My father-in law taught me to remember all of the public fast days on the Jewish calendar by this simple mnemonic: The black and the white, the long and the short, the man and the woman. The man and the woman are Tzom Gedaliah and Ta’anit Esther. The long and the short are Asarah B’Tevet and the 17th of Tamuz, or if you live in Australia, the 17th of Tamuz and Asarah B’Tevet. And the black and the white are Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av.
Yom Kippur and Tisha B’Av are the only full 25 hour fasts in our calendar and the only days when we afflict ourselves with all five forms of physical affliction. But if Tisha B’Av and Yom Kippur are similar in their severity and duration, they are opposites in their mood. They are the “black and the white.” On Yom Kippur we wear white clothing and cover the shul in white. On Tisha B’Av we dress as mourners and drape the shul in mournful shrouds as well.
Tisha B’Av and Yom Kippur are connected to the two greatest sins of the desert and so the ways in which those days diverge is curious.
Parashat Ki Tissa includes the account of the sin of the golden calf, the shattering of the first tablets of the law, and the long process of forgiveness. Yom Kippur is the anniversary of the conclusion of this morning’s Torah portion. The second set of tablets were given on Yom Kippur, signifying that God had forgiven Bnei Yisrael for the sin of the golden calf. Yom Kippur is a day that demonstrates that our relationship with God can overcome sin. Even after worshipping the golden calf we were able to continue on our path with Moshe as our leader. Each year when we fast on Yom Kippur we fast with a spirit of optimism in God’s promise that our sins can be forgiven and that teshuvah is real.
The other major fast day, Tisha b’Av has no such optimism. Tisha b’Av is the anniversary of the day when the spies came back from their journey to Eretz Yisrael and brought back a bad report about the land and the potential for B’nai Yisrael to possess that land. We cried in our encampment that night and made plans to return to Egypt. All but Joshua and Caleb were sentenced to die in the desert over the following years of wandering. That day has been a day of mourning ever since that first fateful Tisha B’Av in the desert when we listened to the spies.
Tisha B’av is a day of mourning and isolation when we even refrain from greeting one another. Each year I find the contrast so dramatic. For all of its austere beauty, there is a hidden joy to Yom Kippur and a sense of camaraderie in shul as we spend hour after hour together. Tisha b’Av lacks that optimism and that positive energy The shul fills up with familiar faces on Tisha B’av. But no matter how happy we are to see friends, we depart from shul without greeting one another and make our way home in solitude.
The two great sins of the desert result in two very different commemorations. We were forgiven for the sin of the golden calf and the anniversary of that forgiveness is the most sacred and positive day on our calendar.
Why did the sin of listening to the spies cause so much more damage? Asking to return to Egypt was a fundamental rejection of our very destiny as a people. There is no easy repair when we walk away from our destiny and deny our very identity as a people.
Teshuvah exists in response to sins. Relationships that are damaged can be repaired. This is true of relationships between one another, this is true on a national level as well, and this is even true of our people’s relationship with God. The shattered luchot, alongside the intact luchot were placed in the aron in the mikdash.
Core questions of identity are more significant than questions of the right or wrong way to move forward. We were forgiven the choice to abandon Moshe and build a golden calf. We were even taught, in this morning’s parasha, the secrets of God’s mercy and told to call upon that mercy whenever we would have reason to need it. But there is no easy way to move beyond a fundamental rejection of identity. Once we accepted the spies’ report, an entire generation was left to wander in the desert. Those Israelites who didn’t understand our basic identity as a people had to die in the desert before we could move and take possession of Eretz Yisrael.
Earlier this week I traveled to the AIPAC policy conference in Washington DC with a 15 member delegation of ASBI members and 16,000 other delegates – by far the largest gathering of pro-Israel advocates in the country and the largest policy conference in AIPAC’s history.
I had a great time. I got to attend a leadership reception which is sort of like a giant kiddush with senators. Cory Booker’s ability to work the room would put most rabbis to shame. But as exciting as it was to meet some of the politicians whom I admire and to thank them for their support of Israel some of the special presentations that I was able to attend, as part of the rabbinic delegation at the conference, have continued to percolate through my thinking.
I’m still thinking about the remarks I heard from Leon Wieseltier, the journalist and public intellectual, and from Rabbi Daniel Hartman, the Israeli educator. What I am about to say are my own thoughts, but they are thoughts that are heavily influenced by words that I heard those two people say earlier in the week.
Every Jew in America, and quite a few non-Jews too have an opinion about Prime Minister Netanyahu’s speech before congress. Should he have accepted the Speaker’s invitation? Should he have backed out? I also have an opinion. And, I’m happy to share my opinion…with any one of you who is ever invited to address a joint session of congress. Just ask, and I’ll be happy to share my advice. We all have opinions about the speech and many of us have opinions about the P5 + 1 negotiations with Iran too.
But how many Jews could formulate a response if asked, “what does it mean to be Jewish?” Are we able to articulate a vision for why we need a Jewish state and what its existence means to us?
