Yesterday, Jews read the biblical Book of Esther, which describes an narrowly-avoided genocide of the entire Jewish people across the fifth-century Persian empire — a landmass the size of the continental United States. This averted catastrophe at the hands of an insecure, murderous satrap-turned-vizier — Haman son of Hamedata1 — is prevented by the courage of Queen Esther and her uncle Mordechai, whose personal risk-taking, political savvy, and national solidarity give the Jewish people the means with which to successfully defend themselves against an empire-wide pogrom.
For obvious reasons, this year the story feels way too real. Jews have needed a comic release from the weight of the war and the rise in global antisemitism, but also have leaned on this story as one of Jewish resilience and self-defense. As the Yiddish song goes, “Mir Veln Zey Iberlebn” — We Will Outlive Them.
I long for the days when Hamans seemed not so readily recognizable in the real world. Yet I say this with no small irony, since I myself as a cantor have been a recognizable Haman — in the annual Purim spiel— for many years.
I have always played Haman in Purim spiels. Maybe that says something about me. Maybe it’s because they always typecast rabbis as the wise uncle Mordechai. But I have observed (or at least it’s quite convenient to tell myself) that this cantor-Haman connection is actually part of a broader phenomenon in the psychodynamics of the cantorate.
When I began in my first cantorial position, I noticed that my predecessor of twenty years had also always played Haman. This was incredibly ironic, since the cantor himself enjoyed (and still enjoys) a reputation as the nicest of people. I took a poll at the time, and found that many other colleagues portrayed Haman in their community Purim spiels. As I began my research on cantorial history, I here too noticed that the cantor and choir were front and center in one of the first full Yiddish plays of the Book of Esther.
The Achashveyrosh Spiel (c. 1697), whose manuscript was published by Chone Shmeruk in his Mahazot Mikra’im B’Yiddish (Yiddish Biblical Plays), was orally reported to the Christian Hebraist Johann Christoph Wagenseil (1633-1705) by a converted Jew from Krakow. The opening lines make the cantorial cast perfectly clear — Haman is the cantor, as is clearly indicated by his call for meshorerim to sing with him in parts:
HAMAN:
Carry out, carry out [the furniture],2
All Jews, listen in!
All Jews, make an alley;
All give Haman space!
I am called “Lord Haman the Best;”
I am well versed in knavery and childish pranks.
Scribe! We will sing descant, tenor and bass,
The parlor shall resound like an empty barrel.3
Naturally, what is the first thing that the evil Haman wants to do? Sing complex synagogue music! The descant, tenor, and bass roles identified here were those of specialized meshorerim — a Ashkenazic musical innovation which developed among Bohemian & Moravian cantors in the mid-seventeenth century and expanded across the Ashkenazic world.4 As I’ve written previously, this ensemble was both musically and socially disruptive, often accused of gross impieties and musical excesses which profaned the service and led to long reddit-grade screeds by rabbinic moralists. The play is not ambiguous that, in fact, it is these meshorerim that have come to sing:
Meshorerim: We are here! Looking well and fine. We want to play for the honorable King and Queen!”
Who were the actors of this spiel? Perhaps it was yeshiva students making fun of the new cantor-meshorerim phenomenon. Or perhaps it was the local cantor and meshorerim themeselves trying to resolve the tensions around their new musical or communal roles. Behind all good comedy, after all, is the truth.5
Another reason to cast the cantor as Haman is that both characters are known for taking up space. Haman, besides being a bloodthirsty bureaucrat, is an incredible narcissist for whom one slight in the street was enough to liquidate an entire people.6 His desire for honor was so great that he asked for the equivalent of a personal coronation ceremony in recognition of services rendered to the king.7 And cantors, then as now, were prominent voices (literally) in the synagogue, public processions, and even communal business dealings. If you didn’t like your cantor, it would be easy to associate the largesse of his public voice with the dubious character of this ancient Persian vizier.8
My brilliant wife pointed out to me a further dynamic linking the cantor to Haman. The cantor as shalich tzibbur embodies the role of the religious exemplar as laid out in many compendia of cantorial laws over the last two thousand years. In the spirit of Purim, in which everything is topsy turvy, this religious exemplarhood is thus turned upon its head. Instead of fulfilling the role which aspires to the ultimate in religious ideals, the cantor is playing a role which is its complete opposite. This is a recognition that the cantor is one who takes on roles — be they theatrical, liturgical, or communal. And so perhaps this is a public (if comic) recognition of the human imperfections in fulfilling them.
But perhaps this phenomenon is even more a reflection of congregations themselves. Confronting the harsh realities of hatred, anti-semitism, and fear, communities want someone they know and trust embodying those dangers. Here, it is perhaps the congregation’s faith in the cantor that is front and center. His known positive qualities combined with the role of Haman makes it safe enough for the congregation to engage in a sort of religious play therapy, gaining ownership over their own story of trauma and fear.
Perhaps this is what we need most of all this year. For when the Book of Esther starts to look more and more like the front page, we need to rehearse our resilience with guides that we trust.
May this Purim be one of joy and music, truth and determination.
Mir Veln Zey Uberlebn.
For those of you still celebrating, please enjoy the above “Fun Run” that my wife designed. This kind of thing started to get popular during COVID, and now they even use them in public schools to get kids moving and reset their brains. I believe this is the first-ever one made on a Jewish holiday theme. Plus, it’s fun to do with your kids or classroom. Enjoy!
Boo!
Long before the synagogues and stages of the modern era, purim spiels took place in living rooms and parlors of Ashkenazi homes, with furniture as the scenery.
Chone Shmeruk, Mahazot Mikra’im B’Yiddish, 160. Note that this play is written in Western Yiddish, which is the earliest form of Yiddish language and is linguistically closest to medieval forms of German.
For those in and around New York City, I will be giving an in-person talk on this phenomenon on April 4.
Early modern purim spiels often featured communal gossip and undisclosed truths which were theatrically aired in public. A good example is the Doz Lid oyf di Sreyfe vun Venedig by Elya Bokher. See below for a great Italian-English performance of the song by Ensemble Lucidarium here, preceded by the Munich Tzur Mishelo — a notated tune from the sixteenth century which likely was the same tune to which Elya Bokher set his satirical poem.
The Book of Esther, Chapter 3.
The Book of Esther, Chapter 6
This is an old canard, and yet one which is rooted in the modern fetish for mistrusting difference or differentiated voices. I have often been surprised that no cantors have ever marshaled these words of Beit Hillel in defending the practice of specialized incantation:
The Sages taught in a baraita: People were seated in the study hall and they brought fire before them at the conclusion of Shabbat. Beit Shammai say: Each and every individual recites a blessing for himself; and Beit Hillel say: One recites a blessing on behalf of everyone [and the others answer amen]. as it is stated: “The splendor of the King is in the multitude of the people” (Proverbs 14:28).
I plan to write on this more at a later date, but suffice to stay that the School of Hillel supports all people stopping what they are doing to say amen to one person’s blessing. Why? Because “the splendor of the King is in the multitude of the people.” The blesser is not the focus, but rather the vehicle for a multitudinous honoring of the True King — HaShem.
I am grateful to Rabbi Mike Moskowitz for first teaching me this Gemara.