Burning Bright at Any Percentage: The Chanukah Miracle of Light, Effort, and Purpose

Chanukah is a time to reflect on one of the most miraculous moments in Jewish history: the victory of a small group of Jewish warriors over the powerful Seleucid Empire, and the subsequent rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. When Jews around the world light the menorah, which miracle are they celebrating? Is it the military victory itself or is it the fact that the oil that was supposed to last one night lasted eight nights? I asked myself this very question a couple of years ago. Much like the Talmudic rabbis (Talmud, Shabbat 21b), I sided more on the long-lasting oil theory. 

Upon delving further into the miracle of Chanukah, the answer becomes more nuanced than long-lasting oil. Was it merely that the oil lasted for eight nights? If the miracle was that the oil, which was supposed to last only one night, lasted eight nights, we should only celebrate for seven nights since the miracle was the extra seven nights. I was sitting in synagogue this past Saturday and the rabbi mentioned Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik, also known as the Beis HaLevi (19 c.), in his sermon (d'var Torah). 

The Beis HaLevi's Reframing of the Miracle

The Beis HaLevi reframed the miracle of Chanukah. The Priests (Kohanim) knew there was only enough oil for one night. The Kohanim divided the oil into eight equal portions with the intent of burning a little each night for the full eight nights. The miracle is that, even with a scarcity of oil, it burned all eight nights and with the same intensity had there been a full supply. This helps explain why we celebrate Chanukah for eight nights and not seven nights. The rabbi I was listening to then emphasized how the miracle of Chanukah was not about quantity so much as it was about quality. 

Quality Over Quantity: A Lesson from the Talmud

We find this idea of quality over quantity in the Talmud (Berachot 5b). Rabbi Elazar fell ill and he was weeping. Rabbi Yochanan asked him why he was weeping. It was not due to the suffering he endured, which makes sense given he had to give up financial security to study Torah (Berachot 28a). Rather, he was not able to study Torah as much as he would like. Rabbi Yochanan comforted him, saying that if one person brought a large sacrifice to the Temple and another one a meager one, they are both equally meritorious if their heart was directed towards Heaven. If anything, I would argue that it was because of his strife that his sacrifice was more meaningful. 

The Shema: Wholehearted and Imperfect Devotion

The connection between the menorah shining brightly in spite of limited oil and Rabbi Elazar's heartfelt effort in Torah learning is that both can shine brightly if there is the quality, i.e., devotion. But what do we do when we are not at 100 percent? The menorah in the Chanukah story did not operate at 100 percent and yet it still shone. We see this concept in one of the most iconic of Jewish texts, the Shema. In the Shema (Deuteronomy 6:5), Jews are told to love G-d with all their heart, soul, and might. The Shema's call to love G-d is not about being perfect or operating at full throttle. It is about giving your best at every moment, no matter where we are at in life. By accepting that perfection is not the goal, the Shema offers us a sigh of relief. It allows us to engage with spiritual practice not as a burden of flawless performance, but as an opportunity to be present and genuine, regardless of where we are at in life. 

Wax versus Oil: Authenticity in Action

This lesson of being our best selves finds resonance in the way we light the menorah. I brought this up in 2016 when I examined the tension between the oil candles and the wax candles. The oil candles symbolize the ideal, the pure, and unwavering devotion. As the Shema teaches us, we cannot be perfect all the time. This is where the wax candles come into play. Wax candles, like so many of us, represent that we are not pure or perfect, but that our light can shine just as bright and authentic as the oil candles. The oil candles represent the spiritual aspiration, whereas the wax candles represent the reality of doing our best within the context of our imperfections and limitations. There are moments when we burn like the oil candle and others like the wax candle. We have to remember that our life circumstances mean that we have a bit of each in our lives. 

Finding Light in Imperfection

Much like wax candles, Rabbi Elazar was unable to offer perfection, but he offered sincere and earnest devotion. This reflects the message of the Shema, which is that we are to love G-d with all of our heart, soul, and might. We are not meant to be perfectly performing automatons. What matters is that we give wholeheartedly. We do not give our best 100 percent of the time because no one is capable of that feat. We give the best in every moment, whether it is at our peak or having reached rock bottom. 

This brings us to the heart of the Chanukah miracle as understood by the Beis HaLevi. The oil that survived warfare did not merely endure. It shone just as brightly as a full supply of oil. Like the menorah, our actions can burn just as brightly if offered with sincerity and intention. Whether we burn like pure, unwavering oil or like the imperfect wax candle, the light we offer is still meaningful. This Chanukah, may we shine with the authenticity, sincerity, and effort to wholeheartedly do our best, even in the darkest of times. 

Life Lessons from Not Using the Menorah Light for Personal Benefit

After I lit my candles for the first night of Chanukah yesterday, I sat here to begin writing this blog as I admire the beauty of lighting the menorah candles. Considering that Chanukah is considered a minor holiday on the Jewish calendar, you would think I would run out of Chanukah topics to write about, but here we are. I meditate on the light itself and ask myself about a particular bit of Jewish law related to lighting the menorah. Based on a conversation between the Rabbis in the Talmud (Shabbat 21a-b), the consensus is that we are not to derive personal benefit from the light of the menorah. After reading a Chanukah insight from Aish HaTorah, I had to ask myself why and delve into the topic. 

I think a major reason is that not everything in life is meant for our personal, physical gain. This reinforces the notion that the world does not revolve around us. In Pirkei Avot (1:14), it says "If I'm not for myself, who will be," but also says "If I am only for myself, what am I?" Part of why we publicize lighting the menorah is because we are meant to bring light to the world. We are meant to inspire other people because the Jews as a people have historically been in that darkness. The menorah is the testimony of the resilience and triumph of a continuous tradition spanning over more than three millennia. In Tractate Shabbat, the Rabbis emphasize that the menorah is about commemorating the miracle that took place, not personal benefit. 

This segues into the idea of boundaries. There is a place and a time for physical benefit and other moments for spiritual benefit. We ought to value spiritual growth as an ends unto itself, to have it elevate the soul and guide us.  It also teaches us to be in the moment and focus on the miracle of Chanukah instead of ancillary benefits or multitasking. We are constantly on the move. Taking a moment to stop from the hustle and bustle to appreciate the dancing flames can lift us up. Given the major motif of thanksgiving in Chanukah, it gives us a time to stop and be thankful and think about our own personal miracles in life. That gratitude gives us a chance to pull ourselves out of whatever darkness we might be feeling in the moment and bask in the light.  

In short, this particular piece of Jewish law is meant to be a sacred beacon to inculcate hope and gratitude, inspire us to elevate ourselves and others one day at a time, and to better connect us to the divine and the world around us. 

Which is the Truer Miracle of Chanukah: The Military Victory or the Long-Lasting Oil?

While Chanukah is a minor holiday on the Jewish calendar, it is one of the most well-known Jewish holidays due to its proximity to Christmas on the calendar. The main ritual of Chanukah is lighting a nine-branched candelabrum called the menorah. Jews light the menorah to commemorate the miracle. The four letters on the dreidel, a four-sided top commonly played during Chanukah are an acronym to spell out the phrase "a miracle happened there" (נס גדול היה שם). What exactly is the miracle celebrated during Chanukah? 

One possible answer is given from a prayer recited during Chanukah. The prayer Al Ha Nisim (על הנסים; "Concerning the Miracles") waxes poetic about the military victory of the Maccabees over the Greeks. The prayer mentions the dedication of the Temple, which makes sense because the word Chanukah (חנכה) comes from the root חנך, which means "dedication."

