A Time of Celebration and Remembrance
Each spring, Jewish communities worldwide celebrate Purim—a festival of joy, feasting, and remembrance rooted in the biblical Book of Esther. For Latter-day Saints studying the Old Testament, Purim offers rich opportunities to reflect on themes central to our faith: divine providence working through ordinary people, covenant faithfulness under pressure, and deliverance that arrives through unlikely means.
Purim commemorates events recorded in the Book of Esther: the survival and deliverance of the Jewish people from a genocidal plot during the Persian exile. The story unfolds in the court of King Ahasuerus (often identified with Xerxes I), where a young Jewish woman named Esther and her cousin Mordechai find themselves at the center of a divine drama they could never have anticipated.
Celebrating Purim: A Personal Experience
When I first began learning about Hebrew culture and traditions, I wanted to experience them firsthand—to learn from the people who had cherished and preserved these observances across millennia. So I started attending synagogue, and the first feast day I experienced was Purim.
Coming from an LDS background, I expected something solemn and reverent. I took my husband with me, who knew even less than I did about Jewish traditions. We had no idea what we were in for.
When we arrived, everyone was in costume. A klezmer band played at the front—and the male clarinet player wore a miniskirt and fishnets, with very thick dark leg hair poking out through all the holes. Booths were set up at the entrance with bags of trinkets and treats: noisemakers, groggers (the traditional Purim rattles), and even things to throw during certain moments of the Megillah reading.
The reading of the Book of Esther itself was unlike any Scripture reading I had ever witnessed. It felt more like a vaudeville road show than a religious service. Every time Haman’s name was mentioned, the entire congregation erupted—booing, hissing, stomping feet, spinning groggers to drown out his name. Children threw popcorn. Adults shouted. The goal, I learned, is to “blot out” the name of the enemy, as commanded in Deuteronomy 25:19: “Thou shalt blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven.”
But when Mordechai’s or Esther’s names were spoken, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Cheers, applause, celebration. The congregation honored these heroes with the same enthusiasm they had used to condemn the villain.
It was rowdy. It was joyful. It was nothing like what I had expected—and it was beautiful.
What moved me most, despite the noise and the costumes and the flying popcorn, was the profound respect the community showed for one of the Bible’s greatest heroines. Purim is not solemn, but it is sacred. The celebration itself is an act of remembrance—a defiant declaration that the Jewish people survived, that Haman’s plot failed, that God’s purposes endure.
For Latter-day Saints accustomed to more formal worship, Purim can feel almost jarring. But it teaches something important about the breadth of worship: that joy is sacred, that laughter can be liturgical, that celebration itself can be an offering to God. It reminds us that sometimes the most reverent response to offer it to be happy and express gratitude.
The Lot That Fell
The festival takes its name from pur, a Persian or Akkadian loanword meaning “lot.” The text makes this explicit: “They called these days Purim after the name of Pur” (Esther 9:26). Haman, the king’s highest official and architect of the plot against the Jews, cast lots to determine the most auspicious day for destruction. Lot-casting was a common practice in the ancient Near East—a method of divination used to make decisions or determine timing. What Haman intended as a tool of fate became, in the story’s ironic reversal, the mechanism by which God’s people were delivered.
According to Esther 3:7, the lot was cast in the first month (Nisan) during the twelfth year of Ahasuerus, and it fell on the twelfth month (Adar). This eleven-month interval gave Esther and Mordechai time to act—time that would prove decisive. The lots that Haman cast to seal Israel’s doom instead marked the day of their triumph.
Two Names, Two Worlds
Esther carried two names. Her Hebrew name was Hadassah, meaning “myrtle”—a tree associated in biblical tradition with beauty and, in Isaiah, with restoration: “Instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree: and it shall be to the LORD for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off” (Isaiah 55:13). Her Persian name, Esther, appears to reflect her life in the diaspora, moving between worlds, concealing her identity when necessary.
The origin of the name “Esther” itself is debated among scholars. Proposals include derivation from Persian stara (star) or connection to a Hebrew root suggesting hiddenness. Some scholars note phonetic similarity to the Mesopotamian goddess Ishtar, though direct derivation remains uncertain. Similarly, the name Mordechai may be a theophoric name reflecting his Babylonian context, with some noting similarity to Marduk, the chief Babylonian deity—though this too is a scholarly proposal rather than established fact.
Whatever their etymological origins, the names carry resonance within the narrative. Esther hides her Jewish identity until the critical moment of disclosure. Mordechai, whose faithfulness to his God will not permit him to bow before Haman, stands as an emblem of covenant loyalty in a foreign land.
