One-Sixtieth

Of all the questions connected to tomorrow night’s festival of Hanukkah, the seemingly most straightforward is “Why is Hanukkah eight nights?” The Talmud relates that having defeated their Greek oppressors, the Maccabees entered the Temple to rededicate it and found only a single cruse of oil, enough for but one night. Whether due to the hand of God or the wonders of the fracking industry, the tiny oil reserve went the distance – eight days – a miracle preserved in the eight nights and eight lights of Hanukkah. Straightforward as that explanation is, many a Hebrew School student has asked: “But Rabbi, if there was enough oil for one night, then is the miracle eight nights, or is it really seven? That first night was no miracle." It is a question that, if you tug at it, sets in motion a whole series of other questions as to the origin and meaning behind our upcoming beloved festival.

One explanation I recall being given as a child was that the Maccabees carefully titrated their oil reserve over the course of eight days – a miracle spread out over eight days. Another explanation says it is not about the oil, but the eight days required to be purified in order to reenter the Temple. Historically speaking, the most plausible answer is that upon entering the Temple that winter, the Jewish community realized that they had missed the eight-day fall festival of Sukkot. As related in the Second Book of Maccabees, that first Hanukkah was really a belated Sukkot, complete with lulavim (palm branches) and all the symbols and prayers of the missed festival.

There are many answers to our question, but this morning I want to share with you a thought from Dena Weiss, the Rosh Beit Hamidrash of Hadar, a fabulous site of Jewish learning on the West Side. In a comment on this week’s Torah reading, Weiss reflects that when faced with a daunting and difficult task, it is only natural that we find ourselves either unable or unwilling to take action. The problem is so big, so insurmountable – in difficulty, in volume, in complexity – that rather than leaning in, stepping forward, and chipping away at the task before us, we stand paralyzed, immobilized, or step away entirely. It happens to us all. It could be preparing for a Bar or Bat Mitzvah; it could be handing in all those college applications. It could be a project at work or at the synagogue. It could be in the public square – the environment, the rise of anti-Semitism, the soaring costs of college or Jewish education. Depending on who you are, your issue will be different, but the shared human experience is one and the same. Overwhelmed by the enormity of a problem, we do the calculation in our head, we determine that whatever effort or contribution we could make would be meaningless, we shrug our shoulders and we do – well, nothing.

Which, I imagine, is precisely how Judah Maccabee and his band of brothers felt when they entered that defiled, dishonored, and derelict Temple on that cold December day in Jerusalem so many years ago. Exhausted, diminished in number, and perhaps even depleted in faith, they stood there staring at the enormity of the task before them. Could the Temple be rebuilt? Could it once again house God’s presence? They had won the battle but not the war; why rebuild at all if the Greeks were just going to inflict destruction once more? The scene would be an amazing one to film. There were those who were broken, those who said “why bother,” those who argued, pointing fingers among themselves, and probably those who told themselves – and others – “this is just not my problem.” And then, it happened: One of the Maccabees spots the cruse of oil buried under some trash and, while the elders are crying, arguing, and carrying on, our Maccabee walks up to the Holy of Holies and pours the oil into the ner tamid, the eternal light. Its flame begins to flicker, at first unsure of itself, until another Maccabees notices it, stops his weeping . . . and begins to pick up trash. And then the two Maccabees who were arguing over whose fault it all was see the person cleaning up, stop arguing, and also pitch in. And the flame begins to shine a little more brightly as more and more people start pitching in, a little more and a little more.

It is altogether human, in the face of the insurmountable, to wonder what one can possibly do. The miracle of Hanukkah is that, in the face of the impossible, they lit that flame; and the message – to this day – is that as long as we have life to live and breath to breathe – inaction is not an option. As Weiss explains, the rabbis of old were well aware of the challenge of insurmountable problems. Two examples about which they wrote are illness and poverty. In the case of illness, the Talmud teaches that a visit to the sick, at best, removes only one-sixtieth of a person’s suffering. (Babylonian Talmud Nedarim 39b). So too, when it comes to poverty and hunger, we may well wonder what difference our small contributions can make. Nevertheless, the Talmud explains, the ancient Israelite farmer was obligated to allocate one-sixtieth of his field to the poor to glean. (Mishnah Peah 1:2)

There are other examples, but the message is clear. It is given its most pithy expression in the words of Rabbi Tarfon in Pirkei Avot: “You are not obliged to finish the work, so too you are not free to desist from it.” (2:16). One-sixtieth is not a lot, in fact, if you know a bit about the Talmud, then you know one-sixtieth is rabbinic code for “a negligible amount.” And yet we stand obligated to do our one-sixtieth; we do not desist from the task at hand. The 500 Thanksgiving meals distributed by the PAS Teen Food Pantry last week belie an extraordinary, praiseworthy effort; but in the face of the 1.3 million New York City residents with insufficient food, including one in five children and one in ten seniors, it is not even one-sixtieth, not even a drop in the bucket. But we do it and we do it proudly, because, as our tradition teaches – mitzvah goreret mitzvah – one mitzvah leads to another mitzvah. If we give our one-sixtieth, then maybe another church or synagogue or mosque will give their one-sixtieth, and then that person or that law firm or that family foundation will allocate their one-sixtieth to food instability and then, pretty soon all those one-sixtieths will begin to add up. Even then the problem may still not be solved, but it will be better, and better, though not perfect, is still good.

