The Blessing of God

The Blessing of God
D’var Torah for Parashat B’har
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

At the end of the first book of the Torah, Genesis, Jacob, weary with age and with all of life’s experiences, blesses his sons.

At the end of Exodus, with the Tabernacle completed exactly as per God’s instructions, a sacred task that involved all the Israelites, Moses is filled with exultation. Seeing it all there, every piece precisely crafted and set in its place, Moses simply turns to the people and, in a state of spiritual ecstasy, blesses them.

Now, pretty much at the end of the third book, Leviticus, it is God’s turn. However, God’s message isn’t so much a blessing as it is a living will.

So what does God say to the Israelites now? They are ready for the rest of their journey into their future. The Tabernacle has been activated, its powers tested and proven: As the People of Israel march forward, God’s presence will appear as a cloud in the day and as a pillar of fire at night—to guide them, to inspire them, to make sure they always look up. What final instructions does God have for His people at this point?

B’har , “At the mountain,” refers, of course to Mt. Sinai. It is a short portion that contains only one chapter, Chapter 25 (OK—and the first two verses of chapter 26, but who’s counting?). But in this concise parasha, God—not unexpectedly—has a powerful message for us. We are in a special relationship with God, and because God is holy, so must we must be holy.

The portion builds on a truism that is so magnificent that we often fail to fully comprehend it: As the Creator of the universe, God owns the land. The earth does not belong to us but rather to God. We are here at God’s pleasure. What that means is that we must treat the earth with the same kind of respect and sanctity that we show God. Just as we human beings must observe a day of rest, Shabbat, once a week—extending its blessing to one another as well as to the animals we use for work the rest of the week—so must the Earth be granted, every seven years, a year of rest. We must give the earth the opportunity to replenish itself, to restore its normal rhythm, to return to an existence without a taskmaster—save for God, who only willed it to exist and bear fruit. On the 7th year—called sh’mita, “letting go,” we may not till the ground or prune our trees; we may not plant, seed or sow. We may glean—take what we need for the day’s journey—but no more than that, and certainly none to be used in any commercial venture whatsoever.

Sanctifying the seventh part of Time, in days or years, teaches us that Time is no more ours than the earth is. We are granted a limited span of it within which to exit. Sanctifying Time—the holidays, the years, the days that are bound by our birth and death—means filling our tiny share of eternity with meaning and purpose.

But there is yet more. We must strive for holiness even further, beyond time and space. The image of God is imprinted within each and every one of us, and therefore our relationships with one another must be held sacred. Abuse, taking advantage, cheating and ultimately shedding blood lie at the extreme opposite of the way of holiness that God wants us to follow. If we learn nothing else from our helpless dependence every seven years on the Earth’s natural yield, it is that we are all gleaners, all of us homeless, all of us essentially renters of the parcel of land we live on. And that means we all are equal before God, our Creator. Our value lies not in our material goods, but rather in how well we carry out our charge and responsibility to redeem the fallen and help the needy. That’s what holiness—being in a relationship with a holy God—means.

The highest ideal of all comes early in this portion (Lev. 25:10): “Proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants.” This is the ultimate gift of God: The right to exist, to think and choose, to be free to be ourselves—a right not only reserved for oneself, but rather for all life.

That is our blessing from God.

As in everything else, however, we human beings have tremendous power over what we choose to do with this blessing: We can choose to bestow it further, to imbue our life, in all its contexts, with holiness. We can share the blessing with one another. We can bless the land and make it work with us, not against us. And we can fill the time of our life with blessing, as we infuse it with meaning, direction and purpose. Life, along with all its complications and failures, is filled with marvelous prospects and possibilities. What we make of it can turn it either into a blessing or else a blight for ourselves, our children, and everything else around us.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

L’chayim! “To Life!”

L’chayim! “To Life!”
D’var Torah for Parashat Emor
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


Parashat Emor (Leviticus 21:1—24:23) has God addressing Moses with regulations for Aaron and the priests.

At first reading, the restrictions regulating basically every aspect of a priest’s life seem overly harsh. Parashat Emor (“Speak,” Leviticus 21:1—24:23) begins with God instructing that a priest that may not show mourning in public, including accompanying the dead and going inside a cemetery, for anyone but his immediate family. For the High Priest, the restriction was even tougher: The High Priest couldn’t go inside a cemetery at all, not even for his immediate family! In fact, he couldn’t stir outside the Temple while he was grieving!

