Purim: The War against Amalek

We can hear you, Rav Benizri. Good morning. — So: we always begin Purim with Shabbat Zachor, the reading of the passage recalling Amalek. Amalek is the grandson of Esav, the great-grandson of Yaakov. He is, in short, the son of Timna, the woman who wanted to join the Jewish people and to take the place now of Sarah, now of Rivkah, now of Rachel and Leah. And since she did not find her place and was turned away, know this well: every time we set aside, every time we push away someone who shows the will to enter the path of Judaism, we risk producing, through him, a sworn antisemite.

Now, why did the patriarchs judge this way? Precisely because they did not want the worm to get inside the fruit; they preferred that it remain outside, where one could still fight against it. Since her intentions were not, let us say, sincere, and since she risked altering the Torat Avot, the teaching of the patriarchs, they preferred to leave her outside. Yet I always come back to this: this kind of occurrence, this kind of event, we live it from within as from without, since, after all, ma’aseh avot siman la-banim — everything the fathers went through, we live in some measure. And it is up to us, ultimately, on our own path, to know how to clear away the negative aspects of this will to identify ourselves as Jews and as servants of a spiritual path that was traced for us, of a destiny that was bequeathed to us. But we must know that when we are ba-derech, on the way — when we are still in the process of being, and a Jew is always in the process of being; he never simply is, he becomes so a little more each day — it is in this becoming that we show certain weaknesses, and… — Look, that’s not Raphaël, that’s not the one we know, after all…

Careful. We show certain weaknesses, and we are indeed at risk of falling victim to an attack of Amalek. What is Amalek? It is at Refidim — rafu yedeihem, “their hands grew slack.” It is when we let ourselves go, when we drop our hands, when we give up, when we despair, and we live in a state of exile from ourselves. We no longer know where to go; we are disoriented. The problems that assail us — we cannot find a solution to them, or we lack the strength to face them — and then Amalek is there to take advantage of our weaknesses and try to tear us down. For when I say that the Jew is in permanent becoming, it is written: asher karcha ba-derech — Amalek, who defiled you while you were seeking your way. Let us not forget that Amalek appears when we do not yet have the land. We have come out of Egypt; certainly, we are able to steer our destiny safely to harbor with full responsibility. But we have no land, we do not yet have the Torah, and misfortune arises at this crossroads of being, for the bewildered man who does not know where he stands in space, nor where he stands in time — without the help, without the support of Yehoshua bin Nun and of Hur. Yehoshua bin Nun committed himself to the conquest of the land, and Hur fought fiercely and sacrificed his life so that the people would not embrace the golden calf; it is they who held Moshe’s hands aloft. For Moshe considers that if the people still longs to return to Egypt, to that exile in which it found itself, this is very grave: Amalek is there, and Amalek has a hold on it. So it needs this assistance — Hur on one side and Yehoshua on the other. And that is how Amalek is weakened, without being defeated. This Amalek dwells within us.

Let us not pretend that we do not have those moments when we ask ourselves a host of questions in this becoming. It runs from Haman, by way of Achashverosh, and brings in both Mordechai and Esther. Mordechai stands for our moments when we give off a good fragrance, when we are able to unite. When our sages asked where Mordechai is found in the Torah — since, as we said last week, Mordechai was the name of a Persian deity of the time, Marduk — they said no: his name comes from mor deror, because mor deror is an incense, one of the ingredients of the ketoret. And Mordechai is that man whose radiance within the people — an exiled people — is such that he can save the situation on his own. And provided we draw on that mor deror within ourselves, that fragrance within us — and that fragrance within us is the tzelem Elokim, the divine image, the nishmat chaim, the breath of life, the divine breath that is in each one of us — we can overcome Haman: the one who at times leads us to self-destruction and makes us sow hatred, division and rejection around us. And unfortunately, we do not often have the presence of the hidden woman, of the Shechinah, of that divine inspiration, of that hidden hand of G-d. For Esther — which is also a rendering of “star” — where does she find her reference in the Torah? Our sages said: “I will hide My face on that day.”