The Courage to Approach
The dramatic center of Esther lies in her decision to approach the king uninvited—an act punishable by death unless the king extends his scepter. Mordechai’s famous words frame the moment: “Who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14).
Esther’s response reveals both her faith and her willingness to sacrifice: “Go, gather together all the Jews that are present in Shushan, and fast ye for me… I also and my maidens will fast likewise; and so will I go in unto the king, which is not according to the law: and if I perish, I perish” (Esther 4:16).
This act of intercessory courage—approaching power on behalf of the vulnerable, accepting personal risk for the sake of others—stands at the heart of Esther’s meaning. She becomes an advocate, a voice for those facing destruction, using her unlikely position to speak life into a death sentence.
Where God’s Name Is Absent
One of Esther’s most striking features is the absence of God’s name. Unlike other biblical narratives that explicitly invoke divine action, Esther never mentions God directly. Yet the story is saturated with providential coincidences: Esther’s rise to queenship at precisely the right moment, Mordechai’s discovery of the assassination plot, the king’s sleepless night that leads him to honor Mordechai just as Haman arrives to request his execution.
This literary silence invites reflection on how God works through human agency, through timing that seems coincidental but proves decisive, through courage that rises to meet the moment. For Latter-day Saints, who believe in a God actively engaged in human affairs, Esther’s hidden providence resonates with our own experiences of guidance that becomes visible only in retrospect.
Purim and the Jewish Calendar
Purim is celebrated on the 14th and 15th of Adar, the twelfth month of the Jewish calendar—typically falling in late February or March. This places it approximately one month before Passover, which occurs in Nisan, the first month.
While the two festivals are distinct in origin, character, and observance, their calendrical proximity creates a seasonal rhythm in Jewish life. Each year, Purim arrives approximately one month before Passover, creating a springtime arc of remembrance and deliverance.
Within the Esther narrative itself, the story spans nearly a full year: the lot was cast in the first month (Nisan) to determine the day of destruction, and it fell on the twelfth month (Adar)—giving the Jewish community eleven months to act, and establishing the month when their mourning would turn to celebration.
A Rabbinic Reflection
Jewish interpretive tradition has developed rich readings of Purim that extend beyond the historical narrative. One such tradition notes a phonetic echo between “Purim” and “Yom haKippurim” (the Day of Atonement). This is not an etymological claim—the words have different origins—but rather a homiletical observation that invites meditation on how joy and solemnity, celebration and repentance, interweave in the spiritual life.
This kind of wordplay is characteristic of rabbinic interpretation, finding meaning through sound, association, and layered reading. For readers from other traditions, such interpretive moves offer insight into how Jewish communities have engaged Scripture across centuries—not replacing the plain meaning but enriching it through creative engagement.
“My God, My God, Why Have You Forsaken Me?”
One of the most powerful connections in Jewish tradition links Esther to Psalm 22—a psalm that would later echo from another place of ultimate sacrifice.
The Talmud (Megillah 15b) records a remarkable moment: As Esther passed through the palace chambers to approach King Ahasuerus uninvited—risking execution to plead for her people—she entered a hall filled with idols. Rabbi Levi teaches that in that moment, the Divine Presence departed from her. Feeling utterly alone and forsaken, Esther cried out the words of Psalm 22:2:
“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”
The psalm continues with imagery Esther applied to her situation. She called her enemy Haman a “dog” (Psalm 22:21: “Deliver my soul from the sword; my only one from the hand of the dog”), then reconsidered and called him a “lion” (Psalm 22:22: “Save me from the lion’s mouth”).
In Jewish liturgical tradition, Psalm 22 has maintained this association with Purim. Sephardic and Oriental Jewish communities include it in their Purim evening service, and those who follow the practices of the Vilna Gaon recite it as the special psalm for Purim. Many communities also read it on the Fast of Esther, the day before Purim, as they prepare to hear the Megillah.
This tradition reveals something profound about Esther’s inner experience. At the moment of her greatest courage—stepping forward to intercede for her people, knowing she might die—she felt the crushing weight of isolation. The divine presence that had sustained her seemed to withdraw. Yet she went forward anyway.
The psalm she quoted captures not just despair but also faith persisting through abandonment. Psalm 22 begins with lament but ends with praise, moving from “My God, why have You forsaken me?” to “I will declare thy name unto my brethren; in the midst of the congregation will I praise thee” (Psalm 22:22).
When Haman Fell: The Passover Connection
The Book of Esther does not explicitly state when Haman was executed, but rabbinic tradition provides remarkable detail about the timing. According to the Talmud (Megillah 15a), when Esther called for the three-day fast, it fell during Passover itself—specifically, the 14th, 15th, and 16th of Nisan.
