PARASHAT KI TISA - PURIM

By Rav David Silverberg

            Among the more subtle themes of Megilat Ester is the detailed system of laws and protocols which characterized the Persian government at the time of the Purim story.  The word dat (“procedure” or “law”) appears numerous times throughout the Megila, in a wide range of contexts.  There was a dat for the drinking of wine at Achashveirosh’s feast (1:8), and when the queen refused to appear before the king, he had to consult with the “yode’ei dat va-din” (legal experts – 1:13) to determine the proper course of action.  It was written in the “datei Faras U-Madai” (“codes of Persia and Media”- 1:19) that wives should honor their husbands in the wake of Vashti’s disobedience.  Achashveirosh’s palace also had a formal “dat ha-nashim” (2:12), a specific procedure for how the women would treat their skin before coming to the king. 

            Formal legalities affect the plot of the Megila story quite significantly.  Mordekhai aroused Haman’s ire by disobeying the edict requiring the royal servants to bow before him.  Ester feared approaching the king uninvited, which violated palace protocol, and even after Haman’s execution, it was legally impossible for Achashveirosh to revoke the decree to kill the Jews, “because an edict written in the king’s name and signed with the king’s signet cannot be revoked” (8:8).  And, of course, Haman convinced Achashveirosh of the Jews’ dispensability by noting that they do not observe “datei ha-melekh” – the Persian customs and protocols (3:8).

            Clearly, the Megila seeks to portray this emphasis on law and protocol in a cynical, satirical manner.  The Persian government established strict, detailed protocols for trivial issues such as drinking wine at parties and the women’s lotions and perfumes in the palace, yet Achashveirosh ever so flippantly sanctioned the annihilation of hundreds of thousands of innocent citizens in his country.  The Megila specifically emphasizes the prominence of “dat” in Persian life to highlight the irony of the country’s absurd commitment to legality at the expense of the most basic ethical and moral standards.

            There may an additional component to this emphasis, as well.  A number of the Megila’s themes are conveyed in the form of mirror images (consistent with the “ve-na’hafokh hu” concept which runs throughout the Megila and the Purim celebration).  For example, Chazal found within the description of Achashveirosh’s feast a number of allusions to the Beit Ha-mikdash.  (Most famously, the Gemara comments that Achashveirosh used the utensils from the Temple, and donned the garments of the kohen gadol.)  It appears that the Sages viewed the elaborately detailed description of a Persian feast as establishing a contrast between life in Shushan and life in Jerusalem during the times of the Mikdash.  The lifestyle in Persia was characterized by decadent overindulgence, in direct contrast to the Godliness, sanctity and serenity of the Temple.  By elaborating on the profligacy of Shushan, the Megila subtly underscores the sacred aura of Jerusalem.

            We might similarly approach the emphasis on law and protocol as a mirror image of Torah she-be’al peh, the Torah’s halakhic system.  We, too, believe very strongly in the importance of “dat,” a strict, detailed system of laws and protocols.  Outsiders who study the Shulchan Arukh and its commentaries would likely ridicule the halakhic codes the way the reader of the Megila chuckles upon reading the strict code of women’s skin care in Achashveirosh’s palace.  This comparison, of course, only highlights the profound difference between the Torah’s “dat” and that of Persia.  The Torah she-be’al peh has its origins in the Torah she-bi’khtav, in the written Torah transmitted directly by God to Moshe.  Our “datot,” although they are elucidated by the Sages, originate from God and reflect what we believe to be the greatest moral and spiritual values.  They stand in direct contrast to the “datot” of Shushan enacted by a monarch for the purpose of furthering his self-indulging and megalomaniacal ambitions.

            Rav Soloveitchik (as recorded by a number of students) emphasized that Purim is the festival that celebrates Torah she-be’al peh, the authority of the Sages to enact binding provisions (such as new holidays) and determine Torah law.  The concept of the oral law very closely relates to the “concealment” theme that features so prominently in Purim, as the divine origins of halakhic details established through the process of oral tradition are especially difficult to recognize.  The Megila perhaps alludes to the theme of Torah she-be’al peh through its satirical portrayal of the silly legalities that prevailed in Shushan, providing a stark, contrasting parallel with the detailed legalities of our cherished halakhic tradition.

