Between October and Purim: “Rejoice with Trembling” (Column 633)

With God’s help

Disclaimer: This post was translated from Hebrew using AI (ChatGPT 5 Thinking), so there may be inaccuracies or nuances lost. If something seems unclear, please refer to the Hebrew original or contact us for clarification.

In the months since Black October, the heart is broken. As Purim approaches, it is split between sadness and joy. In secret we mourn those who are no longer with us—living and dead—and the Shechinah of Knesset Yisrael is confounded. How then should one celebrate this year’s Purim? This one weeps and that one rejoices, and we are still—as ever—“servants of Ahasuerus.”

Still, I thought it right to gird my loins and send you a Purim “mishloach manot” of Torah, as is my wont. Now, with sadness in the heart and joy as well—“it is not in heaven,” and “one does not heed heavenly voices,” nor granddaughters’ fragrances; there is a time to cast truth to the ground and a time to lift one’s eyes to the mountains, to the firmament.

So a few days ago I asked to send this “package” early, that your hands might have what to feed your eyes, and that the merit of these words of Torah might bring another column tomorrow or the day after—a torah de-okimta d’yoma—and may it be His will that by the merit of this Torah the angel of death be told “enough,” the lament be told “begone,” and that it be said of “rejoice with trembling” itself: no more violence shall be seen. May the border of widows be restored, may orphans return to their roof, and may children return to their borders, speedily in our days. And this is the beginning, with G-d’s help.

A.

Our Sages taught (Ta’anit 11a): One verse says that when Israel dwell in distress and one separates from them, two ministering angels who accompany a person come and place their hands upon his head and say: “This person who separated from the community—may he not see the consolation of the community.” Another baraita teaches: When the community is in distress a person should not say, “I will go to my home and eat and drink, and peace be upon my soul.”

The apparent meaning is that one must not separate from the ways of the community, but rather share in their distress.

It is true that Maimonides writes (Teshuva 4) that “one who separates from the community—the gates of repentance are locked to him.” I have always (drashically) expounded this to praise: one who separates from the community’s foolishness and does not stumble in their stupidity neither sins nor needs repentance at all; therefore he merits… (You can imagine the rest.) I once heard someone cite R. B. Povarsky in the name of the Ponovezh Rosh Yeshiva: in the Four Species we bind the lulav, myrtle, and willow, but puzzlingly the etrog—though held close—is left outside the basket. He explained (again, homiletically) that the etrog represents the righteous, scholars and doers of deeds, who must separate from the tzibbur and not enter the “basket” with them; then they will merit to… and the gates of repentance will be locked before them, and no creature will be able to stand in their proximity—because of the closed doors, of course. The words were “joyful as when they were given,” and clearly words of truth…

Some among our Haredi brethren hang much upon this: they separate from the ways of the public and in its distress do not bear its burden with it, but leave it—thereby meriting (not leaving with it) to various rewards and to those locked gates of repentance. When I was young I said (again, homiletically) that those doors are the doors to the women’s gallery—for these, our aforementioned brothers, due to the hermeneutics of those who hunt for scraps, are like women regarding the laws of war and are exempt (see Sefer HaChinuch, parashat Zachor). These matters are ancient.

So as not to leave the page blank, I shall add that Haredi women have a twofold exemption: by virtue of being women and by virtue of being Haredi. With this one may neatly settle the puzzling responsum (finds like with like!) in Shu”t on the case of a Haredi woman who underwent sex reassignment surgery; he inclined to say she is now obligated in enlistment—having acquired all the laws of a man and lost the category of “Haredi.” And for those who hold that two such categories can arrive together, there is one who acquires his world in an hour. Indeed, “an issur does not fall upon an issur,” even according to that view in Yevamot 33 that “whatever is not possible one after the other is also not possible at once,” but all agree that a heter can fall upon a heter sequentially or even simultaneously. The matter shines brightly, like Cerberus on the way to the river Acheron (he is the stichus), as clear as the black garment of mourners.

