There’s a Ramban that I’ve always had difficulty with. He writes, in several places, that keeping mitzvos in chutz la’aretz is, in a sense, practice. The real performance is in Eretz Yisrael. Outside the land, it is rehearsal.
That is a hard idea to process. How could it be that everything we do here – the davening, the learning, the Shabbos tables, the schools and communities we pour ourselves into – amounts to a dress rehearsal? Most of us are not rehearsing. We’re living. And the suggestion that our living doesn’t fully count is demoralizing in a way that’s hard to sit with.
Yes, the Ramban means exactly what he says. But I think there is something else that can be learned from his comments.
When we were first married, Sara and I had the privilege of spending two years at the Gruss Kollel in Yerushalayim, where we were exposed to extraordinary mentors and rabbis. One of them was Rabbi Aaron Rakeffet, who has been giving shiur in halacha and Jewish history for decades. On Purim night, in the middle of our chagigah, I found myself near him and asked how he understands this Ramban. He didn’t equivocate. He said: in chutz la’aretz, we keep the mitzvos from a defensive posture. In Eretz Yisrael, the posture is offensive.
What he meant was this. A mitzvah can function as a wall, a protection, a barrier between us and assimilation, or even between us and ourselves. We keep Shabbos so we don’t lose it. We learn so we don’t forget. That is defense. And defense matters enormously. It has kept the Jewish people alive for two thousand years in exile.
But there is another way to keep mitzvos. Not because we fear what happens if we stop, but because we know what we are building when we begin. That is offense. And the difference is not only about where you live. It is how you live.
I think the Megillah captures this exact tension. After the salvation, after Haman falls, after Mordechai rises, after the decree is reversed, the Megillah describes how the city reacted: V’ha’ir Shushan tzahala v’samecha, the city of Shushan radiated and rejoiced. Rav Yaakov of Lisa explains that tzahala is a quiet glow, a radiance that rests on the face. Not a celebration in the streets. Something contained. Because even after the miracle, they were still in Shushan. Salvation had arrived, but vulnerability had not disappeared.
That is what defensive joy looks like. Relief. Gratitude. But cautious.
And then, one pasuk later, something shifts. La’Yehudim haysa ora v’simcha v’sasson vi’kar. The Jews had light, joy, gladness, and honor. Chazal identify each one: ora is Torah, simcha is Yom Tov, sasson is bris milah, yi’kar is tefillin. But they were already keeping these mitzvos. So what changed?
They were doing them before. Now they were feeling them.
Torah was no longer information; it was light. Yom Tov was no longer a date on a calendar; it was joy. Milah was no longer obligation; it was gladness. Tefillin was no longer routine; it was honor. Nothing changed externally. Everything changed internally. For a moment, the mitzvos ceased to be mechanisms of survival and became expressions of identity. Not “I have to.” “I want to.” And more than that: “This is who I am.”
We keep our mitzvos. We show up. We do what we are meant to do. And it matters. But Purim asks whether that is the whole story, or only the beginning of one.
The Jews of Shushan did not change their location. They changed the way they carried their covenant. For a moment, they stopped guarding it and started living it.
Every single week, as we take leave of Shabbos, we say this pasuk: La’Yehudim haysa ora v’simcha v’sasson vi’kar. And then we add three words: Kein tihyeh lanu. So may it be for us.
That is not a memory. It is a prayer. Every motzei Shabbos, as we step back into a new week with all its bumps and busyness, all the noise and the weight of everything pressing in on us, we ask for that moment. The moment the Jews of Shushan had. The moment when Torah felt like light and mitzvos felt like home. When the covenant wasn’t something we carried out of duty but something we reached for out of love.
Kein tihyeh lanu. So may it be for us.
Purim sameach.