Purim 5781
I plan on drinking this Purim.
“Even in front of your kids?!”
Especially in front of my kids.
“But won’t they learn from your habits?”
I sure hope so.
In the absence of the Bais HaMikdash and the roasted korbanos we once ate on each of the Shalosh Regalim, the Gemara (Pesachim 109a) suggests that wine take their place as a means of fulfilling the obligation of rejoicing on Yom Tov. It is no surprise, then, that wine is similarly highlighted on Purim, a time when simcha, it would seem, goes into overdrive.
And yet it is precisely that “overdrive” that the Rambam heavily warns against, specifically when it comes to the association between simcha and drinking:
כשאדם אוכל ושותה ושמח ברגל לא ימשך ביין ובשחוק ובקלות ראש ויאמר שכל מי שיוסיף בזה ירבה במצות שמחה, שהשכרות והשחוק הרבה וקלות הראש אינה שמחה אלא הוללות וסכלות ולא נצטוינו על ההוללות והסכלות אלא על השמחה שיש בה עבודת יוצר הכל
משנה תורה פרק ו׳ מהל׳ יו׳׳ט הל׳ כ׳
When a person eats and drinks and rejoices on a Festival, he must not indulge in wine and jesting and silliness and say that whoever increases these practices thereby increases his fulfillment of the mitzvah to rejoice. For drunkenness and jesting and silliness is not true joy, but emptiness and foolishness. And we were not commanded to engage in emptiness and foolishness, but rather in the sort of joy in which state we can serve the Creator.
Mishnah Torah, The Laws of Yom Tov 6:20
How, then are we to understand the mandate of drinking on Purim to the degree of “עד דלא ידע בין ארור המן לברוך מרדכי—that we no longer know the difference between ‘accursed in Haman’ and ‘blessed is Mordechai’”? It would seem that such behavior is completely beyond the purview of being in a true state of simcha.
Rav Soloveitchik explained that, indeed, excessive drinking is not a true fulfillment of simcha and that, insofar as Purim is concerned, this is precisely the point. Purim is not a time for simcha in its truest form. This is an experience that can only be had through a sense of being fully connected with Hashem. Indeed, whenever the Torah speaks of simcha on Yom Tov, it is always in the context of appearing “לפני ה׳—Before G-d”. This is a state that cannot be fully achieved on Purim.
Rather, the Rav explained, Purim is actually a time for feeling vulnerable. For recognizing the unfortunate vicissitudes of life in exile, where Hashem’s Presence is not fully revealed. Even in the context of Megilas Esther itself, the “happy ending” of the narrative still sees Esther separated from Mordechai, living the rest of her life in a marriage to a gentile king that she never asked for. Purim reminds us of our vulnerability, the inherent insecurities of the exile, and the reality that even when Hashem reveals Himself in the galus, He does so only partially.
How do we express a simcha that is incomplete? That is only skin deep? That creates a veneer of ecstasy without the true satisfaction that only a powerful bond with Hashem can actually create? By drinking. Not the typical drinking that leaves us fully attuned to our senses. But a drinking a bit beyond the usual, so that our senses become more dulled. This is the sort of drinking that serves as an escape from reality, because reality is harsh. We don’t know, after all, when Achashveirosh may turn on the Jews once more, or when a new Haman will arise. We put ourselves into a state of vulnerability, because there is precisely that tone to the victory of Purim and the celebration which commemorates it.
My apologies if I’ve ruined your Purim.
In truth, this is a notion I’ve often pondered on Purim in past years, and it has made for a very meaningful one. There is a deeply religious cord one strikes when considering their own vulnerability. The fact that, when drunk, one is at the mercy of the environment, is a powerful reminder of being fully in the hands of Hashem, of desperately needing His intervention, and of creating a powerful yearning for the redemption, that I’ve come to associate with Purim.
And it also underscores something about drinking itself. That drinking in excess is a form of escapism from real life rather than a celebration of it. When we imbibe alcohol, we are less attuned to our senses and less in control of life. This is why even on Purim, when this is precisely the state we are supposed to place ourselves in, the Poskim have cautioned that this not go too far, that we not drink ourselves into a state incapable of performing mitzvos or acting with dignity.
Drinking on Purim is a reminder of the fragility of the human body and the inverse relationship between imbibing alcohol and self-control. Which demands that we not overdo it. Not on Purim, and certainly not any other day of the year. The demands of Halacha and comporting ourselves with proper middos mean that drinking is not something to trifle with. Insofar as alcohol prevents us from being responsible, we must consume it with great responsibility.
This is exactly why I want my kids to see me drinking. Because Judaism’s view of alcohol and of drinking is very different from the version that exists in popular culture and the world at large. And for all my efforts to control the amount of interaction between them and that world, I am not naive enough to believe that the barrier that separates them from it is not highly porous.
I learned to drink from my father, a’’h. He had a particular liking for peaty single-malt scotch (which I inherited), as well as good wine (which I did not). I have vivid memories of his disdainful description of those who would throw back a shot of really good scotch as though it was turpentine. The message came through loud and clear. Drinking is not unlike any other physical pleasure in life; it is to be enjoyed in moderation and with dignity. You don’t guzzle scotch, you sip it. Without my father’s example, my sensibilities about drinking would have been crafted by far less responsible role models.
I don’t want my kids—or anyone’s kids—to drink. Not on Purim or any other day of the year. Not while they are still children. But I don’t believe that it is unreasonable or hypocritical to exhibit behavior that at their age they are not yet ready to mimc. I do not hide the fact that I drive a car or use a credit card, but my children know that they may not. Until that day comes I do my best to demonstrate responsible driving and spending habits. I hope that by setting a good example for them today, they’ll one day have healthy relationships with cars and with money and with alcohol.
Overindulgence sends an unacceptable message to the next generation. But so does avoiding the subject altogether. Treating alcohol as a taboo subject—prohibiting it from being responsibly enjoyed in front of children—does not mean that kids will grow up unaware of alcohol; it means only that they will learn of it somewhere else. We cannot afford for them to learn about drinking from irresponsible people any more than we can afford to be those people ourselves.