Why such tough measures on a human being? Could God be so stone-hearted as not to allow a person to grieve or express his grief?

The key to understanding this paradox is in the word “public.” The priest was not to show his mourning in public. For the High Priest, staying within the confines of the Sanctuary symbolized two things: First, his seclusion from the community, from the public; and secondly, his total immersion in God’s holiness and presence.

As Judaism began to emerge (around the 13th century BCE), it was an outgrowth from three prevalent cultures and religious systems: The Egyptian, the Greek and the Mesopotamian. At least in the first two cultures, there was strong emphasis on the afterlife. In rejecting this nihilistic belief, Judaism chose to focus instead on the present, on this life. The restrictions on a priest’s way of mourning (Lev. 21:1-6 and 10-12) make clear this distinction. Ordinarily, the priest’s role was to teach, to show where God was. Death somehow diminished the priest, dimmed his vision. Beset by grief and mourning, at such times the priest was not qualified to discharge his duties toward the community.

The belief that Leviticus teaches is that God, the source of life, is Life itself. God’s presence is evident in Creation, in the universe we see around us. The unformed, the void and the chaos that lie before Creation and beyond it, were understood to be where God wasn’t, where God’s presence simply did not reside.

Death was No-God’s-Land.

With the focus thus shifted to this world, Emor teaches us to value the time that we have as our portion of Life, our share in God’s eternity. Sanctifying life means appreciating the days and the years we have been allotted, filling our time on Earth with meaning and purpose. Because that’s all we have.

If human beings have their sacred times, certainly so does God.

God’s appointed times are the holidays. Chapter 23 defines and gives the major rules of the Biblical holidays. Beginning with Shabbat, we have Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot, each with its own customs and rituals. Jewish celebration of these calendar events—primitive and pagan religions understood them as agricultural and fertility festivals—turns them into days of remembrance. We draw memories from the past, from days of long ago, of people long gone. We remember our past, our heritage and our traditions; we remember our own commitment, made perhaps many years earlier, say, at a bar mitzvah, or perhaps at Confirmation. And finally we remember our vows to carry our heritage forward into the future—through our own life, through our children, through our legacy.

And at such times we celebrate, we raise a glass and shout out, L’chayim! “To Life!”

The belief in an omnipresent God—a God whose presence suffuses not only what is, but also what was and what will be—has long replaced the archaic belief in No-God’s-Land.

The priests we read about in this portion were forbidden from venturing into a place they could not understand. Their job was to teach about Life, about the here-and-now. And perhaps the real lesson the Torah tries to teach us is that our answer to death, our positive response to no-being is holiness and meaning. The High Priest, though forbidden from leaving the Temple during his days of mourning and grief, despite his isolation from a loving and supportive community, was finding healing the only way he could—by immersing himself totally in God’s holiness.

The Kaddish, the prayer said by a mourner throughout his or her days of grief, has us common folk do something similar. In exalting and praising God’s name (in a prayer that never mentions the word death) we show our determination to imbue life with holiness. It is the only alternative to no-being. With our life we challenge death. With acts of holiness, with mitzvot, we defy and stand up to the chaos we see around us. We dare to be like the High Priest and like God: Wrapped in a cloak of holiness.




©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Laws of Ordinary Holiness

Laws of Ordinary Holiness
D’var Torah for Parashat Kedoshim
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman


The third book of the Torah, Leviticus, may seem to contain only archaic laws, reflecting customs that are no longer current. Yet, already within its restrictive rules lie the seeds of change. The book begins as a set of instructions for the priests—regarding sacrifice, ritual purity and regulation of behavior—down to the details of the priests’ clothes and whom a priest may or may not marry. But soon Leviticus turns to address the ordinary people too. Holiness is not only the realm of the priests, Leviticus teaches. It is as much the right and responsibility of the common man and woman, not only restricted to the area of the temple compound, but extending out to the street and the field as well.

This week’s portion, Kedoshim (“You Shall Be Holy,” Lev. 19:1—20:27) defines holiness in terms we human beings can understand, not in esoteric or philosophical language. Holiness is to be found not only through sacrificial and mystic rituals, but rather through laws that regulate how we behave toward one another. Verses from this portion form what is often referred to as “the Holiness Code,” a passage that is read at services on Yom Kippur. The respect and dignity we show everyone, from our parents down to the poor, the beggar and even the stranger in our community; the fairness and justice that should underlie all our interactions, whether social or business; these all can be summed up in what we have come to call The Golden Rule.

