How to Run a Traditional Jewish Household

by Blu Greenberg

  The Rabbis understood that that was the real miracle of Chanukah. It was a lesson offered through the efforts not of assimilated Jews in high places, as in the Purim deliverance, but through the medium of the lowly farmer and the poor tanner, the pious mother, the parochial, the unsophisticated, the single-minded, the ones who clung passionately to their ways while their more elitist cohorts marched to the beat of a different drummer. Chanukah was a great victory, not only because the few succeeded militarily against the many, but because if not for their prodding, needling, and forcing of choices, the Hellenists and Hellenizers would have imperceptibly swallowed everyone in their path. I fear to say it, but I, too, a middle-class Jew living in those times, might well have been won over. After all, both Mattathias and his opponents all started out as moderate Hellenists.

  Chanukah is the story of enormous challenge for American Jews, enormous tension. Modern Orthodox live with it more than their right-wing counterparts, but none are immune—right-wingers, modern secularists, universalists, all. And it’s a lesson for Christians, too, though they may not know it. The issue is not how to be universalist in this great country, but how to be particularist without rejecting everyone else, how to feel chosen without feeling superior, how to feel covenanted without erasing the covenant of the other, how to integrate positive modern values but not be overwhelmed and swallowed up by them.

  It is not easy even for an Orthodox Jew who lives with tradition day in and day out, yet who is often uncertain as to where to draw the lines and which lines to draw. Truly, they were heroes, those sturdy, stalwart, brave Maccabees.

  CHAPTER · 20

  PURIM

  The Talmud tells us: When Adar arrives, happiness increases. What the Rabbis really meant was that right in the center of the month of Adar comes the happiest of all Jewish holidays—Purim. The Rabbis ought to know, for they were part of its transformation. Scholars tell us that the Book of Esther, which describes the events of Purim and is read each Purim, was not entered into the Jewish canon until three or four hundred years after the event occurred. What seems to have happened is that Purim was a popular holiday with a soul-warming story that was told over and over again. The people just wouldn’t let it die. And although it affected the lives of Jews of a single empire, and was not the only example of deliverance of the Jewish people during those four hundred years, the way it happened is the ultimate and universal fantasy of minority victims everywhere: not only to be saved from extinction, but for the perpetrator to be richly punished. So the Rabbis finally canonized the Book of Esther and established Purim firmly for all time.

  THE STORY

  In brief, then, the Jews of Persia, a pleasant Diaspora community of the fifth century B.C.E. are suddenly threatened with extinction. The order comes from the unremarkable and flaccid King Ahasuerus, but it’s really Haman, his prime minister, who is behind the whole thing. Haman is an unreconstructed anti-Semite, but what pushes him over the limits of civil tolerance into violence is the fact that Mordecai, a Jew who loiters near the palace a good deal of the time, refuses to bow down to Haman. What is Mordecai doing around the king’s court anyhow? He has his reasons which he certainly won’t tell Haman.

  Mordecai’s niece, whom he raised from childhood, is none other than the queen of Persia. But no one knows she’s a Jew. And she’s not telling either. Even her husband, the king, does not know.

  In any event, when the evil decree is circulated, Uncle Mordecai comes quickly again to the palace to inform Esther and to plead with her to help save the Jews. She demurs, but then agrees. She arranges a party for Haman and the king. However, she loses her nerve, so she arranges another party the next day, and then she tells all—her true identity, the threat to her people, and the name of the villain. The king, who obviously still likes and respects Esther, even though he has not been intimate with her for quite some time, is horrified at what’s been going on in his kingdom while he’s not been paying attention. Mordecai is rewarded, Haman and his ten sons are hanged on the gallows they had newly built for Mordecai, and the Jews are saved.

  Mordecai is not only an able and excellent political leader of his people, but a man of religious foresight as well. He writes letters to Jews far and wide, telling them to mark the fourteenth day of Adar on their calendars for celebration, because they have all been saved. He instructs them to send treats to each other and gifts to the poor. The holiday is called Purim, meaning “lottery,” and is celebrated the fourteenth day because Haman drew number fourteen from the lottery—the fourteenth day of the month was to have been the beginning of the extermination of the Jews.

