On The Lessons We Can Learn from Queens Esther and Vashti: Purim 5782

On The Lessons We Can Learn from Queens Esther and Vashti: Purim 5782

Purim is a holiday filled with paradox. It is simultaneously the happiest festival on the Jewish calendar and a day on which we reckon with all of the ways in which we experience brokenness in our world and in our communities. We are feeling that keenly this year in particular as we bear witness to the horror of an unprovoked war in Ukraine and, for a good number (but certainly not all) of us, our lives are beginning to return, slowly, to a new kind of normal with the easing of COVID restrictions. An interesting signpost given Purim 5780 marked the beginning of what we could not have known then would be nearly two years in which the fabric of our daily lives was altered beyond recognition.

 

There are four mitzvot or obligations associated with the observance of Purim. Reading the Megillah or Book of Esther is prominent, and on Purim day itself, many Jews engage in a festive feast, give tzedakah and exchange gifts of food and drink—mishloach manot—with friends and family.

The Book of Esther is traditionally read twice—once during the evening of Purim and again on Purim day. The book, found in the Jewish Tanakh or Bible, features two queens—Vashti and Esther, with Esther ultimately becoming the protagonist and heroine. Yet, the stories of both Esther and Vashti can lend much wisdom and inspiration to us as we observe Purim this year during Women’s History Month.

 

As the Megillah opens, we learn about King Achashverosh’s interest in lavish banquets, complete with plenty of fine wine and court entertainment. These banquets went on for 187 days. In the book’s opening chapter, he calls upon Vashti, his queen, to appear before the men at his banquet unclothed to show off her beauty. She refuses to come at his command, angering him greatly and causing him to fear that all of the women of his empire will follow suit and refuse to do their own husbands’ bidding. In other words, a fine moment for justice-seeking and communal organizing. Vashti’s radical actions speak truth to power. As is so often true when truth is spoken to power, consequences are swift. Vashti loses her royal position, never being permitted to enter Achashverosh’s presence again and an edict is sent out to all of the kingdom informing the men that they are the single authority in their homes. Oy.

In recent generations, Vashti has been seen as a feminist icon in many ways. A paragon of women’s empowerment in a highly misogynistic society, a woman who stood firm in her principles, standing up for her dignity and by so doing, the dignity of all women.

Esther, too, is a complex character. Often contrasted with Vashti, Esther is the heroine and protagonist of the Megillah. Esther is a Jewish woman who, as is made clear by the text itself, is proud of her identity but not particularly religious. She lives in Persia—today’s Iran—which was at the time the Megillah is set a thriving diaspora Jewish community. Adopted by her uncle Mordechai, she becomes queen after a complex selection process which centered a prospective queen’s beauty and charm. As a feminist, it is easy for me to dismiss this outright decrying the misogyny and the ways in which beauty is a potent tool of power. Yet, so often, it is the most easily available tool. Esther uses it in key moments and ultimately saves the Jewish people from a genocidal plot.

As the story progresses, Haman, angry that Mordechai refuses to bow down to him, hatches a genocidal plot against the Jews of Shushan and the empire at large. Hearing of this, knowing Achashverosh does not know she is Jewish, Esther takes a grave risk in appearing before the king unsummoned. Perhaps she has reached this position of power for such a moment as this.

Appearing before Achashverosh, she invites him and Haman to a banquet in their honor. Having found herself in Achashverosh’s good graces, she is able to make any request she so desires. Yet, she does not immediately reveal herself or Haman’s genocidal plot. Instead, she invites him to what he assumes will be a standard festive banquet, with plenty of drink to go around. Once he is socially comfortable, Esther reveals herself and announces Haman’s genocidal plot, causing Achashverosh to become immediately furious and Haman to beg for his life to no avail.

Esther’s actions are at once heroic and complex. She approaches a man with absolute power and authority, risking her life and that of her people. She does so by appealing to his basest instincts because she knows that that is how power is wielded. She does so confidently and unapologetically.

Esther and Vashti represent two important paradigms of impactful leadership. Though the social change the empire feared ultimately did not come to pass because they eliminated Vashti’s role, the fact the text makes note of the men’s fears is instructive for all of us. Courageous, intentional, and driven individuals can change the world in profound ways. Simultaneously, working from within a hierarchical, misogynistic court, Esther is able to affect change she likely could not have done from outside.

As we elevate the lived experiences, wisdom, and stories of women across time, space, and historical era this month, may we learn from the differing leadership paradigms that Esther and Vashti present. May we look within at our own society and communities, centering underrepresented perspectives, hearing voices we don’t often hear and widening our narratives to encompass the lived experiences and wisdom we all bring.

Memory and Moving Forward: A Reflection on Purim 5781

A version of this piece was originally published by SVARA: A Traditionally Radical Yeshiva.

 

Today, I remember. I remember vividly the all-consuming sadness I felt last Purim, as the sun was setting and my celebratory seudah was ending, the last event I attended with a large Jewish community. I remember feeling overcome with the intuitive sense that it would be a long, long time before I would daven with a minyan, learn in a physical bet midrash, and otherwise gather to sing, celebrate, learn, mourn and grieve with others outside of my small pod. I also distinctly recall not knowing how to explain my sorrow. Last Purim, we knew there was a deadly, dangerous virus looming. I remember the conversation surrounding the question of whether one could attend a virtual Megillah reading. Were the circumstances really that grave that a virtual reading could be sufficient for those for whom in person gatherings took religious precedence? Surely this outbreak will be a few months at most—we’ll be back to “normal” by Shavuot.

