Kaddish for a Troubled World

With today being Asarah beTevet, our universal kaddish day, our musical member Max Stern has shared with us a composition to match the mood of the moment, “Kaddish for a troubled world", for solo baritone and choir.

Writing about this work, Max explains:

Kaddish for a troubled world" relates to Kaddish both as a doxology in praise of the Creator and as a eulogy in mourning for the departed. This Kaddish speaks of a "day which is neither day and nor night." It is addressed to our world, to our own time, by the angels: Karev yom, karev yom asher hu lo yom velo laila.

The real question: Is mankind to live in a world of peace and brotherhood, love and concern for the other and finally come together at the dawn of a new era – the Messianic Age? Or is humanity destined to mourn a world moving into a dark night; unable to overcome age-old jealously, fear, and greed; misusing divine gifts, science and technology for perverse ends—the blessing of life destroyed?

You can listen to Kaddish for a Troubled World here.

From Revelation to Responsibility: Vayigash 5786

This piece was originally published in Hanassi Highlights on 25 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew (translated by ChatGPT) here.

From Revelation to Responsibility

This week we mark Asara b’Tevet—the fast commemorating the beginning of the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem. It is the first step in a slow, tightening process that ends in the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. A siege begins quietly, through mounting pressure. But spiritual collapse, the Torah shows us, often begins more quietly still—not with armies, but with fractures in our relationships.

Parshat Vayigash is a study in the opposite movement—not constriction, but revelation; not estrangement, but approach. Yehuda steps forward, speaks directly to power, and takes responsibility for his youngest brother. Yosef steps out from concealment and answers his brothers not with accusation, but with identity restored: “I am Yosef—is my father still alive?” (Bereishit 45:3).

Among the most powerful scenes leading into this moment occurs in last week’s parsha, when Yosef meets Binyamin. The Torah describes Yosef hurrying aside to cry, overwhelmed by compassion (Bereishit 43:30). Rashi, quoting Chazal, explains that these brothers’ tears were not only personal, but prophetic:

·       Yosef cried for the two Batei M
ikdash that would one day stand in Binyamin’s portion and be destroyed.

·       Binyamin cried for Mishkan Shiloh, destined for Yosef’s portion, which would also be destroyed.

The obvious question is why Chazal saw the need to distance Yosef and Binyamin’s tears from this direct encounter into visions of the future? Why not simply say that their tears were due to the long separation they had endured?

Rav Chaim Drukman zt”l explains that Chazal’s intent was not to displace the simple meaning—of course brothers weep when decades of absence collapse into a single embrace. Rather, they were illuminating a deeper question: What created a world in which brothers could be torn apart, and sacred homes could be torn down? What led to the tears? What led to the churban?

The answer goes back to the root of the fracture – when jealousy and hatred between the brothers first begins to emerge:

“lo yachlu dabro le-shalom—they could not speak to him in peace.” (Bereishit 37:4)

The tragedy began not with an invasion, but with a failure of speech, recognition, and responsibility. The sale of Yosef was not merely a family crisis—it was the prototype of a Jewish story that would tragically repeat itself throughout the ages.

The correction occurs in our parsha. Two decades after proposing the sale, Yehuda returns and this time does something entirely different. He becomes a model of arvut—personal responsibility for the welfare of his brother.

Asara b’Tevet reminds us how a siege begins. Vayigash reminds us how a nation heals—through the courage to speak, the willingness to step forward, and the refusal to let a brother face darkness alone.

In days of mounting pressure, we must choose which language to speak: the silence of fracture, or the speech of peace; the logic of distance, or the loyalty of responsibility.

May this week strengthen in us a renewed commitment to clarity, unity, and mutual responsibility, so that the chain of churban that once began in silence will, in our days, end in rebuilding.

Shabbat Shalom!

Drawing Water from the Depths: Yosef, Yehuda, and the Power That Reunites Am Yisrael

 This powerful piece by our member Rabbi Paul Bloom discerns a message from the past that we should take to our hearts for the future.

“Deep waters are counsel in the heart of a man, but a man of understanding will draw them out” (Mishlei 20:5).

Chazal explain that deep waters are a metaphor for a person facing an extremely profound problem—one upon which an enormous amount depends. Such a person does not merely need comfort; he needs counsel, wisdom, and a solution that can chart a way forward.

The Gemara identifies Yosef as the embodiment of this verse. Yosef represents the extraordinary power of mo’ach—of wisdom, insight, and strategic brilliance. He is not merely an interpreter of dreams; he is a problem-solver on a national and even civilizational scale. When Pharaoh dreams, Yosef does not stop at explaining the symbolism. He offers a comprehensive master plan: how to restructure the Egyptian economy, preserve grain for years without spoilage, and sustain an entire region through famine. Innovation, foresight, and practical genius flow from the deep waters of Yosef’s mind.