  Believe it or not, with all of those miracles, the name of God is not once mentioned in the Book of Esther. Very strange. And there are other perplexing questions. What was a nice Jewish girl like Esther doing intermarrying, in the first place? And why was she hiding her identity? She could have done some good for her people all along. And where did a nice Jewish girl learn to play bedroom politics? More about this later.

  PREPARATION

  Since Purim is a one-day celebration, with none of the Shabbat or holiday prohibitions (for example, cooking, electricity), one would imagine it’s a fairly easy holiday for which to prepare. However, if one is a member of a large Orthodox congregation, and in particular if one is a rebbetzin (wife of a rabbi), then not to prepare well in advance for Purim, specifically for the mitzvah of shalach manot, can be an absolute nightmare. Even now that I’ve gotten it relatively together, I still get a tension headache when someone mentions the words shalach manot.

  MISHLOACH MANOT

  Let us start at the beginning. Shalach manot, or mishloach manot as it is also called, simply means sending portions of food to friends. Mordecai said in his letter, “Each person should send portions” to his friend to commemorate the day. The Rabbis interpreted this to mean a minimum of two items, either of baked goods or cooked foods or sweets or fruit or drink, although some sources interpret it as requiring at least one baked item in the package. The Rabbis also said you must send a gift to a minimum of one person. That was their great mistake. They should have said a maximum of one person. Had they done so, they would have made this rebbetzin and many of her “colleagues” truly happy in the month of Adar. Meanwhile, what happens is that most of the congregation sends packages of shalach manot to the rabbi’s family, and if one is a conscientious rebbetzin, she will return a shalach manot package to each one. And if she is naive, she will try to send in kind: to someone who sends two bottles of Scotch and a basketful of Barton’s candy, she will not be comfortable sending in return a paper plate with two hamantashen, three walnuts, two red sour balls, and a tangerine. Despite my husband’s urgings to the contrary, I used to stay up until 3:00 or 4:00 A.M. after the evening Megillah-reading in order to bake and prepare appropriate packages for my numerous friends in the congregation. And then the next day I would wait near the windows to see who was coming up the walk and then would scurry to get his/her package so that I could appear at the door well organized, calm, and in control. And if someone came for whom I hadn’t prepared a proper package, and couldn’t give him/her my plate with three walnuts, I would later assemble a nice package and send my husband and children around the neighborhood delivering it. One year, I made eighty-eight individualized packages. Insanity.

  Here are four bits of advice, on how to enjoy this mitzvah:

  1. Begin early to prepare the packages for shalach manot. Get sturdy paper plates or small Purim boxes specially sold at Hebrew bookstores, or small colorful shopping bags, or ask the fruit man in the supermarket for the plastic or foam containers. Buy aluminum foil or plastic wrap, or, what makes the prettiest packages, colored cellophane wrap purchased in a large roll (the small rolls cost ten times more per foot. The larger ones can usually be ordered at the local stationery store but need two weeks’ delivery time). If you are going to send baked goods, bake in advance, and shop for fruit and candy early.

  2. In many communities, the women hav
e organized a system whereby the mitzvah of mishloach manot and tzedakah (charity) are combined, and there’s not a lot of work and not a lot of waste. In Merion, Pennsylvania, for example, the women of the Orthodox shul gather together to prepare beautiful packages, which are sent to each member of the congregation. A card is enclosed, with the names of all the people who want to send to this particular family. Since the number of people who contribute to the package is greater than the cost of the package, the Sisterhood brings in several hundred dollars from this project. The funds then go to a charitable cause (oftentimes the shul).

  3. For rebbetzins, synagogue klai kodesh, principals, and other community VIPs: Do not try to keep up with the Cohenses. Make all the packages the same; make them all fairly simple and not costly. Being on the other end now, I know that congregants want to send something extraspecial to their communal servants. They understand how many shalach manot a popular leader must send out. No one expects anything fancy in return. The gesture alone is appreciated.