Another has to do with the menorah. While there was a military victory against the Greeks, that was not the miracle that the Talmudic Rabbis emphasized. If you look at Tractate Shabbat (21a-24b), the Rabbis only make scant mention of the military victory. The focus is on the miracle of the oil. After the military victory, the Maccabees wanted to rededicate the Temple. There was enough oil in a single cistern for one night. However, that oil miraculously lasted for eight nights. This would explain why the festival of Chanukah lasts for eight nights. Also, one of the alternative names of Chanukah in Hebrew is "Festival of Lights (חג האורים).

So which miracle is more important: the military victory or a jar of oil that lasted longer than it should have? At first glance, I would say the military victory. The Maccabees were outnumbered more than 3:1, not to mention they were poorly trained and equipped. The Maccabees won at similar odds to the fledgling modern state of Israel that was surrounded by hostile nation Arabs in 1947 shortly before Israel gained its independence. This miracle could be conceived as a salvation of the Jewish people. 

On the other hand, should it be a bragging point that the Jewish people can win a war once in a blue moon? Plus, if the military victory were so great, why would G-d need to have performed the second miracle with the oil at all? Maybe the miracle is the long-lasting oil. It would be similar to a smartphone battery on 10 percent miraculously lasting eight days. After all, the long-lasting oil is the answer that the Talmud (Shabbat 21b) gives. Conversely, the Maccabees could have used impure oil because, as the Talmud (Yoma 6b) states, "service to the congregation [Temple] supersedes laws of purity." 

Here is an alternative response to the question. The answer of which miracle is more important could come down to how one perceives the concept of a miracle. In Hebrew, the word most commonly used for "miracle" is nes (נס). The word literally means "banner," which would suggest that the occurrence is extraordinary, elevated, and something that can clearly be seen. Seventeenth-century Rabbi Tzvi Ashkenazi said that what we refer to "nature is actually miraculous and "unnatural." The only reason we see something as "natural" (e.g., gravity) is because we have become accustomed to it. As a result, we take them for granted. In a time when wars happened all the time, winning a war seemed "natural" and not out of the ordinary. The fact that a military victory was "expected" and a jar of oil lasting longer was "unexpected" could change our perspective.

As I wrote a decade ago, Chanukah is a holiday that has a heavy focus on gratitude. Gratitude is a matter of perspective, much like R. Ashkenazi brings up with what constitutes as a miracle. If we view such events such as oil burning or a military victory as "natural," then they are to be expected. To quote the Talmud (Niddah, 31a), "The one to whom the miracle is happening, does not recognize the miracle." Alternatively, G-d could have woven them into nature, as Maimonides opined (Guide for the Perplexed, II, xxix). Or perhaps G-d it stepping in and breaking the laws of nature to make a point (Lubavitcher Rebbe).

If we view what happened as "business as usual" or as anomalies, then there is nothing impressive beyond defying statistical probability. If we view wonders of the world as miracles, then both the military victory and the long-lasting oil are miracles with their unique characteristics. Maybe what makes a miracle a miracle is how we recognize and appreciate an event. By recognizing the miracles traditionally celebrated during Chanukah, perhaps the main miracle is that we continue to celebrate Chanukah all these centuries later, even in spite of the Jewish people having dealt with oppression, persecution, exile, stigma, and sadly for too many, death. The real miracle could be that we extend the concept of miracle from the Maccabean era to the modern era.

One last thought on "expected versus unexpected." If we only do something because we "expect" it, then it can limit our potential. The oil on the first night of Chanukah was not the miracle because there was at least enough oil for the first night. As I heard from Rabbi Ari Hart, what made the first night a miracle was the Maccabees took that first step forward thinking there was not enough oil. It was that courage to move into the unknown, even more so than they did fighting the military battle against the Greeks. What makes Chanukah miraculous is achieving what we thought was previously impossible. I will conclude today with a quote from Rabbi Lawrence Kelemen:

Chanukah is when we think about the potential stored up in every effort. Nature is begging us to give up, to be realistic, to realize that the task of growing in a way we hoped is far beyond our ability. The response to this is Chanukah. Chanukah says: Nature can be vanquished. What seems to be impossible, isn't.

Can You Light an Electric Menorah on Chanukah? And Why Does It Matter?

Chanukah is the Jewish festival of lights to commemorate the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem. According to Jewish tradition, this rededication took place after defeating the Greek occupying force in the Maccabean revolt. The main way of commemorating the festival of lights is by lighting a menorah, which is a multi-branched candelabrum. With the advent of electricity, it became more common for electric menorahs to be used as a part of Chanukah. Turning on or off electricity on Shabbat is commonly considered a biblical violation of making a fire on Shabbat, although I took issue with the argument over a decade ago. It was this normative practice surrounding electricity on Shabbat that I was surprised to see that the use of electric menorahs on Chanukah was even a debate. 

It makes sense to have an electric menorah in such places as hospitals, hotel rooms, and college dorms where lighting candles is not permitted. These exceptions notwithstanding, there are multiple arguments against an electric menorah (see here, here). One of the arguments against using an electric menorah is that the original miracle was created using fuel, wicks, and olive oil. This would explain why there traditionally has been a preference for using olive oil to light the menorah instead of using wax candles or another type of oil. The normative opinion is that an electric menorah does not fulfill the mitzvah of lighting the menorah because it does not really have fuel, wicks, or oil. Conversely, the menorah we use today has nine branches; the one used in the Temple has seven. So in at least one aspect, Jews have deviated from the original practice in the Temple.

I think there can be some back-and-forth based on the Talmudic discussion about menorahs in Shabbat 23b. On the one hand, the Talmud does not even mention whether we should consider performing the mitzvah with olive oil because it best mimics the original miracle. The discussion in the Talmud is very much based on the quality of light that is produced rather than the type of flame, as R. Sholom Segal from the Union of Traditional Judiasm argues. If it is about having the brightest, most consistent light, an electric menorah would arguably outshine its counterparts. 

On the other hand, the end of Shabbat 23b states that the light is supposed to be a single wick (נר) and not a blaze of fire (מדורה). An argument could be made that neither incandescent, fluorescent, nor LED bulbs qualify as a wick under Jewish law. An incandescent light bulb has an arc-shaped filament that acts more as a blaze of fire than a single wick. Fluorescents do not have the status of fire under Jewish law (Shvut Yitzhak). Similarly, LED lights do not burn anything and emit a minimal amount of heat (R. Dov Linzer). 

With any new technology, there is going to be debate as to if and how a new invention or innovation can fit within the confines of Jewish tradition. Like with so many debates in Jewish law, I ask what is the deeper meaning behind asking whether we should use electric menorahs. 

In this case, I ask myself what are the most important elements of lighting the menorah. As the Talmud brings up, the first point is that the light is adequately bright enough to see. The second reason, which is related to the first, is that Jews publicize the menorah and the miracle of Chanukah.  

I like the act of lighting a match and igniting the wick. I like seeing the candle lights wax and wane as the candles burn. For me, there is an aesthetic and feeling I get when I use wax candles. It takes me to a time in which I was not born, and it gives me a sense of connection that I do not get with an electric menorah or lighting with olive oil. Flicking an electric switch to turn on the candelabrum does not have the same feel.  

I also like what I wrote in 2016 when I illustrated the spiritual difference between olive oil versus wax candles. The olive oil represents spiritual purity and doing our best. As a recovering perfectionist, I appreciate the symbolism of the wax candles representing that we do our best, spiritually or otherwise, with what we have. As much as I believe in trying our best, we should also accept that our best has limits and be satisfied with the effort we put into the endeavor. 

Using the wax candles is what resonates with me for lighting the menorah. Some like the use of olive oil because it is more similar to the ancient practice. Especially since there is a plausible debate within the confines of the legalistic technicalities and minutiae under halacha (Jewish law), I am not going to take personal issue with someone using an electric menorah to fulfill the mitzvah. 

