Category: Excerpts

Excerpted from Foundation of Faith: A Tapestry of Insights and Illumination on Pirkei Avot based on the Thought and Writings of Rabbi Norman Lamm, The Gibber Edition, edited by Rabbi Mark Dratch, co-published with Ktav Publishing

Chapter 1

Moses received the Torah from Sinai and transmitted it to Joshua, and Joshua to the Elders, and the Elders to the Prophets, and the Prophets transmitted it to the Men of the Great Assembly. They said three things: Be deliberate in judgment; raise up many disciples; and make a fence around the Torah.

Why did the Sages choose this particular tractate as the one to introduce the chain of Tradition?

The answer offered by R. Ovadiah Bartenora, and others, is that the other tractates are all halakhic, legal. This tractate is fundamentally that of musar, morals and ethics. Now, it is obvious – if one does not delude oneself, and despite the futile efforts to do so by certain movements in Jewish life – that Halakhah is meaningful only if it is rooted intradition, in divine authority.  For the Halakhah to survive 2,000 years of Jewish exile, when we had no police force and very few means of coercion, it had to be subscribed to on the basis of its authority, the authority of Sinai. Otherwise, it would be like playing a game where you make up your own rules as you go on.

However, Avot is all musar. It is constituted largely of private dicta, such as “hu hayah omer, he used to say,” and one might therefore assume that it is highly individualistic, it is all subjective and a product of personal imagination, sentiments, and ideas, that Halakhah is “hard” and musar is “soft.”

Hence, we begin this particular tractate with the account of the origin of tradition, Moshe kibel Torah miSinai. Ethics, like law, derives from a divine sanction; morality, no less than Halakhah, is firm, fixed, not subject to human whim. Both musar and Halakhah have their roots in mesorah.

The word musar is not grammatically related to mesorah, but the fact that they sound alike points to a conceptual continuity between them: Musar too has a sacred mesorah, tradition: it derives from Moshe kibel Torah miSinai umesarah leYehoshua.

Torah min Hashamayim

Torah is not only God-given; it is also Godly. The divine word is not only uttered by God, it is also an aspect of God Himself. All of the Torah – its ideas, its laws, its narratives, its aspirations for the human community – lives and breathes godliness. Hillel Zeitlin described the Ḥasidic interpretation of revelation (actually it was even more true of their opponents, the Mitnagdim, and ultimately derived from a common Kabbalistic source) as not only Torah min hashamayim (Torah from Heaven) but Torah shehi shamayim (Torah that is Heaven). It is in Torah that God is most immediately immanent and accessible, and the study of Torah is therefore not only a religious commandment per se, but the most exquisite and the most characteristically Jewish form of religious experience and communion. For the
same reason, Torah is not only legislation, Halakhah, but in broadest meaning, Torah – teaching, a term that includes the full spectrum of spiritual edification: theological and ethical, mystical and rhapsodic.

Excerpted from Jerry Hochbaum’s The Hidden Light: Biblical Paradigms for Leadership, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishers

A Critical Ingredient of Jewish Leadership

Parashat Tetzaveh is unique in one very unusual respect: Moshe’s name is omitted from its entire text. Everywhere else in the Torah we read, “Vayedaber Hashem el Moshe,” God calls out to Moshe to do something or say something. A vital ingredient of Moshe’s leadership is revealed by this omission in Tetzaveh.

The commentaries provide a multitude of explanations concerning this matter. Rabbi Shlomo Aviner, for example, offers a creative insight that touches on one of the major qualities required of leaders, especially Jewish religious ones. At Sinai, God reveals the Torah to the Jewish people. Moshe, His emissary in this enterprise, is instructed to transmit that revelation to the Jewish people completely intact, exactly as it has been revealed to him. Moshe is the messenger, not the message in any form or manner. He may not convey the Torah in any other fashion – “oisgeticht un oisgebessert,” as they say in Yiddish – not reformulated, reinterpreted, or better presented than the original transmission. A sliver of ego here can either dilute or even deconstruct both the message and the messenger’s mission. Ego among leaders, however subtle, unless kept under strict control, can lead to self-aggrandizement at the cost of distorting the message.

Moshe fully recognizes his own special capacities and genius, as great men usually do. But the Torah lauds him solely for his modesty, his greatest attribute as leader of the Jewish people. It is spiritual accomplishments, not public kudos, to which great moral leaders aspire. Those accomplishments, even if not immediately visible or attributed to them, reward them with true  fulfillment.

In Parashat Pekudei, the Torah describes the completion of the construction of the Tabernacle. “Vatekhel kol avodat Mishkan Ohel Mo’ed,” all the work of the Mishkan has now been completed. This sentence describes its completion in the most passive manner. It has been completed as if by itself in some miraculous manner. But the Torah quickly adds, to offset Moshe’s invisibility in Parashat Tetzaveh, that it happens because “k’khol asher tzivah Hashem et Moshe ken asu,” Moshe acts as he was instructed, without engaging in or promoting his own person. That is one of the major requisites of great leadership.

Here is a second pertinent example: the Torah relates that after the akeidah, the final and most demanding test Avraham confronted, “v’Avraham shav limkomo,” Avraham returned to his former place, with no press conference, TV appearances, or magazine articles lauding his and his son’s courage and devotion. The action completed, Avraham moves along to the next challenge in the continual evolution of his patriarchy of the Jewish people.

Another story illustrates this quality even in our time, in a much less exalted situation. When the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge connecting Brooklyn and Staten Island was completed, a massive celebration was organized in Brooklyn. All the important political and communal leaders of New York City and the state were invited. The bridge was a major engineering feat and an outstanding accomplishment aesthetically. All the politicians who spoke there elaborated in great detail their role in making it happen.

The only one not invited to speak was the leading engineer who had conceived and supervised its construction. A reporter noted this, and queried him about how he felt about his failure to be recognized. The engineer responded in a most straightforward fashion. He said that every time he viewed the bridge, he looked up at it with great admiration. He, of course, knew who built it, despite what the politicians were saying. And that was enough for him.

May this contemporary reflection of the quality of the leadership of our greatest leader, Moshe, go from that engineer’s mouth to the ears of some of the current crop of the lesser leaders of both our American society and the Jewish community.

Excerpted from Rabbi Haim Jachter’s Bridging Traditions: Demystifying Differences Between Sephardic and Ashkenazic Jews, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Warming Food on Shabbat Sephardic-Style

Imagine the following scene: An Ashkenazic family is visiting a Sephardic family for Shabbat. On Shabbat morning, the Sephardic hostess removes chicken in sauce from the refrigerator and places it straight on the Shabbat tin (what Ashkenazic Jews refer to as a blech). The Ashkenazic family is shocked; they would never place cold food on the tin on Shabbat, even if it were solid and completely cooked! The Ashkenazim wonder if they are permitted to eat food that was reheated in this manner. Luckily, they are able to consult their Rav, who informs them that their Sephardic hosts are simply following the approach of Rav Ovadia Yosef (Teshuvot Yeĥaveh Da’at 2:45).

