Chanukah 5769

Those feasts normally added are permissive [but not obligatory] feasts, for [the Sages] did not establish these days for feasting and merriment.

Orach Chaim, 670:2

The Mishna Berura explains that the Sages intended the celebration of Chanukah for Hallel and Hoda’a, the Jewish nation’s thankfulness towards and recognition of Hashem. Although Purim was established for a somewhat similar purpose, the thankfulness expressed to Hashem on Purim is for the physical preservation of Klal Yisrael, who were the targets of Haman HaRashah’s planned genocide. In contrast, the miracle of Chanukah did not preserve the physical existence of the nation, but rather its ability to learn Torah and keep the Mitzvos. Therefore, the thankfulness expressed is one over spiritual preservation, and so lavish feasts are an unnecessary, albeit welcome, facet of the holiday celebration.

The Mishna Berura draws a very sharp contrast between the two holidays. At first glance, Chanukah and Purim appear fairly similar. Each holiday was established by the Sages. Each commemorates a specific miracle. And each is celebrated through Hallel and Hoda’a. But the Mishna Berura pins the two holidays on opposite sides of the spectrum, with Purim acknowledging the preserved physical state of Klal Yisrael and Chanukah acknowledging its preserved spiritual state. The Mishna Berura then asserts that the Sages used this spectrum of physicality and spirituality to determine whether to establish a feast or not.

The Mishna Berura’s premise is plausible, but is it really fair? Can one really say that a feast is a purely physical indulgence with no spiritual meaning whatsoever? Obligatory meals every Yom Tov and Shabbos somehow transcend the physical realm, why can’t a Chanukah feast do the same? Is the learning and fulfillment of Torah itself even a purely spiritual endeavor?

Mar Brei Ravina would always sit in fasting, except on Shavuos, Purim and Erev Yom Kippur. Shavuos, [because it was] the day on which the Torah was given…

Meseches Pesachim, 68b

The gemara in Pesachim, quite contrary to the Mishna Berura’s approach, depicts the day Klal Yisrael first received the Torah as an escape from the physical afflictions of this world. It is a day of great feasting despite the purely spiritual implications of Mattan Torah. Shouldn’t Chanukah, which celebrates the preservation of this very Torah warrant an equally physical celebration? It seems the Mishna Berura’s distinction between spiritual and physical victories works beautifully until one tries to place any holiday other than Chanukah or Purim onto that spectrum. It also fails when one considers the Chanukah miracle as described in the gemara:

When the Greeks entered the Temple, they unpurified all the oil there. And when the Chashmonai Monarchy overpowered and defeated [the Greeks], they searched and found only one jug of oil with the Kohein Gadol’s seal in tact. It was only enough from which to light for one day, but a miracle occurred and they lit from it for eight days. The next year, they established a holiday with praise and recognition [to Hashem].

Meseches Shabbos, 21b

The gemara makes no mention of either Limud HaTorah or Shmiras HaMitzvos. Even the Al HaNisim, which mentions that the Greeks intended to make Yisrael forget the Torah and abandon the Mitzvos, does not conclude that the nation resumed its Torah study and its Mitzvah observance. Rather, both the gemara and Al HaNisim conclude that the Chashmonaim lit candles and established a holiday. Is lighting candles a spiritual victory? Does it even reflect a spiritual victory?

The gemara in Shabbos, aside from all the information it supposedly omits, also adds a lot of information. If the “miracle of Chanukah” was that one day’s worth of oil lasted for eight days, does the gemara really need to discuss how the Chashmonaim won a war against the Greek army? Does it really need to discuss how they searched the Heichal and found only one jug of oil? Could the gemara just state that one fateful day, the Kohanim had only one jug of oil and it lasted for eight days?