Right now, there is a normative preference for olive oil or wax candles. Who knows what it will look like in the next few generations? Wax candles had opposition when they were first used. The Maharal of Prague forbade the use of wax candles because it did not adequately resemble the miracle. However, R. Moses Isserles allowed them because they gave off a clear flame. Maybe what is more important is bringing light into this world. Maybe the fact we use a single wick instead of a torch helps us grasp with our limits as to how much we can better ourselves and the world around us. On the other hand, maybe the electric menorah can symbolize that we can shine brighter than we previously thought possible. 

I know some will disagree, but Chanukah is not only about remembering about what happened as a result of the Maccabean revolt. I think what is most important with regards to lighting the menorah is bringing light into the world. We all bring light differently into this world. Even if we do not fully understand or agree with it, we should do our best to understand our neighbors that are different from us. We should remind ourselves that even if the path is different, we are trying our utmost to bring in as much light in the world as possible. May your Chanukah be full of light and joy!

A Chanukah Lesson on the Tension of Jewish Identity and Interacting with Other Cultures

When I was lighting Chanukah candles last night, my mind focused on a specific detail about the lighting. How do we place the candles on the menorah? The candles are placed on the menorah from right to left. One of the features that drew me to Judaism is that there is symbolism in everything. I am sure that there is some symbolism behind it, or that I could at least find some. I was spending the evening with a friend, and it became more clear that I was perplexed by finding the answer to this "why" question. He then said to me, "You know, Hebrew is read from right to left. Maybe that is why the candles are placed that way." After giving it some more thought, I realized that he may be on to something. 

Hebrew is indeed written and read from right to left. In contrast, Greek is written from left to right. Why do I bring up the Greeks specifically? Because in the Chanukah story, the occupying force (King Antiochus III in particular) was Greek. One of the main motifs of the Chanukah story is that the Maccabees fought the Greeks to maintain their Jewish practice and identity. Perhaps putting the candles from right to left is another subtle way of the Jew reminding himself or herself that there are features of Judaism that make Jews different from the rest of the world. There is some truth in that. At the same time, a further look into Chanukah practices paints a more complex view of how the Jew interacts with the greater world. 

Let's start with the dreidel, the four-sided spinning top commonly associated with Chanukah. The dreidel brings up a certain paradox on this theme, one that I pointed out over a decade ago. On the one hand, the dreidel has uniquely Jewish characteristics. It has four Hebrew letters on it and it is played on Chanukah. On the other hand, look at the role of the dreidel in the Chanukah story. It was a game played in the streets to not arouse suspicion from the fact that the Jews in the Chanukah story were studying Torah, an act that was considered illegal under Antiochus' regime. Plus, the dreidel game has its origins in the practice of teetotum, a English top game that was popular around Christmas time. As Rabbi David Golinkin points out, the irony of the dreidel is that a way that Jews celebrate a victory over cultural assimilation is through the dreidel game, which is unto itself an act of assimilation. 

The potato pancakes, or latkes, are another example. If you care about history, you cannot argue in good faith that latkes have always been a part of Jewish tradition. For one, the Chanukah story is one that took place centuries after the story of receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. Two, the origin of the potato is the Andes. Potatoes were not brought over to Europe until after Christopher Columbus made his mark on the Western Hemisphere. Even then, the potato pancake is a staple of multiple European nations, including Sweden (raggmunkar, potatisbullar), Germany and Austria (Kartoffelpuffer), Bulgaria (patatnik), and Poland (placki ziemniaczane). Similarly, the recipe for the sufganiyah, the jelly-filled donut eaten on Chanukah, was first published in a non-Jewish, German cookbook in the late fifteenth century (Encyclopedia of Jewish Food by Gil Marks). 

Gift-giving on Chanukah provides further insight on the matter. Looking at the history and significance of giving on Chanukah, there was a pre-modern practice of giving money (gelt) to children on Chanukah. However, this practice was quite modest in comparison to what we have today. Gift-giving on Chanukah is a primarily American practice that evolved from interactions with non-Jewish neighbors. Gift-giving as a Jewish-American practice resulted from two phenomena. One is that it was a response to Christmas. The other is that after World War II and the suburban sprawl, Jews could better assimilate into greater U.S. society. Gift-giving on Chanukah became a way to not feel left out.

For a more complicated relationship with the greater world, look at Ma'oz Tzur, a liturgical poem that is commonly sung on Chanukah. The most common melody of Ma'oz Tzur is based on a German folk song. At the same time, the poem was written at a time where Jews were being oppressed by their Christian neighbors. Johns Hopkins Professor Yitzhak Melamed details how Ma'oz Tzur has anti-Christian sentiment in light of the fact that Jews during the Crusades died "in the name of the Cross." It is true that there historically been discord, tension and animosity between Christians and Jews. It is also true that Judeo-Christian relations are, on average, better than they ever have been. We live in an age where we are not trapped in the past and we can coexist in a pluralistic society. 

If you take a look through Jewish history, the Talmud, or other aspects of Jewish culture, what you will note is that relations with broader society can be complicated and cannot be overgeneralized. There are moments when relations are good and times when they are bad. Context matters. Regardless of whether relations are good or bad, one thing that is undeniable or inescapable is that the Jewish world is influenced by broader society. As Chanukah practices illustrate, Judaism does not interact within a bubble. 

How do we resolve the tension within the paradox? One of the many reasons I converted to Judaism is because I was fascinated by the and resilience and adaptability of the Jewish people over time. The Jewish people have maintained their rituals, customs, and practices. The continuity of the tradition is fascinating. The Jewish people learned how to be comfortable with the uncomfortable feeling of being different. They also learned how to interact with and succeed in broader society. After all, the Jewish text Pirke Avot (Ethics of the Fathers) teaches that one who is wise is one who learns from all people (4:1), and that includes people who are not Jewish. 

Cultural exchange is how we evolve and better our lives. Even as the "Chanukah spirit" teaches us to be proudly Jewish, it also reminds us that Chanukah would not exist in its current form had Jews not interacted with and learned from non-Jews. That is integration in a nutshell: maintaining a sense of who you are while being part of broader society. The lesson of Chanukah is neither about assimilating nor trying to isolate ourselves from those who are different from us. It will be different for each Jew, but at the end of the day, one of the main lessons of Chanukah is about maintaining that balance between Jewish identity and being a part of broader society.

Why Add an Extra Candle on the Menorah for Each Night of Chanukah?

Chanukah, which is the Jewish festival of lights, represents both a military victory of religiously conservative Maccabees over the Hellenic assimilationists and the fact that the oil for the menorah in the Temple lasted eight days when it should have only lasted one. To commemorate, Jews are commanded to light the menorah. On the first night of Chanukah, only one candle plus the helper candle (שמש) are lit. The second night, two candles plus the helper candle. This progression leads to the eighth night, during which we light all the candles on the menorah. Why do we add a light each night? Why not simply light all the candles all nights, or just one night for that matter? To answer these questions, I first wanted to see what Jewish texts had to say. The Talmud (Shabbat 21b) provides a couple of answers:

1. There is a practical reason for this practice: it is a way to keep track and indicate what night of Chanukah it is. 
2. As Rabbi Hillel brings up, one elevates to a higher level when it comes to religious matters and sanctity. 

While I appreciate those answers and find validity in those answers, I came up with some answers of my own. One idea, which I realized a decade ago, is that the process of lighting the candles over Chanukah is gradual. If the menorah is to be symbolic of our spirituality and the light we bring to the world, it does not happen overnight. Spiritual growth, much like anything else worthwhile, is a process. It is not instantaneous like fast food or the Internet. We have to work on bringing that light to the world gradually. 

