Category: Excerpts

Excerpted from Unlocking the Torah Text –Vayikra by Rabbi Shmuel Goldin, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishers

Two specific commandments to count seven cycles of seven units each, leading to a fiftieth culminating unit, appear in the Torah within the span of two contiguous parshiot.

In Parshat Emor, the Torah commanded the counting of the forty-nine days of the Omer (seven weeks, each of seven days) leading to the festival of Shavuot on the fiftieth day.

Now, in Parshat Behar, the Torah commands the counting of forty- nine years (seven Sabbatical cycles, each of seven years) leading to Yovel, the Jubilee, or fiftieth year.

A cursory review of the respective texts does, however, reveal a subtle distinction between these two precepts.

Concerning the Omer count towards the Festival of Shavuot, the Torah states: U’sfartem lachem, “And you shall count for yourselves” (in the plural); while concerning the count towards Yovel, the Torah states: V’safarta lecha, “And you shall count for yourself” (in the singular).

Questions

Is there a connection between the two disparate yet similar mitzvot of Sfirat Ha’omer and the counting towards Yovel, found in such close proximity within the text?

Does the seemingly minor move from plural terminology (associated with Sfirat Ha’omer) to singular terminology (associated with the counting towards Yovel) shed any light on the connection and/or contrast between these two mitzvot?

Approaches

A

The key to understanding the connection and contrast between the Omer and the Yovel counts may well emerge from an unexpected source, the distinction between two different dimensions of freedom in Jewish thought, dror and cheirut.

1. Dror (liberty): The removal of external constraints, physical or otherwise, that impede an individual’s personal choice and independent action. Dror is either conferred upon an individual by an outside force or attained through severance from that force.

2. Cheirut (freedom): The injection of positive purpose and value into one’s life. The individual who enjoys cheirut, by choosing to pursue a higher goal, actively frees himself from servitude to the surrounding world and its potentially enslaving forces. Cheirut cannot be granted by another but must be attained by an individual himself.

B

At the beginning of Parshat Behar, as the Torah outlines the Yovel laws concerning the freeing of Jewish indentured servants and the return of land to its original holders, the operant principle is dror: “U’keratem dror ba’aretz l’chol yoshveha, and you shall proclaim liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

This well-known passage, which enters the annals of American history with its partial inscription on the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, has very specific meaning in its original Torah context. At the onset of the Yovel year, Jewish society is mandated to “proclaim liberty,” by removing external constraints from certain individuals within its borders. Indentured servants are freed and land is returned to its original owners, as these individuals are liberated from bondage and poverty and afforded new possibilities for personal freedom. The full actualization of these possibilities, however, remains in the hands of the individuals themselves.

The numbering of years towards Yovel is thus a societal count, performed through the aegis of the beit din (the court) as it anticipates the time when Jewish society will act to “proclaim liberty” within its borders. The Torah therefore speaks of this count in singular terms: “V’safarta lecha, and you (beit din, as a single unit representing the society as a whole) shall count for yourself.”

C

The counting of the Omer leads, on the other hand, towards a different dimension of freedom.

As noted previously, many authorities view the mitzva of Sfirat Ha’omer as an act of linkage connecting the physical freedom of the Exodus with the spiritual freedom of Sinai. The nature of this spiritual freedom granted during Revelation is revealed in a fascinating Midrashic interpretation of a critical Torah passage: “And the tablets [received at Sinai] were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, engraved [charut] upon the tablets.”

“Read not charut [engraved],” the rabbis explain, “but cheirut [freedom]; for no man is free but he who occupies himself in the study of Torah.”

To the rabbinic mind, cheirut, full personal freedom, can only be attained through attachment to a higher goal and a higher good. Such an act of affiliation frees an individual from the limiting forces that abound in his world, enabling him to invest his life with meaning and achieve his full spiritual potential. It is this gift of cheirut which is offered to the Jewish nation through the laws given at Sinai.

The search for cheirut is therefore intensely personal and can only be performed by each individual for him- or herself. There can be no shortcuts nor can this journey towards true personal freedom be performed through a representative. When it comes to Sfirat Ha’omer, the mitzva that marks the passage towards cheirut, therefore, the Torah proclaims, U’sfartem lachem, “And you shall count for yourselves” (in the plural). Each individual is obligated to count for himself, to find his own road towards personal meaning.

D

Two mitzvot thus emerge within the span of two parshiot, each the mirror image of the other.

Both of these mitzvot speak of counting seven cycles of seven towards the goal of a fiftieth, culminating unit. Both represent a journey towards a specific dimension of freedom.

There, however, the parallel ends.

The counting of years towards Yovel, found in Parshat Behar, serves as a reminder to societies across the ages of their obligation to grant dror, liberty, to those under their sway; to break the chains of tyranny and prejudice that limit personal opportunity for any individual within their boundaries.

The counting of days towards the festival of Shavuot, found in Parshat Emor, on the other hand, speaks directly to the individuals themselves: No one can grant you personal freedom. Cheirut is a God-given right which you must discover for yourselves.

Points to Ponder

The inscription on the Liberty Bell is incomplete…

Searching for a passage to properly mark the fiftieth anniversary of Pennsylvania’s original Constitution (William Penn’s forward-thinking 1701 Charter of Rights), the Pennsylvania Assembly, in 1751, chose a phrase from Parshat Behar: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

They ignored, however, the end of the sentence: “…a Jubilee year shall it be for you, and you shall return every man unto his heritage and every man unto his family you shall return.”

The omission seems reasonable. This second section of text, speaking of the steps to be followed after the proclamation of liberty, is, after all, difficult to understand. What does the mandate to return to one’s family and heritage have to do with the acquisition of liberty?

On a technical level, Jewish law learns important additional precepts from the second half of this sentence. The phrase “You shall return every man to his heritage” conveys, according to the rabbis, the requirement that property revert to its original owners on the Jubilee year.11 From the words “Every man unto his family you shall return,” the scholars derive that all indentured servants, including those who had previously indicated a desire to stay in servitude, must be freed. Even an individual who has clearly renounced his claim to freedom is released on Yovel.

Another fundamental idea, however, may also be rooted in the passage “…a Jubilee year shall it be for you, and you shall return every man unto his heritage and every man unto his family you shall return.”

With the laws of the Jubilee year, the Torah informs us that true freedom cannot be gained through a complete severance with the past. In order to chart a new course towards the future, the past, with all its complexities, must be reckoned with: lessons must be learned, successes valued, failures confronted.

The law turns to the Jew who has sold himself into servitude because of poverty or thievery, and forces him to go free. You cannot run away from your past, the Torah insists, you must return to your roots and confront your failure. Likewise, the Torah instructs the property owner who has sold his cherished heritage, again because of poverty: Learn from any errors that you may have made, so that you will succeed tomorrow.

In short, the Torah informs us that the dror, liberty, granted by society on Yovel should serve as a prelude to the personal search for cheirut, freedom – a search that best begins with a journey into the past.

How ironic that a passage that has come to symbolize the American struggle to break free from past allegiances actually conveys the opposite message. There are no “brave new worlds” in Jewish thought. As we strike off towards a new dawn, we simultaneously step back, into our own complex past. Therein lies a wealth of experience that will guide us in our emerging endeavors. A healthy respect for that past is the best insurance for the future.

The words engraved on the Liberty Bell tell only part of the story. Any proclamation of liberty must be accompanied by a sense of responsibility emerging from the past. Only then do we stand a chance of succeeding as individuals and as a people.

Excerpted from Unlocking the Torah Text –Vayikra by Rabbi Shmuel Goldin, co-published by OU Press and Gefen Publishing

In the midst of the Torah’s discussion concerning the festival cycle, immediately after the commandment concerning the Omer offering (a barley offering in the Temple which marks the beginning of the harvest and allows the use of that season’s grain), the following mandate is found:

And you shall count for yourselves – from the day after the Sabbath, from the day you bring the waved offering of the Omer – seven weeks; complete shall they be. Until the day after the seventh Sabbath, shall you count fifty days; and you will offer a new meal offering to the Lord.

This commandment is reiterated in the book of Devarim: “Seven weeks shall you count for yourselves; from the time the sickle is first put to the standing crop, you shall begin to count seven weeks.”

As codified by the rabbis, this mitzva, known as the mitzva of Sfirat Ha’omer, the Counting of the Omer, obligates each Jew to verbally count the days and weeks from the second day of the holiday of Pesach until the first day of the holiday of Shavuot.

Questions

What possible purpose can there be in verbally counting the days and weeks between Pesach and Shavuot?

The Torah offers no explanation for this mitzva.

Approaches

Responding to the Torah’s silence concerning the purpose of Sfirat Ha’omer, classical and contemporary scholars suggest a wide variety of approaches.