These laws of ordinary holiness (seemingly a contradiction in terms, but a phrase that relates to our behavior away from the temple, out in the field or about our daily business) come down to three Hebrew words: v’ahavta l’rei-acha ka-mocha, “love your fellow human being as yourself” (Lev. 19:18). These words became the motto for the great Rabbi Akiva (c. 50—c. 135 CE), who described them as “A great principle in the Torah.” The equally great Rabbi Hillel (died 9 CE) said of these words: “This is the whole Torah; the rest is commentary, now go and study it.”

All aspects of interpersonal relationships are illuminated by this parasha, as we learn to give meaning to our existence by striving for holiness. There is little given to the kind of relationship we should cultivate with God, beyond observing Shabbat and turning from idolatry to worshipping God alone. Perhaps that is so because our relationship with God is deep and personal and changes but a few times through our lifetimes, evolving as we go through life’s stages. Our relationships with other people, however, vary from one to another, from one day to another, even from one moment to another. Each personal interaction brings its own set of conflicts and—hopefully—resolutions. The rules are there to make sure that we stay within boundaries, that we don’t blur the lines between what is rightfully ours to want and to have, and what is not.

But it isn’t only the difference between right and wrong. Ultimately it is about the relationship between us and God. Kedoshim offers us a channel to God that did not exist prior to the Torah. In ancient times (and even in some philosophies and religions today), the only way to God is thought to be through death. It is in the afterlife, according to such thought, that we face God. Judaism, however, offers another path. We can achieve holiness—that is, we can achieve a certain unity with God—through every moment of our life on this earth, through the way we interact with the earth and its produce as well as through the ways we interact with one another—regardless of the many variances among us.

K’doshim tih’yu: “You shall be holy.” In life, not in the thereafter. Through the good you do and spread around you while you live, through the good name and the better world that hopefully you leave behind when you are gone.

Ki kadosh ani Adonai Elo-heichem: “For I, Adonai your God, am holy. That is what it means to be in God’s presence all the time—not only when we pray at the temple, but also when we are busy with all other aspects of our life. Not only in how we pray and worship, but also in how we speak and behave ordinarily. At all times should we strive to be holy, because long ago we bound ourselves in an eternal relationship with Holiness.


©2011 By Boaz D. Heilman

What We Take By Force

What We Take By Force

D’var Torah for Parashat Acharei Mot, Leviticus 16:1—18:30

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

With this week’s parasha, Acharei Mot (“After the Death”), the Torah returns to the difficult questions raised by God’s killing of Aaron’s two sons, Nadav and Avihu, when they offered “a strange fire” to God. While the Torah offers no direct explanation of what the “strange fire” was, several possibilities are raised both by the text and by rabbinic commentators. With this week’s portion, yet another possible cause is given for such terrible punishment.

The first part of the parasha is a description of the Yom Kippur ritual at the temple. After the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the many sacrifices offered on that occasion have given way to the day-long fast and services we offer today. But despite the many differences between the ancient ritual and its modern counterpart, what remains in common is the rabbinic teaching that “For transgressions against God, the Day of Atonement atones; but for transgressions of one human being against another, the Day of Atonement does not atone until they have made peace with one another.”

If the gates of forgiveness are always open—as our High Holy Days prayerbook reminds us—then why did God take the life of Aaron’s two sons? Can there be sins, or transgressions, that are unforgivable, for which the Day of Atonement does not atone? If so, then they must be of the latter kind, “transgressions of one human being against another,” and they must be of such a horrendous kind that no amount of pardon seeking can achieve atonement.

That kind of sin is described—in all its lurid forms and variations—in chapter 18.

Sexual taboos are common throughout the world. Whatever the reason, they are seen as “abomination,” acts of the deepest depravity.

From the Torah’s perspective, what they have in common is that in each case, someone takes advantage of another being. The acts described in this chapter are not consensual; these are illustrations of the forceful violation of person and property in which the person who has been violated has no right or ability to oppose his or her oppressor.

The unforgivable sin is sexual abuse, which was the common ritual practice of religions such as the worship of Bacchus or the murderous Molech. (The homosexual acts decried in 18:22 must be seen as within the same category as the bloody rites described in 18:21).

