I'm a sucker for fairy tales.
Give me a brave, beautiful, clever maiden who melts the heart of the king. Add a smarmy villain. Then, mix them up in a plot bristling with intrigue, deception, jealousy, secrets, ironic twists, tables turned and evil plans foiled, and I'll willingly suspend disbelief and accept the "happily ever after" concept plus the notion that good guys can win. And for this particular tale I don't need the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Anderson or even the Arabian Nights. Nope. All I need do is open up the Megillah of Esther.
Esther and the festival of Purim! How this story wound up in the Bible—the last of the five Megillot in the Book of Writings—is a story in itself. Some scholars claim Purim was simply stolen from the Babylonian New Year when the god Marduk (Mordecai) and goddess Ishtar (Esther) cast lots (pur) to determine the fate of the people. Others say the Book of Esther is a fictionalized retelling of a plot to annihilate the Jews of ancient Persia, laced with Assyrian legend and Mesopotamian myth. Fact or fiction—borrowed or stolen—our ancestors didn't give a fig about where the Purim story originated. Downtrodden and oppressed in Exile, they found hope both in the festival's message of deliverance and in Esther, the beautiful Jewish maiden who saved her people from death.
The rabbis, however, were troubled by the Purim tale. After all, here's an account of Jews outwitting their enemies and G-d isn't mentioned once in the entire text! (Something wasn't kosher...) So the rabbis examined the story. They analyzed and debated the secular scenario. Some pointed to the premise of hester panim—G-d hiding himself—and the theory that wherever Jews are, G-d's presence is hidden among them. Some Cabalists managed to "see" the name of G-d in the Hebrew word melech, which is found in the Megillah 184 times. So finally, armed with inference—if not actual evidence—of G-d working behind the scenes, the rabbis gave the Book of Esther their blessing and included the Megillah in the Bible.
Purim! A day for costumes and masks! A day of "feasting and gladness...of bringing gifts to one another and sending presents to the poor." A day of simple observances that each of us can follow, starting with the Megillah itself.
For optimum effect, plan to hear it read in a crowd with all the tumult that accompanies the mention of Haman's name. (Back in the 1700s, when Samuel Pepys visited a London synagogue on Purim, his diary entry notes that he was almost deafened by the noise!) And if you're bored with gragers—the noisemakers of choice since the Middle Ages—why not resurrect a long-neglected tradition. Just write Haman's name with chalk on the soles of your shoes and stamp your feet until the name disappears. This once popular practice proves there's more than one way to "skin a cad..."
Now to Purim shalachmones. The gifts we give to our friends.
Shalachmones gifts are, traditionally, gastronomic. The Gemara tells us that Rabbi Abaye was once sent a pot roast so delectable he licked the dish clean. Juicy pot roast not withstanding, the most common shalachmones are cookies, candy, fruit and—TaDAH—the ubiquitous Hamantashen! Whichever camp you belong to—poppy seed, prune or apricot—just pile the goodies on plates (boxes and bags, for some reason, are not "Purim-dik") and deliver them to your pals.
Next, the Purim tradition of sending presents to the poor.
According to the Talmud, on Purim even the needy must give to someone less fortunate than they. The gifts can be money, clothing or food. The Gemara suggests a leg of calf, a barrel of wine and sacks of ginger and dates. To some, this may be considered over-kill, so feel free to use your own judgment. But please remember! Purim tzedakah falls in the above-and-beyond category of giving, and does not in any way relieve you of other charitable obligations.
And finally, the Purim Seudah. The feast that finishes the festival.
When it comes to meals, the Purim Seudah is considered second only to the Passover Seder in importance. But unlike the Seder, the Seudah has no ritual. Its purpose is strictly fun, food and wine! In fact, the Talmud "orders" us to drink Purim wine until we can no longer distinguish between "Blessed be Mordecai" and "Cursed be Haman." Yes! At the Seudah we have permission to get tipsy, act goofy and be happy!
So, there you have the Purim observance requirements—hear the Megillah, bring gifts to your friends, give charity to the poor, and enjoy a festive meal. Simple, right?
But look deeper.Do the observances, like Esther herself, hide their true nature?
Take the Seudah. On the surface, it's just a meal with the family. But these days, family dinners are rarely "family" dinners. They're often eaten in shifts with one or another parent driving one or another kid to Talmud Torah or Boy Scouts—to this lesson or that activity. So, if we can gather the whole family around the table at Purim to celebrate our history—to relax and have fun together—the simple Seudah becomes a meal of great significance.
And giving to the poor? That, too, seems ordinary enough. But Maimonides, when commenting on the nature of Purim tzedakah, said, "He who brings happiness to the poor, the homeless and the needy is imitating G-d." Which raises the simple act of giving a notch or two above ordinary, don't you think?
And what is more pedestrian than a plate of Hamantashen? Yet, if a friend comes to your door this Purim and gives you a hug and a Hamantash, look again. You'll discover that true, honest caring often masquerades as a simple act.
And to hear the Megillah is also simple. Yet it was considered a mitzvah of such magnitude that even the High Priests had to stop their work and come listen to the message. A message symbolizing the continued survival of the Jewish people.
The rabbis say that other holidays may, in time, be forgotten. But Purim will always remain. Why? Because to observe and enjoy Purim, we need not be Bible scholars. We need not even be well versed in ritual or prayer. Purim can be celebrated by ordinary people through the performance of ordinary, common acts. Acts that, when unmasked, are recognized as uncommonly meaningful.