A

Most obviously, the Counting of the Omer is perceived by many scholars as an act of linkage between the two holidays that border the mitzva, Pesach and Shavuot. Through the act of counting we testify that the Revelation at Sinai (commemorated on Shavuot) was the goal and purpose of the Exodus from Egypt (commemorated on Pesach). This relationship is established at the outset when God informs Moshe at the burning bush: “And this is your sign that I have sent you: when you take the people out of Egypt, you shall serve God on this mountain.”

On a deeper level, our counting consequently affirms that the physical freedom of the Exodus is incomplete without the spiritual freedom granted by God’s law; a truth mirrored in the famous rabbinic dictum: “No one is truly free other than he who is involved in the study of Torah.”

By counting the days between Pesach and Shavuot, many scholars continue, we also are meant to re-experience the sense of excitement and anticipation that marked this period for the Israelites, newly redeemed from Egypt. Just as we would “count the remaining days” towards an extraordinary event in our personal lives, so too we should feel a real sense of anticipation each year as we again approach the holiday that marks the Revelation at Sinai.

B

Other authorities choose to view these days primarily as a period of “purification from” rather than “anticipation towards.”

By the time of the Exodus, the Israelites have been defiled from centuries of immersion in Egyptian society and culture. Numerous sources, in fact, maintain that they have descended to the forty-ninth of fifty possible stages of defilement and are on the verge of becoming irredeemable. With haste, at the last moment, God pulls the nation back from the brink. The newly freed slaves, however, must now undergo a process of purification before they can encounter God and receive the Torah at Sinai. Forty-nine days – to counter each level of defilement experienced – must elapse before Revelation can take place.

By counting the days between Pesach and Shavuot each year, we remember and mark this refining journey. Just as a married woman monthly counts the days leading to her immersion in a mikva we must count and spiritually prepare ourselves for our reunion with God at Sinai.

Based on this approach, the Ohr Hachaim explains why Sfirat Ha’omer begins each year on the second day of Pesach, rather than on the first. The Exodus, he observes, occurs on the first day of the festival. For a portion of that day, therefore, the Israelites yet remain in Egypt and the journey of purification cannot yet begin.

C

In stark contrast to the opinions cited above, a number of scholars emphasize the agricultural, rather than the historical, dimension of the Omer period. Opening the yearly harvest season, these days stretch from the beginning of the barley harvest (marked on the holiday of Pesach) to the beginning of the wheat harvest (marked on the holiday of Shavuot).

As the weather conditions over this period are critical determinants of the success or failure of the entire harvest, the Sforno perceives the associated rituals to be expressions of thanksgiving and prayer. The Omer offering itself, he says, was brought in thanks for the barley harvest. An accompanying korban served as a prayer for future success. The Counting of the Omer represents the daily prayers during this period, while the holiday of Shavuot is celebrated, in part, as an expression of thanks for the grain harvest.

Choosing an eminently practical path, the Abudarham maintains that the Counting of the Omer was meant to counteract a farmer’s inevitable preoccupation with his harvest. Counting the days towards Shavuot would ensure that he would not forget his obligation to travel to Jerusalem for the celebration of the holiday.

Finally, the Maharal finds reference to the global connection between the physical and spiritual dimensions of our lives within the ritual of the Counting of the Omer. We are enjoined to number the days towards Revelation specifically as the harvest season begins, in order to underscore the well-known rabbinic maxim “Where there is no flour, there is no Torah.” Proper Torah study can only take place against the backdrop of a healthy, well-nourished lifestyle.

D

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik perceives yet another lesson embedded in the act of Sfirat Ha’omer. The Rav suggests that, in Jewish experience, an individual can perform the act of counting within two realms: the realm of Sfira and the realm of minyan (the root of each of these terms means “to count”).

When you count in the realm of minyan, the Rav explains, all that matters is the attainment of the ultimate goal, the endpoint of your counting. Nine upstanding, righteous men can assemble for a prayer service but, without a tenth, there is no minyan.

When you count in the realm of Sfira, however, things are different. Although you still count towards a goal, each individual unit in the calculation becomes a goal, as well. While someone counting precious diamonds, for example, is certainly interested in the total number of diamonds he has, he also pauses and holds each gem up to the rays of the sun, admiring its unique facets, color and shape.

The act of Sfirat Ha’omer teaches us to “count our days in the realm of Sfira” – to see each day as a goal unto itself.

Too often, we live exclusively goal-oriented lives; moving from accomplishment to accomplishment, from milestone to milestone, rarely stopping to appreciate the significance of each passing day. And yet, when all is said and done, the quality of the journey, in large measure, defines our lives – and the ordinary moments spent with family and friends are as significant, if not more significant, than the milestones themselves.

The Rav’s observation may also be mirrored in two versions of the verbal formula for Sfirat Ha’omer which have developed over the years. Some communities recite, “Today is the —-day la’Omer (literally “to the Omer”)” while others count “ba’Omer (literally “in the midst of the Omer”).” Taken together, these two versions form the balance that should mark our approach to life. On the one hand, without goals our lives are aimless. We therefore count la’Omer, towards the endpoint of the Omer count. On the other hand, never losing sight of the journey’s value, we also count ba’Omer, in the midst of the Omer.

E

A historical overlay, emerging from the first-second century CE, dramatically transforms the days of the Omer from a time of anticipation and celebration to a period of sorrow and mourning. The Talmud relates: “Rabbi Akiva had twelve thousand pairs of students…and all of them died in one period because they failed to treat each other with respect.… They all died during the period between Pesach and Shavuot.”

In commemoration of this tragedy, the rabbis ordained that a portion of the Omer period be circumscribed by laws of mourning. Marriages, other festive celebrations and haircuts are prohibited during the restricted period, the exact computation of which varies according to custom, from community to community.

At first glance, the powerful reaction of Jewish law to the death of Rabbi Akiva’s students seems strange. Jewish history is, unfortunately, marked by a myriad of overwhelming tragedies that do not result in similar halachic commemorations. What makes this event different?

The Talmud explains that the death of these sages, tragic as it was in and of itself, actually resulted in a greater calamity. At a critical juncture of Jewish history, during the vulnerable period following the destruction of the Second Temple, the loss of Rabbi Akiva’s students left the world “desolate” through loss of Torah study. Their death represented a break in the chain of oral tradition at a time when such a rupture threatened the very survival of the Jewish nation. Only Rabbi Akiva’s success in finding and teaching new students “in the south” mitigated the calamitous effects of this tragedy.

This historical overlay placed upon the days of the Omer is clearly neither arbitrary nor coincidental. Both the potential effects of the death of Rabbi Akiva’s students and the fundamental cause of their demise connect directly to the period leading to Sinai.

Revelation marks not only the communication of the Written Law, but the launching of the Oral Law, as well (see Shmot: Yitro 5). The rupture in the transmission of that oral tradition, caused by the loss of Rabbi Akiva’s students, threatens the very legacy of Sinai.

Concerning the relationship between the cause of the tragedy and the Omer period, one need look no further than at the teachings of Rabbi Akiva himself. As we have noted, Rabbi Akiva considers “V’ahavta l’reiacha kamocha, Love your fellow as yourself,” to be the most important principle of the Torah (see Kedoshim 5). By negating that very principle through their behavior, the students of this great sage contradict the very Torah to which they have otherwise dedicated their lives.

Points to Ponder

A powerfully perplexing mystery arises from the Omer period.

As noted above, Rabbi Akiva emphatically identifies “Love your fellow as yourself” as the most important principle of the Torah. Yet, his students perish because they “fail to treat each other with respect.”

Can it be that one of our sages fails to impart his core belief to his students? The problem would be less glaring had Rabbi Akiva’s students perished as a result of any other sin. But to transgress the very precept that serves as the core of their mentor’s beliefs and practices… How can it be?

Perhaps the issue is one of chronology. We do not know when Rabbi Akiva determines the centrality of the mitzva of V’ahavta. Perhaps he reaches this realization only in sorrowful retrospect, as a result of the tragic loss of his students. Perhaps it is precisely their death which leads their mentor to recognize the emptiness of Torah observance absent a foundation of interpersonal respect.  Or, perhaps, our tradition is referencing an entirely different life lesson through this tragedy – a lesson of overarching significance for us all. The stark inconsistency between Rabbi Akiva’s core belief and the actions of his students may reflect the universal challenge of intergenerational transmission.

I feel that we often make the mistake of assuming that just because something is vital to us, it will automatically be of importance to our children; that the ideas and beliefs that lie at the heart of our worldview are so obvious, they need not be openly stated and taught.

Nothing could be further from the truth…

Our children grow up in worlds different from our own, and within those worlds they form their own personal convictions. The basic foundations that we consider central to our lives are not automatically “givens” within theirs. The deep connection, for example, that we feel towards the State of Israel – in large measure a product of our own life experiences and the experiences of our parents – will not automatically develop in the hearts of our progeny, who are more temporally and emotionally removed than us from the creation of the state.