These questions all point to a broader issue: what was the “miracle of Chanukah?” The commentaries debate this issue at great length, and with no clear resolution. The miracle may have been (a) the military victory, (b) the finding of a jug of oil, (c) the lasting of the oil, or some combination of these three. Do either of the first two suffice on its own as a miraculous event? If so, why does the gemara only mention them in passing? If only the oil lasting is miraculous, why should the first two event receive any mention in the gemara? And if no event alone sufficed as miraculous, then are any of them really miraculous in the first place? The Rambam takes a rather unique approach in answering these questions:

During the Second Temple, when the kings of Greece made decrees over Yisrael and did not allow them to observe the Torah and Mitzvos, and they interfered with [the Jews’] money and daughters, and breached the Temple and defiled the pure, and oppressed the Jews until the G-d of [the Jews’] fathers had mercy upon them and saved them from [the Greeks], and the sons of the Chashmonai overpowered and killed them, and saved Yisrael from [the Greeks]… for over two hundred years until the Temple’s destruction, and when Yisrael overpowered their foes, it was on the 25th of Kislev, and they entered the Temple and found only one jug of pure oil, only enough with which to light for one day, and they lit candles for eight days… and because of this, the Sages of that generation declared that the eight days beginning from the 25th of Kislev be days of merriment and Hallel, and [that Jews] light candles in the entrances to their houses each night to express and reveal the miracle.

Rambam, Hilchos Chanukah, 4:1-3

As a preface to the Mitzvah of lighting Chanukah candles, the Rambam provides a lengthy history lesson, detailing first the ways in which the Greeks oppressed the Jews, then stating how the Jews retook control, and finally recounting the story of the jug of oil. The Rambam is clearly providing a context through which one can come to appreciate the miracle that must be “expressed and revealed” by lighting candles. But there is one problem with the Rambam’s story, and that is that it doesn’t read like a story.

During the Second Temple, when the kings made decrees, and when they interfered with our lives and breached the Temple and oppressed us until Hashem came to our aid, and when we overpowered them… and they entered, and they found oil, and they lit.

The Rambam does not say, “During the Second Temple, the Jews fought a battle.” Rather, he essentially says, “During the Second Temple, when the Jews fought a battle” (though not with those exact words). He does not say, “When the Greeks oppressed the Jews, Hashem had mercy.” Rather, he says, “When the Greeks oppressed the Jews until Hashem had mercy.” He does not even say, “When… they entered the Temple and they found oil, they lit candles.” Rather, he says, “When… they entered the Temple and they found oil and they lit candles.” There is no closing clause to any of these points. Each clause runs into the next. Each builds off the previous point as an additional layer of context to the Chanukah story. But the context doesn’t lead up to any story! The Rambam provides pure context, but not the miracle.

Looking a little closer at the Rambam’s syntax, there is one clause that does not continue in to the next. “…And when Yisrael overpowered their foes, it was on the 25th of Kislev, and they entered into the Temple…” The Rambam here frames the date of the victory as a fact, not a layer of context. This is rather odd; nothing lends itself to context and background more than a date does, yet the Rambam identifies this date as an event in and of itself, turning the past events into the date’s context! Where one expects to read, “On the 25th of Kislev, the Jews overtook the oppressive Greek army,” the Rambam instead writes, “When the Jews overtook the oppressive Greek army, it was the 25th of Kislev.” Why does the Rambam do this? Does a date, particularly the 25th of Kislev, carry any significance on its own merits?

Construction of the Mishkan was completed on the 25th of Kislev.

Midrash Tanchuma, Fikudei 6

So the 25th of Kislev does carry a special significance. But is it context for a miracle or is it a miracle in its own rights? It’s still difficult to imagine how a date can be miraculous. Perhaps the fact that the Chashmonaim overpowered the Greek army, entered the Temple and lit candles was not an apparent miracle but the fact that it occurred on the 25th of Kislev, the fact that the Chashmonaim rededicated their Mikdash on the very date that the Mishkan was first completed, proved that their victory was not luck but rather a gift of Hashem’s mercy. It’s a nice thought, but the Rambam could then still have written “…and on the 25th of Kislev, they overtook the Greeks” instead of the other way around.

The Rambam states that the Sages, the Chachamim, of that generation established the holiday of Chanukah. The Chashmonaim were the kings, clearly capable of passing such a decree. The Chashmonaim were also the ones who lit the candles on the first Chanukah. They clearly saw their single jug of oil last for eight days and they were certainly aware of this miracle. Isn’t it plausible to claim that the Chashmonaim established Chanukah? Why then does the Rambam insist that the Chachamim did so?

