Looking at Parashat Vay'hi, I see so many different kinds of blessings. Without even looking at the text itself, we have find blessings, in the words  we say to each other as we reach the final lines of the first book of the Torah: חזק חזק ונתחזק (hazak hazak v'nithazek - may we all take strength from reaching this moment). 

And then there's the text! Evocative blessings, powerful blessings, blessings we use today for our children - and also: confusing blessings, contradictory blessings, backhanded blessings. 

There are a number of ways to mine these blessings for meaning (for a thoughtful, accessible take on a source critical reading of the text, check out this article!), but for this week, I want to look more closely at Jacob's interaction with and blessing of his grandsons, Menashe and Efraim. The interaction has always been an uncomfortable one for me. As Jacob greets his two grandsons and prepares to offer them his blessing, he crosses his hands to place them on the boys' heads, thus offering his primary blessing to the younger child, Efraim, rather than to the "rightful" heir, Menashe. Joseph at first believes this to be a mistake and tries to correct his father. But Jacob remains firm in his choice, explaining that the younger son will be the greater one. 

There's so much of this interaction that feels like Jacob replaying the events of his own life, how he received the primary blessing from his father by deceit, how his father gave the overlooked Esau a blessing that kind of makes him sound like an also-ran, and which led to much strife, fear, and threats of violence. After all that Jacob and his descendents went through to get to this place, it's hard to see him carry this same problematic dynamic forward into the generation of his grandchildren.

At the same time, the words of the blessing that Jacob offers are powerful and beautiful. These are his own words, transcending the words of the covenant that was passed down to him, which he also references in his blessing. Some of these words, Jacob's words, have become part of the liturgy of our most tender moments. We bless our children on Friday nights with the invocation ישמך אלהים כאפרים וכמנשה, May God make you like Efraim and Menashe (Genesis 48:20) A portion of his blessing, המלאך הגאל אתי, HaMalakh HaGoel Oti (Genesis 48:13) is part of the extended bedtime Shema. I have sung it to my own children since they were born. 

It is true that there is a disconnect between Jacob's complicated actions and his moving words of blessing. This truth mirrors something that is likely also true about each of us. In many ways, we do what was done to us. We parent how we were parented. We build relationships that feel like and often replicate the relationships we saw as children. We follow the paths that were laid out for us by our upbringings. But this does not stop us from forging our own paths, from making (at least some) different choices than the ones that were handed down to us - choices that can have a lasting impact and enduring beauty.

 Like Jacob, we are not carbon copies of what came before. There may be parts of how we interact in the world that we inherited, that we continue to pass down, that perhaps we might do better not to. And there are certainly ways that we are wholly individual beings, that the  blessings we offer to our world and to each other are unique, entirely ours, and full of beauty. 

Shabbat shalom

As I walk around school of late, I see so many of my colleagues in real need of a break. I feel it too. And there are so many reasons for the weariness we’re feeling. The rush to finish grading and get report cards written. The excitement and shpilkes of the students as we near winter break. The exhaustion following a busy celebration of Ḥanukkah. And of course, it feels like it’s October 76th. 

This is a time of year when many of us are anticipating and deeply needing some time off - not just those of us who follow the academic calendar. I’m hearing from people about going on vacations, visiting family and friends out of town, enjoying a little down time as the end of the year nears and we have a couple of days off from work.

In thinking about what I wanted to share with you this week, a phrase kept popping into my head: “the Torah of taking a break”. I wasn’t sure if it was a title for an article, a wish for an authentic Jewish connection to what’s been on my mind - or something else entirely. I wondered if someone else had already written on this idea - could I look to them for inspiration at a time when I’m feeling a little depleted?

I started scanning my bookshelf and came across my collection of commentaries and explorations of the Book of Psalms. At various points in my life, I have found the words of the Psalms to be a source of comfort and spiritual grounding. I have mined their verses for personal connection, sung them in community and on my own, landed on them as a mantra for meditation. 

Psalms are woven throughout our prayers. They appear, in whole and in part, all over the siddur. There are psalms we say in times of trouble, in times of celebration, when seeking healing, when comforting mourners. Some people have a practice of reciting Psalms as part of their regular spiritual practice. Surely there is a psalm for this moment. 

While I’m certain that there must be more than one psalm that can serve as “the Torah of taking a break,” I was immediately drawn to the final psalm in the book, Psalm 150. It’s a well-known psalm, recited in its entirety as part of the daily service. Focusing in on the final line helped me find two helpful messages, both of which I’d like now to share with you.

