“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” – Henry David Thoreau
Purim has come and gone, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Perhaps this is because Purim’s Megillat Esther is the only one of the five megillot that is read not once but twice.
Eicha (Lamentations) is only read on the night of Tisha B’Av, while Kohelet, Shir HaShirim, and the Book of Ruth are read on the morning of their respective holidays of the Shalosh Regalim (the three pilgrimage festivals). Clearly, we are called to review the story of Purim even after its initial reading because it contains crucial lessons for every generation.
Indeed, the Jerusalem Talmud’s “Tractate Megillah” makes the audacious statement that even in the days of the Messiah – when some Jewish holidays may be amended or eliminated – Purim is the one festival that will never be abolished.
I feel very, very conflicted these days, as I’m certain many of you do as well. I am torn between two powerful overriding sentiments that clash mightily with each other: love for this great and glorious land in which we live; and deep concern about its future.
We have experienced wondrous events in our brief modern history. We have come to a veritable wilderness and made it bloom, building cities and communities that rival the most advanced places on Earth. We have grown not only agricultural life of every variety but also increased our population 12-fold since our independence.
In Israel’s centenary year, 2048, our population is predicted to reach 15.2 million. Even more hopeful is that we are a “young” country; 30% of Israelis are under the age of 14, boding well for the future.
We lead the world in technology; we have created a renaissance of Jewish learning unparalleled in our history – even more than in the days of King Solomon and the Holy Temple; and we have an army that is second to none in terms of courage, dedication, and heroism.
YET HAVING said all this and more, there are deep fissures in our society that threaten to swallow us whole. We are a divided people – over so many critical issues.
There is a strong undercurrent of resentment between the religious and secular sectors, which is most glaringly manifested in the national debate over who will serve in the army and who will not. This issue is but a subsection of the larger schism regarding our government and its “leaders,” a classic love-hate relationship that is the antithesis of unity and consensus.
More than one pundit has noted, “Israel is a democracy – but only on election day!” The mishandling of the Israel-Hamas war and the feeble, outrageously one-sided “deal” to (theoretically) free the hostages have left virtually no one in the country satisfied.
When you add the gap between the haves and the have-nots – Israel has the second-highest poverty rate of OECD countries – you wonder how long we can continue as two, or more, Israels.
How will we fend off the enemies at our gates who seek our destruction and are supported worldwide by growing numbers of antisemitic hate-mongers? Have we, as the Brits say, “lost the plot”? Depression, frustration set in.
BUT THEN I start to think about the Jewish community in Persia at the time of the Purim story. It, too, was fiercely divided.
The megillah opens with the Jews ostensibly being welcomed as full citizens, enjoying the lavish, six-month celebration held by King Ahasuerus. Their revelry is cut short, however, when the king shockingly dons the clothes of the Kohen Gadol – captured from Jerusalem by the previous empire – as if to say, “You people will never rebuild that Temple of yours; I am the only high priest that you shall ever have!”
Mordechai, an authentic remnant of sovereign Jewish leadership, struggles to prevent his people from over-assimilating even as a plot is being launched to completely annihilate Persia’s Jewish presence.
Ahasuerus joins forces with Haman – the Hamas of his day – and the situation surely looks bleak. “V’ha’ir Shushan navocha” – the city of Shushan is bewildered and depressed – reduced to nebachs with no hope of surviving the impending assault. The midrash relates that the Persians would taunt the Jews, “Tomorrow, we will kill you and take your property.”
But then, seemingly out of nowhere, there is what the megillah describes as “v’nahafoch hu,” a reversal of fortune.
Esther is chosen as the primary queen. Mordechai saves the king’s life, and his reward is fortuitously postponed. Haman oversteps his bounds and – clearly identifying himself as the rival for Ahaseurus’s throne – is hanged on his very own gallows.
The Jews gather as one, first in prayer and fasting – to atone for their previous, ill-advised feasting – and then band together into the only fully independent Jewish militia in Diaspora history.
We emerge victorious, and amazingly, Persians by the thousands clamor to convert to Judaism.
In an instant, gloom and doom are transformed into light and gladness.
AND SO it has been throughout our history.
We have suffered immensely, with our collective backs against the wall. But somehow, some way, we did not surrender, nor did we submit to our demise. We may endure terrible bloodletting and anguish, but we believe that, as Mordechai told Esther in his most poignant speech, “Relief and deliverance will come from somewhere.”
The Holocaust is a prime example. It appeared that we were on the verge of destruction, abandoned by the world and facing a seemingly unstoppable enemy. But several key events would conspire to turn things our way.
Hitler’s decision – against his generals’ advice – to break his treaty and attack Russia in June of 1941 (the disastrous Operation Barbarossa, the largest and costliest military offensive in history) began to reverse the fortunes of Nazi Germany.
The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor later that year brought the previously reticent United States of America into the war. It was not a universally accepted decision for Japan; admiral Isoruko Yamamoto is famously quoted as warning, “I fear all that we have done is awaken a sleeping giant and filled him with a terrible resolve.”
And the dramatic, unexpected defeat of field marshal Erwin Rommel’s Africa Corps in 1942 at El Alamein in Egypt stopped the Nazis from capturing the half-million Jews in the Yishuv in Palestine, where Arab leader and Hitler’s avid supporter Haj Amin el-Husseini had pledged to massacre every last Jew.
When Purim was given the honor of becoming an eternal part of the Jewish calendar, the rabbis ruled that in leap years, when there are two months of Adar, Purim would be celebrated in the second Adar. This goes against the principle of performing a commandment at the earliest possible opportunity. But the sages wanted to connect Purim with our next holiday, Passover.
Connecting Purim with Passover
I suggest they were sending the message that there are two stages to redemption. Step one – as epitomized by Purim – is the struggle to bring the Jews together, to unite as a loving community, albeit in a foreign land. Step two – Passover – is the forming of our own nation, in Israel, where the Hallel prayers of praise for God’s endless kindness could be legitimately sung.
We are, surely, living in desperate times. We have no idea how long this latest war is going to continue; there may be an even greater price to pay before it is finished.
But if we cut the Gordian knot and somehow find a way to come together, then the miracles of Purim and Passover will appear before us in abundance and ensure not only our continued survival but an even greater, more glorious future.
The writer is the director of the Jewish Outreach Center of Ra’anana. rabbistewart@gmail.com