Eno Derech Bishul
The Shulĥan Aruch (Oraĥ Ĥayim 253:5) rules that on Shabbat, one may place fully-cooked solid food on top of a pot filled with food cooking on the fire “because this is not the way of cooking,” “eno derech bishul.” This permitted method of haĥazara (returning food to the fire) is referred to as “kedera al gabei kedera.” Since people do not cook food this way, this obviates any concern for meĥzei k’mevashel, the appearance of cooking. It does not appear like cooking, and the fact that one is reheating the food in this unusual manner demonstrates that he is not interested in stirring the coals (or adjusting the flame).

Ashkenazic authorities debate whether a non-adjustable hot-plate or warming table constitutes a permissible method for reheating food on Shabbat. Those who adopt the lenient approach argue that since people do not cook on a hot-plate or warming table, it is a permissible method to reheat food, similar to the kedera al gabei kedera method. Rav Mordechai Willig (The Laws of Cooking and Warming Food on Shabbat, pp. 145–148) rules leniently, whereas the Shemirat Shabbat K’Hilchata (1:25) rules strictly.

Rav Ovadia Yosef wholeheartedly endorses the lenient opinion, arguing that a non-adjustable hot-plate successfully avoids concern for adjusting the flame and the appearance of cooking. Moreover, he argues that even simply placing a tin over the fire successfully obviates these concerns. Ashkenazic authorities do not accept this last point, since the Be’ur Halacha (253:3, s.v. v’yizaher) rules in accordance with the Peri Megadim, who argues that kedera al gabei kedeira does not appear as cooking only if the bottom pot is filled with food. Rav Ovadia, on the other hand, follows the view of the Maĥatzit HaShekel, who permits kedera al gabei kedera even if the bottom pot does not contain food.

Reheating a Solid with Much Liquid
The above discussion relates to reheating fully-cooked solid food. The Rama rules (Oraĥ Ĥayim 318:15) that one may not reheat a liquid that has completely cooled down, and according to the Shulĥan Aruch, a liquid may not be reheated if it has cooled down to a temperature of less than yad soledet bo.*

The question of reheating solid food that has some liquid in it has been debated by the Aĥaronim for centuries. Some Aĥaronim (the Baĥ, Vilna Gaon, and Mishna Berura 318:32, 104) maintain that a food must be entirely free of liquid to qualify as a solid. This approach argues that there  is no difference whether one is heating a small or large amount of liquid; just as heating the large amount of liquid is forbidden, as both the Rama and Shulĥan Aruch state, so too is heating a small amount of liquid in a solid food.

Other Aĥaronim (including the Taz, Peri Megadim, and the Kaf HaĤayim, Oraĥ Ĥayim 318:62) maintain that if the majority of a food is solid, it is classified as a solid. The logic of this approach is that the minority of liquid is “batel,” nullified to the majority of solid food.

Rav Yosef Adler cites the view of Rav Yosef Dov Soloveitchik as offering a practical guideline: If the food is eaten with a fork, it is a solid; if it is eaten with a spoon, it is a liquid. On the other hand, Rav Moshe Feinstein (Teshuvot Igrot Moshe 4:74:Bishul:7) rules in accordance with the strict view, except perhaps in a case of great need. Rav Shimon Eider (Halachos of Shabbos, p. 259, n. 114) presents a cogent defense of the lenient view based on an idea of Rav Tzvi Pesaĥ Frank. Most Ashkenazic Jews, however, follow the strict opinion of Rav Moshe.

Rav Ovadia follows the view of the Minĥat Kohen, who rules that one may follow the lenient approach and place cold, fully-cooked solid food that has some liquid in it on the tin on Shabbat morning. Two great contemporaries of Rav Ovadia, Rav Ben Tzion Abba Sha’ul (Teshuvot Ohr L’Tzion 2:30:13) and Rav Shalom Messas (Teshuvot Tevu’ot Shemesh, Oraĥ Ĥayim 66), strongly challenged Rav Ovadia’s ruling. Nevertheless, Rav Ovadia stood firm, confirming his original position in his elder years without any reservation, especially since he marshals evidence that this is the Minhag Yerushalayim (Teshuvot Yabia Omer 7: Oraĥ Ĥayim 42:6; Teshuvot Yabia Omer 9: Oraĥ Ĥayim 108:169).

Conclusion
May Ashkenazim eat food on Shabbat that was reheated by Sephardic Jews in accordance with Rav Ovadia’s ruling? The answer is an unequivocal yes. Although it is forbidden to benefit from work performed in a forbidden manner on Shabbat, this is only a Rabbinic prohibition. The Mishna Berura (318:2, citing the Peri Megadim) and Yalkut Yosef (Oraĥ Ĥayim 253:11) permit eating food cooked in accordance with a legitimate opinion that one does not follow, since we may rule leniently about Rabbinic matters. Thus, even though Ashkenazic Jews refrain from reheating food in this manner due to a possible violation of Halacha, once the food has been prepared, an Ashkenazic Jew may rely on the lenient view and enjoy the food. Accordingly, the Ashkenazic family in our hypothetical example may enjoy without reservations the food reheated by their Sephardic hosts, even if the Sephardim follow a more lenient approach than the Ashkenazim.

 

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*Rav Zecharia Ben-Shlomo (Orot HaHalacha, p. 335) notes that many Yemenite  Jews follow the ruling of the Rambam (Hilchot Shabbat 22:8) that one may reheat a fully-cooked liquid even if it has completely cooled. Rav Eliezer Melamed (http://www.israelnationalnews.com/Articles/Article.aspx/23093) and the Yalkut Yosef (Oraĥ Ĥayim 253:11) note that it is permissible for all Jews to eat hot soup served at a home of a Yemenite Jew who follows this ancestral practice.

Excerpted from Rabbi Haim Jachter’s Bridging Traditions: Demystifying Differences Between Sephardic and Ashkenazic Jews, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Clapping on Shabbat

At a recent Bar Mitzva celebration at a West Coast Sephardic congregation, a well-meaning and beloved visiting Ashkenazic rabbi began to lead the community in song, dance, and clapping. This caused an awkward moment, as Sephardic Jews refrain from clapping their hands to song on Shabbat and Yom Tov.

The Mishna’s Prohibition
The mishna in Betza (36b) includes clapping and dancing on Shabbat and Yom Tov on a fairly long list of gezerot, Rabbinic decrees forbidding certain actions to prevent the violation of a Torah violation on these holy days. The gemara explains that Ĥazal feared that if we were to clap hands and dance to song on Shabbat, we would come to play and eventually fix or tune a musical instrument, a violation of the melacha of makeh bepatish.