This segued into my second thought, which is why we do this gradually. As mentioned in the last paragraph, spiritual growth is a process. It takes years to reach a certain level to develop such traits as equanimity, patience, and humility. They are not handed down, they do not happen at the click of a button, and for many people, they do not come naturally. 

This leads to my third thought, and explains why we do not light all the candles all nights. If we push ourselves at full throttle and beyond our means, we will burn the candle at both ends (pun intended). If we push ourselves beyond our maximum capacity, we will become disengaged from spiritual pursuits, if not downright antipathetic and angry towards the whole idea. It is why we have to live our spiritual lives gradually. It is not an excuse to make mistakes or to slack off, but rather an acknowledgement of our limitations and make sure we maximize our potential.

My final thought is that much like with all things, they have a limit. Even when shining at our brightest, there is only so much that we can shine. This is not to self-deprecate or put ourselves down, but to remind us that we are human and that we can only go so far. The ideals that exist in Judaism de facto ask us to be like G-d, except that is impossible. Only G-d, a being of transcendent Infinite Oneness, can be perfect. This is the paradox of these ideals, and one we hold in constant tension: we do our best to be as close to living these ideals as humanly possible, yet we know deep down that they are not obtainable. As Pirke Avot says, "you are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it." Yes, our imperfections exist as human beings, but we continue to work on ourselves and become better human beings through the process. 

I think it's important to ask what all of this means for us. Practically speaking, life does not happen in a gradual progression. Life throws us curve balls, things we were not expecting, things that set us back. The road to success is a messy and imperfect one, especially since we are beings with limitations. Instead of viewing the idea of spiritual growth literally as gradual progression, perhaps the menorah is teaching us that we should always be aiming upwards and that we shouldn't lose sight of that on our bad days. Our goal is to grow spiritually. We have to do it at our own pace without burning ourselves out, but as long as we work on growing and we make progress, I think G-d is happy that we are doing the best with what He gave us. 

Chanukah Gelt: The Significance of Giving Money on Chanukah

To quote Adam Sandler, "Chanukah is the Festival of Lights. Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights." In American culture, there is this pervasive myth that during Chanukah, Jewish children receive an awesome present each night. Giving Chanukah presents was not a practice until the late nineteenth century when Christmas became a federal holiday in the 1870s. The trend of exchanging Chanukah gifts did not really take off until the 1950s. The idea of Chanukah gift exchange is both modern and in response to Christmas so that Jews could better assimilate and not feel left out during the holiday season.

Before this Chanukah gift-giving extravaganza, there was a precursor: Chanukah gelt (חנוכה געלט). Chanukah gelt refers to money given to children on Chanukah. Looking at the history of the practice, giving money for Chanukah dates back to the sixteenth century. The practice itself came in a couple of variants. One was the Italian and Sephardic practice of money to purchase clothes for poor students studying Torah. In eastern Europe, it was either done to do outreach for Jews in more remote areas or to fundraise to keep yeshivas afloat. Another variant is that is a time to give tzedakah (charity). This is particularly the case when reading the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch (139:1), where it states that one is to give lots of tzedakah during Chanukah because the days of Chanukah are auspicious to correcting the flaws of the soul. What is it about Chanukah that allows for tzedakah to have such power? At least when looking at the time between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, giving tzedakah is supposed to avert the Divine decree (assuming you read Unataneh Tokef literally, which I don't). So what is the connection between money and Chanukah? Perhaps looking at explanations behind the practice could help:

1. In Hebrew, the word Chanukah (חנכה) has the same three-letter root as "education" (חינוך). After the Greeks were defeated, the Jews had to reeducate their people, especially the children. Providing education takes funding. Giving money is to remind ourselves that children are an investment in the future of the Jewish people (Sifsei Chaim). This would explain why younger individuals were the typical recipients of the original variants of Chanukah gelt. 
2. One of the major motifs of Chanukah is the cultural clash between the Greek hedonism and Jewish spirituality. With this motif in mind, the Greeks treated wealth more as an ends than anything else. In Judaism, we treat it as a means. We remind ourselves that with so many other things, we have the power to do good or evil with money. We have the choice as to whether to elevate something as seemingly mundane as money to something holier. By giving money on Chanukah, we illustrate what sort of good we can do when we give [money].   
3. The Talmud (Shabbat 22a) discusses a case where a poor person does not have enough money to buy Chanukah candles and Kiddush wine for Shabbat. The candles took precedence over Shabbat, interestingly enough. To make sure this hypothetical did not turn into reality, one is to give enough money to make sure all Jews have enough money for both (Magen Avraham). This argument falls short with regards to connecting money to Chanukah. The reason for that is that giving money to make sure there is enough to celebrate holidays is not unique to Chanukah. Plus, the practice of giving money on Chanukah started centuries after this Talmudic debate. 
4. R. Josh Flug suggests that after the war, the winners would distribute the loot to the soldiers and the poor. Giving gelt can be seen both as a commemoration of winning the war and helping those affected by the war.
5. After the war between the Maccabees and the Greeks, the Hasmonean dynasty minted coins in 142 BCE with an image of a menorah. This minting was meant to represent a high point of Jewish freedom in the Second Temple era.

How do we tie these ideas together to get a clear picture behind the meaning of giving money on Chanukah? In the Chanukah story, we are taught that the ancient Greeks were obsessed with aesthetics. It was a "thinking culture that appreciated beauty." The issue was not with beauty so much as it was the extent to which it was admired. Having the physical valued at that extreme resulted in hedonism.

When applied to the idea of money, that sort of thinking typically results in splurging on material items. The Lubavitcher Rebbe (Likutei Sichot) believed that when the Greeks came into the land of Israel, it was not an issue of taking the possessions so much as it was infusing their values with the possessions so the possessions could be used for egotistical and ungodly purposes.

Money is a medium of exchanging for goods and services. It is a vital part of an economy. With Judaism, it is not about amassing ridiculous amounts of wealth for its own sake. At the same time, a Jewish live does not mean living a monastic or aesthetic life. Money is a means to an end, and as these explanations show, we are to transcend ourselves by using that G-d-given free will to disperse that money.

When we interact with something such as pervasive as money, we have to ask ourselves what our potential is. We can use Chanukah money to help Torah scholars, children, or the poor. We can use the practice of giving Chanukah gelt as a means of making us more generous or more grateful people. Chanukah teaches a lot about potential and what it means to be the best version of ourselves. A ragtag team of soldiers took their potential and fought against a well-trained army against all odds. While G-d gave us potential by being "created in His Image," potential goes to waste if it is not acted upon. To paraphrase R. Jonathan Sacks, we will be remembered for how we give, not on how we spend or take. We have to be willing to put our money where our mouth is if we are to actualize our potential. The Maccabees lived their lives not just in dedication, but also in giving.

A few questions to ponder as you give Chanukah gelt this year: Do we want to live according to our values?  Does being free simply mean doing whatever you feel like or does it mean taking that free will and transcending oneself? Do we want to make an impact on the world by what we give? Ultimately, can we put our money where our mouth is so we can not just "talk the talk" but also "walk the walk?"

Lighting for Chanukah: Olive Oil Versus Wax Candles

Plenty of us are familiar with the part of the Chanukah story of how a ragtag team of Maccabees overcame the Greeks and were able to liberate and rededicate the Temple. Part of this rededication was the famous oil that was supposed to only last one night, but lasted eight nights (Talmud, Shabbat 21b). Fewer people know that the oil was olive oil, and that the usage of olive oil during that miracle still has bearing on the Jewish laws behind Chanukah. While it is permissible to use wax candles or other types of oil, the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chayim 673) states that it is best to use olive oil. The simplest answer to why olive oil is used is because the Chanukah miracle involved olive oil (Mishnah Berurah 673:4). While it is an acceptable explanation to pay deference to the initial miracle, I would like to see if there is deeper meaning behind using olive oil, and then get into the significance of using wax candles.