  4. Turn the whole thing over to your eighteen-year-old daughter, and hole up in your bedroom for the duration.

  If it doesn’t get out of hand, mishloach manot can be an absolutely charming and beautiful mitzvah, one which parents and children do together and which gives great pleasure to both giver and receiver.

  MATANOT LA’EVYONIM

  A second important mitzvah of Purim is matanot la’evyonim: each person is required to give gifts (charity) to at least two needy persons or worthy causes. The money should be distributed on Purim day. If that is not possible, the funds should be set aside and earmarked for later distribution. The origin of this custom is again Mordecai. In gratitude for the miraculous saving, he instructed all the Jews of Persia to send matanot la’evyonim. Mordecai teaches an important lesson: How does one show gratitude and happiness? By helping to improve the lot of those less fortunate.

  On the day of Purim, we eat a special seudah, feast, which it is wise to prepare in advance so that the rest of the day is free for other things. No special foods are associated with this holiday, except for hamantashen, the tricornered pastry filled with prune or poppy seed (see p. 484). These are not only sent for shalach manot, they are also served as dessert at the Purim seudah, and served at whatever Purim gatherings one has. It is a gross injustice that Haman, whom we hate so much, should have gained immortality through such a delicious pastry (the prune kind, especially), but Haman had the good fortune to have worn a tricornered hat and Mordecai had the bad fortune to have been given such an unwieldy name. So Haman got the cookie.

  One part of the spiritual preparation for Purim is Ta’anit Esther, the fast of Esther, which is one of the minor fasts. From dawn until dusk, the day before Purim (that is, if Purim starts on Tuesday night, Ta’anit Esther is all day Tuesday), Jews fast in commemoration of the fact that Esther fasted before she imposed herself, unsummoned, on the king. Esther also told Mordecai to instruct all the Jews to fast and pray for her efforts to succeed. Ta’anit Esther is not a very difficult fast, nor a sad one, since we all know the happy ending. In fact, I would call it a most perfunctory fast, but fast we do. It forces us to remember the great fear and anxiety the Jews of Persia must have felt in those days.

  Some people break the fast immediately after that day has ended and Maariv is recited. Others wait another hour or so until after the Megillah has been read.

  CELEBRATION

  Purim is a superb holiday. What a funny, wonderful religion that literally commands you to Be Happy on this day. Soon after dark, the regular Maariv is recited. But it’s not so regular. In fact, it’s quite irregular. The Maariv is done as a parody; the prayers are sung to traditional melodies from other holidays that are completely out of place here and that would upset any straitlaced Jew who is not prepared for some hilarity.

  Following Maariv, the entire Megillah, the scroll of Esther, is read. Megillah simply means scroll (although in contemporary parlance it has come to mean a tale). Unlike the Torah scrolls, the Megillah of Esther is rolled around only one winder, which is all you really need if you read the entire work straight through to the end. In accordance with the statement in the Megillah that Mordecai and Esther sent letters to their coreligionists to observe the holiday of Purim, the Megillah is opened out and folded like a letter, several panels at a time. It is as if the original letter of Mordecai is being read again.

  The Megillah reading must be heard by everyone, every man, woman, and child. Twice, in fact. If one is bedridden, a reader will go to a person’s home so that he/she can hear it being read, with proper cantillations, from the scroll.

  Some readers will insert all sorts of voice theatrics, such as a stentorian voice for Ahasuerus’ lines or a gentle voice for Esther. In some shuls, the reader dresses up in costume and changes hats with each voice. Can you picture a short, stocky, bearded Megillah reader wearing an organza queen’s bonnet, and singing Esther’s parts in a high-pitched voice?

  Each and every time the name Haman is pronounced, there is a loud booing, stamping, and use of groggers, the traditional noisemakers. Children sound their noisemakers and laugh, parents stamp their feet and boo, babies cry, and Haman’s name gets a good “blotting out,” as the arch villain deserves. At J.J.’s yeshiva one year, some of the boys used cap guns, horns, laughing boxes, whistles. It’s not exactly the way to blot out Hainan’s name, but it sure fulfills the mitzvah of being happy.

