“Tetzeveh and Purim” Rabbi Suzie Jacobson’s 2/27/26 Qabbalat Shabbat Sermon
Rabbi Suzie Jacobson
Qabbalat Shabbat, February 27, 2026
Temple Israel of Boston
If you have met me even a few times, or seen me up on the bima, you may have noticed I pretty much always wear black. I think If I were to show up here in a bright pink sweater, I’d get nothing done all day because every conversation would be about the surprising color…
I’ve worn all black nearly every day of my adult life. My wife does too. It may be contagious—our kids, especially Ru, live in black as well. You should see our laundry.
When people ask why, I joke that I’m a New Yorker. But the real reason is simpler: it’s easier to have a uniform. I’m not alone. Plenty of female bodied people cultivate a signature look—Hillary Clinton, Ariana Grande, Vera Wang. A uniform eliminates decision fatigue—we already carry enough in our heads. It reduces stress, scrutiny and judgment. It creates a consistent public persona. Plus, shopping is efficient!
And contrary to what you might think, a uniform isn’t laziness. It’s intentional. It’s a daily costume designed to help the world look past the surface and toward the mind and soul within.
The truth is, all of us—no matter what we wear—put on a costume to face the world. But our fashion choices can serve many purposes.
Clothing can signal our role. I never confuse the mail carrier with my doctor.
Clothes can be an important part of how we externalize our identities. They can tell a story, celebrate a culture, express a gender.
And sometimes clothing does the opposite. It conceals. It lets us try on someone else. We can do this joyfully, in drag or on Purim. Or we can do this when we are uncomfortable with ourselves – which probably explains my skater phase in middle school.
Our clothing is a powerful form of communication. It carries symbolism. It can put others at ease—or make them uncomfortable. And since we don’t walk around naked—especially in this weather—what we wear becomes a constant social message, one we broadcast every minute of our lives.
In our Torah portion Tetzaveh, we learn all about the High Priest’s uniform. Like my mail carrier, the uniform is made for the job. Unlike my mail carrier, the High Priest’s getup does not involve shorts and is meant to express the Israelite’s deep connection to God.
The High Priest’s garments are not decorative; they are theological. The ephod and breastplate bear twelve precious stones engraved with the names of the tribes—avnei zikaron, “stones of remembrance”—so that when the High Priest stands before God, he quite literally carries the entire people with him. He becomes a living embodiment of Israel in God’s presence.
The breastplate also holds the Urim and Thummim, tools of sacred discernment, enabling him to seek divine judgment on behalf of the community. The robe’s bells announce his approach into the sanctuary, a sound that protects him by signaling his entry into holy space. And the diadem on his forehead, inscribed “Holy to Adonai,” atones for any imperfection in the people’s offerings, transforming them into gifts received with divine favor.
Every layer he wears symbolizes responsibility and the hope that Israel’s worship will be accepted with grace.
This coming Monday night we enter the raucous, joyful holiday of Purim. And on Purim, we dress in costume. But our clothing serves almost the opposite purpose of the High Priest uniform.
On Purim, our clothing is intentionally not serious and definitely not symbolic of our deepest values. We are meant to be silly. We mask our identities and obscure who we usually are. There are many theories about this custom. Esther herself bears a Persian name that echoes the Hebrew word hester—“hidden.” She rises to power concealing her Jewish identity, revealing it only at the climactic moment to save her people. It’s ironic that we commemorate her brave unmasking by masking ourselves.
One of the holiday’s deepest themes is v’nahafoch hu—everything turned upside down. The persecuted become the powerful. Like Joseph before him, Mordechai is elevated to the king’s right hand. Purim reminds us that history can flip, that the impossible can become possible.
And unlike the richly symbolic priestly garments, God is entirely absent from the Megillah—not mentioned once. There is no splitting sea, no overt miracle. The divine presence is hidden within coincidence, within politics, within ordinary events.
The story itself plays with garments – Mordechai is paraded through the streets in royal robes, dressed for a part he never expected to play. Costuming on Purim echoes that theatricality.
On Purim, one of the mitzvot is to give tzedakah to those in need. There is a hidden nature of tzedakah – ideally, the recipient’s identity is concealed to preserve dignity. And scholars believe that Purim’s carnival spirit may be absorbed influences from medieval masquerade festivals in Italy. However it evolved, today we dress up, we feast, we give, we celebrate.
Tetzaveh and Purim sit side by side on our calendar and offer us two very different theologies of clothing.
In Tetzaveh, the garments are heavy with meaning. Every thread carries responsibility. The High Priest dresses not to hide, but to reveal – to embody the people, to signal holiness, to make visible the sacred weight of standing before God.
On Purim, we do the opposite. We exaggerate. We conceal. We turn everything upside down. And yet—even in the silliness—we are still telling the truth. Because Purim teaches that holiness doesn’t only live in gold breastplates and engraved stones. It can hide in coincidence. In courage. In a royal robe thrown over the shoulders of someone who never expected to wear it.
Maybe that’s the deeper connection.
Sometimes we dress to clarify who we are.
Sometimes we dress to loosen who we are.
And sometimes, in covering ourselves in all black, we leave space to let our real selves shine through.
The High Priest teaches us that we carry one another into sacred space. Purim teaches us that even when everything feels hidden, holiness is all around us.
So yes – grownups, start planning your costumes. Not just because it’s fun. Not just because it’s mandatory. But because on Purim we practice living in a world where identities can shift, power can flip, and hidden goodness can rise to the surface.
And if that isn’t a sacred dress rehearsal for Jewish life, I don’t know what is.