There were no auditions!! There were no judges!! That’s right. You heard it here first. When Moses and the Israelites sang on the shores of the sea (Exodus 15:1) and when Miriam and all the women danced with hand-drums (Exodus 15:20) no leader said, “why don’t you just mouth the words,” or “why don’t you stand there and hold up the scenery.” No Israelite man or woman said, “I’ll just sit here quietly, I don’t know the words, I don’t know the steps, you take my part.” Moses and Miriam didn’t say, “we need producers, we need a studio, we need electronics, we need editing, gotta get this right!!” Moses and Miriam and the Israelites – together – raised their voices and moved their bodies in thanksgiving and praise.

We’re often shamed into silence. My college freshman voice teacher told me, “no one will ever pay to hear you sing!” Friends, family, colleagues and congregants – even most people I might stop on the street – can tell me of an instance where someone in charge of solo or group vocal music-making told them that they should sing softly, or not at all. Or, if they happened to have a “good” voice, they were told to sing heartily, to drown out the “bad” singers.

We often need absolute privacy before we move a muscle, before we try to dance with enthusiasm. One saving grace of my eighth and ninth grade adolescence came in the form of the beach on Sullivan’s Island, SC, just a quarter of a block from our home. I reveled in the safety of the beach’s winter emptiness and danced with abandon, certain no one watched. It was still a time when my internal judge and jury had not developed into the critic it can now be in my adult life.

Our adult internal critics often tell us that we’ll never measure up, that we’ll never sound as good or dance as well as the professionals. Our productions – individual or communal – will never be as slick, as expensive, as “wow” as those instantaneously accessible in all the electronic media. Should we forget that we’re not good enough, we’re reminded of it when we watch the auditions for television singing and dancing competitions, see someone who, like us, doesn’t “measure up” and gets lambasted for it. Far be it from us to put ourselves in any position where we might be judged and found wanting. No thank you, we’ll just sit here, be quiet, and let the more talented sing and dance for us.

What are we modern-day Israelites to do when we want to raise our voices and move our bodies in thanksgiving and praise of our hard-won freedoms?

I think we already know the answer and we have to make time for it to be realized. We have to get out of the safety of our individuality and join other Jews. We have to find and/or build communities where there can be a “spontaneous Jewish choir” – a group building its own sound without electronics. A group sitting close together, hearing one another, not separate and apart. A group that learns to feel the music, to feel the rhythm, to feel the thanksgiving in the words and the beat – and then express it communally. (See Joey Weisenberg, Building Singing Communities: A Practical Guide to Unlocking the Power of Music in Jewish Prayer, p. 10)

Start or begin again on this Shabbat Shirah, the Sabbath of Song. Join with others, don’t sit quietly, do your best with the words, learn the steps and take your part. There are wonderful Moses’s and Miriam’s waiting in synagogues and havurot.

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A member of both the Rhode Island and Massachusetts Boards of Rabbis, Rabbi/Cantor Anne Heath is the spiritual leader of Congregation Agudath Achim and the Jewish Community House – a 100-year-old progressive, independent congregation in the heart of Taunton, Mass.

Parashat Bo announces: “This month (Nissan) shall mark for you the beginning of the months; it shall be the first of the months of the year for you….” (Exod 12:2). This sounds, of course, as if the Torah is commanding a New Year’s festival to be observed in the spring. Should we be confused that the Torah posts two different New Years (one in the spring and one in the fall), Nahmanides (Rabbi Moshe ben Nahman, also known as Ramban) comes to our aid. He calls Tishrei the “beginning of years” (since Creation) while he refers to Nissan as the “beginning of months” since the Exodus from Egypt. By having Israel number their months in relation to Nissan, we would always keep in mind the miracle of the Exodus and our freedom. Thus, when the Torah calls for a day of blasting the ram’s horn “in the seventh month,” it means to remind us that we blast the ram’s horn in the seventh month of our Exodus from Egypt.

Nahmanides’ attempt to harmonize the New Years in Nissan and Tishrei might seem a bit forced. After all, the Sages appear comfortable with listing no less than four New Years in the Mishnah (Mishnah Rosh HaShanah 1:1). Nevertheless, Ramban’s comment calls to mind a thematic connection between the two major Jewish New Years, inasmuch as one derives from Creation and the other from the Exodus.

The Creation and Exodus maintain an implicit association throughout our sources. The first presentation of the Ten Commandments explains the Sabbath as a reminder of Creation: “For in six days Adonai made heaven and earth… therefore Adonai blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it” (Exod 20:11). But the second version of the Ten Commandments understands the purpose of the Sabbath as a way to remember the Exodus: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and Adonai your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore Adonai your God commanded you to observe the Sabbath day” (Deut 5:15).

