The day of the Giving of the Torah is indisputably the most important date in all of Jewish history. Although the Jewish calendar is full of momentous dates – days of remembrance of redemption and salvation, days of mourning over destruction and downfall – all these dates are dwarfed in comparison to this central event.
We have experienced many national turning points, events of extreme importance to our destiny. The exodus from Egypt marked the beginning of the Jewish People’s emergence as a nation; Joshua’s conquest of the Land supplied the nation with a homeland; the establishment of the Kingdom of David and the building of the Temple created a governmental structure and permanent center for the Jewish people. Nevertheless, the day of the Giving of the Torah is more distinctive and exalted than all these days and events.

To fully understand the significance of the event, we must first examine several of its aspects.

First, the Giving of the Torah is a singular event; it distinguishes the whole essence of the Jewish People and constitutes a characterizing point for the whole course of its existence. Other events, although important to our history, are not, in and of themselves, unique to us alone. Many peoples wandered until reaching the place of their permanent settlement; many peoples established a state and kingdom, and even lost them (only a very few, however, were exiled from their place and then returned to reestablish their state. This, then, can also be regarded as part of Jewish singularity). Those important and central events in Jewish history thus have their parallels in the histories of other nations. Although that does not detract from the importance of those events, it does detract from their singularity.

This is not the case regarding the revelation at Sinai and the receiving of the Torah. This event is singular and without parallel in the history of any other nation, whether in recorded history or in folk tales. This singularity lies not only in the very acceptance of a new faith and way of life, but in the unique manner in which all the members of our people accepted this way of life.
The Giving of the Torah is a singular event primarily because of the event’s influence on the Jewish People’s essential nature. Due to the content and character of the Giving of the Torah, it alone formed the inner singularity of the Jewish People for all time.

Clearly, there is an element of distinctiveness in the very fact that the Jewish People at its inception left the house of bondage, but this distinctiveness could not have taken on its full significance without the acceptance of the Torah, which inscribed the exodus from Egypt as an enduring memory within the collective Jewish memory.

Neither the existence in the past of a Jewish state, nor the creation of classical Jewish literature, nor the Jewish People’s lengthy exile could have taken on their unique dimensions without the Giving of the Torah. The Giving of the Torah not only invested our whole historical system with meaning, but also made it possible for each event to contribute to the character, human type, and spiritual creativity unique to our people. Following acceptance of the Torah, everything that happens to the Jewish People automatically takes on unique significance, which not infrequently increases and heightens our distinctiveness. From the Giving of the Torah onward, everything that happens to us – for good or for bad – necessarily is done and happens in a unique manner, in a Jewish manner.

Another aspect of the unique significance of the Giving of the Torah lies in the fact that it represents an irreversible process in our history.

In the course of history, the Jewish people has experienced many ascents and descents, almost every one of which represents one side, which is counteracted by an opposing event. Opposite the conquest of the Land, there is the catastrophe of exile from it; opposite the building of the Temple, there is the destruction of the Temple; and opposite the exile and the suffering, there are periods of return to the Land and its rebuilding.

In other worlds, even the most momentous events are, by their very nature, reversible. There is no situation or state of being that does not have its antithesis, which is likely to cancel its effect and change its value.

The Giving of the Torah, however, stands apart from all of the foregoing, in that it is an event from which there is no going back. The Jewish people’s change in essence and status, a change brought about by the Giving of the Torah, is such that the Jewish people cannot – even if it wanted to – back out of it.

Ever since the Jewish people’s transformation, at the revelation at Sinai, into “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6), it could no longer become something else. To be sure, it is possible that individuals among the Jewish people, large parts of the people, or even the whole people will at times not want to fulfill the Sinaitic commitment. This non-fulfillment, however, does not negate the unique nature of the Jewish people, and is merely an attempt not to live up to it, not to persist in it – without the ability to change it. It is possible that the Sinaitic covenant will not be upheld at one time or another, but it cannot be abrogated.

Let us remember that there have been attempts to abrogate this covenant not only in recent centuries but over the course of thousands of years, ever since Sinai; only that these attempts – «when you say, “We will become like the nations, like the families of the lands”» ( Ezekiel 20:32) – never succeeded. Ever since the acceptance of the Torah the Jewish people, as a people, has had its own special path, which it cannot leave. Hence, any attempt to do so leads to one of two results: either to a stage in which the people (or part of it) recommits itself to the covenant again and yet again, or else that part of the people that is not interested in the covenant separates from the Jewish people.

The dilemma – should one be like the ten tribes, that is to say: abandon the way of the Torah and ultimately be eliminated from the Jewish people – has been and continues to be faced in many other situations in our history; basically, it is: to return or to disappear. For the change in essence effected by the Giving of the Torah is permanent. There is no possibility of returning the Torah to its Giver, while continuing to be the “Jewish people.”

This attitude toward eating takes on additional significance in the case of the Seder meal. The Seder is essentially a repetition of the way the Pesah offering should be eaten, and mitzvot involving eating apply to it: the mitzvah to eat matzah and the prohibition against eating hametz.

The eating of matzah and the abstention from hametz are not just a commemoration of the events that occurred in the exodus from Egypt, but represent our actual participation in those events. Many mitzvot are performed in remembrance of the exodus from Egypt, but on Pesah we do more than that: In a certain way we, personally and communally, reexperience the process of the Exodus. Eating matzah on Pesah, then, constitutes a revitalization of the essence of the Exodus, which in the human soul means going forth or rising to a different level and different form of awareness.