As we strive to convey critical ideas and principles to future generations, we can make no assumptions of prior knowledge and conviction. We must consciously and actively teach each and every one of the ideas and principles we feel important, through open discussion and deed.

Perhaps Rabbi Akiva fails to teach his students the central value of his worldview precisely because he considers that value to be self-evident. And just perhaps, across the centuries, he teaches us not to make the same mistake. 

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s Festivals of Faith: Reflections on the Jewish Holidays

Many reasons have been offered as to why this Sabbath before the holiday of Passover is known by the name Shabbat ha-Gadol. Allow me to commend to your attention one such reason, which I find particularly significant. The author of the Tur, one of the greatest legal codes of Judaism, maintains that our Sabbath is known as Shabbat ha-Gadol lefi she-na‘aseh bo nes gadol—because a great miracle was performed on this day (Tur, Orah Hayyim 430). It was on this day of the year that the Jews were liberated from Egypt, that they summoned up the courage to take the lambs that were tied to their doorposts and slaughter them as sacrifices to Almighty God. This act outraged the Egyptians, for whom the lamb was a divinity. They were stunned by the effrontery of these miserable Hebrew slaves who dared, in the presence of their masters, to exert their own religious independence. And yet, ve-lo hayu rasha’in lomar lahem davar, the Egyptians could not and did not say a word in an attempt to stop the Israelites. Because of this nes gadol, this great miracle, the Sabbath was called Shabbat ha-Gadol, the great Sabbath.

This is, indeed, a beautiful explanation. But there is something troubling about it. Granted that the silence of the Egyptians, their sudden paralysis, was a true miracle. But what makes this a “great” miracle? Why gadol? This was an era which saw the miracles of the Exodus from Egypt, the ten plagues, and the splitting of the Red Sea. Were these miracles not at least equally great? How does one measure the size or significance of miracles?

I believe the answer can be most instructive. For nes gadol refers not to the silence of the Egyptians, but to the miracle of Jewish character. What we celebrate is not a great miracle, but the miracle of greatness. And I refer not only to the courageous defiance exercised by the Jews in Egypt, but to an even more significant fact. The other miracles of which we read and which we celebrate allowed the Israelites to escape and survive, but in the process the Egyptian enemy was hurt, injured, or killed. The plagues caused a great deal of pain for the Egyptians, and the splitting of the Red Sea was followed by the drowning of the hordes of Pharaoh. This miracle, however, involved no injury to the enemy. The Jews grew and rose in stature, but no one was hurt. It was not the kind of bravado or courage that is expressed in doing violence to one’s neighbor. Shabbat ha-Gadol celebrates nes gadol, the magic and the miracle of genuine greatness achieved by our people. This was real gadlut: greatness from within, not at someone else’s expense.

The story is told of the great saint and sage R. Israel Salanter was walking in the street one day and encountered two boys who had been fighting with each other. The stronger had thrown the weaker into a ditch at the side of the road. “What is going on?” asked the rabbi. The stronger boy answered, “We had an argument as to which of us is taller. So I threw him into a ditch to prove to him that I am taller than he.” “Foolish boy,” replied the rabbi, “could you not have achieved the same purpose by standing on a chair rather than throwing him into a ditch?”

What the rabbi was teaching was a secret of true greatness. Gadlut consists of achieving eminence without crushing another human being.

And oh, how rare is that quality of nes gadol, the miracle of greatness. Everyone wants to be great, and so few know the Jewish secret of greatness. The big powers all want to appear great and acceptable in the eyes of the uncommitted bloc of Afro-Asian nations. It is a national policy of our government to try to gain in popularity amongst the new nations. It is not for us here to decide the validity of this principle. But I know that many Americans were saddened when Adlai Stevenson, the American ambassador to the U.N., this past week chastised the State of Israel for defending itself against Syrian attacks. He seems to be afflicted with what has become a traditional liberal blindness—the inability or unwillingness to discriminate between the hooligan’s attack and the victim’s defense. It is of one piece with a popular liberal attitude that expends much more energy and sentiment in defending the murderer from punishment than in preventing the victim from having suffered in the first place. We were saddened and disappointed when Ambassador Stevenson—who, according to the British press, acted without authorization of and to the chagrin of the State Department—attempted to act big in the eyes of the Arabs and their friends by reproaching the loneliest of all nations. No eloquence and no humor can disguise the katnut, the smallness of spirit, of a man who, rather than stand on a chair, will throw Israel into a diplomatic ditch.

And the same lesson holds true for all of us. It is true for the State of Israel, which also often finds that it suffers from overpoliticization, with the partisanship of its political parties often exceeding all bounds. Political consciousness of the citizenry is good, but when each individual party—and this holds true for all of them—tries to gain in prestige and power at the expense of all others, by belittling and scandalizing others, then the State itself begins to suffer.

It holds true for American Jewish organizations, where the progress of American Jewry is all too often stifled because of the unwillingness of the various organizations to unify or at least cooperate, not so much to protect their own autonomy as to make sure that the other organizations do not receive credit and power.

As individuals, Shabbat ha-Gadol reminds us that the way to greatness in business should never come by crushing competitors. In our professions we should not attempt to achieve prestige by hurting colleagues. The concept of nes gadol teaches each of us not only how to act, but also how to think; in our innermost hearts, we should measure our own success or failure not relative to our neighbors, but by absolute standards. We must, each of us, attempt to grow great by ourselves, not only by comparison to the smallness of others.

But granted the negative aspect of this definition of gadlut or greatness, that it must not come at the expense of others, what is the positive or affirmative definition? What do we mean when we say that one must grow big by himself and through himself?

Perhaps the Talmud can help us here. In discussing the laws of metzi’ah, or finds, talmudic law is that if one finds an object which has no distinguishing marks and is unclaimed, he may keep it. If he is a child, a katan, the metzi’ah belongs to his father or guardian. If he is a gadol, an adult, then it belongs to himself. And yet, the Talmud maintains, Lo katan katan mammash ve-lo gadol gadol mammash (Bava Metzi‘a 12b)—whereas “child” and “adult” normally refer to chronology or physical development, that is, before or after the age of thirteen, that does not hold true in this context. Katan or ketannim with regard to finds is not a question of age, but a question of independence. A minor, or katan, is one ha-somekh al shulhan aviv o shulhan shel aherim—who literally relies or leans on the table of his father or on the table of others. A gadol, or adult, is one who has his own table, who supports himself.

I believe this is more than an economic definition in Jewish financial law. It is a lesson for all of life. To be gadol, great, means to be yourself, to draw upon your own spiritual resources, to live true to your own destiny and character.

A spiritual katan will beg for crumbs from the tables of others; one who has achieved gadlut will repair to his own table, no matter how sparse the food may be.

In Egypt, throughout their servitude, our ancestors were in the category of those who “rely on the table of others.” They had assimilated Egyptian life and values, Egyptian culture and religion. They had sunk to spiritual minority, or katnut, and this kind of katnut cannot be redeemed or healed by plagues or the splitting of seas or political independence. What was needed was nothing less than a miracle—the nes gadol, the miracle of genuine greatness by an act which affirms the spiritual self, a rallying to unique Jewish destiny and image and character, a courageous cutting of the cultural umbilical cord which tied the Jewish victims to their Egyptian persecutors. This was achieved through shehitat eloheihem, through the slaughtering of the Egyptians’ gods and the rejection of their idolatry, which until that time had been accepted by the Israelites. This was the miracle of Jewish greatness. No one else was hurt, and it was an act of spiritual independence.

This is a teaching which holds true universally. He who lives by leave of another, he who satisfies his cultural hunger by crumbs from strange tables, he who seeks esteem by alien standards—he is a katan. The abject conformist, the servile status-seeker, the eternal mah yafisnik—these are ketannim in long trousers. Jews whose lifelong ambition it is to imitate non-Jews, Jewish movements and doctrines which pine for crumbs from the tables of secularism or Unitarianism, from Deweyism or Marxism—and there are such movements here and overseas—are minors with big vocabularies. Those who are willing to settle for Jewish statehood, but are ready to abandon all attempts at the greater aspiration for Jewish selfhood, they suffer from stunted spiritual growth.

The first promise that God gave to the first Jew, Abraham, was Ve-e‘eskha le-goy gadol, “And I shall make you into a great nation” (Gen. 12:2). God did not mean goy gadol insofar as numbers or power is concerned; we Jews have never had much of either. He meant a nation of genuine greatness. And that is why later, when God tells Abraham of the future bitter exile of his descendants in Egypt, He gives him the greatest consolation: Ve-aharei khen yetze’u bi-rekhush gadol (Gen 15:14). This is usually translated, “And afterwards they will leave with great wealth.” I believe the real translation is, “And afterwards they will leave with a wealth of greatness.” Great wealth is an ordinary ambition; a wealth of greatness is the extraordinary Jewish aspiration.

