Purim’s Lesson: When the Masks Come On…and Off Again

Purim’s Lesson:  When the Masks Come On…and Off Again

Over the years, I have really come to love the celebration of Purim.  Sure, as a kid it was a good time in shul and the Purim Carnival was always a blast, but that was about the extent of its meaning for me.  It was a raucous party, and not much more.  During my studies at the Seminary, my understanding of Purim certainly deepened, but on a predominantly academic level.  I had a more sophisticated appreciation of the development of the Feast, and could discuss the scholarly literature regarding the holiday from the vantages of biblical studies, anthropological comparisons with other early spring rites from the ancient world, as well as the traditional lore from the Talmudic traditions.  Nonetheless, Purim still remained a raucous party and not much more.  It was less a spiritual experience, and more an experience of the various spirits that flowed freely and in great quantities throughout Purim night on the Upper West Side.

All this began to change when the middle to late 1990s proved to be a difficult time to enjoy Purim.  Purim day, 1994 coincided with Ramadan; it was the day in Hebron that Dr. Baruch Goldstein attacked a mosque during a Ramadan prayer service.  Twenty-nine Palestinians died by Goldstein’s Galil rifle fire, and 125 more were wounded.  Two years later, the cycle of violence would turn to claim Israeli lives with a series of Hamas suicide attacks.  The “Bus 18 Massacres” began on 25 February with the death of 26 people and the wounding of 48 more.  A week later on 3 March, the day before Purim, a second attack on the Bus 18 line killed 19 and wounded 7 more.  Between them were attacks in the Jerusalem neighborhood of French Hill and in the city of Ashkelon.  Then on the eve of Purim there was an attack in Tel Aviv at the Dizengoff Centre that killed 13.  Purim could never again be for me a raucous party.  I recall that year in particular how hard it was for me to find the ability to be in any type of celebratory mood.  In order for me to ascend the bimah and conduct services, I literally had to “fake it.”  I was the personification of the ultimate Purim mask:  my external expression of joviality and celebration concealed a swirling torrent of emotions that ranged from shock to grief to incredulous disbelief and finally to a nearly overwhelming sense of despair. It was then that I finally began to understand Purim.

Yes, Purim is a raucous and rockin’ good time for the kids (of all ages).

Yes, Purim is the ancient Jewish answer to the ancient early spring rites pervasive across the various cultures of the ancient Near East.

Yes, the story of Purim in the Bible is a tongue-in-cheek satire of “powerless Jews” overcoming existential threats to their physical survival through subterfuge and the intercession of a well-placed, intermarried, court connection.

For me, Purim is all that, but not simply all that.  Purim is the Holiday of the Mask.  That Purim in 1996, I was the Masks of Greek Drama, despite what overt costume I wore.  Inside I was Tragedy, while outside I was Comedy.  Wearing the Mask of Comedy I was able to do things that my deepest soul never would have imagined possible doing on that particular Purim.  I realized then how powerful a mask can be.  I realized that Purim is a warning of what can happen when we are able and willing to hide behind a mask.

When we hide behind a mask, it becomes easier to act in ways we normally do not dare to act.

When we hide behind a mask, it becomes easier to abdicate real responsibility for our conduct.

And maybe, just maybe, when we hide behind a mask it is our deepest, darkest selves that we reveal for others to see.

It was with these epiphanies that I truly began to love Purim for at the end of the day, Purim says that we can’t hide behind our masks.  Purim might suspend many of Judaism’s traditional restraints, but it comes to an end soon enough. We can put on masks temporarily for fantasy and for play, but ultimately we remove them and return to the real world.  So as much as I enjoy Purim for its enforced frivolity, I love it even more for the questions it forces us to confront afterwards:  At the end of the day, exactly who have we been when the masks were on, and who are we now that the masks have come off?  These questions encapsulate the real spiritual challenge of Purim.  May we find worthy answer to this challenge.