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To See the Face of the Divine: Commentary on Purim and Parashat Ki Tissa 5785
By Ezra Kiers, Rabbinical Student at Hebrew Seminary
Have you ever seen the Divine face to face? I believe that I have. The day that I met my dearest friend, the day that I married my husband, and the first time I hugged my mother after not seeing her for over a year, the Divine was there. When I sat by my grandmother’s bedside before she died, when I witnessed one of my preschool students take their first steps, and when I cried with a woman I barely knew at Hostages Square in Tel Aviv, the Divine was there, too. During these experiences, I felt Hashem. I saw Hashem in the way that a soul can see more than the eye can. See, my theology—though certainly influenced by Jewish law and Jewish thinkers—actually hinges more on a quote from a 19th century French novel. In the words of Victor Hugo, “To love another person is to see the face of God.” So, unlike Mosheh Rabbeinu who only saw Hashem’s back in this week’s Torah portion, I have seen Their face. And you probably have, too.
In Exodus 33:20, Hashem tells Mosheh, “You [Moshe] will not be able to see My face, for no human being may see Me and live” (my translation). The 12th-century Spanish commentator ibn Ezra suggests that this verse implies that seeing the face of the Divine would cause someone to “immediately die.” Expanding on Ibn Ezra’s ideas, the 16th-century Italian scholar Sforno imagines Hashem having meant to say:
לא יהיה זה נמנע ממך מפני חסרון השפעתי, אבל מפני חסרון קבלתך, שלא תוכל לקבל את שפע האור:
This [seeing of Me] would be obstructed from you on account of, not some deficiency in My influence, but some deficiency in your receptiveness—for you would be unable to receive the [great] influx of [My] light.
I conceptually understand what our ancestors boldly claimed in their commentaries: the real truth is Hashem’s, and Hashem’s alone. If any person were to know the essential truth of the Universe, it could be too much to bear (mentally or physically). Sforno’s commentary specifically speaks to the fact that during our lifetimes, we may observe what we believe to be true, but we do not truly ‘see.’ How could we? The chaos of human existence is hard to disengage from; our souls have too much work to do. Though our sages suggest that it is only in death that we can truly encounter the Divine, I’m not so sure I agree with them.
The recent state of the world has me, among many others, quaking with fear. How could it not? I’m a nonbinary Jew married to a disabled queer man. Plus the rise in global antisemitism, including in my local community, has me looking over my shoulder more often. I’ve had last-minute therapy sessions and needed to engage in a lot of extra self-care in an attempt to cope with my growing concern that Hashem might have taken a sabbatical from humans for a while. As I look for Hashem—a spark of goodness—around every corner, Their presence often feels too far away to grasp. The hopelessness starts to become consuming. In a time and place where I feel like Hashem is missing, I look for Them everywhere. At synagogue, at my job at a Jewish preschool, with my rabbinical school classmates… and sometimes Hashem is there. And sometimes Hashem is not. And most of the time when I do see Them, I only see Their back. But, as Purim approaches, I’m reminded of a few things that help Their face become clearer.
First, even in the face of existential fear, we still must make room for rejoicing. As stated in the Babylonian Talmud, Ta’anit 29a, “When Adar comes, joy increases.” Now, I’m not sure if this is an observation or a command. On the one hand, it might be an observation; as we celebrate Jewish resistance to oppression in ancient Persia, that Talmudic phrase seems to make a lot of sense. Perhaps the Sages acknowledged that for Jews, the shift from Tu BiShvat to Purim is a natural progression: the New Year of the Trees followed by a new season of Jewish freedom certainly feels like a reason for joy. But what if the Rabbis saw that after a long, cold winter—physically or spiritually—sometimes it feels hard to smile? What if they realized that at those times when we’ve grown accustomed to darkness, we need a little nudge in order to see the light?
Though we celebrate Purim and the freedom it represents with festivities and carnivals, the story of this holiday is rather bleak. Yet again, we recall an attempted genocide against the Jewish people. Unfortunately, being a Jew means being reminded over and over again that our safety is relative, and certainly not guaranteed. We are raised with stories of hatred and fear, of that one lucky thing that if it didn’t happen, you never would’ve been born. Year after year of hearing these stories, it can become easy to wallow in them. So, our ancestors gave us Ta’anit Ester (the Fast of Esther) so that we could work through that pain ahead of our festivities. Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan summarizes in his 1884 commentary, Mishnah Berurah 686:2:
מתענין בי”ג באדר: כי בימי מרדכי ואסתר נקהלו ביום י”ג באדר להלחם ולעמוד על נפשם… ומצינו כשהיו ביום מלחמה שהיו מתענין… ונקרא תענית אסתר כדי לזכור שהש”י רואה ושומע כל איש בעת צרתו כאשר יתענה וישוב אל ד’ בכל לבבו כמו שעשה בימים ההם.
We fast on the 13th of the month of Adar—because in the days of Mordechai and Esther they gathered on the 13th of Adar to fight and stand for their lives… We find that on the day of war they were fasting… And they called this fast Ta’anit Ester to remember that Hashem looks and listens to every person in their time of distress when they fast and repent to Hashem with all of their heart just as they did in those days. (English adapted from the Sefaria Community Translation.)
Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan teaches that even in times of war and devastation, we have the power to fast, to pray, to stand in community, and to hope. And what happened after Esther and Mordechai fasted and prayed with their community? They won. We won. How powerful a statement might it be that our ancestors continue to instruct us to find joy amidst our pain? How meaningful, that we as Jews are commanded to feel joy, in all its complexity, even when it’s hard to find it? There has to be room to let the light in, or we’ve got nothing to fight for.
Second, none of us can embrace that joy—and by extension, Hashem—alone. Esther didn’t stand up to the king and his antisemitic righthand man by herself; she had Mordechai. And when Mordechai needed support, he gathered the rest of the Jewish community. In fact, as Rabbi Sharon Brous acknowledges in her book The Amen Effect, the only thing in the Hebrew Bible labeled as definitively not good is a human being who is lonely (p. 35). And this is precisely the point of Purim, of Judaism, and all of human existence: “To love another person is to see the face of God.” This holiday does not celebrate one person’s life, but an entire nation’s. Judaism is not about a personal relationship with the Divine, but a collective movement toward a future in which care, honor, and love are the enacted values. Only then can we see the face of the Divine.
Maybe, just maybe, Mosheh only saw Hashem’s back because he was on the mountain alone. And maybe, just maybe, I have seen the Divine face to face, because I know what it is to love someone who makes my life worth living, and share their love in return. That is a feeling—that security, trust, and closeness—which no golden calf could possibly replace. No amount of money in the world can buy a moral code, spiritual wealth, or a heartfelt connection with another person. In times of hopelessness and helplessness, when Goodness feels lost, we can see the face of God every day by allowing ourselves to love.
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