There are eclipses of G-d. It happens that, since our destinies do not always converge, we do not walk before G-d, facing Him, but turn our backs on Him; and at the moment of this eclipse of G-d we live an exile from ourselves. That is the whole story of the Megillah of Purim. For you know that Purim comes at the end of the year, just before the next liberation from Egypt, that is, the next rung of liberation; and so Purim contains within it all the Jewish festivals. Pesach, of course, since we escape the design of Haman. Matan Torah, Shavuot, since the Jews embraced of their own free will the Torah that had been given under compulsion at Sinai. I believe we have had occasion to say that for the Written Law there was certainly an indisputable acceptance by the people — even the other religions have acknowledged it — whereas where the acceptance was coerced, or rather where the people was forced to accept, kafah aleihem har ke-gigit, “He held the mountain over them like a vat,” it was the Oral Law, the interpretation of the Law. And within that interpretation of the Law, of course, one can arrive at interpretations wholly contrary to common sense, wholly contrary to the spirit of the Torah.

That is why our sages said: if one is worthy — if one approaches the Torah in a pure spirit — it is a fragrance of life; but if one approaches its study in an impure spirit, it becomes a poison of life. So Shavuot — Purim, I mean — was the day on which the entire Jewish people embraced the oral teaching of the Law and acknowledged it. Rosh Hashanah and Kippur: Yom Ha-Kippurim, “a day like Purim” — it is, in short, the return to prayer, the invocation of divine assistance, as we do on Rosh Hashanah, and a request for atonement for our sins. And Sukkot is the opening of the Jewish people to the outside world, to the nations of the world; and indeed, at Purim, ve-rabim me-amei ha-aretz mityahadim, “many of the peoples of the land became Jews”: many peoples discover Judaism and embrace this Jewish thought, these Jewish practices, this way of life. So Purim is the festival that, were all the festivals to disappear, would remain, because it keeps within it the whole substance of the other festivals. I was saying that this festival of Purim was instituted in exile; and just as the first exile prepared the building of the Second Temple, Purim prepares the building of the Third Temple, and that is why it is the one that closes the cycle of the festivals. Now, this closing of the cycle of the festivals can come about only through the advent of an Adam in the image of the first being conceived by G-d — for all the ingredients found in the Megillah are the very ones that make us up. And we long for the day when it is Haman — that is, our bad side, our evil inclination, our Amalek — who leads Mordechai on a horse adorned with the attributes of royalty, because he places himself at the service of justice, of the right path, of human dignity.

All of these are metaphors, images; but the goal is for us to reach the point of confusing arur Haman and baruch Mordechai — ad de-lo yada: one should not distinguish between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.” But one can fail to distinguish them only in a moment of joy, of euphoria. If we wear costumes on the day of Purim, it is because these are indeed our costumes throughout the year — our costumes throughout our life. The various garments are not abject in themselves; they become abject when, in short, we label them, we separate them, […] when we scatter them, when we individualize them and make no attempt to establish the connection

between the different elements — as between the different components of a society, in which we tend to practice the rejection of some by others under different labels, without finding, without even trying to find, a common language, without trying to kill all those seeds that tend to divide us rather than unite us. And that is why the best way to celebrate Purim, and to repair the sin of Achashverosh’s feast — which sought assimilation, but through opposed individualities — is, for us, mishloach manot ish le-re’ehu, “sending portions each man to his re’a.” There are two words in Hebrew that mean “friend.” Chaver is my associate; chibbur is an association; chavurah is an organism, a union.

And there is re’a. Re’a — careful — is not an associate: he is the other. The other: I do not recognize myself in him, yet I ought to integrate him. It is this effort of integrating the other. When I wall myself up in my house and do not seek to share with the outside world, then the separation I imposed on myself, others impose on me from outside, and they persecute me. I stir up a certain hatred from outside, and one must guard against this, because, unfortunately, it can become the weapon that destroys my entire being, an entire people. That is the story of the Megillah of Purim. So when, as an introduction to Megillat Esther, we read the remembrance — the memory of Amalek, who attacks a people on the way to being, on the way to becoming, a people seeking its identity through nationhood and its identity through its spiritual ideology — then, at the crossroads, at the intersection of these two searches, these two quests, those who do not hold firm and do not withstand the pressure of Amalek quickly fall prey to Haman. And let us not forget that this Haman is no fool. This Haman has his origins elsewhere. He is hanged on an etz, etz gavoha chamishim amah, a tree fifty cubits high — he is hanged on a post, on a tree.