Why Olive Oil?

• Retaining one's unique identity. This article from Aish entitled "Assimilation and the Chanukah Oil" was illuminating. The article points out that oil is "probably the most politically incorrect of all liquids" because it refuses to compromise its uniqueness. Part of the Chanukah story is for the Jews to retain their distinct identity in the midst of a world that encourages one to assimilate. Especially in today's society, my main issue with this article is that it presents a false dilemma between separation and assimilation, when in fact one can integrate. Yes, Jews can maintain their distinct identity with distinct practices, but Jews can also interact with greater society without losing that distinctiveness. It's not easy, but it can be done. Going back to the article, because it's not easy, for those of us who take the integration route need to be even more mindful of making sure we don't assimilate. After all, living in a world of gray (i.e., that of nuances and complexity) is more difficult to manage than that of black and white. 
• Reliving the Days of the Temple: The Maharal takes the argument of "that was the oil of the original miracle" argument a step further. It is not simply about reliving the miracle, but of recreating the spiritual mood of the Temple because olive oil was used during the Temple days (e.g., Exodus 37:20). Under normative traditional Judaism, the Temple represents the epitome of spiritual connection with G-d. We should emulate that mood while lighting the menorah. 
• Going for the best and purest: Going off the explanation of the Temple, the Talmud (Menachot 85b) teaches that it wasn't enough to procure just any oil: it had to be from Tekoa because it was the highest-quality, purest olive oil in existence. Much like they used the purest olive oil in the days of the Temple, we should also make sure we have the best and finest when we perform any mitzvah, which in this case, would be the usage of pure olive oil. 
• Symbolism of Wisdom: According to the Talmud (Menachot 85b), the other reason why Tekoa was the best place to get olive oil was "because the people there use a lot of oil, they possess much wisdom." The Talmud (Bava Batra 25a) also associates wisdom with the menorah. We should use olive oil to exemplify the wisdom that Torah provides us. As King Solomon (Proverbs 20:27) said, "the spirit of man is the lamp of G-d." Much like oil permeates within the olive, G-d's Likeness (צלם אלוהים) permeates in each human being.  
• Symbol of Steadfastness. Part of why olive oil has particular symbolism is because it represents the steadfastness within the holiday. When discussing the use of olive oil for the Temple, the Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 31:10) uses a parable to parallel a legion faithful to its king to the olive branch that the dove in the Noah story brought to Noah. Rabbi David ben Yehudah Luria, also known as the Radal, took this to meant that because the olive branch withstood the corruption that took place during the Flood, the olive was chosen as the symbol of rebirth and renewal after the Flood narrative. The olive tree itself is also one that has strong roots, holds on to light and non-rich soil, and can withstand droughts, disease, and fire. Brining the symbolism of the olive back to the Chanukah story, maintaining that steadfastness under external pressures is what makes olive oil so special. We are meant to endure and maintain our Jewishness. 

I would like to touch upon another bit of legal history that turns all this symbolism about olive oil on its head. Even with all the lauding about olive oil, it is perfectly permissible acceptable to use wax candles. The reason for this? In pre-modern times, it was difficult for Ashkenazi Jews, i.e., Jews primarily of Central and Eastern European descent, to acquire olive oil. Because of the economic burden it would have caused, R. Moshe Isserles (the Rema) ruled that although olive oil was preferable, it was nevertheless acceptable to use wax candles.

The argument of using different oils was hardly a new one, even for the Rema. We already see this play out in the Talmud (Mishnah Shabbat 2:2) where it was acceptable for Jews to light for Shabbat with other oils, e.g., sesame oil, nut oil. While discussing lighting Chanukah candles, the Talmud does not even bring up that olive oil was used during the miracle. The discussion in the Talmud is about which oil works best. In the Talmud (Shabbat 23a), Rabbah bar Nachmani suggested using sesame oil because it lasted longer, but he acquiesced to R. Yehoshua ben Levi's opinion about olive oil because olive oil shined brighter. The Meiri (Shabbat 21) confirms this viewpoint of preferring olive oil for practical reasons. We also have to remember something else, which is that the mitzvah is first and foremost about kindling, and not about whether we use olive oil.

I find this tension to be a metaphor about how we deal with struggle and tension within the Jewish tradition. On the one hand, we are supposed to aim for our best and purest, which is what the olive oil is supposed to represent. On the other hand, I find that allowing for wax candles represents an acknowledgment of our humanity in the sense that we have limitations, whether they be economic or otherwise. Not everyone has the best or the purest, but we are still able to fulfill the mitzvah just as adequately with wax candles, or in a more spiritual metaphor, we can still bring just as much light with what we are able to provide. In Pirkei Avot 5:27, Ben Hei Hei said "according to the effort is the reward." This is not to say that intent is everything (because it's not) or to say that "anything goes in Judaism" (e.g., most believe that an electronic menorah does not fulfill the mitzvah of kindling Chanukah candles, although some rule otherwise), but that within the confines of Jewish law and Jewish values, there is more than one way to be Jewish, which is why there are multiple branches on the menorah.

We might not all be at the point where we can literally afford olive oil or metaphorically be on a spiritual level that olive oil is supposed to represent. However, G-d has given us other ways to still fulfill the mitzvah of kindling the Chanukah lights. What's even better is that Chanukah brings the message that we can spiritually grow, even with whatever shortcomings we might have. There is that classical debate in the Talmud (Shabbat 21a) between R. Shammai and R. Hillel about how to light the candles. R. Hillel ultimately won, and standard practice is to light one candle the first night, two the second night, etc. This is to teach us the importance of spiritual importance of gradualism. We start off with just one light (plus the shamash candle), and by the end, we reach maximum capacity. This is how we should view our spiritual ascent: with gradualism. Metaphorically speaking, most of us cannot make the automatic leap to olive oil. We have to ease ourselves into a level to reach our maximum potential. That is what I think the wax candles represent: the dichotomy for reaching higher while still being able to accomplish a great deal (in this case, the mitzvah of kindling Chanukah candles) without reaching the high point. The debate between olive oil and wax candles should remind us that our ultimate goal is to serve G-d to the best of our ability and to remember what is ultimately important: to bring spiritual light into this world.

Whether you use olive oil or wax candles, I hope you have a meaningful Chanukah that leads to spiritual growth in your life. 

Why Jews Publicize the Miracle of Chanukah

Kislev 25 (this year, it falls on the sunset of December, 6 on the Gregorian calendar) marks the beginning of Chanukah, which is the Jewish Festival of Lights. The primary mitzvah for this holiday is to light the menorah. The aspect of lighting the menorah that I would like to focus on this year is where one is supposed to light the menorah. According to the Talmud (Shabbat 21b), the Chanukah candle is supposed to be placed at the door of the house. If one lives on an upper floor of a building, it is to be placed by a window. The only exception to this rule is if one lives in dangerous times where such an act would endanger one's life (also see Mishneh Torah, Megillah v'Channukah, Ch. 4). The Talmudic sages (חז״ל) go out of their way to make the point that the mitzvah should be public. We aren't commanded to publicize the mitzvah of lighting Shabbat candles, so why are we given the rabbinic commandment to publicize the lighting of Chanukah candles?

One answer is that it is not enough for the Jew to be Jewish "in private only." The word for "[Jewish] education" is חינוך, which happens to have the same three-letter root as the word Chanukah. It is not enough to keep the light of Torah inside one's home. A Jew is meant to have Jewish values permeate in all facets of life, and thusly bring that light outside of the private domain and into the public domain. That idea leads to another thought.