But now Yosef faces a challenge far greater than famine or economics. He must determine whether his fractured family—torn apart by jealousy, hatred, and the sale of a brother—can ever be reunited. Can Klal Yisrael come back together after such a moral catastrophe?

The verse in Mishlei continues: “But a man of understanding will draw it out.” To draw water (dalya) from deep wells requires strength, courage, and resolve. This is where Yehuda enters the story.

Two Forces Meet: Yosef and Yehuda

We now see two towering figures facing one another. Yosef possesses the amok—the depth, the brilliance, the master plan. Yehuda possesses the lev—the lion’s heart. He is the aryeh, the one with passion, responsibility, courage, and moral determination. Yehuda does something unprecedented. He declares: “I became a guarantor for this boy, for Binyamin. I laid my very life on the line for him. There is no reality in which I allow him to be taken.” No one in the Torah has ever spoken this way before. This is absolute arevut—total responsibility for another human being. Yehuda is not negotiating. He is not strategizing. He is offering himself.

And when Yosef hears this, everything changes. This is the moment Yosef has been waiting for. Chazal tell us that, once Yosef hears Yehuda’s words, “he could no longer restrain himself.” He reveals his identity. Until now, Yosef’s behavior had been utterly incomprehensible to the brothers. Why is this Egyptian ruler tormenting us? Why frame Binyamin for a crime he clearly did not commit? Why reopen old wounds?

The answer is that Yosef was not seeking revenge. On the contrary, he was full of forgiveness. But forgiveness alone could not rebuild Klal Yisrael. Yosef needed a key—and that key was hearing Yehuda say: We will never make the same mistake again. That is the essence of teshuva. As the Rambam teaches, true repentance is proven when a person encounters the same situation again and responds differently. Yehuda declares: we failed once, we regret it profoundly, and we will not fail again—at any cost.

At that moment, Yosef knows the family can be rebuilt.

The Fusion That Creates Redemption

The Zohar reveals something remarkable. Every morning in our tefillah, we say Shema Yisrael and immediately proceed to V’haya im shamoa. Halachically, we are forbidden to interrupt between them. Why? Because these are not merely two adjacent paragraphs. They represent two distinct spiritual forces that must fuse. Shema is intellectual reaffirmation—clarity of belief, understanding, vision. It is Yosef. V’haya is emotional engagement—standing before Hashem with desire, longing, responsibility, and asking for our needs. It is Yehuda.

The fusion of these two powers generates the spiritual “nuclear energy” of Klal Yisrael. Wisdom without heart is sterile. Passion without wisdom is dangerous. Redemption requires both. This fusion begins in Sefer Bereishit with the initial clash—and ultimate union—between Yosef and Yehuda. It is therefore no coincidence that the Beit HaMikdash was built on the border of Yehuda and Binyamin. Part stood in Yehuda’s territory, part in Binyamin’s. This bond—created through Yehuda’s guarantee for Binyamin—was never lost. It became the geographic and spiritual heart of the Jewish people.

Arevut in Our Time

We have witnessed this power in our own days. Over the past couple of years of suffering in Eretz Yisrael, we have seen Klal Yisrael come together with extraordinary arevut. People opening their homes, their wallets, and their hearts. Volunteers arriving simply to help.

So many people have come to Israel, but they did not tour. They volunteered. They lived in tents, worked agricultural fields under primitive conditions, and asked for nothing in return—except the chance to help their people. This is Yehuda’s legacy alive today.

Before this moment in the Torah, the family stood on the brink of permanent disintegration. But Yosef’s master plan was never about punishment. It was about creating the conditions for teshuva, responsibility, and unity. And once Yehuda stepped forward, Yosef drew the deep waters out—and the family was reborn.

Be a Shamash

With Chanukah  in the rear-view mirror, we need to understand the importance of the shamash. One might think it is merely a technical candle, but in truth it carries a profound lesson. The shamash lights all the other candles. It protects their sanctity. It exists not for itself, but to ignite others.

Each of us is called upon to be a shamash—to light others, to awaken arevut, to protect the holiness and unity of Klal Yisrael. That was the secret of the unity between Yosef and Yehuda. And that unity remains our greatest hope for the future.

Calamitous Contentment

Were the experiences of Yaakov Avinu and his descendants in Egypt the prototype of subsequent exiles, going from comfort to suffering? And did our forefather make the wrong choice? Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger investigates.

