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The light of betwixt and between

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Parshot/Festivals

Last year Chanukah time, we lit candles and shared dinner with friends as we strummed guitars into the night, mask free, carefree, and oblivious that these kinds of gatherings with people outside our family unit would become a rare and even dangerous undertaking.

This year, we will be lighting Chanukah candles with our immediate family. If we do connect with friends or family, it will be with caution. The one common thread that connects our lighting pre-COVID-19 to now, is that our chanukiah will still be placed at a window, at the outermost edge of our home. Yet, robbed of a social ease that we all took for granted, we might want to consider that even before COVID-19, many of us lived in bubbles – racial bubbles, political echo-chambers, and socio-economic comfort zones.

Chanukah as a holiday is about a dance between public, communal space and the space of the home. While some mitzvoth in Judaism require the community, other mitzvoth thrive in the private domicile of home and hearth. Chanukah is one of those few mitzvoth which we might say is a practice at the border between the community and the home. We light candles in our home, but we light them at that fine edge so that the outsider can peep in and see the candles of Chanukah. For this reason, we are supposed to place the chanukiah on the window ledge that overlooks the street, sharing our story with the world, lighting inside for those outside.

In 2020, the border between inside and outside acquired renewed significance. As infection rates peaked in South Africa, a doorway became a potent type of crossing over from the safe space of the home to the potentially contagious outside world. On returning home, we left our shoes, our outside clothes, and our shopping bags at the door, and rushed inside to wash hands and decontaminate.

In ancient mythologies and even in Jewish practice, the space on the border between the inside and the outside is regarded as liminal, an in-between space. We place mezuzot on our doors to cultivate awareness of G-d as we transition through space. During a time of pandemic, this space between the inside and outside resounds more deeply. The people on the “inside” of our “pod” might feel safer, and the further we move into the world, the more at risk we become of exposure. We become scrupulous about mask-wearing out in the world and conversely, relax a little more at home.

While many of us bemoan the new normal and the loss of what was, we might want to challenge ourselves to think about the ways in which prior to COVID-19, we already lived in confined spaces and limited our interactions with others – those who felt different from us, those with whom we nursed a ferrible (grudge).

The rabbis in Tractate Shabbat seemed to have an acute awareness of how the world of outside and inside are inextricably linked to each other. In a discussion of how long Chanukah candles should remain alight, an ancient source teaches that the Chanukah candles need to be lit from the time the sun goes down until “all foot traffic had returned home from the market”. In a further explication of this, Rabbah bar bar Channah says it wasn’t just until the market place had closed, but until the last of the last, the tarmudai had gone home from the market. Rashi, the 11th century exegete, explains that the tarmudai were a (non-Jewish) people who sold wood at the market. They were the very last to leave, says Rashi, because people would return from their day and on wanting to light a fire in their homes, would find they were out of wood! Just as we might send our partner to the garage shop to buy some matches late at night, people would leave their homes a second time to buy wood from the tarmudai, who deliberately tarried at the market knowing they would be able to catch these later-night shoppers.

The very time during which candles should be lit is described in spatial terms: your candles should be lit while the public space is still peopled. The African adage of ubuntureminds us that I’m a person because of others. In the world of tractate Chanukah, my Chanukah lighting inside is determined by the whereabouts of people outside.

This focus on lighting inside for people outside changed during the time of the Ba’al Ha’tosfot. In their 13th century commentary on the Talmud, they wrote, “Nowadays, there is no concern about when to light, since we don’t have an awareness except for the people inside the home (livnei habayit), since we are lighting inside.” It’s possible that the Tosfot, living in France and Germany in the Middle Ages, didn’t orient their lighting towards the outside world because of Christian antisemitism. For these rabbis, the outside world was dangerous and their consciousness was attuned within.

Yet, in spite of the Tosfot’s experience, Chanukah as a chag evolved along the lines of the Talmud, holding a subtle balance between the domains of inside and outside. But perhaps in times of pandemic, we are more like the 13th century Tosafists. Our consciousness has become attuned toward the safety of “inside”. Yet, an ethical and healthy society needs more permeable borders between inside and out.

