Purim in Israel? The Megillah’s Unfinished Ending

Once again, we find ourselves living through historic, fateful times. The lethal strike against Khamenei, head of a global empire of evil, brought Jews and non-Jews alike to recite the blessing over good tidings (so I read, for instance, in Hussein Aboubakr Mansour’s update). Already yesterday, voices across the world — Christians, Muslims, and others — were heard proclaiming, “God bless Israel.” And today, even from within our bomb shelters, it is difficult to turn away from the weight and grandeur of this hour, from the quiet awareness that we have been granted the privilege to stand as witnesses to it.

In the midst of these events, many have drawn a natural comparison to the Book of Esther. Then, too, in days such as these, we faced an empire in Persia bent upon our destruction. Then, too, we were delivered through miracles wrought by the Holy One, blessed be He, on behalf of our ancestors. The comparison is natural; given the date, it is compelling. Yet alongside it, we must mark the difference no less carefully. We are not living inside the Book of Esther. While not dissimilar, the chapter now unfolding before us is not one written in its pages.

The Unusual Mitzvot of Purim

The days of Purim are a wondrous time for the Jewish people, yet its mitzvos are anomalous. First, were it not for Purim, it would be difficult to imagine a festival without the recitation of Hallel. On Purim, not only do we refrain from completing the Hallel, but even the shortened version (half Hallel) is omitted from the day’s observances. In its place, we read the Megillah, the central mitzvah of the day, unparalleled among the festivals of Israel.

In addition, we are commanded to give gifts to the poor and to send portions one to another — practices likewise absent from the other Jewish festivals.

Moreover, throughout the rest of the Jewish calendar, concern for the poor is already embedded within the very definition of rejoicing. The Rambam famously rules that when one eats and drinks on a festival, one must also provide for “the stranger, the orphan, the widow, and the other unfortunate poor.” One who fails to do so, he writes, rejoices only in his own stomach; such joy is a disgrace. Since charity forms an inherent part of every festival’s joy, what distinguishes Purim, which establishes matanot la-evyonim as an independent commandment?

Unlike all other Jewish festivals, Purim celebrates not redemption but survival — not a redemptive joy but an exilic one

Moreover, the unique atmosphere of Purim — its feasting, its inebriation, and its costumes — speaks for itself. Relative to other festivals, it is wholly other.

It seems that the unusual character of Purim’s mitzvot is bound up with the unique nature of its joy. Unlike all other Jewish festivals, Purim celebrates not redemption but survival — not a redemptive joy but an exilic one. This exilic quality, most strikingly hinted at by the absence of Hashem’s name from the Book of Esther, defines the character of Purim and conveys an exceptional message to a generation privileged to live in the Land of Israel under Jewish sovereignty — a message that emerges only after Purim.

 

The Megillah’s Restrained Ending

The final chapter of the Book of Esther leads us to a surprising anti-climax — a release of tension after a dramatic and turbulent narrative. Instead of concluding with a majestic depiction of Jewish triumph and the downfall of their enemies (Chapter 9 of the Megillah), the story ends with what appears to be a routine account of political stability and economic prosperity in the Persian Empire:

King Achashverosh imposed tribute upon the land and the islands of the sea. All his mighty and powerful acts, and the account of the greatness of Mordechai, whom the king had promoted, are recorded in the book of chronicles of the kings of Media and Persia. For Mordechai the Jew was second to King Ahasuerus, great among the Jews and accepted by most of his brethren, seeking the good of his people and speaking peace to all his descendants.

Had the decision been ours, we might well have omitted these verses. The Jewish people were saved from annihilation, Haman was defeated, and the miracle was established for all generations. Why, then, does the Megillah direct our attention to Persian taxation, imperial chronicles that laud the king’s greatness, and Mordechai’s role as a loyal statesman within a foreign political system?

After such a great miracle, the ending is not portrayed as perfect fulfillment. Something remains lacking.

Chazal, sensitive to the restrained tone of the ending, likewise tempered the celebration. On the phrase “accepted by most of his brethren,” they comment: “by most — but not by all,” teaching that some members of the Sanhedrin distanced themselves from him. Rashi explains that Mordechai’s political prominence came at the expense of his Torah study.

This interpretation departs from the plain meaning of the text. In Scripture, “most” typically indicates abundance rather than limitation. Certainly, when we say that Hashem is praised with rov hatishbachos, we do not mean “most and not all.” Yet the Sages deliberately introduced a note of complexity. After such a great miracle, the ending is not portrayed as perfect fulfillment. Something remains lacking.

This lack is not accidental. The Megillah’s restrained, almost sober conclusion prevents the reader from surrendering to a false sense of triumph.

 

Celebrating Survival

The unease created by the ending becomes sharper when compared with the Megillah’s opening. The story begins with the grandeur of Ahasuerus’s reign, with Mordechai sitting at the king’s gate — and it ends precisely there. The Jews enjoy relative stability at the outset, participating in imperial life. At the end, despite the danger that has passed, their condition remains strikingly similar.

Mordechai’s rise to power brings satisfaction, yet a tragic dimension lingers: Esther remains embedded within the Persian palace, effectively lost to the Jewish People, and the Jews continue to exist within an exilic framework that has not fundamentally changed. Comparing these two “snapshots” — the beginning and the end — raises an unavoidable question: What, then, are we celebrating? If the basic reality remains the same, what is the meaning of Purim’s great joy?

Even when hope appears lost, Hashem saves His people and allows their story to continue

Yet, precisely here lies the answer. Purim is not a festival of complete redemption but of survival. Throughout exile, the Jewish people live under constant threat, as we say in the Pesach Hagaddah: “In every generation they rise against us to destroy us.” Even when hope appears lost, Hashem saves His people and allows their story to continue.

This is the deeper insight expressed by Mordechai’s words to Esther: “Relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place.” That “other place,” unnamed and unseen, hints at a hidden divine presence — a providence that does not shatter history’s laws but operates quietly within them. Esther becomes the channel through which that providence flows, though others could have served as well.

For this reason, we do not recite Hallel on Purim, as the Sages explain: “We are still servants of Achashverosh” (Megillah 14). We were saved, but not liberated. Mordechai reached the height of political success, yet remained a Jewish statesman in exile — accepted by most of his brethren, but not by all.

In other words, Hallel is reserved for redemption. Purim, which celebrates Jewish endurance even under the burden of exile, is marked through different forms of rejoicing.

 

The Commandments of Purim

The primary way we commemorate the miracle is through the reading of the Megillah itself, whose message is singular: even in the darkness of exile, Hashem continues to watch over and save His people. According to one opinion in the Gemara, this is our Hallel — a version appropriate for the concealed presence of Hashem among us.

The Mishnah opens its discussion of Purim by listing the days on which the Megillah may be read, concluding with the words “no less and no more.” The wonderful Hasidic work Brit Kehunat Olam notes that the numerical sum of those days (the 11th through the 15th) equals sixty-five, corresponding to the Divine Name Adnut. The sum of the boundary days mentioned — “no less and no more,” the 10th and the 16th — yields twenty-six, the numerical value of the Shem Havayah.

This is the secret of the Book of Esther: a scroll of hiddenness — “I will surely hide My face.” In exile’s darkness, when divine light seems distant, we rely on the light of Esther — not the sun’s brilliance but the moonlight that illuminates the night (which the Sages find in the meaning of Esther’s name). While we cannot experience the fullness of Hashem’s closeness in exile, the Megillah reminds us that God’s sovereignty over history continues unabated.

The mitzvot of Purim also teach us how to live when we lack the ability to shape public life according to Torah values. In a properly ordered Jewish society — as reflected in the Book of Ruth — gifts to one another and care for the poor are naturally embedded within social structures. In exile, however, when the public sphere is controlled by others, social cohesion and support for the vulnerable depend upon communal institutions.

This is the reason why the Megillah establishes these commandments: to preserve kindness, charity, and justice within Jewish communal life even in a world not shaped by Jewish ideals.

 

Beyond Purim

For many generations, Jewish identity was shaped around an ethos of survival. The central task was preservation: transmitting tradition, safeguarding identity, and ensuring continuity. Mordechai the Jew became a model of Jewish leadership — deep internal loyalty combined with cautious integration into a foreign reality.

The Chatam Sofer expressed this clearly: even while we remained servants of Achashverosh, Divine providence never abandoned us. This is embedded into the special spirit of the day, its feasting and anomalous atmosphere. The intoxication of Purim expresses the ability to cast ourselves upon Hashem even within a reality beyond our control, when the authority of foreign nations prevails over us.

The same qualities of Purim teach us the profound distinction between Purim and our own times and the remarkable events they bring. Although darkness prevails — we are still bereft of prophecy and the explicit presence of the Shechinah, Hashem’s words and actions — the reality of Shushan is no longer our exclusive fate.

Life under foreign rule carried an ongoing spiritual cost: divided identity, constantly tested loyalties, and confrontation with powerful surrounding cultures. Under such conditions, Jewish life contracted into the boundaries of community, and survival became the center of Jewish existence.

Instead of survival, we are called to creation. Instead of withdrawal, we bear responsibility for shaping the public sphere — and even for offering the world a vision of Divine goodness and justice.

But for a generation privileged to return to Zion, the challenge changes fundamentally. Instead of survival, we are called to creation. Instead of withdrawal, we bear responsibility for shaping the public sphere — and even for offering the world a vision of Divine goodness and justice. Instead of eating at the tables of others, we have merited a table of our own, likened to the altar before Hashem. It is up to us to perfect it.

As the Gemara (Megillah 29) writes, the Shechinah never abandoned us; it sustained the survival of a single lamb among seventy wolves (Yoma 69). This is Esther’s core testimony. But today, we await a different kind of expression of that presence, as the Torah writes: “I will place My dwelling among you… I will walk among you, I will be God unto you, and you will be a people unto Me” (Vayikra 26).

We may not stop at the end of the Megillah, as though history has returned to its starting point. We must keep going.

 

Today’s Events: Toward the Missing Chapter

In this spirit, we may view the events unfolding before us today. The war against modern-day Iran is not waged from within the narrow confines of communal survival. It is not conducted under the patronage of King Achashverosh or any successor in his stead, nor is it the product of quiet advocacy or political maneuvering. This is our war against evil — a struggle upon which the eyes of the world rest with hope and astonishment. It bursts beyond the boundaries of the Megillah and carries us into realms our ancestors could scarcely have imagined.

Throughout the generations, Jewish communities have marked a “second Purim” — commemorating local deliverance from persecution or tangible danger. But our Purim — that of the Jewish people in its land — is fundamentally different. If the original Purim does not permit the recitation of Hallel, for “we are still servants of Achashverosh,” then with Hashem’s help, regarding the Purim events of 5786 (2026), we shall know how to sing the Great Hallel for His abundance and deliverance.

To a significant extent, Haredi society has continued to live according to the paradigm of the Book of Esther even after returning to its land. More than once, even while participating in the institutions of Israeli governance, its political leadership has operated with the self-understanding of Jews living under foreign rule. We still see ourselves as servants of Achashverosh.

The Megillah teaches us how to survive; our generation must learn how to build. It teaches us how to endure within darkness; our task today is to kindle light.

The days we are living through reveal just how untenable that stance has become. We all sense the beating wings of history. We are all participants in this history, each in our own way. We no longer have the option of declining to be part of it. Moreover, the very lessons of Esther and the exilic life it portrays call us to take a step forward. The Megillah teaches us how to survive; our generation must learn how to build. It teaches us how to endure within darkness; our task today is to kindle light.

In the journey that leads from Purim to Pesach, we are summoned to return not only to the memory of the Exodus, but to its inner movement: from servitude to freedom, from dependence to responsibility, from preservation to creation. To dwell in our land not as refugees of history, but as the authors of its coming chapters.

We give thanks to Hashem for the kindness He has bestowed upon us, we pray to merit seeing goodness, and we invite ourselves to take our share — “our portion in Your Torah” — in the journey that leads from Purim to Pesach, from exile to redemption.