Everyone knows the halacha of עד דלא ידע, and we all have different relationships with this mitzvah. Some of us love it. Some of us, dare I say, may hate it — or at least strongly dislike it. Others put up with it.
For me personally, my relationship to the mitzvah is more positive than most — but maybe not as excited as others. But I would like to move beyond my emotional relationship to the mitzvah and just take some time to try to understand it.
Regardless of whether we enjoy it, I think we can agree that it’s a bit difficult to understand.
It certainly does not seem in line with the nature of most of the mitzvot in the Torah.
After all, on Yom Kippur and other fast days we hold ourselves back from regular food and water.
On Shabbos we do have a Mitzvah of eating pleasurable food, but not to excess.
The same on Yom Tov, when there is a Mitzvah of simchas Yom Tov — which involves eating meat and drinking wine — once again that is not to excess. That is for enjoyment and no more.
And so it is with Mitzvah after Mitzvah. When there is a Mitzvah to partake of the physical, it is always limited and controlled in nature.
Over and over again in the Torah we see the principles of balance and healthy limits combined with self-control and restraint.
And then there is Purim.
Is it that on Purim we are finally supposed to let go. Throw off all shackles of self-control and drink until we get into a stupor and lose our awareness (aka daas — דעת)?
Are we really not supposed to know? To become unaware and wild like an animal?
Such a position seems so out of line with the rest of the Torah. And yet, there is the Mitzvah, clear as day:
אָמַר רָבָא: מִיחַיַּיב אִינִישׁ לְבַסּוֹמֵי בְּפוּרַיָּא עַד דְּלָא יָדַע...
Rava said: A person is obligated to become intoxicated on Purim until he does not know... (Megillah 7b)
I know — I stopped the line early.
We’ll finish it soon enough.
But for now I just want that first part to sink in.
What in the world are we being commanded to do?
Just the Words
So how about we finish that line:
עד דלא ידע בין ארור המן לברוך מרדכי
Until one does not know between Haman is cursed and Mordechai is blessed
Now this kind of works in English, but it’s slightly awkward. And there is a reason for that. The line is missing a short phrase — one that is understood, but not actually written (as is common in both Tanach and the Gemara).
So let’s try a new translation — one that adds a small word that is implied but not actually written:
עד דלא ידע להבדיל בין ארור המן לברוך מרדכי
Until one does not know how to distinguish between “cursed is Haman” and “blessed is Mordechai.”
The word להבדיל (lehavdil) — “to distinguish” — is not actually in the original line, but it is understood. And without it, the line does not make grammatical sense.
We find the same pattern in Sefer Shmuel, when Barzilai declines Dovid HaMelech’s invitation to stay with him in Yerushalayim:
בֶּן־שְׁמֹנִים שָׁנָה אָנֹכִי הַיּוֹם הַאֵדַע בֵּין־טוֹב לְרָע
I am eighty years old today. Can I still distinguish between good and bad? (Shmuel Bes 19:35)
The same structure and the same implied word: להבדיל. Rashi there confirms it.
So now our line makes sense.
Well, at least grammatically speaking.
But now that it makes grammatical sense, it doesn’t make logical or moral sense.
Because let’s understand what we are being told — that we drink until we can no longer distinguish between the fact that Haman is cursed (ארור המן) and Mordechai being blessed (ברוך מרדכי)
What?
Why in the world would I want to drink to the point where I cannot make that distinction?
What is the goal?
To somehow or other see them as the same?
Is this some sort of radical moral relativism? Where I see no moral distinction between Haman and Mordechai? Is it some sort of radical moral apathy? Where I don’t care who’s blessed and who’s cursed?
Neither of these seem possible. And yet, if we take the time to read the words properly, that is exactly what they seem to be saying.
Expanding Our Options
So far, we have limited ourselves to two types of distinctions.
One is a moral distinction — in that we see no moral distinction between Haman and Mordechai. The second distinction is in terms of outcomes — in that we do not care about the outcomes of either Haman or Mordechai.