Many Rishonim codify this ruling, including the Rambam (Hilchot Shabbat 23:5) and the Rif, Rabbenu Ĥananel, Rosh, and Meiri (on Betza 36b). Tosafot (Betza 30a s.v. Tenan), however, maintain that this gezera no longer applies, as the people in their time were no longer proficient in tuning musical instruments.

Tosafot’s approach is surprising. First, we remain, certainly in our times, capable of fixing and tuning musical instruments. Second, it is axiomatic that Rabbinic decrees remain in effect even if the reason for their enactment no
longer applies (“davar shebeminyan tzarich minyan aĥer l’hatiro”; Betza 5a).

Rav Yosef Karo, the primary Sephardic halachic authority, follows in the path of the majority of Rishonim in ruling that this decree remains in full effect in our times (Shulĥan Aruch, Oraĥ Ĥayim 339:3), whereas the Rama, the major Ashkenazic codifier, presents Tosafot’s approach as normative, noting that the common practice of Ashkenazic communities is to follow the lenient approach of Tosafot. It is important to note that the Mishna Berura (339:10) is not enthusiastic about this Ashkenazic practice and prefers adopting a strict approach to this matter.

Rav Ovadia Yosef vs. Aruch HaShulĥan
Not surprisingly, Rav Ovadia Yosef (Teshuvot Yabia Omer 3: Oraĥ Ĥayim 22; Teshuvot Yeĥaveh Da’at 2:57) vigorously endorses the ruling of the Shulĥan Aruch. Moreover, he even goes as far as to convince Ashkenazic Jews to refrain from clapping and dancing to song on Shabbat and Yom Tov.

Nonetheless, as noted by the Aruch HaShulĥan (Oraĥ Ĥayim 339:9), the Ashkenazic custom to be lenient has persisted. This is likely due to the fact that it is a bit counterintuitive to forbid clapping on Shabbat and Yom Tov lest one come to fix a musical instrument. Although the Aruch HaShulĥan rejects the justification offered by Tosafot and the Rama for this practice, he offers an interesting original defense, arguing that the gezera applies only to clapping and dancing to music that is being played. Clapping and dancing when music is not being played is not included in the gezera and is thus permitted on Shabbat and Yom Tov.

Although the Aruch HaShulĥan’s logic is compelling, Rav Ovadia notes that it lacks a solid basis in the gemara. Rav Ovadia is generally quite fond of the Aruch HaShulĥan’s approach to Halacha, and he quotes him frequently, but regarding this matter, Rav Ovadia believes that the ruling of the Aruch HaShulĥan’s view is not supported by proper evidence.

The great early twentieth-century Ĥassidic master, the Munkatcher Rebbe, attempted to defend the Ĥassidic practice to clap and dance to song on Shabbat and Yom Tov in his classic work Teshuvot Minĥat Elazar (1:29). He argues that the gezera never applied to a situation of mitzva, such as when Ĥassidim engage in singing in holy ecstasy.

Rav Ovadia handily dismisses this contention, however, noting that another great Ĥassidic Rebbe and Halachist – Rav Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the first Lubavitcher Rebbe – forbids clapping and dancing on Shabbat and Yom Tov even at a mitzva occasion, such as a rejoicing with a new bride and groom (Shulĥan Aruch HaRav 339:2).

Conclusion
Rav Ovadia concludes that one should gently urge any Jew who claps and dances to music on Shabbat and Yom Tov to refrain from doing so. However, Rav Yitzĥak Yosef (Yalkut Yosef, Oraĥ Ĥayim 339:5) limits this reproach to a Sephardic Jew who claps or dances to music on Shabbat and Yom Tov.

Even Rav Ovadia relents somewhat, permitting simply walking around in a circle while singing holy songs on Shabbat and Yom Tov, since this hardly qualifies as dancing (end of Teshuvot Yeĥaveh Da’at 2:57). Alumni  of Yeshivat Har Etzion are fondly familiar with this approach, as our beloved Rav Aharon Lichtenstein similarly permitted only a shuffle around the hallway after the Friday night tefilla at the Yeshiva in joyously welcoming the holy day. Rav Shmuel Khoshkerman, however, is reluctant to permit even this sort of shuffle, since it may lead to confusion; if shuffling is permitted, people will think that full-fledged dancing is permissible as well.

Excerpted from In the Narrow Places: Daily Inspiration for the Three Weeks by Dr. Erica Brown, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Beyond Words: A Closing Thought for Tisha B’Av

There are times when words are on fire, and there are times when pain is so great that there are no words. We hear a survivor tell us stories of the crematoria. A natural disaster takes thousands of lives. Genocide goes unstopped. An illness takes over a human life and reduces it to indignities. These experiences are described with words, but never fully captured by them: words are a betrayal. Silence, at such times, seems like the only authentic response to tragedy. The Kotzker Rebbe once said, “The whole world isn’t worth uttering a sigh for.” The sigh is a non-word that signifies disgust or resignation or despair. Tisha B’Av is a day of sighs. By the end of the day, we have created a mountain of such sighs.

Many kinot actually incorporate the sound of the sigh with onomatopoeic flourish. In Kina 32, “Etzbe’otai Shafelu,” we read:

Wasted by sin, hands wretched in pain.
Oh! What has become of us?”

“Oh! What has become of us!” is the refrain, the repetition of words when words lose all meaning.

We experience this tension of language in Kina 9, “Eikha Tifarti”:
Rise! Knock! Scream! Be not silent!
Even pray in the voice of a ghost from the grave.
I have suffered so that I am almost mute…

We move from the audible, powerful pounding on a door, screaming to be let in, to the still, small voice of a ghost from the grave. Suffering makes us mute; it moves us incrementally from a world of sound to a world of silence.

We see this process in Eikha itself. In chapter 2, the distraught Jeremiah says, “Arise, cry out in the night, at the beginning of the watches; pour out your heart like water before the face of the Lord” (Lam. 2:19). Our loudest yelling loses its potency and turns into the water of tears. Our emotional range moves from anger to denial, stubborn rage to impotence, critical debate to irrational jostling with God.

A friend who lost a child once told me that for nights on end she would scream until her voice collapsed and with it, her soul became faint. She would complete this exercise of pain in a puddle of tears. Listening to her suffering, I understood that she used her voice as a sacrifice on the altar of the human condition. No amount of crying would bring her son back, but if she lost her voice, she would somehow echo the universe of loss she now occupied.

As a youth, Rabbi Soloveitchik once asked his father why so many questions in the Talmud remain unanswered. His father explained to him that God wishes to teach us a lesson that “not every event and happening
can be comprehended by the limited mortal mind.” The Rav internalized this lesson when he wrote: “With all his broken heart and unanswered questions, the mortal must yet exclaim, ‘Who is like unto Thee, O Lord, among the mighty!’”