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            The story of Megilat Ester takes place in the city of Shushan, the capital of the Persian kingdom.  Curiously, the Megila refers to this city with two different terms.  In some instances, such as in the second verse of the Megila, the city is called “Shushan ha-bira” – “Shushan, the capital.”  On other occasions, however, we find the city called simply “Sushan,” or “ha-ir Shushan” – “the city of Shushan.”  This distinction is especially pronounced in a famous verse in the middle of the Megila, where we find both references: “The runners left urgently with the royal edict, and the law was issued in Shushan, the capital.  The king and Haman sat to drink, and the city of Shushan was confounded” (3:15).  In a single verse, we find the city called both “Shushan ha-bira” and “ha-ir Shushan.”

            Rav Reuven Margoliyot, in his work Olelot (chapter 21), explains this phenomenon by positing a theory that actually has its roots in Ibn Ezra’s commentary to Megilat Ester (1:2).  Based on archeological findings, Rav Margoliyot asserts that the Persian government sat in a “city within a city” of sorts, comprising an entire village that was fortified by its own wall and situated apart from the residential city of Shushan.  When the Megila refers to “Shushan ha-bira,” it refers to the government complex that constituted its own “town.”  Thus, for example, the second verse in the Megila tells that Achashveirosh’s throne was located in “Shushan ha-bira.”  The term “ha-ir Shushan,” by contrast, refers to the residential city of Shushan, where ordinary Persian citizens lived, and which apparently had a very large concentration of Jews.

            Rav Margoliyot enlists this theory to explain numerous verses throughout the Megila.  The Megila introduces Mordekhai by relating, “A Jewish man lived in Shushan ha-bira, and his name was Mordekhai…” (2:5).  Mordekhai, as is evident from the Purim story, was a prominent government official who spent much of his time in the royal courtyard, and he therefore lived in “Shushan ha-bira,” in the governmental district of Shushan.

            In the verse cited above, we read that the edict to annihilate the Jews was issued in Shushan ha-bira – naturally, within the government complex.  As news of the decree spread, “the city of Shushan” – meaning, the civilian districts, which were heavily populated by Jews – “was confounded.”

            Toward the end of the Megila, we read of the war waged by the Jews against the enemies who had sought their destruction.  On the thirteenth of Adar, we read, the Jewish army killed five hundred men in “Shushan ha-bira” (9:6), whereupon Ester then asked the king to allow the Jews “in Shushan” an additional day to wage war (9:13).  On the first day of battle, the Jews defeated the enemies within the government complex who had supported Haman and his plan to exterminate the empire’s Jews.  Apparently, Ester felt that danger still loomed for the Jews in the residential districts of Shushan, and she therefore asked that the Jews be allowed an additional day to wage battle in the general city of Shushan.

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            The Gemara in Masekhet Megila (7b), amidst its discussion of the laws regarding the Purim celebration, relates, “Abayei bar Avin and Rabbi Chanina bar Avin used to exchange meals with one another.”  What exact practice does the Gemara here describe, and what halakhic ruling does it seek to establish by way of this precedent?

            The Rambam appears to have understood this description as referring to the obligation of mishlo’ach manot.  In defining this obligation (Hilkhot Megila 2:15), he writes:

A person is obligated to send two portions…to his fellow… And whoever increases in sending to his fellows is praiseworthy.  If one does not have [food for mishlo’ach manot] he exchanges with his fellow: one sends the other his meal, and the other sends him his meal, in order that they fulfill “and sending gifts to one to the other.”

It stands to reason that the Rambam inferred this halakha from the aforementioned account regarding Abayei bar Avin and Rabbi Chanina bar Avin.  He apparently understood that these sages were very poor and could not afford mishlo’ach manot, though they had food for themselves.  They therefore exchanged their meals so that they could fulfill the obligation of mishlo’ach manot.

            Rashi, however, seems to have explained this passage differently, as he writes, “This one ate with the other on Purim one year, and the next year, his fellow ate with him.”  According to Rashi, it appears, the two rabbis would host each other for the Purim meal, on alternating years.

The obvious question arises, according to Rashi’s interpretation, why is this practice worthy of mention?  What halakhic principle does this precedent express?

Rav Yitzchak Zev Soloveitchik (cited in Ke-motzei Shalal Rav) suggested that according to Rashi, this account establishes a halakhic concept of families joining together for the Purim celebration.  In his view, one fulfills the obligation of the Purim meal at a higher standard if he joins with other people, which heightens the level of joy and festivity.