The Friday evening Kiddush also juxtaposes the Creation and the Exodus as two distinct reasons for keeping the Sabbath.  On the one hand, the Sabbath is “a reminder (zikkaron) of the work of Creation….”  And on the other hand, the Sabbath “is a remembrance (zekher) of the Exodus from Egypt.”

Sometimes the Bible blends the imageries of these two events. The story of the Exodus begins by telling us that the Israelites “were fruitful…and multiplied…and filled the earth” (Exod 1:7), words which summon memories of procreation in Genesis (Gen 1:22; 9:1). Moses’ mother looks upon her newborn as “beautiful” (ki tov; Exod 2:2), a Hebrew expression which also evokes the Creation story (Gen 1:4).

The birthing of Israel through the sea’s divided waters (Exod 14:21-22;15:1-21) echoes God’s dividing the cosmic waters during Creation (Gen 1:6-8). The Song of the Sea states: “At the blast of your nostrils the waters piled up, the floods stood straight as a wall, the deeps (t’homot) froze in the heart of the sea” (Exod 15:5). Mention of “the deeps” (t’homot) brings to mind God hovering over the abyss (tehom) in the story of Creation (Gen 1:2). By painting the Exodus with the colors of Creation, perhaps the Song of the Sea is suggesting that Israel’s birth is a new Creation.

Isaiah (51:9-10) also plays with this ambiguous imagery when he proclaims there will be a new Exodus for the exiles of Babylon. His image of a path through a divided sea recalls both the stories of the Exodus from Egypt and the creation of the world. Isaiah describes creation by citing ancient myths in which God vanquished the primeval Sea Dragon, and dried up the deep (tehom): “…Was it not You who smashed Rahab, who pierced the Dragon…who dried up Sea, the waters of the great deep (tehom), who made the depths of the sea a road for the redeemed to pass?”

At times juxtaposing the Creation and the Exodus, and other times projecting the imagery of one onto the other, Jewish tradition implies a correspondence – even an equivalency – between these two events. The historic freeing of Israel is celebrated in cosmic terms: it is as important to God as a new Creation.

History is still midwifing new nations in our generation. With every birth of freedom, Creation is renewed. Hence we have two major New Years, one in the fall and one in the spring.

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Rabbi Allen Darnov is the rabbi of Reform Temple of Putnam Valley, New York; he and his wife, Cantor Avima Rudavsky Darnov, are co-directors of The Hebrew Corner, a Hebrew learning center in Marlboro, New Jersey. He has served on AJR’s faculty for more than fifteen years.

The previous parashah ends with the failure of Moshe’s first attempt to free the Israelites from Egyptian bondage. Moshe reiterates his earlier doubts about his ability to lead saying, “for what reason have you sent me… You have not rescued your people!” (Exodus 5:22-23). God then repeats the promise made at the burning bush regarding the covenant with the patriarchs and the certainty of the coming liberation from bondage: “Therefore, say to the Children of Israel; I am YHWH; I will bring you out from beneath the burdens of Egypt, I will rescue you from servitude to them, I will redeem you with an outstretched arm, with great acts of judgment…I will bring you into the land… (and) I will give it to you as a possession” (Exodus 6:6-8).

Why the repetition? Moshe, so unsure of himself, and having confronted the Egyptian despot and seen his unshakeable will and the suffering that he can mete out, needs to hear that the One who said “I will be there with you” at the bush, the God of his ancestors, will be there to insure that the promise is fulfilled.

But when Moshe informs the people of God’s words, “they did not hearken to Moshe, out of shortness of spirit and out of hard servitude.” They could not hear what he was saying. They were not ready, physically and emotionally, to be redeemed.

The Sefat Emet (Reb Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger) explains that “the prophet prophesies by the power of those who listen.” Because of their suffering and because of their involvement in Egyptian culture, the people were unable to hear the call to redemption. Not only were they in exile, but “speech was in exile as long as those who were to receive Torah had not yet readied themselves to hear the word of God.”

The Sefat Emet continues: “Hearing requires being empty of every thing.” Being able to hear the word of prophecy is predicated on being open, on not having a mind and heart so full that there is no space left for the word of God… This is the essence of exile today as well: our inability to empty ourselves, to forget this world’s vanities so that we empty the heart to hear God’s word without any distracting thought.” The Children of Israel “walked amid the idols of Egypt” and therefore were not ready to be redeemed.

And so is it with us, walking amid the idols of America, so full of ideas, of distraction, of the noise of our civilization. In his commentary to the Sefat Emet, Rabbi Arthur Green writes, “Anything that keeps us from hearing the divine voice, our over involvement in the vanity that occupies most of our attention in this world and keeps us from being empty enough to receive the word of God – all that is our idolatry.”

For us, the voice of God comes to us from our engagement with Torah, from our ability to be open to its teachings and then to translate those teaching to the times in which we live.

