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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

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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Parshot/Festivals

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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Less is more: friendship is the essence of mishloach manot

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Purim is easily one of our most social and communal holidays. The festivities begin at nightfall, and flow through to the following day. There is dress-up, a seudah (festive meal), and our communal web is activated as people send mishloach manot (food parcels) to friends near and far.

With so much socialising as well as giving and receiving, Purim is often a day to acknowledge one’s connection to people and feel grateful for community.

Yet, a group of Jewish doctors issued a caution recently about mishloach manot, saying that the circulating of these food parcels isn’t a good idea during a pandemic. These doctors advised keeping the mitzvah to its minimum, which is to send mishloach manot, (a minimum of two items of food), to one person.

Should we resign ourselves to saying Purim is yet another holiday suppressed by the pandemic, or might there be something valuable, even deeply connecting in reducing the mitzvah to its minimum requirements?

In the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Megillah, we are told that Rabba, an impoverished yet highly esteemed Amoraic Sage who became head of the Yeshiva at Pumpedita, would send a sack of dates and a cup of roasted flour with Abayei to the esteemed exilarch Marei, the son of Mar. Abayei the student of Rabba, functions as a kind of quirky commentator.

Appraising the dates and the flour he says, “When Marei the exilarch sees this, he will say, ‘Even when the farmer becomes the king, the basket doesn’t hang low.’” In other words, when Abayei looks at the modest package, he thinks that Marei, an exilarch, might find it a little … spare.

Marei the exilarch then sent Rabba in return a sackful of ginger and a cupful of long peppers, an eminently more expensive gift. At this point, Abayei comments, “Rabba will say, ‘I sent him a sweet treat, and now he has sent me pungents in return.’” In other words, Rabba will say, he has sent me something smelly!

This humorous anecdote relaying an exchange between a rosh yeshiva and an exilarch touches on the underbelly of mishloach manot: sending food parcels to your friends on Purim can be complicated.

Who would have thought that bag of Fritos and that almost stale hamantaschen actually touches on complex socio-economic issues, class stratifications, egos, and interpersonal sensitivities? Purim is a day where dates and flour might be misconstrued as a little frugal, where ginger and peppers might be received as a subtle insult.

Indeed, sometimes a mitzvah can become entangled in other stuff: how many mishloach manot did I receive? Am I popular? Do I have money to send fancy mishloach manot? Is my mishloach manot as nice as the one I’m receiving from others? Did we receive from so and so? So and so delivered to us, but we hadn’t prepared any for them.

Mishloach manot is almost akin to getting likes on Facebook. You feel loved when you get lots of them. What’s more, the very next day, you find yourself sitting with a pile of confectionery that you want to give away. Between longing to receive it and then giving it all away, what’s the point?

As doctors advise us to return to the minimum practice of the mitzvah, perhaps it’s also a chance to return to the essence and meaning of the mitzvah. The words in the Megillah tell us “mishloach manot ish le’rei’eihu” (food parcels from one person to his/her friend). If this is about sending a gift to your friends, perhaps Purim is a day to consider where we are in terms of our friends and friendship. What does it mean to truly give and receive as a friend? What does it take to recognise the true needs of your friends, and to offer yourself without over-reaching or under-reaching.

Perhaps this focus on reaching out to your friend is because the story of Esther is really about failed relationships. On a micro level, Achashverosh isn’t a guy who has deep and meaningful relationships! He gets rid of Vashti when she challenges him, he doesn’t summon Esther for days on end, and his relationship with Haman is based on power and flattery. The failed interpersonal relationships have ramifications for the wider level of society. As Vashti is punished, all women in Persia are further subjugated, and as Haman hates Mordechai, he seeks to kill all Jews.

So this Purim, as we adhere to our doctors’ orders and prepare mishloach manot for one or maybe two people, let’s return to an examination of friendship and consider the ways in which bonds have been strained through social distancing.

Let’s offer our reduced mishloach manot with simplicity and genuineness, a nourishing yet humble gift to a friend who could do with it, and receive what’s offered without judgement or expectation. But more than a food parcel, let’s remember how to be a friend, and how to cultivate friendship.

If Rabba and Marei’s mishloach manot manoeuvres were complicated, the Talmud in Megillah ends with a meaningful and touching tale about two other rabbis. We are told that Abayei bar Avin and  Rabbi Chaninah bar Avin would simply exchange their meals with each other, thus fulfilling their mishloach manot obligation.

The Talmud seems to tell us that through this simple, humble, and uncomplicated exchange, without fanfare or ceremony, they were satisfied and complete, and all obligations were fulfilled. They understood the essence of the mitzvah.

  • 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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