The physical, emotional and psychological hurt caused by such violence is both extremely deep and long lasting. Today we understand that it is often (though not always) the cause of an ongoing chain of similar behavior, a psychological trigger over which a person has little or no control.

The abuse we hear about all too often today is nothing new. It is the sin which the Torah describes as “the practice of the land of Egypt, in which you dwelled… and like the practice of the land of Canaan… to which I am bringing you” (Lev. 18:3). It is the customs and behavior for which a people lose right to their land, the ultimate pollution and degradation of life and land for which there can be no forgiveness.

The Book of Leviticus thus continues drawing a boundary between what it calls holy and profane. The revolutionary lesson of this book is that holiness is not a condition that we achieve by offering prayer or even sacrifice, but rather by how we behave with one another. What we take by force can never be described as holy. It is, by definition, profane, evil, unforgivable.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Rites of Purification

Rites of Purification

D’var Torah for Parashat Metzora

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The illnesses are more than skin deep, that’s clear.

Tzara’at—that dreaded range of Biblical skin diseases that may appear as a scaly affliction on a person’s body, extend to his clothing and even to his house and appear finally in the form of genital discharges—is in the background of this week’s Torah portion, Metzora. From the most apparent to the most intimate, says Rabbi Leonard A. Sharzer of Jewish Theological Seminary, drawing a connecting line between the various symptoms of the disease.

But it doesn’t stop there. With each new manifestation, the disease becomes more symbolic. The house is not merely one’s home, it’s one’s status and station in society. Likewise, that most intimate part of us is also the most enduring, since far beyond our own life span, our children and grandchildren keep a part of us alive in them. It’s our legacy.

The portion speaks not only of physical ills, but of spiritual ones as well.

And that’s why the rest of the parasha isn’t about the afflictions at all. It’s really about the process of re-integration of the now-healed individual back into the sacred community. It’s about the rituals that change the bad into good and which transform the oppressive guilt into a spiritual awakening.

The first step is the offering of guilt and sin sacrifices—an admission that we may have done something to bring the condition upon ourselves. We are human, after all, and we know what that means.

Water and blood play a role in these rituals of rehabilitation. Washing one’s body and clothes is essential in the routine. Then, two birds are brought to the priest; one is slaughtered and the other is dipped in its blood and then set free to fly. The blood is there, on the wings of the freed bird, a reminder of having survived, of being given a second chance, perhaps even of the responsibilities that come along with this renewed privilege.

Blood is sprinkled seven times on the healed individual. Seven isn’t only a reminder of the Seven Days of Creation. Seven is a symbol of God’s handshake with humanity: For six days God worked to create a pretty good world. Now it’s our day, our opportunity to tend the garden, to watch it grow, to become God’s partners in ongoing Creation. No matter what our faults were, we have atoned and been healed. We are what we are, we say to God—clay formed by Your eternal hand, matter into which You breathed a soul. The clay gets washed away; matter isn’t perfect. Let the soul be.

The priest then takes some of the blood of the guilt sacrifice (a sheep or a bird, depending on the economic means of the individual) and applies a drop of it to the ridge of the right ear, to the right thumb and to the right big toe of the individual. On the ear—say the Rabbis—so that you might hear the cry of the needy; on the thumb, so you might be able to offer your hand to them; and on the toe, empowering you to approach them, to go in their midst and offer your help.

Oil is used to set the drops of blood, acting to keep the blood moist, vibrant, alive, a sign of vocation and rededication.

Finally, the most wonderful ritual of all was performed. The priest would take some of the remaining oil in his hand and let it drop on the individual’s head. Pouring oil on the head of a person or on an object was an act of consecration. Kings, prophets and priests were thus anointed on the day that they were inducted into service. Now this individual, a humble penitent guilty of any number of sins—from the most public to the most intimate—becomes similarly anointed, similarly raised from the lowly status of the diseased to the exalted state of a consecrated priest.

Transformed and redeemed through these rituals on the outside as well as the inside, the healed individual regains tohora, the condition of spiritual purity. He or she is now fully reintegrated into the k’hillat kodesh—the sacred community—of which they were part before.

The rituals of purification may seem antiquated today. We feel repelled by the description of animals killed, their blood splattered and painted on us. Our worldly, educated minds resist the notion that tribal and superstitious behavior can transform the inherent essence of an individual. What are we, after all, but the sum product of our genetic and cultural makeup.