Perhaps the Chashmonaim were aware of the miracle, but they were also aware that miracles were performed with oil in the Mikdash on a daily basis. Every day, the Ner Ma’aravi would ignite first, and every day it would extinguish last. What then, the Chashmonaim could have concluded, made these eight miraculous days different from the rest of the year? Does a miracle that occurs every day of the year deserve a day of celebration to the exclusion of all other days? This was a question for the Chachamim.

On one hand, a celebration on the 25th of Kislev would undermine the miracles that occurred daily in the Mikdash. By focusing on a little jug of oil found on one fateful day, the celebration of Chanukah would overshadow all the thousands and thousands of times that the Ner Ma’aravi did not extinguish. But the moment that the Chachamim acknowledged the 25th of Kislev as the day when the Mishkan was completed, a significant day in and of itself, any such fear of overshadowing the other miracles of the Mikdash disappeared. The victory over the Greeks, the finding of oil, the lighting of the candles: these were not isolated events. Rather, they were an outgrowth of a much larger scheme, a continuum of miracles that began in the Midbar over a thousand years earlier. To celebrate the “miracle of Chanukah” as an isolated miracle might not have made much sense, especially considering how many miracles the Chachamim did not turn into days of celebration. But to celebrate Chanukah as “one miracle existing within a continuum of many miracles” made plenty of sense.

However, there is an inherent problem with celebrating an unfinished continuum of miracles. As a part of the continuum, the purpose of each miracle is unresolved, so the purpose of the celebration is essentially unclear. For instance, on Chanukah, the Chashmonaim overpowered the Greeks and restored control to the Mikdash, but the effects of their success were extremely limited. In fact, looking back at the Chashmonaim’s legacy, it is harder to say that they had a positive effect on Klal Yisrael’s history than to say that they had no effect at all. Many Jews still died on account of learning Torah and keeping Mitzvos. The Romans overpowered the Chashmonaim 103 years later, which lead to further persecution and eventually the Churban HaBais. What then is Klal Yisrael left with to celebrate, especially after a second Churban?

But this question is really its own answer. If the Chashmonaim’s victory were an isolated event and not part of any continuum of miracles, then there would be nothing to celebrate after the Churban. The effects of the one miracle would be through and the need for celebration would be outdated. But if the victory is part of an unconcluded series of miracles, then even if one cannot see the salvation to which these miracles will eventually lead, the confidence that they will lead to salvation is enough to warrant Hallel and Hoda’a. We can point at the events of Chanukah and faithfully assert, “Look! Here is our proof! Here is our hope for redemption!”

But there is no place for a meal on Chanukah, for there is really nothing yet to celebrate. In the context of Purim, as the Jewish nation narrowly and fortuitously escaped certain death with the help of the Jewish queen, there was no question that Hashem had intervened to save His nation. The irony, especially, indicated Hashem’s direct involvement in the story. Even the enemies of Klal Yisrael converted to Judaism in droves. And within two years, Jews returned to Eretz Yisrael to resume construction on the Beis HaMikdash. In the context of Chanukah, where the military victory and luck of finding a jug of oil proved only the merit of Klal Yisrael but not the direct intervention of Hashem, where masses of Jews continued to assimilate away from their roots, and after which the nation slowly squandered its Beis Mikdash, the hand of the Almighty is not as clear, nor is the ultimate purpose of these miracles. We find ourselves asking, “what is left to celebrate?”

And through it all, we try to recognize the miracles, and we try to make them recognizable for others. On Purim, the Mitzvah of Persumei Nisa is simply to show up for the Megila reading and hear about what happened to Mordechai and Esteir and the nation.

“And Persumei Nisa,” although they do not understand what they heard [because it was read in Hebrew], they will ask [others] who heard it [read], and they will relate what happened and how the miracle occurred and inform them.

Rashi, Meseches Megila 18a

Listening to the Megila is enough to preserve the Neis. The gemara in Meseches Megila (14a) states that there no need to recite Hallel on because the leining of the Megila is itself Hallel! Reading about the miracle of Chanukah, however, could never suffice, for the Neis is muted and hidden.