As Tisha B’Av closes, we find ourselves worn down by the litany of sadness. We have spent a day reciting thousands of words that perhaps can best be summed up with a sigh and a cry and a pounding on the door, all the non-verbal acts that ask “why” more loudly than words. And then, if we are honest, we retreat into the silence, the collapse of the soul when the words have spent their course. In that silence we stand as if to hear the silence of embers floating in a Jerusalem morning the day after the Temple was reduced to ash, and we look again for God.

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Leviticus, co-published by OU Press, Maggid Books, and YU Press; edited by Stuart W. Halpern

The Kohen Today*

In an important essay published not too long ago, Dr. Samuel Belkin, President of Yeshiva University, presented a creative insight into the understanding of the commandments of the Torah. There is a great literature on ta’amei hamitzvot, the reasons for the commandments. What Dr. Belkin proposed is a fundamental distinction between the “reason” for a mitzva and the “purpose” of the commandment. The reason is historical, it is something about which man may speculate and conjecture; but ultimately it is known with certainty only to God Himself. Actually, the reason for legislating a mitzva does not make too much difference – it is of little consequence to us. What is of importance, however, is the purpose of the mitzva. Here we must always ask ourselves: What is it the Torah wants me to accomplish as a result of performing this mitzva? The reason for a mitzva remains the same through all eternity, although it may always remain unknown to man. The purpose may change from generation to generation, from culture to culture, from society to society. While the reason is divine, the purpose is human – and, therefore, while all of us observe the same mitzvot in the same manner, each observance may mean something subtly different for each individual person. Hence, while it may be fruitless to inquire into the reason for a mitzva, it is most worthwhile to investigate the purpose of the mitzvot.

It is in this spirit that we may ask a fundamental question about the teachings of this morning’s sidra. That is, what is the purpose of the institution of kehuna, the hereditary priesthood, for modern Jews living in a free and democratic society? Centuries ago, in the days of the Temple, the priest was a most important functionary in the religious life of the country. It was he who officiated at the sacrificial rites in the Temple. He was supported by an elaborate system of tithes and so forth. Today, the kohanim, descendants of Aaron, the brother of Moses, are distinguished from other Jews by only a few laws, such as: they are honored with the reading of the first portion of the Torah, they may not defile themselves by contact with the dead, they are limited in their choice of a mate by certain marital regulations, and they officiate at the blessing of the congregation on the holidays. Now, in what manner can this residual priesthood be relevant to our lives and times? Once again, we do not ask for the reason, we do not demand that the Torah justify its claim upon us. We shall observe whether our limited intellectual faculties fully understand or not. But what specific purposes, what special nuances of meaningfulness lie within this biblical legislation?

There are many answers. Those that we shall mention this morning are culled especially from the commentary on the prayer book, Olat Re’iyah, by the late Chief Rabbi of the Holy Land, Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook.

At the very beginning, we must understand that kehuna in Jewish life was never meant as a ministry of magic. The kohen never waved a wand or performed miracles. Rather, as we discover from a reading of the Bible, the priesthood, with all its hierarchical and hereditary features, was intimately connected with the concept of teaching, especially Torah. Thus, Ezekiel, in this morning’s haftara, defines the function of the kohen as, “And they shall teach My people to distinguish between the sacred and the profane” (44:23). Malachi  proclaimed, “And the lips of the priest shall keep knowledge, they shall seek Torah from his mouth” (2:7). In assigning kehuna to the tribe of Levi, Moses declared, “They shall teach Your laws to Jacob and Your Torah to Israel” (Deuteronomy 33:10). Kehuna, therefore, is a ministry of hora’a, of teaching, of education and edification.

An important aspect of our daily morning service thereby becomes more significant. At the very beginning of the service, one of the first things we recite is the birkhot haTorah, the blessings over the study of Torah. After we thank God for giving us the Torah, we immediately proceed to perform the mitzva – we study Torah. And what passage of the Bible is it that we choose to recite as part of the study of Torah? The birkat kohanim, the blessing that is recited by the priests, “The Lord should bless you and keep you.”

Why, of all the sublime passages in the Torah, do we choose the priestly blessing as the one over which to thank God for Torah? Obviously it must be because of the fact that the priests themselves are teachers of Torah or, indirectly, by their very presence in our midst they remind us and challenge us to study the Torah of the Lord.

The great medieval Spanish rabbi Abudarham observed that the priestly blessing consists of three verses. The first verse, “The Lord should bless you and keep you,” contains three Hebrew words. The second verse contains five words, and the third – seven words. Abudarham remarks that the birkat kohanim is thus equivalent to the reading of the Torah, for on weekdays we have three aliyot, on holidays five aliyot, and on Saturdays a minimum of seven.

Rav Kook, however, goes beyond a mere arithmetical equivalence and finds deep significance in this relationship of birkat kohanim to birkhot haTorah, of priesthood to the teaching of Torah. Kehuna, after all, is not an anachronism. It indicates to us that there are amongst us Jews a family, descended from Aaron, who possess, as Rav Kook calls it, a “segula kelalit haba’a biyerusha,” a general talent or predisposition that is bequeathed by heredity. From the very earliest days of the history of our people until today, the kehuna has come down from father to son – a whole family, throughout all these many centuries, has been distinguished by a mandate from the Almighty that its sons be the Ministers of God in the midst of Israel, that they be charged with the function of hora’a, of teaching the Children of Israel, so that “they shall seek Torah from his mouth.” Now the very presence amongst us of this family who is marked by these characteristics reminds us that all of us Jews, non-kohanim as well as kohanim, possess a more general and precious segula kelalit haba’a biyerusha, a heritage of inclination for the study of Torah. God not only gave us a Torah from above, but implanted within us a readiness to love it and a willingness to obey and follow it. There is in every Jew, by virtue of his being a Jew, this element of spirituality. Every Jew wears the crown of Torah, even as the descendants of Aaron wear the crown of priesthood.

This does not mean that every Jew is born a full-fledged lover of Torah, a mature spiritual personality – by no means. Rather, it means that each Jew has within himself the potential for these lofty ends, that if the effort is put in, he can attain them, for they are part and parcel of the national cultural heritage of our people.

Here too Rav Kook offers a comment of great insight. When the kohanim bless the congregation, they accompany their verbal blessing with nesi’at kapayim, the raising of their hands with fingers extended. To Rav Kook this is a profound symbol. It is a pointing to the future, an aspiration for transcendence, a reaching out for what is beyond, a stretching of the self to greater heights. Rav Kook reminds us that the rights and the privileges of the kohen to bless his fellow Israelites derive not from his own actual religious excellence, for not every kohen who blesses the congregation is necessarily a holy man. Rather, it derives from the charge placed upon him to be holy. Because the kohen is expected by the Torah to attain a greater measure of sanctity, because he was given the hereditary injunction to reach higher than others, because he was endowed with the predisposition for a great spiritual gestalt, therefore the mitzva of blessing the congregation devolves upon the kohen. The prerogative of blessing derives not from the actuality but from the potentiality of the kohen – not from his religious character at the present, but from that which he could attain were he to strive for it with sufficient effort and exertion. That is why the kohen raises his hand in the nesi’at kapayim – he is pointing to the future, to the realization of the potential within him. His extended arms are a bridge, which he is bidden to cross, from promise to fulfillment, from small beginnings to great achievements, from what he is to what he can and ought to be.