The Talmud later states in Shabbat 22b that the purpose for the menorah is that it is a testimony to mankind that the Divine Presence rests upon the people Israel. Since the only facet of the Temple service that embodies this testimony is the menorah, it is supposed to represent the role of the Jewish people in the Divine scheme of creation. The whole notion of being a "chosen people" can make some anxious, annoyed, or miffed, but as I have explored before, the whole idea of the Jews being a chosen people is in terms of spiritual vocation. Jews weren't chosen because they're better, but because G-d wanted the Jewish people to take on more responsibilities. That is why there are certain commandments (mitzvot) that are incumbent upon the Jewish people, but from which non-Jews are exempt. According to Jewish theology, these additional responsibilities help create a unique spiritual role for the Jew to positively influence the world in its own way (e.g., playing a pivotal role into the modern system of ethics). As the Jewish aphorism goes, Schwer zu zein ein Yid. "It's tough to be a Jew." Isaiah 42:6 refers to the Jewish people as or l'goyim (אור לגויים), a light unto nations, and that idea could not be more appropriate than during a Festival of Lights.

Chanukah typically falls in December, which from an astronomical standpoint, is the darkest period of the year for those in the Northern Hemisphere (and yes, that includes Israel). We use this period of pronounced physical darkness to remind us of the spiritual darkness in this world. As Einstein once said, "Darkness is the absence of light." Even just a little bit of light removes us from abject darkness.

In Judaism, ritual serves as an action-based meditation. While Judaism has a universalistic set of morals and values, it also comes with particularistic rituals. Without these rituals, there would be no discernible distinction between the Jew and the non-Jew. Bringing it back to the theme of darkness, we all have our moments of darkness. We need to bring light into our own lives. Interesting how Jewish tradition historically emphasizes the holiness of light, as opposed to the destructiveness of fire. However, the Jew is not supposed to create that light just for the individual self, the household, or even just the Jewish people. It is meant to be shared with everyone within the sphere of influence to both literally and metaphorically bask in the light. A vital part of the aforementioned Jewish spiritual vocation is to help others, regardless of whether they are Jewish or not, and make their lives brighter than they were beforehand. Even though there is plenty of darkness, cruelty, and evil in the world, the publicizing of the menorah reminds us there is hope because the Maccabees were able to overcome oppression and experience the power rededication, so can we. It reminds us that even a little bit of light can take the edge off the darkness. May we experience usher in an era where such darkness doesn't exist, and we can know the true meaning of peace!

Eating Cheese on Chanukah and Why Using the Story of Judith As a Basis for This Practice Has as Many Holes as Swiss Cheese

When I was in synagogue this past week, I learned about a peculiar minhag (custom) in Jewish practice: eating cheese on Chanukah. In spite what people might think, latkes, or potato pancakes [commonly eaten on Chanukah], were not originally derived from potatoes, but from cheese. Considering that the potato was a New World crop, this would make sense. But that isn't the disturbing part. It's how the practice of eating cheese on Chanukah began. The origin of this practice is first mentioned in the Shulchan Aruch by the Rema, also known as R. Moshe Isserles. In it, the Rema attributes this practice to the milk that "Judith (יהודית) fed to the enemy."

This made me ask an initial, but important question: who in the world is Judith? The Book of Judith is a deuterocanonical text, which is to say that this text made it into Christian Scripture, but never made it in the Jewish version of the Bible (Tanach). Why was this text not considered for the Jewish canon? The story itself could provide some context.

Although the text was allegedly written in Hebrew, the oldest surviving text is in ancient Greek. What the text depicts is that the Greeks conquered Judea, and the evil general Holofernes declared that all the Jewish virgin females had to sleep with a Greek official or be punished by death. Someone had to stop the madness, so Judith took it upon herself to do so. Essentially, Judith used her good looks to enter the Greek camp and seduce Holofernes. One night, she fed him cheese, which made him thirsty for wine. This was the point where she brought Holofernes to the point of inebriation, after which she decapitated Holofernes. The decapitation eroded the Greek morale, and the Greeks retreated.

Whether it's that Judith decapitated someone or that she used her sexual allure and prowess to get the job done, using Judith as an example of valor was probably something that the rabbis didn't want women emulating. Is the message that religious communities want to send to their daughters that exploiting a situation by using your sexual appeal is acceptable as long as the ends justify the means? Perhaps this is why the Book of Judith never made it into Jewish canon, or perhaps it is due to the historical anachronisms in the text or its possible Greek origin. What's even more ridiculous about using this as a basis for a minhag for Chanukah is that Holofernes wasn't Greek; he was Assyrian. This story took place during the rule of Nebuchadnezzar (6 c. B.C.E.), which was centuries before the Chanukah story, so the connection between Judith and Chanukah is literally inconceivable. It's also interesting to note that the earliest mention of this practice is during the 14th century.

I don't like the fact that a practice in Judaism, even if it's a minor one, is based on an apocryphal, fictional text with historical inaccuracies and a problematic protagonist. Fortunately, I was able to find another explanation for this practice because the primary, traditional one was very perturbing. This insight comes from the Ben Ish Chai. When the Greeks occupied Judea, they banned three specific Jewish institutions: maintaining the Jewish calendar [based on the lunar cycle], Shabbat, and circumcision. The Hebrew word for "month" is חודש, which begins with ח. The second letter of the word Shabbat (שבת) is ב. The third letter in the word מילה (a ברית מילה is the Hebrew term for circumcision) is ל. These three letters spell the world חלב, which is the Hebrew word for "milk," which gives us the basis for eating dairy on Chanukah.

It's a tenuous explanation, but let's go with it. The story of Chanukah took place during a time when the Greek rulers banned practices vital to Jewish observance. Milk is a source of sustenance. Not only does the Bible refer to Israel as the "land of milk and honey" (e.g., Exodus 3:8, 33:3; Deuteronomy 31:20), but milk symbolizes life in Judaism, as is observed by the prohibition of mixing meat and dairy. Much like milk can nurture life, Jewish rituals and practices nourish the Jewish people.

On the one hand, the universalist morals and ethics are a vital part of Judaism. On the other hand, without the ritualistic, particularistic practices, there is nothing to distinguish Judaism from other world religions. If consuming dairy products on Chanukah is to remind us of anything, it is that studying Torah, Shabbat, affixing mezzuzot, and the plethora of Jewish ritualistic practice engenders, vitalizes, and helps define Jewish spirituality.

Chanukah and Thanksgiving: Double the Holidays, Double the Gratitude

This year, Chanukah comes so early on the Gregorian calendar that we will experience a rare phenomenon that has been dubbed as Thanksgivukkah, which is the intersection of Thanksgiving and Chanukah. This convergence is literally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Since Thanksgivukkah will not happen again for another 78,000 years, and since many people do not believe in coincidences, it should give us time to pause and reflect on the relationship between Chanukah and Thanksgiving. What commonalities can we find between the two holidays?

Let's briefly take a look at the history behind the two holidays. Chanukah is an eight-day celebration commemorating the Maccabean revolt during the 2nd century BCE against the Hellenistic Greeks occupying Judea. Practicing Judaism was de facto banned under this regime, for which the Maccabees fought for and won their freedom of religion. The Thanksgiving story is traced back to a 1621 harvest commemorated by Puritans who emigrated from England to America in order to avoid religious persecution.

