Three Lessons from Parashat Pekudei: Accountability, Inner Substance, and the Foundations of Jewish Life

With Parashat Pekudei we arrive at the conclusion of Sefer Shemot. The final five parashiyot—Terumah, Tetzaveh, Ki Tisa, Vayakhel, and Pekudei—are devoted in remarkable detail to the construction of the Mishkan. The Torah repeatedly lists the materials, measurements, vessels, garments, and procedures involved in building the sanctuary. At first glance, the repetition seems excessive. Yet Chazal teach that within these details lie profound lessons not only about the Mishkan itself, but about Jewish life and leadership in every generation. In the following piece, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom shows how Chazal hav done so.

From Parashat Pekudei in particular, three striking ideas emerge: the principle of accountability, the relationship between external beauty and inner spiritual content, and the foundations upon which Jewish life is built.

Giving an Account

Parashat Pekudei begins with a careful accounting of all the materials donated for the Mishkan: the gold, the silver, the copper, the precious stones, and every other contribution brought by the people. This raises an obvious question asked by Chazal. Why was such an accounting necessary?

The Torah testifies that Moshe Rabbeinu was the most trustworthy individual imaginable. God Himself trusted Moshe completely to transmit the Divine word without alteration. One of the foundations of Judaism is our absolute confidence that Moshe faithfully conveyed the Torah exactly as he received it. Moshe’s humility and selflessness ensured that his own interests never interfered with his sacred mission. But if this is so, why did Moshe feel the need to provide a detailed financial report of every ounce of gold and silver used in the Mishkan? Chazal explain that Moshe was teaching a fundamental principle of communal life. Even when a person is completely trustworthy, communal funds must still be handled with total transparency. Leaders and treasurers must not only act with integrity—they must demonstrate that integrity openly.

This principle is codified in halachah and practiced throughout Jewish history. The treasurer of communal funds, the gizbar, must be someone beyond suspicion. Yet even that is not enough. The Mishnah describes how the Temple treasurer would enter the treasury chamber to withdraw funds for the service of the Beit HaMikdash. He would wear clothing without pockets and without cuffs. He would even remove his shoes. The purpose was simple: there should be no possible way—even theoretically—to hide a single coin. The reason is based on the verse:

וִהְיִיתֶם נְקִיִּים מֵה' וּמִיִּשְׂרָאֵל

"You shall be innocent before Hashem and before Israel” (במדבר ל״ב:כ״ב)

A person must act properly not only in the eyes of Heaven but also in the eyes of other people. The Gemara adds a striking observation: every generation contains leitzanim—cynics and mockers who interpret events in the most negative way possible. If the treasurer later became wealthy, they would say he stole from the treasury. If he became poor, they would say his poverty was punishment for stealing. People who are determined to suspect wrongdoing will always find a way to do so. Therefore Jewish leadership demands that one be “whiter than white,” especially when dealing with communal resources. Thus from Moshe Rabbeinu we learn that integrity must be accompanied by accountability.

The Mishkan: Small in Size, Great in Sanctity

A second insight is offered by the Sforno. When we read the detailed description of the Mishkan, we might imagine a massive and magnificent structure. Yet the opposite is true. The Mishkan was actually quite small. Consider the Aron—the Ark at the heart of the sanctuary. Its dimensions were only two and a half cubits long, one and a half cubits wide, and one and a half cubits high. In modern measurements this is roughly the size of a modest table. The entire Mishkan was a relatively small, portable sanctuary. Why does the Torah emphasize this?

The Sforno offers a profound idea. If we compare the Mishkan with the later Temples in Jerusalem, we see a clear pattern. The Mishkan was small and simple—but filled with the highest level of Divine presence. The First Temple was larger and more magnificent. The Second Temple became even more architecturally impressive, especially after the grand renovations of Herod. Yet, as the buildings increased in external beauty and grandeur, their spiritual intensity diminished. There seems to be an inverse relationship between outward magnificence and inner spiritual depth.

This does not mean that beauty has no place in Judaism. On the contrary, we have the principle of הידור מצוה, beautifying mitzvot. Synagogues, homes, and batei midrash should be dignified and aesthetically pleasing. But the Sforno points to a subtle danger: the law of diminishing returns. Beyond a certain point, external grandeur can overwhelm the spiritual purpose. A building can become so architecturally impressive that people are distracted by its beauty rather than inspired by its sanctity.

The Mishkan teaches that spiritual greatness does not depend on size or spectacle. Authentic holiness is created not by grandeur, but by the presence of the Shechinah.