And this is true of all Jews with regard to Torah. At the foot of Sinai, when we were given the Torah, we were designated mamlekhet kohanim – a kingdom in which all citizens are priests. We are kohanim of Torah to all of mankind. Hence, we are different from others not because of what we are, but because of what we can and ought to be. Religious life in Judaism is not a matter only of being holy, but of becoming holier. The hands of the kohen raised in benediction are for every Jew the symbol of the study of Torah – constant progress, unceasing intellectual ferment, never-ending spiritual development. The kohen in our midst teaches us something about our own character and what we ought to do with it. He tells us, as Yehuda haLevi taught in the Kuzari, that Israel is caught up in the “inyan Eloki,” marked with the indelible traces of the encounter with God. He reminds us, as the great founder of the Habad School of Hasidism taught in his Tanya, that every Jew is born with a “nefesh haElokit,” with a divine soul, which contains within it an “ahava tivit” or “ahava mesuteret,” a natural love for God and Torah which is hidden and unaroused. Just as a descendant of Aaron is naturally a kohen, a status from which he cannot resign at will, so is every Jew by nature a homo religiosis, a spiritual creature. Whether he knows it or not – indeed, whether he wants it or not – every Jew has a religious potential within him, the seed of spirituality, the embryo of kedusha. But from the kohen each Jew must learn that blessing can come only when, as the extended fingers symbolize, he is willing to actualize his potential, make the seed grow, develop one’s embryonic talent, express one’s hidden, natural resources of Torah.

So the hereditary kehuna certainly does have a relevant purpose for our lives. It teaches us that Judaism was not superimposed upon Jews. Rather, it is natural and preexistent in the Jewish soul. Torah may have been given from Heaven, but the receptivity of it already existed in the Jewish heart. All that Jews need to do in order to achieve blessing, for themselves and for all mankind, is to arouse and express the spirituality which lies dormant within.

It is for that reason that we loyal Jews ought to accept with great skepticism and with a sense of humor the predictions of many of our secular and non-observant co-religionists who periodically produce from amongst themselves modern nevi’ei sheker, false prophets, who proclaim the end of classical, traditional Judaism in Jewish life. For us it is unthinkable to imagine Jews without Judaism. Even if Torah should be forgotten for a century, it must return to its former eminence amongst Jews, for there is in us what Rav Kook called, “segula kelalit haba’a biyerusha,” a hereditary predisposition for the spirituality of Torah; or, as the author of the Tanya called it, “ahava tivit,” a natural love hidden in the divine soul in every Jew; or, as haLevi termed it, the “inyan Eloki.” When we see before our eyes a kohen, a direct descendant of Aaron, the first High Priest, when we behold the physical continuity of ancient Israel and its survival into modern times, then we are seized with a great optimism and hope for the survival and ultimate triumph of the spiritual character of Israel in the future.

This is an exhilarating thought, for it encourages us never to despair of any single Jew. Within every Jewish bosom, every Jewish heart, there lies this latent love, this silent passion, this unconscious aspiration. Our sacred duty is to bring it out into the open, activate it and actualize it, to make this love conscious, so that all Israel will return to God and bring with them all of mankind.

In the words of David (Psalms 119:48), “I shall raise my hands unto Your commandments which I love, and I shall dwell upon Your laws.” When we shall accept the symbol of the priestly blessing, the raising of the hands and the pointing to the future, the transition from potential to real, when we shall take that love for the mitzvot and actualize it by raising our hands – then we, and all Israel, will dwell upon the laws of God and become, once again, a glorious people of Torah.

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*May 12, 1962

Excerpted from With Liberty and Justice: The Fifty-Day Journey from Egypt to Sinai by Senator Joe Lieberman with Rabbi Ari D. Kahn, co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Day 27 The Tenth Commandment: “Do Not Covet Anything Your Neighbor Has”

The Tenth Commandment, because it is divine, goes where no earthly legal system would go. It goes to the source of most of the lawbreaking, evil, and immorality on earth. This last commandment aims to get inside our heads and hearts and reduce our desire for what we do not have, thus strengthening our capacity to follow the other commandments. Unlike the statutes of typical human legal systems, which only hope to regulate behavior, the Tenth Commandment sets a higher standard by aiming to regulate the thoughts and desires that precipitate bad behavior.

Envy of another’s property precedes theft; envy of another’s spouse precedes adultery; envy of another nation’s land or power precedes war; envy precedes political corruption; envy even precedes murder. Perhaps the old adage should be adapted to read, “Envy goeth before a fall,” because it usually does.

Envy is a natural emotion, and controlling it is difficult. God’s laws, like the human legal systems patterned after them, are, as we have discussed, aspirational. They express the way we imperfect humans know we should be and would like to be, but are not quite yet. The laws are hopeful, because they imply that positive change is possible, and more
likely, among people governed by a good legal system.

Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra, the prolific medieval Bible commentator and philosopher, defined the sin of coveting as the illogical desire for something that is, by definition, beyond one’s grasp, and cannot be attained. He offered an allegory designed to liberate a person from the desires prohibited by the Tenth Commandment: A person born into the common classes, for example, would not seriously entertain desire for the daughter of the king, or imagine that marriage to her would be possible. He would thus banish any such thoughts from his mind. So too, all individuals should banish from their thoughts desire for possessions beyond their reach.

Today we would take issue with Ibn Ezra’s analogy. Are we not encouraged to reject artificial limits on personal achievement? Is not every American boy and girl taught to believe that they can grow up to surpass the achievements of their parents, to become president of the United States (or at least be nominated to run for vice president)? Modern sensibilities chafe at the idea that there are worthy goals that are beyond our reach. If social structure, for example, no longer places the “king’s daughter” metaphorically beyond our reach, is the desire itself no longer prohibited? I would say that it is not.

A question regarding real estate transactions was posed to Rabbi Asher Weiss, the head of a rabbinical court and a well-known posek, “decisor of religious law,” in Jerusalem. The argument involved the prohibition of coveting. In his decision, Rabbi Weiss stated that normal business practices that involve behaviors that might appear as “coveting” are most certainly permitted by Jewish law. For  example, the Talmud never prohibited a person from walking into a store, finding an object that he or she desires, and paying the proprietor for it. Coveting, Rabbi Weiss held, is the desire for an object that is not for sale, and the use of unfair, unconventional, inappropriate means to acquire it (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Gezeila VaAveida 1:9).

