Toward the end of the Book of Esther (Esther 9:22), our story recounts:
וְהַחֹ֗דֶשׁ אֲשֶׁר֩ נֶהְפַּ֨ךְ לָהֶ֤ם מִיָּגוֹן֙ לְשִׂמְחָ֔ה וּמֵאֵ֖בֶל לְי֣וֹם ט֑וֹב לַעֲשׂ֣וֹת אוֹתָ֗ם יְמֵי֙ מִשְׁתֶּ֣ה וְשִׂמְחָ֔ה וּמִשְׁל֤וֹחַ מָנוֹת֙ אִ֣ישׁ לְרֵעֵ֔הוּ וּמַתָּנ֖וֹת לָֽאֶבְיוֹנִֽים׃
The month which was turned for them from sorrow to gladness, and from mourning into a good day; that they should make them days of feasting and gladness, and of sending portions one to another, and gifts to the poor.
From this, we are taught three out of the four mitzvot we are obligated to perform as part of our Purim celebrations. This week, leading up to Purim itself, we’ll explore each one of these four expectations, and what it might teach us about Purim and about ourselves.
וּמִשְׁל֤וֹחַ מָנוֹת֙ אִ֣ישׁ לְרֵעֵ֔הוּ
Sending Portions to One Another
I have always thought that one of the themes of the Book of Esther, or at least of Esther’s life, is loneliness.
In the pivotal moment when Mordechai asks her to go before the king and plead for mercy on behalf of the Jews, the conversation takes place through an intermediary. Mordechai, not permitted to enter the palace, stands at the entrance to the gate. Esther, kept away from everyone but her own servants, is inside the harem, shielded but also isolated. In Midrash Rabbah, one of the best-known compilations of rabbinic understandings of the Book of Esther, the rabbis imagine her alone in the kingdom as if in a prison, praying to God and saying: I am comparable to a poor woman who goes to beg from house to house; so do I beg Your mercy, from window to window, in the house of Achashverosh. Even when she orders Mordechai to gather the Jews, to bring them together in three days of fasting, she is alone.
Certainly, these last two years have taught us—in one way or another—what it feels like to be isolated. I would guess that many of us have felt—even in pivotal moments—that our loved ones were just outside the palace gates, as it were. One of the ways that I combatted that sense of isolation was through the mail; I found great joy in sending cards and unexpected small gifts to friends, whether they lived in Encino or the Upper West Side. There is something about that sort of connection that felt even more significant against the backdrop of COVID. For me, I hope it is a “COVID-keeper,” something that stays even as we are able to travel more freely, hug without fear, and celebrate with those we love. But, I think it is also at the heart of the idea of mishloach manot, of the small gifts and treats we are meant to give to friends and family on Purim.
Rabbi Yehiel Yaakov Weinberg (1884-1966) was the last rector of the Neo-Orthdox Hildesheimer Rabbinical Seminary in Berlin, and was a leader and posek of the German Jewish community during the Nazis’ rise to power and the Second World War. Asked by a student why we do not recite a blessing before the giving of mishloach manot, his answer is instructive of the spirit in which we are to offer these gifts. He writes:
It also seems to me that the purpose of mishloach manot is to increase peace, love, and friendship … Now, even though the general rule regarding mitzvot is that it is greater to be commanded and do the mitzvah, than to do it without being commanded, and hence we bless before doing a mitzvah, “and God commanded us,” when it comes to the mitzvah of mishloach manot this is not the case. Here, it is better to give of one’s free will, from a feeling of love for one’s friend. If one gives only because of the commandment, then they reduce the value of that love.
He closes his opinion by saying:
Another novel idea I have is that mishloach manot is fundamentally a mitzvah that applies throughout the entire year, and on Purim we are commanded to fulfill it actively in order to remember it throughout the year…
So, whether you give a gift on Thursday or next month, I hope it is given—and received—in the spirit of love and friendship, and in celebration of our ability to be together.
—Rabbi Sari Laufer