The Foundations of the Mishkan

A third insight appears in the final verses of Pekudei describing the foundations of the Mishkan. The walls of the Mishkan were made from wooden beams called kerashim. Each beam had two pegs at its base. These pegs were inserted into heavy silver sockets known as adonim. These silver sockets served as the foundation that stabilized the entire structure. Where did these foundations come from?

The Torah explains that each one was made from a kikar kesef, a large measure of silver equal to three thousand shekels. And where did this silver originate? From the half-shekel contribution that every Jew gave. Each person donated exactly the same amount: a half-shekel. When the contributions of the entire nation were collected, they produced precisely enough silver to create one hundred foundations for the Mishkan.

The Ba’al HaTurim draws a beautiful connection here. The word adonim (foundations) is related to the Divine Name Adonai. The Gemara teaches that a Jew should recite one hundred blessings each day. According to the Ba’al HaTurim, these one hundred daily blessings correspond to the one hundred silver foundations of the Mishkan. Just as the silver sockets supported the entire sanctuary, the daily recitation of blessings forms the spiritual foundation of Jewish life.

Every time a Jew says a berachah—before eating, after eating, during prayer, or when performing a mitzvah—he acknowledges that everything in the world comes from Hashem. These blessings anchor our lives in awareness of God. They are the adonim upon which our spiritual Mishkan stands.

Building the Mishkan Within

Parashat Pekudei concludes the construction of the Mishkan, but its lessons continue to guide us.Moshe teaches us the importance of accountability and transparency in communal life. The Sforno reminds us that true spirituality lies not in outward grandeur but in inner holiness. And the Ba’al HaTurim shows us that the foundations of Jewish life are built through our daily blessings.

If we live with integrity, focus on inner substance, and strengthen our connection to Hashem through our berachot, each of us can build a Mishkan within our own lives. And through those foundations, may we merit once again to see the Divine Presence dwell openly among the Jewish people.

Builders of Time and Space: Parshiyot Vayakhel–Pekudei and Parshat HaChodesh 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 12 March 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to AI, by clicking here. 

The central mitzvah of each of the two parshiyot that we read this week is puzzling in its own way.

If we were asked to choose the very first mitzvah the Jewish people should receive, it is unlikely that sanctifying the new moon would top the list. Why should this technical command about the calendar be the Torah’s opening mitzvah?

Similarly, the Torah devotes extraordinary attention to the Mishkan. Its construction is described at length, repeated again and again. Why does the Torah linger so extensively on these details?

A common theme links the two.

The command to build the Mishkan marked a profound turning point for the Jewish people. Until that moment, their experience had largely been one of witnessing miracles performed on their behalf: the plagues in Egypt, the splitting of the sea, and the miraculous sustenance of the desert. But the Mishkan required something new. It demanded initiative, craftsmanship, generosity, and creativity. The Torah repeatedly describes those whose hearts lifted them to participate—“kol asher nesa’o libo.” Through this project, a nation of former slaves became a nation of builders.

The Mishkan transformed the people from passive recipients into active participants in a sacred mission. Perhaps for the first time, they were not merely observing redemption; they were helping to shape it.

The same idea lies behind the mitzvah of Kiddush HaChodesh. Rav Soloveitchik pointed out that one of the defining differences between a slave and a free person is the relationship to time. A slave does not control time; time is imposed upon him. Only a free person is able to take responsibility for time.

In giving the Jewish people authority to sanctify the new month, the Torah effectively hands us the keys to the calendar. The festivals themselves depend on that human declaration—hence the beracha “mekadesh Yisrael vehazmanim”: first Israel, and through Israel, the sacred times.

These two mitzvot therefore define the beginning and the culmination of redemption. The Jewish people are entrusted with responsibility over both time and space—sanctifying time through the calendar and sanctifying space through the Mishkan.

Perhaps this is the deeper message of these readings. Redemption is not only something that happens to us; it is something we are called upon to build. Even after failure and setbacks—even after something as grave as the sin of the Golden Calf—the Torah reminds us that the Jewish people are capable of rising again, partnering with Hashem in shaping the world.

That calling remains with us today: to be builders—shaping the sacred spaces of our community and using the sacred time we are given to fill our lives with meaning.

Let the cow clean up the mess of the calf: Ki Tisa 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 5 March. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, by clicking here.