Our haftarah for today concludes with a promise by the Almighty: Hinneh anokhi sholeah lakhem et Eliyyah ha-navi lifnei bo yom Hashem ha-gadol ve-hanora, “Behold, I shall send to you the prophet Elijah before the coming of the great and terrible day of the Lord” (Mal. 3:23). We have a choice: gadol or nora, great or terrible. We live in a world where decisions must be made. We live in a world where Elijah calls out to us as he did to the Jews gathered about him at Mount Carmel, saying, “How long will you waver?”

In our world, there can be no wavering and no indecisiveness. It is either/ or: either be Jewish and great, or cringe at the tables of others and nora, terrible. The world we live in will not permit leisurely smallness. Judaism cannot survive with pettiness of the spirit and the immaturity of Jewish mindlessness. If we return to Torah and tradition, we can ourselves forge the nes of gadol. If, Heaven forbid, we do not, we must face and expect the terrible failure of katnut. On Shabbat ha-Gadol, we strive for the experience of yom Hashem hagadol, and by once again becoming a goy gadol, we will be able to bequeath to our children and children’s children a rekhush gadol, a heritage of authentic greatness.

Ve-heshiv lev avot al banim, ve-lev banim al avotam—“And the Lord shall cause the heart of the fathers to return to the sons, and the heart of the sons to their father” (Mal. 3:24).

Excerpted from ‘The Seder Night: An Exalted Evening’ A Passover Haggadah with a commentary based on the teachings of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik; Edited by Rabbi Menachem D. Genack

סדר הקערה The Talmud (Pesachim 114b) discusses the requirement to place shenei tavshilin, two cooked items, on the Seder plate, commemorating the korban Pesach and the chagigah offering that were eaten when sacrifices were brought in the Temple. Rav Huna says that this requirement may be fulfilled by using beets and rice. According to Rav Yosef, one must use two different types of meat. Rambam (Hilkhot Chametz u-Matzah 8:1) follows the opinion of Rav Yosef, while the popular custom is to place one item of meat and an egg on the Seder plate (see Kesef Mishneh, loc cit.).

The presence of the egg at the Seder also has another source. The first day of Passover always occurs on the same day of the week as Tishah be-Av, the day that marks the destruction of the Temple and the exile of the Jews (Orach Chayyim 428:3). Accordingly, the custom is to eat an egg, a symbol of mourning, on the first night of Pesach (see Rama, Orach Chayyim 476:2). The egg, therefore, symbolizes both joy, the chagigah, and mourning, Tish’ah be-Av.

The Beit ha-Levi explains the correlation between the first day of Passover and Tish’ah be-Av as follows. Several midrashic sources indicate that the Exodus from Egypt was premature. The Jews were supposed to have been enslaved in Egypt for 400 years but were redeemed after only 210 years. After 210 years of exile, the Jews were in danger of completely losing their Jewish identity. Had they remained in Egypt any longer, they would have been hopelessly assimilated. The urgent need to redeem them without further delay explains why the Exodus occurred “be-chipazon, in haste” (Deut. 16:3). God, therefore, redeemed them prematurely, and the balance of their term of exile would have to be completed in future exiles. Thus, the redemption from Egypt was not a complete redemption, since it was the cause of the later exiles. It is, therefore, appropriate to eat an egg, an open expression of mourning, on the very night of redemption.

It is interesting to note that the terminology of shenei tavshilin occurs with respect to the laws both of Passover, when one is required to place shenei tavshilin on the plate, and of Tish’ah be-Av, when one may not eat shenei tavshilin in the meal preceding the Tish’ah be-Av fast. The similar terminology further points to the correlation between Passover and Tish’ah be-Av.

(Reshimot)

סדר ליל פסח There is a logic and a structure not only to the Maggid section of the Haggadah, but also to the entire Seder. The Gemara emphasizes in several places the necessity of preserving the proper order of performance on Pesach night. For example, the Gemara (Pesachim 114b–115a) asks what blessing should be made if one must eat maror before the Maggid section because there is no other vegetable for karpas. It is evident from the discussion that the fulfillment of the mitzvah of maror would not have occurred the first time it was eaten when it was eaten as karpas, but rather the second. If one could fulfill the mitzvah of maror at the first dipping, the whole discussion of the Gemara would be superfluous. Apparently, one may not eat maror before matzah. According to Rashbam (Pesachim 114a), the sequential order of eating matzah first and then maror is biblically mandated. This is based on the verse “al matzot u-merorim yo’kheluhu, they shall eat it (the korban Pesach) with unleavened bread and bitter herbs” (Num. 9:11), implying that the matzot are eaten first, and then the maror. The requirement to maintain a sequence, however, is also applicable to the entire Seder.

In order to explain this, we must understand that each of the mitzvoth of Pesach night has two aspects, two kiyumim, two fulfillments. The mitzvah of sipur Yetzi’at Mitzrayim is discharged in a twofold way – through the medium of speech and through symbolic actions. A person who eats the matzah and the maror before saying Maggid fulfills the mitzvah of eating matzah, but does not fulfill the mitzvah of sipur Yetzi’at Mitzrayim by means of eating matzah. That is what the Gemara (Pesachim 115b) means by referring to matzah, lechem oni (Deut. 16:3), as “lechem she-onin alav devarim harbeh, the bread over which we recite many things.” Since eating matzah is also part of sipur, we understand the need for Seder, for a particular order of performance.

(Kol ha-Rav)

The language utilized by Rambam in his introduction to the order of the Pesach Seder is reminiscent of his introduction to the Temple service of Yom Kippur. In Hilchot Chametz u-Matzah (8:1), Rambam begins “Seder, the order, for the performance of the mitzvoth on the night of the fifteenth is as follows.” In Hilchot Avodat Yom ha-Kippurim (4:1), Rambam begins, “Seder, the order, for the performances of the day is as follows.” Just as following the order of the Yom Kippur service is essential for the proper performance of the mitzvah, so, too, following the order of the Seder is essential for the proper fulfillment of the mitzvoth of this night of the fifteenth of Nisan. By following an order we demonstrate that all the parts of the Seder are interconnected and only collectively do they properly retell the story of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim. If, for instance, one were to consume the matzah before reciting Maggid, the narrative would be deficient in that one would not have satisfied the facet of lechem oni, bread over which we are to recount the Exodus. Similarly, the karpas is intended to elicit the questions that will enable the Maggid discussion to proceed, and the failure to eat the karpas in its proper sequence would impair or forestall the Maggid section. Only through adherence to the prescribed order can we express the overarching principles and ideas that are intended to emerge from, and which are coordinated with, our actions on the Seder night. (Reshimot)

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s Festivals of Faith: Reflections on the Jewish Holidays

Toward the end of the Book of Esther, which we shall read this week, we are told that after their miraculous deliverance the Jews accepted upon themselves the observance of Purim forever after. Kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, the Jews “confirmed and took upon themselves” and their children after them to observe these two days of Purim (Esth. 9:27).

Now, logic dictates that the two key verbs should be in reverse order: not kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, but kibbelu ve-kiyyemu, first “took upon themselves,” accepted, and only then “confirmed” what they had previously accepted. It is probably because of this inversion of the proper order in our verse that the Rabbis read a special meaning into this term in a famous passage in the Talmud (Shabbat 88a). When the Lord revealed Himself at Sinai and gave the Torah, they tell us, kafah aleihem har ke-gigit—He, as it were, lifted up the mountain and held it over the heads of the Israelites gathered below as if it were a cask, and He said to them: “If you accept the Torah, good and well; but if not, sham tehei kevuratkhem, I shall drop the mountain on your heads, and here shall be your burial place.” Moreover, the Rabbis then drew the conclusions from this that the Israelites were coerced into accepting the Torah. R. Aha b. Ya‘akov maintained that if this is the case, then moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita—this becomes a strong protest against the obligatory nature of the Torah; it is “giving notice” to God that the Torah is not permanently binding, for the Torah is in the nature of a contract between God and Israel, and a contract signed under duress is invalid.

The other Rabbis of the Talmud treated this objection with great seriousness. Thus, Rava agreed that, indeed, the Torah given at Sinai was not obligatory because of the reason stated, that moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita; but, Rava adds: af al pi ken, hadar kibbeluha bi-yemei Ahashverosh, the Israelites reaffirmed the Torah voluntarily in the days of the Purim event, for it is written: Shabbat Parashat Zakhor 5728 (1968) kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, that the Israelites “confirmed“ and then “accepted,” which means: kiyyemu mah she-kibbelu kevar—after the Purim incident the Israelites confirmed what they had long ago accepted; that is, now, after their deliverance from Haman, they affirmed their voluntary acceptance of the Torah, which they originally had been forced to accept at Sinai. Therefore, since the days of Mordecai and Esther, we no longer possess the claim of moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita, of denying the obligatory nature of Torah because we accepted it originally under duress; for we affirmed it out of our own free will in the days of the Purim episode.

