Rabbi Gabriel Botnick on the use of words – and a hidden word in the Book of Esther

Have you ever criticized someone not for what they said, but for what they didn’t say? We often see this when someone delivers a less-than-heartfelt apology: ‘I’m sorry you were hurt by what I said.’ Such words do not constitute a true apology. Rather they simply pass off responsibility to the person who was hurt. However, if one were to say, ‘I’m sorry for saying something so hurtful towards you’ – that would indeed be an apology.

In other situations, it might not be as important for someone to be so forthright in their language. For instance, when speaking to a relative after a death, one might consider it insensitive – or even hurtful – to keep reminding them of their loved one’s death. Instead, when speaking with a mourner, we often use more euphemistic language: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Everyone knows exactly what that ‘loss’ is, so there’s no need to use more vivid or painful language.

The use and intentional exclusion of certain words can be both productive and harmful. Our early rabbis understood this dual nature of language and taught it through the metaphor of fire, which can be both productive – by providing warmth and healthy food – and harmful by threatening total destruction. The rabbis taught that the Torah is written as ‘black fire upon white fire’, that is, the black letters of the Torah and the white spaces in between are both seen as fire. It makes sense that the written words of Torah can be seen in that way, capable of inspiring passion and offering sustenance, while holding the potential to burn those who struggle with its teachings. But the rabbis also teach us that sometimes we need to look deeper into the Torah to understand what is not being said explicitly, but rather what can be understood through critical reading. In these instances, the white fire of the Torah can be even more profound than the black fire.

This philosophy stands out most dramatically in the Book of Esther, which we read at our Purim service and celebration, as the Book of Esther is the only book in the Bible that does not contain the name of God. So, if God’s name isn’t in the Book of Esther, why is this text included in the Bible? Well, drawing on the metaphor of black fire on white fire, the rabbis teach us that God actually is present in the text – just in hidden ways. In fact, the name Esther itself means ‘I will hide.’ Of course, this ‘hiding’ could refer to the fact that Esther hides her Jewish identity from her husband, the king, but the rabbis prefer to see the name Esther as an allusion to a verse in Deuteronomy, in which God says, ‘I will hide my face’ from the Israelites at a later time (Deut. 31:18). The Bible explains that Esther’s real name was Hadassah (Esther 2:7), which may not seem so significant at first. But the rabbis say this name alludes to a verse in Isaiah that says, ‘Hadas (myrtle) will rise up and be to God as a name.’ (Isaiah 55:13). In other words, the name Esther may be a placeholder for the name Hadassah, which in turn is a placeholder for the name of God.

Finally, there is yet another way in which the name of God may be hidden in the text of Esther. There is a tradition to write the Megillah so that the first word of almost every column is ‘HaMelech,’ which means ‘the king.’ On the surface, each use of HaMelech clearly refers to King Achashverosh. But on a deeper, mystical level, each HaMelech might be a hidden reference to God, who is also known by this name.

So, is the name of God really absent from the Book of Esther? Technically, yes. But in reality, I don’t think it is. One could easily read the story of Purim and conclude that God played no role in our victory over the wicked Haman. But the rabbis teach us not to be so quick in making this assumption. And more importantly, the rabbis are actually trying to teach us not to be so quick in assuming that God doesn’t play a role in our lives today. Just because we can’t see or hear God doesn’t mean God isn’t there. Rather, God is hidden in our world, and we are all tasked with figuring out how best to reveal God’s presence. Who knows, you might find God in nature, in our traditions, or even in the words and actions of our everyday heroes.
Chag sameach!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to recognise optimism in the light of the Chanukah candles

According to the Talmud, God created humankind on the sixth day following Rosh Hashanah. As that first autumn progressed, Adam noticed that the days were getting shorter – that there was a decreasing amount of light in the world – and he worried that the world was coming to an end, and so he observed an eight-day period of mourning. But then, shortly after midwinter, he noticed the days began to lengthen once more and that this must simply be the way of the world, so he observed an eightday period of celebration, lighting candles each day to contribute even more light to the world. And thus, Adam laid the foundation for what would eventually become our celebration of Chanukah.

Of course we do not understand this story to be factual, yet it still speaks to a profound truth in life: that light and darkness – joy and pain – ebb and flow independently of our own actions. And just as every night is followed by the dawn of a new day, so too all periods of darkness eventually give way to brighter days.

This truth applies to each of us individually: dark clouds of depression at some point give way to renewed feelings of happiness and hope, and highs of elation in turn are supplanted by struggles and pain. It is therefore paramount – especially when all hope seems lost – to remind ourselves of this cyclical nature of life.