Parshat Ki Tisa contains one of the most jarring moments in the Torah. Only weeks after the revelation at Har Sinai, Bnei Yisrael construct the Golden Calf. The speed of the collapse is almost as disturbing as the sin itself. How, so soon after Har Sinai, could the nation that heard the voice of Hashem fall so far?

Chazal link this parsha with Parshat Parah, which we also read this Shabbat. Their striking formulation is: “Tavo parah vetekane’ach et tzo’at b’nah” — let the cow come and clean up the mess made by her calf. On the surface, the association is symbolic. But the connection runs far deeper.

The Kuzari famously explains that, in building the Calf, the people were not consciously seeking to abandon Hashem. They were afraid. Moshe had not returned, and they felt spiritually disoriented and vulnerable. They wanted something tangible through which to focus their Divine service—a visible intermediary that would provide structure and reassurance.

In that sense, their impulse was not entirely foreign to the Torah itself. Surrounding the episode of the Calf are the parshiyot describing the Mishkan, with its physical vessels, sacred space, and golden keruvim atop the Aron. Judaism does not reject the physical; it channels and sanctifies it.

The crucial difference, however, is that the Mishkan was commanded; the Calf was not.

That distinction is decisive. When religious creativity detaches itself from the framework of Divine command, even sincere intentions can become spiritually destructive. The desire to make avodat Hashem accessible, tangible, or emotionally resonant is understandable—but, without commandedness, it risks becoming self-directed spirituality.

Parshat Parah responds with a very different posture. The Torah introduces the Red Heifer with the words: “Zot chukat haTorah.” It is the quintessential chok—a mitzvah that resists human logic. The Parah Adumah purifies the impure while rendering the pure impure. It cannot be neatly explained or fully rationalized. It calls for obedience even in the absence of full comprehension.

The Golden Calf represents the instinct to shape avodat Hashem in a way that feels understandable and reassuring. Parah represents the willingness to serve even when we do not fully understand—to act because we are commanded, not because we have constructed a system that satisfies our expectations.

Ki Tisa invites quiet reflection. Spiritual passion is essential. The desire for depth, connection, and meaning is not a weakness; it is one of our strengths. But that passion must remain anchored in something beyond ourselves. The difference between the Mishkan and the Golden Calf was not artistic talent or symbolism—it was submission to Divine command.

The message of Ki Tisa and Parshat Parah is that Torah does not always yield to our logic. Sometimes growth comes precisely through accepting that we do not stand at the centre. The purification of the Parah begins not with understanding, but with humility. Spiritual purity emerges when we allow the Torah to shape us, rather than insisting that we shape it.

Shabbat Shalom!

Shabbat in a New Light: Duality, Destiny, and the Covenant of Israel

Shabbat is not new to us in Parashat Ki Sisa. Klal Yisrael had already encountered it at the mon, and it appears again in Parashat Mishpatim. Yet in Parashat Ki Sisa, something profoundly new is added. The Torah reframes Shabbat — not merely as a mitzvah to observe, but as a covenant, a worldview, and a defining mark of Jewish identity. Here, Shabbat is illuminated in a way we may never have fully heard before. Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

 “Shabtotai” — The Plural Mystery

The Torah states:

אַךְ אֶת־שַׁבְּתֹתַי תִּשְׁמֹרו

“However, My Sabbaths you shall keep.” (Shemot 31:13)

Why the plural — Shabtotai?

The Ramban: Love and Awe

Nachmanides (Ramban) explains that the duality reflects Shamor and Zachor — the two formulations of Shabbat in the Aseret HaDibrot.

●      In the Book of Exodus, it says זָכוֹר — Remember.

●      In the Book of Deuteronomy, it says שָׁמוֹר — Guard.

These two expressions represent two modes of relationship with HaKadosh Baruch Hu:

●      Shamor — restraint, reverence, yirah.

●      Zachor — celebration, sanctification, ahavah.

Shabbat is not one-dimensional. It is the fusion of awe and love, discipline and delight. It teaches us that our connection to Hashem must contain both boundaries and embrace.That is the first dimension of “Shabtotai.”

The Kli Yakar: Beginning and End

Rabbi Shlomo Ephraim Luntschitz (Kli Yakar) offers a different perspective. Shabbat represents two cosmic poles:

1. Ma’aseh Bereishit — Creation, the beginning of time.
2. Geulah Acharonah — The ultimate redemption, the end of history.

Every Shabbat, we stand at the axis of time. We connect to:

●      The origin of existence — Hashem as Creator.

●      The destiny of existence — Hashem as Redeemer.

