Tuning out Noise, into Signal: Purim, Presence, and Listening

It is not unusual for there to be background noise during the reading of Megilat Esther– the squeaking of chairs, sounds of small children, and of course, the raucous tradition of blotting out Haman’s name with noisemakers, boos, or, as my father did once, a loudspeaker blaring college fight songs.

But this year, just as the blessings were recited—before the rabbi could read the first word—the fire alarm began to blare.

It was jarring, even in a year when sirens and rocket alerts have become familiar. Confused glances darted around the room as a few people went to check for smoke. After several long minutes, nothing was found. Still, the alarm wouldn’t stop. A loud, looping message played again and again, prompting groans, awkward laughter, and shifting in seats.

The rabbi looked around, shrugged, and began to read.

Listening to the Megillah always demands focus—“One must read [or hear] the entire Megillah, from beginning to end. If even one word is missed, most authorities rule the obligation has not been fulfilled” (Shulḥan Arukh, Mishna Berura 690). That’s hard enough on a normal night. With the alarm grating on my ears, it felt almost impossible.

And yet, at first, hearing the words required effort, filtering the reading from the noise. But gradually, the alarm faded into the background, and the Megillah grew clearer and clearer.

After Chapter 1, we moved outside, reading in a huddled circle—an almost Anatevka-like picture. But what stayed with me most was that moment inside: straining to hear the Megillah through the noise of the alarm. It left me thinking about what it means to filter out the noise, and to tune into what really matters.

What does it mean to attend to something so fragile, so quiet, when the world seems to be screaming?

The story of the Megillah itself is an exercise in sifting through noise and attending to what is important. Though, from the text, it seems that the events happened in quick succession, the full story took nine years to unfold. Thus, though readers of the Megillah may see clear connections between cause and effect throughout the story, such explanations likely may have eluded most people alive at the time.

Famously, the Megillah is the only book in Tanakh that does not mention the name of God explicitly, accentuating the feeling of those in the Persian kingdom – that their lives were driven leaves, once the extensions of trees with deep roots, now at the mercy of the harsh winds of exile. However, the Sages see some instances of “Hamelekh”  throughout the Megillah as referring to the divine King, instead of King Ahashverosh, encouraging us to discern God’s hidden hand behind seemingly random events. To notice the signal through the static.

This challenge has been true for every generation in its time. Certainly, in the current moment – of war and civil strife in Israel, of angst for Jews worldwide.

It stands in stark contrast to the outright miracles of the Exodus we will recount and celebrate on Pesach. Yet, even then, Hashem emphasized the mysteriousness of His ways. In response to Moshe’s requests to see His glory and understand His ways, Hashem replied “You cannot see My face, for no one can see Me and live”; people may at best “see My back” (Ex. 33). Or as Rabbi Sacks put it, “Even when God intervenes in history, we can see this only in retrospect, looking back.”[1]

The experience of listening to the Megillah through a blaring fire alarm became, for me, a strange kind of meditation. A reminder that we are always surrounded by noise—internal and external—that threatens to drown out the still, small voice we most need to hear. At times, the vicissitudes of the day can, like a repetitive false fire alarm, distract the things that have staying power.

The Megillah is not only about divine action behind the scenes, but also about human agency. Esther is initially hesitant, but bolstered by Mordechai’s steadfastness. Undaunted by the ostensible obstacles, their courageous action moved the plot forward, amplifying the “signal” or redemption.

Perhaps this is the essence of emunah—not self-assured certainty, but steadfast attention to that which is essential. Not the absence of chaos, but to, within the chaos, sustain the thirst for meaning, discipline to stand for what we value, and pursue lives that are worthwhile.

Shabbat reminds us of this on a weekly basis. Each holiday with its unique character.

In the midst of all the noise, may we also tune our hearts to the quieter frequencies: the acts of hidden kindness, the whispered prayers, the communal resilience that carries us forward. May we learn to read our own unfolding stories with the same faithfulness we give to the Megillah—even when alarms are blaring.

This project was made possible through the support of a grant from Templeton World Charity Foundation, Inc funder DOI 501100011730) through grant https://doi.org/10.54224/30292. The opinions expressed in this publication are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views of Templeton World Charity Foundation, Inc.

[1] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/ki-tissa/the-closeness-of-god/