We need to put ourselves in Moshe’s place. The One who spoke to Moshe, “I am YHWH” still speaks to us, if we are able to hear. The Sefat Emet concludes his commentary with these words, “Each day we say: ‘Hear, O Israel…”; this is the voice saying: “I am YHWH your God”; it has never stopped. But we have to prepare ourselves to truly hear the Shema without any distracting thought.”

Moshe was able to hear the words addressed to him, words that he translated into actions that moved his people from servitude to redemption.

The words of prophecy are addressed to each of us, in a particular way. They are contained in the teachings of Torah. But we need to be able to hear them as Torah.

To do this we need to remove all distraction, to empty our minds of our personal idolatries, and find a contemplative place in our lives. We need to carve out moments everyday when we can be alone, walk in a park or garden, or sit quietly and empty our mind of all thought. Only in such a place will be able to truly hear the word and then be prepared to move from prayer and contemplation into life.

Citations are from The Language of Truth: The Torah Commentary of the Sefat Emet, Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger. Translated and Interpreted by Arthur Green. JPS, Philadelphia, 1998. This is an abridged, bilingual edition.

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Rabbi Aryeh Meir is spiritual leader of the West Clarkstown Jewish Center in Spring Valley, New York and teaches at The Academy for Jewish Religion, The Bronfman Center at the 92^nd Street Y, and at the JCC of Rockland.

The opening chapters of the Book of Exodus relate a narrative that is strange, not in its story, but in its telling; it is a book that begins V’eleh shemot, “And these are the names . . .,” but there are no names! There are names of the Jacob’s family who came down to Egypt, but the individuals centrally involved in the story of this book are not identified by name. We know all the characters, Yocheved and Miriam and Amram and Pharaoh’s daughter-but no one is named in the text (for example: “And a son of Levi went and took a daughter of Levi . . .”). Most striking, the little boy has no name. His mother does not name him; Pharaoh’s daughter finally, the second time around, does name him, as “Moses.”

In fact, our hero has no name.

What the Book of Exodus is about a people who have no “name”-no identity. We once did, and indeed in Chapter 1, when we came to Egypt, we came as “ish u-veito“-we had a name and a “house.” It is noteworthy that in Chapter 1, only two people have names: Shifra and Pu`ah. Not only did they have names, but the Torah relates that because they “feared God,” they receive houses (1:21). This is a strange verse indeed, and it is precisely those verses that seem strange to which we must pay attention. Not so strange, in fact, when we realize that this idea becomes the construct for the next several chapters, in which the goal is to establish the “bayit“-which we encountered in Genesis with Jacob, the community.

Chapter 1, from the very first verse, makes the point well: in order to be able to build a bayit, a “house,” a community, you have to know who you are. In slavery, you have no identity; you are an object. We lost our name. What enabled the midwives to do the right thing is that they had an identity.

This small point in Chapter 1 prefigures Moses’ task in Egypt. In Chapter 2 no one has a name. It is Moses’ job to give these people a “name.” Moses’ mission is not to bring them to the Land; it is to create a people. The difficulty for Moses is that before he can give them their “name” he has first to find his own “name.” Moses has first to learn who is “Moses.” He has no identity himself. The narrative in the opening chapters of Exodus is about a man searching for his father. It is not until the story of the sneh, the burning bush, that he discovers who his father is. Is Moses’ father (a) his biological father Amram, unnamed in the story, and conspicuously absent? Is it (b) Jethro, his father-in-law and first teacher? Is it (c) Pharaoh, his adoptive father? As the Ramban beautifully explains, the correct answer is (d): “And God said to Moses, ‘I am the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob’.” Moses-having uttered the Covenantal “Hineini“-”Here I am, no matter what!” – is given, at that point, a “father”-Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Moses is given an identity. He can now engage his task of giving his people a sense of who they are, and of establishing a “bayit,” a community.

The first two chapters of Exodus set up the remainder of Sefer Shemot. The next parashah, Va’era (chapter 6:14-26), has a partial catalogue of names, namely rashei B’nei Yisrael, the “heads of Israel,” which sets up the narrative that follows, that of the moftim and the makkot, the “signs” of Moses and Aaron and the plagues. This may be the most important section of Va’era. We must always pay attention to lists of names and to genealogies; that’s where the story lies. The catalogue of names in Va’era clearly demonstrates a people that are just beginning to have a “name,” that is coming to know its identity. But it’s yet a long way off, and it’s only a partial list.

If the Book of Genesis is about family-building, then Exodus is about community-building, the precursor to nation-building. Sefer Shemot is the only truly happy book of the Humash. The narrative of Sefer Shemot begins, in our parashah, with no “names,” and ends with the building of the Mishkan-God’s place, God’s bayit-the visible and spiritual symbol of Hebrew peoplehood and nationhood. Ending as Shemot does with the building of the Mishkan, the circle, begun with Ish u-veito, “a person and his house,” is completed.