In truth, the Rambam seems to have taken “one who separates from the community” negatively; and these are astonishing words, against which even a beginner might rise up—how dare one go against the “Da’at Torah” of all the “true greats of the generation.” Let the matter be buried and unsaid.

Still, in Ta’anit there is also: “A man should not have marital relations in years of famine”—again we see there is import to not separating from the community. If we accept this because of our belief in the Sages, then from the Talmud we have law: do not separate from the ways of the community; mourn in their mourning. This is the written word laid upon us: to feel the pain of Israel.

B.

Another text cries out: “When Adar enters, we increase in joy” (Ta’anit 29a), and especially on Purim. If so, it seems we are obligated to rejoice on Purim together with all Israel. How then can we simultaneously share their sorrow and yet rejoice?

It is true we rule: one does not marry during a festival—“we do not mix one joy with another” (Mo’ed Katan 8b). And if so, were there a full obligation of joy on Purim, it should be forbidden to marry then as well. Yet the Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 696:8) allows marrying on Purim; the commentaries explain it is not comparable to a festival. Seemingly a proof that there is no categorical obligation of “simcha” on Purim—thus our earlier question might fall away.

One could still push back: perhaps marriage is not considered “joy” in the strict sense; indeed I heard from the true scholar R. M. Weiss of Bnei Brak that marrying is not as good as the bochurim think, nor as bad as the avreichim say. If so, there is no mixing of joys. But then why is marriage forbidden on a festival? Perhaps, just as we do not mix joy with joy, so too we do not mix sorrow with sorrow; therefore one may not mix “festival sorrow” with “marital sorrow”… In any case—whether you hold there is no joy in taking a wife, or you hold Purim’s joy is of a lighter sort—the Talmud in Ta’anit speaks plainly: on Purim there is mitzvah to increase joy. Our question returns to its place: how can we keep hold of this and not let go of that?

C.

The heart now wonders: how can two texts go hand in hand? How can a person rejoice on Purim while being a full partner with the people in a time of communal distress?

According to our Haredi brethren (and the “true” leaders of the generation), this is fine; according to us (“the false ones,” as they would have it), it is difficult. The matter requires study, and it is a mitzvah to establish falsehood on its own base.

Behold (Isaiah 63:9): “In all their distress [lo] He was distressed; and the angel of His presence saved them. In His love and pity He redeemed them; He lifted them and carried them all the days of old.” Our Sages expounded the kri/ktiv (Sotah 31a): wherever it is written with lamed-aleph—does it read “lo” (not) or “lo” (to Him)? Here too, “בכל צרתם לא צר” (He was not distressed) and also “בכל צרתם לו צר” (for Him it was distress). Thus, in communal trouble there is both a dimension of “not distressed” and “distressed”—both true. Ideally, “not distressed” would prevail, so that He, in His love, would redeem and carry them. But from the end of the verse we must also hew: if they rebel and vex His holy spirit (then He is pained with their distress), He turns to be their enemy and fights them. Therefore one must also ensure that in their trouble there is a sense of “not distressed,” lest He become their enemy.

Hence it seems we must keep both readings on this Purim that falls in a time of trouble: to stand with Israel and be pained with the public—“in their distress, to Him there is distress”—and also to set oneself apart and rejoice—“in their distress, He is not distressed.” Thus we fulfill (Psalms 2:11): “Serve the Lord with awe, and rejoice with trembling.” As the Talmud says: “In a place of rejoicing, there should be trembling.” So according to the “false greats,” two laws are said for this Purim: joy and sorrow in mixture.

D.

But let us sharpen the blade: if he rejoices in his heart—how can he be sad, and if sad—how can he laugh? How can a person be happy and sad with one stroke? Similarly with any twofold commands—how can something be both A and B at once? The verse “rejoice with trembling” seems to demand “this after that,” not both together.

Yet Torah is complete, and nothing in it is not alluded to. Moses is true and his Torah is true. Happy are you, Israel—before whom are you perplexed, and before whom will you one day give judgment and account?