Not on this issue, not on any issue do we desist from the task, because we know as Jews that moral leadership is measured not by what others are or aren’t doing but by what we choose to do or not to do – in the words of Ghandi, “To be the change you want to see in this world.” Yes, it is true according to Maimonides that theologically speaking, the balance of the entire world can rest on the deeds of a single person. But for the less theologically minded, we are not so certain whether our deeds will or won’t tip the balance. But knowing our impact, or knowing whether or not we will ultimately succeed has never been the mark of moral leadership for Jews. Lest we forget, when Abraham went toe-to-toe with God defending Sodom and Gomorrah, he failed. His heroic stature was never contingent on the success of his mission; rather, it was secured because he stood up for what was right and for what he believed in.

None of us can say whether our small contributions in deed, in personal capital, or actual capital will make the difference in the face of the daunting issues of our day, but we do, nevertheless, engage. This week, I forced myself to do what I normally would not do: to read about the National Climate Assessment Report, a report filled with warnings of the dire consequences of climate change if significant steps are not taken to rein in global warming. It is a lot, it is complicated, it is scary, and truth be told, I am not entirely sure what my role is and where to begin. But I know I dare not enable, I dare not ignore or turn away. I am deeply proud that Rabbi Witkovsky is leading the charge here in our community as to how PAS can be a leader in this effort, as an institution unto itself and as a hub to inspire our member families to contribute their own one-sixtieth (as it were) towards addressing the environmental crisis. As a rabbi, I walk modestly knowing that much in this world is not in our hands, but rather in the heavens. I also believe that the Lord helps those who helps themselves, or, as I overheard this week: “I do my best, Hashem does the rest.” On this issue, among others, I look forward to this synagogue being the best that we are capable of being, and I would ask that you reach out to Rabbi Witkovsky to ask how you can get involved.

And I would be remiss if I did not mention that more often than not, there is no environment more toxic, more seemingly insurmountable than our own family systems. It could be a relationship that went off track, a family member who was a friend, a friend who was like family, and now after so much “she said/he said,” so many knots to untangle that frankly, it is just easier not to deal and get swallowed up in that emotional quicksand.

“What difference will it make?”
“I am just going to get hurt again.”
“Nobody really forgives anyway, do they?”

That may be the case, but you know what? You will never know until you try. As the saying goes “This world is full of lonely people waiting to make the first move.” What is the story of Joseph and his brothers if not the tale of one really complicated family that was able to rebuild trust step by step by step. Call me crazy, but whether it is that nasty person on your elevator bank, that old friend with whom you have had a falling out, or anyone for that matter – there is nothing as disarming and delightful as extending a warm hello, a small act of kindness and maybe even an undeserved gesture of forgiveness. The worst that will happen is it will be ignored or rebuffed. The best that can happen is it will be reciprocated. A risk/reward ratio that I can live with and would recommend to anyone.

A final story, one that I have told many times in staff meetings, but never from the pulpit. The best training I ever had to be a congregational rabbi was decades ago when I was a unit head, a Rosh Edah, at Camp Ramah in the Poconos. The head of camp was Cheryl Magen, one of the outstanding Jewish professionals and educators of our time. She liked to take her meetings while walking around the migrash, the camp’s main lawn. . And as we would walk and talk, every so often she would bend down, pick up a piece of trash – a wrapper or popsicle stick – until we arrived at a trash can, and she would throw it all out, and then go on and find new trash.. Toward the end of one summer I finally asked her, even though I knew the answer without asking,  why she did what she did. She was the director of the whole place, there was a maintenance crew to do what she was doing and besides, she and I both knew that by the time of her next meeting there would be more wrappers and more popsicle sticks on the migrash; her task would never be complete. It was then that she explained to me her theory of leadership. That being a leader is not about the words we use but the deeds we perform. As St. Francis of Assisi is said to have said: “Preach often . . . and sometimes, use words.” She picked up the trash because if she – the head of the whole camp – did, not only might other staff, counselors, and campers do the same, but they would see themselves as caretakers of their community. She picked up the trash, because while her acts were, in the grand scheme of things, rather insignificant, she had the choice whether to be part of the problem or part of the solution, and while she could not make wrong right, change the past, or control the behavior of others, she could make sure that her behavior always represented her best self and her highest hopes for her institution. Finally, she said, she picked up the trash because it was the right thing to do, it cost her very little, and what sort of person walks by a piece of trash without picking it up? Ever since that talk, that is how I try, best I can, to live my life, run my rabbinate, and lead my synagogue.

Friends, there is more pain, more darkness, and more trash in this world than any of us care to admit. But be it the environment, this country, or our own families, we are all contributors, we are all stakeholders, and we all need to do our part. “Every deed counts,” taught Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, “every word is power.” Like the Maccabees, each one of us bears the potential to bring light to the darkness, hope to the cynicism, be the person we aspire to be, inspire others to follow our lead, and mend this world in such desperate need of repair. Oil or no oil, at the end of the day, the eternal light is not up there, it is right here. That is the miracle of Hanukkah, that is the miracle of the Jewish people, that is the divine spark embedded in every of human soul, and that light – it never goes out. So let’s use our God-given spark and create miracles in our day as did our ancestors in days of old.