Discovering the Unknown- Experiencing simchas Purim

Purim is approaching and I’m in a panic. I know there’s something that I want to experience on that day, but I don’t know exactly what it is. As is my wont, I have been looking for the answer in books, but it hard to find something when you are not sure what it is that you are searching for.

I’m convinced that Purim has something very deep within it, that the comparisons between Purim and Yom Kippur have some essential message which can’t be expressed in a clever vort. I’m sure that there is some idea found in a sefer which is the key to the locked door which stands in my way. For nearly a month, I’ve been going through various sefarim searching for the conceptual understanding which will lead to a day of deep meaning.

Of course, it is possible that my way of searching is part of the problem. Perhaps I am using books as a way of not having to do the hard work myself, or maybe sefarim are a cheap substitute for that which I really seek. I read Rav Hutner’s words as I study his Pachad Yitzchak and I realize that what I really want is to be sitting at his Purim seudah, as his words are interspersed within singing, eating, and drinking. I read the words of the holy Piaseczna Rebbe as he looks deep within himself in the Warsaw Ghetto trying to give his fellow sufferers something to hold onto, and I wonder what it could have been like to have been his chassid before the war. In my mind’s eye, I picture Rav Kook sitting around a small table in his original yeshiva with his beloved disciples. I see their radiant smiles, but I cannot hear their words. Here and there, I’ve had enjoyable seudos with friends, but I know there’s something more that I want for myself and for my family.

In some ways, I’m a spiritual orphan. I don’t have memories of family Purim seudos with divrei Torah and joyous singing from which I can draw. There is no yeshiva which helped mold me, where I might have witnessed my rosh yeshiva or rebbe at their seudah, so that I might know what to do at mine. Instead, I look at words on a page and try to turn the two-dimensional letters into a three-dimensional image, but my mind fails me. I grasp ideas, concepts, divrei Torah begin to coalesce in my mind, but none of these are thing itself for which I am searching.

As I write these words, it begins to occur to me that my problem is that I seek an idea that I can grasp in my mind. Some concept, external to me which I can fully know and possess. Realizing this, I begin to grasp the idea of drinking to reach the state of Ad D’Lo Yada. The simcha of Purim is not outside of me in a book. Its secrets can’t be truly grasped by watching others, even when they are spiritual giants. Just as teshuva can be studied in books, but true teshuva can only be found by looking deep within, the spiritual treasures of Purim can only be discovered by letting go of finding something external, and discovering true simcha which already lies within ourselves.

Hello, Old Friend

I met up with an old friend the other day. I’d spoken with him fairly recently, but it had been a while since I'd seriously opened up to him. I’m not really sure what made this time different, other than the fact that I’d been drinking. Still, for the first time in way too long, I felt heard, as if he was seriously listening. I spoke in that  non-self-reflective way, opening up in a manner that I can truly do, only when speaking with close friends.

It felt good, but as I spoke, I had this terrible gnawing feeling. I started thinking about the fact that soon our meeting would be over. I began to  become self-conscious of the fact that I better say everything I had to say, as I was unsure when the circumstances that had led to this conversation might happen again. I don’t know who  is responsible for our recent divide, although I can’t deny that I am far from blameless.

So there I was, with a combination of the joy that came from opening up to a friend, combined with the recognition that I better not waste a moment of our time together. Then, it was time to go. Reluctantly, I parted, sadly taking my leave. Without turning my back, I bowed and took three steps back.

Yihiyu l’ratzon imrei pi v’hegyon libi lifaniecha, HaShem Tzuri v’Goali.

Second Chances- How the Jews of Shushan came to re-accept the Torah

In what is one of my favorite midrashim, Chazal suggest that Bnei Yisrael’s initial acceptance of the Torah, in the time of the Exodus was flawed, and was only corrected in the time of Purim. I’ve always been fascinated by the imagery and idea of God holding a mountain over the heads of Bnei Yisrael and forcing them to accept the Torah, as well as the recognition that this type of acceptance was inherently flawed. What could this mean, and how can we suggest that the Torah was re-accepted in the time of the Purim story, at the time when the Jew’s lives were literally threatened.? I’d like to suggest that the answer might be found in a poem.