The eating of bread of either kind – whether hametz or matzah – is connected to the question of human awareness and da’at. In the Talmud it says that “the tree of which Adam ate . . . was wheat, since a child does not know how to call ‘father’ and ‘mother’ until he has had a taste of grain.”  Thus, there is an inner connection between wheat and knowledge, and between wheat and the essential nature of man as endowed with da’at and awareness.

From a cultural-anthropological standpoint as well, bread is classified as specifically human food. Like other animals, man eats meat and fruit as part of the natural world. Bread, however, is the unique food of man qua man. When man eats bread, he is connected on a higher level to human civilization, to his own essential nature as an intelligent human being, who knows good and evil.

Hasidic works that treat this subject emphasize that “a child does not know how to call ‘father’ until he has had a taste of grain.” The child’s relationship to the father is not a primary relationship; the primary and natural relationship of the child is to the mother, for, particularly during nursing, she is the first and most immediate object in his consciousness. By contrast, the relationship with the father is not a direct, instinctive-biological relationship, but a cultural one, which develops only after the child passes the stage of basic awareness.

In the first stages, even the relationship with the father is not an intellectual relationship driven by awareness and understanding. The child who says “father” does not understand all the implications and meanings of the term. He does not grasp exactly what a father is or what connection he has with his father. All that he comprehends is a certain degree of awareness that leads to speech and to language skills. When the child says “father,” although he does not understand the whole significance of the expression, he actually makes the first jump of consciousness toward a more perfected essential nature, which is not yet his essential nature.

Our initial and basic perceptions are perceived through the physical senses, which are of crude matter. Higher perceptions require a certain intellectual or emotional jump to a nature that transcends the senses. Just such a jump must be made by the infant in order to reach the level on which he will be able call “father.” This process always entails a jump, and it always entails stages that are not reached consciously. The early stage of eating bread for the first time, the call “father,” represent the jump to a different type of consciousness, a different level of awareness.

The festival of Pesah literally means the festival of leaping, the festival on which we recall and experience the great jump, after which we became capable of calling “Father.”

The problem faced by the child who must say “father” for the first time is the heart of the problem faced by the people of Israel upon its departure from Egypt, and it is around this problem that Seder night revolves each year, when we are to reexperience and bring to life the exodus from Egypt. This is the profound meaning of the festival of Pesah, on which one must pass over and leap to a new awareness.

When the people of Israel left Egypt as a slave people, they ascended all at once to a level that, from their standpoint, transcended da’at and rationale: for the first time they said “Father.” From above, the Holy One, blessed be He, gave to a people that was not yet ready, and that did not yet understand, its conclusions, as it skipped over all the intermediary stages of thought, logic, and insight and reached the final conclusion – a place where the circle is closed, where that which cannot be understood meets that which is beyond all understanding.

The people of Israel, which at the Exodus is still like a child, must learn for the first time who is Father and what is a father, how to say “Father” and how to relate to Him. For such development to take place, what is required is an attitude not built on methodical, intellectual understanding, but one whose point of departure is that man is ready to accept things that are without structured explanation and beyond reason.

The opening of the portal to the new mode of being is represented by the primitive, undeveloped, and incomplete matzah. Leavened bread is a product of civilization and requires time for gradual preparation. Kneading, rising of the dough, and baking require permanent quarters and a certain level of development. Matzah, by contrast, is basic bread –unrefined wheat that underwent insubstantial change – for it has not yet risen or leavened like regular bread. Nothing unnecessary is added to this bread. It is tasteless, saltless, and has no room for delicate or refined flavors.

Matzah, then, is the most basic thing that can be termed “bread,” the first food that belongs to the human level. For this reason, matzah represents the change that was effected by the exodus from Egypt: historically, as the dawn of the Jewish people; and inwardly-personally, as a stage of man’s initial recognition and basic awareness of the Divine, the stage at which he first says “Father” to his Father in heaven, not as a result of contemplation or intellectual comprehension, but by means of undeveloped absorption and perception.

The process represented by the eating of matzah is the attainment of the ability to accept as conclusions, as axioms, things that are not understandable; the ability to recognize that there are things that are not sufficiently understood, yet nonetheless one can accept them and believe in them.

The attainment of this ability is the first step on the way to some kind of awareness, and in the Exodus it is necessary at the beginning of the way to recognition of God at Mount Sinai.

The connection between Purim and Yom Kippur is well known. Our Sages have already stated that Yom Ha-Kippurim is ke-Purim, “like Purim.” Their common denominator is that neither of them is a regular, normal continuation of ordinary life. On both these holidays we break out and behave as though we are not ourselves: On Yom Kippur we do major teshuva, and on Purim we diverge from our ordinary state of mind, we drink and become intoxicated “until one does not know.”

However, there is a basic difference between these two departures from the norm. Yom Kippur is intrinsically a day of forgiveness and pardon, and “the essence of the day effects atonement” even without man’s inner work and preparation. By contrast, the departure from constraint on Purim requires extensive preparation beforehand. The loss of lucidity must be gone about with awareness and knowledge of what one wants to accomplish by this divergence, for otherwise no profit will remain from Purim. All that will be of Purim is a day that began and ended, with nothing left of it but a headache and soiled clothing. (And what a pity to go through all the trouble! For one could suffice with the halakhic “until one does not know” – namely, sleep.)