Earlier scholars (see Bach and Darkhei Moshe, O.C. 695), however, insisted that even Rashi refers to the obligation of mishlo’ach manot, rather than the se’udat Purim (Purim feast).  Meaning, Rashi understood the Gemara as setting forth a more liberal definition of mishlo’ach manot.  Although literally this term means, “sending gifts,” the obligation does not require bringing food to one’s fellow; even if one invites somebody to his home for the Purim meal, he has fulfilled the mitzva of mishlo’ach manot.  This leniency is certainly far from intuitive, and thus the Gemara indeed establishes here an important halakha that we would not have otherwise discerned.

The Turei Even (Kuntrus Acharon – Megila 6b) explains Rashi’s comments as introducing an even more novel precept related to mishlo’ach manot.  Namely, these two sages had a system where each year one would give food to the other, and thereby both fulfilled their obligation of mishlo’ach manot.  According to this theory, one fulfills this mitzva even by receiving mishlo’ach manot, and not only by giving.  Mishlo’ach manot is intended to enhance the general aura of joy and festivity on Purim, and anyone participating in the exchange – at either end – contributes to this enhancement.  According to the Turei Even, this is the halakha that Rashi inferred from the Gemara’s account of Abayei bar Avin and Rabbi Chanina bar Avin.  Each year, one would give to the other – and that other would not give mishlo’ach manot to anyone else, because he fulfilled his obligation by receiving mishlo’ach manot.

Clearly, of course, as even the Turei Even acknowledged, this is not the accepted halakhic ruling.  One is certainly obligated to give mishlo’ach manot, and, as the Rambam emphasized, “ve-khol ha-marbeh harei zeh meshubach” (though the Rambam also emphasized that it is preferable to increase matanot la-evyonim than mishlo’ach manot – Hilkhot Megila 2:17).

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            Two classic explanations have been given for the mitzva of mishlo’ach manot and its significance as part of the Purim celebration.  The Terumat Ha-deshen (111) claimed that exchanging gifts helps ensure that everybody, including the poor, would have food for the Purim meal.  According to this view, the mitzva of mishlo’ach manot very closely relates to the obligation of the Purim meal, as it helps facilitate that mitzva.  Rav Shlomo Alkabetz, by contrast, in his work Manot Ha-levi, famously asserted that mishlo’ach manot serves “to increase love and fraternity among Israel.”  Haman described the Jews of Persia as a “certain nation that is scattered and dispersed among the peoples” (3:8), which many have interpreted as a reference to their disunity and internal conflicts.  The Purim celebration requires correcting the terribly destructive flaw of Jewish infighting, and to that end, the Manot Ha-levi writes, we are required to exchange gifts with our fellow Jews.

            Later writers have pointed to numerous different practical questions that may likely hinge on this debate, including whether one fulfills the obligation by sending non-food items, which certainly would not suffice according to the Terumat Ha-deshen.  Other issues include sending small gifts that do not necessarily express affection, and delivering food packages before Purim such that they arrive on Purim.  We might also note that according to the Manot Ha-levi, it might be preferable to specifically deliver mishlo’ach manot to those with whom one does not enjoy a particularly congenial relationship, or to Jews belonging to different groups and sectors, as this serves the interest of mending the rifts that unfortunately continue to plague the Jewish people.

            Rabbi Yosef Chayim Ohev Tziyon, in his work Ata Bati (Jerusalem, 5768), collects an extensive list of other, lesser known explanations given for mishlo’ach manot.  The Bach (O.C. 695) suggests – in a somewhat similar fashion to the Manot Ha-levi – that exchanging gifts adds to the festive aura of Purim, as people meet one another in celebration.  Rav Elisha Kaliko (a student of Rav Yosef Karo), in his commentary to Megilat Ester, explained that mishlo’ach manot serves to commemorate the planned confiscation of the Jews’ property under Haman’s decree (“u-shlalam la-voz” – 3:13).  While the primary celebration of Purim clearly relates to our nation’s salvation from death, Chazal also wanted us to celebrate the rescue of the Jews’ property from the Persian marauders.  They therefore instituted that we share our possessions with one another, emphasizing our exclusive ownership over our assets.

            A particularly novel approach is taken by the Chatam Sofer (Parashat Tetzaveh), who associates mishlo’ach manot with the theme of “kiyemu ve-kibelu” – the spiritual awakening and renewed acceptance of the Torah that came in the wake of the Purim miracle.  Before this renewed acceptance, faithful Torah Jews were unable to eat their fellow Jews’ food, as they had to suspect laxity in kashrut observance.  By exchanging gifts of food with one another, we demonstrate our renewed trust in each other’s kashrut observance as a result of the Jewish people’s collective reacceptance of Torah law.