As I think back over this turbulent year, I am humbled by my own sense of assumed knowing, on a holiday that is all about not knowing. Purim is, after all, many things. It is a holiday about opposites, reversals, revelations and concealments. It is also understood to be about knowing and not knowing. Traditionally, one is supposed to drink until they cannot tell the difference between blessed is Mordechai and cursed is Haman. It should go without saying but I feel absolutely obligated to say that this knowing and not knowing is not only achieved through the use of intoxicating substances. Our sages also teach that the knowing and not knowing is about achieving a mystical union with all that is. For those of us who are spiritually inclined but for whom achieving mystical union with all that exists feels a bit too abstract or out there, we can also think of this idea of knowing and not knowing as related to the Gemara’s famous teaching on Shabbat 88A concerning our acceptance of the Torah at Sinai.

״וַיִּתְיַצְּבוּ בְּתַחְתִּית הָהָר״, אָמַר רַב אַבְדִּימִי בַּר חָמָא בַּר חַסָּא: מְלַמֵּד שֶׁכָּפָה הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא עֲלֵיהֶם אֶת הָהָר כְּגִיגִית, וְאָמַר לָהֶם: אִם אַתֶּם מְקַבְּלִים הַתּוֹרָה מוּטָב, וְאִם לָאו — שָׁם תְּהֵא קְבוּרַתְכֶם. אָמַר רַב אַחָא בַּר יַעֲקֹב: מִכָּאן מוֹדָעָא רַבָּה לְאוֹרָיְיתָא. אָמַר רָבָא: אַף עַל פִּי כֵן הֲדוּר קַבְּלוּהָ בִּימֵי אֲחַשְׁוֵרוֹשׁ, דִּכְתִיב: ״קִיְּמוּ וְקִבְּלוּ הַיְּהוּדִים״ — קִיְּימוּ מַה שֶּׁקִּיבְּלוּ כְּבָר.

The Gemara cites additional homiletic interpretations on the topic of the revelation at Sinai. The Torah says, “And Moses brought forth the people out of the camp to meet God; and they stood at the lowermost part of the mount” (Exodus 19:17). Rabbi Avdimi bar Ḥama bar Ḥasa said: the Jewish people actually stood beneath the mountain, and the verse teaches that the Holy One, blessed be He, overturned the mountain above the Jews like a tub, and said to them: If you accept the Torah, excellent, and if not, there will be your burial. Rav Aḥa bar Ya’akov said: From here there is a substantial caveat to the obligation to fulfill the Torah. The Jewish people can claim that they were coerced into accepting the Torah, and it is therefore not binding. Rava said: Even so, they again accepted it willingly in the time of Ahasuerus, as it is written: “The Jews ordained, and took upon them, and upon their seed, and upon all such as joined themselves unto them” (Esther 9:27), and he taught: The Jews ordained what they had already taken upon themselves through coercion at Sinai. (Steinsaltz translation).

We encounter here the famous idea that our acceptance of the covenant through our declaration of we will do, and we will hear, or we will listen was not, in the rabbi’s read done willingly. We were coerced. It was not until the days of Purim that we in fact willingly accepted the Torah upon ourselves. During this time of knowing and not knowing, we are provided here with an interesting juxtaposition. On a day when we tend to be consumed by physical delights and pleasures, we also celebrate our fullest acceptance of Torah.

Admittedly, as someone for whom Purim has, at the best of times, been incredibly alienating, this shift in emphasis is comforting. I can immerse myself in my love of learning Torah and skip the parties. No more need I attend a Megillah reading feeling utterly miserable on the happiest of days because the room is loud and I cannot hear anything going on, knowing all the while that this holiday is so visual as it is with everyone showing off their costumes and laughing at comedic sketches I miss because I cannot see them. Learning all Purim night? Now that I can get behind!

If I’m being honest with myself and if we are being honest with ourselves, what does that shift in emphasis actually mean for us? Isn’t everything Torah ultimately? We are not a people known for our asceticism. In fact, our tradition requires us to take pleasure from the physical world and thereby elevate and make it sacred. Purim is deeply a part of that. I have to remind myself that just because the loud and chaotic Megillah readings of years past left me feeling deeply alienated, that in no way means that Purim is not mine to take hold of, just as we each take hold of all of the festivals.

Which brings me back to the somber character of this Purim and I imagine all Purims subsequent to this year. We are both marking the one year anniversary of this terrible pandemic and celebrating a tremendous moment of redemption for the Jewish people. The Gemara’s teaching above and our celebrations of Purim are both experienced collectively. We celebrate our deliverance together and our acceptance of Torah together as one people.  We know from this past year that we need community to remain resilient and to hold us and that community is and can be experienced in so many ways. I remain humbled and deeply moved by how SVARA has pivoted and how so many of us have pivoted to navigate this crumble and crash. Even and especially as we mourn the tremendous losses of this time, we are unearthing new possibilities for connection which I pray stay with us long after COVID is eradicated and we are all vaccinated, speedily and in our days, amein!

And yet, the yearning to find individual expression within a communal framework is with me deeply. I bring that juxtaposition with me as I prepare to celebrate and receive all that Purim holds for me. This Purim, as I prepare to hear Megillah in an environment that will better meet my needs, I allow myself to open to the expansive possibilities of this holiday, knowing that my own not knowing prevented me from showing up most authentically in my own life as a Jew and as a lover of Torah. May this holiday with all of its layers of possibility, struggle and promise allow us to get even a taste of the world we are co-creating into being.