When I read Parashat Miketz I feel the same movement from darkness to light. Joseph is brought from the pit (Gen. 37:24) and from prison (Gen. 41:14) into Pharaoh’s court, where he interprets dreams and saves a nation from famine. Later, when his brothers fear that he will punish them, he answers, “Hatahat elohim ani?—Am I in the place of God?” (Gen. 50:19). Joseph knows his role is to preserve, not to possess. He is a guardian of life, not its owner. Pollak was too—a guardian of light and of memory.

Pollak had been the owner of the Prato Haggadah for many years. Before his deportation he made clear that he wished the manuscript to pass to the Prato family, close friends of his from Rome who had fled to Egypt before the war because of their anti-fascist politics. After the war his surviving relatives fulfilled that wish and transferred the book to them, now in Israel. Decades later, the Prato family donated the Haggadah to The Library of 91�첥 so that it could be studied and displayed in public—a fulfillment of Pollak’s own belief that light and learning belong in the open.

Scholars have noticed that this fourteenth-century Spanish manuscript is unusual. It contains the entire narrative of the Magid section of the Haggadah, but it omits the table rituals: there is no kiddush, no blessing over matzah or maror, no birkat hamazon. As former 91�첥 Librarian Menahem Schmelzer pointed out, it was probably not made for a single family seder at home. It was meant for public reading—perhaps in a synagogue or communal hall — a book built for many eyes. Its purpose was to be seen. That origin makes its modern life in a public collection feel like a return to form.

The Talmud moves this idea about being a guardian of light into practice. In Shabbat 21b the sages teach the law of Ḥanukkah: “ner ish u-veito—the light of a person and their household.” One light per household is enough to fulfill the commandment. But we are told to add more if we can—one for each person, or an increasing number each night. Holiness is measured not by luxury but by inclusion. Every home must shine. And the light should be visible. The Gemara says to place it at the door or in the window so passers-by will see it. That practice is called pirsumei nisa—proclaiming the miracle. I keep that commandment literally. I set my menorah outside by the door so the neighborhood can see it burn. Every flame is a statement: light belongs in the open.

That is the same principle behind a public collection. A book locked away in private hands may be safe, but it is silent. Placed in a library or a museum, it can shine. Pollak spent his life bringing ancient objects into view so that others could learn from them. The Prato Haggadah’s presence at the Grolier Club is an act of pirsumei nisa: a public retelling of how Jewish life and art endured against the odds.

Later, in Shabbat 122a, the Talmud uses the line “ner le-eḥad ner leme’ah—a light for one is a light for a hundred.” It appears in a discussion about benefiting from a lamp lit by a non-Jew on Shabbat. If the lamp is already burning, one person’s use does not diminish another’s. The phrase is legal, not poetic—a compressed, well-made sentence in the rabbinic style. But it holds a larger truth. Light is not reduced by sharing. So it is with knowledge, art, and memory. When we open the Haggadah to many, we multiply its reach. A light for one is a light for a hundred.

That sentence gains force when set against what Pollak and his world faced. Nazism sought to erase culture: burning books, looting libraries, and staging the infamous exhibit of “degenerate art.” To preserve a Jewish manuscript in that time was not only scholarly act but an act of defiance.

The rabbis of Bereshit Rabbah 2:4 say that when God created light on the first day (Genesis 1:3–4), it was a radiance so pure that “a person could see from one end of the world to the other.” Predicting how human beings would abuse that gift, God hid it away for the righteous in the future. The Prato Haggadah belongs to that kind of light—a radiance kept safe through centuries of exile, sale, and war. Some treasures must be concealed to be saved. But eventually they must surface. A light hidden forever is a light lost. Jewish study and Jewish libraries exist to bring these ideas out when the time is right.

Bereshit Rabbah 3:6 adds one more principle: “Everything the Holy One created in His world He created for His glory.” If that is true, then every act of sharing a book or a work of art is a small restoration of divine purpose. We honor creation when we allow its light to be seen. Pollak believed that, and so do I. A public collection is a form of praise.

A light for one, a light for a hundred. That is the message of Miketz and of Ḥanukkah, of the Prato Haggadah and of Pollak’s life. Hidden light is meant to be brought back into the world. Our task is to guard it, share it, and keep it burning where all can see.

