman, a high-ranking official in the king’s court. Haman is furious that Mordecai refuses to bow down to him. Instead of simply punishing Mordecai, Haman decides to destroy all the Jews in the empire. He casts lots, which in Persian are called purim, to choose the date for their destruction. That is where the holiday gets its name.
Mordecai urges Esther to go to the king and beg for her people’s lives. This is dangerous. Approaching the king without being summoned could mean death. Esther is afraid, understandably. Mordecai tells her something that has echoed through Jewish history ever since. Who knows whether you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?
Esther chooses courage. She fasts. She asks the Jewish community to fast with her. Then she approaches the king. She invites him and Haman to a series of banquets. At the right moment, she reveals that she is Jewish and that Haman’s decree will destroy her along with her people. The king is enraged. Haman ends up executed on the very gallows he prepared for Mordecai. The Jews are allowed to defend themselves, and they survive.
That is the core of Purim. A threatened genocide is overturned. Hidden identity is revealed. A woman steps into terrifying power and saves her people. The story is dramatic, ironic, even darkly funny at times. It is not subtle.
Modern Purim celebrations reflect that energy. The Book of Esther, called the Megillah, is read aloud in synagogue. Every time Haman’s name is mentioned, people boo, hiss, and spin noisemakers called groggers. The idea is to blot out his name. Kids love this part. Adults do too.
There is a tradition of dressing up in costumes. Some people dress as Esther or Mordecai or even Haman. Others dress as superheroes, animals, or whatever makes them happy. The costumes connect to the theme of hiddenness in the story. Esther hid her identity. G-d’s name is never explicitly mentioned in the Book of Esther either, which many people see as another layer of hiddenness. So on Purim, we play with masks and reveal.
There is also the Purim play, called a Purim spiel. It is usually funny, often ridiculous, and sometimes a little irreverent. The story gets retold with jokes, pop culture references, and a lot of overacting. It is meant to be joyful. Jewish survival has often required humor as a coping mechanism.
Food is central. One of the classic treats is hamantaschen, triangular cookies that are often said to represent Haman’s hat or ears. They are traditionally filled with poppy seed, fruit preserves, or chocolate. In my case, mine have to be gluten free and low sugar. That is very Jewish too. We take the tradition and make it work for real life.
Another Purim tradition is mishloach manot, giving small gift baskets of food to friends. There is also matanot la’evyonim, giving money to people in need. Joy in Judaism is rarely only about yourself. It spills outward.
You may have heard that Jews are supposed to drink on Purim. There is a line in the Talmud that says a person should drink until they cannot tell the difference between “blessed is Mordecai” and “cursed is Haman.” Some communities take that very literally. Others interpret it more symbolically. Either way, alcohol is often present at Purim parties.
For me, this part is complicated. I am sober. I have a history of alcohol abuse and other substance abuse. Being around heavy drinking can be hard for me. It can make me anxious and unsettled. So my Purim tends to be more low key. And that is okay.
Judaism prioritizes preserving life and protecting your health. There is a principle called pikuach nefesh, saving a life, which overrides almost every other commandment. While that principle usually applies to life and death situations, the broader value is clear. Your physical and mental well being matter. If drinking threatens your sobriety, you do not drink. If a party environment is not safe for you, you step back. Joy that destroys you is not a mitzvah.
Purim is about survival. It is about refusing to be erased. For some people, that survival looks loud and tipsy and exuberant. For me, survival also looks like protecting the hard won stability I have built in my own life. It looks like celebrating in a way that honors my body and my brain. Purim does not demand that I lose myself. It reminds me that my people survived by holding on to who we are. Part of who I am now is a sober person who knows his limits. That, too, is worth celebrating.
Since October 8th, 2023, antisemitism has not just resurfaced but grown louder, more brazen, and more socially acceptable in spaces where it once at least tried to hide. Jews around the world have felt the shift. Protests morph into chants for our erasure. Online spaces fill with conspiracy theories and blood libels recycled for a new generation. Friends go quiet. Colleagues look away. It can feel frighteningly familiar, like a chapter we thought was history cracking back open. Purim lands differently in a time like this. It reminds us that the threat of annihilation is not new in Jewish life. It reminds us that hatred can rise fast and spread wide. But it also reminds us that we are still here. We have outlived empires. We have outlasted Hamans in every generation. Purim teaches us to gather together, to care for one another, to speak up when courage is required, and to refuse to disappear. The noise may be getting louder, but so is our memory, our resilience, and our commitment to survive and to live openly as Jews.
Purim comes from the biblical Book of Esther. The story takes place in ancient Persia, in the court of King Ahasuerus. The Jewish people are living in exile. They are a minority in a vast empire, scattered and vulnerable.