Why is Esteir compared to the dawn (“Ayeles HaShachar”)? Just as the dawn is the end of the night, so too Esteir is the end of miracles. But what about the miracles of Chanukah? We are only discussing miracles that could be recorded [in the Torah].

Meseches Yoma, 29a

And so the Mitzvah of Pirsum by Chanukah is to “express and reveal” the miracle; seeing it in writing would simply not suffice. We cannot celebrate our survival just because some miracle occurred. We can only celebrate if we can still recognize how the miracle still bears significance to our current existence.

In this sense, our celebration is exactly what the Mishna Berura says it is. Our celebration is purely spiritual. Purim and the Yamim Tovim gave us spectacular miracles to relive. All we have to do is look back and see that we are free from Mitzrayim, and there is reason to celebrate Pesach. We have a Torah, so we celebrate Shavuos. We survived Galus Bavel, and we are still alive today, and so we celebrate Purim. But our Beis HaMikdash is gone, and the reign of the Chashmonaim is gone, and we are still assimilating into gentile culture. What has Chanukah left us to celebrate other than our passion to learn Torah, our fervor to recognize Hashem’s hand in this world, and our hope towards an eventual and speedy salvation? The “miracle of Chanukah” bears no remnant but these spiritual foundations.

But someday, when the continuum of miracles brings us to an end of days and our hindsight reveals the purpose of both our prior successes and current struggles, we will continue to celebrate Chanukah. In those days, we will keep celebrating Chanukah, and in a way we have never celebrated it before. But for now, Chanukah remains merely a hint, a reference, a whisper into our ear reminding us that the geula will someday come because the Mishkan once stood and stood for that very purpose.

Parashat VaYeishev

The brothers had many reasons to hate Yoseif. He was their father’s most beloved child (37:3), he snitched on them every chance he got (37:2), and he dreamt grand, egocentric dreams (37:7). Each reason should itself justify their hatred, yet the Torah does not relate that the brothers hated Yoseif until after Yoseif relates his first dream to them.

VaYosifu Od S’no Oso Al Chalomosav ViAl Devarav

Beraishis, 37:8

ViAl Devarav, [regarding which of Yoseif’s “words?”] Regarding the evil reports he would bring to their father.

Rashi, Beraishis 37:8

The pasuk’s implication, by Rashi’s interpretation, is that before Yoseif reported his dream to the brothers, they only hated him for being their father’s favorite son, but after the dream, they hated him “also” for relaying his evil reports. Why? Wasn’t there enough reason to despise Yoseif for bringing these reports, regardless of his grandiose dreams? If they could hate him over the feelings of their father, feelings that Yoseif could not control, then shouldn’t they immediately hate him for the reports that Yoseif, by his own choosing, relayed?

Perhaps Yoseif related more than just a simple dream to his brothers. Did Yoseif somehow goad them? What did Yoseif and his brothers really dicuss in their first conversation? In outlining the the supposed conversation, the Torah (37:5) informs us that “Yoseif dreamt a dream, told it to his brothers, and they added to their hatred of him.” The pasuk does not claim to fully relate the conversation, yet it presumably provides a complete thought, implying that all one needs to know to understand why the brothers “added to their hatred of Yoseif” is that “Yoseif told them his dream.” What does this pasuk add to our account, and how does Yoseif’s dream incite the brother’s more than his reports?

Interestingly, the pasuk does not say that Yoseif recounted his cream to his brothers, VaYisapeir El Echav, but rather that he informed his brother’s of the dream, VaYageid El Echav. Normally when one tells over a dream, he is Mesapeir the dream, he recounted the details step by step. When the Sar HaMashkim had a dream, he was Misapeir it Yoseif. When Paroh had a dream, he too was Mesapeir it to Yoseif. Even Yoseif was Mesapeir his second dream to his brothers and father. Why here was Yoseif Magid the dream, and what does it mean to be Magid a dream?

Maybe the lashon of Hagadah, as used in the Hagadah, implies that we do more than recount past events; we announce them as current events. For instance, when Bnei Yisrael ran away from Mitzrayim, Paroh was ‘informed’ of their escape. Lavan too was “informed” when Yaakov fled. In both cases, the Torah uses the lashon of “Hugad.” In short, all current events are Hugad, informed. All past events, on the other hand, are recounted.