Chanukah lies on this axis between the tarmudai, the foreign folk who live among us who are the later stragglers on the street, and our most intimates, the b’nei habayit, those living in our homes. As our chanukiah sits on the threshold, it reminds us that who we are at home is influenced by the most other among us, and that our inside and outside lives are linked. We shouldn’t retreat into ourselves without a consciousness of the other, and at the same time, we need to retain a sense of an inner core, the bifnim, so that our interaction with the outside world doesn’t diffuse or dissolve who we are.

Instead of romanticising life pre-COVID-19, perhaps the Chanukah candles on the window ledge can invite us to think about better, braver ways of interacting between the inside and the outside, new possibilities for engagement in a post-COVID-19 world. At the end of the day, we light where we light, not just for ourselves but for those exterior to our pod because ultimately we are who we are because of others. Chanukah light is constellated on the premise of humanity’s profoundest interconnections.

  • Adina Roth is a clinical psychologist and a Jewish educator in Johannesburg. She is currently a student online at Yeshivate Maharat in New York.

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Parshot/Festivals

Looking devastation squarely in the eye

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“How can we be brave enough not to look away?” These were the words that writer and thought leader Beth Amato asked on Facebook after yet another tragic loss was announced in the midst of this savage third wave.

With all the suffering, the growing despair, the loss of so much life, and the poverty, she was asking about our courage to bear it all, to “see” what’s happening. At times, the immense losses and despair feel like too much. And yet, as humans, how dare we turn away from the horror we see unfolding?

In the fifth chapter of Tractate Gittin in the Babylonian Talmud, we find a number of aggadata (stories) which recount the destruction of Jerusalem, Betar, and the Temple. Indeed, the rabbis wrote searing accounts of that time. They had the courage “not to look away”. Yet, the stories aren’t only about the rivers that run red with the blood of the Jewish people, the devastation is also described in terms of the loss of daily rites of passage, the blows dealt to communal life.

In one story, we are told that when a Jewish bride and groom would walk towards their chuppah, it was customary for a rooster and a hen to be included in the procession as a positive omen for procreation. One time, a Roman troop came upon a Jewish wedding procession, and stole the fowl pair. Enraged, the Jewish community attacked the troop of Romans, provoking the Roman emperor to bring an onslaught on the Jewish people.

A further story recounts that trees were planted upon the birth of every Jewish boy and girl. When they got married, boughs from these trees would be intertwined to build the chuppah, symbolic of the bride and groom’s intertwinement. One time, the emperor’s daughter was passing by a grove of these trees when her carriage broke. Her soldiers hacked down one of the trees in order to replace the shaft. The Jewish people were so angered, they attacked the daughter’s attendants, leading the emperor to attack Betar.

If the Ninth of Av is linked in our minds to the destruction of the Temple, here we read that it’s also about desecration of the precious traditions that enriched the daily lives of the Jewish people – chickens and roosters at a wedding, cedar and cypress trees at births.

It’s hard to quantify loss in a pandemic. On one level, if we are alive and healthy, we might whisper dayeinu, and thank G-d for our fundamental existence. Yet, as these stories teach us, life is made up of more than mere survival.

During this pandemic, we have been robbed of the experience of living on all levels: weddings and B’neimitzvah are postponed, a simple birthday which a child anticipates all year around is celebrated on Zoom, we are denied our usual rites to comfort the mourner, and our Jewish holidays are celebrated alone.

As with these aggadata, we can affirm that the loss of a tree or a rooster, a school play, or a long-anticipated birthday party are part of this suffering and part of this story.

As we move into the heart of these stories of killing and destruction, the rabbis recall how in an act of deep perversity, Romans compelled Jewish children to watch while they engaged in sexual relations. Again, the horror feels too much to witness.

Yet, we read of a story where two children who are forced to watch this degradation open their mouths and speak. Their response is surprising, they turn to text. One of them says to the other, “Where is this terribleness written in our Torah?” The pathos of the question is felt keenly. The child is both protesting this suffering and seeking to draw some meaning from it. The other child responds, “It is written about in Devarim.” The first child then responds, “Why haven’t I reached that sentence yet?”, to which the second child responds, “You are one and a half pages away.” The first child then responds, “I’m glad I haven’t reached it yet because had I reached it, I wouldn’t have needed you to answer the question.”

At the pinnacle of their despair and humiliation, these children turn to the ageless Jewish practice of Torah learning and chavruta (friendship). The first child asks a quintessentially Jewish question about meaning-making: “Where is this written?” The Romans incorporate the Jewish children in a perverse sexual relationship, enacting the very antithesis of connection and ethical relatedness.