What does all this mean? The Rabbis offer us a double insight into both theology and psychology.

A moral act is authentic only if it issues out of genuine freedom of choice. The Torah is meaningful only if man is free to accept it or reject it. Spiritual life is senseless where it is coerced. “See,” the Torah tells us, “I give you this day life and death, benediction and malediction, u-vaharta ba-hayyim, and you shall choose life.” God gives us the alternative, and we are free to choose. Therefore, if I am forced at gun point to violate the Sabbath, I cannot be held responsible for my action. I am not guilty, because my act partakes of the nature of ones, compulsion. But coercion can be not only physical but also psychological, as when a man performs a criminal act in a seizure of insanity or other mental distress. Both the physical and the psychological deeds are characterized as ones. Even more so, extreme spiritual excitement also implies a denial of freedom and therefore lack of responsibility. Hence, if suddenly I am confronted by the vision of an angel who commands me to perform a certain mitzvah even at great risk to myself, and I proceed heroically to do just that, no credit can be given to me for my act. My freedom to decline pursuit of the mitzvah has almost vanished as a result of my unusual spiritual experience.

Thus, too, Israel at the foot of Sinai was engulfed in the historic theophany; they heard the voice of God directly in the great revelation of Torah. Of course, under the impress of such revelation, they accepted the Torah; they would have been insane not to. The felicitous and full confrontation with God elevates man to the highest ecstasy. But it robs from him his freedom to say no, to decline, to deny. And as long as man does not have the option of saying no, his yes has no merit. If he does not have the alternative to deny, then his faith is no great virtue. Faith and belief and submission and renunciation are all meaningful only in the presence of the moral freedom to do just the opposite.

Therefore, when I am faced with extremely happy circumstances, my freedom is diminished; even as it is when I am faced with a very harsh situation. When God honors me with His direct revelation, when I am privileged to hear His Anokhi, “I am the Lord thy God,” directly from Him, I am as unable to disbelieve and disobey as when He twists my arm and threatens me with complete extinction—sham tehei kevuratkhem—if I do not accept the Torah. God’s promises and His threats, the blessing of His presence and the threat of His wrath, are both coercive and force me to do His will under duress, without making a free choice of my own. Only a demon in human form would have done otherwise.

This, I believe, is what the Rabbis meant by their interpretation of Sinai as kafah aleihem har ke-gigit. They did not mean that literally and physically God raised a mountain over the heads of the assembled Israelites and threatened to squash them underneath. They did mean to indicate thereby that the very fact of God’s direct revelation was so overwhelming that Israel had no choice but to accept His Torah, as if He had literally raised a mountain over their heads. The common element, in both the symbol and what it represents, is a lack of freedom to do otherwise. For this reason the Rabbis conceded that moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita. Since the acceptance of the Torah was not voluntary, since we were morally coerced and spiritually forced and psychologically compelled to do what we did, then the Torah lacks that binding nature which can come only from free choice. Israel had no choice at Sinai; therefore, the contract called Torah cannot be considered obligatory.

I suggest that just as the felicity of God’s presence is coercive and curbs the freedom to disobey, so too the opposite, the tragedy of His absence, is coercive, and denies us the freedom to obey and believe. And just as when God reveals Himself it is as if He threatened us with sham tehei kevuratkhem, making our obedience mechanical and not virtuous, so too when He withdraws from us and abandons us, it requires a superhuman act of faith to believe, obey, pray, and repent. We are not morally responsible for lack of faith brought on by existential coercion.

Not long after the biblical tokhahah, the long list of horrible dooms predicted for Israel, we read the terrifying words: ve-amar ba-yom ha-hu, al ki ein Elokai be-kirbi metza’uni ha-ra‘ot ha-elleh, “and Israel shall say on that day, because God is not in the midst of me have all these evils befallen me” (Deut. 31:18). What does this mean? The commentator Ovadyah Seforno interprets it as the absence of God, the silluk Shekhinah, the withdrawal of the Divine Presence. This silluk Shekhinah will make Israel despair of prayer and repentance, and this despair will result in a further estrangement of Israel from God. Now, this kind of irreligion is not a heresy by choice, it is not a denial that issues from freedom. It is a coerced faithlessness. There are times when man is so stricken and pursued, so plagued and pilloried, that we dare not blame him for giving up his hope in God. Not everyone is a Job who can proclaim, lu yikteleni lo ayahel, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him” (Job 13:15).

When Elijah will come and proclaim the beginning of redemption, when the Messiah will appear and usher in the new age of universal peace and righteousness, when God will reveal Himself once again in the renewal of the institution of prophecy, at that time there will be no virtue in the return of Jews to Torah and the return of mankind to the canons of decency. For they will not have acted out of freedom, but out of moral compulsion and spiritual coercion. Similarly, we cannot really blame the victim of the concentration camp who called upon God out of his misery and received no answer, who was himself witness to the ultimate debasement of man created in the image of God. We cannot condemn him for abandoning religion, much as we would prefer that he emulate those few hardy souls who were able to survive the Holocaust with their faith intact. For both the presence and the absence of God, the silluk Shekhinah and the giluy Shekhinah, take away my freedom from me. In one case I am forced to accept Torah; in the other, to reject it. Under such conditions, moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita.

However, if freedom is denied to us in both revelation and withdrawal, if there is no praise for believing in God in the time of His presence and no blame for doubting Him during His absence, if both fortune and misfortune, happiness and tragedy, are equally coercive, if in each set of circumstances our attitude to Torah is considered involuntary—when then do we accept Torah out of freedom, and when is our loyalty praiseworthy and our kabbalat ha-Torah valid? The answer is: When God is neither present or absent; when He neither conceals nor reveals Himself; when Fortune neither smiles at us nor frowns at us. In a word, our freedom is greatest when life is neither here nor there! For then, and only then, do we have genuine options: to accept God and Torah, or to deny them; to choose the way of life and blessing, or the way of death and evil.

And it is this situation, that of “neither here nor there,” that prevailed during the Purim episode. The victory of the Jews over Haman and the frustration of his nefarious plot was a surprising triumph and showed that God had not abandoned us; but there were no overt miracles either, no clear and indisputable proof that God was present and responsible for our victory. That is why the Book of Esther is included in the Bible and yet is the only book in which the Name of God is not mentioned. That is why the Rabbis maintain that the very name “Esther” is indicative of the hiding of God, the lack of His full revelation and presence. The Megillah itself is described in the Book of Esther as divrei shalom ve-emet, “words of peace and truth”(Esth. 9:30). By emet, or truth, is meant the action of God directing the forces of history. Intelligent and wise people reading the Megillah, or experiencing it during that generation, know that all that has occurred is the result of the actions of God “Whose seal is Truth.” All the improbable events leading to the redemption of Israel were obviously the providential design of the God of Israel. But it was just as possible for one less endowed with spiritual insight to interpret all the events as shalom, peace, as a result of fortuitous events helped by the stupidity of the Persian king, the arrogance of Haman, and the wisdom of Mordecai: a diplomatic exploitation of unusually happy circumstances. Thus, the astounding victory was natural enough; there was no supernatural intervention in the affairs of the Jews of Persia. Therefore, the Purim story was “neither here nor there.” So Jews were free, authentically free, to interpret the events of that historical episode as they wished. Hence, if—as they did—they turned to God and accepted the Torah, this was a genuine and binding choice: kiyyemu ve-kibbelu. The first time, at Sinai, they accepted the Torah but without the freedom to reject it, and it therefore represented a moda‘ah rabbah le-Oraita, a protest against its obligatory nature because of the lack of freedom; but now, kiyyemu mah she-kibbelu kevar, they confirmed in freedom what they had previously accepted out of compulsion.

This lesson should not be lost on us in our individual lives. It is often said that in crisis, in the extraordinary moments of life, you can test the true character of a man. I do not believe that this is true, except if his reaction is contrary to expectations. If a man, for instance, responds heroically at a time of tragedy, he may be commended. But if he falls apart in extreme adversity, he cannot be condemned; he simply was not free to do otherwise. The same holds true in reverse situations. One who is friendly and charitable as a result of the miraculous recovery of a sick child may not yet be considered a man of nobility and generosity. He has almost been forced into charm and sweetness by his overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude.