In Renascence, a poem written by Edna St. Vincent Millay nearly 100 years ago, the story is told of a person who discovers  the grandeur of the world in which she lives:

I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold

Later, she discovers that extant within that grandeur, there also exists a world of pain and suffering

A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote

Unable to see and, even more, feel and bare the pain, she asks to die and is given her wish, and thus, freed from her pain

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more,—there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust

It is only when she hears the rain fall upon her grave that she comes to realize that she will never again witness the beauty and grandeur of the world

I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top

She prays and is given back her soul, and with it, a second lease on life

Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground

Given a second chance, she discovers the Godliness that has existed in the world all along, ready to be seen by those who will only open their eyes

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,—
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

Let’s apply this to the aforementioned midrash.

When Bnei Yisrael received the Torah, they existed in a bubble where God’s grandeur could not be ignored. They owed their very existence to God’s miracles, and could not have survived in the wilderness without them. Awestruck, they had no choice but to accept the Torah. Still, such an agreement is inherently lacking. How can an acceptance based on an unworldly experience count, for those who would soon be thrust into a world of pain? Would they not have tremendous remorse when they discover all of the suffering that exists within the natural world? One could certainly argue that their acceptance was based upon a faulty understanding.

The Jews who lived at the time of the Purim story, were living in a very different world. Their world was one where 10 of the of the 12 tribes had been driven off, perhaps, to never return again. Theirs was a world where God’s very existence seemed to be open to doubt, as He had allowed thousands of men, women and children to die, and allowed His holy abode to be destroyed. One could not blame the Jews of that generation for wishing to give up; to metaphysically die, and stop having to deal with the struggles of theodicy.

Then, they are given their wish. They are told that the chosen nation will no longer have to live with the struggles, or, in fact, live at all. A genocidal maniac is ready to destroy them all. On the cusp of destruction, after coming together and praying, they are given a second chance. This time, they accept their relationship based not upon miracles, but upon a realization that, even when He appears absent, that God can be seen by those are willing to look.

Ad D'Lo Yada- Since when is a lack of knowledge a good thing? (audio shiur)

In this week’s shiur we explore the statement of Rava that one must get intoxicated on Purim until he does not know the difference between “cursed is Haman” and “blessed is Mordechai”. We look at why, on this one day a year, a lack of knowledge is seen as a good thing.

The shiur can also be listened to on YouTube by clicking on this link.

Running Time 55 Minutes

Passionate Moderation- A D'var Torah for Purim

I went through a time when I was “Kanai”, a religious zealot. Every religious argument was a fight to the death, with every hill worth dying for. Every transgression by others was deserving of Divine punishment (although somehow, my own transgressions were excluded). My wife would joke that it came with being a Levi, and having Pinchas as my bar mitzvah parsha and Eliyahu HaNavi in my haftorah. Truth is, if one examines the Jewish attitude towards zealotry as seen in the Torah and through the eyes of Chazal, it becomes clear that we live in a time where the only passion of the time should be, to quote Rabbi Norman Lamm (who should have a refuah sheleima), to be “passionately moderate”. I would suggest that this is one of the lessons of Purim.

The gemara (Shabbos 88a) discusses the idea that when it came to receiving the Torah at Har Sinai, Bnei Yisrael did not really have a choice. This is symbolically represented by the idea that God held Har Sinai over their heads and gave them a choice of accepting the Torah, or dying on the spot. Of course, this did not literally happen. The idea is that at that point knowing what they knew about HaShem and in general, being who they were and where they were, there was no choice but to accept the Torah. As noted by Rav Acha bar Yaakov, this made the acceptance less than ideal. We all know that a forced agreement is not much of an agreement. Rabah answers cryptically that they accepted the Torah willingly at the time of Purim. This is a very problematic statement. Where do we see an acceptance of the Torah during the time of Purim? If anything, the Jews are beginning to assimilate. After an analysis of knaus in the Torah, I will suggest an explanation to this challenging piece of aggada.