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Professor Jerome Chanes, the author of many books, book-chapters, and articles on Jewish public affairs and history, has been an AJR faculty member. He dedicates this D’var Torah in commemoration of the Yahrzeiten of his father, Manuel Simcha Chanes; of his great-grandfather, Rabbi Moses Weinreb of Czernowitz and Brownsville; and in memory of Harvey Israelton.

Rabbi Len Levin

If you were handed a sealed envelope that you had reason to believe contained an infallible prediction of the future course of your life — or of the world’s political history of the next twenty years — would you open it?

This week’s portion Vayehi is unique in its orthography of all portions in the Torah. Whereas the beginning of most portions is indicated by a clear paragraph break, with the words beginning on a new line or after a couple of inches of blank space, Vayehi begins after only a two-letter space separating it from the previous text. The rabbis of the third century interpreted this anomaly: “Jacob our patriarch sought to disclose the end of days, but it was sealed off from him” (Genesis Rabbah 96:1).

Indeed, in the continuation of the portion, Jacob gathers his sons and tells them, “Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in the end of days” (Genesis 49:1). But the blessings that follow are largely generic and give precious little information of future events. To complicate matters further, two-thirds through the blessings Jacob interjects, apparently out of nowhere, “I hope for Your deliverance, O Lord!” (49:18).

In their interpretation of these anomalies of this week’s portion, the rabbis were giving a classic expression of the Jewish ambivalence about Messianism. The Messianic hope is one of the outstanding expressions of Jewish spirituality. We are all too conscious of the shortfall between our ideal image of the way the world should be and the reality of what it actually is. In times of prosperity, we cast a searchlight of critical examination on the imperfections that still exist, the inequities of distribution of the world’s resources, the injustices that persist, and demand that they be corrected. In times of crisis and darkest despair, we do not abandon hope but project an image of salvation and perfected reality to draw us forward and overcome the dire threat. In each case, we affirm that history must be redeemed, that it must culminate in a scenario of Messianic perfection in which the imperfections of the present are overcome.

But at the same time, Jewish tradition is highly suspicious of any real-and-present claim that so-and-so is the Messiah, or of specific scenarios predicting the coming of the Messiah by a specified date. It would be comforting to be granted the certainty that salvation would be coming by such-and-such a date. Alas, such predictions have almost invariably been disappointed.

What is more, they can lead to laziness and complacency. A promise of salvation from above can rob us of the incentive to put forth our own efforts toward salvation. The early Zionists protested against otherworldly Messianic promises and insisted that it was up to us to carve our destiny. A song of that period proclaims: “No miracle happened for us; we found no cruse of oil. We hewed the rock till there was blood, and there was light!”

The same Messianic ambivalence attends our view of the State of Israel. On the one hand, it is at least in a minimal sense the fulfillment of the hopes and prayers of Jews for millennia — that they should return to their ancestral land and regain independence and dignity in the sight of all nations. On the other hand, it is a human creation and like all such a creature of imperfection, subject to the implicit critique of a Messianic perfectionist standard. It would be wrong to deny it partial participation in the Messianic vision; but it would be equally wrong to say it is in its present form the complete achievement of that vision.

Maybe Jacob, in the rabbis’ interpretation, was caught between these two contradictory impulses. On the one hand, he wanted to comfort his children by revealing the scenario of their redemption. On the other hand, he knew that any such promise would be misleading or illusory. They would have to work out their redemption on their own-but never giving up the hope that redemption was ultimately in store. (Hence, that digressing exclamation: “I hope for Your deliverance, O Lord!”).

So, too, in our own lives. It would be comforting to be handed that sealed envelope, in which the scenario of our future was all written down. But knowing it in advance would rob it of a great deal of the excitement, and would rob us of the responsibility of forging that future ourselves. The future — like the orthography of Vayehi — is sealed. It is up to us to write it.

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Rabbi Len Levin teaches philosophy at AJR and is the author of Why God Is Subject To Murphy’s Law.

By Cantor Marcia Lane

In his book, The Tipping Point, Malcom Gladwell describes the moment when a situation changes, the small thing that had a big impact on a problem or a situation.

In this week’s parashah we come to the moment in a long narrative when life will change for each of the participants in the drama. Joseph sits, disguised as the Pharaoh’s viceroy, watching his brothers try desperately to get out of the seemingly impossible situation they are in. Do they leave their brother Benjamin behind, go home and break the bad news to dad? Do they argue, fight, reason? How can they win his freedom without sacrificing their own? The sum total of what they think they know is only a fraction of what is actually happening. Joseph holds all the cards. He knows who they are, what they have done, what he has done to them — putting them in the position of appearing to be thieves. What, one wonders, does he actually want? Does Joseph want them to abandon their youngest brother, save their own lives, and confirm his suspicion that they have no moral code? Does he want them to argue, deny, struggle against the fate he has constructed for them? Would that be sweet to him? To see his brothers weep or squirm? What do the parties want? What resolution will be satisfying or even acceptable to them?