When, then, can we tell what a man is really like? When may he be held morally accountable for his acts, and considered either guilty or praiseworthy? When he is free. And he is free when things are neither here nor there, when he is subject neither to elation nor depression, neither to the distress of adversity nor to the uplift of felicity.

It is in the Purims of life, when we have no clear proof that God is with us or against us, that there is a special virtue to accepting the Torah. Those who come to the synagogue and pray only on occasions of simhah, or when reciting the Kaddish, are doing the right thing. But the real test comes after the simhah or the eleven months of Kaddish—then, when things are neither here nor there, is the religious fiber of a personality tested. And not only is it tested, but at that time the decisions are more meaningful, more enduring, more lasting; for then the act of kiyyemu, confirmation, has kiyyum—enduring quality.

That is why I am not always happy with the famous statement of Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch that “the Jewish calendar is the catechism of the Jew.” This might possibly be interpreted as saying that the high moments of simhah and the low moments of tzarah define the Jew’s life. But I prefer the ordinary to the extraordinary. The real test of kabbalat ha-Torah is not Shavuot but Purim. The real test of loyalty is not on Passover with its manifest miracles, but on Hanukkah, which is more in the category of “neither here nor there.” What is accepted in high moments or rejected in low moments does not always last the great majority of moments and hours, of days and months and years, when we live neither on the mountains nor in the valleys but on the boring plateaus; when the days in the office and the evenings at home follow each other in dull succession. Then does our commitment have the greatest value, the strongest effect. Then it deserves the highest praise.

Halakhah is the discipline of the Jew in his daily routines. The Western mentality has not always understood the Halakhah. The Halakhah teaches man to acquire faith, to search for God, to sanctify himself, in the hundred and one prosaic acts of everyday existence when man is seized neither by joy nor sorrow, neither by love nor hate. It does not trust the religious experience of narcotic ecstasy, the easy religion of LSD, the attractive luxury of following the guru to India and meditating in silence—nor does it condemn the despair of the man who murmurs against God out of his misery. It challenges us to holiness in the course of a life which is neither here nor there. And when we respond to Halakhah’s call, when we answer with the act of kiyyemu ve-kibbelu, it stands us in good stead and keeps us level-headed and stout-hearted even in the extremes of life.

In decades past, in the horror of the Holocaust, we experienced many a moment when it seemed that God had abandoned us and forsaken us. Now we look forward to the vision of the renewal of prophecy and our manifest redemption when God will reveal Himself directly to us once again.

But now, in between these two poles, these two extreme ages, we live in Purim- type days, times that are neither here nor there religiously and spiritually.

Now, above all other times, we have both the freedom and the responsibility to confirm with all our hearts and all our souls the rousing declaration of ancient days, the na‘aseh ve-nishma.

Let it be said of us, as it was said of the generation of Mordecai: kiyyemu ve-kibbelu ha-Yehudim aleihem ve-al zar‘am, that we confirmed and accepted Torah and tradition upon ourselves and our children.

And then it shall be said of us, as it was said of Mordecai himself (Esth. 10:3), that we shall be gadol la-yehudim ve-ratzui le-rov ehav, great Jews, beloved by the majority of our brethren, doresh tov le-ammo, ve-dover shalom le-khol zar‘o, seeking only the welfare of our people, speaking only peace to all our children and descendants after us.

Excerpted from Rabbi Lamm’s ‘The Megillah: Majesty & Mystery,’ co-published by OU Press and Yeshiva University Press

Who is the real hero of the Megillah? Of course, if we refer the question to the folk-consciousness of our people, there is no doubt that the answer is either Esther or Mordecai. Remarkably, however, if we refer to the Megillah itself, we discover that the name mentioned most frequently throughout the entire book is that of King Ahashverosh. One nineteenth-century Jewish scholar went to the trouble of counting the number of times that the term melekh, king, appears in this little book. His study showed that the name appears no less than one hundred eight-seven times. King Ahashverosh is a central figure, the axis of the whole plot. All revolves about him, nothing occurs without him. At almost every point we are apprised of the feelings and emotions of Ahashverosh: the king is happy, the king is angry; the king is restless, the king is upset; the king is fuming, the king is drunk; the king commands, the king consents. Even the greatness of Mordecai is tied to the king. At the very end of the book, we read that “Mordecai the Jew was next unto King Ahashverosh.”

Yet, despite the fact that nothing seems to happen in this book without the ubiquitous king, he appears as a man who is feeble, spineless, unimaginative, and powerless. In the ten chapters of Megillat Esther, not one single act of importance is initiated by Ahashverosh — except, of course, his merry-making at parties and his romantic adventures. Even in these he shows no originality. He is angry at Vashti — but it is Memukhan who suggests that she be punished. He looks for a new queen — but only after the young men of his court have recommended it. He makes the decision to commit genocide against the Jewish people only because Haman has proposed it. Soon he gives his royal ring to Haman, thus making him, for all practical purposes, the ruler of the realm. Later he will give the same ring to Mordecai, thus gearing the whole apparatus of government to a new policy. And when he is fuming against Haman, he hangs him only because the idea is planted in his mind by one of his ministers. The Book of Esther shows a remarkable paradox: On the one hand, the king is an essential figure; on the other hand, he is a mere follower, a weakling, a king who reigns but does not rule. He is, in the words of our rabbinic tradition, a melekh tipesh — a foolish and ineffectual sovereign. He is a royal puppet; others hold the strings.

How does one account for this paradox? If Ahashverosh is really a nonentity, why does everything seem to revolve about him? The answer is that the Megillah, as a document promulgated by Mordecai and Esther, was, of necessity, addressed to two separate audiences. Primarily, it was written to and for their fellow Jews both of that age and all ages. But secondarily, it was a document which had to satisfy, or at least not offend, Ahashverosh, his royal court, and especially the official religion of the empire. The Jews of Persia triumphed, they were victorious, but they could not afford to assert their independence as openly as were the Maccabees able to do in a later era. they were still in galut. Hence, the tale must be subdued. It must be written on two levels: revealed and concealed, open and hidden, an outer and an inner story. And hence, in the words of Mordecai himself, the Megillah was sent to the Jewish communities of one hundred and twenty-seven provinces as divrei shalom ve-emet — “words of peace and truth.” To the Jews the story of the Megillah was emet — truth, the real story which they had to discover by a patient and careful perusal of the text. But the apparent story of the Megillah was not the same as the inner, true story for purposes of shalom, peacefulness and a desire not to offend the ruling circles and established religion. In other words, the Megillah is an unusually splendid example of a diplomatic document which tries to accommodate the competing demands of shalom and emet.

Let us try to analyze both levels, both stories. Look at the Megillah superficially, and you will notice that the royal court of Ahashverosh and the king himself are glorified, while the distinctively Jewish religious elements — which must have been offensive to Persian paganism — are subdued and only hinted at vaguely. Ahashverosh was probably proud of the praise of the melekh in the Megillah. He probably regarded it as a public relations coup, as a propaganda victory, as a worthy chronicle for the sovereign of one hundred and twenty-seven lands from India to Ethiopia.

Of the thirty-four times that the word mishteh (party or banquet) appears in all of Scripture, seventeen of them are in the Book of Esther. There is good reason for the elaborate description in the Megillah of the king’s court and his lavish banquets. The royal party was evidently a status symbol for Persian kings. The bigger the king, the bigger and the better his parties. The one described at the beginning of Megillat Esther lasted for no less than one hundred and eighty days. Vashti’s downfall occurred at a mishteh. Esther plans the destruction of Haman and the frustration of the pogrom at a mishteh. And when Mordecai and Esther declare for all generations the holiday of Purim, it consists, primarily, of a mishteh. These constant references to lavish parties, to the riches of Ahashverosh, to the extent of his realm, and attributing all actions to him, these are part of the attempt to appease the absolute monarch of this ancient empire. These are the words of shalom.

For the same reason, whatever there is of Judaism and Jewish religion in the Megillah is only in disguise. Thus, we are told that Mordecai refused to bow down to Haman. Our tradition tells us the reason — it was because Haman wore, around his neck, the statue of an idol. The Megillah itself, however, makes no mention of these religious scruples of Mordecai. A three-day fast assembly is declared by Esther and Mordecai. The Megillah mentions nothing about prayer, and certainly nothing about Him to Whom the prayers are directed. At the end we are told of the declaration of Purim as a holiday — but, aside from more parties, gifts, and charity, is there no thanksgiving? The Megillah tells nothing of this, or of Him to Whom thanks are given. There is only the vaguest hint: le-hiyot osim et shnei ha-yamin ha-elah — to “do” the two days of Purim. Those who know Jewish tradition will recognize that this refers to certain religious practices. But it is only a hint. It is certainly not explicit.

