Trusting Joy
It’s probably a safe bet to say that most of us take ourselves too seriously, and that our religious communities don’t help us in this regard too much. After all, stakes are high in this world of ours. We hold tightly to our identities and affiliations because we need ways to navigate a life that can be, at times, brutal and indifferent. All spiritual traditions agree that life brings us suffering. We see fascinating differences in our traditions however, by how we respond to this suffering: how we face it, how we make meaning of it. It is said that while there are many ways to G-d, the most tried and true of these come when we suffer, when we are wounded – because they can awaken us by reminding us powerfully of our mortality, our limited time, and the gift that life is. I think this is true. What are the other ways, though? Do we spend enough time learning these routes to G-d? As hard as it is to come to terms with pain and the wounds that each of us carry, in some respects, it can be even harder to come to terms with joy, to learn to trust joy, to find a spiritual path through joy.
In regards to taking ourselves too seriously, Judaism is no different than the rest. But there is one exception to this, a holiday that comes once a year and pulls the carpet out from underneath our serious posturing, and that is Purim. On Purim, we read the beguiling story of Esther from the Hebrew Bible. The Book of Esther is a strange choice to be included in the canon, as not only does it read more as a Brothers Grimm tale, complete with heroes (Mordechai) and villains (Haman), but it is full of sexual innuendo, and G-d’s name doesn’t appear once in the story – one of only two books in the Bible where this is the case! To add to this craziness, it is customary on Purim to dress up in costume, and to celebrate so much that one does not know the difference anymore between Mordechai and Haman! What is going on here? Judaism, like any religion, is built by defining clear boundaries, and giving clear instruction as to proper behavior. G-d is supposed to be central in this work. How could there by a holiday where there is no G-d, where good and evil seem interchangeable, and everything is topsy-turvy? Put differently, it is amazing that there would be a holiday that seems to undermine the entire tradition that is built into the tradition itself.
Perhaps G-d is absent in the story because G-d appears to be absent much of the time in our lives, at least in dramatic, peak-experience type ways. It is up to us to find G-d hidden in the world, in places where we might least expect to look. Actually, Purim teaches, holiness is everywhere, but it is our task as humans to manifest it through righteous and just acts. The Hasidic commentator the Sfat Emet writes that what Purim is trying to teach when it says you shouldn’t know the difference between Haman and Mordechai, is that one can learn to see the divine presence in all things. Normally, he writes, we come to do the work of repentance through suffering and affliction, but on Purim we do this work through joy. Another commentator, the Aish Kodesh, takes it one step further: “The simcha (joy) of Purim is required: not only if a person is naturally in simcha or is in a situation where it is possible for him to rejoice, but rather, he has to be happy! Even if he is feeling wretched and broken hearted, his mind and spirit trampled, it is required of him to find even a little spark of simcha to bring into his heart.” The Aish Kodesh was the rabbi of the Warsaw ghetto, so these are not idle words.
What does this mean? Is it possible or desirable to force yourself to be happy? Purim brings us this challenge. Perhaps we are not being asked to force happiness where it doesn’t fit; rather, we are being forcibly reminded that joy can be as transformative as pain, that joy can be a path towards truth and holiness, and indeed, must be. Perhaps we are being reminded that in the absence of a felt presence of G-d, that we are called to uncover this presence, to find G-d in hiding, through living lives that bring holiness to the least likely places.
In the end, Purim turns out to be as serious as it gets.