Purim is the holiday that refuses to behave. In a tradition often characterized by solemnity and study, Purim bursts through the door with noise, costume, revelry, and an insistence that joy itself is a religious obligation. The Talmud (Megillah 7b) records the remarkable dictum that one should drink on Purim ad d’lo yada — until one cannot distinguish between “blessed is Mordechai” and “cursed is Haman.” For a tradition that values clear thinking and careful distinction, this is extraordinary.
But Purim’s wildness contains deep wisdom. And the story at its center — the Book of Esther — is one of the most sophisticated and subversive texts in our entire canon.
The setting is the Persian Empire under King Achashverosh (Ahasuerus), a ruler portrayed as easily manipulated, fond of spectacle, and morally adrift. His advisor Haman, consumed by wounded pride, engineers a decree to annihilate the Jewish people. The instrument of salvation is Esther — a young Jewish woman who has concealed her identity to become queen — and her cousin Mordechai, who refuses to bow before Haman.
What makes the Book of Esther unique in all of scripture is the absence of God’s name. It appears nowhere in the text. This is the only book of the Bible where God is not mentioned. And yet Jewish tradition reads the story as saturated with divine presence — a presence that operates behind the scenes, through coincidence, timing, and the courage of individuals who choose to act.
The theme of hiddenness runs through every layer of the story. Esther hides her Jewish identity. God is hidden from the text. The name “Esther” itself is connected to the Hebrew root s-t-r, meaning hidden or concealed. Even the holiday’s name — Purim, from the word pur (lot) — refers to the lots Haman cast to choose the date of destruction. What appeared to be random chance was, the tradition teaches, guided by an unseen hand.
In Sephardic communities, Purim carries distinctive customs that reflect this interplay of revelation and concealment. Moroccan Jews celebrate with particular exuberance. The reading of the Megillah (the scroll of Esther) is accompanied by vigorous noisemaking at every mention of Haman’s name — using ra’ashanim (noisemakers) and stamping feet. Some Moroccan communities have a tradition of burning an effigy of Haman, and special songs and piyyutim accompany the festivities.
The Seudah (festive meal) of Purim is central. In Moroccan tradition, the table is set with particular dishes — couscous, meat stews rich with dried fruits and spices, and an array of pastries and sweets. The meal is a time of open doors and communal gathering, reflecting the mitzvah of mishloach manot (sending food gifts to friends) and matanot la’evyonim (gifts to the poor).
These two commandments — gifts to friends and gifts to the poor — reveal Purim’s deeper moral architecture. Joy that is hoarded is not true joy. The celebration is incomplete if it does not extend outward, building connection and alleviating suffering. The Rambam (Maimonides) writes that there is no greater or more beautiful joy than bringing happiness to the hearts of the poor, the orphaned, and the widowed. On Purim, this teaching becomes obligatory.
I find the story of Esther particularly resonant for our time. We live in an era of hidden identities and public masks. Many people — Jewish and otherwise — navigate worlds where they conceal parts of themselves for safety or acceptance. Esther’s journey from concealment to revelation, from silence to speech, mirrors a deeply human struggle. When Mordechai sends word to Esther that she must speak to the king on behalf of her people, he delivers one of the most powerful lines in all of scripture: “Who knows whether you have not come to royal position for just such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14).
Each of us faces moments when concealment feels safer than revelation. Purim asks: What would happen if you stepped forward? What if this moment — this particular, improbable, messy moment — is exactly the one you were placed here for?
The joy of Purim is not escapism. It is the fierce, defiant happiness of a people who have survived every Haman in every generation. It is the laughter that comes from having stared at destruction and found, somehow, that the story turned. V’nahafokh hu — and it was reversed. On Purim, we celebrate the reversal and trust that hidden within every dark chapter, a turning point awaits.
Chag Purim Sameach!
— Rabbi Tsipi Gabai