As members of consumerist societies, we know that significant industries – marketing and advertising – exist for the sole purpose of arousing within us the desire to acquire things that are not yet our own. If you are engaged in one of these businesses, do not worry that you are automatically breaching the Tenth Commandment. Rabbinical opinions make clear that normative advertising practices in modern commercial settings encourage us to desire things that are attainable, for a price. Hopefully, it is with money we have, or is, at least, within our credit card limit.

The final cautionary word goes to the wise rabbis who wrote the Ethics of the Fathers: “Who is rich? He who is happy with his lot” (Mishna Avot 4:1).

Excerpted from Dr. Erica Brown’s ‘Seder Talk: A Conversational Haggada,’ co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

Telling the Story of Our Sustained Happiness

Memory is often linked to tragedy. But memory can and should trigger deep joy as well. In addition to the pain of the experiences mentioned above, our Passover memory point can recall miracles that create in us responses of gratitude, abundance, and happiness. If it does not do this, then perhaps we are denying ourselves a door into greater contentment and serenity. Passover can invite us to a happy memory point, but we must take God and our history up on the invitation, replacing the gloom-and-doom side of our story with joy and optimism instead.

The stories we tell always hold an opportunity for us to shape ourselves, depending on the narrative we choose. “All of us tell stories about ourselves. Stories define us,” write Herminia Ibarra and Kent Lineback in their Harvard Business Review article “What’s Your Story?” When we know someone well, the authors remind us, it is because we know key aspects of his or her story: the experiences, trials, and turning points that have made them who they are. “When we want someone to know us, we share stories of our childhoods, our families, our school years, our first loves, the development of our political views, and so on,” the authors tell us. They emphasize that people need a good story most at times of transition, for those who are doing the telling and for those who are doing the listening. A story about transitions explains why we are leaving or moving or joining or participating. In-between times beg for explanation, a compelling narrative that we tell ourselves and others. What we find most compelling about stories is how the world changes as a result of them, be it the narrow world we occupy or the world at large. It’s the “change, conflict, tension, discontinuity” of stories that makes them dynamic and engaging. “If those elements are missing, the story will be flat. It will lack what novelist John Gardner called the profluence of development – the sense of moving forward, of going somewhere. Transition stories don’t have this problem,” point out Ibarra and Lineback.

Many people, however, do not want to share conflict or tension when they tell their stories because they are afraid it will look like personal failure or will communicate to others that they were lost or made poor decisions. But  listeners are waiting for the conflict because it is the drama of the story that holds us. All good stories that inspire have heroes and villains, moments of trauma or critical decision-making, or poor beginnings that may turn into good endings. The Passover story has held our attention for so many centuries because of its drama, its quest for justice, and its resonance with so many other stories of people who were displaced or exploited but were nonetheless able to find a voice and a cause. As a result, we understand why Deuteronomy commands that this memory point be triggered daily: “so that you remember the day of your Exodus from Egypt all the days of your life” (Deut. 16:3). The Exodus was more than an event. It represented the most cherished values we have, and as such it must inform every other day from the day of the Exodus forward.

That same chapter of Deuteronomy mentions all of the major pilgrimage festivals and the joy that is attendant upon them, closing with the Hebrew expression “vehayita akh same’aĥ.” Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, the neo-Orthodox head of the Jewish community of Frankfurt am Main in Germany in the 1850s, translates this expression as, “you shall remain only joyful.” He contrasts this command with the imperative “vesamaĥta,” “you should be happy.” Rabbi Hirsch believes that remaining joyful is a higher degree of happiness than merely being happy, a temporal state generated by a temporal action. He also believes there is a difference between the happiness of an individual in the context of a family and the joy of a person in the context of a community. National unity and a sense of living for a larger purpose has the power to sustain our happiness even when individual sources of joy dry up or wane.

It is on this last point that we turn to Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook, first chief rabbi of Palestine, who never lived to see the State of Israel, the impossible possibility:

The Exodus from Egypt only appears to be a past event. But, in truth, the
Exodus never ceases. The arm of God that was revealed in Egypt to redeem
the Jews is constantly outstretched, constantly active. The revelation of
the hand of God is the breaking through of the light of God, shining great
lights for all generations. (Mo’adei HaRaya, 292)

When we are surprised by positive developments and events, we become renewed by the energy and force of redemption, and we can indeed make impossible things possible. The positive spiral upward fuels more redemption, more possibility. The Exodus, as Rav Kook writes, is no longer a past event but one that occurs again and again, a breaking forth of a small light that becomes larger and increasingly radiant, sweeping us up with optimism and joy. Between the order and the chaos, the beauty of the familiar and the surprise of the unexpected, every Passover we find ourselves facing a choice of how each of us will contribute to our larger, national redemption. Redemption is a choice. Sustaining happiness is also a choice. Choose joy.

Excerpted from Dr. Erica Brown’s ‘Seder Talk: A Conversational Haggada,’ co-published by OU Press and Maggid Books

The Art of Order and Chaos

On Passover, we create order to lose order. On this night, we balance between order and chaos, between organizing the Seder with a set chronology and in concrete stages and then telling a messy story that gets interrupted and upended with all of our commentary. It is a story of injustice and triumph, of human strain and divine salvation, of hesitation and progress. Of course, it must be told in fits and starts.

To begin telling the story, order is critical. We make sure that everything is in place. We clean our homes, scrub away any signs of leaven, and check every corner with the focused light of a candle. We organize the props that aid us in our storytelling: the symbolic food is prepared, the Seder plate is arranged, the cup of Elijah is poured, the Haggada – our script for the evening – is laid individually before each place setting for all to recount the Exodus. We make sure that the matzot we use for the night are whole, without cracks or the fissures of natural breakage. The table is beautifully set with our finest china. The children all shine in their new clothes and shoes. The cooking is finally done. There is a moment of pristine newness and perfection in all the order before us that has taken weeks to achieve. And we celebrate that order with a simple beginning that reflects this need for organization and method; we begin the Seder with a to-do list, a taxonomy of rituals: Kadesh, UReĥatz, Karpas, Yaĥatz…. We recite fifteen tasks that must be completed by the evening’s end. Some have the custom to return again and again to this list, musically checking off what has already been done by reciting only what is left to do, stage by stage. It is our laundry list, our planned statement of accomplishment that affirms our commitment to systems and goals, the rules that will signify the logic of the evening ahead. And in a way, this order takes us back to the very first days of Creation, making something out of the void, as Rebecca Goldstein notes:

The celebration of Passover emphasizes the imposition of an ordered structure over the formlessness of time. From the beginning to the end of the Seder there is a multiplicity of stages, with procedural instructions overlaid along the way. First you must do this, we are told, and then you must do that. Differentiation creates order, creates the sense of significance that makes duration endurable.

Human beings have a supreme need for order. It is the commitment to discipline that allows the randomness of events to have meaning. Things must be shaped and named, placed and organized. If “Seder” means order, then we begin as we intend to continue, emphasizing the imposition of order as our very first order of business.