The dual korbanot of Shabbat — the two lambs — reflect this duality. Shabbat gathers the arc of history into a single sacred day. To keep Shabbat is to know where we came from and where we are going. That is the second meaning of “Shabbtotai.”

 “Lada’at” — Shabbat as a Way of Knowing

The Torah continues:

לָדַעַת כִּי אֲנִי ה' מְקַדִּשְׁכֶם

“To know that I am Hashem Who sanctifies you.” (Shemot 31:13)

Shabbat is not merely observance. It creates da’at — a consciousness, a mindset. It reshapes how we understand our existence, our relationship with Hashem and our place in the world

Rashi: A Sign to the Nations

Rashi explains that this “knowledge” extends outward: the nations of the world will recognize that Shabbat is a unique covenant between Hashem and Klal Yisrael. Shabbat becomes our hallmark. There is a striking story that illustrates this. A young Orthodox law graduate once interviewed at a prestigious non-Jewish law firm. Wearing his yarmulke, he explained he could not work on Shabbat. The partners pressed him: “What if it’s our biggest client?” “What if the firm loses the deal?” “What if we desperately need your signature?” His answer never changed: “If it’s Shabbat, I’m not available.”

To the partners, this was incomprehensible. They had no value that overrode career, money, or prestige. They could not imagine a commitment so absolute. He likely did not get the job. But he carried something they could not understand — a covenant. That is lada’at. That is what Shabbat does. It engraves into a Jew the awareness that there is something greater than professional success, greater than public acclaim. Shabbat declares: we belong to Hashem.

Mishkan and Shabbat — A Deliberate Reversal

The structure of the parshiyot surrounding the Mishkan reveals something extraordinary. In Terumah through Ki Tisa, we find six chapters of Hashem instructing Moshe privately about the Mishkan and six parallel chapters of Moshe relaying those instructions to the people. But there is one striking difference. When Hashem Speaks to Moshe. The Mishkan details come first, with Shabbat at the end (in Ki Tisa). But when Moshe Speaks to the People (Vayakhel), Shabbat comes first, followed by the Mishkan.

Why reverse the order? The Kli Yakar explains beautifully. When Hashem speaks, He first emphasizes the Mishkan — the kavod of Klal Yisrael, the dwelling of the Shechinah among them. Then He concludes with Shabbat — do not forget the honor of Heaven. But when Moshe speaks to Klal Yisrael, he reverses it. He begins with Shabbat since, before we build, before we create, before we demonstrate national glory. first comes Kavod Shamayim. This reflects a broader Torah principle: in our speech and orientation, we begin with Hashem.

This idea is echoed in a remarkable Gemara in Berachot (6a). There the Gemara asks: What is written in Hashem’s tefillin? Of course, this is metaphor — but the answer is stunning: “Who is like Your people Israel, one nation in the world?” Our tefillin proclaim Hashem’s unity: “Hashem Echad.” Hashem’s “tefillin” proclaim Israel’s uniqueness. It is a reciprocal covenant — ani l’dodi v’dodi li.

And so too with Yom Tov: the Torah calls it Chag HaMatzot — emphasizing what we did. We call it Pesach — emphasizing what Hashem did. We begin with praise of Heaven. Moshe therefore teaches Shabbat first.

Shabbat as Brit — More Than a Mitzvah

In Ki Tisa, Shabbat is called

אוֹת הִוא לְעוֹלָם

“It is an eternal sign.”

Not merely a mitzvah, but a Brit, a covenant. The Mishkan may symbolize Divine Presence among us. But Shabbat symbolizes something deeper: an unbreakable bond between Hashem and His people. The Mishkan can be destroyed. Shabbat cannot.

The Dual Vision of Shabbat

We now see how the strands converge:

●      Ramban — Love and Awe.

●      Kli Yakar — Beginning and End.

●      Rashi — A sign to the nations.

●      The structure of the Mishkan — Kavod Shamayim before Kavod Yisrael.

●      The Gemara in Berachot — Reciprocal uniqueness.

All point to the same truth: Shabbat teaches us who we are. It connects creation with redemption, love with reverence, Heaven with earth, Israel with Hashem. What is more, it also gives us da’at — the inner clarity to live by that knowledge.

Conclusion: Shabbat as Identity

Shabbat is not merely about refraining from melachah. It is about standing in sacred time and knowing where history began, where history is heading and to whom we belong.