And yet, there may be some truth behind these rituals: We are all imperfect, in the best of cases likely to fail almost as often as we succeed. Yet within each of us there also lies the hope that we can transcend our human frailties and reach something ultimate, something eternal. We forever try to excel; we strive for that Olympic medal, a personal goal, a personal best that will elevate us from the stature that our weaknesses keep us in.

If nothing else, parashat Metzora keeps this hope alive in us. And even though we don’t practice the rituals anymore, it’s now the words that remind us of this ancient process and which enable us, time after time, to rise and try again.

For that is the grandeur of being human, attainable by all.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Returning to Sanctity

Returning to Sanctity D’var Torah for Parashat Tazria By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman The third book of the Torah, Leviticus, is first and foremost a priestly manual. It contains detailed instructions concerning the many kinds of sacrifices that were offered at the Temple in Jerusalem, including the exact location in the Temple compound where specific sacrifices would be offered and even the precise time of day at which these rites were performed.

Rules and regulations for the priests’ behavior and duties extend beyond the Temple grounds. According to Leviticus, the priests were also expected to keep a wary eye on health problems that might arise with people as well as with material objects such as clothing and houses.

But unlike other priestly manuals, which were kept secret so as to protect the mysteries associated with the rituals and belief systems of other peoples, Leviticus is an open book. In fact, many of its instructions are addressed not to the Levites, but to the general population. The magnificent message of this exceptional book is that holiness is an equal opportunity blessing. It isn’t only the property of God and God’s ministering priests. The very act of bringing a sacrifice to God and presenting it to the priest makes a person holy, no less so than the priest whose duty it is to slaughter the animal and put it upon the altar.

As with the priests, the people’s holiness isn’t confined to the Temple grounds. It extends to our dwellings, to our daily interaction with one another, to the way we treat one another, and even to the way we treat ourselves.

Last week’s Torah portion, Shemini, offers a discussion of kosher and unkosher foods. Following the same theme—tohora and tum’ah—ritual purity and impurity are the chief concerns of this week’s Torah portion, Tazria (Leviticus 12:1—13:59). These terms refer to a physical and spiritual state of being which determines whether we are prepared to sense holiness and to enter into a relationship with our God. A person who is declared healed after a period of illness, quarantine and examination must go through a ritual of purification which enables him or her to re-enter the camp and participate once again in all its social, cultural and religious features. Likewise, menstruation and childbearing were seen as conditions which necessitated a woman to be secluded from the rest of society for a prescribed length of time; after this set time, the woman is free to return to her normal life—but only after performing the special rituals described in this portion.

I remember when my wife, Sally, was in labor with our first-born child, Hannah. It was late at night when I drove up to the hospital and parked the car. Naturally, only the emergency entrance was open at that time, but Sally refused to go in that way. “This isn’t an emergency!” she exclaimed. “I’m just having a baby!” We finally did find some entrance by which we came in, where we were met by kind people who could not understand how we bypassed all the usual procedures and who led us to where we needed to go….

Yet until not too long ago, childbearing was a life-endangering situation, as often enough it still is even today. And in any case human sexuality and reproduction were seen as a mysterious realm, subject to laws that no one understood and that were totally out of our control. Like other such circumstances, the woman giving birth was seen as being in a state of tum’ah, ritual impurity, one that necessitated a sacrificial offering.

Today, prayers are offered instead of sacrifice. A special blessing called Birkat ha-Gomel traditionally is said by a woman after delivering a child, by person who comes back to health after a dangerous illness, or by a traveler who returns home from a dangerous voyage. The purpose of this blessing is not merely to thank God for deliverance, but—in light of the rituals of parashat Tazria—to enable us to return to our state of tohora, the condition of purity. Our life-long, all-too-human journeys across oceans and deserts, our excursions into the mysterious and dangerous realms of illness and childbirth, take us to regions far removed from the safety and comfort of home and community. On such occasions, we question not only our own existence, but often also the existence of God. Upon returning home again, only after performing these special rituals of purification can we think of ourselves as being once again tahor, “primed,” once again able to sense God’s holiness within us, once again permitted to participate in normal, everyday communal activities.