This created a profound dilemma. Jewish law forbids fasting on Passover, a festival of joy and redemption. But Esther reasoned, as the Talmud records, that it would be better to fast on one Passover than risk never celebrating the festival again. The entire Jewish people faced annihilation. Extreme circumstances called for extreme measures.
On the third day—the 16th of Nisan, still within the Passover season—Esther approached the king. The banquets followed shortly after. And according to this chronology, Haman was executed during or immediately following Passover.
This timing carries profound significance. Passover commemorates the original deliverance from Egypt, when the destroyer passed over the houses marked with lamb’s blood. Now, during Passover, another destroyer—Haman, the enemy of the Jews—meets his own destruction. The one who plotted genocide is himself executed during the festival of freedom.
The biblical text is explicit, however, that Haman’s ten sons were killed and their bodies hanged eleven months later, on the 13th and 14th of Adar (Esther 9:1-19). Two separate events. Two different months. But both linked to the themes of judgment, deliverance, and the reversal of enemy plots.
A Christian Devotional Lens
For Christians, including Latter-day Saints, the themes of Esther invite typological reflection—while recognizing this as a secondary devotional lens rather than the text’s original Jewish meaning. Esther’s intercession on behalf of her people, her willingness to risk her life, and her role in bringing deliverance resonate with Christian understandings of advocacy and mediation.
The Jewish traditions connecting Esther to both Psalm 22 and Passover create especially powerful typological bridges. Centuries after Esther spoke those words in the palace of Ahasuerus, another intercessor would quote the same psalm from another place of sacrifice. And the timing would echo as well.
From Palace to Cross: The Psalm of Forsakenness
When Jesus hung on the cross, bearing the weight of sin and separation, He cried out: “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?"—“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34). The words of Psalm 22 that Esther had prayed as she approached the throne now rang from the cross.
Why would Jesus speak these words at that moment? Some hear them as a cry of desolation—and certainly they express the reality of separation He experienced as He bore our sins. But there may be more here than complaint or despair.
Consider Mary, standing near the cross, watching her son die. As a Jewish mother, she likely taught Jesus the psalms from childhood. She would have known the story of Esther, the tradition connecting her to Psalm 22. Perhaps Mary even sang this psalm to young Jesus, teaching him about the courage of Esther, about faith that persists through darkness, about deliverance that follows abandonment.
For Psalm 22 does not end in despair. It begins with lament—“My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?"—but it concludes with praise and vindication: “All the ends of the world shall remember and turn unto the LORD… A seed shall serve him… They shall come and shall declare his righteousness unto a people that shall be born, what he hath done” (Psalm 22:27, 30-31).
By quoting the opening line, Jesus invokes the entire psalm. He reminds His mother and His disciples—and us—that apparent forsakenness leads to deliverance, that Friday’s darkness breaks into Sunday’s light, that the story doesn’t end at “why have You forsaken me?” but continues to “they shall declare his righteousness.”
This interpretation doesn’t diminish the reality of His suffering or the genuine separation He experienced. But it enriches our understanding of His character and His care. Even in agony, He thinks of those watching. Even in darkness, He points toward light. Even while experiencing forsakenness, He testifies that forsakenness is not the end.
Justice and Mercy: Two Deaths at Passover
And when did this happen? During Passover. The same festival when, according to rabbinic tradition, Haman had been executed centuries before.
Both Esther and Jesus quoted Psalm 22:2 at moments of ultimate sacrifice. Both experienced the crushing reality of feeling forsaken while performing an act of deliverance. Both faced death (Esther potentially, Jesus actually) to save their people. Both moved forward despite the withdrawal of felt divine presence—choosing obedience over comfort, others’ salvation over their own safety.
Yet here the parallel reveals a profound contrast. Both stories intersect with Passover, but for opposite reasons.
Haman was executed for his crimes—a guilty man receiving justice for his plot to commit genocide. He faced the consequences he had designed for others. Justice demanded his death, and justice was satisfied through his punishment. He died for what he had done.
But Jesus died for what we had done. The Lamb of God, innocent and sinless, willingly took upon Himself the sins of the world. He satisfied the demands of justice not for His own crimes—He had none—but for ours. Every violation of divine law, every rebellion against God’s goodness, every sin that separates humanity from holiness—He bore them all. Justice still demanded payment, but mercy provided the Payer.
Haman’s execution at Passover represented judgment upon the guilty. Jesus’ crucifixion at Passover represented the innocent bearing the burden in our place, that we might be acquitted through Him. One death closed an account of evil. The other death opened the way to redemption for all who would accept it.
