The Megillah is, among its many faces, a story about the complexities of identity. A number of its characters are imposters of sorts, struggling to be something that they are not. However, according to Rabbi Yonason Eibshitz, while this may be true of Achashverosh, Haman and even Esther, Mordechai alone does not live a double life.
Mordechai is first introduced to us defined by his Jewish identity. איש יהודי היה בשושן “There was a Jewish man in Shushan.” And yet this simple introduction is in tension with other aspects of his story. His name, derived from the Mesopotamian god Marduk, hardly announces who he is. And it is Mordechai himself who instructs Esther not to reveal who she is. All of this paints a picture of someone navigating his identity carefully, quietly, strategically.
It is against this backdrop that Eibshitz’s reading becomes so striking. He takes that opening verse — “There was a Jewish man in Shushan” — as a statement of public knowledge. “Mordechai was not merely a Jew in his house, or in the beis medrash. He was a Jew in Shushan, the city.” Not cautious or secretive, but a well-known and respected Jew of the Persian court, a proud Judean aristocrat serving the king openly and without apology.
He draws a parallel to Mordechai’s unapologetic existence – and the backlash he experiences – through an unlikely source: Song of Songs. Eibshitz says “this is what is meant by the verse:
מִ֤י יִתֶּנְךָ֙ כְּאָ֣ח לִ֔י יוֹנֵ֖ק שְׁדֵ֣י אִמִּ֑י אֶֽמְצָאֲךָ֤ בַחוּץ֙ אֶשָּׁ֣קְךָ֔ גַּ֖ם לֹא־יָבֻ֥זוּ לִֽי׃
If only you could be like a brother to me…
Then I could kiss you
When I met you in the street,
And no one would despise me.’
Here, the young maiden of the Song wishes that her beloved were like a brother so that she could publicly kiss him without being criticized. Like her, Mordechai endures ridicule just for displaying who he is publicly, rather than hiding behind closed doors.
How powerful it is that Jewish pride in the diaspora is portrayed as a fearless public kiss. The maiden of Shir Hashirim does not wish that her lover was actually her brother, but “as if” her brother כְּאָ֣ח לִ֔י so that no one would deride her. She, like many of us, dreams of being able to share a moment of tenderness in public without fear. She expresses what so many of us know deeply. When minorities – like Jews in Persia, or LGTBQ+ people, and increasingly Jews in the diaspora – behave with unabashed self-affirmation the consequences can be dire.
We must remember that, while the story ends well, Esther risked her life to come out publicly and Mordechai’s self confidence became bait for the anti-semites. At the end of the story, bloody battles were fought to protect the Jewish community. In this moment, we too have become keenly aware that the celebration of our identities in public are increasingly fraught. But it is in spite of these real threats that Purim is a perfect time to rededicate ourselves being proudly Jewish and queer. Both identities are worth celebrating openly and in community, as the Jews of Persia gather at the end of the Megillah to support and celebrate as one.
The Megillah sets the stage for acknowledging that many of us, in order to be accepted, have lived in hiding – concealing parts of ourselves to survive, to belong, to get by. But it also gives us two models for finding our way back to wholeness. Esther’s path is one of flexibility and courage – the willingness, when the moment demands it, to change course, to step forward and declare who you are regardless of the cost. Mordechai’s path is one of daily, unashamed presence — declaring his full self, everywhere he goes, despite the challenges it brings. This Purim, may we find in ourselves something of both: the bravery to speak when it matters, and the deep-rooted sense of self that makes that bravery possible. Let us find the wisdom and courage of Esther and the passionate self-affirmation of Mordechai to live our lives fully, in the public square, just as we are.
Rabbi Steve Greenberg