Part of the theme of Purim, although there is no source for it in Scripture, is masks. In Megillat Esther, the Megillah of concealment, there are quite a few disguises. Our Sages relate that Haman actually was the bathhouse attendant and barber of Kfar Kartzum, who disguised himself as “the great Haman.” Esther, too, disguised herself, in that she did not reveal her people or her kindred.

And most importantly, the miracle of Purim itself is in disguise. In the world, there are open miracles of deliverance, and in the case of Purim the miracle is the same miracle, only that it is hidden behind a mask, so that everything appears ordinary, as though the deliverance was by natural means.

The world itself has a disguise – nature (ha-teva), whose numerical equivalent (in Hebrew letters), the Divine Name Elokim, reveals what lies hidden behind nature. In the literature it is written that teva (nature) is so called because the true content sinks (tove’a) in it and is lost, while from the outside one sees only the external things and not what lies inside.

That is why one must become intoxicated: in order to see the miracle of Purim, to see the things that lie behind the masks. The miracle was not completed by the fact that many of the people of the land professed to be Jews; for that, too, was in truth only a mask. Part of the theme of Purim is that the masks are removed from the Jews themselves. A decree of Ahasuerus was necessary, so that the Jews would take off their masks and decide that they are Jews; so that everyone should try to tear off the masks (masekhot) which conceal (mekhasot).

Physiologically, alcohol acts as a depressant, lowering the vital activities. (An extreme case of this effect can be observed in one who drank a large amount of alcohol and fell asleep. It is difficult – if not impossible – to rouse him from his sleep.)
The depressant effect is gradual. In the first stage, alcohol lowers the functioning of the “control centers” in the brain, which inhibit a person from doing certain things, whether positive or negative. This creates an opportunity for those things – which generally are dormant, latent – to come to expression. In and of itself, the alcoholic drink has no message; its whole task is to enable other things to emerge.

Intoxication gives rise to all sorts of things. Some people become happy, others begin to cry. One person lets out all the foulness of the world, while from the next person spring forth only holy things.

In order for the intoxication to be beneficial and not just make one uglier and despicable, it is important to decide beforehand where one wishes to end up through the intoxication and in what manner one wishes to depart from constraint. One must have in mind beforehand where this outburst should lead, and plan the manner in which to release the chains and depart from habitual patterns of behavior.

Just as, according to the Halakhah, there are cases where it is sufficient to begin an act with a certain intention in order for the entire act to be considered as having been done with that intention, the same applies to intoxication: it all depends on one’s intention before beginning to drink.

If one’s intention is to drink for the sake of the drinking, for the sake of boisterousness, or in order to fall asleep as quickly as possible – these will be the goals that ultimately will be attained.

If, however, the intention is to enter a state of intoxication so that something profound should emerge – even if one does not know beforehand exactly what that something is (Purim, after all, is the day of mystery and not knowing) – then this is a unique opportunity to function not in the way of ordinary intellect but on the heights above the intellect.

A person should say: Now I am transcending the bounds of knowledge and logic; now I have the opportunity to transcend my ordinary limits. I can use the opportunity of Purim to open things that I cannot touch all year round.

Many times in the course of our lives, we are afraid to take initiative. Sometimes we must make decisions, but we haven’t the time or the courage to make them. Since life never stops on its own, everything continues, and there is no point at which this cycle can be halted.

We form fixed notions of ourselves, and everyone decides about himself: “I am thus and thus, everyone knows me as such, and that is also the way I must be.”

On Purim we have the opportunity to come out of our fixedness, since everything is moving and shaking.

This applies not only to the matter of fulfilling mitzvot and serving God, but to all areas of life. We need the assistance of something that will move us, and although the courage gained from drink is not genuine, after a decent gulp one gains sufficient courage to resolve to change one’s life from now onward.

Sometimes a person is anxious about the consequences of the inner changes that he would like to adopt. Who among us has not asked himself, “If I begin to attain all sorts of heights and levels, who knows where I might end up?” So, too, when we pray or engage in serving the Creator, we become apprehensive. “I might, God forbid, turn into a respectable person!”

Purim is an opportunity to undergo inner metamorphosis, to make resolves that we previously avoided because of all sorts of fears generated by the mind. The lack of lucidity on Purim perhaps affords the possibility for committing all the transgressions I ever wanted to commit, but on the other hand it also presents the opportunity of doing all the mitzvot that I ever wanted to do but did not dare.

Purim is the time to make a leap to a different side, and to remain there on the day after. The departure from constraint is not just for the duration of the intoxication; rather, it is an opportunity to extricate oneself, since in any case one is not on the usual course of life. Purim is the impetus to changes; after Purim, we hope to find ourselves in a different place.

During the course of the year, there are many things that we would like to do or say, but we do not do or say them –sometimes because they are impolite or not nice, sometimes because we are not sure that this is what we truly think.

When Purim arrives, suddenly statements of a different kind altogether emerge from us and from others, statements of real value. In the course of the year, I might want to say to someone, “Every time I see you, there is light in my heart,” but I cannot say these words to him, since we know each other too well, and it is already difficult to verbally express the fact that we are dear friends. On Purim there is an opportunity to say all sorts of things. It could be that by tomorrow we both will have forgotten this tipsy conversation, but some memory or trace of it always remains.

Where do these statements come from? Just as on Yom Ha-Kippurim one can say, “Now time has no meaning, the clock can be turned back, and I can act as though I never sinned,” so, too, on Purim I can say anything and do anything, as though it were a new world.

