Cracks in the story: Purim and the hidden power of remembering

Purim is a holiday of paradox, where what seems most obvious is not the whole story — nor quite what it seems. It is a tale of extremes: power and vulnerability, celebration and destruction, honor and humiliation. And yet, beneath its loudest themes lies something more subtle, something hidden. While it is easy to focus on the clear resonances between the Purim story and our present day, the less obvious teachings hidden within the story are what may be the key to our survival.

The theme of remembering (zachor) is both a revealed and a hidden theme of Purim. Preceded by Shabbat Zachor, we focus on the theme of remembering explicitly. Through the special Torah reading for this day, we prepare for Purim by remembering Amalek, the archetypal nemesis of the Jewish people and the way we were ambushed and attacked during our journey through the wilderness. Yet the word zachor also appears in two somewhat unremarkable and less dramatic moments in the Purim story itself, moments which could be easily overlooked. These instances of zachor present us with a different kind of remembering, one that has the power to initiate an internal transformation and alter the course of history.

Vashti disobeys the king, refusing to appear before him and his courtiers wearing the royal crown. The king and his court are caught off guard, ambushed by Vashti’s rejection. Astonished and humiliated, in a fit of rage the king exiles Vashti. Yet, some days later, “after his anger had subsided,” the king zachar et Vashti — he remembers Vashti, what she had done and the decree against her (Esther 2:1). Rashi tells us that the king “was remorseful, having realized that Vashti’s refusal to appear before him was justified and the decree against her was wrong.” Here, in true Purim fashion, the meaning of zachor is flipped on its head. Unlike the way in which we “remember Amalek,” here, zachor is not primarily about the king remembering the harm he experienced; rather, it is about remembering the harm he himself has done. Zachor is a crack in the façade of domination as a viable defense against pain and danger; it brings life back to life, creating an opening for real relationship. 

Yet, as is often the case for any of us when we receive an unconscious inkling, rather than look inward, the king uses external means to manage his discomfort rather than learning from it, in this case launching a beauty contest to find his replacement queen. This zachor moment appears and then fades.

Later in the story, another crack appears. One night the king finds himself unable to sleep, but is unclear as to why. The text reads “nad’da sheinat ha Melech” the king’s sleep was disturbed (Esther 6:1). Nad’da, the word used to describe the king’s disturbed sleep holds two distinct meanings: one is to retreat or flee, the other is to wander or flutter. The king’s experience in this moment recalls the Divine Presence at the start of Genesis, where God flutters over the chaotic waters as an act of creation. To hover over what is murky rather than erasing it is an act of deep engagement, one that the king’s disturbed sleep offers him at this moment. These dual definitions of nad’da seem to hint that at this moment, the king has a choice: to again flee from that nagging feeling at the edge of his awareness, or stay with the discomfort and disclarity so that what’s there can be made conscious. This time he chooses the latter. 

Embracing the act of zachor, he calls for Sefer ha Zichronot (the Book of Remembrances) to be read to him. The king is reminded of Mordecai’s unacknowledged act of saving his life from courtiers who were plotting an ambush. Unlike “remember Amalek,” in which we must defend ourselves against vulnerability through rehearsing the memory of being attacked, here the act of remembering offers a reparative counter-memory in which Mordecai’s courage and care prevent an ambush and preserve the king’s life. This moment of remembrance turns upside down the trajectory of the Purim story, ultimately unraveling Haman’s plot and leading to the salvation of the Jewish people.

This kind of zachor is the first step out of a culture of dominance and control towards one of relationality, tenderness and mutuality. Like the king, each of us experiences zachor moments — subconscious stirrings in which we feel something nagging at the edge of our consciousness: that lingering unease at bedtime, or a hazy, heavy feeling when we recall a former friend. These moments are subtle and easy to dismiss, especially because investigating them more fully requires us to examine our own actions. Yet, if we can allow ourselves to dwell in these moments and get curious as to what might be there underneath the surface, we, like the king, have the opportunity to change the course of our lives. 

Perhaps the most important work we do for and with one another is to help elongate these zachor moments—to resist the urge to rush forward, numb, or distract ourselves, and instead to support each other in staying present with what is emerging. Instead of reinforcing a friend’s usual narrative, we might ask gentle, expansive questions like, “What do you think this moment is asking of you?” or “If you weren’t trying to fix or solve this, what might you notice?” We can also make space for silence and pauses that allow deeper truths to surface or invite creativity—through drawing, writing, or movement—as a way to quiet the analytical mind and let the subconscious speak, revealing insights that words alone may not reach.

The great poet Rainer Maria Rilke writes that it is “inside the human being that God learns.” Our lives are a way for the Divine to expand, for consciousness to evolve. If so, then these moments of recognition—after anger subsides, in the sleepless hours of the night—are not just personal but cosmic. They are the very places where repair, reconciliation and cultural renewal begin.

Perhaps this is the deeper level of joy that Purim offers. Beneath the rage, revenge, revelry and domination fantasies, there is a joy in the freedom this kind of remembering offers—the willingness to pause, to feel, to realign, to follow the thread of what tugs on our subconscious. Like Ahasuerus, we are given moments where we sense that something is unfinished, something needs tending. May we make space to follow those threads. In doing so, we just might change everything.