More information about the 91�첥 Library exhibit, “Jewish Worlds Illuminated: A Treasury of Hebrew Manuscripts from The 91�첥 Library” including a virtual tour can be found at jtsa.edu/library-exhibits/

Part of the series,��Zionism: Today, Tomorrow, and Beyond—Expanding the Conversation��

With Dr. Arnold M. Eisen, Chancellor Emeritus, Professor of Jewish Thought, 91�첥

Every year at Hanukkah, Jews everywhere celebrate the Maccabees’ military uprising against oppression. But in our day, many younger American Jews are experiencing discomfort with some of the ways that Israel uses power to fight its enemies and defend its interests, which has led to decreased support and weakened connection to the State.    

How should education about Israel— and advocacy on behalf of Israel—change in coming years? What lessons should Jews take away from events on and off campus in the wake of October 7, 2023?   

Chancellor Emeritus Arnold Eisen, who teaches a course on Zionist thought at 91�첥, in dialogue about Israel education and advocacy with Rabbi Aaron Leven and Rabbi Maya Zinkow, two recent 91�첥 alumni, who will share their experiences and wisdom. ��

Arnold Eisen is chancellor emeritus of the Jewish Theological Seminary and professor of Jewish Thought. One of the world’s foremost authorities on American Judaism, Professor Eisen is the author, among other works, of Galut: Modern Jewish Reflection on Homelessness and Homecoming. He has written, spoken, and taught extensively about Abraham Joshua Heschel. Before coming to 91�첥, Professor  Eisen served on the faculties of Stanford, Tel Aviv, and Columbia universities. He is a lifelong and devoted Conservative Jew.

Rabbi Aaron Leven is the associate rabbi at Nefesh, an open-hearted spiritual community serving the east side neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Ordained at 91�첥 in May of 2023, he is a native Angeleno who is thrilled to be back home where he is in walking distance to both Nefesh, as well as to Dodger Stadium. 

Rabbi Maya Zinkow serves as campus rabbi at UC Berkeley Hillel, where she teaches Torah, facilitates Jewish ritual life, and provides spiritual care for the Jewish community on campus. In her time on campus, she has helped revive the Cal Interfaith Council, working with other clergy to bring students of faith together in community. She received rabbinic ordination and a master’s in Jewish women and gender studies at 91�첥 as a Wexner Graduate Fellow. While studying at 91�첥, Maya served as a rabbinic intern at the Columbia/Barnard Hillel and at Romemu. Before starting her rabbinic studies, Maya graduated from Barnard College with a degree in English literature and creative writing and followed her love of text to the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies, where she learned Torah for two years and now serves as faculty in the summer. 

About the Series

What does it mean to be a Zionist in 21st-century North America? Expanding on conversations from our two-day convening “Zionism: Today, Tomorrow, and Beyond,” this webinar series will explore this and other questions, presenting significant insights and debate and enhancing the context that is informing contemporary issues. 91�첥 faculty will highlight the political, religious, and philosophical perspectives that shape the current landscape for Jews in North America in relationship with Israel. 

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Esther and more explained

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From preparation to Seder Study

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Insight into this Pilgrimage Festival

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How much distinctiveness should Jews maintain in a society and culture like ours that offers unprecedented opportunity and freedom? How much distinctiveness can we maintain without putting our acceptance in jeopardy? And—perhaps the most difficult question on the communal agenda these days—how much distinctiveness can Jews afford to sacrifice without losing Jewish children and grandchildren to the ways and identity of the majority?

Joseph—the most important figure among the first generation of the children of Israel—struggles with a version of these same dilemmas as he rises from one prison-pit after another to the height of power at the court of Pharaoh. Of all the dramatic moments in the gripping story of his reconciliation with the brothers who once betrayed him, none is more poignant, I think, than when Pharaoh tells Joseph that he will have absolute power limited only by the Pharaoh himself. The astute ruler had taken the measure of Joseph and realized immediately that this “shrewd and perceptive” Israelite was perfectly suited to the nasty work of gathering up all the grain of Egypt during the seven years of plenty, and selling it back to them during the seven years of famine. () He immediately gives Joseph two gifts that can be read as heart-wrenching examples of the price he will pay for that power. Joseph will have an Egyptian name, Tsafenat Pane’ah—“the sustainer of life”—and an Egyptian wife, Asenat, the daughter of a priest, Poti Fera. (41:45).

The story that follows reads differently because of those moves by the king to forcibly integrate Joseph into Egyptian society and culture. Joseph himself testifies to the pain of his situation as the highest outsider in the land. When (vv. 50-52) “two sons were born to [him] by Asenat the daughter of Poti Fera, the priest of On, Joseph called the first-born Menasheh, because ‘God has made me forget completely my hardship and the house of my father.’ And Joseph called the second son Ephraim, because ‘God has made me fertile in the land of my affliction.’” We will soon learn that he has not forgotten the pain suffered in his father’s house. When the brothers arrive to purchase grain, he at once recognizes them and—seeing them bow before him—remembers the dream in which they symbolically had done exactly that. (42:6-9) He has not forgotten his father either: when the brothers return home empty-handed, having left Simeon behind as a hostage, they tell Jacob (43:7) that the man in charge of distributing grain had asked them if their father was still alive—and, in next week’s portion Vayigash, when Joseph finally breaks down in tears and reveals himself to his brothers (45:3), the very first question out of his mouth will be, “Is my father still alive?”

