I remember the first time I saw a boy in drag and found him beautiful. It was fall of my freshman year. My first boyfriend lived in the entry next to mine, and he dressed in my clothes for a dance party thrown in Currier Ballroom by the organization that was then called the BGLU. He fit easily into my purple suede miniskirt and blue silk shirt. I made up his face the way I had learned to make up my own. And when his transformation was complete, he was gorgeous.
That I found him equally attractive when he presented as a femme man, and when he presented as a butch woman, was revelatory for me. (Those phrases sound binaristic now, but that was the language we used then.) That was my first step toward recognizing that the qualities that draw me — intelligence, kindness, musicality, integrity — aren’t gender-specific. My boyfriend dressed in a costume that hid his everyday identity, and seeing him in that guise taught me something about myself.
Purim, which begins tomorrow night, is a holiday of masks and costumes. Everywhere around the Jewish world, people will wear costumes and veils, masks and disguises. Some of our costumes will be silly, or funny. Some will be random. Some will enable us to show sides of ourselves we don’t usually get to display. Regardless: the act of putting on a costume invites us to think about the masks we wear every day, and in turn about what it would feel like to set those masks aside.
We all wear masks in daily life. Maybe we hide our vulnerability. Maybe we hide our yearnings. Here in this environment most of us don’t feel the need to hide our intelligence — intellect is valued here — but we may feel the need to hide our hearts. We may hide a love interest we fear is unrequited, or compassion we don’t feel safe expressing aloud. We may hide our strength. We may hide emotions that we learned, in childhood, it wasn’t safe for us to manifest or express: fear, or anger, or joy.
The hero of the Purim story is Esther, whose name shares a root with נסתר / nistar, hidden. When Esther enters the palace of Achashverosh, on Mordechai’s advice she hides her Jewishness. It’s a lie of omission. She just… doesn’t mention that part of who she is. Until, of course, the time comes when the only way she can save her community is to come out as a Jew and hope that Achashverosh’s attachment to her will extend far enough to save her people too. Esther’s willingness to stop hiding saves the day.
There’s another figure in the megillah of Esther who’s hidden, and that’s God. God doesn’t appear in this book at all — at least not overtly. God’s name is never mentioned. But our mystics tell us that God isn’t absent; only נסתר, hidden. In our lives, too, divine presence may be hidden. But if we search for divinity, we can experience God everywhere: not just in the spaces that look holy, like Shabbat services, but also in spaces that might appear secular or profane, like costume parties or a drag ball.
God’s hiddenness, coming out, and drag balls: this d’varling may not be in everyone’s comfort zone. (Maybe it’s the drag that’s uncomfortable for you; maybe it’s the God-language.) I want to sit with that — not flinch from it, not hide it, but embrace it. Because to say that God can be נסתר (hidden) is to say that we find God where we least expect to… including in and through our own spiritual discomfort.
What are the things you habitually feel the need to hide? What would it feel like to have the safety to be your whole self — not hiding, not silenced, not compartmentalized, but bringing all of who you are to every moment of your life? What would it feel like to recognize that you are a reflection of the Holy One of Blessing, made in the image and the likeness of God, not despite the things you usually tend to hide but precisely and absolutely in all of who you are?
The Esther story reminds us that there’s a time for hiding, and a time for revealing. May we continually keep learning more deeply who we are and who we’re becoming: when we choose to conceal ourselves, and when we choose to try on different faces, and when we choose to reveal our splendor and our light. May we be safe — physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually — when we veil and when we unveil, this Purim and always.
Offered on March 10, 2017. Cross-posted to Velveteen Rabbi.