And both options seem deeply problematic.
So what are our options?
For starters, perhaps we are missing something with one or both of our two distinctions that we mentioned above.
It’s hard to see. Moral relativism and moral apathy are hardly noble positions. I can’t imagine that the Torah is encouraging us to be less moral.
But maybe there is a nuance that we are missing.
That is one option — one that we will explore.
But there is another. And that is to expand our list of distinctions. Perhaps there is another way to understand this Mitzvah that we are missing. A type of distinction that we make that we shouldn’t.
A Third Distinction
Let’s start with our second option — looking for a new distinction. We’ll start by giving it a name — we’ll call it a narrative distinction.
When we talk about narratives, we’re talking about stories. About tales. About how things are transmitted and told.
Now life, as we have pointed out before, often has narrative elements to it. There is tension. There is suspense. There is not knowing how things are going to play out. And we often live the news and the events of our lives from that perspective.
We get emotional about it.
We care and talk about it.
We wonder and worry about it.
And we oftentimes analyze it.
And it could be that on that level — the level of analyzing the story of life — we are being told: you need to drink until you do not see the distinction between Haman and Mordechai, Mordechai and Haman — on that level.
Let’s see what that might mean from the perspective of the Megillah.
Let’s jump into Chapter three and live that chapter.
Haman has the king’s ring.
He has a sealed decree.
He has political authority and military backing.
He has secrecy and surprise.
And the Jews are scattered and vulnerable.
וַיָּסַר הַמֶּלֶךְ אֶת־טַבַּעְתּוֹ מֵעַל יָדוֹ וַיִּתְּנָהּ לְהָמָן בֶּן־הַמְּדָתָא הָאֲגָגִי צֹרֵר הַיְּהוּדִים
The king removed his signet ring from his hand and gave it to Haman son of Hammedatha the Agagite, the enemy of the Jews. (Esther 3:10)
If someone stands up at that moment and confidently declares ארור המן וברוך מרדכי. We would think such a person is detached from reality. All the visible data points the other way.
Why?
Because in Chapter 3 it looks like Haman is blessed and Mordechai is cursed. Or, more accurately, it looks like Haman will be blessed and that Mordechai will be cursed.
Did you catch that — this is a key point!
Being blessed or cursed is a state of being that is usually the end result of a process. Right now, in Chapter 3, Haman does look blessed. He has money, power, prestige.
But what about Mordechai and the Jews. They are not yet cursed. Haman and his men have not yet attacked them. They are (thank G-d) not destroyed.
That is just the trajectory of the story as it currently stands. The facts and analysis back up that trajectory. That is, indeed, where things are heading at the moment.
That is what the future looks like.
But we don’t live our lives in the future, we live them in the present.
At the moment that Chapter 3 took place, there was no sound, rational reason for declaring that Mordechai was blessed and Haman was cursed.
There was nothing in the data of the moment that leads to that conclusion. Indeed, as we noted, the data indicates that the opposite is most likely to be true.
And it is here that we reach our first (but not last) insight into the Mitzvah of עד דלא ידע.
We are not being told to be blind to this distinction in all situations. There are clearly moments when it matters. But in terms of the narrative perspective of life — wherein we are living the story — we are being told to stop trying to read the blessings of Mordechai and the curses of Haman into the present moment.
Why?
Because sometimes it is not there. Yes, eventually Mordechai will be blessed and Haman will be cursed. But who says that you can see that in the present moment. Who says that G-d has written that into the script of life?
No one!
And yet, we read life this way all of the time. We read the headlines, analyze events and make our proclamations about what will be. Who will live and who will die. Who by fire and who by water.
We think we can figure out blessings and curses from the narrative of the moment. As if we were the Creator Himself. Comes the Megillah and says — G-d runs the world. And He runs it in ways that you cannot always see or understand.
And so, on Purim, we are enjoined to reorient ourselves. Yes, you should see which way the wind is blowing. Mordechai did. He saw what was happening and went out and protested.