Consider the irony: the survival of the children of Israel is secured by this child of Israel who, married to the daughter of a gentile priest, brings his family down to Egypt, where he and they loyally serve the Pharaoh. The survival of the Children of Israel in a later generation will be secured by another Israelite, that one from the tribe of Levi, also married to the daughter of a gentile priest, who will lead a rebellion that liberates his people from Pharaoh’s service/slavery. (The Hebrew word for “slavery” and “service” is the same.) Had Joseph and Moses not been at home at Pharaoh’s court, wise in the ways of ministers and kings, skillful at magic arts beyond the capacity of Pharaoh’s magicians (dream interpretation and the working of miracles), and gifted with the right word at the right time and inside knowledge of Egyptian society and culture; and had they not, despite all this, retained a strong sense of divine mission and purpose—they would not have been able to perform the redemptive tasks assigned them.

We might say, in contemporary terms, that a certain measure of assimilation was required for their success, as was a measure of resistance to assimilation. Contemporary Jews know from experience that the balance is difficult to calibrate correctly. That has been all the more true of the Jews who have served gentile kings and courts over the centuries—and by so doing, served their people and their God. From the poet and general Shmuel Hanagid at the Spanish court to Henry Kissinger at the Nixon White House to the many humble tax collectors in Polish domains populated by Ukrainian peasants, the Joseph story has time after time repeated itself.

Gerson Cohen, chancellor of 91�첥 from 1972 to 1986 and a magisterial historian of Jewish societies and cultures in many eras on many continents, probed these dilemmas 50 years ago in a brilliant essay entitled “The Blessing of Assimilation in Jewish History.” Cohen took issue with the well-known midrash that attributes Jewish survival to the fact that our ancestors did not change their names, abandon their ancestral language, or stop wearing distinctive clothing. He notes that this generalization did not hold for Jacob’s grandchildren in Egypt (who according to the Torah took Egyptian names such as Aaron and Moses), or for the later generations who adopted Greek names like those of the ambassadors whom Judah Maccabee sent to Rome, Jason and Eupolemos. Nor did Jews refrain from writing and giving sermons in other languages than Hebrew, or (when permitted to do so) from dressing like their gentile neighbors. (The author of this Torah commentary, written in English, of course bears the name Arnold, and happens to be wearing slacks and a V-neck sweater.) Cohen forcefully disputed the claim that Jews survived only by remaining utterly distinct from the cultures that surrounded them. Rather, “a frank appraisal of the periods in which Judaism flourished will indicate that not only did a certain amount of assimilation and acculturation not impede Jewish continuity, but that in a profound sense, this assimilation and acculturation was a stimulus to original thinking and expression, a source or renewed vitality.” (Jewish History and Jewish Destiny, 151)

The lesson of Hannukkah, then, or of the Joseph story, or of countless episodes in the long history of Jewish encounter with gentile ways, is that if Jews assimilate completely to those ways, we lose our own way, and Jewish continuity is lost with it, but if we don’t wish to “ghettoize” ourselves, or allow Judaism to become “fossilized,” we will need “to assimilate—at least to some extent.” (ibid.,152) That has meant learning to speak new languages, and to have Torah speak in those languages. We have adapted customs and laws to new circumstances and found latent meanings in classical texts that previous generations had not seen there. We continue to draw lines that are at times squiggly or blurred, and at other times razor-sharp—and to argue with one another about which kind of boundary is required, and how to maintain it. And thanks to the cycle of weekly Torah readings, Joseph is here with us each year to guide us through the complexities of this holiday season.

This commentary was originally published in 2015

The publication and distribution of the 91�첥 Parashah Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (��”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (��”l).

Day 1: Climate Justice in Partnership with God (Joe Blumberg)
Day 2: Making the Earth Sacred (David Kraemer)
Day 3: The Earth Exhales (Sarah Rockford)
Day 4: Becoming our Ought Selves (Anna Bruder)
Day 5: Who’s Responsible for the Fire (Andy Weissfeld)
Day 6: Drilling a Hole (Ilana Sandberg)
Day 7: Miracles and Scarcity (Dr. Shira Billet)
Day 8: For the Good (Aiden Pink)

Day 1: Climate Justice in Partnership with God
Joe Blumberg, 1^st year Rabbinical School student.