In the same manner, Haman’s accusations against the Jews were no doubt far more elaborate than they appear in the Megillah. The Megillah has toned them down, and recorded that Haman accused us only of being dispersed and “different.” In all probability, Haman told Ahashverosh that the Jews were dispersed and disunited — and that they were united only in their stubborn opposition to Persian paganism. Yet the Megillah does not mention this.

Finally, the clearest indication that we have here a “diplomatic” document with an inner story that is only hinted at, comes in the verses which describe Mordecai’s message to Esther when he discovers the nefarious plans of Haman’s program. Mordecai tells Esther that she must appear before the king to request his royal intervention lest succor come from another place (makom aher) and “who knows, u-mi yode’a,” whether you have not come to royal estate for such a time as this. these expressions — “another place” and “who knows” — are euphemisms for God. The Name of God does not appear at all in this book — strange for a Biblical book, is it not? So that God and Judaism are hinted at, but nowhere are they spelled out clearly.

Thus, insofar as the apparent story of the Megillah is concerned, Ahashverosh is at the center, whereas Judaism is deemphasized and peripheral. It is an apologetic document calculated to satisfy any third-rate Persian super-patriot. Still, the Jews knew the real meaning of the Megillah. They saw the emet despite the attempt at shalom. They did not need an interpreter. For the real story of the Megillah is the one that is concealed, not the superficial tale. And here there is no need to mention the Name of God, for the whole story is Godly, providential, and holy. The real story, the emet of the story of the Megillat Esther, is, as in all of the Torah — especially the story of Joseph — that every individual lives and acts on two levels On the lower, conscious, human level, he makes free-will decisions for which he is fully responsible. But they appear out of context, seemingly as if man is the true sovereign of the universe and there is no God Who has larger designs. Yet on a higher level, all these free, single, individual decisions and acts fall into an overall pattern determined and predestined by God Himself. Here man acts out the role already written by God. The true story, therefore, is that man is both puppet and puppeteer, master and servant of his fate, molder of and molded by his destiny.

This is the inner, real story of the Megillah. It tells us to look at the grandiose figure cut by Ahashverosh, the Persian potentate. In reality he is a weakling, a despicably ineffectual piece of putty in the hands of his underlings and especially the hands of his Creator. He thinks he directs the current of events when in fact he is swept along the mighty tides and swift streams of history like driftwood on a raging river.

Take each individual event of the Megillah’s story and it may appear insignificant. But put them together, and you have the marvelous unfolding of the will of the Hashgahah — Divine Providence. No individual detail seems to make too much sense in and of itself. But when you finish the reading of the story, they all fit into their places and assume a meaning that surpasses what the individual actors could possibly have known at the time they were performing their normal deeds. And throughout the story, the king who might otherwise — insofar as shalom is concerned — appear as the Great Man, appears to us, in emet, as a pawn and a puppet. He plays only a minor role in which there are greater actors, and in which the director and producer is the Almighty.

No wonder that the Book of Esther is part of Kitvei Kodesh, Holy Scripture. And no wonder that the Rabbis, asking, “Remez le-Esther min ha-Torah minayin, where do we find a hint or reference to Esther in the Bible?” answer: With the verse “ve-anokhi haster astir panai, and I shall hide my face on that day” (Hullin 139b). The name of Esther is etymologically related to the word hastir, to hide or conceal. The story of Esther is a story that is concealed within the book. Behind the veil of mundane events, in which man arrogantly assumes that he is the sole master of his own destiny and that all that counts is power and might, God smilingly, but in His mysterious way, guides His universe and directs the flow of history. The Book of Esther is, indeed, the story of hastir.

Megillat Esther, the document of divrei shalom ve-emet, words of peace and truth, is most appropriate to our own day. For we, not only one day a year, but throughout the twelve months, live a life of Purim. We will recall that the derivation of the word “Purim” is from the pur, the lots that Haman threw. Purim therefore means “fateful days,” and in these fateful days, with the imminent threat of cosmic catastrophe, all human beings, but especially Jews, must learn the two lessons of the Book of Esther. They are, first, that we must seek to accommodate the principles of shalom and emet; that it is possible for them to co-exist, to maintain the integrity of emet, or truth, and at the same time live a life of shalom, or peacefulness, as we have explained.

But even more important is the story of emet as such, the real, inner, concealed story of the Megillah. It is that, despite all appearances, nothing we do is insignificant or inconsequential in the eyes of God. Despite occasional feelings of inferiority and flashes of meaninglessness, we are all actors in a great, divine drama. Not all is as it appears to be. What sometimes appears as great might and overwhelming power is often only a mirage in the desert of life. And in that desert, the real oasis is the will of God, and the human aspiration to reach out for the Almighty and follow His ways. This is what Mordecai and Esther have taught us. And that is why, in the words of the Megillah, “their memories shall not vanish from their children” — nor from our children and our children’s children unto the end of time.

Excerpted from Rabbi Norman Lamm’s ‘Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages’– Leviticus, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

 The key verse in our sidra, which introduces the entire subject of sacrifices, reads: “adam k yakriv mikem korban laHashem,” “When any man of you bringeth an offering unto the Lord” (Leviticus 1:2). The Zohar, intrigued by the use of the term “adam,” declares that by this word, “man,” the Torah means neither the first man nor the last man. Rather, the Torah is concerned with the faith, the devotion, and the love of all mankind in between man at the very beginning of time and man at the very end of time.

What the Zohar tells us is that for the first man and the last man, devotion to the Almighty is not an extraordinary achievement. The first man, Adam, lived in Paradise, he had every indication of God’s bounty, and his communication with the Lord was clear and direct. Certainly, it required no great moral effort for him to believe in and worship God. Man at the end of time is one who will have experienced the complete redemption, and who will have enjoyed the divine revelation at the termination of history. For him, too, faith will not be an act of moral heroism, for he will have seen the hand of God acting in history. For these individuals, paradoxically, korban is not a sacrifice, and loyalty to the Creator is not a particularly noteworthy mitzva. But it is for the man in the middle of the course of history, for the Adam who flourishes neither at the beginning nor at the end of time, for whom korban is a sublime accomplishment. For man in the middle of the course of history, for whom certainties are elusive, for whom faith is so difficult, who dwells neither in Paradise nor in a state of redemption – for him korban and emuna are an unexampled and unparalleled triumph of the human spirit (see Ateret Mordechai by Rabbi Mordechai Rogov).

The real mitzva is accomplished when the korban laHashem is offered by man who finds himself in the middle of time and history, his horizons beclouded by uncertainty, his heart filled with fear, his innards pulled apart by anxiety, and his prayers doomed to frustration.

The period we live in is such a middle period, neither at the beginning of time nor at the end of time. We live in a time that the Bible has called hester panim, the hiding of God’s face, when we yearn for some experience of His presence, but we are disappointed; when we strive to communicate with Him, but receive no answer; when we are willing to submit our very lives to him, but we fear that He doesn’t care; when He seems to have vanished from our midst without leaving a trace; when life appears meaningless and existence absurd. How easy for modern man, living in the middle of this hester panim, to yield to despair, to cease praying, to quit believing. And it is precisely because of this that it becomes his crowning achievement to believe despite doubt, to hope despite despair, to continue to pray despite divine silence. It is this high resolve of the “man in the middle” performing the act of faith that makes him a true adam, a true human being.

But I believe that the verse we have just discussed and interpreted is meant as more than a compliment to the “the man in the middle” who retains his faith, and more than an encouragement to continue on his way. I believe that if we examine this verse carefully we shall also find in it the beginnings of an answer to the question of questions for modern man, the man in the middle: How and where shall we discover the sources of faith? How shall we acquire emuna sheleima, complete faith, in a world gripped by skepticism, in a society soaked in cynicism, in a civilization that has permitted holocausts and obscenities known as concentration camps? How shall we be adam in an age which is neither first nor last? How shall we offer ourselves up laHashem when we dwell neither in Paradise nor in a state of complete redemption? How shall we emerge from bedeviling doubt into the fortitude of faith? What advice do we have for that man in the middle who would like to believe but finds that he cannot?

I believe we can find three suggestions that await us in our verse. Let us take them in the order in which they appear.

First, “adam ki yakriv,” if a man “yakriv” – that word means not only to offer up, but also to draw close, to come karov, close, to God. Faith is not a gift that magically appears out of heaven and graces the lucky individual. It is something which requires great and strenuous effort. Emuna is not a state; it is a process which demands study and experience and thinking and willingness and labor and diligence.

In Judaism, unlike other religions, we do not accept uncritically the apparently logical idea that faith must precede religious practice. On the contrary, Judaism prefers the psychological truth to the logical statement, and holds that emuna and mitzva feed on each other, that often leading the right kind of life will bring man to the right kind of belief. It is possible for a man to believe – and yet to live like a pagan. However, if man will live like a Jew, even if he thinks like a pagan, ultimately he will come to think and believe as a Jew should, too.