Purim is a holiday on which we remove our masks, and it is impossible to know beforehand exactly what lies behind them. What will be revealed depends primarily on the question: How do we enter the holiday?

Purim is a day of exceptional rejoicing, a day of revelry, the only day on which a Jew is permitted not to be composed of mind. It is a day on which we are commanded to lose awareness in order to open new doors. What lies beyond the door? That depends on how we prepare ourselves before opening it. (blessed memory of him).

To all dear readers, happy Purim from the Rabbi Steinsaltz Center (blessed memory of him). Lehaim, lehaim!

On Seder night (the Eve of Passover, the central event of the Passover holiday), which is meant to preserve the memory of Exodus across generations, we observe a vast array of customs and symbolic rituals through which various elements connected to the Exodus come to the fore.

Yet, for all the rich diversity of the Seder night, there is one central motif: “Once we were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt; now we are free”. The concept of freedom is expressed in the Haggada through ritual and symbolic acts, through poetry, and through the overall atmosphere of the Seder. The Seder participants recline, as is the custom of free people; they drink four cups of wine to emphasize the bounty, free choice, and ease of liberty. The text of the Haggada itself reiterates in different forms and various wan this one central idea: we are free.

Slavery or labor

It would seem that there is nothing easier to understand than the meaning of slavery. The slave performs hard labor under the watchful eyes of overseers and supervisors, who make sure that he faithfully fulfills his daily quota of work. The slave’s wage is low, and his labor is great. But is that the essence of slavery?

The reality of life in this world is that almost everyone, although free, labors hard and with all his energy in order to earn his livelihood. The whip of the struggle for subsistence is applied almost constantly to the backs of the workers. Throughout the generations, most people have worked hard and yet brought home only enough to meet their basic needs. The ratio between labor and rest, work and ease, changes from place to place and from one profession to another. Ultimately, however, the life of a free person is similar to a life of servitude – even hard labor. Both are composed of a certain combination of these two elements, work and rest.

The essence of slavery, then, lies not in its outer manifestations, but in its inner content. The hardship and suffering entailed in labor are not what create servitude, just as wealth and prosperity do not define freedom.

The essence of slavery lies in the fact that slave’s labor is done entirely for others. The one who determines the purpose of the work is not the worker, nor are the worker’s desires and aspirations expressed through his work. The other person determines the purpose and sets the goals…Therefore, it makes no difference whether the slave performs hard labor with mortar and bricks or sits in an air-conditioned room and writes literary essays. Even in the latter case, he would still be a slave.

Thus, servitude begins with the slave doing the work of others, who determine his way of life and his objectives. But servitude can go deeper than that when it ceases to be merely external toil and is internalized.

As long as the slave feels that as an individual or as part of a nation, he has his own independent aspirations – as long as he feels the suffering of his servitude, recalling that he is compelled to do the work of others despite his own goals – he is not yet completely enslaved. When the slave forgets that he is a person and begins to identify with his servitude, then the servitude has penetrated his soul. At that point he loses his independent existence…

One who has no volition of his own – whether because slavery has dulled and broken his spirit or because he has not developed an independent personality – cannot be truly free. Such a person has no essential character of his own, and he will not become free even when the yoke of bondage is eventually removed from him and he ceases to be a slave. Instead, he merely becomes an abandoned object, a slave without a master.

We do not know how the Jews in Egypt rationalized their servitude, but we do not have to search far in order to find Jews today who have acted and continue to act the very same way. These Jews idealize servitude, exile, and life among the nations. The ideal of the Jew, to their mind, is to continue being what he is: a servant to the nations and to their values. The Jew’s aspiration is to do the nations’ bidding. Even the blows and the suffering inflicted upon us by the nations cease to be something that should be complained about. For some Jews, these, too, have become part of the Jewish People’s “mission” – to be exiles and sufferers, carrying the burden of other people’s lives and work.

When the slave cannot free himself from his servitude because it has ceased to be a disgrace, a burden, or a source of pain for him, when he claims that it suits him and that he should remain in this state forever, he thereby changes from a temporary slave into an eternal slave.

The reason that Moses and Aaron presented to Pharaoh for their request to allow the people to leave Egypt was the people’s need to celebrate a “festival unto God” in the wilderness.

At first glance, this appears to be merely an excuse; the people of Israel wanted to leave Egypt, and toward this end, they invented a reason by which to justify themselves to Pharaoh. In fact, however, this element of celebrating a festival unto God is central to the Exodus, for it expresses the essence of going forth from slavery to redemption.

The turnabout from exile to redemption is not made all at once. Between ceasing to be a slave and acquiring freedom, the individual must pass through an intermediate stage in his development, without which he cannot become truly free – he must develop inner qualities of his own. To become not merely runaway slaves but truly free people, the people of Israel had to develop their own independent character.

As Pharaoh himself quickly perceived, the very desire to serve God is a sign of the weakening grip of the servitude, for true slaves have no real gods. Moreover, the primary duty of the slave is to do his work and serve his master. The moment the slave discovers that there is a Master above all masters, that there is authority and duty higher than all other obligations by which he, too, is bound, he is internally no longer a slave.

In order to prevent national revival, Pharaoh tried to break the people’s spirit with harsh, purposeless labor. His goal was to reduce them to a state in which they would no longer be able to dream, to desire things beyond the realm of the simplest pleasures.

This was the importance of delineating a purpose to the Exodus “to celebrate a festival unto God in the wilderness.” When there is a genuine purpose and the new way of life that is aspired to is not simply an imitation and continuation of the slavery, but truly different – then the redemption begins.