Between the years 800 and 1930 various countries, municipalities, principalities, noblemen, Church officials, and angry mobs in Europe expelled the Jews from their homes. This happened more than 130 times. As we know, after that date the strategy devolved to one of extermination. In many instances, the Jews enjoyed periods when they were accepted and welcomed as productive members of their communities. In earlier times, they may have had a second-class status, but they had their niche as merchants and in finance—and even mingled with the upper echelons of the citizenry. After emancipation arrived in various countries, they assimilated into the professions and universities and into the worlds of science, art and culture. In other words, although their situation was often precarious, Jews often lived in a fantasy world, the world of “this time will be different”: their neighbors accepted them, they were protected, they were safe, nothing could happen to them. But it did – time and time again. Their comfort resulted in such a credible illusion that they were unable to believe or accept the inevitable as they were led to their near extinction.

Today we are once again witnessing such denial. Jews and their communities in the diaspora suffer: in South America (Buenos Aries), in India (Mumbai), in Australia (Bondi Beach) in the US (Pittsburgh), in France (Toulouse and Montauban) and in New York (multiple incidents on subways, at synagogues and on the streets). Antisemitism is rampant.  Individual Jews and their communities face threats from the Left and the Right: from college campuses and from social media; from influential political commentators and from political leaders. Then there is the rising number of Moslems that are asserting their brand of aggressive power over polite and civilized society.

Nevertheless, most Jews either remain in denial or are so comfortable with the trappings of the material bounty they enjoy that they cannot accept their predicament and reach for their best alternative – their spiritual legacy and true homeland.

They are not alone: they are simply modeling their behavior after their forefather  Yaakov – the choicest and purest of the Avot insofar as all twelve of his sons,were likewise untainted. After experiencing two difficult exiles, in the house of Lavan and in Egypt, he should have yearned for a return to the Land of Israel. Instead, in parashat Vayigash we find that, once the famine ended, “the Jews remained in the Land of Goshen, and they prospered and became very fruitful” (Bereishit 47:27). Yaakov and his sons were so comfortable. Yet a generation or so later they would be enslaved, initiating the pattern of classic antisemitic tropes (Shemot 1:9-10). How was this possible?

History has shown us time and time again how this was possible. Today, despite the warning signs, we have a front row seat to yet another round in this cycle. However, as regards Yaakov, we perhaps should not be so quick to judge. He at least could justify his choice (although one could ask whether he was required to so choose). Turn back to Yaakov’s first “exile.” As he is escaping the wrath of his brother for having taken the berachah of the first-born, fleeing to Padan Aram, something interesting occurs. Yitzchak’s parting words are: “(He) should give to you and your children with you Avraham’s blessing to inherit the land you reside in, that He gave to Avraham” (Bereishit 28:4). In other words, Yaakov did not take the berachah. Yitzchak always intended to pass to him the legacy of Avraham and that legacy was the berachah of Avraham -- the land.

So when did this berachah—this commitment regarding the land—become effective? In truth Hashem dangled this promise before Avram several times, reaching the point where a frustrated Avram finally asked, “How do I know that I will really inherit it?” (Bereishit 15:8). So, Hashem enters into a covenant with him, the brit ben habetarim. The terms were as follows: The Jews would be exiled to a foreign land for four hundred years; they would be enslaved there and, in the end, they would be redeemed with great wealth and given the land (Bereishit 15:13-14). This is when the right of Avram’s children to the land would be fixed.

Yaakov received both the legacy and the burden of this blessing. When he sojourned to Egypt to reunite the entire family – something he thought would never happen from the time Yosef was lost to him – he recognized that this was the beginning of the process that would result in the fulfillment of the berachah. He thus knew that he must choose to stay in Egypt. He remained with his eyes wide open, knowing that his children and their succeeding four generations would suffer.

Is this really what Hashem wanted for Bnei Yisrael? We cannot know. All we know is that this is the choice Yaakov made. And, as they say, the rest is history.

What we do know, with the advantage of hindsight and now with the wisdom of the ages is that, as successive generations of Jews have made this same choice, it has only resulted in catastrophe. There are no beneficial exiles, there are not even benign ones. Blissful ignorance or, worse, contentment leads only to calamity.

Psalms that Speak to You, by Yitzchok Leib Bell (Book of the Month, Tevet 5786)

Psalms that Speak to You, described as "a clear and meaningful translation for our generation", is a volume that many Anglophone Israelis own -- and which has been much in use over the past two years when we have been drawn into the regular recitation of Tehillim for the members of our armed forces, for those held captive and those in need of a refuah shelemah. 

The emotional profundity and spiritual depth of the 150 psalms that make up our canonical book cannot be doubted. Somehow, however, their meaning eludes us and we are left to do our best with words and poetical modes of expression that are not so familiar. This is where Psalms that Speak to You comes in. The English translation is plain and idiomatic, while losing none of the dignity of the Hebrew. In terms of its presentational format, the large, clear print is easy on the eye and the translation lies directly opposite the Hebrew on the page.

The author, Yitzchok Leib Bell, lives locally. He is a member of Beit Knesset Hanassi.

