I don’t know about you, but over the past week my social media feeds have been overflowing with Purim costumes. Friends, grandchildren, neighbors — all smiling, posing, proudly showing off superheroes, queens, clowns, and every imaginable creative invention.

I must confess something: I’ve never really been a costume person.

Even when our children were young, dressing up just wasn’t their thing. Both were absolutely terrified of clowns. I’m almost certain they may have been the only children in the history of Disneyland who made a deliberate effort to avoid Mickey and the entire cast of costumed characters. So Purim in our house was meaningful and festive — but not especially theatrical.

Still, watching everyone else embrace the fun has made me curious. What is it about costumes that people love so much? And how did dressing up become such a central feature of Purim in the first place?

Here’s something that might be surprising to some: costumes are actually a relatively late addition to the Purim story. They don’t appear in the Book of Esther, the Mishnah, or the Talmud. The practice seems to have emerged in medieval Ashkenaz — Germany and northern France — and only gradually became widespread.

By the 15th century, Rabbi Judah Mintz was already discussing whether men and women could wear each other’s clothing on Purim — which tells us the custom was becoming common enough to raise halachic questions. Around the same time, the Terumat HaDeshen addressed similar concerns, noting that although cross-dressing is ordinarily prohibited, communities were lenient on Purim because the intent was purely celebratory.

In those medieval Ashkenazic communities, Purim spiels — playful dramatic reenactments of Megillat Esther — became popular, with participants dressing as the characters. Some historians suggest that the custom may even have been influenced by surrounding carnival traditions, though Jewish communities infused it with their own religious meaning. By the time of Rabbi Moses Isserles (the Rema), the custom was well established; he references it in the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 696) as an accepted festive practice.

So costumes are not ancient — but they became meaningful.

The most common explanation connects directly to the central theme of Purim: hiddenness. God’s name does not appear even once in Megillat Esther. The salvation unfolds through what seem like ordinary political events. Even Esther’s name is linked to hester — hiddenness. When we wear a costume, we reenact that idea. Just as the Divine presence was hidden behind natural events, we conceal our outward appearance behind a disguise.

Another explanation relates to v’nahafoch hu — the great reversal. Haman plans to destroy the Jews and ends up on the gallows. Mordechai moves from sackcloth to royal robes. Esther hides her identity and then reveals it at precisely the right moment. Purim is a story of dramatic transformation. A costume captures that spirit: what appears to be one thing turns out to be something else.

But I think there’s something even more universal going on.

Costumes give us permission — just for a little while — to step outside ourselves. Most of our lives are lived inside relatively fixed identities. We are parents, professionals, community members. We carry expectations. We present a certain version of ourselves to the world.

Putting on a costume loosens those boundaries. It makes visible what the psychologist Carl Jung called the “persona” — the social mask we wear every day. And once you can see the mask, you realize it’s not the whole story.

Children understand this instinctively. They put on capes and become superheroes. They wear crowns and become royalty. Adults don’t outgrow that impulse — we just tend to suppress it. Purim (and yes, Halloween too) gives adults permission to play again. It allows us to experiment with power, vulnerability, imagination, even a bit of silliness.

There’s something deeply human about that.

Costumes also reflect a profound truth about our identity. None of us is just one thing. We have public selves and private selves. We have strengths we show and fears we conceal. We contain contradictions. A costume dramatizes that layered reality. It reminds us that identity is both real and, in some sense, constructed. We are always “wearing” roles — Purim simply makes that visible.

And then there’s community.

Costumes are rarely solitary acts. They are part of a shared ritual. A parade. A party. A synagogue filled with laughter and color. When we dress up, we’re signaling that we belong. We’re participating in something larger than ourselves. Human beings are wired for collective symbolic experiences, and Purim provides one of the most joyful.

So while I may never become the guy who plans his costume months in advance, I’ve come to appreciate what all those photos represent.

Costumes give us temporary access to parts of ourselves that don’t always get airtime — not because our everyday self is false, but because it’s incomplete. There is more depth within us than we usually reveal.

Purim teaches that beneath what seems ordinary, something extraordinary may be unfolding. Beneath what seems hidden, there is purpose.

And sometimes, it takes a mask to remind us of that.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)