It’s a cinematic moment, worthy of a Martin Scorsese. What can resolve the impasse? It turns out that the tension is broken by a step, a single step. “Vayigash,” the text says. “And he (Judah) approached.” Such a tiny move. Not even a touch. Just the closing of distance by a foot or two. Judah, who takes charge of the conversation with Pharaoh’s viceroy, has the temerity to approach this figure of authority. I admit I tend to flesh out the picture in my mind. There are a few seconds of silence, the tension builds, and Judah looks down. Then he raises his eyes to this stranger who sits, like Pharaoh, on a throne, and he steps forward. His voice is quieter than it was. There’s no threat, no anger, just the intimacy of one man trying to convey a picture to another. The conflict, which was between a petitionary and a master, is now between two men. Please understand, Judah says. Please hear me out. And in that moment, as in the moment that a pin-prick breaks a balloon, the wall that Joseph had constructed tumbles down. His emotions overwhelm him, and he reveals himself. One step forward is all it takes to create the possibility of reconciliation. At least that’s what it looks like in my version of this movie. Vayigash! “He approached.”

In her commentaries on the book of Genesis, The Beginning of Desire, Aviva Zornberg speaks about the use of the word vayigash: “In a classic analysis, for example, the word va-yiggash is refracted into three possible modalities of intimacy (lit. he drew close): war, appeasement, and prayer” (p. 318).

In the book of Genesis the word vayigash (or some variant using the same root) occurs eight other times. In Gen. 18:23 Abraham approaches God to argue for the cities of Sodom and Gemorrah. The result is that God compromises and allows for the possibility of 10 righteous people who could save the cities. In Gen. 19:9 the men of Sodom and Gemorrah approach in anger to try to break down Lot’s door. As a result they are blinded by a divine light. In Gen. 27:26-27 the one approaching is Jacob. He draws near to Isaac so his father can feel “if you are indeed my son Esau or not.” Here it would appear that the intent is deception, but it comes out of a desire for blessing. The result? Jacob deceives his father and steals his brother’s blessing and birthright. In a very different use of the word, in Gen. 29:10, Jacob beholds Rachel and he “approaches” the stone that covers the well! What, in Zornberg’s rubric, would be his intent? She doesn’t include romantic attraction or sexual desire as a reason to “approach” (in the particular way that we are using that word). All the next instances of the use of the root y-g-sh are part of the narrative between Joseph and his brothers. Gen. 43:19: “And they (the brothers) approached the man who was in Joseph’s household and said, “Please, we came once before to buy food, but when we arrived at the inn and opened our packs we found our money, each man’s money in his sack.” Like Judah, they seek to be understood, to be believed, to be forgiven.

“Then Joseph said to them, ‘Come forward (geshu), I pray, to me.’ And they approached (vayigashu). And he said, I am your brother Joseph, who you sold into Egypt” (Gen. 45:4). In the case of this week’s parashah, the result is shock, forgiveness, tears, and the reuniting of a family.

Is it what the parties actually wanted? At the beginning of this episode, in Parashat Miketz, it seemed like Joseph wanted a measure of revenge. Perhaps the brothers want never to lay eyes on him again. Maybe the desire for food to take home to their father is less important than never having to confront their past. Does Judah actually want the opportunity to “step up to the plate?” Whether or not he actively seeks leadership, Judah proves worthy of his father’s trust. Perhaps as a result of his encounter with Tamar – an incident in which Judah actually took full responsibility for his actions – Judah is the right person at this crucial moment. He takes a risk, puts himself on the line, accepts responsibility for his past actions. It’s difficult to imagine the enormous courage it takes to step forward at this moment. And perhaps Zornberg is right; this step, this approach, is a form of prayer.

Does Judah actively seek the new leadership role that comes to him? Or is he simply a man put into an impossible situation? Either way, vayigash, “he approached” the powerful man before him and it became the tipping point. As a result of the encounter, the course of our history is charted. The family/tribe of Jacob/Israel will become the nation of Israel.

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Hazzan Marcia Lane (AJR, 2004) is the cantor and Director of Ritual and Music at West End Synagogue in Nashville, Tennessee.

By Irwin Huberman

Often at this time of the year, it feels as if the entire world is enveloped in darkness. Daylight is at a premium. Cold air chills our bones. And especially during these times of economic challenge, there is no shortage of cynicism in the world. Many Americans have lost faith in their leaders and institutions. True heroes are so hard to come by.

Indeed, where can true hope and light be found?

But as the story of Hanukkah teaches us, sometimes in life our greatest sources of light can come from everyday people performing remarkable miracles with extraordinary grace.

The second blessing over the Hanukkah candles not only praises God for performing miracles during times of the Maccabees, but also thanks God for continuing these remarkable feats to this day.

