I’m a rabbi. Here’s why I’m boycotting the megillah reading for Purim this year
Purim’s central text has always been troubling. This year, it’s worse than that
Is it possible to meaningfully celebrate Purim in times when hate is ascendant? Photo by Dan Kitwood/Getty Images
The holiday of Purim has historically been a holiday of revelry and upside-down merriment, arriving as it does in concert with Carnival and Mardi Gras. For many years I have enjoyed disguising myself in some punny or politically relevant costume and gathering with my community to boo the bad guy and cheer on the heroes. I’ve taken to heart the bravery of Queen Esther choosing to reveal her identity to save her people, even at the risk of death.
But this year I am unable to enjoy the usual revelry. In particular, as I began to prepare a reading of the megillah, I found myself facing a foreboding. This year the underlying antisemitism feels more real and chilling than ever — as do other major themes in the text.
Start with its treatment of women. The story begins in Shushan, Persia, geographically modern day Iran, where King Ahashverosh is holding a 180-day party for his ministers from 127 regions. At the end of this merrymaking, the drunken king summons his queen, Vashti, asking her to show off her beauty for everyone while wearing only a “diadem.”
She says no. The king’s advisers warn that the queen’s refusal will influence other women around the provinces; Vashti must be punished. So in addition to banishing her, the king sends an edict far and wide requiring that all women must obey their husbands.
What struck me this year is that this edict against women’s autonomy is currently a relevant issue in the United States, where women’s right to choose is under attack, women are being demeaned in the guise of a backlash against diversity, equity and inclusion, and some proposed legislation would imperil the rights of many women to vote.
Yes, many of us read right over this part of the story, moving on to Mordechai’s encouragement of his beautiful niece, Esther, to participate in the beauty contest to find the next queen — hiding her Jewish identity, of course.
But in 2025, I cannot ignore that the edict in the megillah’s first chapter is insidious. I do not want to chant it out loud — even in a language and context where most people will not be fully aware of what is being said.
But an even bigger problem is how the megillah, to my eyes, normalizes hatred.
The entire premise of the megillah is built on the insidious words of the king’s adviser, Haman, who is outraged because Mordechai will not bow down to him. Haman addresses the king, saying, “There is a certain people … whose customs are different from those of all other people; they do not obey the king’s laws … If it pleases the king, let a decree be issued to destroy them, and I will give 10,000 talents of silver to the king’s administrators for the royal treasury.”
Yes, Haman eventually fails. But then comes the problem of the end of the megillah, in which Persia’s Jews go forth and kill 75,800 of their fellow Persians in self-defense.
The violence in this text is not something I want to emulate or promote. I do not want to teach a narrative whose basic premise is that people are hated and worth exterminating. I want, instead, to teach a story like that of the Talmudic Rabbi Meir’s wife, Bruriah, who was known to have advised her husband to pray for the killing of evil within people, rather than the killing of people themselves.
Haman’s campaign to exterminate Persia’s Jews normalizes the idea that Jews are and always will be treated as “other.” It suggests that Jews will never be safe so long as it is dangerous to be “different” from the norm — and we will always be different. This story revolves around the notion that it is not safe to be a Jew. Full stop.
I worry about what shaping our narrative of peoplehood around this idea does to us. A few years ago, a friend of mine pointed out that the Exodus story begins with Pharaoh feeling threatened by the Israelites, so he sends an edict to kill the baby boys. Now why would we teach our children that someone wants to kill them? Can we really build a strong Jewish future if we believe we are bonded because we are hated by others and therefore have to love each other?
So, while I yearn to join my community in celebration, and I want to fulfill the Purim mitzvot of giving to the needy and sending food baskets to friends and neighbors and enjoying a festive meal, I am not going to chant the standard megillah this year. I am boycotting this mitzvah.
In this time of heightened hatred and antisemitism, this text seems to me to lean into divisiveness and prejudice — qualities that serve to weaken the world. I do not want to be the “grinch who stole Purim.” But I want to take this holiday seriously, which means acknowledging its flaws — and, sometimes, deciding that the pain of those flaws isn’t worth fulfilling the mitzvah of reading the megillah.
Purim comes on the night of a full moon. The moon has waxed and waned for far longer than we humans have existed, trying to figure out how to survive together. This year, may the light of that full moon help us find a way to navigate the text and traditions we prize, without falling prey to the worst parts of their messaging.
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