When Yoseif conveyed his dream to his brothers, did he recount its details as a passed event of the previous night? Or did he present the elements of his vision as a manifetation of current events? The lashon VaYageid implies the latter, that Yoseif somehow saw his dream in its process of fulfillment, even as he told it over to his brothers. Maybe Yoseif considered the reports he brought to his father as a means of controlling his brothers, a way of “ruling” over them and keeping them – in his eyes – along a righteous path.

In this sense, the brothers’ response, HaMaloch Timloch Aleinu Im Mashol Timshol Banu, fits well. Yoseif, in relating his dream, was not prophesying that he would someday rule over his brothers; rather, Yoseif saw his current status as his father’s field scout as this very rulership. In response, the brothers object to his ability to ever fully control them. The GR”A notes that the shoresh of HaMaloch implies leadership by the will of one’s followers, whereas the shoresh of Mashol implies leadership by force. The brothers acknowledge that Yoseif’s snitching may forcefully control them, but they would never willingly submit to his self-appointed authoirty.

While the brothers may have initially considered Yoseif to have intended the best for his brothers by bringing reports to their father, once Yoseif unveiled his dreams of grandeur, the premise of his reports being for the sake of straightening his brothers out was completely undermined.

Parashat Masei

With their victories over Emor, Bashan and Midyan complete, Klal Yisrael now prepare for their entry into Eretz Yisrael. Moshe instructs them to rid the land of its current inhabitants, and he warns them that if they do not succeed in their conquest, those inhabitants will prove to be an ultimately destructive thorn in their sides. But before Moshe delivers his instructions and warning, he prefaces with a lengthy enumeration of the many sites his people inhabited over the past forty years.

How does this list of sites appropriately preface the nation’s obligation to conquer Eretz Yisrael? The Bnei Yisrael arrived in Arvos Moav eleven perakim ago, at the end of Parashat Chukas, and they haven’t moved since. Why then does Moshe wait to recount their past journeys until they are prepared to leave the plains? Alternatively one could ask, as Rashi asks, why Moshe recounts these journeys altogether.

“These are the journeys.” Why are these journeys written? To inform [us] of G-d’s kindness, for although He decreed to drag them through the wilderness, do not claim that they were dragged from journey to journey all forty years without rest.

Rashi, BaMidbar 33:1

Rashi proceeds to prove his claim. “There are forty-two journeys altogether,” he tallies. He then proves that fourteen of these journeys preceded Hashem’s decree, and eight more came after the end of His decree, after the death of Aharon. Therefore, Hashem made the Jews travel only twenty times in the span of forty years, an unconditional kindness even in the face of a most terrible decree.

But how does this tally prove G-d’s kindness? Maybe the Jews stopped at each destination for only a day, and so they spent nearly the full forty years on their feet wandering. Without knowing how long they spent at each destination, there is no possible way to determine just how long Hashem made them wander. And while an estimation of the time required to travel from Mitzrayim to Eretz Yisrael might accurately project the respective numbers of days spent wandering and camping, such a calculation would itself reveal the kindness of Hashem, rendering Moshe’s list of destinations entirely useless, bringing the difficulty with Rashi’s comments back to square one.

The Mifarshim take issue with Rashi from a very different angle. If we count the journeys listed in our parasha, we find that there are actually only forty-one stops along the way, and that the nation made only nineteen journeys during Hashem’s decree. Why then does Rashi round these numbers up?

In order to answer this difficulty, the Levush HaOrah first raises an additional question. In Parashat Eikev (10:6), Rashi writes that there were eight journeys from Mosera to Hor HaHar. Similarly in Parashat Pinchas (26:13), Rashi writes that when the Cana’ani king of Arad attacked Klal Yisrael, they retreated eight journeys from Hor HaHar to Mosera. However, Moshe lists only seven journeys from Mosera to HorHaHar in Parashat Masei. How does Rashi add these destinations up to reach a total of eight? To make matters worse, Rashi himself writes in Parashat Chukas (21:4) that the nation retreated only seven journeys, and quotes the pasuk in Eikev as proof!