The task of pursuing climate justice can feel daunting. Composting feels like too little but going to marches and phonebanks feels like a lot, and we are too often stuck in the uncomfortable in-between of taking no action at all. I often felt like there are not enough hours in the day to throw myself at the massive walls of climate catastrophe going up all around us. I have been hesitant to dive in, afraid that my efforts would be laughably meager in the face of billion-dollar corporations and seemingly unshakeable incentive structures that keep us hurtling towards the environmental brink.

But in a different light, climate justice can be understood as the holy and obligatory work of partnering with the Divine.To me, that is tremendously exciting. Jewish tradition compels us to recognize when we are living in untenable times that threaten our future, and to overcome our own despair to protect creation.Reframed as an inherent part of our natural religiosity as Jews, we can see climate justice not as an additional task in our daily obligations, but another opportunity to deepen Jewish expression and our commitment to God. To say it better than I ever could, I will turn the mic over to our teacher, Rabbi Heschel:

“Religious existence is living in solidarity with God. Yet to maintain such solidarity involves knowing how to rise, how to cross an abyss. Vested interests are more numerous than locusts, and of solidarity of character there is only a smattering. Too much devotion is really too little…

To be moderate in the face of God would be a profanation…for the darkness is neither final nor complete. Our power is first in waiting for the end of darkness, for the defeat of evil; and our power is also in coming upon single sparks and occasional rays, upon moments full of God’s grace and radiance. We are called to bring together the sparks to preserve single moments of radiance and keep them alive in our lives, to defy absurdity and despair, and to wait for God to say again: 

Let there be light.

And there will be light.”

Abraham Joshua Heschel, “On Prayer,” from Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity

As Dayenu’s fossil fuel campaign fellow, I am excited to share that Dayenu’s report , which describes the state of fossil fuel investments in the American Jewish community. The report lays out a roadmap for how American Jewish organizations across the country can take a massive step towards healing our world by aligning our investments with our Jewish values and investing in a clean energy future.  We in the 91�첥 family have a unique opportunity to play a pivotal role in this work.

This Hanukkah, may the “single sparks and occasional rays” of our hanukkiayah remind us for eight consecutive nights to stand in solidarity with the Divine and take steps towards involving ourselves in the pursuit of climate justice. This Hanukkah, as we partner with God to increase light and joy over the course of the week, let us also be inspired to partner with God to heal our sick planet. This Hanukkah, may we be reminded that despite steep odds, the Jewish community can take bold and transformative action to change our planet’s fate. Let us overcome our hesitancy to dive in. Hanukkah sameah!

Day 2: Making the Earth Sacred
Dr. David Kraemer, Joseph J. and Dora Abbell Librarian and Professor of Talmud and Rabbinics.

The Tanakh’s priestly tradition emphasizes that the earth on which we live is the Lord’s, and we are but “resident aliens” upon it (Lev 25:23). In practical terms, this means that we must take responsibility for the earth and its products–observing its sabbaticals, restoring properties during the Jubilee. On a deeper level, this means that the earth is “inherently” sacred. The rabbis translate their recognition of this fact into a simple but profound teaching: “anyone who benefits from this world without first reciting a blessing has as though stolen from the sacred” (Berakhot 35a-b).

But what is “sacred,” and what does it mean to be “inherently” so? Contemporary scholars of ritual teach us to be suspicious of such categories, arguing that we make something sacred through our actions in relation to it. Indeed, this is precisely the lesson of Hannukah. Before the Middle Ages, there was no such thing as a Hannukah lamp. Instead, the rabbis of Late Antiquity taught us to take common oil lamps and place them in a particular way at a particular time–outside of one’s door facing the public domain, on the right side of the door, from the time of the sun’s decline until footsteps were no longer heard in the shuk. Lighting flames in this way at this time, accompanied by blessings, made common oil lamps into the symbols of divine intervention in the history of Israel. The common was rendered sacred.

If the earth is not inherently sacred, then we must make it so through our actions, through our protection of = responsibility for its gifts. If it is inherently sacred, we must do the same. Either way (“mi-ma nafshach“), if we neglect to do so, we are “stealing from God and the community of Israel” (for our purposes: the community of humankind; Berakhot 35b). Let us commit ourselves to the sacred, whatever its source.

Day 3: The Earth Exhales
Sarah Rockford, 2^nd year Rabbinical School student.