And this truth also applies to us collectively: our people will experience periods of safety and prosperity as well as periods of worry and strife. The very recent past has reminded us far too well of this fact, and so now, more than in a long time, we must remind ourselves that this too will pass.

This year, like last, many of us may have struggled to decide whether to position our Chanukah candles in the window where they could be seen by others (and therefore draw attention to ourselves as Jews) or to place them somewhere more discreet inside our homes. So, I encourage you to consider our sages’ portrayal of Adam that first winter following Creation: do not allow yourself to become overwhelmed by the prospect of darkness, but celebrate this celestial reminder that brighter days are awaiting us. Why not hasten their arrival by contributing as much of our light as possible?

Cantor Paul Heller officiated at a moving rededication in Austria

Earlier this year, the Government of Lower Austria and the Institute for Jewish History in Austria invited me to participate in the inauguration of the restored synagogue and old cemetery of St. Pölten, about 40 miles west of Vienna, where my paternal family comes from.

Jews have been part of Lower Austria’s population for over a millennium. In the Middle Ages, they primarily lived in imperial cities where they found legal and economic protection, enabling the rise of a local Jewish bourgeoisie. However, by the late 15th century, most towns were judenfrei due to campaigns of persecution. Only Vienna retained a small Jewish community during the 16th and 17th centuries. In the 18th century, partial toleration policies led to a Jewish return, and by the 19th century, there was renewed immigration, with Jews settling in St. Pölten, the capital of Lower Austria, and its surrounding towns, as well as in Vienna.

In March 1938, Austria was incorporated into Germany. The Anschluss was greeted enthusiastically by the majority of the population. Persecution of the Jewish population commenced soon afterwards and then came 9 November 1938, Kristallnacht (‘Night of Broken Glass’), pogroms that were particularly brutal in Austria. Most of the synagogues in Vienna and elsewhere, including St. Pölten, were destroyed and the cemeteries vandalised. The events of that night were not just an attack on buildings but a devastating blow to a vibrant culture and community that had flourished for centuries.

In the following decades , it became clear that restoration and preservation of Jewish sites in Lower Austria were important to local communities, as well as to the museum sector. A large investment was made by the government of Austria in recognition of the profound tragedy that Kristallnacht and subsequent persecution had inflicted upon the Jewish community.

The restored synagogue and memorial at the destroyed cemetery of St. Pölten reverberate with the history and heritage of my family and others. As we stood together, participating in their inauguration, we felt that the act of restoration was more than a symbolic gesture. It was a testament to resilience, to the endurance of memory, and to the importance of reclaiming heritage. The ceremonies served as a powerful reminder of the importance of honouring history, especially in places where that history had been so violently interrupted. I was struck by the mixed emotions of the participants, mostly descendants, who came together from across the globe – joy at the revival of sacred spaces, tempered by the sombre remembrance of those who were lost. We were joined by local dignitaries, uniting people of diverse backgrounds, to honour the memory of our ancestors who had faced unimaginable hardships, with presentations that still resound in our minds.

The gathering instilled in all of us a sense of responsibility to preserve the lessons of the past. In this way, the synagogue and cemetery are not just relics; they are living memorials that breathe life into our shared history and identity. The work done by the Institute of the History of Jews of Austria (INJOEST) under Dr Martha Keil has brought to light what would have remained in the archives.

Standing together, the air filled with prayer, reminded us that the roots of prayer and the tradition surrounding it are at least as important as the text itself. We reaffirmed our commitment to tolerance and understanding, for it is vital that we should all learn from our history to prevent the repetition of such atrocities. The legacy of those who endured the horrors of the Holocaust must continue to guide us, reminding us of the importance of fighting against hatred and discrimination in all forms. The Central European experience of antisemitism, directly linked to the history of fascist and socialist regimes, is also linked to post-war amnesia and socio-political negligence. So it will not suffice just to arrive at reconciliation and to open up closed narratives about Jews. The institutions set up to implement the restoration, preservation and conservation of locations where the desecrated synagogues and cemeteries once stood, and the cultural authorities responsible for the protection of monuments, can be used to educate future generations with exhibitions, workshops and cultural events. In Austria, under the guidance of INJOEST, we can hope that with God’s will, despite recent worrying political trends, truth and peace will prevail.