Let us first reinforce the question by an “infinitesimal” rule: wherever something can be “this after that,” it cannot be “both at once.” If a person can be joyful and then sad, that is only sequentially; but together—there is nothing. To explain this, I will recall what I wrote in my youth in holy Brisk, in the great city of Nineveh (yes, that Nineveh that had many people and much cattle, and I, small as I am, was shepherd to them all).

We find in R. Shimon Shkop’s Kuntres HaTena’im (at the end of his Hiddushei Gittin): a woman who receives a conditional get is simultaneously divorced and married. On the face of it, nonsense: how can she be both? I explained there that the contradictions are between descriptors, not things. A dish cannot be wholly sweet and wholly salty at once; but it can contain both salt and sugar—this and that causing its taste—yielding something like “lemon meringue,” neither entirely salty nor entirely sweet. Likewise the Talmudic menagerie of half-slave half-free, and androgynos, and so on.

So too here: there can be reasons for a person to rejoice and reasons to be sad at the same time—joy because of Purim and sorrow because of Black October. Seemingly, though, one cannot be fully joyful and fully mournful simultaneously. So how will the law of Purim joy stand?

Answer: every law that is stated regarding an emotion is not a law about a state but about a cause of a state. When the Torah says “love the stranger,” it does not mean “love a person who happens to be a stranger,” but rather: love this person because of his being a stranger. See my long treatment in Column 22 (on the mitzvot of emotion) and in my essay on Asperger’s and related issues, where I cite R. Hutner that one does not fulfill the mitzvah of loving the ger if one loves him without reference to his geirut.

So too the mitzvah of simcha: we learn from “You shall rejoice in your festival” and our Sages expounded “and not with your wife” (Mo’ed Katan)—which shows that the verse means: rejoice because of the festival, not merely “rejoice during the festival.” Thus with all mitzvot of emotion: they are commands to generate the feeling for the proper reason, not to produce a sheer emotional state.

E.

As is my holy habit, I have elsewhere argued at length that one can fulfill mitzvot of love and of hatred toward the same person with one stroke—contrary to two “prophets” (R. Kook and the Vizhnitzer Rebbe) who wrote that it is better to stumble in baseless love than in baseless hate; I, in my smallness, thought it better to avoid stumbling in either, and we have proofs aplenty that one must actually do both where the law requires.

Thus toward a wicked Jew we are obligated to love him because he is a Jew, and to hate him because he is wicked. And how can two opposites be borne by one? Is it possible to love and hate the same person at the same time? Perhaps this very difficulty is what causes some to stumble in their understanding of “baseless love.”

Some wanted to resolve: we love the person but hate his deeds. I rejected this thoroughly, with proofs and outstretched arm, showing that in Halacha love and hate are directed to the person—not to his actions or qualities. Nevertheless, as I further explained there: it is love for one aspect of the person and hate for another aspect. The love is to the whole person because of one facet; the hate is to the same person because of a different facet (this is the secret of “Peter Pan,” for those who know—one must not dismiss one facet for the sake of the other). This is not the place to expand; whoever wishes to grow wise, let him head south to the Zakan Anav, Rema Ish Lod, the humblest man upon the face of the earth.

Conclusion. For this year’s Purim we must realize within us the verse “rejoice with trembling.” We are to rejoice on Purim and be sad over Black October—both together. And even though both exist together, they also exist one after the other. And it will be wondrous.

What seems right to me I have written.

—From me, the small one, D.M.A. ben Netinah, “in joy and with tears” (and not like “Do not rejoice, O Israel, as the nations”): the mystery of gil al-dema—as the Zohar on Issachar (the “holy beard”) explains, that “the Holy One says and Moses writes with tears” (Bava Batra 15a) and, per the Vilna Gaon there, it is a language of mixture—meduma. Thus “joy-tears” and “tears-joy”—tears of joy and tears of sorrow mingled—until “the Lord will wipe away tears from every face,” and He will say “rejoice with trembling,” “enough” to the angel, and “enough” to our troubles, and “children shall return to their borders,” speedily in our days.

• https://mikyab.net/en/posts/810/

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