The story of Mary Katz Erlich and her rescuers Egle and Aurimas Ruzgys is such a miracle.

For at the height of World War II, a Lithuanian widow, Leokadjia Ruzgiene and her son and two daughters performed an act of remarkable courage. In a hole below their tiny home, under a cabinet used to smoke meat, the Ruzgys family hid their Jewish friends, Israel and Bertha Katz, along with daughter Mary. And following their capture by the pro-Nazi militia, the Ruzgys family continued to pay off Lithuanian jailers to keep the Katz family alive until their liberation in 1945.

This past November 29, the lone surviving member of the Katz family, Mary Katz Erlich, and her two remaining rescuers Egle and Aurimas Ruzgys were re-united after sixty-six years, on stage in front of six hundred guests and supporters of the Jewish Foundation for the Righteous.

The Foundation provides pensions and other assistance to more than eight hundred Righteous Gentiles living in Poland, the Ukraine, Lithuania and other countries who during the Holocaust hid Jews in barns, concealed rooms, under floor boards, and like the Katz’s, in secret holes and crevices.

The punishment at the hands of the Nazis or militia, was usually instant death. Yet, the Ruzgys family, and more than twenty three thousand seven hundred and eighty six other Righteous Gentiles identified by Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust authority, chose to sustain life at their risk of their own.

They did, as many have described, “What any decent person would do.”

The story of Hanukkah revolves around events which occurred thousands of years ago, and perhaps continues to inspire us because during a period of darkness, one source of light survived against the odds.

The Talmud tells us:

“The Hasmoneans searched and found only one flask of oil that was lying with the (official) seal intact, and it contained only enough oil to kindle the Menorah for one day. However, a miracle was performed with this oil and they kindled the Menorah for eight days”(Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 21b).

Indeed, that was then, and this is now.

For on November 29, a new miracle was observed. While on stage, as the survivor and her rescuers tearfully embraced, Mrs. Katz Erlich’s grandchildren joined in the standing ovation.

One by one they rose. First the oldest, and then the additional eight, forming a brilliant Menorah which lit up the entire room.

Hanukkah teaches that we don’t need much in life to make a difference. As the Talmud reminds us, “whoever preserves a single soul…. it is as though they had preserved a complete world” (Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a).

More than twenty one hundred years ago, a passionate and persistent group of rebels known as the Maccabees displayed the courage to stand up for what was right; to liberate the Holy Temple from materialism and self centered worship. And millennia later, tens of thousands of Christians during humanity’s darkest time, exhibited the courage to preserve thousands of sources of light, so that they and their descendants could shine into the future.

At the close of the dinner, Egle and Aurimas Ruzgys were presented with a simple memento of the evening; a photo of Mary Katz Erlich and her son, daughters, grandchildren and spouses. It was a simple but remarkable statement that light exists within each of us, and that one vial of oil is all we need.

Perhaps one of the lessons of Hanukkah is that although we may not be able to save an entire world which these days seems so troubled, we can spread light within our little corner of it. For from one vial of oil, we can create a universe.

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Rabbi Irwin Huberman serves Congregation Tifereth Israel, a Conservative congregation in Glen Cove, New York.

Years ago, I took a road trip to Cincinnati to do research at the archives of Hebrew Union College. It was my first time away from home since our daughter Ariella had been born four years before.

In preparation for my departure, my partner Lisa asked me whether I needed anything sent to the dry cleaners, and I asked her to send my pea coat so I would be warm in the cold Cincinnati spring. She was kind enough to do so, but busy enough that she did not check the pockets. We realized, too late, that my wallet was inside. We called the dry cleaners, who told us it was nowhere to be found. We were rabbinic enough to want to give the benefit of the doubt, and New Yorkers enough that we were skeptical. We went that night to the premises, and found the remains of my wallet in the garbage outside the cleaners. My business cards, receipts, and photographs were all there, along with my membership card from the New York Board of Rabbis. My credit cards, driver’s license, and money, were not. I had been cleaned out by the cleaners.

At least they returned my coat. Joseph, in this week’s parashah, Vayeshev, isn’t so lucky: “When Joseph came up to his brothers, they stripped Joseph of his coat, the many-colored coat that he was wearing, and took him and cast him into the pit” (Genesis 37:23-24).

Joseph’s famous coat was more than a covering. The Torah tells us that a person’s coat provided a person’s personal history. It was symbol of status, and in some cases, it told a story. The word ketonet, used to describe Joseph’s coat, seems to carry special weight. When Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden, God gave them kotnot or, coats of skin, to cover their nakedness (Gen. 3:21). Aaron’s sons, the priests, have kutanot as part of their official garb. The actual phrase ketonet passim, coat of many colors, is used one other time in the Tanakh. Tamar, King David’s daughter, is described as wearing one after her brother Amnon violates her. The heartbreak of her situation comes through in the poignant description of her clothes: “And she had a many-colored coat upon her; for with such robes were the king’s daughters who were virgins dressed. Then his servant took her out, and bolted the door after her. And Tamar put ashes on her head, and tore her many-colored coat that was on her, and laid her hand on her head, crying aloud as she went” (2 Sam. 13:18-19).