The Strength of Being Seen: Miketz 5786

This devar Torah was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 18 December 2025. You can also read it in Hebrew (thanks to ChatGPT) by clicking here.

The interaction between Yosef and Pharaoh is one of the more surprising encounters in Sefer Bereishit. Yosef is summoned from prison after two long years of silence and disappointment and brought before the most powerful ruler of his time. He faces what might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to secure his future. How might we expect him to act?

One might imagine that Yosef would try to blend in. At the very least, to soften the edges of his difference. To speak in a way that sounds familiar, acceptable and safe. After all, we know that Esther, generations later, conceals her Jewish identity in the Persian palace. Survival, it would seem, sometimes requires discretion.

Yet Yosef does nothing of the sort.

From his very first response to Pharaoh, Yosef marks himself as different. When asked if he can interpret dreams, he replies without hesitation: “Bil’adai—it is not me; God will answer Pharaoh’s welfare.” He does not credit his own brilliance, nor does he translate his faith into neutral terms. Yosef speaks openly, in a distinctly Jewish register, naming God without apology or calculation.

What is striking is how Pharaoh responds. Rather than recoiling from this difference, he is drawn to it. Yosef’s clarity, integrity, and rootedness inspire confidence. He is elevated not in spite of his identity, but alongside it. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l once captured this dynamic succinctly: “Non-Jews respect Jews who respect Judaism.” Yosef does not seek legitimacy by erasing who he is; he earns it by standing firmly within it.

This theme resonates powerfully as we approach Chanukah. The mitzvah of lighting the Chanukiah is centered in the Jewish home, yet placed where its light can be seen. Pirsumei nisa emerges not from the public square, but from a place of rooted identity. Chanukah affirms a Judaism that is visible because it is lived, not because it is proclaimed.

The symbol of Chanukah is oil, and Chazal famously compare Am Yisrael to the olive. Oil does not mix. No matter how vigorously it is shaken, it always rises to the top and separates again. For generations, Jews believed that perhaps this time we could fully blend in, finally fit in, finally disappear into the surrounding culture. History has taught us, repeatedly, that this was an illusion.

Even in our own days, recent tragic events have reminded us how fragile acceptance can be, and how quickly ancient hatreds resurface. The response cannot be confined to fear and retreat. It must be quiet strength and dignified confidence.

Yosef embodies a Jewish identity that is neither concealed nor apologetic. His faith is visible, his values intact, his presence grounded and confident. Like olives, we may be pressed, and at times deeply shaken—yet we endure. And across Jewish history, often in the most painful of moments, it has been precisely this quiet fidelity—rooted in who we are and in our trust in Hashem—that has sustained us.

Shabbat Shalom and Chanukah Sameach!

Chanukah: How Do We Get it So Wrong?

 Here's another surprise from our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger, who asks if we have missed the point of Chanukah completely. 

Since our early childhoods we all have a special fondness for Chanukah. What a joy! Presents – perhaps on all eight days, and maybe even more from grandparents and aunts and uncles and friends – an absolute bonanza. Then there are the latkes and sufganiot. Add on high stakes games of dreidel, parties, and festive meals and we have a holiday quite different from the typical “shul-fest.” Even the sole ritualistic element, lighting the menorah, in many homes where each child regardless of age participates with their own, is not a burden but an expression of love and appreciation.

If we dig deep enough, we can find many reasons, not a single uniform one, for each of these practices; the gift giving and dreidel game, the particular foods and even the many aspects of lighting the menorah itself.  However, unlike on Pesach when our various practices are intended to provoke questions that lead to opportunities to teach – or more importantly, to educate through an experiential process – on Chanukah all we seem to do is indulge ourselves and the children.  What is the source for all these practices?  What is the real story of Chanukah?  What happened?  Why is it so important?

Perhaps one of the issues for us, as adults, regarding Chanukah, is that we still approach it with the eyes of our childhoods. For us it is still the story of the brave Yehudit defying the Greek general and the seven sons of Hannah refusing to bow to Antiochus; of Matityahu calling out “mi la’Hashem e’lai” to rally the Jews to fight the Greeks who had defiled the Temple, and of the Maccabees who led Judah and waged a guerilla war to defeat them with a handful of men. Then, of course, there is the miracle of the one jug of oil lasting eight days. In our minds, this all led to the declaration of the annual holiday that we celebrate with our menorah lighting and all the other wonderful, meaningful and joyous customs.

However, history and reality do not quite match this narrative.

At that time Antiochus IV, the Seleucid king, was enthusiastically welcomed by many Judean Jews. He installed a man named Yeshua (Jason) as Kohen Gadol (in place of his older brother). He incorporated Greek culture into Jerusalem. A more assimilated Jew, named Menelaus, bribed his way into the position and introduced idolatrous practices into the Temple – including sacrificing unclean animals. The first day the mizbe’ach was used for such worship was…. 25 Kislev! It is doubtful that the date is a coincidence.