But note, protesting is the opposite of predicting. Protesting is saying that yes, the data indicate that we are heading one way. But I refuse to be a slave to destiny. I refuse to assume that the data of the moment equals the fact of the future.
And so this is our first level understanding of עד דלא ידע. And, like the other Mitzvos of the Torah, it is a level of limitation. We are limiting our analytical perspective to be in sync with what reality allows. And not letting it extend into the realm of the rationally unknowable.
Living the Future
Let us move beyond the moment into the future. We’ll start, though, by remembering a promise from the past:
וַאֲבָרְכָה מְבָרְכֶיךָ וּמְקַלֶּלְךָ אָאֹר
I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse. (Bereishis 12:3)
Thus said HaKadosh Baruch Hu to Avraham Avinu at the very beginning of Jewish history. And this promise is not merely a particular promise to a particular person at a particular point in time.
No, there is something more fundamental going on here. There is a universal promise, made to the Jewish people (Avraham’s spiritual descendants) that permeates all of time. In short, this promise is built into the very fabric of human history. It is as much a law of nature as the laws of physics.
Which means that I am not limited to living the moment. It does not matter if all the data of the day points to Mordechai being cursed and Haman being blessed (as it did in the third chapter of the Megillah). Because we know how the story will eventually end.
True, it may not be that the particular Mordechai of the Megillah will end up blessed. That’s for G-d to decide.
But we do know that at some point, there will be some Mordechai (in spirit, if not in name) who will end up being blessed. While at the same time there will be some Haman who will end up being cursed.
That ending is known. It’s just the specifics of the ending that are not known.
And we can live this reality.
We can live with the knowledge that we don’t know how the day-to-day history will play out, while also knowing that there is a covenantal architecture to history. That there is a divine plan that will eventually play out.
This is a healthier way to live the narrative of life. But even here, there is a hidden danger.
When we need to know the future, then we are no longer living it. And by need, I mean a psychological need. One where we worry about and fret over the story and how it will end.
At this level, we turn to the tradition not for guidance on how to live the moment, but as some sort of pyschological reassurance that things will work out. Yes, on one level this is healthy. Life is hard and we need to be reassured. But there is another level where this is no longer health.
What, then, is a healthy perspective?
That is where I am aware of and live by the covenant, but where I don’t use the covenant as a psychological crutch. I don’t need to mull over my head how it could be that the present moment can lead to the future promise. I don’t worry about the details and try to figure everything out.
Instead, I am okay with living with the unknown. I don’t need to figure out how the covenant will play out. I may investigate that from a point of curiosity or a desire to see the possible ways in which the Divine Will plays out. But not out of psychological necessity.
This, then, is our second level of עד דלא ידע. The level where I don’t need to know how Haman will be curses and Mordechai will be blessed. Where I can simply live with HaKadosh Baruch Hu’s promise without worry about the promise.
So yes, on the one hand I still make the distinction on the intellectual/covenantal level. I know that Haman will be cursed and Mordechai will be blessed. But I don’t need to know how.
Instead, I simply live the Divine historical narrative — watching it play out in real time. I’m engaged, but not driven.
Artistic Examples
Pick your favorite form or art.
Is it music (for me, it is).
How about painting?
Or sculptures?
Or plays or poetry?
I could go on.
Now put yourself in the artistic moment. You are listening to the symphony, walking through the gallery, reading the poem.
What is that like?
And what is it not like?
It is not analytical. In the artistic moment you are not analyzing the music. Rather you are engaged with and being uplifted by it. After the artistic experience you may analyze it. But not during.
And even then, in the mode of analysis, there is an experiential element. We analyze because we enjoy. We want to understand the beauty that we have witnessed and experienced.
That is the mode of living Divine history that I am attempting to describe. Whereby we experience the Divine story as it unfolds and analyze it from that perspective of the experience.
Of course, art is often a required taste. Indeed, we don’t always allow ourselves to enjoy the artistic moment.