  In our synagogue, with eight hundred people assembled, including one thousand children (or so it seems), the shul has rigged up a system of red and green (stop and go) lights that flash green for ten seconds when Haman’s name is read, and then red as a signal to the kids to stop their noisemakers so that the reading can continue. It works quite well and is a lot more pleasant than some adult screaming his lungs out to get silence before the reading can continue. Jewish law prescribes that every word of the Megillah be heard; this is quite a challenge with so many children, but the light gimmick helps.

  Following the Megillah reading, we go home to break the fast. In some communities, people reassemble for Purim pageants, masquerades, and parties. In recent years Jewish college students in particular have big things going on this evening. They gather in large numbers on different campuses and put on Purim programs. Yeshiva high schools, too, have their own Purim chagigas (parties). And many of the elementary-level yeshivot have Purim carnivals after the morning Megillah reading. At the college-level yeshivot, where the faculty also participates in the Purim chagiga, the students take full advantage to satirize the world around them. Through the use of clever grammen (humorous spoofs in rhyme) and plays, they caricature their rabbis, teachers, and administrators—anyone who holds the balance of power all year long. Whatever ribaldry people carry quietly within them all year spills out at Purim time. Some yeshiva students take seriously the traditional dictum that one must get sufficiently drunk on Purim so as not to be able to tell the difference between blessed Mordecai and cursed Haman. Unaccustomed as they generally are to drinking, there are not a few Purim hangovers at Megillah reading the next morning.

  In many synagogues, a masquerade contest for children is held in the social hall, immediately following the Megillah reading. In some shuls, adults come in costume too. Purim is a great holiday for psychiatrists. What they couldn’t get on the couch in twenty-five sessions comes right to the surface on Purim. One mild-mannered rabbi I know came dressed one year as Charles de Gaulle, and the following year as Mao Tse-tung. An associate principal, also a rabbi, came to the school’s morning Megillah reading and Purim carnival dressed as Mickey Mouse; he got sufficiently plastered to pour some ginger ale down the back of his coassociate principal’s back, to the delight of four hundred incredulous children. And what would you say to a pious middle-aged woman who came to the shul masquerade several years ago as the Happy Hooker?

  If my memory serves me well, Purim celebration has increased during the last decade as has Jewish consciousness in general since the Six Day War. Purim has
come out into the open. Nowadays, many established Jewish newspapers and periodicals publish a humorous issue at Purim time. Ten years ago, this was altogether new. I recall the great wave of shock that swept through the right-wing Orthodox community over a satiric issue that newly appeared, unanticipated, at Purim time, and was taken with great seriousness.

  The law is that each person hear the Megillah reading twice: once at night and once after Shacharit. Since most Jews go to their regular jobs on Purim, at least for half a day, two morning readings are scheduled: one at the ungodly hour of seven (preceded by Shacharit at six-fifteen) for those who have to be in a mid-Manhattan office by nine, and one at nine-thirty or so, for students, housewives, and slothful others who can afford to take a day off to deliver shalach manot and prepare for the seudah. By midafternoon, however, the workers, the shirkers, the revelers, the cooks, the kids—each family gathers together for the seudah, the Purim feast. No Kiddush, no double challot, the seudah is simply a good meal, and one of the few festive meals at which liquor or liqueur is served. Families sing songs, especially the old classic “Shoshannat Yaakov,” a song expressing the joy of Purim.

  For all its joy, Purim is now and always will be tinged with sadness for our family and for several hundred other Orthodox families across the country. Several years ago, on Purim night, while singing and dancing with all his heart in a circle of his beloved students, the beautiful and precious teacher-rebbe-principal of our boys’ yeshiva high school collapsed and died of an aneurism of the heart. Only thirty-two at the time, Rav Bak, “Pinky” to his family and friends, had already influenced a large cadre of young people, some in search of their roots and others wanting to understand theirs more fully. In his memory each year, those young men who came under his wide influence and those who were too young to feel it directly, but who go through the system he helped to create, set aside a night before Purim—for one cannot mourn on a holiday of deliverance—and study Talmud the night through, in groups, in pairs, or singly.