            The Maharit Tzahalon (in his work Lekach Tov) suggested that the distribution of gifts on Purim is intended to resemble the division of spoils after a successful military campaign.  As Purim celebrates the Jews’ military victory over their foes in Persia, we act as though we divide spoils of war, by distributing gifts.  One might question this approach, however, in light of the fact that, as the Megila emphasizes (9:10, 9:15, 9:16), the Jews made a point not to take any spoils after their triumphant battles in Persia.

            Finally, Rav Ohev Tziyon himself suggests that mishlo’ach manot is intended to bring about a degree of Jewish unity befitting a day of kabbalat ha-Torah (accepting the Torah).  Just as Rashi (Shemot 19:2) famously emphasizes the “single heart” with which Benei Yisrael were joined when they encamped in Sinai to receive the Torah, similarly, the Jewish people must join together in love and harmony on Purim, the day of “kiyemu ve-kibelu.”  The reacceptance of Torah cannot be only private and personal; it must rather include all members of the nation.  Mishlo’ach manot thus serves to help bring all Jews together, so that we can recommit ourselves to Torah collectively, as a single nation.

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            Parashat Ki-Tisa begins with the mitzva of machatzit ha-shekel, the annual half-shekel tax that all members of Benei Yisrael were required to pay.  Rashi, in his Torah commentary (30:13), famously writes (based on the Midrash Tanchuma) that God had to show Moshe the form of a half-shekel, “a coin made of fire,” to clarify the specific kind of coin to which He referred.  Moshe had difficulty envisioning this coin, and God therefore presented Moshe with a prophetic vision showing him the half-shekel.

            Many writers and darshanim have struggled to explain this comment, wondering why Moshe would encounter difficulty envisioning the machatzit ha-shekel.  This question has led some to offer symbolic readings of this Midrashic passage, whereby it refers not to the specific appearance of the machatzit ha-shekel coin, but rather to some broader concept that it represents.

            Rav Moshe Feinstein (cited in Kol Ram, vol. 2) suggested that Chazal here address the general question concerning the Torah’s approach to money and material acquisitions.  Moshe struggled to understand the concept of a “coin” according to the Torah.  In a world of physical needs, how is a person to devote his life to the service of the Almighty, rather than the service of himself?  The effort required to earn a livelihood for oneself and one’s family can consume so much of a person’s time and physical and mental energy, Moshe wondered, that it seems difficult to imagine how a person can strive for spiritual greatness.  How can one live a life of avodat Hashem in a world where caring for one’s needs is often so demanding and all-encompassing?

            God’s answer to Moshe’s quandary was a fairly simple one: He showed him a half-shekel coin.  The solution to this problem is for a person to feel content with a “half-shekel,” rather than always pursuing a “whole shekel.”  One who limits his expectations and is prepared to compromise his material standards will discover the time and energy needed to pursue spiritual excellence alongside his pursuit of a livelihood.  If one sets his sights upon fulfilling every want and desire, without making material sacrifices, then he will indeed find it difficult to live a life of religious devotion.  But those who aspire to only a “half-shekel,” to securing a reasonable livelihood without necessarily amassing large fortunes, will have another “half” available for intensive engagement in Torah and mitzvot.

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            Parashat Ki-Tisa describes the preparation of the ketoret, the incense that was offered twice each day in the Mishkan.  After outlining the procedure for preparing the blend of spices, God instructs Moshe to store the incense “before the Testimony, in the Tent of Meeting, where I commune with you” (30:36).  In other words, the stash of ketoret was to be stored in the Mishkan.

            One might question the need for this command.  Since the ketoret was used only in the Mishkan, there was no reason to store it anywhere else.  Moreover, it seems puzzling that God would emphasize in this context the aron (“the Testimony”), the site where God “communed” with Moshe.  Why was it important to stress that the incense was kept “before the Testimony,” the site of God’s communion with Moshe?