Liberation, then, depends on acquiring an authentic identity, not on rejecting external labor. The meaning of liberation is accepting an authentic system of values, an authentic scale of goals. One who has no identity of his own and no God of his own is bound to always remain a slave, even if his master is not at this moment standing over him. The external whip can be broken, but the stamp of the slave within his soul remains.

In this sense, the bondage of Egypt did not end with the exodus from Egypt. The People of Israel is liable to revert to that bondage while in other exiles and even while on its own land.

As long as the Jewish People in exile retained their authentic spiritual character, their spiritual principles, their internal and their distinctive way of life, they were not, in this dimension at least, subservient. The Jew in exile was persecuted, humiliated, and despised; he had to admit to being weak in helpless in many areas of life. Nevertheless, his exile was not complete, for he still considered himself endowed with an independent will; his spiritual world was like a substitute for a homeland. It was assimilation that made exile complete, for it was then that the Jew lost his own distinctive character. Such a Jew, even when he leaves the physical exile and arrives in his own lands carrying the exile (galut) with him. He continues to be subservient to the external world – subservient in his way of thought and principles of faith. Although the external world may no longer rule his body, it continues its tyranny over his soul. Large sectors of the Jewish People act this way, they work and toil, build cities and edifices, found cultures and bring about revolutions, develop sciences and write literature – all for the Pharaoh in each generation… This is exactly how the nation expresses itself in Song of Songs; “They made me keeper of the vineyards, but my own vineyard I did not keep.” (Song of Songs 1:6)

One of the Hasidic masters aptly observed that taking the Jews out of the galut is easier than taking the galut out of the Jews. Externally leaving the galut can serve many great ends, but in and of itself, it is not even the “beginning of the redemption.” Attempts that have been made in various ways to achieve the liberation of the Jewish People by merely external departure from galut are incapable of bringing about true redemption. External departure from exile entails only the migration of slaves from one place to another; there is no liberation, no leaving the house of bondage. The true beginning of the redemption comes when the people reject not only the yoke of Egypt, but also the yoke of Egyptianismin their souls.

In order to achieve redemption and not only an end to exile, the Jewish People must reacquire its own essence, its spirit and character, ways of thinking, and ways of life. Only then can it be a nation of free people.

Therefore, On Seder night, we emphasize this essential point: “Once we were slaves, and now we are free.”  As we go through the rituals and recite the Haggada, we must bring ourselves to understand that escape from slavery is not enough; we must also be our true selves, thereby becoming truly free.

Throughout history, the Jewish People has suffered from the heavy blows of many enemies. Nevertheless, we are commanded to exact revenge from and totally destroy Amalek alone. Amalek is deserving of such special treatment due to the degree of its meaningless and groundless hatred towards the Jewish People.

Amalek’s hatred of Israel stems from the clash of two forces that are always at odds with each other: no matter at what spiritual level, the Jewish People are endowed with an innate consciousness and faith. Even when it appears that all hope is lost, that the world is arbitrary, the Jewish People maintain their unadorned faith. This faith has neither rhyme nor reason; it is without rationale. The Jew himself does not know why he believes, but he does so nonetheless. This is the stubbornness of faith, which reaches to the very root and foundation of the “stiff-necked” Jewish People in which is latent the resolve not to submit to the world and to the forces of evil, but to hold fast always to God and His Torah. Conversely, Amalek is the nadir, the basest of the forces of evil.

“A war for the Lord against Amalek from generation to generation.” (Shemot 17:16) refers to the eternal war of faith against heresy, the war of the godly forces, the bearers of light in the world, against those who stand for doubt and feebleness of mind. This war continues as long as Amalek exists in the world in any form, as long as the seed of Amalek – the seeds of doubt and indifference of heart sown in the world by Amalek – still remains in Israel’s heart.

Haman’s hatred stems from this same Amalekite root. Of course, the Megilla relates how Mordekhai personally angered Haman, but Haman’s generalization to include all of “Mordekhai’s people”’ points to prejudice — a basic hatred of Israel. Haman’s contentions, like the anti-Semitic contentions in every generation, are perhaps factually correct – “There is a certain people, scattered and dispersed among the other peoples… whose laws are different from those of every other people; theydo not obey the king’s laws.” (Esther, 3:8). But his struggle against the Jewish People does not stem from these reasons, but from a basic hatred toward those who belong to another pole of existence. Haman and his cronies stand on one side, and the Jews on the other, the side of faith. Amalek would like to uproot God from the world, and because it cannot do so, it turns to God’s representatives on earth — the Jewish People. Most people sin because, due to a mistaken notion or a spirit of folly, the transgression seems good in their sight, not because of an intrinsically evil will. Amalek, who “hates for the sake of hating”, is defined as evil itself, and for that reason it belongs to the category of the world’s imperfect existence.

In our spiritual life as well, the “eradication of Amalek” applies at all times, in every generation, and within every individual. This inner battle is essentially no different from the external eradication of Amalek.

The numerical equivalent of “Amalek” is the same as the word “safek” (doubt), alluding to its inner nature. Legitimate doubt – when there is something that a person does not know conclusively – is removed when the matter in question becomes clear and when he deals with the problems that it raises.

Amalek seeks to encourage and perpetuate doubt through the disengagement of thought and feeling. Were the heart to feel all that the mind understands, there would be no room for doubt at all. In practice, however, insights grasped clearly in the brain are obscured when they descend to the emotional realm – and there, doubt is given a foothold. A person’s life is full of exalted emotions and profound thoughts, but the transition between thought and feeling and between feeling and action involves enormous difficulties – the inner war against Amalek.

The disengagement of mind and feeling does not pertain to Amalek alone. In fact, it is a universal human problem, which the Kabbala terms “meitzar hagaron,’ “constriction of the throat.” The centers, the brain and the heart, are not linked; there are barriers between them” that prevent a connection and separate understanding from feeling and enthusiasm.

The disengagement of understanding and feeling is the source of all the evil that human beings perform. A person may know with certainty that a particular deed is not good, but do it nonetheless. Conversely, there are deeds that we know should be done, but our hearts remain unmoved and do not encourage us to do them.

There is a second kind of doubt that belongs to Amalek alone. This is the level of “the root of Amalek,’ doubt that requires no arguments to maintain, but which stands on contrariety alone. This is the doubt of “one who knows his Master and yet intends to rebel against him” (Sifra, Bechukotai, 2) – the recalcitrance that brings one to ask in every situation, “So what?” “But why?” Jewish faith teaches that there is a divine power that directs the world; that God’s power pervades the universe – God watches over everyone at all times with His providence. Amalek, on the other hand, injects coldness into our hearts, the feeling that one need not get so excited, that one can take the world less seriously. From the Amalek within us sprouts the doubts, the concerns, the conjectures —  “Maybe…,” “Perhaps…” Even at the greatest spiritual heights, when a Jew attains full awareness and perception of the divine light which pours over him, Amalek stands in the way. With recalcitrance and defiance encompassing all the forces of evil, Amalek whispers, “Perhaps all this is nature, for everything is nature; there is no divinity in the world”.

At some point during childhood, it occurs to many children that their parents may not be their real parents. Such a thought usually stems from the fact that the child feels slightly alienated, and on this he builds theories and castles in the air. Similarly, Amalek, through foolish and unfounded ideas, succeeds in creating doubts about faith. Ihe doubt is not created on a particular basis or because of a particular argument, but due to the very existence of the world of chaos, and if it is allowed room, it will grow.

Now let us ask: how can we deal with the doubts of Amalek? Not for naught is the struggle against Amalek called “obliterating Amalek.” To obliterate the memory of Amalek means to erase it completely. The way to deal with Amalek is by ignoring it and its questions. Amalek is intrinsically incapable of being persuaded, for its arguments do not stem from the realm of cause and effect. Were they to stem from logic, the moment I would deal with the cause and reject it, the effect would be mitigated. The complete obliteration of Amalek is achieved only when “with their own eyes they will see,”‘(Yeshayahu 52:8) when there will be absolute certainty through inner insight.

Until the time of that clear vision comes, there is the festival of Purim, the festival of the war against Amalek, a festival that is not based on the rational. Moreover, the very nature of one of the day’s mitzvot is loss of lucidity. Amalek cannot be beaten with the help of the intellect or by means of argument and persuasion. Amalek must be approached on a plane unrelated to the intellect, where one rejects and does away with Amalek entirely — to remove oneself from doubt.

The fact that there are so very few Jews in the world does not seem to disturb those who embrace antisemitic ideas. A survey recently held in the European Council shows that a high percentage, perhaps even the majority, of interviewees believe that the State of Israel (with close to 7 million Jews) is the greatest threat to world peace, more than any other country, and especially threatens peace in the Middle East (with its 120 million inhabitants). Another popular belief, maybe even held by our nextdoor neighbors, is that Jews have tails and that they grow horns. Do people really believe that? And if they do, are they insane?

A saying, attributed to a number of famous people, is that an antisemite is one who hates Jews more than they deserve. As nice as it sounds, yet it raises the question: why Jews, of all people, and not bikers, or bald people, or redheads, deserve hatered? Indeed, one of the most interesting aspects of antisemitism is that it is more widespread than the belief in the existence of devils, and it exists even in places that have no contact whatsoever with Jews, or among people who are less likely to meet a real Jew than to encounter a devil. In other words: although a lot of right things, both positive and negative, can be said about the Jews, antisemitism itself is an inexplicable and illogical phenomenon.

For generations, various people, both Jews and gentiles, have tried to explain the nature of antisemitism. Often, contradictory explanations have been offered simultaneously in different places. Here are some examples:

In many Western countries, all Jews were suspected of being closet communists, and therefore one should be wary of them, and they should be banished from the land; at the same time, in communist countries, Jews were suspected of being cosmopolitans and anti-communists.

Theodore Hertzl, the founder of political Zionism, believed that root of antisemitism is in the anomaly of Jewish existence as a nation without a state, and therefore he and his followers established the State of Israel. But today it is evident that antisemitism has nothing to do with the Jewish state. In fact, the establishment of the State of Israel has not lessened antisemitism; the only difference now is that rather than being directed at the Jews, as a nation dispersed throughout the world, antisemitic feelings are now directed against the State of Israel. Furthermore, even Jews in different countries who have no connection whatsoever with the State of Israel, suffer, are beaten, and sometimes also killed – just because they are identified with “their” State.

Some two hundred years ago, some people thought that Jew-hatred was a reaction to their different dress-code, or to the fact that they had no general education and were not involved in the life of the countries where they resided. Nowadays, most Jews no longer wear the special Jewish clothes, have acquired general education, and have also proven that they can very well integrate into the cultural, economic and political life of whatever country they live in; but this not only has not lessened antisemitism: it has increased it.

In some countries, the Jews looked different from the general population: dark-haired and dark-eyed among a blond, blue-eyed population. In such places antisemitism was explained as xenophobia. However, there is a fair number of countries where Jews look just like all the rest of the population, and yet they are hated.

It seems, then, that all these and other explanations of antisemitism, both logical and illogical, reasonable and insane, do not stand the test of reality. Antisemitism stems from other, deeper strata of Jewishness juxtaposed to the rest of the world.

In an interesting book called “Conversations with Hitler” by the ex-Nazi Hermann Rauschning (first published in 1938) the author wrote, among other things, about antisemitism. He asked Hitler: “We both know that all of the German antisemitic propaganda (which the Germans took care to spread widely) is untrue; what is your real reason for hating the Jews?” To which Hitler replied: “I cannot forgive them for having brought morality to the world.” This reply takes the reasoning for antisemitism from the mundane, rational reality to a different sphere. It points out that the source of antisemitism is not in simple, prosaic causes but in deeper layers of the human soul. It doesn’t mean that every little antisemite living in France or China has profound thoughts and full understanding of his or her feelings; what it does mean is that just like in so many other phenomena, one can resort to trivial arguments to explain feelings which true origin is deep and unknown.

One of the most significant aspects of antisemitism is that it is, by definition, ambivalent. The opposite of love is not hatred, but indifference. Both love and hatred share a profound interest in, possibly also a great appreciation of their object. There are many things in this world that people dislike, some of which even create a feeling of disgust or even a measure of fear; but people who dislike cockroaches or mice, for instance, do not hate them, because they are not important enough to deserve a strong emotion such as hatred. Antisemitism is similar to that. People who do not care enough about Jews or who do esteem them in any way would not harbor love or animosity toward them. One may, therefore, say that what the Jews themselves and the greatest antisemites of all generations share the awareness of the great importance of Jews in this world, which makes them a worthy object of either love and identification – or sweeping hatred.

Indeed, antisemitism is mysteriously tied to the secret of Jewish existence. Jewish existence (throughout history) is an inexplicable phenomenon. Kant is supposed to have said that the presence of the Jewish nation is one of the things that made him tend to believe in God. Indeed, in whatever way we may try to explain Jewish existence – be it with theological arguments or in any other way – we will eventually get to a mysterious point that cannot be entirely explained rationally.

The Al HaNissim prayer, that we recite on the holy days of Channukah, contains a detailed description of the events of that time: religious persecution, war, victory over the Greeks and, finally, the cleansing and the rededication of the Temple. Therefore, the victory is considered the foundation of the holiday, and it is much more important than a miracle of the cruse of oil, which is described in the Talmud (Shabbat, 21b). That is why, from year to year, we recollect it on Chanukkah days. But what was the essence of the war that erupted in those days – and what was the significance of the victory that we still keep on celebrating today?

Although the war with the Greeks led to the state independence of Judea, the uprising was obviously not caused by any political or nationalistic motives. It is a fact that Jews had lived under the rule of others for centuries without initiating revolts, seeking to gain state independence.

The war was not waged against Greek language or Greek culture per se. It had a more fundamental character.

The process of the spread of Hellenistic culture in such of its aspects as language, lifestyle, and religion was happening without the destruction of temples and clashes on religious grounds. Authorities encouraged a synthesis of Hellenism with local cultures and religious traditions.

Indeed, Hellinism managed to integrate perfectly into the cultures of the Sidonians, Philistines, and many other peoples on the territory where the empire of Alexander the Great once stretched, from India to Egypt.

The Greeks demanded that the Jews should be open to their deities and ideas, just as they, in turn, were ready to be tolerant of Jewish worship. Tolerance and mutual recognition were an important principle underlying the rule of Hellenistic culture. However, Judaism, by its very nature, cannot be tolerant. A Jew denies the existence of pagan gods and, of course, cannot accept Judeo-pagan syncretism in any form.

One must think that the first Hellenists among the Jews were not violators of the law, and did not commit demonstrative acts contradicting the Jewish religion. They were just Jews, ready for compromise. For the most part, the Hellenists did not “despise the Lord and His anointed.” They just initially adopted a flexible value system. They did not refuse the Jewish way of life, but their willingness to follow this path had certain limits. For them, Judaism is a world where one can live, as long as it is limited by certain limits that everyone sets for themselves. If in Judaism something is contrary to their worldview, modern trends or the principle of tolerance, it is Judaism that has to make concessions.

The Hellenists, not yet becoming apostates, took a much more fundamental step: they rejected the principle of exclusivity, thus abandoning the uncompromising nature of Judaism.

If today there were someone who would follow Mattathias’s example, all the “sane Jews” would, of course, publicly denounce his actions in the newspapers. Perhaps in the Maccabean era, there was also a similar critical announcement that came out, signed by the high priest himself and other important persons. Its text could have been like this: “The Jewish leadership fully condemns this act. This crime is a shame for Judaism. It was committed by a bunch of fanatics that do not represent anyone but themselves. One should not take an example from them and provide them with any kind of assistance.” In fact, initially most Jews in the Land of Israel did not support the Maccabean revolt. The rebels made up only about ten percent of the Jewish population. But their willingness to give their lives, for the sake of the commandments of the Torah and the denial of any compromises, drove them to fight against the Seleucid empire.

On Channukah, we celebrate the victory of the Maccabees over the “Hellenophiles” and over Hellenism that spread among the Jewish people.

Every year on these holidays, we recall that it is our duty to fight for the principles that do not accept any compromise. This is of particular importance in our time, when the same problems that we had in the past are becoming a part of the agenda. Chanukkah is a clash between the stiff-necked and intolerant Jewish people with an “open” and “tolerant” world.

Hellinistic civilization was very similar to ours.

In our days, most people accept the global culture not because they believe in the truth of its philosophical premises, but simply follow generally accepted standards, just as most Hellenists accepted Greek culture without believing in it.

Tolerance and “enlightenment” in modern global culture originate from the fact that most people do not assign real importance to their own principles and values. When someone does not believe in their path, and their friend also does not believe in his, which could be the complete opposite of the first – it wouldn’t be hard for them to live in peace and harmony with each other. Complete tolerance points to devaluation of principles. Only such tolerance allows accepting other people’s values, even if they contradict their own.

Nowadays, the essence of the surrounding world is that we can agree upon everything and compromise about everything, as all values are relative and don’t have an objective value. All principles are equivalent: none of them requires going too far.

Contrary to that, the celebration of Channukah is based on the understanding that there are such concepts as “Jew” and “Jewish essence” that a Jew cannot compromise. Moreover, one must admit that this essence is within him/her.

The immediate result of the war, in memory of which we celebrate Chanukkah, was the continuation of existence of Judaism. It can be assumed that if the Maccabees had not rebelled or suffered a defeat, our fate would have been similar to the fate of neighboring peoples: the Philistines, Ammonites and Moabites who assimilated and, having lost their ethnical characteristics, left the stage of history. It was a war to preserve Jewish identity. Miraculously, so far we have managed to achieve this goal.

Wars, victories and defeats are events that vanish from the historical memory of the people after they occur. The Jewish state was defeated at least twice, and Jews were scattered over different countries, but, in spite of everything, our people have survived. However, if we lose our special identity even once, neither our territory nor our flag will help us, because without it we have nothing. Since then and until now, on Chanukkah, we haven’t been fighting for our political independence, but rather for our identity. The victory we gained more than two thousand years ago was not just a continuation of existence. We are not only an ethnic community living in this world, but a unique pulsating entity, which exists within it, called Judaism.

Extract from a book “Change and renewal”.

The idea of fall as the start of a year is actually almost universal — a relic of our many years in school and starting a new grade every September. In America, it is also reinforced by the celebration of Labor Day on the first Monday in September.

What is it that we mean when we talk about “labor”? When we speak about childbirth, its meaning is very clear. Its more common use, however, is connected to work.

We might define “labor” by the amount of effort one puts in, or more precisely, by the amount of sweat that is produced. Or, labor might be something we measure economically: by how much one is paid, and in what form that payment is given. Both approaches are valid and true: The first applies even to horses; the second is exclusively a human idea.

There is still another way to think about labor, related to neither effort nor pay, but rather, to the result or outcome that is produced.

This sense of labor — as a creative process — is what the Bible means when it says that God “worked” for six days in creating the world. This labor is not tied to tiredness or to reward; it is activity that causes something new to appear.

This perspective can also be applied to the way that we live and understand our lives as productive beings. We should measure the result of a day of work by the criterion by which God evaluated His work: by what has been accomplished.

We do not always perceive this because we think that creating is an activity confined to artists and other “creative” types. Not everyone can produce works of special merit, yet surely everyone can be creative. We can all take simple things and make them better in some way. Even simple, mundane activities are creative in the way that creation itself is, because they move us away from entropy. There is, then, no essential difference between the writer who arranges a few dozen words into a poem and the baker who turns flour and water and eggs into a loaf of bread.

In a very important way, all of life is a constant struggle against destruction, against the wear and tear of matter and material. Looking at it from this point of view, labor — in and of itself — has a glorious quality. Considerations of utility, beauty, and endurance are admirable, but the basic value of labor is not measured by the quality of the result. It doesn’t really matter what kind of a creative work it is: an achievement praised in newspapers or a tiresome job done by a laborer; what is important is the fact that a human being is able to make something better than it was before.

Sometimes, it is necessary to remove things — even to destroy or fight against things — in order to accomplish an ultimately creative goal. Even at the simplest cellular level, there is a continuous interweaving of building and destruction, in the service of creation. We only know whether a particular achievement is creative or destructive when we look at the bigger picture.

It is hard to appreciate labor as an almost Divine manifestation when we are working very hard, so immersed in the work that we don’t remember what we do or why. Part of the purpose of a holiday is to have time for respite, not in order to flee from labor, but in order to be able to gain perspective — to think about what we do and why we do it.

The Jewish calendar commands that we do this every week. For six days, we are creative and productive, perfecting the world physically (through work) and spiritually (through the performance of mitzvot — obligations or good deeds). When Shabbat comes, we stop our frenzied activity, and neither create nor destroy. We may exhaust ourselves lifting furniture all day, but we may not lift a switch to turn on a light even once. From sundown to sundown, we pull back from our mastery and perfection of the world. And in the stillness of our surrender, we try to observe the world from a perspective that is closer to that of the Creator.

The bad luck of the ant is not that it works so hard, but that it hasn’t the time or the intelligence to appreciate its work. Man has the advantage of being able to give himself a day off or a week or even a month — not because doing nothing is important, but because he needs to stop and look around in order to understand where he is in the big picture and where he should be.