Dust Speck Into Star
Dust: Esther’s Sacrifice
D’var Torah for
Parashat Vayikra
March 18, 2016
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
I
know, I know. It isn’t Purim yet. The calendar says we have another few days
before this joyous holiday begins.
So I
hope if I’m forgiven if I get in the mood early. I guess it’s only natural: Nobody anticipates sad occasions; but happy
ones? Who can wait??
And,
truth be told, I don’t really want to focus on the revelry the holiday calls
for, nor on the miraculous nature of our people’s redemption.
In
light of this week’s Torah portion—Vayikra
(“God Called,” Lev. 1:1—5:26)—I want instead to focus on sacrifices,
particularly the sacrifices offered by Mordechai, Esther and the rest of the
Persian Jewish community as told in Megillat
Esther, the Scroll of Esther.
At
first reading, Esther is as different
from Vayikra as night and day. There
are no sacrifices mentioned in the Scroll.
In fact, The Scroll of Esther makes no mention of any religion, ritual, God or gods. The Hebrew word that today is
used for “religion,” dat, appears
perhaps half a dozen times, but in each case it refers to the king’s laws and
has nothing at all to do with religion.
But
there is more than God or religion that is missing in Esther. There is no Jewish
ritual at all—no sacrifice, prayer or holiday celebration. Yes, Mordechai is called “Yehudi” (a Jew). But the term refers not to his faith, but
rather to his ethnicity. He is Yehudi, a Judean, by nationality. Mordechai is a high-ranking member of the
Judean community that was exiled to Babylon from the Kingdom of Judea, one of
the many who chose not to return to Judea even when the Persian kings Cyrus and
Darius permitted the rebuilding of Jerusalem.
So
what kind of sacrifice did he, Esther, or for that matter anyone else of their
community—make? They were successful;
they did not have to ward off constant attacks; they were well integrated into
the general population; they were comfortable.
Yet
there was sacrifice.
Esther
and Mordechai’s sacrifice was much more subtle than that of the rebuilders and
defenders of Jerusalem. Leviticus
describes the spectacle that surrounded the ritual at the Temple. There was no mistaking the blowing of
trumpets, the smell of burning animal hide and flesh, the aromas of spices and
incense that accompanied the offering.
The ministering priests wore the most ornate vestments; they followed
the prescribed ritual to the letter, and the flames and smoke from the altar reached
far and wide.
No
such pageantry for the Jews of Persia, however.
Instead, their sacrifice consisted of those many little things that they
did differently from their neighbors. Perhaps
not even in the food they ate, but rather in the customs and laws they followed;
in the moral code they obeyed; and in the restraint they showed when everyone
else lost themselves in the frenzy of drunkenness or fury of war.
When
Haman issues the edict condemning all Jews—men, women and children—to be
killed, he doesn’t stop just there. He
permits and even encourages the looting of the Jews’ possessions. When the tables are turned however, when the
Jews rise to defend themselves, they control their desire for vengeance. In self-defense, they kill only those who
come to attack them; they do not attack women and children; and they do not
engage in looting and pillaging.
The
Jews prove themselves different in the moral and ethical choices they make.
But
perhaps the most telling sacrifices in the story are the psychological
ones. For among other things, the Scroll
of Esther is about pride and humility.
Haman
is all about pride. His quest for power
is unquenchable. It isn’t enough for Haman
to be promoted to chief vizier; he craves the ultimate power—first of king,
then of a god. He practically makes a
grab for Ahasuerus’s crown and royal garb.
He even tries to control fate, casting lots (“the pur”) to determine the precise date for his nefarious plot. The culture to which Haman and Ahasuerus
belong is one that worships power and lust.
Theirs was a society of greed, recognizing no bounds or restraints. The gods they worshipped were nothing more
than mere reflections of their own shortcomings.
Mordechai,
on the other hand, reflects a much different attitude. He recognizes limits; he
understands that control over events is not always possible; he admits his
doubts and uncertainty. Despite his high
public position, Mordechai is not above humbling himself. Facing a dangerous and uncertain fate,
Mordechai puts on sackcloth and ashes (scandalizing Esther and the Court). Mordechai recognizes the limits of his own power. He is powerless over fate, he is even
powerless before the young woman he had raised as his own daughter, whom he now
has to ask, cajole and beg to act on behalf of the Jewish Nation.
“Who
knows,” he says to Esther, “Who knows but that you were placed in this position
for just such a purpose and obligation.”
Unlike
the arrogant and foolish Haman, the humble and wise Mordechai truly understands
the fundamental truth that nothing in this world is ever certain. The best we can do is try to reach our goals,
but in reality nothing is guaranteed.
There is a limit to human knowledge, understanding and even potential.
And
what of Esther herself? What sacrifices does
she have to make? Leaving her warm and
secure home for the royal court, ever filled with intrigue, debauchery and
immorality? Leaving behind friends and loving family? Having to hide her true
identity, to watch every word she says, to think before she does anything lest
she betray herself? These are only some
of the sacrifices Esther makes. The
truly remarkable one, however, comes when she accepts her fate and destiny,
despite the grave danger. Her three-day
fast (which she imposes also on her court attendants as well as on the entire
Jewish community of Shushan) is not so much a religious fast as it is symbolic
of grief and mourning. In agreeing to take
her fate—and the fate of her entire people—into her hands, Esther’s recognizes
and accepts the very real danger and possibility that she will be put to death.
The
moment she faces and comes to terms with her own mortality is the moment that
Esther transforms from victim—a mere trifle, a pawn in palace and political
intrigues—to survivor. It takes a real
sacrifice to turn from a cartoon character into a real person. It is the willingness to offer one’s own life
on behalf of others that turns a person into a hero. It is precisely that which makes a person
truly great, turning him or her from a speck of dust into a true, shining star
in the dark firmament.
The
sacrifices that Parashat Vayikra asks from us, whether they be a
ram, a lamb or a pinch of salt, pale by comparison.
Acknowledgment: For his keen understanding of the cultural milieu of Esther and Mordechai
Ha-Yehudim, I am indebted to Jon D. Levenson, Esther: A Commentary (Louisville, Kentucky: Westminster John Knox Press, 1997).
© 2016 by Boaz D. Heilman
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