This is Why Purim is the Original Interfaith Holiday

  

By Dana Marlowe

This article was reprinted with permission from Kveller.com, a fast-growing, award-winning website for parents raising Jewish and interfaith kids. Follow Kveller on Facebook and sign up for their newsletters here.

Celebrating Purim_newWhen I explain Purim to those less familiar with the holiday, I tell them it’s kind of like Jewish Halloween. Not so much because of the history and story behind each (Purim has no ghosts), but related to the joyful spirit, costumes, food, and fun.

Full disclosure: My neighborhood doesn’t celebrate Halloween in the way other areas decorate with cobwebs, spiders, and screaming doormats. In my little suburban neighborhood nestled in Silver Spring, Maryland, the population is predominately Orthodox. I might be a bit of an outsider with my cultural Jewish upbringing and unaffiliated interfaith family, but luckily our ‘hood’ doesn’t check your synagogue membership at all. The arms of the community are always open, especially this month.

In our community, we celebrate Purim in our neighborhood with hundreds of kids running from house to house. Bedazzled with costumes of Batman and Mordechai, they load in and out of cars, dropping off and picking up mishloach manot. We have a large street in the neighborhood that closes off to have a “Purim on Fulham” festival, which is all driven by the folks who live on that long block.

The celebration doesn’t stop there. There are also countless carnivals and events held nearby. My kids love assembling the mishloach manot, handing them out to a neighborhood in a candied frenzy state. My husband, the engineer, marvels at the endless creative themes of the mishloach manot, ranging from international food themes to play on words baskets, along with LEGO groggers and gourmet hamentaschen. The excitement mounts in my house as my children stuff the paper bags and draw on the outside of the sacks—and it’s only matched by the myriad of moon bounces that pop up on street corners.

For us, it’s a fun day. The fact that we don’t do the more observant part of the holiday—like attend a megillah reading or fast beforehand—is inconsequential. People welcome us regardless, but like any neighborhood, it’s a two way street in respect. We are careful to make sure the mishloach manot include the diverse food items needed for differing blessings, and that everything has clear kosher labels. Purim is a joyful holiday. Our joy is increased by bringing Kosher wine to the meals we are invited to and by our friends translating the blessings into English for us.

In addition to Purim, while my husband and I often work on these holidays that are deemed of the utmost significance in Judaism, our Orthodox friends don’t judge us or make us feel wrong. There is such a deeply rooted understanding that we all celebrate our Judaism and other holidays in our own respective ways.

Purim by nature is an interfaith holiday: Esther saves the Jewish people by teaching tolerance to Ahashverosh to save her people and have them co-exist in Shushan together. I feel that same spirit of inclusion daily in our neighborhood.

In a conventional neighborhood, people are united simply by geography. Literally, of course, we share a zip code, garbage day pick-up schedule, a post office, and the same unfortunate power grid in winter storms. But a neighborhood can be so much more than a regional district. It’s a shared identity. In a close-knit community, people are united by common goals, collective activities, and group events that give the residents a sense of true belonging. Nowhere was this more apparent than in the countless instances witnessed over the past years and the holiday season. My neighbors have opened their homes, hearts, and kitchens to us during the holidays, and for Shabbat meals.

When someone has a sick family member, the neighborhood provides food. Neighborhood Facebook pages exist for toy and costume swaps as well as: “I just need one thing from Costco” which comes in handy more times than you can count. One such helpful example was when I needed to bring my older son to the emergency room when my husband was out of town for business. I posted a message and within minutes, friends showed up to babysit.

I recently heard a community described as a circle to which you feel you belong. If you’re away, that circle will miss your presence; it reaches out to you when you’re absent, and you long for it when you’re not there.

We are happy to celebrate another Purim here. Our minivan will brim with hamantaschen and smiles. As we drive up the streets sharing in the festivities, we celebrate in our own way, and our neighbors in another. And I know that just as we get pumped up to celebrate Purim, our friends and neighbors will be excited to see my interfaith family’s Easter egg hunt just a few weeks after we put away the groggers and masks. Because that’s how we, as a community, roll.

Purim: The Darker Side of a Festive Holiday

  

By Lela Casey

Happy Purim!

Lela’s daughter enjoying one of her first Purim celebrations

The first time I really celebrated Purim was when I was 9 years old on vacation in Israel with my family. I remember being in awe of the sea of kids pouring through the streets dressed in colorful costumes and shaking noise makers. It was a party like I’d never seen before and I was thrilled to join in.

My next Purim experience didn’t come until my junior year of college when I did a semester at Tel-Aviv University. The night of Purim, we all piled into an enormous bus which took us to Jerusalem where we drank rum punch and danced with students from all around the world until the sun came up. The spirit of that evening inspired me to be a different person than the thoughtful, fairly prudish girl that I had been until then. By the end of the night my angel costume had shifted into something more like a toga, I was more tipsy than I’d ever been before and I’d lost track of the number of boys I’d kissed. It was one of the happiest, most free-feeling nights of my life.

Kids celebrating PurimWhen my own children came along, I made a point of taking them to Purim festivities. As the Jewish partner in an interfaith marriage, I felt a responsibility to share with them that same freedom, that same lightness of the soul that I’d felt. And, while they did enjoy the celebrations, something about the holiday began to concern me.

Yes, there is a joy and lightness about Purim, but there is a darkness that few people ever mention. Purim is essentially a celebration of the blotting out of our enemies…and not just the infamous Haman. During Purim we drink to the destruction of the entire nation of Amalek, a genocide that is mandated to be read about in the Torah every year. It is, in essence, a celebration of a bloody act of retribution.

The first time that I learned of this part of the Purim story, I began to think back again to that night in Jerusalem. Yes, it was fun and free, but I also did things that I would never have done as my usual self. The spirit of the holiday, along with the alcohol and costumes, took me outside myself. Could the mandate to drink on Purim be, in essence, a way to shut out the “good” voices in your head? Could it be symbolic of how Biblical Jews had to silence those voices in order to commit genocide?

There are a lot of frightening things happening in the world today. People are being categorized by ethnicity and religion and immigrant status and painted as the enemy. There is a sweeping movement across America to blame others for our misfortune—a movement eerily familiar to other dark times in history. Extolling peace and acceptance is paramount on my mind right now.

As Purim gets closer, I find myself struggling with how to justify glorifying genocide with the desire to have my kids enjoy the joyousness of the holiday. Should I simply ignore that part of the story with them and focus on the merriment and hamentaschen (Purim cookies)? Or is it better to discuss the darkness of the day with them and let them come to their own conclusions? Perhaps should we just forgo Purim entirely?

One of my favorite things about Judaism is that it encourages questions and discussions. So, I ask you: Is it possible to celebrate the lightness of Purim while also addressing the dark side?