In each case, the coat seems connected to identity; it tells us who the wearer is, how they see themselves, and how they are seen by others. In that sense, the ketonet, coat, as described in the Tanakh is more similar to the wallet that I lost than the coat that I kept. Anyone who has ever lost a wallet, or had one stolen, knows the impact it can have on one’s sense of self – and the challenge of recreating one’s identity, piece by piece.

But what happens when we are stripped of our coats – of our identities? It is only in times of crisis that we discover our true identities. It is only in the dark times that we discover our true priorities.

This is one of the greatest miracles of Hanukkah. When Antiokhus decreed that the Jews could not pray and sacrifice in the Temple, or show other manifestations of Jewish belief and life, he stripped them of their identities. He may have thought that by removing these outward acts, he could negate their sense of self, and neutralize their threat. But the Jews, led by the Maccabees, fought back. They fought against the darkness and rekindled the light. They re-established who they were.

When I think about the loss of my wallet, I think about what the thieves left. They took what they thought was valuable: credit cards, money, conventional forms of ID. But by leaving everything from my family pictures to my membership card from the New York Board of Rabbis, they left me my true sense of self.

Later in Vayeshev, Joseph gets another piece of clothing: this time, one that denotes his authority as overseer in Potiphar’s house. When Potiphar’s wife tries to seduce him, she grabs hold of his garment, and he escapes, leaving the garment behind. It may be that by now, Joseph has learned the lesson that what is truly valuable stays with you. Ultimately, Joseph’s power was not in his coat, but in him. The coat was colorful and the coat was beautiful, but it is our actions that generate light.

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Rabbi Andrea Myers is the author of The Choosing: A Rabbi’s Journey from Silent Nights to High Holy Days (Rutgers University Press, 2011).

“I am Jacob. I am going home, and I am anxious and scared.

“I have been away for twenty years. I have not spoken to nor seen my brother or parents in all that time. We parted under horrendous circumstances. I cheated my brother, with the help of my mother, and stole his birthright blessing from our father. It should have been his. But he did actually say once that I could have it; one day he came home from hunting and wanted the food that I had cooked. In exchange for it I asked him to sell me his birthright, and he did.

“Now, I know my father is still alive, and I want to try to reconcile with my brother. But I am terrified of his anger. Maybe he still wants to kill me. Is reconciliation possible after all these years? Will he forgive me? Can there even be forgiveness after betrayal? I am not convinced that reconciliation is possible.”

We, too, may ask how two people who tricked and threatened to kill each other can reconcile.

During their boyhood, Esau and Jacob were in fierce competition. Each was beloved by one parent, but felt the other was the favored child. Each wanted what the other had. Esau, skilled in providing himself with game, wanted Jacob’s stew. Jacob, called a simple man, wanted the greatness promised by birthright and blessing. Nothing was worthwhile unless it belonged to the other. They are children competing for their parents’ attention and gifts. Each is too needy to acknowledge the other’s needs.

It appears that Esau has found his inner courage and strength to reach out to his brother. Is the scene of reconciliation real? “The commentators are divided as to whether Esau’s hugs and kisses are genuine. (The Masoretic text has dots over the words ‘he kissed him,’ indicating there is something unusual about them). Some are reluctant to credit Esau with any decent motives (Gen R. 78:9). One midrash says ‘everything Esau ever did was motivated by hatred except for this one occasion that was motivated by love (ARN 34)’ ” (Etz Hayim, p. 203).

Rashi interprets these dots to mean he did not kiss wholeheartedly.

But perhaps the fierce Esau turns out to be loving and emotional. He runs to embrace Jacob who bowed low to the ground seven times and declared, “When I see your face, it is like seeing the face of God” (Genesis 33:10).

Rabbi Joseph Telushkin in his book Biblical Literacy, p. 63, also questions if Jacob’s words to Esau are sincere; he believes Jacob will say anything to mollify Esau. But, on the other hand, he posits that Jacob may be sincere. Perhaps in the intervening years he may have experienced some guilt and came to understand the pain Esau suffered. Jacob may offer gifts to produce a real peace.

Chap 32:4: has the words im Lavan garti. The word garti can be translated as “lived,” meaning as part of the household and part of the culture, or merely “stayed/sojourned.” Rashi interprets these words to mean that Jacob is telling Esau that he is not a prince or person of importance but only a sojourner, and there is no cause to hate him because he took their father’s blessing.

Rabbi Elie Munk, a 20^th century commentator, in The Call of the Torah, p.435, translates garti also as “I have sojourned” to mean that he was a visitor, not under any spell from Lavan (who was known as a master sorcerer) and that he left with his own earned riches which he now offers to Esau to win his sympathy.