About two years later, Matityahu, with the family name Hashmonai, instigated a rebellion against NOT the Greeks (Yevanim) but against the assimilated Jews/Hellenizers (Mityavnim). After Matityahu died, his son Yehudah assumed leadership.  Since he was a great warrior, he was given the nickname Makabee, the Aramaic word for hammer. The rebels were never called Maccabees.  That name became attached to these heroes when the two books of the Maccabees were canonized as a part of the Christian Bible!

When the Hashmonaim regained control of Har Habayit and the Temple from the Hellenizers, they were not concerned with the menorah. The mizbe’ach had been defiled.  If you recall, the mizbe’ach is constructed from stones and the mityavnim rendered the current ones unfit. On 25 Kislev, the same day that two years earlier the actions of Menelaus disqualified it, they rebuilt it with new stones. This is the actual Chanukah the “chanukat hamizbe’ach” (rededication of the altar). Once they rebuilt the mizbe’ach, they made a strategic decision. Since the most recent chag for which they had not brought korbanot was Succot/Shmini Atzeret, they decided to celebrate for eight days and to compensate those offerings (this is actually expressly written in II Maccabees 10:5-8, although I hesitate to rely on it as the definitive source. However, I do note that Beit Shammai explained that the order of candle lighting corresponds to the korbanot brought on the eight days of Succot/Shmini Atzeret).

So, have we gotten Chanukah all wrong? In fact, the Rabbis did not institute the mitzvah of lighting the menorah on Chanukah for another two centuries, which was well after the destruction of the Beit Hamikdash.

Fundamentally, as with many other aspects of our religion, the Sages faced a nearly insurmountable challenge: how to provide the foundation and structure for our faith and ritual, to provide hope for future generations and to assure survival and continuity after the destruction of the Temple and the devastation wrought by the Romans. They wove the fabric of today’s Judaism – daily prayer, the written teachings of the oral tradition, the superstructure of Rabbinic ordinances, and holiday rituals such as how to utilize the arbah minim the fifteen aspects of the Pesach seder, and the mitzvah and mystique of Chanukah.

Bringing light into the home and stressing the primacy of traditional Judaism over Hellenism and paganism, during the darkness of exile, was a most important and appropriate symbol. Moreover, by adding an eighth branch to the seven of the traditional Menorah, the Sages were commemorating past glory and foreshadowing future salvation.  The number seven represents the natural, teva. Eight is beyond nature, le’maala min hateva. Thus (i) they needed to highlight a miracle narrative (the one jar) and (ii) they needed to move the focus away from the mizbe’ach and the korbanot and direct it toward the Menorah. As we can see, they succeeded.

Bottom line, we do not get Chanukah wrong. The Rabbis simply wanted us to celebrate a different version: Chanukah 2.0.

“Chanukah, Oh Chanukah”

"Oh Chanukah" (also "Chanukah, Oh Chanukah") is an English version of the Yiddish song "Oy Chanukah”. The English words, while not a translation, are roughly based on the Yiddish. The lyrics are about dancing the hora, eating latkes, playing dreidel, lighting the candles and singing happy songs.

Here's another joyous rendition of this cheerful song by our member Max Stern, arranged for unaccompanied women's voices

The Two Stories of Chanukah: How a Military Victory Became a Spiritual Revolution

The following is a Devar Torah from our member Rabbi Paul Bloom, abstracted from videos by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks and Rabbi Yitzchak Breitowitz.

As Chanukah is here, it is worth revisiting a story many Jews think they know well—but which, in truth, exists in two very different versions. One is almost entirely absent from Jewish liturgy; the other is the one that shaped our festival for more than two millennia. To understand this transformation, we begin with a surprising historical fact: the story of Chanukah is not recorded in Tanakh. 

I. What Didn’t Make It Into the Bible 

The Tanakh—was canonized by a group of Sages during the Second Temple era. They decided which books were “in” and which were “out.” Some books that nearly didn’t make it in include Kohelet, whose existential gloom troubled the rabbis, and Esther, which some feared might provoke antisemitism. Conversely, some works that might have seemed obvious candidates did not enter the canon. 

Among these were I Maccabees and II Maccabees—the two principal sources of the historical Chanukah story. These books do appear in Catholic Bibles, but not in ours. Why not? We will return to that question. First, what do these books actually say? 

II. The Chanukah Story According to the Books of Maccabees 

If you read I Maccabees, you find

• ·       A detailed narrative of military triumph.  
• ·       The decrees of Antiochus IV Epiphanes, who banned Jewish religious practice and desecrated the Temple.
• ·       The revolt led by Mattathias and his sons—most famously Judah the Maccabee.
• ·       The defeat of the Seleucid Empire, one of the greatest military powers of the ancient world.
• ·       The purification and rededication of the Temple.
• ·       The establishment of an eight-day celebration.