Enter Esther. She is a young Jewish woman who becomes queen after the king banishes his previous wife. Esther does not initially reveal that she is Jewish. Her cousin Mordecai, who raised her, advises her to keep that part of herself hidden. That detail matters later.
The villain of the story is Haman, a high-ranking official in the king’s court. Haman is furious that Mordecai refuses to bow down to him. Instead of simply punishing Mordecai, Haman decides to destroy all the Jews in the empire. He casts lots, which in Persian are called purim, to choose the date for their destruction. That is where the holiday gets its name.
Mordecai urges Esther to go to the king and beg for her people’s lives. This is dangerous. Approaching the king without being summoned could mean death. Esther is afraid, understandably. Mordecai tells her something that has echoed through Jewish history ever since. Who knows whether you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?
Esther chooses courage. She fasts. She asks the Jewish community to fast with her. Then she approaches the king. She invites him and Haman to a series of banquets. At the right moment, she reveals that she is Jewish and that Haman’s decree will destroy her along with her people. The king is enraged. Haman ends up executed on the very gallows he prepared for Mordecai. The Jews are allowed to defend themselves, and they survive.
That is the core of Purim. A threatened genocide is overturned. Hidden identity is revealed. A woman steps into terrifying power and saves her people. The story is dramatic, ironic, even darkly funny at times. It is not subtle.
Modern Purim celebrations reflect that energy. The Book of Esther, called the Megillah, is read aloud in synagogue. Every time Haman’s name is mentioned, people boo, hiss, and spin noisemakers called groggers. The idea is to blot out his name. Kids love this part. Adults do too.
There is a tradition of dressing up in costumes. Some people dress as Esther or Mordecai or even Haman. Others dress as superheroes, animals, or whatever makes them happy. The costumes connect to the theme of hiddenness in the story. Esther hid her identity. G-d’s name is never explicitly mentioned in the Book of Esther either, which many people see as another layer of hiddenness. So on Purim, we play with masks and reveal.
There is also the Purim play, called a Purim spiel. It is usually funny, often ridiculous, and sometimes a little irreverent. The story gets retold with jokes, pop culture references, and a lot of overacting. It is meant to be joyful. Jewish survival has often required humor as a coping mechanism.
Food is central. One of the classic treats is hamantaschen, triangular cookies that are often said to represent Haman’s hat or ears. They are traditionally filled with poppy seed, fruit preserves, or chocolate. In my case, mine have to be gluten free and low sugar. That is very Jewish too. We take the tradition and make it work for real life.
Another Purim tradition is mishloach manot, giving small gift baskets of food to friends. There is also matanot la’evyonim, giving money to people in need. Joy in Judaism is rarely only about yourself. It spills outward.
You may have heard that Jews are supposed to drink on Purim. There is a line in the Talmud that says a person should drink until they cannot tell the difference between “blessed is Mordecai” and “cursed is Haman.” Some communities take that very literally. Others interpret it more symbolically. Either way, alcohol is often present at Purim parties.
For me, this part is complicated. I am sober. I have a history of alcohol abuse and other substance abuse. Being around heavy drinking can be hard for me. It can make me anxious and unsettled. So my Purim tends to be more low key. And that is okay.
Judaism prioritizes preserving life and protecting your health. There is a principle called pikuach nefesh, saving a life, which overrides almost every other commandment. While that principle usually applies to life and death situations, the broader value is clear. Your physical and mental well being matter. If drinking threatens your sobriety, you do not drink. If a party environment is not safe for you, you step back. Joy that destroys you is not a mitzvah.
Purim is about survival. It is about refusing to be erased. For some people, that survival looks loud and tipsy and exuberant. For me, survival also looks like protecting the hard won stability I have built in my own life. It looks like celebrating in a way that honors my body and my brain. Purim does not demand that I lose myself. It reminds me that my people survived by holding on to who we are. Part of who I am now is a sober person who knows his limits. That, too, is worth celebrating.
Since October 8th, 2023, antisemitism has not just resurfaced but grown louder, more brazen, and more socially acceptable in spaces where it once at least tried to hide. Jews around the world have felt the shift. Protests morph into chants for our erasure. Online spaces fill with conspiracy theories and blood libels recycled for a new generation. Friends go quiet. Colleagues look away. It can feel frighteningly familiar, like a chapter we thought was history cracking back open. Purim lands differently in a time like this. It reminds us that the threat of annihilation is not new in Jewish life. It reminds us that hatred can rise fast and spread wide. But it also reminds us that we are still here. We have outlived empires. We have outlasted Hamans in every generation. Purim teaches us to gather together, to care for one another, to speak up when courage is required, and to refuse to disappear. The noise may be getting louder, but so is our memory, our resilience, and our commitment to survive and to live openly as Jews.