Now this word etz, “tree” — you see where it comes from: it is the sin of the first Adam, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. And when our sages ask why the Jews of the Persian empire were condemned to extermination, they answered: because they partook of the feast of Achashverosh; they enjoyed that feast. But that feast of Achashverosh served kosher food to anyone who wanted to eat kosher — ve-ha-shetiyah ka-dat ein ones, “the drinking was according to the law, none compelled” — it served kosher wine to anyone who wanted to drink kosher wine. So they simply lent themselves to the atmosphere that prevailed and wanted to share it with the others. What harm is there in that? Ah, no: this will, this will to assimilate into a world where good and evil are confused and no longer keep their boundaries, where good can disguise itself as evil and evil disguise itself as good — that is the first sin of Adam. It was the woman who was at the origin of that deviation, and it is Esther, the woman, who repairs it; for on this tree of the knowledge of good and evil confused, Haman is hanged, together with his ten sons. And understand by this — were I to draw the connection between these ten sons, the ten utterances, the ten commandments, there are many entities here that intersect, but I do not have time to develop them. So it is at that moment that the Jew can define himself by the principle of Purim; and what characterizes Purim is joy.

Joy — what is its message? First, I will tell you that the first Jewish child is Yitzchak, the one who laughs. The messianic project is az yimale sechok pinu: at that moment our mouths will be filled with joy. Where is joy to be found? Beyond da’at, beyond the rational, beyond the etz ha-da’at, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. When I am surprised by something that defies everything I logically, rationally expected, I am happy. It is a joy — the joy of living something that has surpassed my expectation. Sarah, when at the age of ninety she is told of a child, of the birth of a child, laughs. She laughs because this laughter lies beyond the reality in which she finds herself, a reality in which she can no longer expect anything. The character of the Jew is to preserve this fragrance of Yitzchak’s birth in laughter — a permanent laughter, but a constructive laughter, not the laughter of contempt, not of derision, not of mockery. Far from it: a Jew is imbued with this joy of living because he knows that there is always something beyond this reality that he can defy, that he can reach. He has been taught to live with it,

provided that he himself listens to this inspiration. Our sages were distinguished by studying in permanent joy, in song. Why? We are told that when they grew tired, they would begin to laugh, to tell stories to make people laugh. Why? Because it opened other horizons for them. It allowed them to step outside the limits of their interpretation of the text. So they challenged the text through laughter. There is an incident in the Talmud in which Eliyahu, the prophet Elijah, is walking with a rabbi — I no longer remember his name — in a shuk, a marketplace with many people. He said to him: “You know, there is no one here — not one here is a ben Olam Haba. I see no one here who is a follower of the World to Come, deserving of the World to Come.”

He said to him: “How can that be? No one, no one at all?” He said: “No — listen, there are two people here, I see two people.” He said to him: “But which ones?” He takes him and shows him: two people who entertain the public, in the middle of the shuk, and who simply give hope and joy of living to people who are afflicted, crushed by daily worries. He said: “These are bnei Olam Haba” — that is, these people live their Olam Haba here, they prepare it here, through this will to rise above the contingencies of life. Whereas the others have a share in the World to Come — that is beyond dispute — but they are not dwellers of the World to Come.

They still have to earn their World to Come by the sweat of their brow. And that, in short, is the particular character of this festival of Purim, on which, for once, we are asked — mechayav inish livsumei be-Puraya, “a person is obliged to become mellow on Purim” (Megillah 7b) — to drink at will, to eat at will. Why? In order to step outside our limits and gain access to another vision of the world. That is the first and fundamental teaching of the festival of Purim, which is played out by certain characters: there are three women in Megillat Esther and three men. Achashverosh and Vashti are merely passing through. Everything is played out between Mordechai and Esther, between Mordechai and Haman. One may ask why Mordechai stands up to Haman, and why Esther at first refuses to break down the palace door to defend her people.