It is a stirring account of courage against overwhelming odds. But one thing is missing.

 There is no mention—none at all—of the miracle of the oil.

II Maccabees, meanwhile, explains the eight days differently: that year, the Jews had been unable to celebrate Sukkot in Tishrei because of war and defilement. Therefore they celebrated a delayed Sukkot in Kislev—an eight-day festival marking the Temple’s rededication. 

In the entire Apocrypha, no oil miracle appears. 

III. The Earliest Rabbinic Source: Suddenly, the Oil Miracle 

The first text to mention the miracle is Megillat Ta’anit, an ancient scroll listing days on which fasting is forbidden because of national joy. There we read: 

When the Greeks entered the Temple, they defiled all the oil. When the Hasmoneans prevailed, they found only one cruse sealed by the Kohen Gadol enough for one day. A miracle occurred and it burned for eight days. The next year, they established an eight-day festival of praise and thanksgiving. 

Here, remarkably, the great military victory is reduced to a single subordinate clause.

The spotlight has shifted. The emphasis is no longer on military triumph but on the miracle of the light. What happened? 

IV. Why the Books of Maccabees Were Excluded 

History offers an answer. After the Maccabees won their independence, they founded a ruling dynasty—the Hasmonean kings. At first heroic, over time they became: 

•       Politically overreaching: They made themselves both kings and high priests—violating the ancient Jewish principle of separating religious and political authority.
•        Culturally Hellenized: Ironically, the very people who fought Greek domination gradually adopted many Greek practices.

 The rabbis were deeply troubled. A dynasty that began with purity and faithfulness ended with corruption, internecine conflict, and assimilation. Within a century of independence, Roman general Pompei marched into Jerusalem (63 BCE), and Jewish sovereignty ended. For the Sages, the military victory—once glorious—had become tainted. They refused to canonize the self-written chronicle of rulers who ultimately strayed from Torah values. Thus I and II Maccabees remained outside Tanakh. 

V. The Destruction of the Temple and the Attempt to Abolish Chanukah 

Fast forward to the year 70 CE, when Rome destroyed the Temple. Some rabbis argued that Chanukah should be abolished.  Chanukah commemorates rededicating the Temple, but now the Temple lay in ruins.  Would celebrating its rededication not be painfully ironic? In the town of Lod, a public fast was even declared on Chanukah, effectively canceling the holiday. Two great Sages—Rabban Gamliel and Rabbi Yehoshua—rushed to protest. They publicly violated the fast (by bathing and taking haircuts) to demonstrate that the decree was invalid. And Chanukah was saved. But why? Because by then, the Jewish people no longer saw Chanukah as primarily a military celebration tied to the Temple’s physical fate. Its meaning had shifted. 

VI. From Military Victory to Cultural and Spiritual Triumph 

The rabbis realized that Chanukah contained two victories: 

• The Military Victory. This was a brave but short-lived period of political independence, lasting less than 100 years. 
• The Cultural-Spiritual Victory. This was a victory of Jewish identity, Torah values, and stubborn spiritual light over the seductive brilliance of Hellenistic culture. 

The Greeks were extraordinary: masters of art, philosophy, mathematics, athletics, architecture. Their culture shaped Western civilization. But Judaism was something different: verbal rather than visual, spiritual rather than physical, ethical rather than aesthetic. Chanukah became a celebration of Jewish distinctiveness—the refusal to disappear into the surrounding culture. Once the military victory faded from relevance, the miracle of the oil emerged as the perfect symbol: a single flame of Jewish identity that refused to be extinguished. 

VII. What Makes Chanukah Unique 

Chanukah is the only Jewish festival: 

•       That is recorded in extensive non-Jewish historical sources, because it marked the beginning of the Greek Empire’s decline and Rome’s rise.
•       That survived because its essence transformed from political to spiritual meaning.
•       Whose central miracle is not in the earliest sources—but became the core of the holiday for millennia.

 VIII. The Enduring Message 

The Hasmonean military victory lasted less than a century. But the spiritual victory has lasted over two thousand years. Empires rise and fall; cultures flourish and decline. But the tiny light of Jewish faith—often fragile, often challenged—endures beyond all historical turbulence. Chanukah teaches us that the real battle is not on the battlefield but in the realm of the soul: 

•  To remain who we are.
•  To resist cultural erasure.
•  To embrace our mission even when the world pulls us elsewhere.
•  To keep the flame burning. 

And that flame—against all odds—still shines today.