The psalm ends with the words: כֹּל הַנְּשָׁמָה תְּהַלֵּל יָ׳הּ הַלְלוּ־יָ׳הּ׃ Let every נְּשָׁמָה praise God. Hallelujah. Translating this line is a little bit difficult. The word נְּשָׁמָה (neshamah) has a number of meanings. Let every soul praise God. Let everything that breathes praise God. My favorite: Let every breath praise God.

This concluding line comes after the psalm describes a number of very active ways we can offer praise: with horns, cymbals, and other musical instruments; with dance and drumming. Each stanza begins with the same phrase: Praise God, הַלְלוּהוּ. But the concluding line is different. It uses different words and offers a different instruction. Let every breath praise God. 

The first message I draw from this is that after all the music, the grandeur, the hard work comes breath, comes rest, comes a pause. We cannot only do. We must also stop, take a break, just breathe. 

The second message captures the beauty of taking a break. After telling us of all the ways to offer through making joyful noise, the psalm tells us that breath, silence, stillness is also praise. The breaks we give ourselves are holy, just as everything we do in this world is also holy.

For those of us getting a break in these next few weeks, I wish us stillness and rejuvenation. I hope we all can take some time to breathe.

​

This past Saturday night, as I was driving over to Ḥanukkah Funukah - which absolutely lived up to its name! - I couldn’t help but notice all the ḥanukkiyot in windows along my route to shul. I was so moved by seeing them and as I was thinking about it, it struck me that this was something really special for me. I don’t really have the opportunity to regularly enjoy seeing other people’s windows lit up by ḥanukkiyot. There are at least a couple of reasons for this. One is that, as a parent of younger children, I don’t often go out and about in the evenings, even during Ḥanukkah. Or if I do, I’m too focused on driving and/or mediating backseat battles to notice much of what’s happening off the road. Another is that Ḥanukkah is a home-centric holiday. The key ritual of lighting is one that we’re meant to do in our own spaces. 

In this context, Ḥanukkah’s celebration being so centered around our private spaces, it’s even more interesting to note the Talmud’s implied goal for the way we light. We place our ḥanukkiyot in our homes in such a way that they can ideally be seen by others - at the entrance, or in a window. We do this to publicize the miracle of Ḥanukkah, Pirsumei Nisa in the language of the Talmud.

When I was learning some of this text with my students this week, we noted that the options for ḥanukkiyah placement also include a third, less outwardly visible, choice: on the table. When I asked my students to reflect on why the table might be an option, especially if the goal is for people outside to see our candles, they came up with some great answers.

• Maybe you live far away from other people, so no one will pass by to see your ḥanukkiyot and you and your family should be able to enjoy them yourselves.
  
• Maybe placing your ḥanukkiyot at the entrance or by the window would be a fire hazard. 
  
• Perhaps it wouldn't be safe to display your ḥanukkiyot publicly, so we should still do the mitzvah, but a little more privately. 
  

This third reason is the Talmud’s reason as well, and it feels a little more relevant to our lives now than it did last Ḥanukkah. It hurts to say that, but I imagine this sentiment resonates with many of us. My eighth graders felt it too. Exploring this idea further, we learned a little about what happened in Billings, Montana, in 1993. 

In response to a spate of hate-fueled crimes, including someone throwing a brick through a Jewish child’s window because he had a ḥanukkiyah displayed there, the town banded together to combat the prejudice that was bubbling to the surface. The local newspaper printed a full-page ḥanukkiyah, and asked readers to cut it out and put it in their windows, in solidarity with the local Jewish community. And people did. Ḥanukkiyot began popping up in windows all over the city. 

I asked my students how they thought Jewish people living in Billings at the time felt when their neighbors started putting up ḥanukkiyot. They said: empowered, loved, supported, not alone. 


I didn’t realize it at the time, but noticing all of the ḥanukkiyot in people’s windows did the same for me. Seeing this light all around our community, I felt supported, empowered, part of something bigger than myself. Connecting back to the Talmud text, maybe this is part of the miracle we’re publicizing - the miracle of being there for each other, of putting our own light right out front so it can be seen and felt by others. 

Wishing everyone a light-filled final days of Ḥanukkah!

​

​

In the Talmud's discussion of Ḥanukkah (Shabbat 22a-b) there's a disagreement about how one can possibly make practical use of the candles. The candles are meant only to be seen and enjoyed, as they are a concrete symbol of the miracle of Ḥanukkah, and not used, for example, to read by. But if the goal of lighting the candles is to share the miracle as widely as possible, one might be able to use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another. In the Talmud's discussion, Rav says that one may not use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another and Shmuel says that one may. 