She is for a political approach that first calls upon the people to rid itself of all its internal rivalries, because without that it is impossible to save the Jewish people, to intervene with King Achashverosh, to intervene with the Malko shel Olam, the King of the world. For Achashverosh and Vashti are mere pawns in the direction of the world; behind them looms an invisible hand, yet one ever present, which brings the Jewish people back to its first destiny: that of the people that must indeed bring a message to the other nations — but by example; not through teaching ex cathedra, but through the example of oneself. That is what I had to say to you to conclude this lesson on the festival of Purim.

I’ll stop it now. We can no longer hear you, Rav Benizri. Rav Benizri, are you with us? — The miracle is that at least he made it to the end. — But will there be a second miracle? Will Rav Benizri come back to us? — If I may, it would be good to post the video as soon as possible, before Purim, because this is an exceptional lecture. It is truly exceptional. It is the first time I have seen a dimension of Purim like this one. — Absolutely. — I would like to share it with other people, and certainly others would too. So it is good to have it before Purim. — All right, listen, I will make a big effort; I will put both of them up tonight.

I happen to have the time. However, I always need at least twenty-four hours to cut out the little “no man’s land” at the beginning. — All right, it’s better to share it tomorrow evening, but if you… — All right, OK, tomorrow morning. — Very good, thank you. — So yes, but it’s fine; he is no longer online… well, he’ll come back. — Something we wanted to say is that apparently next Sunday there will be no lesson, all right? Since it is Shushan Purim, in Jerusalem. — Shushan Purim in Jerusalem, yes. So… it will already be the end of Shushan Purim, but I suppose he will not manage to give the lesson. So we will skip a week. We will meet again in two weeks for a first lesson on Pesach.

Yes, that’s good. We are going to have several lessons on Pesach. It is going to be very, very interesting — to prepare our Seder well. So shall we stop here? Rav Benizri is not back; we are not going to force him to return. — He is here, he is arriving. — I had a question. — But why did it disappear? — I don’t know. — We don’t know. We waited patiently. We considered that the first miracle was that you had been able to reach the end, and that there would certainly be a second miracle: that you would come back. — Exactly — it’s because of the hester panim, the hiding of the face. — I have a question, I have a question. So why do we say one must hear every word of the Megillah? Well, now I understand, because every word is so important — but why is hearing every word of the Megillah important?

— One must not miss a single word, that is what is said. — Tell me: when you read an important text — I would say, a letter addressed to you personally — and you see that indeed all your joy depends on it, your whole future depends on it, and a word is missing… you understand? — OK. — …when it comes from a beloved. — You spoke about laughter, and that struck me a great deal, because laughter often leads to excesses, namely the mockery you spoke of; and one of the forms of mockery we have, and of which we are proud in the Western world, is caricature. Personally, I consider that caricature — even when it targets us — as long as it is something we share with the other nations, is something that allows us to step back, and is not really antisemitism.

If it is directed only at one nation, it is xenophobia; and if it is directed only at us, it is antisemitism. So I wanted to ask you: what is the limit of the distance we can take? And in fact, I was struck as you were speaking; I said to myself that the root of Yitzchak, of tzechok, laughter, is the same root as katzar. So laughter is… — It is not the same root. — It is not the same root, I don’t think. No. — Isn’t there a resh? — Ah yes, that’s true. — Katzar has a resh. — Yes, but it’s not the same. — […] Thank you. — I wrote it down wrong in front of me, then.

— […] But as for your first remark: I know that once, when I was young, I paid money for my caricature — someone who drew my portrait and picked out exactly what characterized me in particular. And we are caricatures to begin with. — I have another question. Last week you spoke of the balance of the Beit Ha-Mikdash, the Temple. And this week you say that one could eat kosher? — Eating kosher means nothing, you know — you eat, you eat kosher… — You reassure me, Rav Benizri. — Eating kosher without saying a blessing before and after, without acknowledging, without sanctifying what you eat — that is slippery ground.