Jewish ‘rock’ music: Maoz Tzur

"Maoz Tzur" (מָעוֹז צוּר) is probably the best-known and most frequently sung of our festive piyyutim. It is an integral and memorable part of our nightly ceremony for lighting the chanukiyah. The words are believed to have been written in the 13th century in the Ashkenazi Jewish communities of the Rhineland valley, in the aftermath of violence from the Crusades and blood libels. 

The author of the lyrics is anonymous, but the original Hebrew text includes an acrostic of the name Mordechai in the first five stanzas (there are six in total, of which the last is a later addition). As for the tune, it is widely believed to be based on a German folk tune or battle song from the 15th or 16th century.

To hear a version of “Maoz Tzur” for women’s voices, arranged by none other than our member Max Stern, click here.

Refusing to Give Up: Vayeshev 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg was originally published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.

Parashat Vayeshev opens with a note of hope: Yaakov finally believed he had reached a point of calm after a lifetime of struggle. After wrestling with Esav, surviving Lavan, and enduring the trauma of Dinah, surely now he had earned a measure of peace.

But Chazal tell us otherwise: “Bikesh Yaakov leishev b’shalvah—kafatz alav rogzó shel Yosef.” Just when Yaakov longed for tranquillity, the anguish of Yosef’s disappearance fell upon him. Shattered by his sons’ report and the blood-stained coat they presented, Yaakov enters a prolonged and unrelenting mourning. His children rise to comfort him, yet the Torah records: “Vayema’en lehitnachem”—he refused to be comforted.

Why? Other great figures experience devastating loss yet eventually find strength to move forward. The Torah tells us explicitly how Avraham arose after grieving for Sarah. What made Yaakov’s grief different?

The Midrash, cited by Rashi, teaches that consolation is granted only when death is final. Since Yosef was still alive, Yaakov felt an inexplicable inability to accept comfort. But the Netivot Shalom adds a striking layer: Yaakov sensed that Yosef was alive—but what tormented him was not Yosef’s physical state. It was the fear that Yosef, alone in a foreign land, surrounded by moral darkness and spiritual danger, might lose himself. Would the Yosef who grew up in Yaakov’s home still exist? And so “vayema’en”—he refused to give up on his son. He prayed, he hoped, he believed.

That same rare word appears a second time in our parasha. When Yosef faces relentless temptation in Egypt, he too refuses (“vayema’en”). Rav Soloveitchik notes that this word is marked in the Torah with a shalshelet, a musical note shaped like a chain. Yosef remembered he was part of a chain—of his father, his people, his destiny. The Gemara tells us that in that moment he saw his father’s image. Remembering that Yaakov had never given up on him gave him the strength not to give up on himself.

This is the story of Jewish history. Through darkness, dispersion, persecution, and the pressures of modernity, we have refused – refused to surrender our identity, our mission and our faith. Because our ancestors believed in us, and because HaKadosh Baruch Hu believes in us still.

The candles that we light on Chanukah represent this stubborn refusal. The pirsum hanes of these special days is the fact that, no matter how strong the winds outside, those tiny flames will always endure.

Shabbat Shalom and Chanukah Same’ach, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Human Error, Divine Purpose, and Yosef’s Mysterious Mission

An exploration of Parashat Vayeishev by Rabbi Paul Bloom.

Parashat Vayeishev opens with one of the most perplexing decisions in Sefer Bereishit: Yaakov sends Yosef—alone, on foot—on a dangerous journey from Chevron to Shechem. Even in our day, the area is known for its volatility; certainly, in the ancient world, such a trek carried great risk. Yet unlike Eliezer, who traveled with ten camels and a protective escort, Yosef receives no assistance, no animals, and no clear mission beyond the vague instruction:

“לֶךְ־נָא רְאֵה אֶת־שְׁלוֹם אַחֶיך”

“Go now, see how your brothers are faring…” (Bereishit 37:14)

What was Yaakov thinking? How could he send the son he loved most into such danger seemingly for nothing?

This decision becomes the opening movement in a parashah filled with human mistakes—misjudgments by Yaakov, Yosef, the brothers, and even Yehudah. And yet, beneath the surface of these errors, there lies an unmistakable divine orchestration guiding the Jewish people toward its destiny.

Chevron as a Code Word

The Torah states that Yaakov sent Yosef “מֵעֵמֶק חֶבְרוֹן”—“from the Valley of Chevron.” But, as Rashi notes, Chevron sits on a mountain, not in a valley. Chazal interpret this as a remez, a signal: Chevron here alludes to the deep, ancient prophecy rooted in the city—the Brit Bein HaBesarim, where Hashem declared:

גֵר יִהְיֶה זַרְעֲךָ ... וַעֲבָדוּם, וְעִנּוּ אֹתָם

“Your descendants will be strangers… they will be enslaved and oppressed.” (Bereishit 15:13)

Thus Yosef’s mission “from Chevron” is not simply geographic; it is prophetic. It is the moment the ancient decree of exile begins to unfold.