Did you know that the earth breathes? In winter, as the Northern Hemisphere rotates away from the sun, some of the CO₂ taken up by vegetation in the summer, sighs back into the atmosphere. Watch  of this natural process from NASA and you’ll see that the rhythmic summer inhale and winter exhale, mirror the way we breathe. Imagine the earth exhaling and nodding off like a loved one drifting to sleep next to you as you whisper the Shema and wait for your own sleep to come.  

As the earth slumbers around us, dreaming through the shortest days of the year, we keep the night-watch and illuminate the dark with little lights. Many different cultures and faiths celebrate light in the dark of winter. In Jewish tradition, Hanukkah candles bear witness to a great miracle.   

What miracle? An unlikely military triumph? A flask of everlasting oil? Or perhaps, they bear witness to a more primal miracle. Each year, Hanukkah begins on the 25th of Kislev, when the moon is a waning sliver in the sky. These are the longest nights of the year, and our Hanukkah candles stir the earth and remind her that she can’t slumber forever. It is time to slowly start working her way back towards the light. On the winter solstice, December 21^st, we’ll light our fourth candle, and the scales will tip, and the days will begin, imperceptibly at first, to grow lighter. 

May your Hanukkah be one of attunement to the quiet beauty of the dark, dormant world. May you emulate the earth in deep rest, and may your candles serve as a miraculous reminder that at the end of Hanukkah, the earth will have again begun to swing towards the light – the days will grow longer, and one day, a few months from now, the earth with inhale deeply and wake up to summer. 

Inspired by Arthur Waskow on

Day 4: Becoming Our Ought Selves
Anna Bruder, 1^st year Rabbinical School student

This week I will return to the west coast of Canada where I am from. There I will climb the local mountains and kayak the local waters. I will spend time immersed in the rejuvenating powers of the west coast rainforests, preparing for my second semester of rabbinical school. When I am surrounded by the forests or the mountains, or when I am on the water, I am reminded of a teaching from Kohelet Rabbah. When I am surrounded by these great acts of creation, I stop and think of God telling Adam:

“כמה נאים ומשובחין הן”
Look at what I created, look at how beautiful and wonderful it all is. Kohelet Rabbah goes on to say “שאם קלקלת אין מי שיתקן אחריך”
that if we, the humans, mess up what God created, there is no one after us to fix it.

What I failed to mention when describing kayaking through these waters and hiking these mountains, was that I am surrounded by oil tankers, their daunting figures visible from the peaks of the mountains. What do we do if we are the ones ruining God’s creation? How do we become the other people? The ones who can fix this. It starts with opening our eyes and coming to terms with the fact that we are part of the problem. But we are also  part of the solution.

Author Daniel H. Pink writes that there are three versions of each of us: the actual self, the ideal self (what we believe we could be), and the ought self (what we believe we should be). In this midrash and in our shared reality, we are all three versions of ourselves. The actual self walks in the modern Gan Eden with God, seeing the beauty of creation that is our world, but also destroying it. We need to shift from our actual selves to our ought selves, with an eye to our commitments and responsibilities,  who are motivated by our teachings and our call to justice. We must harness the power of our community to shift to the version of ourselves that can stop the destruction of all that is  (beautiful and wonderful) נאים ומשובחין. As future rabbis, we must lead this fight for climate justice. Only then will we have the chance to see this beauty for generations to come.

DAY 5: Who’s Responsible for the Fire?
Andy Weissfeld, 5^th year Rabbinical School student

One of the most extensive discussions about Hanukkah in Jewish text appears in Talmud Shabbat. On daf 21b, the Gemara asks “Why Hanukkah?” The text tells the story about the oil that lasted eight nights. However, immediately after explaining the miracle, the Talmud   explores a hypothetical situation about damages that a lit hanukkiah may cause. Under normal circumstances, if a piece of flax fell off a camel into someone’s shop and it caught fire, the camel driver would be liable due to negligence. Given that on Hanukkah one should place their hanukkiah right outside their door, the Rabbis argue that perhaps the storekeeper should be liable, if on Hanukkah, a hanukkiah were to ignite the stray piece of flax and cause damage. However, Rabbi Yehudah clarifies that the camel driver should still bear responsibility, as one should not be discouraged from celebrating the holiday.

Even though this debate fizzles out, it raises an important conversation about predictable, yet unintended consequences that result from our actions. One of the first things that the Rabbis think about after describing the miracle and celebration of Hanukkah is the potential consequences of many people lighting fires near their places of residence. We can extend this same lesson to our personal and collective behaviors related to the environment. Before undertaking major projects, making a big decision, or large purchase, it behooves individuals, and especially large governments and organizations, to consider the environmental impact of their future actions. At first, just like the Hanukkiah, something can seem like it has no drawbacks or negative consequences. However, we know that playing with fire is dangerous, so it demands proper precautions and responsible management. May the Hanukkah lights remind us to celebrate sustainably, not only this year, but for many years to come.