In the Jerusalem Talmud (Ĥagiga 1:3), the Rabbis put, as it were, into the mouth of God some very bold words: “halevai oti azavu ve’et Torati shamaru,” “Would that the Jews abandoned Me as long as they observed My Torah!” That is, let the Jew hold in abeyance his belief in God, as long as he studies Torah, performs mitzvot, and leads a moral and ethical Jewish existence. For then, having experienced Judaism pragmatically, he will ultimately arrive at emuna: “hase’or sheba haya mekarvan etzli,” the inner leavening agent of Jewish existence will bring him back to God. In other words, “adam ki yakriv” means that man must take the initiative in reaching out to God; he must commit himself to Jewish living, in the confidence – which Judaism promises us will be vindicated – that this kind of life and these kinds of deeds will lead him to become karov, close, to Almighty God.

Now this refers not only to a commitment of deeds, but also to a commitment of emotions. I recommend that you read, if you have not already done so, Elie Wiesel’s Jews of Silence, his description of his visit to Russian Jewry. He describes the current generations of Russian Jews, young people who were never permitted to hear a Jewish word, to learn a Biblical verse, to hear a single tale or law of the Talmud. Their minds were filled with nothing but materialism and Marxism, and they consider themselves good Russian Marxists. Yet, they also prefer to be known as Jews, no matter what the risk. And how do they express this nascent and latent love of Judaism and the Jewish people? What is it that brings them back to the synagogue? Not the shofar on Rosh HaShana, not even Kol Nidre or Ne’ila on Yom Kippur, but the singing and the dancing on Simĥat Torah! We, in America, all too often take these festivities on this holiday in a sense of amusement, as a semi-humorous manifestation of levity. Yet in Moscow, every fall, on this day, in front of the Great Synagogue, thousands of young Jewish Marxists gather together to sing and to dance their devotion to Judaism! “Adam ki yakriv” – these are Jews, long alienated by the strong hand of Communism, who are drawing close by committing their emotions, by committing their joy and their happiness, to Judaism! No matter what they believe intellectually, no matter how they live the rest of the year, this commitment of their deepest and their most cherished emotions of Jewish joy is an indication that there survives in them the “pintelle yid,” that precious dot of Jewishness that, with the help of God, will someday bring them completely back to Judaism and, it is our fervent hope, to the State of Israel.

The first means of rediscovering the sources of faith, then, is to live as a Jew, both in general conduct and in emotional attachments, and thereby return to full Jewish faith.

The second means is by remembering that faith, in Judaism, is not entirely personal and individual; it also reflects the experience of our whole people and its history. That is why we speak of ourselves not as individuals who, all together, constitute a people, but rather as individuated members of keneset Yisrael, the congregation of Israel. That is why prayer is encouraged by individuals in their homes, but it is preferable that we worship in a minyan. The faith that each individual Jew has or seeks can be strengthened by associating with other faithful Jews, so that all together we will find strength in each other.

Thus, the next word of our key verse is: “mikem,” “from amongst you” – “adam ki yakriv mikem.” We can become the right kind of spiritual adam only if we issue from the right kind of mikem, only if we seek our most intimate associations with people who have similar inspirations and aspirations. That is why our Rabbis commented (Ĥulin 5a) on “mikem – velo mumar,” that this excludes the willful heretic, that in our Sanctuary we may not accept the sacrificial offering of one who rejects God with malice aforethought.

We have spoken often of the need for modern Orthodox Jews to view their fellow Jews, with whom they disagree and from whose opinions they dissent, with love and understanding, and that in general we must open ourselves up to the modern world and the best of its culture. But that does not mean that we must break down all the defenses that life and nature permit us; that we must yield our most intimate lives to the pervasive non-Jewish influence of the great world around us. It means that we must seek out for our own closest friendships those who will serve to enhance our religious devotion rather than to detract from it. It means that we must create for ourselves the right sort of family environment, that we must seek the proper communal milieu, and live only in an appropriate residential area where we can enjoy the kind of society that will help us in our aspirations to find Jewish fulfillment in life. Only one who is possessed of foolhardy self-confidence can believe that he can survive with his Jewishness intact in a neighborhood or society where Jewishness is either ignored or derided; and such a person stands condemned of committing spiritual suicide. We must know in advance that we will not remain Jewish if we move into a literally God-forsaken neighborhood just because we prefer the social status of certain exclusive areas. So too, we can have little hope for our children to remain in the Jewish fold if we send them to schools in remote areas in which Jewishness is an oddity, and if we let them spend their summer vacations in children’s camps where the word “Torah” is never heard.

The third means to full Jewish loyalty I find in the next two words, “korban laHashem,” “an offering to the Lord.” I base this idea on a discourse by one of the greatest teachers of Mussar in the last generation, Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler of England and Israel (see Mikhtav MeEliyahu, vol. I, pp. 32-39). We all know that mankind is by nature acquisitive. Psychology teaches it, experience confirms it, and we know it intuitively. From the moment a person is born he begins to grasp whatever he can. What we do not sufficiently appreciate, however, is that there is another and opposite tendency that is indigenous to human beings: the desire to give as well as to receive. That humans should possess this wish to give is, from the Jewish point of view, only natural. For our tradition teaches us that mankind is created in the image of God, which means that in many respects we resemble the Creator. And God has no need to take from us; He only gives. That is why one of His attributes is ĥessed, love, or the capacity for giving of Himself. The very creation of the world, as King David puts it in Psalms (89:3), is an act of ĥessed, “olam ĥessed yibaneh”, and the revelation of Torah is an act of giving and ĥessed as well. Therefore man, created in His image, resembles the Creator in possessing this inherent desire to give of himself.

Connected with this concept of giving is the fact of love. It is worth pondering, says Rabbi Dessler, which comes first, or which is cause and which is effect – the act of giving or the act of love? Does a person love first and then give to his beloved because he loves, or is it perhaps reversed – that an individual gives and as a result that individual loves? That we normally bestow gifts upon those we love – that is fairly evident. What is less evident, but equally true, is that the act of giving itself enhances love and often creates it. When I give of my time and my substance and my talents to another human being, I feel I have invested in him or in her and therefore my attachment and my affection and love grow every time I give and in proportion to what I give. In this sense, the giving is the cause and the loving is the effect. The Rabbis taught us this same truth: “If you desire to love your friend, do something good for him!” (Derekh Eretz Zuta, ch. 2).

This advice is most pertinent for young couples about to be married – or even married already. Whatever you do, do not make demands upon each other! It is the quickest way to frustrate the development of true conjugal love. This is one time that an Orthodox rabbi pleads with his people not to live according to the Shulĥan Arukh! It is a sad state of affairs when a couple must adjudicate their differences by reference to the code of Jewish law. The Shulĥan Arukh elaborates the claims of a husband upon a wife and a wife upon a husband. And when a couple is reduced to legal action based upon mutual claims, they are in desperate trouble indeed. The ideal of Jewish married life is to live so that there shall be no need to resort to the arbitration of Jewish law. Therefore, there should be no demands upon each other – instead, each partner must make it his or her business to give and give and give. It is the only way to transform infatuation into love, momentary attraction into permanent bonds – give your time, give your loyalty, give your talent, give your affection, give pleasure and joy and happiness, give gifts, give attention and concern – and from this there will blossom love and ultimately the fruits of profound and lifelong affection and loyalty.

Now the same principle should be applied to religion. We have spoken of faith, but that is an abstraction. Jews prefer to speak of ahava, love, for that is about passion. More than believing in God, we are commanded to love Him. Judaism recognizes that the love for God is indigenous in the human heart; religion is not grafted on to us artificially from without, but pre-exists within us. The question is, how shall we express it and enhance it? And the answer is – “korban laHashem,” you must learn to give to God. When we give of our time by getting up early to pray with a minyan, when we give of our substance to the causes of the Almighty, such as a synagogue or school or charity, when we give our attention and our concern to Him and His people, then the process of giving enhances the love we bear for Him within. The more we give, the more we love. The person who would like to believe but cannot, ought to learn how to give – then that individual will not only believe, but will also love.

In summary then, how does one become an adam in this middle of time? First, one must commit, in action and emotion, to seek out God. Second, one must provide one’s self with a society and environment of Jewishness. And third, one must give of one’s self and one’s possessions to the Almighty and His causes, and then that individual will learn to have love, which is even more than faith.

When we have done this, we shall attain the status of adam, as genuine human beings in the middle of history. And then we shall deserve, in return, the attention and affection of the Creator. For the Midrash (Leviticus Rabba 2:8) tells us that the word adam has particular meaning; it is “leshon ĥiba vileshon aĥva vileshon rei’ut” – the language of divine love and brotherliness and friendship.