Aside from the motif of religious persecution, these two holidays have something in common: gratitude. For Thanksgiving, the gratitude is self-evident. The word "thanks" is in the holiday name. Although people celebrate Thanksgiving differently (e.g., watching football, eating turkey, praising G-d), the most common practice is expressing gratitude in some shape or form. For Chanukah, the theme of gratitude is not so clear, especially when looking at the secular adaptation. People usually associate Chanukah with lighting the menorah or spinning the dreidel. However, the secularized version, which is based on the erroneous assumption of "Chanukah is the Jewish Christmas", misses a major component of Chanukah. The Talmud (Shabbat 21b) provides great insight to the meaning of Chanukah. After discussing the military victory and discussing how the oil was supposed to last only one day but lasted eight days, the Gemara says something that is simply relevant:

לשנה אחרת קבעום ועשאום ימים טובים בהלל והודאה.

The next year, the Sages instituted those days and made them holidays with recitation of Hallel and of thanksgiving.

On Chanukah, we praise G-d by saying Hallel, which are a series of Psalms (113-118) based on the theme of thanksgiving. The הודאה is in reference to the recitation of Al Hanisim (על הנסים), which is a benediction added both to the Modim blessing of the Amidah, as well as Birkat Hamazon. Both of these additions are added to blessings that express gratitude. There is also the Shecheheyanu, which is yet another blessing of gratitude (this blessing is for new experiences), that is recited on the first evening of candle lighting. To say that Chanukah has nothing to do with gratitude is like saying Yom Kippur has nothing to do with atonement or fasting.

The fact that Al Hanisim or the second blessing over the Chanukah candles emphasize miracles does not take away the motif of gratitude. If anything, it is enhanced. How so? Gratitude is about perception. One of the impediments of feeling a sense of gratitude is having the impression that everything comes by itself, and that it is meant to come to that individual (R. Shlomo Wolbe). This impression creates a self-entitlement mentality. Another impediment is taking things for granted. When we become accustomed to receiving something in our lives, it is all too easy to assume it is a given. Additionally, it is easier to focus on what we do not have, as opposed to what we have. When it comes to gratitude, perspective is key. Not only is gratitude about focusing on what we have or assuming that we should never take things for granted, but it is also about viewing life as a miracle. If we can perceive life as a miracle, rather than a burden or a pain in the toches, our sense of gratitude becomes unprecedentedly amplified.

"But what about when times are rough? How can you be grateful then?" That's a good question. It is not easy to be thankful when you are down on your luck. Even so, my answer is that gratitude is not reserved for when it is convenient. When everything is going great, it is so easy to be grateful. It is during the arduous times when we see just how genuine our sense of gratitude is. No one learned this better than Leah, who the Talmudic Sages (Berachot 7b) said was the first person to express thanks to G-d. Given who preceded her, I find the literal statement of "Leah was the first one to express gratitude to G-d" hard to believe. What the Sages were saying was that Leah was the first one to authentically be thankful because she was able to be thankful amidst the complications and disappointments that her life delivered. The ideal form of gratitude is to be thankful, regardless of what is going on in life. The protagonists of the Thanksgiving and Chanukah stories knew that best. Both the Maccabees and the Pilgrims took on arduous tasks, faced incredible odds, and celebrated their successes, even in spite of the hardships. Much like the Pilgrims or Maccabees, we face challenges in life. But it is during those challenges that we are to be most thankful.

Whether we are currently experiencing calamity in life or not, we should seize the moment of these two holidays and fully express our thanks for the miracles we have in life. Keeping the day doubly focused on gratitude is, without fail, the best way to celebrate this rare convergence.

Parsha Vayeshev: Chanukah and Dealing with Spiritual Emptiness

This week's Torah portion brings us to the story of Joseph (starting in Genesis 37). The favoritism that Jacob shows towards Joseph agitates his brothers. The chutzpah that Joseph exudes by telling the interpretation of his dreams doesn't help. One day while Joseph was out with his brothers, the brothers hit a breaking point and try to figure out how to dispose of Joseph. They initially think of murdering Joseph. However, Reuben comes up with the idea of throwing Joseph into a pit. I can come up with some nice, brief explanation of how much like Joseph, we have our high and low moments. Joseph's low moment was being hated by his brothers and sold into slavery, and how that nevertheless, he still managed to hold it together and become very successful. I am not denying the validity of such an interpretation, but would like to draw attention to  Genesis 37:24, which talks about throwing Joseph into the pit:

והבור רק, אין בו מים.  

"The pit was empty; there was no water in it."

When I read this, I had to ask myself an important question: If I already know that the pit was empty, why did the Torah have to repeat itself in saying that there was no water in it? Isn't that a redundancy? Also, what does this have to do with Chanukah? Chronologically speaking, Chanukah took place long after the Joseph story. To better attempt to answer these questions, we have to go to the Talmud (Shabbat 22a). The Gemara's primary focus is on the laws of lighting Chanukah candles. Out of the middle of nowhere, there is a discussion about the redundancy of mentioning that there is no water in the pit. The tangent is about as abrupt as the story of Judah and Tamar. 

Nature abhors a vacuum. Pits aren't mere emptiness. The void has to be filled with something. The rabbis also realized this. To put these pits into context, they were used as water storage facilities. The pit into which Joseph was thrown into, however, was not. What was concluded in the Talmud is that there were scorpions and snakes in the pit. For a Jew, this can harken back to the simile that Torah is like water. Without the water (i.e., Torah) in a Jew's life, that lack of spirituality means that more undesirable elements take over (And for a non-Jew, that is some sort of spiritual goodness that is not the Torah). Again, it's a nice drash, but it still doesn't answer what it has to do with Chanukah. 

Let's run with the rabbinic interpretation that Joseph was thrown into a pit with snakes and scorpions. Coming out of that pit unscathed would have to be defined as miraculous. As such, the connection between lighting Chanukah candles and Joseph's survival is the idea of a miracle. It was a miracle that a day's worth of oil lasted eight days, as it was a miracle that a small, rebellious, rag-tag band of Jews can defeat one of the most advanced militaries of its time in order to fight for religious freedom. 

Joseph had his struggles. The Maccabees had to fight political oppression. Even in the modern world, we have our obstacles, whether internal or external, to face. The world can be a cold, dark place, much like the pit into which Joseph was casted. Although it's easier to wallow in pity and despair when [metaphorically] thrown into a pit, one of the joys of being human is that we are not confined to being victims of our circumstances: we have free will, and thus the potential to change. 

As Einstein stated, "Darkness is the absence of light." The fact that Chanukah is near the darkest time of the year for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere (sorry for those in the Southern Hemisphere....Israel is still in the Northern Hemisphere, so the interpretation still applies), and I don't think that is incidental. We light the candles during this time to remind us that even during the darkest times, we still can bring light to the world, whether that is in the context of our own personal lives or in the greater global sense. It's actually nice to remind ourselves that the candle-lighting doesn't occur during the darkest time. Why? If we hit a rough patch in our lifetimes, we don't want to hit rock-bottom. If we hit rock-bottom not in the hyperbolic sense, but in the sense that we have no resources, family or friends, or way out, then there's no recourse. If we are in the recesses of darkness, we want to climb out of that pit before it gets too dark. If you reach a point where such darkness falls upon you, G-d forbid, never forget that there is still hope for spiritual ascent so that we can make our lives, as well as the world, a brighter place. 

שבת שלום וחג שמח! 

Rebellion for Freedom of Religion and the Chanukah Story

The balance between obeisance and defiance in Judaism is captivating.  The story of Chanukah gives another example to better find that balance.

As the story goes, Antiochus IV Epiphanes expanded into the land of Judea, which resulted in a divide between the Jews.  On the one hand, you had the assimilated Hellenistic Jews, and on the other, you have what would become the zealously religious Maccabeans.  Cultural oppression ensued.  Jewish practices such as Torah study and circumcision were outlawed.  Antiochus even went as far as sacrificing a pig on the altar in the Temple!  Given the political climate, Judaism was at stake.  Rather than be obedient to the authorities, the Maccabees decided to revolt against the Greek establishment.  After much fighting, the Greeks were overthrown and sovereignty was returned to the Israelites. 