Every week, Shabbat gathers the arc of existence into a single day and whispers: You are part of something eternal. That is why it is plural. That is why it is a covenant. That is why it is unforgettable.

The lion roars, so be afraid!

In our current conflict with Iran, our part in it has been named "Operation Roaring Lion". This name is taken from a prophecy by Amos which, as it just so happens, also inspired our musical member Max Stern to compose a piece, more than nine minutes in duration, that captures the ferocity and intensity of the prophet's words "The Lion hath roared, who will not fear?" 

Max composed "Aryeh Shaag" back in 2011 for chorus, shofars and strings. You can listen to it by clicking this link.

By way of a bonus, here are Max's program notes:

The hope of a solution to the age-old historical wandering of the Jewish people, whose presence in the ancient homeland has yet to prove a cure for the perpetual recurrence of persecution throughout Jewish history, today takes on a new guise in the form of exaggerated criticism of the State of Israel.

Generations ago, in a call to faithfulness, the prophet Amos looked into his people's origins and destiny: “You only have I known of all the families of the earth; Therefore, I will visit upon you all your iniquities” (Amos 3:2).

Aryeh Shaag was commissioned for the conference, "Messianism and Madness," premiered at the Ariel University Center of Samaria (this being the locale of the biblical kingdom of Israel, where Amos once prophesied). This recording is performed by a choral and instrumental ensemble under the direction of the composer.

Here, drawn from Amos 3:1-2, 6-8, is the text:

Hear this word that the Lord hath spoken against you, O children of Israel, against the whole family which I brought up out of the land of Egypt, saying: You only have I known of all the families of the earth; therefore I will visit upon you all your iniquities. Shall the horn be blown in the city, and the people not tremble? Shall evil befall a city, and the Lord hath not done it? The Lion hath roared, who will not fear? The Lord God hath spoken, who can but prophesy?

Hidden Light: Hallel, Amalek, and the Inner Work of Purim

Hiddenness is the theme that runs through so much of our understanding of Megillat Esther, In the piece that follows, our member Rabbi Paul Bloom pulls aside the curtain and offers us a glimpse of that which lies just out of normal sight.

The Gemara in Talmud Bavli asks a striking question: Why do we not recite Hallel on Purim? After all, we recite Hallel on Yom Tov. True, Purim is not a biblical festival like Pesach or Sukkot — but neither is Hanukkah, and yet we recite Hallel then. Why? Because we were redeemed from persecution. If redemption warrants Hallel, then Purim — when annihilation was decreed against the Jewish people — should certainly require it.

The Gemara offers three answers.

Three Answers — and One Halachic Conclusion

1. The Megillah Is Hallel

The first answer is revolutionary: There is Hallel on Purim — the reading of the Megillah is its Hallel. According to this view, the public reading of Book of Esther fulfills the mitzvah of praise. We do not say the standard Hallel psalms because Purim has its own unique form of thanksgiving. The Meiri takes this position very literally. He writes: if someone is stranded without a Megillah but has a siddur, he should recite Hallel with a berachah — because Purim fundamentally requires praise, and if the Megillah is unavailable, regular Hallel substitutes for it. However, the Mishnah Berurah rules otherwise. The Megillah is not merely a substitute — it is the exclusive Hallel of Purim. If one cannot read the Megillah, one does not replace it with standard Hallel. Why?

2. Rav Hutner: Open Miracle, Open Praise — Hidden Miracle, Hidden Praise

Rav Yitzchak Hutner explains with extraordinary depth: Hallel must mirror the nature of the redemption. There are two types of miracles:

●      Nes Nigleh — open, supernatural miracle

●      Nes Nistar — hidden, concealed miracle

The redemption of Passover was filled with open wonders: the Ten Plagues, the splitting of the Red Sea, supernatural intervention that shattered nature itself. Such an open miracle demands open praise — the full-throated declaration of Hallel.

Purim is different. Not a single supernatural event appears in the entire Megillah. Everything can be explained politically or psychologically:

●      Vashti is executed — royal intrigue.

●      Esther is chosen — palace politics.

●      Mordechai overhears a plot — coincidence.

●      Haman rises — ambition.

●      Haman falls — miscalculation.

Even Esther’s name means concealment. Her birth name was Hadassah; “Esther” evokes hiddenness. The name of Hashem does not appear explicitly even once in the Megillah. And yet — when the pieces are viewed together — the hidden Hand becomes unmistakable. Purim is the paradigm of Nes Nistar.