To resolve these inconsistencies, the Levush HaOrah first explains Rashi’s definition of a Masa, a journey. When a man sets out on a journey with a particular destination in mind and travels a quick and straight path to this destination, we call his travel a single Masa. However, the moment this man walks off his original course, all the more so if he travels in exactly the opposite direction of his destination, his traveling turns into a straddling and is no longer termed a Masa.

In this sense, the Bnei Yisrael traveled seven Masa’ot from Mosera to Hor HaHar, seven journeys with different destinations in mind. Their first destination was Bnei Ya’akan, and then they settled. The next was Chor HaGidgad, and again they settled. And so on. But there is another unlisted journey Rashi includes, namely the journey from Mosera back to Hor HarHar. After the Bnei Yisrael regrouped from their retreat, they set their sights on Hor HaHar and hastily returned. Although this journey spanned the length of seven previous journeys, the Bnei Yisrael completed their trek with one destination in mind, Hor HaHar, and so Rashi counts this return as its own Masa, but only one Masa. On the other hand, Rashi omits the nation’s retreat from Hor HaHar to Mosera from his enumeration of Masa’ot, for this straddling worked against the reaching of their next destination, Tzalmona.

Therefore, the Levush HaOrah concludes, the extra Masa that Rashi refers to in Parashat Masei is the return from Mosera to Hor HaHar. Rashi includes this eighth journey within his enumerations whenever the focus of his comments includes the return from Mosera to Hor HaHar. Rashi’s comments in Parashat Pinchas revolve around the efforts of Shevet Levi to turn the nation around and lead them back to Hor HaHar, and his comments in Eikev evaluate the haste of their return (Rashi infers this from the skipped Masa’aot in Moshe’s rebuke there); therefore, Rashi refers to the “eight Masa’ot” in each of these two cases. However, Rashi’s comments in Chukas deal exclusively with Bnei Yisrael’s retreat, so he limits the span of this retreat to a simple “seven Masa’ot.” All in all, we find that there were indeed forty-two journeys from Klal Yisrael’s departure from Mitzrayim to their arrival in Arvos Moav, and twenty of these forty-two journeys preceded the nation’s departure from Hor HaHar.

By the Levush HaOrah’s assessment, Rashi defines a Masa solely by the destination one resolves to reach before he sets out on the road. In other words, the definition of a Masa is not the travel along the road, not the process of journeying. Rather, a Masa is simply the departure, a lifting of the eyes with a new destination in mind. The Jews’ first Masa was from Ramiseis, and their second Masa was from Sukos, and so on. This definition reads quite clearly into the pasukim:

“VaYisu Bnei Yisrael MaiRamiseis, VaYachanu BiSukos,” and Bnei Yisrael departed from Ramiseis, and they camped in Sukos.

BaMidbar 33:5

Rashi doesn’t prove Hashem’s kindness by analyzing the time Klal Yisrael spent wandering through the Midbar. Rather, Rashi focuses specifically on the number of times the nation had to depart from their current location with another destination in mind. The most difficult step of a journey is not the transition, the time spent commuting, but rather the departure, the very resolution to pack one’s belongings and abandon an old home for new home. Indeed, Hashem could have made Klal Yisrael pack their belongings over and over for forty years, moving them from destination to destination on an almost daily basis. Yet He did not; He made them commit to no more than twenty different destinations, twenty different homes, along the forty year trek. And therefore, Moshe urges, the nation must feel grateful.

Of course, the most difficult of the nation’s departures was the one from Arvos Moav. The destination they now set their sights on, Eretz Yisrael, was no wilderness, and the efforts summoned to make this land their home were no short order. But with his recounting of Hashem’s kindness, Moshe reminds his nation that Hashem will always stand on their side, through all their departures, no matter how stressful or difficult the transition may seem. Hashem will always guide them to their next destination, to the land He promised their fathers. And if they can achieve this one last mission, if they can drive every last inhabitant from the land, then they can finally experience a true arrival “El Ha Menuchah ViEl HaNachalah Asher Hashem Elokecha Nosein Lach” (Devarim 12:9) to the resting spot and to the inheritance which Hashem gave to them.