Day 6: Drilling a Hole
Ilana Sandberg, 4^th Year Rabbinical School student

Two years ago as I stood before a small community in upstate New York on Rosh Hashana, chanting the Unetaneh Tokef prayer, I choked up as I read the words that outlined who shall live and who shall die. I could barely sing the words “who by plague”. This year, as I stood in the very same spot, I was once again paralyzed as I read the words “who will perish by fire and who by water”. I find myself and others I speak to, all too often paralyzed by the fear of what environmental disaster will strike next as we dread what may come in the future. 

While in the Rabbinic period the concept of climate crisis was centuries in the future, the rabbis discuss and struggle with topics that are timeless, becoming relevant in a new way as we search for direction in meaning in a scary world. We find a striking parable in Vayikra Rabba:

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai taught a parable: people were on a ship. One of them took a drill and started drilling underneath himself (i.e. where he was standing). The others said to him: What are you doing?! He replied: What do you care? Is this not underneath my area that I am drilling?! They said to him: But the water will rise and flood us all on this ship. 

Vayikra Rabba 4:6

We are drilling holes (both literally and figuratively) in our earth every day. We are deciding how many holes we drill every time we make choices about the food we eat, the places we shop, and the companies and organizations we support. It is easy to say that the choices I make only affect me or are small enough to be insignificant, but the sailors in the parable know better. We are drilling holes in our earth and it will sink us all. For a long time, the ship we call earth was keeping us afloat despite the small holes but we can no longer hang on to this false sense of security. Our ship is sinking and we need to do something about it. 

I have turned to environmental books, leaders, and organizations to learn how I can stop drilling as many holes. I have turned to to see if there is a way to patch the holes we already drilled. Our decisions affect the broader community, not just one individual. We have the power to understand that our actions effect the world and that we are  capable of doing something about it. We need to be God’s partner in deciding who shall live and who shall die and that partnership starts with us taking climate action. 

Day 7: Miracles and Scarcity
Dr. Shira Billet, Assistant Professor of Jewish Thought and Ethics

In Emmanuel Levinas’s philosophical readings of the Talmud, the philosopher is careful to distinguish between what he does – i.e., philosophy – and the Talmud itself, which makes no claim to being a work of philosophy. Nevertheless, Levinas thinks there is philosophy in the Talmud. This is because, for Levinas, the source of all philosophy is reflection upon lived life and lived experience. “If the Talmud is not philosophy, its tractates are an eminent source of those experiences from which philosophies derive their nourishment.” For Levinas, in many of the Talmud’s legal discussions, the rabbis are “arguing about fundamental ideas without appearing to do so.”

As part of Dayenu’s “Eight Days of Climate Torah” over the eight days of Hannukah, I want to present the Talmudic discussion of the miracle of Hannukah along with its biblical intertext as a site for a philosophical reading of Jewish sources in a Levinasian register. This reading brings together lived life and philosophical reflection and is attuned, in particular, to some of the central issues that are of concern in contemporary ecological ethics and climate justice. In keeping with Levinas’s concerns with philosophical ethics, my focus will be on some of the human, social, and communal aspects of climate crises.

In the books of Maccabees, historical accounts of the Hasmonean-Greek wars, no mention is made of the famous miracle of oil that burned for eight days. This miracle is mentioned in Megillat Antiochus (the scroll of Antiochus), and more famously, in the Talmud. In Tractate Shabbat, the Talmud states that the festival was established to commemorate a miracle upon the conclusion of the Hasmonean-Greek war. During the Greek-Hasmonean wars, the Greek powers had defiled the storehouses of pure oil in the Temple. Only one pure cannister of oil remained, containing enough oil to light the Temple’s golden Menorah for only a single day. The Menorah was lit with this one canister of oil. Miraculously, the oil continued to burn for eight days until more pure oil could be procured. An eight-day long holiday was established, on which “no mourning or fasting” would take place.

I want to highlight a few aspects of this miracle that are relevant for our thinking about ecological ethics and climate justice. Our attention is called to a scene of devastation after a war and the scarcity that reigns in the aftermath of war. The war was over, and the Hasmoneans had won, but devastation and deprivation were manifest everywhere. The holiday that is established is described as a pause on mourning and fasting, rather than as a moment of unmitigated joy and celebration. There is a need to conserve resources and to do the impossible: to make insufficient resources last longer than imaginable, longer than they possibly can. The deprivation was not merely physical, but spiritual. The inability to access clean or pure staples needed for life – such as oil or water – is not merely of concern for physical wellbeing, but for spiritual wellbeing. Of course, in this version of the story, the spiritual aspect of the scarcity is emphasized, with a focus on the need for clean oil for the Temple service, and not, say, for preparing food.