One’s parents drag us to the symphony.
Or put on Shlomo Carlebach in the car (Abba, that is so old).
Or take us to the art museum.
We are bored.
Uninterested.
We want to leave.
We have not yet learned how to live the art — because we haven’t yet learned how to tap into its (not so) hidden beauty.
But that can change.
We can open yourself up to the experience.
I write music. And (some of) my music has a certain jazzy element to it. And my son — well, he doesn’t jazz with the jazz.
And yet, one day, he said something akin to the following:
You know, this song is actually quite nice, even if it is jazzy.
He has started to transcend his artistic tastes.
And so it is with the Divine narrative. We can transcend our artistic experience of G-d’s history. We can open ourselves up to it.
A Job to be Done
There is, I believe, an even deeper level. Although, I do wonder — perhaps it is not deeper, but just different. This is the level of the job to be done.
In chapter four of the Megillah there is a moment of transition for Esther. The moment when she realizes that she has a job that is to be done:
לֵךְ כְּנוֹס אֶת־כׇּל־הַיְּהוּדִים הַנִּמְצְאִים בְּשׁוּשָׁן... וְכַאֲשֶׁר אָבַדְתִּי אָבָדְתִּי
Note what she is and she is not doing.
She does not sit calculating probabilities.
She does not forecast outcomes.
Rather, she gathers, fasts, prepares, and acts!
Like a team down in a game — they are not staring at the scoreboard wondering how it will end. They are asking: what is the next play? What is required of us now?
And they execute.
At this level, we do not distinguish between ארור המן and ברוך מרדכי. We do not analyze, predict or even experience the Divine narrative.
Rather, we ask what does Hakadosh Baruch Hu want from me right now? What is my role?
The Blessing within the Curse
There is one final level I wish to discuss — in many ways the most difficult one.
At this level, the cursing of Haman and the blessing of Mordechai are no longer experienced as separate and competing realities. Instead, they are intricately connected realities, with one being the source of the other.
Ask yourself, what would have happened if Haman had never come on the scene? Would we have ever reached the level of kimu v’kiblu (קימו וקבלו) — the national renewal that takes place in Chapter 9 of the Megillah?
Or how about the joy that we are all experiencing at the (hopefully) pending downfall of the modern day equivalent of Haman — the evil regime in Iran. Would we and the people of Iran be singing and dancing in the streets if it weren’t for the years of evil that we have all had to endure?
No.
There is a certain type of joy that one can only experience if they have first had to deal with a certain type of evil. Or, put otherwise, we can only get to the blessings of Mordechai if we first deal with the curses of Haman.
Would we prefer not to take this road. 100%!
But that is not the point. The point is that when we do travel on this road, the transformation, salvation and joy that we experience is a direct result of the evil that has transpired.
And from this persepctive, there is no distinction. One is inherenet in the other. Or, put otherwise, they are both part of one Divinely orchestrated whole.
Time to Drink
We are now ready to drink some wine.
Why wine?
Because wine has particularly properties that help us make these types of transformations.
Wine lowers our internal defenses.
Removes the barriers.
Sets us free.
So, once a year, we are commanded — drink to set your mind free.
Leave behind your analytical mind when analysis won’t help.
Detach yourself from your psychological needs.
Allow yourself the artistic experience.
Or, put in terms of the Mitzvah.
Drink until you don’t analyze how Haman will be cursed and Mordechai will be blessed.
Drink until you don’t have a psychological need to know how Haman will be cursed and Mordechai will be blessed.
Drink until you can just live the story of Haman becoming cursed and Mordechai becoming blessed.
Drink until you can see what your role is in the Divine narrative.
Drink until you see the interconnected nature of the curses and blessings in the world.
This, I believe, is (part of) the Mitzvah of drinking on Purim. It is the Mitzvah of a change in our mindset.
Which means that once we have reached that new mindset, we have fulfilled our obligation. There is no need — and perhaps no Mitzvah — to drink anymore.
May you have a freilichin and elevating Purim!