Yet, in the midst of that evil, the two children remember the perennial Jewish practice of meaning-making through text and chevruta. Theirs is a profound form of protest and hope in the middle of despair.

Wherever we are, we have the capacity for consciousness and connection. I like to imagine that as the rabbis recounted this story, they too felt a shift. They were “seeing” the devastation of this time with unflinching courage. And at this moment, like the children, they recalled that as humans, we can seek meaning, as humans we have each other. Even now, all isn’t lost.

What these stories seem to teach is that the courage to look suffering in the eye is the very place from which hope can emerge. In mourning our losses and crying our sense that the world we once knew is gone, we begin the process of dreaming and re-building. Richard Tarnas writes that hope isn’t a flimsy rainbow-in-the-sky experience. Rather, hope is a spiritual discipline.

What’s more, when we engage in the spiritual practice of hope, we’re no longer victims to the whims of history. Hope allows us to become participatory actors in the unfolding of reality. The Jewish people have always embodied hope as a spiritual practice. We look at suffering on Tisha B’Av squarely in the eye, and from that place, we remember Torah study and relationships, we remember who we were, are, and who we can become.

We will come out of this wave, and this time, as the Jewish people and humanity, we will pray and dance together, we will learn and we will befriend. Nachamu, nachamu, ami (Take comfort, oh my people).

  • Adina Roth is a clinical psychologist in private practice, and a teacher of Jewish Studies. She runs an independent Barmitzvah and Batmitzvah programme in Johannesburg, and teaches Tanach to adults.

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Parshot/Festivals

Purim: a four-point plan for embracing uncertainty

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As we approach Purim this year, it’s hard to escape the feeling of disappointment. This is the second Purim since the beginning of the pandemic, and the world remains upside down. Our lives at the moment seem reduced, our Purim celebrations muted.

But maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe this is the year for a Purim like no other.

Think about what we are all grappling with at the moment – the pervading sense we have is of living in a world of uncertainty.

Purim is all about embracing uncertainty. In fact, the very word “Purim” means “lots”, referring to the lots Haman cast randomly to select the day to carry out his genocidal plan.

In a world so full of threats and danger, Purim gives us a game plan. In fact, the four mitzvot of Purim constitute the perfect formula for coping with an uncertain world.

First, the mitzvah to hear the reading of the Megillah in the night and again on the day of Purim teaches us about faith. The Megillah inspires us to see Hashem’s presence everywhere, even when it isn’t obvious. The name Esther – the Megillah’s chief protagonist – comes from the word hester, meaning “hidden”, a hint at G-d’s hidden presence in the world (Talmud, Chulin 139b). Famously, the Megillah, which relates the miraculous story of how the Jewish people were saved from annihilation, doesn’t mention Hashem’s name once. Even when we cannot see Him, we are reminded that He is there, looking out for us every moment of every day.

He was in ancient Persia when Haman rose up against us, and He is here with us in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. We can take comfort in knowing we are in His loving embrace, and that everything He does is ultimately for our best.

The third mitzvah of Purim – matanot l’evyonim (Esther 9:22), giving money to those in need on the day – reminds us of the power of giving. There are many who have been hit financially by COVID-19. Our incredible institutions, too, are buckling under the strain. This year in particular, when so many of us are vulnerable, we need to reach out and give according to our means.

Then there’s mishloach manot (Esther 9:22) – sending gifts of food to our friends and family on Purim. Now is the time to invest in our relationships. We need them more than ever. We need to lean on one another. Our relationships feed us, giving us the strength and emotional well-being to withstand these difficult times. At a time of isolation and dislocation, mishloach manot remind us to fortify our connections to the people around us as we draw strength from them and they draw strength from us.

Finally, there is the seudat Purim, the celebratory meal on Purim day. The Purim seudah is a feast of gratitude and thanksgiving. We are grateful to Hashem for our miraculous deliverance on Purim, and it reminds us to offer thanks to Him also for the daily miracles we all experience, to truly savour the divine blessings we have in our lives, and to live with gratitude.

And so, as the world gradually moves to the next phase of this great global health struggle, let’s embrace Purim. Not with big gatherings, but with immersive engagement in the four mitzvot of the day which, together, provide a game plan for living in a world of uncertainty, guiding us to the four things we need right now: faith, kindness, love, and gratitude.