The Talmud then tries to sharpen the argument, parsing out the underlying issues as well as Rav's and Shmuel's reasoning. Is it just lighting that accomplishes the mitzvah or is it placing the ḥanukiyyah by the entry? Does lighting from lamp to lamp weaken the mitzvah, as the oil consumed in kindling the next lamp would have otherwise just been used for illumination? It's an interesting debate and, in talmudic fashion, doesn't *quite* reach a clear conclusion. But at this moment, I'm connecting with this passage much more for the metaphors I see in its words than its halakhic conclusions. 

What does it mean to light from lamp to lamp? Especially as we approach Ḥanukkah, I think of all the ways we share our light with each other - acts of ḥesed, caring for each other, offering encouragement, enjoying time together (please join us for Chanukah Funukah this Saturday night!). And I also feel a real need for more light to spread in our world. 

We've all noticed and heard about the massive uptick in antisemitism since the horrors of October 7. While not tremendously surprising, the indifference of leaders both local and international to this upsetting trend has left many of us feeling alone and unsure of who our friends really are. Over the past few days, there have also been a number of concerning pieces of news in this area. Making international news was the congressional hearing that had several high-profile university presidents responding to a question that "asked directly if 'calling for the genocide of Jews' is against the codes of conduct [of their universities, the] presidents said the answer depended on the context." 

More locally, Baltimore City Council member Yitzy Schleifer introduced a resolution at a recent City Council meeting condemning the attacks of October 7 as well as antisemitism. The measure failed to pass, with only 9 yea votes out of the necessary 12. Four council members abstained. 

There's a lot of darkness out there. This is the time of year when we both need light the most AND have the tools to bring more light into our world. This year, more than in any other year, I'm with Shmuel over Rav. Let us light from lamp to lamp, sharing our light with each other, just as we bring light to our ḥanukiyyot. 

Ḥag urim sameaḥ - may we all have a very happy holiday of light!

​

In the Talmud's discussion of Ḥanukkah (Shabbat 22a-b) there's a disagreement about how one can possibly make practical use of the candles. The candles are meant only to be seen and enjoyed, as they are a concrete symbol of the miracle of Ḥanukkah, and not used, for example, to read by. But if the goal of lighting the candles is to share the miracle as widely as possible, one might be able to use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another. In the Talmud's discussion, Rav says that one may not use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another and Shmuel says that one may. 

The Talmud then tries to sharpen the argument, parsing out the underlying issues as well as Rav's and Shmuel's reasoning. Is it just lighting that accomplishes the mitzvah or is it placing the ḥanukiyyah by the entry? Does lighting from lamp to lamp weaken the mitzvah, as the oil consumed in kindling the next lamp would have otherwise just been used for illumination? It's an interesting debate and, in talmudic fashion, doesn't *quite* reach a clear conclusion. But at this moment, I'm connecting with this passage much more for the metaphors I see in its words than its halakhic conclusions. 

What does it mean to light from lamp to lamp? Especially as we approach Ḥanukkah, I think of all the ways we share our light with each other - acts of ḥesed, caring for each other, offering encouragement, enjoying time together (please join us for Chanukah Funukah this Saturday night!). And I also feel a real need for more light to spread in our world. 

We've all noticed and heard about the massive uptick in antisemitism since the horrors of October 7. While not tremendously surprising, the indifference of leaders both local and international to this upsetting trend has left many of us feeling alone and unsure of who our friends really are. Over the past few days, there have also been a number of concerning pieces of news in this area. Making international news was the congressional hearing that had several high-profile university presidents responding to a question that "asked directly if 'calling for the genocide of Jews' is against the codes of conduct [of their universities, the] presidents said the answer depended on the context." 

More locally, Baltimore City Council member Yitzy Schleifer introduced a resolution at a recent City Council meeting condemning the attacks of October 7 as well as antisemitism. The measure failed to pass, with only 9 yea votes out of the necessary 12. Four council members abstained. 

There's a lot of darkness out there. This is the time of year when we both need light the most AND have the tools to bring more light into our world. This year, more than in any other year, I'm with Shmuel over Rav. Let us light from lamp to lamp, sharing our light with each other, just as we bring light to our ḥanukiyyot. 

Ḥag urim sameaḥ - may we all have a very happy holiday of light!
In the Talmud's discussion of Ḥanukkah (Shabbat 22a-b) there's a disagreement about how one can possibly make practical use of the candles. The candles are meant only to be seen and enjoyed, as they are a concrete symbol of the miracle of Ḥanukkah, and not used, for example, to read by. But if the goal of lighting the candles is to share the miracle as widely as possible, one might be able to use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another. In the Talmud's discussion, Rav says that one may not use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another and Shmuel says that one may. 