 A hidden miracle requires hidden praise. Thus, the Hallel of Purim is not an open psalm of praise — it is the telling of a story in which God is never mentioned but always present. If you lack the Megillah, you cannot substitute open Hallel — because Purim’s praise must reflect concealment.

3. Still in Exile

The Gemara’s third answer deepens the message: Hallel is recited when we are fully redeemed. After the Exodus, we were no longer Pharaoh’s slaves. But after Purim?
We were still subjects of Achashverosh. Yes, Haman was defeated. But the exile remained. In this sense, Purim is the festival of redemption within exile. And that is why Purim remains eternally relevant — even in modern Israel. We have sovereignty, but we do not yet have the Beit HaMikdash. We visit the Kotel — a remnant of a retaining wall — and rejoice, yet we mourn simultaneously. Purim teaches us to see God in partial redemption, in unfinished stories, in exile that has not yet lifted.

Ad D’Lo Yada — Beyond the Surface

The Gemara famously teaches that one must drink on Purim until he cannot distinguish between “Cursed is Haman” and “Blessed is Mordechai.” This statement is deeply misunderstood.

The Nefesh HaChaim explains that the Gemara elsewhere states something astonishing: The removal of Achashverosh’s signet ring — when it was handed to Haman — accomplished more repentance than the rebuke of 48 prophets and seven prophetesses. Why? Because fear awakened the people. The decree itself brought about teshuvah.

We naturally thank Hashem for salvation. But Purim demands something harder: recognizing that even the decree was part of redemption. Without Haman’s threat, there would have been no national awakening. Thus “ad d’lo yada” does not mean moral confusion. It means reaching a level where one recognizes that even what appears as “cursed” was ultimately woven into Divine good. This is not gratitude to Haman, but gratitude to Hashem for both the cure and the illness that led to growth.

The Downfall of Amalek — Outside and Within

Haman is called “Haman HaAgagi” — descendant of Agag, king of Amalek. Purim is not only about survival. It is about the defeat of Amalek. But Amalek is not merely an external enemy. Chazal describe Amalek as coldness — “asher karcha baderech.” Amalek cools enthusiasm. Amalek makes mitzvot mechanical. One can keep Torah meticulously — yet coldly. That inner coldness is Amalek within.

The second internal Amalek is division. Sinat chinam, polarization, hatred among Jews. When Jews are divided, Amalek thrives. The mitzvot of Purim directly address this:

●      Mishloach Manot — creating bonds of friendship

●      Matanot La’Evyonim — compassion and responsibility

●      Se’udat Purim — shared joy

●      Kabbalat HaTorah Me’Ahavah — reaccepting Torah out of love

The Gemara teaches that at Sinai we accepted the Torah under coercion — “He held the mountain over us.” But on Purim, we re-accepted it willingly.

Love replaces fear. Enthusiasm replaces coldness.That is the eradication of inner Amalek.

Hiddenness Is Not Absence

Purim sustains us in dark times. Hiddenness is not abandonment. Like a parent watching a child from behind a curtain — unseen but fully present — so too Hashem “peeks through the lattice,” as described in Shir HaShirim. The miracle is concealed — but the love is not.

Even in the most painful chapters of Jewish history, we have witnessed souls rise to unimaginable spiritual heights under duress. Not because suffering is good — but because within suffering lies the potential for greatness that comfort might never awaken. Purim teaches us to see beyond the surface of events — to detect Divine choreography in what appears ordinary, political, or even tragic.

The Work of Purim

Purim is joyous. But it is also sacred. It calls us to:

●      See God when He is hidden.

●      Thank Him for redemption — and for the process that led to it.

●      Replace coldness with passion.

●      Replace division with unity.

●      Accept Torah not from fear, but from love.

If we eradicate the Amalek within — the complacency, the indifference, the hatred — then Hashem protects us from the Amalek without.

Purim is not merely a celebration of survival. It is the annual training of Jewish vision
to see light inside concealment, purpose inside chaos, and redemption unfolding even when history looks ordinary.

And that vision — more than open miracles — is what sustains us in exile until the final redemption is no longer hidden at all.

The Fascinating Aspects of the Fast of Esther

So much is written about the fun side of the festival of Purim that the fast day which precedes it is easily overlooked. Here in this piece our member Rabbi Paul Bloom lists the veil on some of the hidden mysteries of this special day. 

The Fast of Esther, observed annually on 13 Adar, is a lesser-known fast in the Jewish tradition. Many are familiar with the general idea that it commemorates Queen Esther’s fast before approaching King Achashverosh, yet there are several intriguing aspects of this fast that remain unfamiliar to many.