We are reminded again of the physical realities that underly this spirit-focused story when we consider the biblical intertext for this miracle of a scarcity of oil that was somehow made to be sufficient. In 2 Kings 4, a widow turns to Elisha the prophet in a moment of financial desperation. Her husband had died, leaving herself and her children destitute and weighed down by crushing debt. Her children were on the brink of being sold into slavery by creditors. Elisha asks her what she has in her home. The widow replies: “but one jug of oil.” That’s it. Elisha instructs her to borrow empty vessels from all of her neighbors and to shut the door to her home behind her. She is then to pour from her jug of oil into each of the vessels until each one is full. She does so, and her one jug of oil continues to pour oil until all the vessels become full of oil, at which point her jug finally becomes empty. The prophet then tells her to sell the oil, pay the debt, and raise her children in peace with the remainder.

The story of the widow who turned to the prophet Elisha deepens our understanding of the miracle of Hannukah. While the Hannukah story focuses on the big institutions that were affected and devastated by the Hasmonean-Greek war – the Temple itself, and religious observance – the literary connection to the earlier biblical story of Elisha and the widow calls our attention to what was happening all around the temple at the time of Hannukah. Surely, it was not just pure Temple oil that was scarce after a war, but also oil in the homes of women and children who had become widowed and orphaned during the war. The story of Elisha and the widow also calls our attention to poverty in general, and especially to insurmountable debt, and the compounding losses these bring in their wake, injustices in the structure of society that are exacerbated in times of war and crisis. The need to conserve, and to stretch the finite, the scant, the almost non-existent to its limits is fundamental to life and survival under these circumstances. This story also calls attention to the community and the friendship that is found, even under the worst of circumstances. There would be no miracle of oil if there weren’t many borrowed jugs from friends who were likely impoverished and suffering too, but still willing to share what they had with one another and to support one another through hard times.

I want to suggest that these two stories must be read together, for the reasons I already suggested: The biblical story helps us widen the frame on the later Hannukah story to see lived life that is happening all around the big institutions, and the injustices we risk perpetuating when we are not looking at this more holistic picture. But I also want to suggest that the Hannukah story sheds light on the biblical story, by reminding us that scarcity is not only a problem for physical wellbeing, but also for spiritual wellbeing, and that both are crucial to survival in times of crisis and devastation. The two oils are equally important, and in times of crisis, it is important to conserve both.

Ecological ethics and climate justice call our attention not only to the physical world and to the need to conserve and preserve it, but to the human devastation that is caused by climate crises: war, mass poverty, mass scarcity and deprivation. While it is important for climate justice to focus its attention on all that can be done to prevent these things from happening, it is important not to lose sight of the ways in which philosophy, ethics, and Jewish thought can helps us think about how to be, and how to find meaning, hope, and community, if and when these things come to pass.

I draw out three elements of these two stories taken together:

First, they remind us of the need to act on the basis of hope in times of crisis and hardship. Lighting the menorah with enough oil to last for one day, even though there was not enough to get through the next day, was an act of hope. It was a way of saying: We’re going to celebrate this moment that we have right now, without worrying about the fact that it may not – cannot – last. Gathering those jugs from friends, starting to pour the oil, was also a profound act of hope, almost to the point of absurdity. Sometimes, good things last longer than expected. We can only discover this when we act on the basis of hope.

Second, the two stories taken together remind us that institutional life and the lives of individuals are deeply intertwined. The conditions of one mirror the conditions of the other. We must always pay attention to both – and never lose sight of one for the other – because survival and flourishing depend on healthy private lives and healthy institutions. By institutions I mean both our spiritual and other centers that organize communal life – where we shine light from large structures – and also institutions like friendship and local community – the folks we borrow a jug from when we’ve run out – and the family and the home. When it feels like there is little to celebrate or hope for, friends and community and places to come together over what we value most will help us get through.

Finally, the Talmud’s description of eight festive days as “days on which there is no eulogizing or fasting” implies that we can – indeed we must – find ways to lean into joy and celebration even while there is also pain and loss. Joy and hope coexist with grief. The Talmud focuses on this in a religious and institutional context, whereas the story of the widow and the prophet Elisha sheds light on the local, small scale, private joy that is found by celebrating family, friendship, and community even amid pain, loss, and profound hardship. Pausing grief temporarily to make space for joy does not mean we aren’t attuned to all the problems we face. To the contrary, finding hope and joy give us the strength we need to face the complex challenges that lie ahead.