But then all begins to unravel. We tell a story, and stories are never linear. We start with questions rather than definitive statements. Questions are always messier. We acknowledge that there are different types of children at our table who must all hear the story but who all need a different telling. Our story begins with baseless hatred, originating long before the Exodus, an illogical and unjust sentiment that drives the narrative. Even in a world so neatly crafted, we find that not all is under our control. We sing a slave song, “We were slaves.” Slaves have no control over their fate or destiny. They are objects in the possession of a master.

Had God not redeemed us, we would still have been in Egypt, our Haggada reports. We would have become an absorbed people in a collapse of empires whose distinct identity had merged with the surrounding neighbors. We would have compromised our uniqueness. The small window of opportunity would have  closed. As we read, this question of what would have happened makes the Haggada feel like a work of fiction where the reader can choose the next stage in the plot and flip the pages accordingly. Deep in the Haggada, we are momentarily arrested by the possibility that in life there are so many possibilities: stymied beginnings, unexpected turns, alternate endings that often turn into different beginnings.

As we turn more and more pages, we begin to realize that the Haggada is far from an ordered telling of the story. It is the oddest mish-mash of passages. We sing a song of praise and then talk about the way our sages talked about the
Exodus. A linear narration would require us to open up the Book of Exodus and read its first fifteen chapters, much the way Karaites and Samaritans mark the fifteenth of Nisan. But instead, in the Haggada, we read about the way that others read and told the story. A group of scholars in Benei Berak were so absorbed in the narration that they had no idea daybreak had come and that it was time to recite the Shema. R. Elazar b. Azaria did not know how to interpret a verse until the scholar Ben Zoma shed light on it. We skip around, beginning with “My father was a wandering Aramean” and jumping not long thereafter into a talmudic math lesson. Ten miracles soon become fifty and then 250. This is not storytelling. It is meta-storytelling. It is retelling how the Exodus has been told before. And with this realization, we feel that we have lost control over the story itself.

In fact, we are obligated to lose control. We are told to drink four cups of wine; after the first two, the world begins to get blurry. We recline, losing the stability of our physical positioning. With a few cups of wine, we find ourselves reclining naturally. Wine spills on the beautifully ironed tablecloth. The matza crumbles. How could it not? And soon, we discover, the order we imposed on the evening is forsaken. Even our to-do list of fifteen tasks is not really fifteen because we add song after song. Salt water drips onto the table. Then ĥaroset falls on the beautiful tablecloth, adding splotches of apples and nuts to the dark red wine stains. We hide the afikoman, and when we do not know where it is, we have lost control of that too. We pour more wine and talk about how our enemies still want to kill us. We are lost in random hatred. We push it aside and begin to sing, because to be a Jew means to sing in the face of adversity. We sing the Hallel and then, against all rational belief for most eras of our history, we sing “Next Year in Jerusalem.” We turn to the Haggada’s last pages and sing strange songs, like Ĥad Gadya, the Jewish version of “There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.” Some conclude even later in the night with Song of Songs. By the end of the evening, the tablecloth has become a testament to entropy. Order has been replaced by story. Stories are always a muddle of fact and fiction; they involve digressions and details and defy logic. Then story is replaced by song. Singing reaches us in a different place; singing unites us with others on this night. We all sing so that we can feel true joy and release and togetherness with those around us at the table and with those in the past, people we have never met but who told the same story once upon a time. We don’t care if you have a good voice or not. Anyone can sing. The pristine order that began the evening is long gone. The universe as we know it seems hazy. We are beyond tired. The children have dropped off to sleep. The songs buzz in our heads. We are free, blessedly free.

Excerpted from Megillat Esther Mesorat HaRav, co-published by OU Press and Koren Publishers Jerusalem; Preface by Rabbi Menachem Genack

Megillat Esther, a study in contrasts and a melange of seemingly random events, mirrors the inherent existential tension of the Jewish experience. The contours of the story are well known. The coarseness of Ahasuerus is contrasted to Esther’s purity; Haman’s irrational hatred of the Jews is juxtaposed to Mordekhai’s selfless devotion to the community. The Jews are well integrated into an ethnically diverse Persian society; overnight they are singled out and selected for genocide. A lottery, the epitome of arbitrariness, seals the Jews’ fate. The king orders the execution of his queen on the advice of his minister and hangs his prime minister at the urging of his queen. A mindless beauty contest that has all the trappings of buffoonery results in a simple Jewish girl being plucked from anonymity and ending up in the right place at the right time to save the Jewish people. The king’s insomnia saves Mordekhai from the gallows in the nick of time and plants the seed in Ahasuerus’ mind that Haman may not be as loyal as he would like the king to believe. As each layer of Megillat Esther unfolds, the list of seeming coincidences, improbable occurrences, and dramatic reversals grows. To any perceptive observer, the studied randomness highlights the unseen presence of the Almighty, the master choreographer controlling all that occurs.

Megillat Esther is the sole book of Tanakh in which God’s name is not mentioned. This too can only be understood as an irony which confirms His pervasive, but hidden, presence. What on the surface seems to be merely a story of ambition, lust, and political intrigue, with its own dynamic, in fact has a deeper, unseen reality. God, though hidden from view, is ever-present and guiding all that transpires. Indeed, etymologically, the name Esther is related to the Hebrew word for “hidden” as in “l’hastir.” According to the Midrash (Esther Rabba, 3:10), whenever Megillat Esther
mentions “hamelekh, the king,” the explicit reference is to Ahasuerus, but the implicit reference is to the King of Kings who, unbeknownst to Ahasuerus, is moving the saga to its inevitable conclusion.

So much of Jewish history shares the same existential precariousness which underlies the Megilla’s narrative, and can be comprehended ultimately only by acknowledging God’s role in history. By any rational standard, when one views the span of Jewish history, the destruction of the two Temples, numerous exiles, and endless persecutions, the continued existence of the Jewish people is an anomaly. What is the nature of these events? Are they random occurrences subject only to the laws of history? If so, how does one explain the survival of the Jews and the vitality of the contemporary Jewish world? Ultimately, the historical record can be understood only by realizing that God, who may deliberately hide His presence, controls events and spreads His protective wings over us.