He — excuse the expression — does not much care whether we eat kosher or do not eat kosher, because He is not a chef and He is not a mashgiach (kashrut supervisor). But when I seek to eat kosher, I am seeking a spiritual hygiene for my food. I want to establish a distinction between the etz ha-chaim, the tree of life, and the etz ha-da’at tov va-ra, the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. I make these distinctions on a reduced scale so that, ultimately, I give meaning to what I do. Let me tell you: what is the purpose of our life, of the life of every human being? The Rambam, Maimonides, says in the Mishneh Torah that yesod ha-yesodot ve-amud ha-chochmot — the foundation of foundations and the pillar of all wisdom — the essence of everything and of every science is indeed to discover, to reveal the divine that is hidden within us, not around us. And the Ramchal, Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, five hundred years later, writes the book Mesillat Yesharim, “The Path of Rectitude.”

That is how it has been translated, but it is a poor translation. And he says in his introduction: the foundation of foundations, and above all the hope of hopes, is that a person should know the greatness and the image of his life. The meaning of life is that a person should not lose sight of what his obligations are in his world. And the two converge, because the obligations of Adam in his world — and when we speak of Adam, let me remind you that this is the dimension of the human being, which has neither feminine nor plural; it is the Adam, in his singularity, universal and at once horizontal and vertical — the purpose is to reveal the divine that dwells within him, […] that he carries; and each of us carries it, of course, according to his own measure.

We do not have the same kelim, the same vessels; we do not have the same instruments; we do not have the same capacities. Each according to his measure. Our perceptions of faith are different, as are our perceptions of joy, as are our perceptions of words, of texts, of music — all this is personal. But to the extent that we allow all these perceptions to merge into one another, then there is indeed a Shechinah: when we manage to establish a divine presence through which we communicate, which widens us, which ultimately breaks down our limits and gives us access to this joy of recognizing the other. It is no longer “the other is my hell”; the other is the one in whom I recognize myself.

Yes. — Rav Benizri, I also have a question. — Yes. — Aren’t we underestimating the role of Zeresh in the Megillah? Because, as you said earlier, Haman was hanged on the tree — which was the same tree as that of the first sin of Adam Ha-Rishon. And if we know that the Megillah in fact began with the jealousy of… In fact, Zeresh was not invited to Queen Vashti’s feast. And so Haman took revenge by giving bad advice to King Achashverosh, saying that what had been done to her should be done [to Vashti]. And I believe that in fact it was she who was the trigger of the Megillah — that is what I have noted.

— You do not have all the elements of the Midrash, namely that Haman requested Vashti’s removal in order to put his daughter in her place. These intrigues exist all the time, and one need not go looking for them in Racine or Corneille. They are there. That is to say, just as in commerce, rare are those who will give you their best right away. First they will try to pass off the low-end goods on you, and then, well, if you are not satisfied, they bring out the rest, and so on. It is the same way, the same manner, in the exchange of ideas, of formulas, of ways of life. Sometimes one has to let oneself live. Zorem — as you hear people say today — “go with the flow”: one must follow the current. To resist that current and seek to go back up it, against the stream, is difficult; and yet that is what must be done. But if I must go back toward the source — then it is when I succeed, when I can hold fast to my true roots, that I feel a certain fullness.

Not when I am […] — because when I am […], I am drugged. I do as everyone does; I want to go along, I want to have fun like everyone else, I want to do the most popular things there are. It is a way of living, of letting oneself go, but it is not a life. One must distinguish between […] and […]: there is a heh that makes the difference; and the heh, you should know, is the letter of the Ineffable Name. That, moreover, is why it is the letter of the feminine […]. — Rav Benizri, I have one more reflection, if you will allow me. If I am not mistaken, Megillat Esther is the only text, apart from Shir Ha-Shirim, in which the Name of G-d is not uttered.

There is no Name of G-d in the Megillah. But can we consider that He is hidden in Esther, or embodied in Esther, since there is an aleph and seter, “hiding”? And that, as a result, it might perhaps be more important to see G-d in man or in woman, rather than outside man or woman? — Yes. I will go along with what you are saying to some extent. For, in principle, Esther was not alone. It was Mordechai who stirred everyone up; it was he who indeed overheard that a plot was being hatched, which he passed on to Esther; and this Megillah should have been called the Megillah of Mordechai — or at the very least, the Megillah of Mordechai and Esther.

