Working with Borrowed Vessels: A Soul’s Transformation Through Divine Love
The human essence pulses with a singular calling: to reflect the one creating and governing force of reality. In Hebrew, “Adam” — human — springs from “domeh,” meaning “similar,” a quiet revelation of our purpose. We are meant to align with the Creator, a being of pure, selfless, and unconditional love, so that through this mirroring we might grasp, comprehend, and affirm this force as the benevolent sovereign of existence. Yet, this aspiration clashes with the raw material of our being — a relentless, consuming desire to receive.
We ache to become selfless bestowers, echoing the Creator’s boundless generosity, but we stand empty-handed. Our nature offers nothing to give; it is an insatiable craving for pleasure and fulfillment, a self-serving, self-justifying egoism rooted in individualism and exploitation. In our qualities, we are the Creator’s inverse, a shadow cast against His light. To stifle this desire entirely would defy creation’s intent: the complete satisfaction of that very hunger. Mere restriction silences us, leaving no way to express our longing to love and give. How, then, do we span this divide?
The path unfolds through borrowed vessels. For a time, we set aside our own desires and adopt those of others, presenting their fulfillment to the Creator as though they were ours. This act becomes a fragile bridge, a means to mimic divine bestowal. It bends our inherent nature away from self-gratification and toward a higher aim. Yet, this is only a prelude. The “final correction” — receiving all that our life source yearns to bestow while adhering to the Creator through an intention to receive solely to return contentment — demands that we wield both our voracious desire and our yearning for unconditional love.
This process requires daring, for we must rouse even our most primal, egoistic impulses — the ones that would exploit the Creator Himself for selfish ends. These two forces — reception and bestowal — are not adversaries but twin necessities, equal in their role within creation’s design. Still, they repel each other, their essences locked in mutual negation. To reconcile them, we must forge a “third element,” an independent observer shaped by relentless self-purification. By stripping away and refining our ego, we gain the freedom to act beyond its pull and even apart from the Creator’s sway, blending these opposites into a seamless whole. Through this synthesis, we fulfill and affirm our singular source of life.
The task is steep. We start by channeling others’ desires, offering them selflessly while holding our own cruelest cravings in check. Readiness dawns only when we dare to unleash that deepest, most ruthless desire within us — the one that lusts not just for pleasure but for supremacy — and implore the Creator to grant us the strength to wield it solely for His sake. We plead for this force to crown Mordechai over Haman, to infuse Haman’s all-devouring greed with Mordechai’s selfless intent, so that even our darkest ego serves the singular creating power rather than ourselves.
The Purim tale paints this struggle in stark hues. Haman embodies the pinnacle of selfish desire, a stony heart that hungers not only for fulfillment but for the Creator’s throne. Without proper intent, this force severs us from our benevolent root, leaving us adrift, estranged by our mismatched natures. Haman is the predator within, the merciless ego that dreams of supplanting the divine as reality’s ruler. Mordechai, his counterpoint, shines with the purest intent to bestow, a testament to love and selflessness. Yet, alone, Mordechai falters. Without desires to receive, his aspiration cannot ignite correction. His approach — “bestowing in order to bestow” — is a gentle refusal to harm, a stance free of the ego’s ruin but powerless to serve without the raw substance of creation: our thirst for pleasure.
Mordechai lingers, poised for the instant when Haman’s insatiable vessels emerge. His intent is honed not for everyday desires but for the deepest, most ferocious ego Haman represents. Only “Mordechai the Jew” perceives how these vessels must be shaped, yet he cannot mold them alone. He depends on those who bear such desires and embrace his way — those willing to turn reception into a conduit for giving. Like Pharaoh, Haman needs the “Jews,” for only through the art of bestowal can the ego transcend earthly delights and seize spiritual heights. Haman’s craving is ancient, a drive to claim even the Creator’s rank. Without this method, it wallows in the mundane; with it, the ego can exploit even the divine bond for itself.
Thus, Pharaoh — the baseline ego — and Haman — the zenith of selfish ambition — rely on the Jews to serve them. Both seek to devour all the Creator offers and to usurp Him, but only Mordechai’s way ensures that reception kneels to “the King.” By wielding desire as a vessel for selfless love, Mordechai preserves its sanctity. Haman, the stony heart, yearns to twist correction into a tool for dethroning the Creator. Mordechai, his adversary, holds firm: even when all seems within reach, when we might seize creation’s helm, we must yield, embracing our place as servants.
The true Jew, mirrored in Mordechai, hungers for the moment when the full desire to receive unfurls — not to indulge it, but to prove their devotion through selfless bestowal. Only by refusing to take do we unlock the chance to receive all. And when that chance breaks open, we must accept it with humility, not for ourselves but to delight the Creator. In this surrender, we borrow vessels, refine them, and offer them back to their source, fulfilling our calling to resemble the loving force that reigns over all. Through this interplay of restraint and redemption, we stitch our broken selves into the fabric of divine unity, affirming our existence with every borrowed breath.