Day 8: For the Good
Aiden Pink, 3^rd Year Rabbinical School student

Every fall, as the days grow noticeably shorter, Jews around the world begin to ask the same question – when is  Hanukkah this year? From Thanksgivukkah to Chrismukkah and beyond, we know that the Festival of Lights is sometime in November or December, but its arrival on the Gregorian calendar always seems random and haphazard. Luckily, there’s another Jewish observance that falls around this time of year on an entirely predictable date: the seasonal changing of the Birkat Hashanim prayer on December 4^th (with a one-day deviation to December 5^th every fourth year).

One of the 19 prayers included in the weekday Amidah, Birkat Hashanim asks God to “grant blessing upon the earth,” but in the Diaspora, from December 4^th/5^th to Pesah – prime rainy season in Babylonia –  the prayer instead asks for “dew and rain for blessing upon the earth.” (In Israel, the changeover happens earlier, on Shmini Atzeret). The reason why this change is marked on the Gregorian calendar rather than the Hebrew one is complicated, having to do with equinoxes, Julius Caesar, and a 16^th century pope. But the change is notable not just for its rationale but also in the power of the change itself: it forces the worshipper to pay close attention to every word in the prayer, to make sure they say the version corresponding with the right season. And for me, the most powerful phrase in Birkat Hashanim occurs right before the seasonal variation, asking God to bless “all manner of produce for good (��’t�DZ�����).”

In a prayer that focuses on agriculture and sustenance – asking for the blessings of rain and harvest – it makes sense to ask for blessings for all the many different types of crops. But why does it say ��’t�DZ�����? It seems obvious that a blessing over produce would lead to them being tov, so why mention it at all?

In his 1980 book To Pray as a Jew, Rabbi Hayim Halevy Donin had a possible answer:

If there is waste, mismanagement, and corruption, there can be scarcity despite an abundant harvest. It is quite possible that people will be unable to afford what the blessed earth provides….We also want God’s blessings to be good for us in the long run as well. If as a result of being blessed with abundance, we indulge our vices and turn our backs on the moral and spiritual values that God wishes us to pursue, can such abundance be regarded as having been ‘for good’? Or if the granting of our wishes creates conditions that lead to self-destruction or that cause children to go astray, can such answered prayers be regarded as having been good or beneficial to us?

Our society is built on extraction from the earth. The United States has a surplus of food made from the crops we’ve grown, and yet there is hunger and food scarcity across the country. And while fossil fuels have made possible the modern society in which we live, their use has also created the conditions that are leading us to self-destruction. The word ��’t�DZ����� reminds us that abundance means nothing if it is not sustainable or equitably shared, and that the Jewish vision of blessing the earth includes making sure that what comes out of it truly benefits us – and benefits the earth itself – in the long run, rather than hurting us. As we pay close attention to the words of the Amidah this season, we must consider the ways in which we can do better, on both individual and institutional levels, at partnering with God to make sure our abundance is truly ��’t�DZ�����.

Being Raised from the Pit (Rabbi Simeon Cohen, RS 17): The Story of Joseph, Dara Horn’s The Guide to the Perplexed, and Hanukkah

Why Did the Seleucid State “Persecute” the Jews? (Dr. Nathan Schumer): Re-examining the actions that led to the Maccabee revolt

Short Videos

A Hanukkah Message from 91�첥 Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz (5781)

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Miracles of Today (Chancellor Shuly Rubin Schwartz): Adapting Jewish traditions provided a way to bolster Jewish pride and identification

Joseph, Hanukkah, and the Dilemmas of Assimilation (Chancellor Emeritus Arnold Eisen): How much distinctiveness should Jews maintain in a society and culture like ours that offers unprecedented opportunity and freedom?

�Ѿ����ٳ�—H���Գܰ�첹��—T�󲹲԰�����������Բ� (Dr. Burton Visotzky): A celebration of the achievements of Jews in America

Holy Innovation and the Holiday of Hanukkah (Rabbi Danny Nevins): “Hanukkah always feels contemporary because most Jews continue to feel conflicted by its themes of integration and separation from surrounding cultures.”

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The True Story of Hanukkah (Dr. Ben Sommer): Reflecting on the English and Hebrew versions of the song Mi Yemalleil

Audio

Al Hanissim
Composed by Mike Boxer of the Jewish a cappella group Six13 and performed by the Chorus of the H. L. Miller Cantorial School and College of Jewish Music.

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