Why Esther? Why the Megillah of Esther? Because everything passes through this Esther, through this seter. It is the hidden meaning of things — which means that what we see is not the true reality. One must turn things over in order to see them properly. We simply have a black-and-white negative, but it has to be developed differently; then you will have the true image. And that is why the true name under which it presents itself is Megillat Esther. And it is true that this hidden side of the divine that is in each one of us is what we do not perceive; yet it is in search of it that we go through our whole life, in stages, always with this sense of machar, of tomorrow, and by taking different paths.

There is not only one path. And prayer is the one chapter in which we must not laugh. One may laugh while studying, while adoring; one may not laugh while praying. — Ah, I see. — I have a small question: you spoke of Esther, but you had said that her name was Hadas or Hadassah? — No, it is the name Hadassah — Hadassah, yes, that is her real name. — That is her real name. And is there a special meaning to Hadassah? — It is myrtle; it is the hadas that we all take — which is included on Sukkot. Yes, it is also fragrance; […]. Mordechai: mor, the fragrant one. It is a sublime blessing, this borei minei besamim, “who creates various kinds of spices.”

One would say that Shabbat exists only through fragrance, through these fragrant flowers with which we usher in Shabbat and with which we part from Shabbat. That is to say, everything lies at the level of this breath of being, as regards the beauty of holiness that is the beauty of Shabbat. For in the passage about Amalek it is said: “Remember what Amalek did to you.” And then it is said: ve-hayah be-haniach Hashem Elokecha lecha mi-kol oyvecha mi-saviv — “when Hashem your G-d has given you rest from all your enemies round about.” That is the connection. If you remember Amalek, you will be able to blot out the remembrance of Amalek. It is a matter of menuchah, of rest — when you have attained that relation, that serenity of being.

So this serenity, when you have seen it fully, is Shabbat. Look at this prayer, the third prayer that concludes Shabbat, Minchah: “menuchat shalom ve-shalvah ve-hashket va-vetach — a rest of peace and tranquility, of quiet and security… menuchah shleimah she-atah rotzeh bah — a perfect rest in which You delight… ve-al menuchatam yakdishu et shemecha — and through their rest they will sanctify Your Name.” This serenity of Shabbat — where man, disconnecting from all the preoccupations of daily life, tries a little to renew his being through Shabbat and what it offers in spirituality, and at the same time to discover the pleasures of the family, the pleasures of society, to be able to live them and share them — that is ve-hayah be-haniach Hashem Elokecha lecha mi-kol oyvecha mi-saviv. When you come to feel this serenity of being, at that moment you can dispense with the remembrance of Amalek; you will be able to regard him as blotted out.

— But how is it that tumah, impurity, is attracted by purity, while purity is not attracted by tumah? So how is it that Achashverosh has a desire for something that is in fact so opposed to him? — Well, Achashverosh is a Jew of the nations who has not found his place and is afraid to declare himself, and who considers that the Jewish people indeed holds a place of choice within his population. And yet he is constrained, carried away, dragged along by this Haman who tells him: “Your life is mine.” That is to say: “I am your protector, I am your minister of defense, I am the one who can secure your throne.”

And he, in a way, needs this Haman, because he tells himself that if there is ever a revolution or a riot, it is Haman who will be on the front line, and “I will escape with my life.” There are many Achashveroshes hiding behind others. But since they have not found their way, or since they did not have the courage to go all the way, they remain in the state of an Achashverosh — ach, a brother who has been uprooted, who has lost his roots. — One last question. Let us take Parashat Zachor. We speak twice: of zachor and of lo tishkach — “remember” and “do not forget.”

— I don’t know whether you have had the time. There is always an active memory and a passive memory. An active memory is constantly mobilizing me. I cannot live only in memory. Let me live, let me breathe. So there is a passive memory: I do not forget, but I am not a militant of that memory at every turn. Because if I do things only in opposition to the other, it will destroy me. I will feel disarmed, diminished, because everything I do is done in a spirit of competition. That is what active memory is. Whereas with lo tishkach, everything I do, I do on my own account; but while carrying out my project, I do not forget the limit that must not be crossed — there are red lines.

Lo tishkach. — All right? All right? — So, I did this; so in a way it’s the inside and the outside, and I believe it is the inside. — Thank you very much, honored Rav, thank you very much. — Thank you very much. Thank you very much, thank you. — […] — Thank you all for organizing — with pleasure.