Reading Typology with Humility
These typological connections are not imposed Christian readings but rather emerge from Jewish tradition itself. The Talmudic rabbis who taught about Esther’s use of Psalm 22 and the Passover timing of Haman’s execution could not have anticipated how Christians would later see these patterns fulfilled in Jesus. Yet the resonance remains profound.
Some Christians see in Esther’s story echoes of Christ’s mediating work—the righteous one who approaches the throne on behalf of those under condemnation. This reading should be offered humbly, acknowledging that Esther is first and fully a Jewish text, treasured within Jewish tradition for its own meaning. Christian typological readings are a gift we receive from the text, not a meaning we impose upon it.
President Russell M. Nelson has taught that “the Lord has more in mind for you than you have in mind for yourself.” Esther’s story illustrates this principle: a young woman in exile, hidden among the nations, becomes the instrument of deliverance for her people. Her life demonstrates that God positions his covenant people—sometimes unknowingly—for moments of critical service.
A Modern Echo: Purim Fest 1946
History sometimes creates moments that feel like echoes across time. One such moment occurred on October 16, 1946, when ten Nazi war criminals were executed at Nuremberg for crimes against humanity—including the attempted genocide of the Jewish people.
Among those executed was Julius Streicher, the virulent antisemitic editor whose publications had fueled hatred against Jews throughout the Nazi era. According to multiple witnesses, as Streicher mounted the gallows, he shouted: “Purim Fest 1946!”
The parallel was striking. Ten sons of Haman. Ten Nazi criminals. Both groups responsible for plots to annihilate the Jewish people. Both executed for their crimes.
Some Jewish teachers have noted this connection, observing how the themes of Purim—the defeat of those who sought Jewish destruction, the reversal of enemy plots, the vindication of the innocent—found a modern expression in the Nuremberg trials. A teaching even developed around three small letters in the list of Haman’s sons’ names (Esther 9:7-9) that appear in miniature in traditional Hebrew texts. These letters have the numerical value of 707, corresponding to the Hebrew year 5707 (1946-47).
It’s important to understand this connection in proper context. The small letters themselves originated in medieval printed texts, not ancient manuscripts—they’re a feature of printing tradition, not prophetic code. And the parallels between ancient Persia and 20th-century Germany, while symbolically powerful, represent thematic resonance rather than direct prediction.
Yet the resonance itself carries meaning. Purim celebrates a truth that Jewish history has had to learn repeatedly: those who plot to destroy God’s covenant people will themselves be destroyed. The enemy’s schemes are reversed. Justice, though delayed, arrives. The story that began in Persia has echoed through centuries—including, horrifyingly, in the Holocaust, and then in the judgment at Nuremberg.
For Christians, these patterns point beyond human justice to divine purposes. The God who delivered Israel from Haman’s plot, who brought down Nazi Germany, who works through history to preserve His people—this same God enacted the ultimate reversal at the cross. The death meant to end hope became the source of hope. The tomb meant to seal defeat became the doorway to triumph. The enemy who thought he had won discovered he had lost everything.
Purim reminds us that God’s purposes endure. Empires rise and fall. Enemies threaten and plot. But the people of God continue. From Persia to Nuremberg to the present day, the pattern holds: we are here because God keeps His covenant.
For Such a Time as This
Purim reminds us that deliverance often comes through unexpected channels. The faithful remnant preserved in Esther’s day would eventually return to their homeland, rebuild their temple, and prepare the way for all that followed. Each link in the chain mattered.
As Latter-day Saints study the Old Testament this year, Purim invites us to consider our own positioning. Where has God placed us? What moments of decision await us? And when the time comes, will we have the courage to act—even when the outcome is uncertain?
Esther’s story does not promise easy resolution. It acknowledges real danger, real enemies, and real cost. But it also affirms that hidden providence works through human faithfulness, that courage exercised in the right moment can reverse what seemed irreversible, and that joy comes in the morning.
If you perish, you perish. But perhaps—just perhaps—you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this.
Sources and Further Reading
Primary Biblical Texts:
- Book of Esther (complete)
- Psalm 22 (Esther-Jesus connection)
- Isaiah 55:13 (myrtle symbolism)
- Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34 (Jesus quoting Psalm 22)
Talmudic Sources:
- Talmud Bavli Megillah 15a (Passover timing of Haman’s execution)
- Talmud Bavli Megillah 15b (Esther quoting Psalm 22:2)
Related: The Savior’s Sermon From the Cross (detailed exploration of Jesus’ seven last words and Psalm 22)