The first time we encounter an act of religious zealotry is when Shimon and Levi enter the city of Shechem, and kill Shechem who has raped (and/or seduced) Dinah, along with the male inhabitants of the city of Shechem. After they return, Yaakov angrily confronts them, and later, on his deathbed, mentions this heinous act (as opposed to their intent). While on a simple reading one could suggest that Shimon and Levi's actions were no more than an honor killing, it appears to be more than that. Rambam, Ramban and others struggle to understand the moral/halachic justifications for the brother's act, suggesting that there was more to the killing than simply avenging a family wrong. Tellingly, despite the explanations which suggest some sort of justification, the brothers are still seen as having acted unjustly and against the will of God. Even if Shechem has acted immorally, absent a commandment from God, one does not appoint oneself as judge, jury and executioner.

This of course, is the difference later on, when Moshe gathers the Leviyim to him with a cry of “Mi L'Hashem Eilai” to punish those who have worshiped the golden calf. Only now that God has revealed his law can the punishment be given. Only Moshe, who can speak with God “directly” can be the one to issue this call to action. Later on when Pinchas executes Zimri and Kazbi for their grossly immoral public act, Chazal are quick to limit the applicability of this act to very specific circumstances and very specific individuals. They even suggest that he got permission from Moshe before acting(!). “Kanayim pogim bo” is anything but a blanket invitation to vigilantism. Interestingly, Chazal recognized a thematic link between Pinchas and Eliyahu HaNavi (“Pinchas Zu Eliyahu”) who also is zealous for God. Ultimately, God reproaches Eliyahu for his zealousness against His/his own people, chiding him by asking whether God needs Eliyahu to stand up for him. God shows Eliyahu that He is to be encountered through a “kol demama daka” (quiet and gentle voice) rather than through thunder lightning or other powerful acts of nature. Eliyahu loses his mandate of prophecy with the implicit message that his job is to bring close, rather than to punish or push away.

While one might suggest that the story of Chanuka seems to allow for kanaus, and cries of “Mi L'HaShem Eilai”, the story does not end with the re-dedication of the Beis HaMikdash. Rather it ends with the Hasmonean descendants turning the sword against each other and against their people. Even when their actions are mentioned as part of the praises in the shemoneh esrei and birkas hamazon, their zealotry against their fellow Jews is somewhat hidden. Additionally, their less than ideal commitment to HaShem is suggested by the Ramban who says that the Chashmonaim should have given the leadership of the people to one from shevet Yehudah, rather than taking it for them selves.

Purim, the only holiday which takes place based on an event in Galus, suggests a very different approach. When the Jews of Shushan attend Achashveirsoh's party and bow to Haman, Mordechai, who along with his people, is in exile, does not try to forcibly change their behavior. Instead, he tries to lead by example. He continues to refuse to bow, no matter how much the Jews protest. In a yet to be redeemed world, the certainty which allows one to act with zealotry for the sake of God no longer exists. The transition from the almost absolute certainty of the prophet (for all but Moshe) to the lesser certainty of the chachamim has begun. “Lo BaShamayim he”. Machlokes is inevitable and even acceptable. Eilu v'eilu divrei Elokim Chayim. Mordechai can only suggest to Esther that perhaps she has become the queen for the purpose of saving the Jews. When Mordechai and Esther are successful and victorious, the sword is not turned against their brethren who have sinned, but only against the enemy which seeks to destroy them. 

This then, is the explanation for Rabbah's words in maseches Shabbos. The new acceptance of the Torah refers to the new approach to HaShem and his Torah. From this point forward, force no longer plays a role in Kabbalas HaTorah. It is no longer about an offer that can not be refused, but a willing and loving choice.

The only call of Mordechai and those who follow afterwards can be “Mi L'Hashem, L'HaShem”, those who are for God should turn to God. God can be found through his word and not the sword. Alternatively, only God can say “Mi L'Hashem Eilai”, all who desire My presence should turn to Me.