Silence is the world’s natural resting state, yet to us, it can feel deeply unsettling.

The very concept of “awkward silence” is built on the suspicion that something is wrong when there is no sound. We grow uncomfortable in the absence of noise. We reach for conversation, music, distraction, anything to fill the void.

According to an article in Psychology Today by Dr. Francine Todder, not only are people wary of silence, but they will also go to great lengths to avoid it. She states that “Psychological research confirms that silence is so unpleasant for some people that they would rather self-administer electric shocks, while deprived of other stimulation and sound, as an alternative to staying with their own thoughts.” We so greatly desire noise and activity that we will bring ourselves pain just to escape silence. 

Few places seem to advocate for noise and activity more than Purim. It is a holiday commonly associated with sound, drowning out Haman’s name, boisterous singing, and lively dancing. Many of the defining mitzvot of the day are active and filled with noise, giving gifts to the poor, delivering mishloach manot, and gathering for a festive meal.

However, one of the primary obligations of the day simply involves hearing and listening.

There is a striking tension when it comes to the recitation of the Megillah. We are clearly instructed to hear every word. The Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 690) rules that if even one word is missed, the obligation has not been fulfilled. Such a requirement would seem to demand solemn attentiveness and silence. Yet, the reading of the megillah can easily be characterized as one of a celebratory nature, often marked with activity and noise.

The same contrast appears in another core mitzvah of the day: matanot la’evyonim (gifts to the poor). The highest form of giving is often described as quiet and even anonymous. On a holiday defined by outward celebration, some of its deepest moments are meant to be carried out softly.

The Megillah itself portrays this dichotomy through Esther. When she is first brought before Achashverosh, the text states, “Esther did not reveal her people or her kindred, for Mordechai had told her not to reveal it” (Esther 2:10). She maintains an intentional, protective silence.

But later, when her people face annihilation, Mordechai challenges her with words that have echoed through history. “If you keep silent in this crisis, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another quarter, while you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows, perhaps you have attained a royal position for just such a crisis” (4:13). Esther must avoid sinking into silence and being a bystander to what is happening to her people. Whereas she previously needed to hide herself and her voice, now silence is a tool of harm.

This delicate balance between noise and silence is also reflected in the holiday most closely associated with Purim: Yom Kippur. In the prayer Unetaneh Tokef, recited on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we proclaim: “A great shofar is sounded, and a thin, silent voice shall be heard.” The awakening blast of the shofar is inseparable from the stillness that follows it. The noise and silence must work in tandem.

Despite the prominence of noise, there is clearly an inherent value in silence.

A passage in Pirkei Avot strongly advocates the importance of silence. The teaching states, “Shimon, his son, used to say: all my days I grew up among the sages, and I have found nothing better for a person than silence. Study is not the most important thing, but actions; whoever indulges in too many words brings about sin”(1:17).  We take for granted the virtue of silence and assume it to be a negative when it is, in reality, beneficial for our lives. 

Kohelet eloquently articulates the balance we should set out to maintain, sharing that there is “A time for silence and a time for speaking” (Ecclesiastes 3). 

Both times and moments exist; the challenge is thoughtfully engaging with when each is appropriate. There is profound value in reflecting on when to embrace silence and when to generate sound. These days, we are presented with so many opportunities to go in either direction. To be active or passive, vocal or silent. 

Purim teaches us that both are holy. There are moments to drown out evil with righteous noise. There are moments to sit attentively and hear every word. There are times to give loudly and celebrate openly, and times to act quietly and speak courageously. There are times when there is so much noise, and all we need is silence, and moments when making noise or using our voices is the best way forward.

Personally, I often struggle with this balance. I tend to either gravitate toward loud expression or complete withdrawal. I seek the noise and use my voice, sometimes failing to see when I and others would benefit from silence or taking a step back. 

We should strive to find the joyful middle, the space between deafening noise and suffocating silence. 

Purim does not ask us to be loud all the time. Nor does it glorify silence in every instance. It asks us to know the difference.

And to have the wisdom and courage to respond accordingly.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)