After all is said and done, what is the nature of Purim and the theme of Megillat Esther? Is the story a cause for unrestrained celebration or is it a cautionary tale which should command our sober attention? Consistent with the existential uncertainty that pervades the entire Megilla, the answer is both. The Rav, sensitive to the dialectic that often emerges from Halakha, expounded on the inherent duality of Megillat Esther and the holiday of Purim. In discussing the requirement of reading the Megilla twice, once on the evening of Purim and then again the following morning, the Gemara (Megilla 4a) quotes two proof texts. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi cites the verse from Psalms, “O my God, I call by day but You answer not, and at night and there is no surcease for me” (Ps. 22:3), while Rabbi Ĥelbo in the name of Ulla brings a different verse from Psalms, “So that my glory may sing praise to You, and not be silent; O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever” (Ps. 30:13). The Rav notes that these two verses are contradictory, yet each expresses a dimension of Megillat Esther. The verse cited by Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi comes from Chapter
22 of Psalms, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” and reflects the cry of total despair. Our Sages tell us that Esther recited this Psalm on her way into Ahasuerus’ inner court, entreating the Almighty when all hope was lost. Diametrically opposed is the verse cited by Rabbi Ĥelbo, which expresses jubilation and an unceasing hymn of praise and thanks to the Almighty. The Rav further notes that the Gemara’s dictum (Megilla 14a) that the reading of the Megilla is equivalent with the recitation of Hallel, is consistent with Rabbi Ĥelbo’s view. The Rav explains that both verses are accurate characterizations of Megillat Esther. The Megilla is both a tze’aka, a cry of distress arising from insecurity and fear, and shira, a hymn of joy that marks Purim as no less an occasion for celebration
than the other festivals on which Hallel is recited.

The Rav highlights several minhagim which confirm this nuanced view of Purim. Rav Amram Gaon recounts (Seder Rav Amram Gaon, Goldschmidt, p. 104) that the accepted practice in the yeshiva on Purim was for the shaliaĥ tzibbur to descend before the Gaon and the Av Bet Din and the leaders and the entire yeshiva to plead profusely and to recite Taĥanun. Rav Natronai Gaon was of the opinion that Lamnatze’aĥ should be recited on Purim. The Shulĥan Arukh (Rema, O.Ĥ. 695:2) states that one should eat zer’onim, seeds, on Purim as a remembrance of the zer’onim, a food eaten in exile, that Daniel ate in Babylonia. The Gemara, as well (Megilla 13a), notes that Esther ate zer’onim in Ahasuerus’ palace, signaling her anxiety. All of these, posits the Rav, are clear indications of the elements of melancholy and distress which are themes in the Megilla that coexist with the dominant themes of joy and celebration.

The Rav also points to the commingling of Ta’anit Esther with Purim. The fast of Ta’anit Esther does not end until after the reading of the Megilla on Purim night. We would have expected that the fast would end, as all other fasts, with the conclusion of the day at tzet hakokhavim. Yet we continue to fast during reading of the Megilla; we fast while reciting the equivalent of Hallel, further emphasizing the uneasy coexistence of the disparate elements underlying the evening’s observance.

There are no two days in the Jewish calendar more dissimilar than Purim, a day of frivolity and feasting, and Yom Kippur, a day of awe and fasting. Yet the Zohar comments (Tikunei Zohar, Tikun 21) that the Biblical name for Yom Kippur, Yom Kippurim, can be read Yom k’Purim, “a day like Purim.” Having more in mind than a simple play on words, the Zohar is pointing to a common theme shared by both the sacred Yom Kippur and the joyous Purim. Both holidays revolve around a lottery. The central dramatic motif in the Purim narrative is Haman’s lottery which decided the date of the Jews’ extermination, a motif whose message is that fate is ultimately arbitrary. On Yom Kippur, the central ritual is the Avoda, the service in the Temple, and it is a lottery which determines the fate of two identical sacrificial goats, one to be offered to the Almighty on the altar and whose blood is sprinkled in the Holy of Holies, and the other to be ignominiously cast off a precipice in the desert. Although Purim and Yom Kippur are very different in tone, they express the same theme. What may seem haphazard, ruthless, a mere lottery, can be transformed into holiness with the realization that the Almighty is behind the scenes directing all that transpires.

This relationship of Yom Kippur and Purim is highlighted in our High Holiday liturgy. The Tur and Avudraham point out a linguistic parallel between the Yamim Noraim Amida and Megillat Esther. Each of the three paragraphs of the third berakha of the Amida begins with the word “u’vekhen.” This echoes Esther’s statement, “U’vekhen avo el hamelekh asher lo kadat,” expressing her willingness to risk her life by approaching Ahasuerus without first being summoned. Just as Esther felt fear and trembling before petitioning Ahasuerus, we too feel a sense of foreboding
in approaching the Almighty on the Yamim Noraim.

There is another way in which Yom Kippur and Purim are similar. Both are days of matan Torah, the giving of the Torah. On Yom Kippur, the second tablets of the Ten Commandments were brought down by Moses from Mount Sinai. Purim also has the attributes of a day of matan Torah. The Megilla states (9:27), “קִיְּמוּ וְקִבְּלוּ הַיְּהוּדִים עֲלֵיהֶם וְעַל זְַרעָם they established and accepted, for themselves and for their children,” which the Gemara interprets as a reacceptance of the Torah akin to that of Mount Sinai (Shabbat 88a). Maimonides states (Hilkhot Megilla 2:18) that Megillat
Esther, alone among the Books of the Prophets and Sacred Writings, will not be nullified when Mashiaĥ comes, but, just like the Five Books of Moses, will continue to exist forever. In fact, from the description of the Megilla as “words of peace and truth” (Es. 9:30), the Gemara derives (Megilla 16b) that the Megilla scroll requires sirtut, the straight ruled lines etched into the parchment, in the same manner as “the truth of Torah itself.”

The equation of Purim and Yom Kippur confirmed by the halakhic identity of the Megilla with the Sefer Torah, further amplifies the common message that emanates from both days, that only Torah can give meaning and direction in the face of chaotic events, and that if one does not view the world through the prism of Torah, then all will appear arbitrary, nihilistic, and mere happenstance.

The Rav points to another statement in the Gemara that highlights Purim’s dual nature. The Gemara comments (Megilla 19a) that Megillat Esther is referred to as both a letter (iggeret) and a book (sefer). A “sefer” is written on parchment and is designed to last; it is durable and connotes permanence. An “iggeret” is intended only to transmit a communication; it is ephemeral and meant to be discarded. Megillat Esther, notes the Rav, shares both of these qualities. On one level, it seems to be an interesting, but not very significant, narrative of a palace intrigue. It is an iggeret, a record of no lasting importance. On a deeper level, Megillat Esther is also a sefer, a profound book that expresses the fundamental principles of our faith, a book that testifies to our belief in Divine Providence even in the
depth of the night of despair, when all hope seems lost.

It is singularly appropriate that the commentary of the Rav graces this edition of Megillat Esther, for the Rav, more than any other modern Jewish thinker, articulated and addressed the existential tensions which confront the Jew and characterize his struggle to find meaning in what appears to be an arbitrary universe. The Rav devoted his life to grappling with the most troubling questions confronting the Jew – the existential loneliness that besets the man of faith, the dialectical tension in which the man of halakha exists. The Rav addressed these and other similar issues in both his halakhic and philosophical works. For the Rav, the goal was not to find answers to the questions but to live within the tension and the dialectic, and the only way to accomplish this was through Torah. The ultimate response is that Torah gives meaning to an otherwise absurd existence.