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick encourages us to take a more relaxed approach to the High Holyday services

Ever since I was a young child, I have loved going to synagogue on the High Holydays. Not so much for the religious or spiritual experience – I only learned to appreciate this aspect of the holydays well into adulthood. I also didn’t love my parents forcing me into an itchy woollen suit or constraining necktie, but I still loved going to shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I loved sitting with my family in the balcony, where I had a perfect view not only of the rabbi and cantor, but the choir and organist as well. Best of all, I had a perfect vantage to see which of my friends were sitting where, whose hat and jewellery was the most ostentatious, and who dozed off during the rabbi’s sermon – all sights that brought me much joy.

But despite these decidedly nonreligious aspects of attending High Holyday services, my favourite memories are of standing between my parents, singing beautiful and familiar melodies in an unfamiliar tongue, and just feeling like I was connected to something much bigger than myself – to the hundreds of other Jews in the synagogue, the millions of other Jews around the world, and the myriad generations that came before me who all enjoyed the same experiences.

In short, there are many reasons to come to synagogue on the High Holydays. Some people come for the music while others come for the sermon. Some people come to connect with their friends while others come to disconnect from the demands of life. There’s no one reason to come to shul on the holydays and no reason is better – or more legitimate – than another.

In Judaism, we often speak about the three kinds of relationships we enjoy – with others, with God, and with ourselves. The only reason for coming to synagogue that matters is the one that helps you connect on a deeper level with any or all three of these relationships. But just coming to synagogue isn’t always enough to effectively achieve the connection you seek. You may very well arrive at shul with the best of intentions, but end up feeling lost in the liturgy, turned off by the language, or befuddled by the rituals. But this does not need to be the case.

If you find yourself in services feeling more distant from God, others, or yourself compared to before you walked through the doors, then try mixing things up. Don’t worry about doing the holydays the ‘right way’. Don’t worry if you’re on the wrong page or if you fail to bow at the proper time. Those things don’t matter – they’re only there to help you in your quest to connect. Instead of giving in to feelings of foolishness or inadequacy, try using those moments to empower yourself by finding your own way to connect. Flip through the pages of the machzor, find a passage that resonates with you, and take some time to meditate on ways to embody the themes of that text. Close your eyes and allow yourself to get swept away by the singing of the cantor and choir. You could even come prepared by bringing along a beloved book that might help you achieve clarity of thought.

There’s no one right way to ‘do’ High Holyday services, just as there’s no one right reason to show up in the first place. My only wish for you is that, by joining us at Belsize for the High Holydays this year, you’ll find your own, meaningful way to deepen your connection with the relationships that matter most.
Shanah Tovah!

Rabbi Gabriel Botnick reinterprets a surprising Rabbinical teaching

As I sit down to write this piece, my desk is flooded with the sunlight that took far too long to arrive this summer. The rays pull my attention away from the task at hand to appreciate the beauty of nature, which had been obscured by months of clouds and rain.

Of course, I’m not the only one reacquainting myself with the magnificence of the natural world – it seems everywhere I go in London these days there are people enjoying aimless perambulations, afternoon refreshments at outdoor cafés, and the company of guests in their gardens. In short, summer has finally arrived and nearly no one is taking it for granted.

You might therefore be surprised to learn that our sages teach that it is forbidden to stop and smell the roses – as it were. In Pirkei Avot (3:7), Rabbi Shimon says ‘If a person is walking along while revising their Torah learning and interrupts themself to say, “how beautiful is this tree or field,” it’s as if that person has committed a capital offence.’

At first glance, this is an incredibly troubling teaching – how could it be so severe an infraction simply to admire a beautiful vista?! The Vilna Gaon explains this teaching by way of another, found in the Talmud (Baba Batra 79a), in which Rabbi Yonatan quotes Proverbs in order to say that anyone who separates themselves from Torah study condemns themselves to the pits of death. In short, for the rabbis, Torah is so important that it cannot be set aside for any matters other than physical or spiritual survival, and to them the appreciation of nature is certainly trivial in comparison.

However, I believe our sages are wrong here and miss the point of Rabbi Shimon’s teaching. The issue isn’t with someone interrupting their Torah learning to admire their surroundings – the issue is believing that such an act is disconnected from their Torah study.

In Psalm 92, which we recite every Shabbat, we say: ‘How great are Your works, Adonai! Your plans are beyond comprehension.’ That is, our tradition provides us with language to express awe and wonder at the impossibly complex grandeur of the universe. The challenge is to remember the One who created such beauty whenever we are so moved by it to take notice.

With the summer months lying in front of us, we will certainly find ourselves in moments of pastoral bliss. I invite you to use those moments not just to say, ‘how beautiful is this!’ but to allow yourself to contemplate the wonder of it all and to acknowledge the unfathomable source of that beauty.