I find it ironic that a celebration of the victory of the Religious Right is the most favorite holiday of secular Jews that mostly lean to the Left, but I'll leave that one alone....at least for now.  The point I want to bring up is that the individual was meant to practice their religion, and practice it freely.  The ability to pursue under one's own conscience while not harming others is essential to freedom and finding meaning in life.    

Under normal circumstances, Jewish law dictates דינא דמלכותא דינא, or that "the law of the land is the law." However, Judaism takes exception to that when Jewish practice is at stake, much like with the Maccabees.  Just to elucidate a bit further, something being legal does not make it morally right.  Events such as the Holocaust and the Civil Rights movement remind us that there is certainly a distinction between the two.  

I'm not all too worried about this happening in America.  Historically speaking, freedom of religion in America has been pretty solid.  Thank you, First Amendment of the Constitution!  From a Jewish perspective, we have never enjoyed such freedom in the Diaspora.  The ultimate failure of San Francisco's recent attempt to ban circumcision exemplifies how much we don't have to worry about an attack on religious freedom (e.g., practicing Judaism) in America, especially to a point where we would need to rebel against our government.  

That is certainly a blessing I take into consideration this Chanukah: to live in a country in which I can freely observe my Judaism.  Even though we are not in any danger of losing such freedom anytime soon, Jews should nevertheless be ever vigilant to make sure that what the Maccabees endured is not a reality in our time, but merely a distant memory.  

חג שמח!         

The Paradox of the Dreidel

Jewish tradition gives some insights as to why we play a dreidel on Chanukah.  The four letters on the dreidel, for instance, spell out "נס גדול היה שם," which means "A great miracle happened there."   The dreidel was a facade that Jews in that era would use to cover up the fact that they were studying Torah [since Torah study was illegal during this period].  The gematria, or Jewish numerology, adds the numeric values of the four letters, which comes out to 358.  358 also happens to be the numeric value of the word משיח‎‎ (Messiah), meaning that when the Messiah comes, we will not have to look at one facet, but will be able to look at all four at the same time.

As insightful as this all might be, the dreidel itself is a paradoxical symbol.  One of the important lessons of Chanukah is to not give into cultural assimilation.  Yet the tradition teaches us that the Jews of that time played it as to not arouse suspicion of studying Torah.  One has to keep in mind that Jewish practices as a whole were banned in this society.  If playing the dreidel game were a particularistically Jewish thing to do, they would have been arrested on sight.  The fact that they used the dreidel in a Greek-ruled society to cover up Torah study means that playing with a four-sided top was something that the Greeks did.  As Rabbi Golinkin points out, "in order to celebrate the holiday of Hanukkah, which celebrates our victory over cultural assimilation, we play the dreidel game, which is an excellent example of cultural assimilation."

Rather than dismissing this as a hypocrisy in Jewish practice, we can derive an important lesson here.  Rather than teach us a conflicting message of dichotomy, we can take the lesson that the dreidel represents the importance of cultural integration.  Back in Biblical times, the Israelites were influenced by the sacrificial system, a system which existed prior to the Exodus out of Egypt.  It was a universal mode of worship, and the Israelites used it until there was no more Temple.  Maimonides was the greatest post-Biblical influence on Jewish thought.  Maimonides' most influential teacher was Aristotle, who was a Greek who happened to not be Jewish.  The notion of marriage was even influenced by their respective rulers.  Under Christian rule, the Ashkenazi Jews adopted marriage between "one man and one woman," whereas under Islamic rule, the Sephardic Jews permitted polygamy because that is what the surrounding culture did. The fact that there is a difference between Sephardic and Ashkenazic cuisine implies the influences of the surrounding cultures on Jewish gastronomy.  The melody for the most popular Chanukah song, Maoz Tzur, is based off a 14th-century German folksong.  Klezmer music was an adaptation of secular, Eastern European music, most notably that of the Romanians.  The Yiddish language is another example of how the Jews have taken from other cultures and adapted to it.  After all, Yiddish is a fusion of Hebrew, German, Aramaic, and a bit of some Slavic languages.

Although I can come up with more examples, it suffices to say that Judaism does not live in a bubble.  One of Judaism's redeeming qualities is its ability to adapt, and that includes on a cultural level.  Adaptability, and thus integration, have contributed to Jewish survival.  Not only has it kept the Jewish people alive, but the capaibility to take good ideas from other cultures is what has made Judaism stronger.

חג שמח! 

Chanukah and the Gift of Gradualism

In the Gemara (Shabbat 21b), there is a debate between Hillel and Shammai as how to light the menorah.  Shammai believed that all eight should be lit on the first night, and that a candle should be subtracted on the second night, and so on until the eight night.  Hillel believed the exact opposite: you start with one candle the first night, and you reach eight by the eight night.  Shammai based his thinking on how offerrings were giving during Sukkot.  Hillel based his thinking on Ma'alin Ba'Kodesh ve'ayn Moridin, or the principle that "one increases [not decreases] their matters of holiness."  Both have halachic basis, but the Jewish community ended up siding with Hillel's ruling.  I don't find this to be a mere "go with the majority" moment.  There has to be meaning in accepting Hillel's interpretation. 

On the first night, you light just one candle.  On the second, two, and so forth until you reach the eighth night where the menorah is fully lit.  Why start from the bottom and increase it bit-by-bit?  The beauty behind this practice is that it is supposed to be a metaphor for our spiritual lives.  Most people are not going to be at such a purified, high level.  As a matter of fact, the Talmud (Sanhedrin 97b) says there are only thirty-six tzaddikim (righteous men) who are amongst us at any given time.  Thirty-six out of 6+ billion!  And to be sure, there are a slightly larger handful who have such righteousness but have to work their toches off to maintain it.  Most of us start from a low point and have to spiritually work our way up.  In terms of Jewish observance or ethics, some of us are on higher rungs than others, to be sure.  But you can't start from a given rung and just miraculously make it to the top.  Aesop was the one that came up the saying that said slow and steady wins the race, and he was right.  This was a concept I learned very well while taking a course on Tanya with some Chasids.  The analogy used to describe our spiritual growth was with the analogy of the rubber band.  One end was our actual spiritual level and the other was the level at which we push ourselves.  Knowing the nature of rubber bands, if you pull them too far, they will eventually snap and break.  The same goes for humans.  If you are trying to elevate yourself to too high of a level at this point and hold yourself to those standards, you'll end up losing it, break down, and bring yourself to a new low, and nobody (especially HaShem) wants that.  Rather than take on too much at a given moment, do what you can. 

This is a particularly important message, considering the real victory of Chanukah was not a military victory, but rather a spiritual victory where the Maccabes resisted assimilation and retained their Jewishness.  Considering the amount of Jews I know, who are either irreligious or areligious, this lesson goes out to you.  Be like the Maccabees and internalize your Jewishness!  Bringing the joy of Judaism in your life is certainly a worthwhile endeavor, but also realize that Rome wasn't built in a day.  This is where your personal and spiritual growth has to be like the menorah--one step at a time.  Try lighting Shabbat candles for a month or try going to synagogue services once a week for a month.  If you don't take off more than you can chew, you will pleasantly find it within your grasp.  This was a lesson I learned during my first Chanukah as an observant Jew, and it is one I have internalized since.  It certainly takes effort, but at the same time, what worthwhile endeavor doesn't take effort?  Rather than rushing and taking on too much at once, you can reflect one facet at a time, grasp its meaning, internalize it, and add it to your repretoire.  Before you know it, this mentality will have you shining with your fullest potential.  Chag sameach, everyone!