The Origins of the Fast

If you ask most people why we fast on Taanit Esther, they will likely mention that it is in remembrance of the three-day fast declared by Esther and the Jewish people in the story of Purim. The story, as recorded in Megillat Esther, tells how Mordechai learned of Haman’s decree to exterminate the Jews and, in response, put on sackcloth and ashes. He then informed Esther of the decree and urged her to intercede with the king. Esther was initially hesitant, reminding Mordechai that approaching the king uninvited could mean death. However, Mordechai delivered a stirring response that remains deeply relevant: 

“If you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether it was just for such a time as this that you attained royalty?” (Esther 4:14).

Moved by these words, Esther instructed Mordechai to gather the Jews in Shushan for a three-day fast. The problem, however, is that this fast was actually observed on 13, 14, and 15 Nissan, immediately before Pesach. The fast of Esther that we observe, however, is only one day and falls on 13 Adar. Why the difference?

Why Is Our Fast Only One Day?

One explanation is that Chazal had mercy on the people and shortened the fast from three days to one, recognizing the great difficulty of such an extended period of fasting. A more significant issue, however, is the shift in the date. Why do we fast on 13 Adar instead of in Nissan, when the original fast occurred?

The halakhic answer is that Jewish tradition avoids establishing fast days in the month of Nissan, given its close association with the redemption from Egypt. The only fast that remains in Nissan is the Fast of the Firstborn, and even that is often replaced by a siyyum (completion of Torah study). Consequently, the Fast of Esther was shifted to 13 Adar, the day before Purim.

An Alternative Origin of the Fast

However, there is another view that the Fast of Esther is not actually a commemoration of Esther’s three-day fast, but rather an entirely separate fast that is unrecorded in the Megillah. According to this perspective, Jewish soldiers had a custom of fasting before going into battle as a way to pray for divine assistance. A precedent for such a practice is found in the book of Shmuel, where King Saul prohibited his soldiers from eating until they defeated their enemies (Shmuel I 14:24–30). The Fast of Esther, in this understanding, marks the fast of the Jewish people as they prepared to defend themselves on 13 Adar, the very day when Haman’s decree permitted their destruction.

The Connection to Pesach

A fascinating aspect of Esther’s fast is its connection to Pesach. The original three-day fast included 13, 14, and 15 Nissan, meaning that the Jews, including Esther, may not have observed the Pesach Seder as they were fasting during the night as well. Some commentators argue that they might have skipped the matzah and maror that year due to the severity of the decree. Others suggest an alternative explanation: when the Megillah states that they fasted for "three days, night and day" (Esther 4:16), it does not necessarily mean absolute fasting. Instead, it could indicate that they extended their daily fasts slightly into the night but still managed to eat something, allowing them to minimally fulfill the mitzvot of the Pesach Seder.

Significantly, Esther first invited Achashverosh and Haman to a feast on 15 Nissan, right after the conclusion of the three-day fast. On that same night—still the night of the second day of Pesach—Haman was unable to sleep, which led to a chain of events resulting in his downfall. He was ultimately hanged on 16 Nissan, making the second day of Pesach the day of Haman’s demise. This highlights an often-overlooked connection between Purim and Pesach, as both holidays celebrate the salvation of the Jewish people.

The Unique Status of the Fast of Esther

One of the most striking aspects of the Fast of Esther is its unusual status within Jewish law. Unlike other fasts such as Tisha B’Av, 17 Tammuz, 10 Tevet, and the Fast of Gedaliah, which are based on biblical or early rabbinic sources (Zechariah 8:19), the Fast of Esther is not explicitly mentioned in the Mishnah or the Talmud as a permanent fast. It emerged later, during the Geonic period, making it the only post-Talmudic fast in the Jewish calendar.

Curiously, 13 Adar was once a day of celebration known as Yom Nicanor, commemorating a victory over the Seleucid general Nicanor during the Hasmonean period. According to Megillat Ta’anit (an early Tannaitic work listing days on which fasting was prohibited), Jews were actually forbidden from fasting on this day due to its status as a day of joy. This raises a paradox: how could the later sages establish a fast (the Fast of Esther) on a date that was previously designated as a day of festivity?