            One answer, perhaps, relates to the function served by the ketoret in the Mishkan.  Rabbi Menachem Leibtag (http://tanach.org/shmot/tzavehs1.htm) understood the incense in the Mishkan based on the parallel established by the Ramban (and others) between the Mishkan and the Revelation at Mount Sinai.  As the Ramban famously explains in his introductory remarks to Parashat Teruma, the purpose of the Mishkan was to serve as a permanent residence for the Shekhina (Divine Presence) that had descended upon Mount Sinai.  Among the features of that Revelation, Rabbi Leibtag noted, was the dense cloud that covered the mountaintop (19:16, 24:16).  The cloud was necessary to form a “buffer,” as it were, between the Divine Presence and the people.  Even at the moment of revelation, it had to be ensured that the people would not draw too close to God; a barrier had to be maintained between God and the human being, as represented by the cloud.

            The ketoret spices were placed on smoldering coals, creating a thick cloud inside the Mishkan.  The purpose, Rabbi Leibtag suggested, was to recreate the cloud of Mount Sinai, representing the “buffer” required between the people and the Shekhina.  The cloud produced by the ketoret represented the distance that must be maintained even when experiencing communion with God.  The closeness with God attained in the Mishkan must be tempered by a sense of distance, awe and dread.

            For this reason, perhaps, the Torah emphasizes that the ketoret was stored “before the Testimony, in the Tent of Meeting, where I commune with you,” stressing its role to create a sense of distance between the individual and the site of the Shekhina’s residence.

            Rav Moshe Feinstein (Kol Ram, vol. 2) suggested that the ketoret, which produces a fragrance that spreads far and wide, symbolizes a person’s capacity to exert wide-ranging influence.  Just as the ketoret’s scent could be smelled at a distance, similarly, a person’s speech and conduct yields effects and repercussions far beyond anything he could have imagined at the time he spoke or acted.  The Torah therefore emphasizes that the incense be placed “before the Testimony,” indicating that a person should firmly position himself alongside the Torah, so that the influence he exerts will be a positive one.  The impact of what we say and do requires us to always speak and act according to the law and spirit of the “Testimony,” so that we will influence the world with kedusha, and not, God forbid, the opposite.

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            The Torah in Parashat Ki-Tisa (34:26) reiterates the prohibition of basar be-chalav, cooking or eating meat with milk: “lo tevashel gedil ba-chalev imo” – “Do not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.”  At first glance, this prohibition belongs to the category of chukim – Torah laws whose underlying reasoning eludes human comprehension.  Nevertheless, a number of writers have proposed different theories in an attempt to identify the rationale behind this prohibition.  Rav Menachem Kasher presents an anthology of these theories in his Torah Sheleima (vol. 19, appendix 21).

            Most famously, perhaps, the Rambam, in his Guide for the Perplexed (3:48), speculates that cooking a goat in milk was an ancient pagan ritual, from which the Torah sought to distance Benei Yisrael.  Though the Rambam admits to having found no source for such a custom among the ancient pagans, Rav Kasher notes that the Rambam’s theory was confirmed with the discovery of the Ras Shamra tablets in 1928, which indeed describe such a ritual.

            Rabbenu Bechayei, in his Torah commentary (Parashat Mishpatim), associates the prohibition of basar be-chalav with the prohibition against ingesting blood.  Mammals’ milk, Rabbenu Bechayei claims, originates from the animal’s blood, and it reassumes its original quality when it mixes with meat.  Given the ill effects of blood upon a person’s soul, the Torah found it necessary to ban the consumption of meat with milk, which could yield these same harmful effects.

            It should be noted, however, that even if one accepts the scientific assumptions underlying Rabbenu Bechayei’s theory, it would not explain why the Torah forbade the act of cooking meat with milk, in addition to the consumption of meat with milk.

            The Ralbag presents a different, particularly insightful, approach to explaining the rationale behind basar be-chalav.  When one boils an animal in milk, he uses that which nurtured it and helped it grow to destroy it.  And this is precisely the message the Torah seeks to convey through this prohibition – that we must not allow the blessings of the world given to us for our benefit as a means of destruction.  The Ralbag speaks specifically of theological destruction, how the wonders of the natural world, which are intended to help us recognize and acknowledge the greatness of God, led people to ascribe independent power to these forces, resulting in idolatry.  In truth, however, this message can be expanded to any type of misuse of the blessings bestowed upon us.  Everything we have has been given to us for the purpose of avodat Hashem, to help improve ourselves, our surroundings and the world at large.  Anytime we misuse our blessings to lower ourselves or corrupt the world, then we essentially “cook a kid in its mother’s milk,” utilizing the source of life as a means of destruction and ruin.