On the morning of Purim after I pray and hear the Scroll of Esther read aloud, I put a wad of $20 bills in my pocket and get on my bike. Not singles. Not the $5 I might hand someone at a stoplight. Twenties. Enough that when I see someone sitting on the sidewalk with a sleeping bag or cardboard sign, I pull a couple of bills from my pocket and hand them over. It feels like real money. It feels like too much.

That is the point.

I am not a perfect giver. My wife and I are not hitting the $10% ideal that Jewish law commands. In truth, we give far less than we once imagined we would at this stage of our lives. Day school tuition and debt have a way of narrowing even the most generous of intentions. On Purim, I try to push against that narrowing.

Purim has the reputation of being Judaism’s carnival — costumes, drinking, irreverence, and near debauchery. But its core is surprisingly structured. The rabbis derive four commandments from the Scroll of Esther: hear the story, share a festive meal, send portions of food to friends and give gifts to the poor.

Of those, only one is directed beyond our own circle.

The Talmud (Jerusalem Talmud Megillah 1:4) teaches that on Purim, “Anyone who stretches out a hand, we give.” The language is strikingly open. No scrutiny. No investigation into the recipient’s worthiness. The commandment may have emerged in a Jewish community ensuring its own poor could share in the feast, but Purim itself is a story about the contingency of fate — what feels set in stone can suddenly prove unstable, about categories that refuse to stay fixed.

Haman casts lots to determine the day of the Jewish people’s annihilation. Fate looks sealed. A decree is written. The categories seem fixed: insider and outsider, safe and doomed. And then, everything turns.

Purim teaches that what looks permanent is often fragile. This is no less true about poverty and wealth; one’s fortunes can change instantaneously. By giving tzedakah on Purim, we adopt a posture that recognizes the contingency of fate. Indeed, if fate itself can reverse so suddenly, then perhaps my own position is less secure than I like to imagine. I may be the one giving today. That does not mean I am permanently the giver. The practice serves as a reminder about the ephemerality of our seemingly permanent roles.

This runs against the model of tzedakah heralded by Maimonides and ubiquitous in American Jewish life. In Maimonides’ ladder of tzedakah, the highest forms of giving are strategic, structured and even anonymous. For many Jews, that ladder has come to define Jewish philanthropy itself.

The Maimonidean model assumes stability: that the giver can stand outside the need, that charity can be organized and optimized. Most of the year, that assumption is necessary. It protects dignity and builds sustainable systems.

Purim offers a different model.

On Purim, the instruction is simpler: If a hand reaches out, you answer. The emphasis is not on optimization, but immediacy.

Nel Noddings, one of the founders of Care Ethics, put it beautifully in ”Peace Education: How We Come to Love and Hate War”: “A great attraction of care ethics… is its refusal to encode or construct a catalog of principles and rules. One who cares must meet the cared-for just as he or she is, as a whole human being with individual needs and interests. […] At most, it directs us to attend, to listen, and to respond as positively as possible.”

Giving what feels ordinary would leave the instinct to abide by a “catalog of principles” intact. But when I peel a couple of twenties from the stack and press them into someone’s hand, there is no system — neither structure nor the distance that tends to goes with it. Just me and the person in front of me. By contrast, giving what feels like too much interrupts my reflex to calculate and strategize. This is not to criticize the typical model of philanthropic giving — we need structure to be maximally impactful. Rather, both models have something to teach us: The Maimonidean makes giving maximally effective and this “Purim model” creates solidarity through presence.

Connectedness is not abstract; it happens face to face. I often take off my helmet so my kippah is visible. It matters to me that my act is recognizably Jewish. There’s always a moment when I consider explaining — sharing that it’s a Jewish holiday about how anything can change in an instant. Part of me wonders whether naming it might make the moment feel more connected. But I don’t. To make it explicit would feel too self-serving. I simply say, “God bless,” and ride on.

In contemporary American public life, we have grown accustomed to classifying one another. We label people legal and illegal, citizen and alien. We reduce human beings to productivity metrics and returns on investment. We divide ourselves into camps — enlightened and backward, with us and against us. The categories begin to stand in for the individuals.

Purim asks us to suspend that reflex, if only for a day.

My roll of bills goes quickly. It’s not more than an hour before my pocket is empty. The need is endless. I have not changed the city. At best, I’ve helped someone get a room for the night.

But I have practiced something.

On the day we wear masks, we are commanded not to look away. On the holiday famous for excess, we are given a disciplined obligation to ensure that no one is left outside of the feast. It is only one day. That is precisely why it matters. For a few hours, we live as if no one is outside the feast.

This Purim, when a hand reaches out, give. Start with something that feels like too much.