The resolution to this contradiction lies in a fundamental debate recorded in the Gemara: Did the holidays of Megillat Ta’anit lose their obligatory status after the destruction of the Second Temple? The prevailing opinion suggests that these minor celebratory days were only binding during the time of the Temple, and once it was destroyed, their special status was nullified. This permitted later authorities to establish the Fast of Esther on 13 Adar, overriding the previous restrictions set by Megillat Ta’anit.

Conclusion: A Day of Reflection and Connection

The Fast of Esther is a fascinating and somewhat mysterious day in the Jewish calendar. While commonly understood as a remembrance of Esther’s three-day fast, there are serious halakhic and historical reasons to question this assumption. Whether its origins lie in the story of Esther’s fast or in the Jewish tradition of fasting before battle, the day holds deep significance. It is also unique as the only post-Talmudic fast widely observed by the Jewish people.

Beyond its origins, the Fast of Esther connects Purim to the broader themes of Jewish history, particularly the story of Pesach. The juxtaposition of the two holidays highlights an important lesson: whether in the days of Pharaoh or Haman, Hashem has continuously saved the Jewish people at moments of great peril.

Thus, Taanit Esther is not just a prelude to Purim—it is a call for reflection, introspection, and prayer, reminding us of our collective responsibility and the enduring power of Jewish unity in times of adversity.

Hava Narisha Rash Rash Rash!

 

Any reader of this blog who has had children, grandchildren or great-grandchildren getting excitedly ready for Purim will almost certainly be word-perfect when it comes to singing "Purim Day" with its infectious chorus "Hava narisha rash rash rash!". Well, here's a very pretty version of it for unaccompanied ladies' voices.* It was recorded in Romania by the Antifonia Choir conducted by Constantin Ripa and the lyrics go like this:

Purim Day, Purim Day, 

Gladsome joyous holiday.

Happy throngs masked and dancing gay.

Havan arisha, rash, rash, rash.

With your gregers play.

It's only 1.24 minutes long and you can listen to it here.

* It is the voices that are unaccompanied, not the women.

Moral Clarity in an Age of Confusion: Shabbat Zachor 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, 26 February. You can also read it in Hebrew translation, via ChatGPT, here.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l once drew attention to a deeply uncomfortable truth: modern Western culture has largely lost the concept of an enemy. We instinctively assume that hostility must be the result of grievance. If someone attacks, there must be something we did to provoke it. Surely hatred must be rational.

Parshat Zachor challenges that assumption.

The Torah commands us: “Remember what Amalek did to you… do not forget.” Amalek attacked Bnei Yisrael in the wilderness without warning, without provocation, targeting the weak and stragglers at the rear. There was no territorial dispute, no prior history, no political grievance. It was aggression for its own sake.

Strikingly, the Torah’s response to Amalek is vividly different from its response to Egypt. The Egyptians enslaved us, oppressed us, and decreed the murder of our children. Yet the Torah instructs: “Do not despise an Egyptian.” Why? Because, as Rabbi Sacks explains, “The Egyptians feared the Israelites because they were strong. The Amalekites attacked the Israelites because they were weak.”

Pharaoh himself said, “The Israelites are becoming too numerous and strong for us.” Their hatred, though immoral and cruel, was rooted in fear and self-preservation.

Amalek was different. They attacked not because they were threatened, but because they encountered vulnerability. That distinction is not merely historical. It is moral and theological. Amalek represents the phenomenon of evil that cannot be reduced to misunderstanding or insecurity. It is the hatred that seeks vulnerability and exploits it. It is the ideology that glories in destruction.

The Rambam explains that the mitzvah to remember Amalek is about sustaining moral clarity: “to remember always his evil deeds and his ambush… to arouse enmity.” The Torah commands us not to forget the existence of such evil. Forgetfulness breeds confusion; confusion breeds danger.

We no longer know who the biological descendants of Amalek are. Since the time of Sancheriv, former national identities have long been blurred. Amalek today is not a genealogical category but a moral one—a  symbol of those forces, in every generation, that seek the destruction of the Jewish people simply because we exist.

As we read Parshat Zachor, its message remains larger than any particular chapter of history. Jewish experience has repeatedly reminded us that not all hatred can be reasoned with, and not all evil can be explained away.

Amalek may symbolize hatred without cause—but Am Yisrael symbolizes covenant without end. On Shabbat Zachor we do not only recall an ancient enemy. We reaffirm our identity as a people sustained by memory and bound to a Divine promise that has outlived every empire that sought to undo it.

Our task is not simply to survive history, but to remain faithful within it -to carry the covenant forward with faith, dignity, and moral courage.

Shabbat Shalom!