May we all merit the “light and joy and celebration and glory” (Esther 8:16) which the Megillah tells us filled their world after the miracles of Purim, and may these divine blessings flow into our lives and into our world.

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Valiant heroes and dark villians – why Purim is like COVID-19

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We all love fairy tales. Beautiful, clever heroes who use their charm to bring frightening dramas to a quick denouement after which everybody lives happily ever after.

From nursery school, this is how the story of Purim has been told to us by well-meaning educators: gorgeous young Esther, blessed to have won an empire-wide beauty contest to become the new Queen of Persia, lives in wedded bliss with the King. As soon as a threat is levelled against her people, she manages to sweet-talk her husband, Achashverosh, to nullify the plan. And they all live happily ever after.

I apologise in advance if I’m spoiling a childhood dream. A thorough reading of the Book of Esther, aided by the commentary found in Talmud Megillah, shows each of the statements in the above paragraph to be untrue. Esther was neither young, gorgeous, nor happy. She was dragged, against her will, to join the King’s harem. Though she secured the role of spouse, she still lived a miserable double life, and had to vie for the monarch’s attention against many rivals.

By the time she heard of Haman’s evil plan, she hadn’t seen the King for more than a month. And here’s a little challenge: for an audience with the King, you need to be invited. Nobody, even Achashverosh’s wife, simply marches into the throne room and says, “Howzit!”, as Mordechai expected Esther to do. Trespassers are executed!

Esther’s approach to the King could only have disastrous consequences for her. At worst, she would lose her life for her breach of royal protocol. At best, the King would extend his golden sceptre to her, signifying forgiveness for her breach (which, as we all know, is what happened). This outcome would actually be far from pretty. But first let me introduce you to another fact you are unlikely to have been taught by your nursery – or even primary – school teacher.

As per the Talmud, prior to her abduction to the harem, Mordechai and Esther were husband and wife. For years, she lived a double life, halachically married to one man while prisoner to another’s whims. Yet, from the moment she volunteered to approach the King and seduce him into saving her people, her marriage to Mordechai would have to end by Jewish law (which tragically is precisely what happened).

Mordechai’s request of Esther was to make an ultimate sacrifice for both of them. It involved pain and deprivation for individuals for the sake of the entire nation. A sacrifice Esther took upon herself, with the famous words, “Thus I will come to the King, contrary to the law, and if I perish, I perish.” (Esther, Chapter 4). A verse heavily loaded with double meaning. “Contrary to the law” – Persia’s or G-d’s? “I perish, I perish” – in this world or in the world to come.

The past year has been no fairy tale, just like the Purim story. But these magic stories often involve villains and heroes. Here the parallel applies.

The hero and heroine of Purim are Mordechai and Esther, a couple prepared to make huge personal sacrifices (hers far greater than his, of course) for the benefit of a community.

So many heroes have emerged in the past year and a half. These are good men and women, giving up what’s precious to them for the common good. Tribute has been paid to the angels of Hatzolah and to frontline health workers who have worked tirelessly under horrid conditions to save lives and minimise pain. In my position of chairperson of the South African Rabbinical Association, I also want to make mention of the heroic efforts of my colleagues to give spiritual guidance and hope to our community, this with our sanctuaries shuttered for the greater part of the past year.

The real hero is each one of us, in our own personal life, who has made and continues to make huge personal sacrifices for the good of the wider community. The many of us who stay home, cut down on socialising, give up on parties, glamourous weddings, Barmitzvahs and Batmitzvahs, and other life-cycle celebrations, and have radically modified our lifestyle to save others’ lives. Not to mention the wretched mask wearing, an altruistic act, according to experts, who say that most of the benefit is for those around us. The cost to this year’s Purim observance has been huge, accustomed as we are to large, merry gatherings.

The mortal danger in the Purim story took close to a year to disappear. To be exact, from Pesach to Purim. (Haman’s edict was promulgated on the Eve of Passover; the threat ceased about 11 months later, on 14 Adar, later to become Purim.) That’s the precise timeline of the current peril we are facing. We pray for Hashem to give us another Purim miracle, with total and complete deliverance from the current danger. As we read in the Book of Esther (Chapter 9), may we experience “transformation from sorrow to gladness, and from mourning to festivity”.

Purim sameach!

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