It appears that Esau and Jacob have overcome their neediness. Each has a family and possessions acquired through his own efforts. Jacob, who has always gained at Esau’s expense, offers him gifts. Esau refuses, saying, “I have enough, my brother; let what you have remain yours” (Genesis 33:9). Jacob insists, claiming, “God has favored me and I have plenty” (33:11). Each of the brothers is now able to recognize how much he has.

They will never be the closest of brothers. Still, for the first time each can accept the other as he is; each can see the other’s wealth without coveting it. Regardless of the interpretation we ascribe to this event, the brothers do not live together happily ever after. Almost immediately after their reunion, they separate again–Esau goes to Seir, Jacob heads to Sukkot. They come together only once more, to bury their father Isaac.

An agonizing family drama and one, sadly, to which I can personally relate: my brother and I have been estranged for 7 years. Like Jacob, I have no faith or hope that reconciliation is possible. I know that there are many families today where siblings are estranged. Can the story in Vayishlah be a role model for us today? Can we find hope in this story? What if reconciliation is not possible? How can we find a way to live without it? How can we manage to let go of our anger? Anger is toxic and slowly destroys the one who is angry. We need to release the anger without reconciliation.

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Miriam Herscher is a rabbinical student at the Academy for Jewish Religion.

“And Jacob left Beersheva, and he went to Haran. And he arrived at the place and lodged there because the sun had set” (Gen. 28:10-11).

The term bashert is often used when speaking about falling in love, or when something happens that we truly feel was “meant to be.” We read that Jacob was forced to camp out bamakom, “at the place,” on his way from Beersheva to Haran, because the sun had set. The intellectual, left side of my brain knows that it would have been dangerous for him to continue traveling in the dark, but the more creative, right side of my brain, is convinced that it was bashert that he stopped in this particular place. It was here, bamakom, that Jacob had the dream about angels going up and down a ladder, and when he awakened from his sleep, he said, Akhen, yesh Adonai bamakom hazeh va’anokhi lo yadati, ”Indeed, the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it” (Gen. 28:16).

It’s interesting that Rashi wrote that had Jacob known that the place where he had chosen to sleep was holy (i.e., that God was there), he wouldn’t have slept there. Did Jacob have any control over where he camped for the night? Perhaps Jacob did choose that particular spot; but perhaps God chose it for him. Either way, it was where Jacob needed to be. Rashi later quotes Bereshit Rabbah 68:10, which says that the words ki va hashemesh, “for the sun had set,” implies that the sun set suddenly for him, not at its usual time, so that he would have to stay there overnight.

Does this mean that Jacob was merely an actor following a script in this story? I don’t think so. I’d like to suggest that God didn’t force Jacob to camp bamakom, “in that place,” for the night, but that God gave Jacob a gentle push by bringing darkness early that day.

So it is with us. I don’t believe that God controls our actions as if we were puppets on a string, but I do believe that whether we are aware of it or not, God is with us, present in our lives, in subtle ways. When I was in sales years ago my car made a right turn into a Honda motorcycle dealership I hadn’t planned to call on. I walked out with a nice sale. More recently I went to Lord and Taylor instead of Macy’s as I had planned and ran into a friend who was seriously ill. I still tear up when I think about how wonderful it was to see her buying prom shoes with her daughter. And in the summer of 1986, had my mother not been talking with the right person at the right time about who they could get to help David Elkodsi with Junior Congregation for the High Holidays, I probably wouldn’t have met my bashert.

Following the realization that he had been sleeping on holy ground, Jacob exclaimed Mah nora hamakom hazeh, “How awesome is this place!” (Gen. 28:13). Earlier this fall, Detroit Lions running back Jerome Harrison was traded to the Philadelphia Eagles, and had to undergo a required physical exam. The exam revealed a brain tumor; if not for the trade, the tumor would have remained undiscovered with potentially disastrous effects. My first thought was that God was in this – meaning Harrison’s – place. I suspect that if I were Jerome Harrison I might be thinking the same thing; unhappy with being traded, but happy to be alive. I’m not suggesting that God orchestrates NFL trades, but I also can’t help thinking it wasn’t a coincidence. To paraphrase Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca – of all the players on all the teams – this person was traded.

Jacob was attuned to God’s presence bamakom hazeh, “in this place,” because of his dream, and realized what an awesome place it was. When I take a moment to stop and think, I’m reminded of the chant we learned at last year’s AJR Retreat… “How awesome is this body…. How awesome is this place…. How awesome is this journey, through time and space.”

May we always stop and take a moment to acknowledge and enjoy the awesome presence of God in our lives, where our makom, our “place’” may be.

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Susan Elkodsi is a rabbinical student at the Academy for Jewish Religion. This D’var Torah is in honor of the 40^th anniversary of her bat mitzvah ceremony.