Tonight, Jewish communities around the world will begin their celebration of Purim. And before the revelry and the debauchery, the first requirement of the holiday is to hear the megillah—the entire megillah. In traditional communities, the drinking and dancing cannot begin until the community has heard every word of the story—one of only two in our tradition named for and centered on a woman. Fitting, perhaps, for this second day of Women’s History Month.
But actually, the Megillah gives us two very different women at the center of the story. Vashti is written out in the very first chapter, but the story cannot begin without her. Vashti refuses to “dance” for the king— abruptly, publicly, without apology. The text offers no flowery speech, only the stark words: “Queen Vashti refused.” Later, Esther wonders, fasts, strategizes, and then risks her life by approaching the king unbidden. Vashti’s protest is about dignity. Esther’s is about survival. One says no to being displayed. The other says no to her people’s destruction. Both acts are costly. Both unsettle power. And our story cannot unfold without either of them. Purim is often told as the story of hidden miracles. But it is also a story of women whose refusal — whether loud or strategic — changes the course of history. It is a story of women who exist in public. And like it or not, that is rarely a neutral place to be.
Clearly, this is not new. But it is still present.
In recent weeks, conversations around the American women’s Olympic hockey team have stirred strong feelings — about fairness, about recognition, about respect. Beneath the headlines and arguments, there is also a quieter question: how do we respond when women demand to be taken seriously in spaces long shaped by male power?
On Friday, Rabbi Yoshi wrote about the newest evolution of the Kotel controversy, and this too is a thread in the same conversation, an echo of that same debate. The Kotel is not only a physical place; it is a symbol of who belongs in sacred space and how that belonging is expressed. When women raise their voices there — in song, in Torah reading, in prayer — the conversation often becomes charged. Not because prayer is new, but because visibility is.
It is uncomfortable to name this, but part of what animates many of these debates is the persistence of misogyny — sometimes overt, sometimes subtle. Misogyny does not always look like hatred. Sometimes it looks like dismissal. Sometimes it looks like jokes and laughter. And sometimes it looks like violence — like eggs thrown at women raising their voices in prayer.
The palace in Shushan, the rink in an Olympic arena, and the plaza of the Kotel are separated by centuries and circumstance, but they are not entirely different stages. In each, the tension rises when a (Jewish) woman steps forward — or refuses to.
Perhaps one of the gifts of Purim is that it preserves both women in our sacred memory. It does not flatten courage into one shape. It does not tell us there is only one faithful way to stand up, to speak, to protect what is holy. Vashti protects her dignity. Esther protects her people. One acts in open defiance; the other works within the system’s fragile openings. Both acts carry risk. Both require strength.
In a world that can still respond uneasily to women’s visibility — whether in sports, in prayer, or in positions of leadership — Purim invites us to hold these stories with compassion. To notice where dignity is at stake. To ask gently how we make space for one another’s voices.
May this season help us listen more deeply, honor courage in its many forms, and widen our circle of belonging — so that no one feels they must disappear in order for the community to feel whole.
– Rabbi Sari Laufer