Radical Joy in a Heavy World: The Call to Dance on Purim

by Rabbi Steph Kennedy

March 1, 2025 • 1 Adar 5785

In Jewish tradition, this month, the month of Adar—and with it, Purim—is a time of joy. A time when we are called not just to feel joy but to increase it, to cultivate it, even—especially—when it feels far from reach. The Talmud (Taanit 29a) teaches: Mi’shenichnas Adar, marbin b’simcha— “when the month of Adar begins, one increases rejoicing.”

But what does it mean to rejoice when the world feels heavy? For centuries, our people have wrestled with this call—how to embrace joy in times of suffering and despair. Writing from the depths of the Warsaw Ghetto, Rabbi Kalonymous Kalman Shapira, the Esh Kodesh, offered a powerful teaching:

The joy of Purim, it is not only if a person is joyful on his own, or at the very least is able to bring himself to joy, that he must rejoice. Rather, even if he is low and his heart is broken, his mind and all of his spirit trampled, it is a statute that he must, at the very least, bring a spark of happiness to his heart.

For the Esh Kodesh, joy is not incidental—it is essential. It is an obligation, especially when we struggle to feel it. Writing in that same decade, in Tales of Hasidism, Martin Buber taught

…But one who is truly joyful is like a person whose house has burned down, who feels their need deep in their soul and begins to build anew. Over every stone that is laid, their heart rejoices.

This is not a naïve joy. It is the joy of defiance, of resilience—the joy that transforms suffering into survival, despair into determination. It is the radical act of insisting that even in our darkest moments, we are still here.

But how? How do we summon joy when it feels most elusive?

Our tradition gives us a clue. In the Mishneh Torah, written in the 12th century during his time in exile, Maimonides—the preeminent Jewish rabbi and philosopher—teaches:

It is preferable for a person to be more liberal with his donations to the poor than to be lavish in his preparation of the Purim feast or in sending portions to his friends. For there is no greater and more splendid happiness than to gladden the hearts of the poor, the orphans, the widows, and the converts.

This is the heart of Purim. Not indulgent revelry, but radical generosity. The kind of joy that is expansive, that spills over, that lifts up not just ourselves but those around us. It is not a fleeting happiness but a justice-infused, world-rebuilding kind of joy.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, teaching in the 18th century, understood this well:

You must be resourceful in order to make yourself happy. Often you must do something a little bit crazy in order to make yourself happy. Try hard to turn your very depression and worry into joy … True joy is when you drag your darkness and depression even against their will and force them to turn into happiness."

His words remind me of those attributed to Dan Savage, reflecting on the darkest days of the AIDS crisis:

During the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, we buried our friends in the morning, we protested in the afternoon, and we danced all night. The dance kept us in the fight because it was the dance we were fighting for...

This is the spirit of Purim. In frightening and grief-filled times, joy is an act of resistance. It is not an escape—it is fuel for the fight. This year, as we gather to celebrate Purim’s ancient customs - hearing the Megillah (the scroll containing the Purim story), sharing festive meals, exchanging gifts of food (especially hamantaschen), and giving to those in need - may we remember that our joy is not just for ourselves. It is a lifeline. A force that keeps us in the struggle. A declaration that we are still here.

So this Purim, may we choose joy—not in spite of the pain of the world, but because of it. Because joy is the world we are fighting for.