If we cannot answer those questions, the politics, and the advocacy, and the policy debates will be meaningless. The controversies that loom large in the newspapers will fade in significance over time and the impact of these debates will prove ephemeral if we don’t have a common understanding of what it is all about.
The contrast between Tisha B’Av and Yom Kippur reminds us that nothing is as important as are core questions of identity. If Jewish identity is secure, everything else will sort itself out over time. If Jewish identity is weak, the situation is hopeless. Jewish students on campus do not need heavily curated fact-sheets or pro-Israel YouTube videos on Facebook to combat anti-Israel agitation. They need Shabbat dinners, vibrant prayer communities, opportunities for Torah study, and other circumstances and occasions that will strengthen and reinforce their Jewish identities and their pride for Judaism. If that exists, they will figure out a way to defend Israel and its reputation.
The generation for whom the importance of Israel and Israel advocacy was self-evident is gradually stepping away from the stage. This “Jewish greatest generation” built the institutions that have a allowed the State of Israel to grow and flourish and that have protected and nourished our Jewish lives in the diaspora. But the relevance of Israel to the younger generation of American Jews is not self-evident and too few, far too few, American Jews have a robust sense of Jewish identity that can sustain itself and perpetuate itself in the midst of American openness and prosperity.
The current situation situation can appear grim, but we have been here before.
The story of Purim unfolds in a fourth-generation assimilated Jewish community. Four generations away from Yerushalayim, Mordechai and Esther circulate in the highest echelons of Persian political life with their Jewish identities hidden by Persian names (Mordechai is from Marduk, Esther is a form of Ishtar), and a conscious effort to keep their Jewish ancestry a secret.
The culture of Persia is seductive, wealthy, and powerful, yet is built upon a foundation of great cruelty. And because of this cruelty, the Jews of Persia are in great danger.
The most obvious danger to the Jews of Persia came from Haman. And the threat of murderous antisemitism is one that is recurrent and all too familiar from Jewish history. Sometimes the story has a happy ending and sometimes it does not. We defend ourselves from Haman through physical self-defense, and through alliances with whatever allies we can find. Last night we discussed the story of Nechemiah, a member of the king’s court in “Shushan HaBirah” who approaches the king, reminiscent of Esther, and requests to be given permission to travel to Yerushalayim and oversee the building of its walls. Megilat Ta’anit records that the walls of Yerushalayim were rebuilt by Nechemiah on the 16th of Adar – the day following Shushan Purim which is today. Taking responsibility for our safety is a response to Purim and a response to Haman and his threats.
But Achashverosh is also a threat and in some ways he is a more dangerous threat than Haman. There is little risk that we will ourselves turn into Haman. But we can easily turn into Achasverosh and, indeed, that it what almost happened to Esther.
The Gemara debates whether or not Achashverosh is a foolish king or a wicked king. The story can be told either way. Is he cynically manipulating his political opponents and cementing his rule, or is he himself an easily manipulated fool, a grown up baby sitting on the thrown of Persia. Either way, Achashverosh is a person consumed with narcissism and utterly self-absorbed. From the opening verses of the story until the final lines, Achashverosh cares about…Achashverosh.
When he has trouble sleeping, he reads stories, about himself. Mourning clothing cannot be worn in his royal palace – the unpleasant reminder of death is not allowed to darken his mood. And Esther is absorbed into that world. When Mordechai sits outside the palace wearing sackcloth Esther’s insides churn with discomfort. Because of the decree? Because of Mordechai’s suffering? No. Because his clothing is embarrassing. She sends him clean cloths and tells him to present himself more appropriately.
Esther’s act of courage. Her intervention with Achashverosh is an act of identity. She identifies as a Jew, and she reveals herself to be someone capable of resisting the narcissistic orbit of Achashaverosh. She demonstrates that she does care about other people and their suffering. This act of identity allows Esther to redeem her people. As the holiday of Purim is created at the end of the megillah, mitzvot of mutual responsibility and concern are created to mark the day. Mishloah Manot and Matanot l’Evyonim may not protect us from Haman, but they will protect us from turning into Achashverosh.
Purim is a transition to the spring holidays. The weather will hopefully cooperate eventually!
We are just weeks away from Pesach when each one of us experiences being freed from Egyptian slavery and are initiated into the fate of the Jewish people. We will celebrate Shavuot and each one of us will be able to personally accept the Torah and join the destiny of the Jewish people. And we will mark the “20th century Jewish holidays” as well. This year on Yom Ha’Atzma’ut we can see how the modern State of Israel is a reaction to the fragility of Jewish diaspora life just like Nehemiah’s long ago. And we can dedicate ourselves to doing whatever we can to ensure that our Jewish communal life, in Israel and in the diaspora, is built on a foundation of Jewish values, so that we resist the seductions of Achashverosh’s court and create a positive Jewish identity which can perpetuate itself from generation to generation.
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 