The Anonymous Man Who Finds Yosef

On the way, Yosef becomes lost: וַיִּמְצָאֵהוּ אִיש — “A man found him” (Bereishit 37:15).

The Torah’s phrasing is striking: not that Yosef found a man, but that a man found him. Chazal identify this ish as מלאך גבריאל. This seemingly incidental encounter becomes the fulcrum of Jewish history. Instead of giving up and returning home after failing to find his brothers in Shechem, Yosef is redirected by this heavenly messenger. The angel asks him: מַה־תְּבַקֵּש (“What do you seek?”) This is not merely a request for information. As the Malbim explains, bakashah in Hebrew refers not to a need but to an ultimate aspiration. This question is existential: “What do you truly seek in life? What is your mission?” Yosef answers with remarkable vulnerability and sincerity: אֶת אַחַי אָנֹכִי מְבַקֵּש (“I seek my brothers”, Bereishit 37:16).

Despite their hostility, despite the pain of being rejected, Yosef’s deepest yearning is for connection and unity. In this moment, we glimpse Yosef’s essence.

Human Error Filling the Parashah

Vayeishev is a tapestry of human mistakes:

Yaakov’s errors:

●      He displays open favoritism: וְיִשְׂרָאֵל אָהַב אֶת־יוֹסֵף מִכָּל־בָּנָיו (Bereishit 37:3)

●      He gives Yosef the כְּתֹנֶת פַּסִּים, a distinct garment marking him as different.

Yosef’s errors:

●      He recounts his dreams of dominance without sensitivity.

●      He seems unaware of how his behavior affects his brothers.

The brothers’ errors:

●      They misjudge Yosef’s intentions.

●      Jealousy blinds them to the bonds of brotherhood.

Yehudah’s errors:

●      His involvement in selling Yosef.

●      His misjudgment of Tamar, later admitted with the words צָדְקָה מִמֶּנִּי (Bereishit 38:26).

No other parashah contains such a concentration of missteps by so many central figures. Yet the Ramban reminds us, citing Mishlei 19:21:

רַבּוֹת מַחֲשָׁבוֹת בְּלֶב-אִישׁ וַעֲצַת יְהוָה, הִיא תָקוּם

"Man proposes many thoughts, but the counsel of Hashem is what prevails.”

Through flawed human decisions, Hashem guides the story toward its destined outcome: Yosef will descend to Egypt, rise to power, and prepare the way for the Jewish people’s survival.

“Saru Mizeh” — A Warning from the Angel

When Yosef asks where his brothers have gone, the angel replies: נָסְעוּ מִזֶּה (“They have traveled away from here”, Bereishit 37:17). Rashi interprets this as meaning סרו מן האחוה — They have turned away from brotherhood. The angel’s words carry a chilling double meaning: the physical direction and the spiritual rupture.

Yosef’s Moral Tests

Yosef faces two defining spiritual tests in this parashah:

1. The Test of Purpose —מַה־תְּבַקֵּש

He responds with his true mission: “I seek my brothers”.  His heart yearns for unity even when others push him away.

2. The Test of Temptation — Aishet Potiphar

Yosef refuses with the unforgettable words: וְאֵיךְ אֶעֱשֶׂה הָרָעָה הַגְּדוֹלָה הַזֹּאת וְחָטָאתִי לֵאלֹהִים
 (“How can I do this great evil and sin against God?”, Bereishit 39:9). He invokes both ethics (betraying Potiphar) and spirituality (sinning against Hashem). This dual consciousness is what earns him the title יוסף הצדיק.

The Larger Theme: Divine Providence in Human Error

Despite all the mistakes made by Yaakov, Yosef, the brothers, and Yehuda, the parasha demonstrates a profound theological truth:

●      Human beings make flawed decisions.

●      Our judgment is limited.

●      Our plans often go astray.

And yet—

Hashem’s hidden providence guides every step.

Missteps themselves become tools of redemption. Yosef’s sale leads to his rise in Egypt. Yehuda’s failure with Tamar leads to the birth of Peretz, the ancestor of King David.

The message is not that mistakes are unimportant, but that they can be transformed into instruments of divine purpose.

Conclusion: “Mah Tevakesh?” — The Question of Life

Parashat Vayeishev centers around a single, piercing question: מַה־תְּבַקֵּש— What do you seek? This is the question every human being must face.

Yosef’s answer —אֶת אַחַי אָנֹכִי מְבַקֵּש — reveals a soul striving for unity, purpose, and moral clarity.  Even in the midst of mistakes and misunderstandings, Yosef’s inner compass points true.

And so it is with us: We strive, we falter, we rise again — but beneath all human frailty, אֲצַת ה' הִיא תָקוּם — the plan of Hashem endures.