One of my favorite parts of the “re-entry” sacrifice as described in parashat Tazria involves the release of a live bird. A gesture that is still practiced on special occasions, the symbolism of a bird released from its cage and allowed to fly free is not hard to understand. The ancient rituals described in Tazria may be antiquated, but their purpose and function are still valid today. Like the bird spreading its wings and flying up to the heavens, so are we once again able to come and go, free to commune with God and our loved ones. It is an occasion that calls for blessing and celebration.

It is, after all, our homecoming.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Importance of Remembering

The Importance of Remembering
D’var Torah for Shabbat Zachor—March 18, 2011
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Every year around Yom Ha-Shoah—Holocaust Memorial Day—my father, z”l (may his memory be a blessing) used to send me a post card with a short message inscribed in his inimitable, stylized Hebrew handwriting: zachor et asher asa l’cha Amalek—“Remember that which Amalek did to you.” The phrase, taken from Deuteronomy 25:17, the reading that is done immediately following the regular weekly portion, refers to a vicious tribe of people that attacked the Israelites soon after their exodus from Egypt. The attack, carried out at night and by stealth—was aimed at the rear of the camp, where the weak and discouraged, the sick and injured were struggling to keep pace. In the Torah, Amalek becomes the archetype of all that is evil within human nature.

It is no coincidence that this passage gives its name to the Shabbat immediately preceding Purim: Shabbat Zachor. The evil Haman, the very mention of whose name we try to obliterate, is said to be a descendant of Amalek. His comeuppance (he was hanged alongside his 10 sons) symbolizes the fulfillment of the commandment to eradicate the memory of Amalek from this earth: zachor et asher asa l’cha Amalek, “Remember that which Amalek did to you.”

If only we could.

Evil is impossible to eradicate, least of all in our memory. No one today is able to, or may, eradicate the memory of Auschwitz, its stamp upon our bodies, souls and minds.

The urge to make the wrong choice—yetzer ha-ra—is embedded in the human psyche, part of the freedom to choose that is part of our humanity. From the very start, we are warned by God and the Torah to choose good, to choose life. “Sin is crouching at the door,” God warns Cain before the latter makes his wrong choice and kills his brother, Abel.

“Choose life that you and your children might live,” reminds us the Deuteronomist (Deut. 30:19).

But it is no easy task. Yetzer ha-ra—the evil urge within us—is sometimes very powerful. It seduces us, overwhelms us with easy answers and simple, but wrong, solutions.

Mitzvot—the commanded deeds of loving kindness—aren’t there only to help us create a better and holier world. Rather, they are part of a regimen, an exercise routine whose purpose is to strengthen us, to enhance our moral resolve so that when temptations do come up—as they constantly do—we find ourselves strengthened and better able to resist them.

The verb zachor (the command form of “remember”) is used in context of yet one more mitzvah in the Torah: Zachor et yom ha-Shabbat, “Remember and observe the Sabbath day.” Shabbat is the symbol of holiness in this world. A sign of the covenant between God and Israel, Shabbat represents the handshake, the partnership, the share of holiness that is the image of God in each of us.

And the role of this strange holiday of Purim?

One of the commandments associated with Purim is the mitzvah to become inebriated. To get so drunk that you can’t tell the difference between Mordechai and Haman, between good and evil. Drink after drink, one must search in one’s heart and see whether the difference is still clear, only to realize that it still is.

For the memory of Amalek must never be forgotten.

Long gone from history, Amalek remains a symbol of the human potential for cruelty and savagery. We don’t have to dig far in the annals of history for examples. The picture side of the post cards my father used to send me was invariably of miniature models of Nazi concentration camps, constructed and preserved in the Ghetto Fighters’ Kibbutz near Haifa, or of Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam. Not-so-subtle reminders of the persistent and horrific nature of evil in this world.

On Purim—which will be celebrated around the world this coming Saturday night and Sunday—a vital question is asked: Behind the carnival atmosphere, when you strip away the masks, underneath all the pretense, who are you? Inside each of us lies a beast, crouching at the door, just waiting for the slightest opening. Simultaneously, however, in each of us there is also a good angel. And that yetzer, that sweet surge within us toward care, compassion and kindness, is also waiting for just the slightest gesture, the simplest invitation.

Purim represents not only the ultimate triumph of good over bad, but also of the victory within each of us of Holy over Evil. And that, indeed, is a good reason to celebrate with great joy.

A happy Purim to all, and Shabbat shalom.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman