Purim in a World that Already Feels Like Purim

Purim in a World that Already Feels Like Purim

Rabbi Menachem Creditor

Purim is a day of contradictions, a day when everything was supposed to go one way—toward disaster—and instead turned upside down, leading not just to survival but to joy. That language is important for us right now. Last night, standing in shul with my son Moshe, who was dressed as Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, people asked me what I was dressed as. I told them, "I'm pretending to be someone who can make sense of the world." That’s my mask today.

How do we experience Purim in a world that already feels like Purim? When chaos reigns, when anti-Semitism twists reality into an unrecognizable form, when leaders trade bribes and power and we’re left feeling shaky? Where am I behind this mask? I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. And I know I’m not alone.

I posted last night on Facebook for those struggling with Purim—because it's too much, because it’s too on the nose, because its violence feels untraceable. I said, "I see you." And now, let me say it again: I see you. But I'm also wearing the mask. And I'm holding on to one voice from tradition that might help.

Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, writing from the Warsaw Ghetto, buried his words in a milk crate, words that were found after the war and published as Esh Kodesh—Holy Fire. From within the inferno, he wrote about Purim: just as Yom Kippur grants atonement no matter what we do, so too Purim grants joy. Not for those who are already joyful. But for those of us who feel like we cannot possibly allow joy in. Purim is a commandment to feel joy—even when it feels impossible.

And yet, this Purim is unlike last year’s Purim. Last year, my brain was broken. This year, my soul hurts. The difference is astonishing to consider. We are still counting—today is day 525 since October 7. But a year has passed. And that is no small thing. Our ability to dress in costume, even when those costumes encode our grief, is no small thing. Our ability to dance, even when dancing is an act of defiance, is no small thing.

I think of Yarin Illovich, the DJ at Nova, who comforted me when I sat shattered at the New York exhibit recreating that festival-turned-massacre. And then, months later, I watched him—this beautiful survivor—spinning discs, dancing. If he can dance, so can we. If he can choose joy, so can we.

Purim commands us to let joy in. Why would joy need to be commanded if it came easily?

Thank God for Purim. Thank God for Esther and Mordechai. Thank God for our cantors and rabbis who stand before us, even when they feel like they’re wearing masks. And thank God for our sensitivity—because we know we’re wearing them.

So let’s sing. Let’s let a little joy in. Let’s fake it until it becomes real. The act of smiling itself releases endorphins—so smile. Give mishloach manot, give matanot l’evyonim, read the Megillah, and then put it down. Sing a little bit. And when we light Shabbat candles tonight, may the light pour back into us.

It has been 525 days since I’ve said this, but I’m inviting you now: Try it. Send your joy to Jerusalem, send it to each other. My beautiful daughter is teaching Torah in Jerusalem tonight. She is my joy. And I share that joy with you. Let’s generate joy together.

Let’s not forget our hope.
Because we have not forgotten it.
We have not.