The Talmud then tries to sharpen the argument, parsing out the underlying issues as well as Rav's and Shmuel's reasoning. Is it just lighting that accomplishes the mitzvah or is it placing the ḥanukiyyah by the entry? Does lighting from lamp to lamp weaken the mitzvah, as the oil consumed in kindling the next lamp would have otherwise just been used for illumination? It's an interesting debate and, in talmudic fashion, doesn't *quite* reach a clear conclusion. But at this moment, I'm connecting with this passage much more for the metaphors I see in its words than its halakhic conclusions. 

What does it mean to light from lamp to lamp? Especially as we approach Ḥanukkah, I think of all the ways we share our light with each other - acts of ḥesed, caring for each other, offering encouragement, enjoying time together (please join us for Chanukah Funukah this Saturday night!). And I also feel a real need for more light to spread in our world. 

We've all noticed and heard about the massive uptick in antisemitism since the horrors of October 7. While not tremendously surprising, the indifference of leaders both local and international to this upsetting trend has left many of us feeling alone and unsure of who our friends really are. Over the past few days, there have also been a number of concerning pieces of news in this area. Making international news was the congressional hearing that had several high-profile university presidents responding to a question that "asked directly if 'calling for the genocide of Jews' is against the codes of conduct [of their universities, the] presidents said the answer depended on the context." 

More locally, Baltimore City Council member Yitzy Schleifer introduced a resolution at a recent City Council meeting condemning the attacks of October 7 as well as antisemitism. The measure failed to pass, with only 9 yea votes out of the necessary 12. Four council members abstained. 

There's a lot of darkness out there. This is the time of year when we both need light the most AND have the tools to bring more light into our world. This year, more than in any other year, I'm with Shmuel over Rav. Let us light from lamp to lamp, sharing our light with each other, just as we bring light to our ḥanukiyyot. 

Ḥag urim sameaḥ - may we all have a very happy holiday of light!
In the Talmud's discussion of Ḥanukkah (Shabbat 22a-b) there's a disagreement about how one can possibly make practical use of the candles. The candles are meant only to be seen and enjoyed, as they are a concrete symbol of the miracle of Ḥanukkah, and not used, for example, to read by. But if the goal of lighting the candles is to share the miracle as widely as possible, one might be able to use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another. In the Talmud's discussion, Rav says that one may not use one Ḥanukkah lamp to light another and Shmuel says that one may. 

The Talmud then tries to sharpen the argument, parsing out the underlying issues as well as Rav's and Shmuel's reasoning. Is it just lighting that accomplishes the mitzvah or is it placing the ḥanukiyyah by the entry? Does lighting from lamp to lamp weaken the mitzvah, as the oil consumed in kindling the next lamp would have otherwise just been used for illumination? It's an interesting debate and, in talmudic fashion, doesn't *quite* reach a clear conclusion. But at this moment, I'm connecting with this passage much more for the metaphors I see in its words than its halakhic conclusions. 

What does it mean to light from lamp to lamp? Especially as we approach Ḥanukkah, I think of all the ways we share our light with each other - acts of ḥesed, caring for each other, offering encouragement, enjoying time together (please join us for Chanukah Funukah this Saturday night!). And I also feel a real need for more light to spread in our world. 

We've all noticed and heard about the massive uptick in antisemitism since the horrors of October 7. While not tremendously surprising, the indifference of leaders both local and international to this upsetting trend has left many of us feeling alone and unsure of who our friends really are. Over the past few days, there have also been a number of concerning pieces of news in this area. Making international news was the congressional hearing that had several high-profile university presidents responding to a question that "asked directly if 'calling for the genocide of Jews' is against the codes of conduct [of their universities, the] presidents said the answer depended on the context." 

More locally, Baltimore City Council member Yitzy Schleifer introduced a resolution at a recent City Council meeting condemning the attacks of October 7 as well as antisemitism. The measure failed to pass, with only 9 yea votes out of the necessary 12. Four council members abstained. 

There's a lot of darkness out there. This is the time of year when we both need light the most AND have the tools to bring more light into our world. This year, more than in any other year, I'm with Shmuel over Rav. Let us light from lamp to lamp, sharing our light with each other, just as we bring light to our ḥanukiyyot. 

Ḥag urim sameaḥ - may we all have a very happy holiday of light!