Our Golus Complex: A Wake-Up Call

by Motzen | Jan 9, 2021 | Sermons

In 1933, a letter was written by the Orthodox Jewish leadership in Germany. It was addressed to the Chancellor of Germany, Adolf Hitler. The letter was a plea for safety and security, describing the terrible impact that the Nazi laws had caused the Jewish community, and the fear in which they lived. In pleading their case, the rabbinic leadership, the authors of this letter, attempted to find common ground with the ruling party, the Nazis:

“Marxist materialism,” they wrote, “and Communist atheism share not the least in common with the spirit of the positive Jewish religious tradition, as handed down through Orthodox teachings obligatory on the Jewish People. … We (too) have been at war against this religious attitude.”

They went on to say that they would accept restrictions and laws that would limit their autonomy and opportunities. What they wanted was clarity; are the Nazis truly intent on removing Jews from the land, in which case they would leave, or, are those just empty words, campaign slogans meant to curry votes that have no teeth to them, in which case they would happily reside in Germany as second-class citizens.

You could call the letter utterly naïve, or disgustingly reprehensible. With hindsight, our judgment is likely unfairly harsh. What I can say definitively is that this position of the Jewish leadership was an expression of what is called, a Golus (exile) mentality, or what I would call, a Golus complex.

Some may blame this way of thinking, their willingness to accept hateful rhetoric and discrimination, on two thousand years of exile. Living under Romans, and Christians, and Muslims, with no rights and regular pogroms, conditioned these leaders to think this way. But it goes back even further. Nachmanides, addressing the question of how it could be that the family of Yosef, the most powerful man in Egypt, how his family could become slaves, suggests that it was not an overnight transformation. Rather, the Egyptians first started describing the Jewish People as vermin. Then, without taking an official policy, the ruling class encouraged – with words – the populace to attack the Jews. Eventually, they introduced legislation that discriminated against the Jews. And then, they made them into slaves. Sounds familiar doesn’t it?

What would have happened had the Jews stood up for themselves at that very first stage and said, we aren’t vermin, we’re human, just like you? What would have happened had they spoken up when the peasants were attacking them? What would have happened had they lobbied against the discriminatory laws?

Who knows.

What we do know is that the few words we find in the mouths of those Jews in Egypt are words of apathy, of indifference, of preferring the predictable life of a slave over the challenging life of a free person. When Moshe tries to rally the Jews to demand justice with his act of killing the Egyptian, they are apathetic to his cause and mock him (Rav Moshe Lichtenstein). When Moshe tries to secure their freedom, the Jews push back at every stage.

Our Golus complex goes back to before we were even a nation and it lives with us still.

How is this complex expressed?

Our Golus complex is expressed when we bicker over which form of anti-Semitism is worse, right-wing or left-wing, when no form of anti-Semitism should be acceptable to us.

Our Golus complex is expressed when we choose candidates based exclusively on their relationship with Israel or the Jews and nothing else, completely losing sight of our raison d’etre, of being a light unto others, forgetting that our survival is not an end to itself but a means for the betterment of the world.

Our Golus complex is expressed when we don’t allow for honest reporting of what goes on in our communities because we’re afraid of a shanda, of a scandal or embarrassment to the Jewish People.

Our Golus complex is expressed when we are so busy being defensive that we cannot extend ourselves to other “types” of Jews or to minorities who could use our support.

And like most pathologies, there are terrible inconsistencies.

On the one hand, we act like we are being endlessly persecuted, like we are complete strangers in this land, and at the very same time, we act like our ancestors came here on the Mayflower, and that there is no alternative to living in the USA.

On the one had we vote as if we are complete strangers in this land, and at the same time, we identify so deeply with our political party of choice that its leader becomes our prophet and its platform our creed. Yeshiva boys could quote Ben Shapiro but not Bava Basra, and Jewish Democrats would sooner criticize Moshe Rabbeinu than Barack Obama. Our political identity is such that rabbis are petrified to weigh in in any substantive way on the most pressing issues facing our nation because they’ll alienate people who put politics before faith. And when religious leaders do weigh in, after-the-fact, and make a little tiny peep, it’s heralded as heroic. That’s a golus mentality?!

On the one hand we pray to return to our land three times a day, and at the same time, we build beautiful, over-the-top houses, we live lavish lifestyles, we soak up the comforts of this country even when we can’t afford them because Western materialism is so much a part of our Jewish culture. (Don’t believe me? Read the ads in any Jewish publication, or just walk down the street.)

I sometimes wonder to myself – if the shofar of mashiach would blow right now, would we really be able to pull ourselves away from our homes and move to Israel? In a little two or three-bedroom apartment? Without a brand-new Honda Odyssey?!  

If we’re going to have a Golus complex, let’s at least be consistent! Living with a packed suitcase, stop rooting for the home team – they’re not our team, and live like we’re in exile.

***

Now it’s very easy to diagnose a problem, it’s far more difficult to suggest a solution. Unfortunately, I don’t have a solution, but perhaps we can gain some inspiration from the very first golus (exile) and geulah (redemption):

If we go back to the very first Pesach seder, we would notice something very strange; it was celebrated while the Jews were still living in Egypt. Pretty amazing isn’t it? They were living in their slave barracks in the land of their oppression, but they were celebrating z’man cheiruseinu, a holiday of freedom.

Freedom, it would seem, is not a location, it’s a state of mind. And that night the Jews lived in a free state of mind. The message that G-d had conveyed to them through Moshe in this week’s parsha, finally penetrated:

“Hashem Elokei avoseichem nirah eilai, that G-d, the G-d of our forefather appeared to Moshe,” – that they were the descendants of Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. And, “A’aleh es’chem mei’ani Mitzrayim… el eretz zavas chalav ud’vash, I will lift you up from Egypt and take you to a land flowing with milk and honey,” – that they had a future. (Shemos, 3:16-17)

That night they were reminded of their legacy; how Yaakov refused to make concessions or political partnerships with the likes of Eisav and Lavan despite leaving himself vulnerable in the process. How Yitzchak was willing to give up everything, even his life, for the sake of G-d. And how Avraham cared not only for his own family, but for all the families of the world.

That night they were reminded of the future; how they did not belong in Egypt, how they had a calling, how they were to set up their own country, with their own set of laws, and from Jerusalem, a light – a light of ethics and morality would one day shine.

That night they were free. That night they broke off the shackles of that terrible complex.

***

You could live your whole life bound in chains but unless you try to move around, you may not feel them. I feel like I’ve been moved around a lot this past year. I imagine we all feel like we’ve been moved and shaken quite a lot this year, and especially this past week. This past week, many in our community changed their view of our President. The president has been adored by many in our community, and not only adored but idolized (you know, from the word, idol). We can have an honest discussion and debate about who we should have voted for, I truly believe that. But the idolization of such a person?! That’s unacceptable. And this past week, that adulation has subsided, and people have finally acknowledged that dangerous words can have dangerous consequences. Watching the capital of the country stormed caused many of us to feel a deep sense of fear, especially as Jews, with even a limited knowledge of history. “Brave” op-eds and hushed whispers, acknowledging that maybe, just maybe, we were mistaken, maybe he wasn’t our savior.

So right now, we are all awake to the fact that we are in chains. We suffer, as a people, in one way or another from a Golus complex. The truth is, until that great shofar is blown, we will all be slaves, in Baltimore and even in Jerusalem. But the process of freedom can begin, even here and especially now. By reminding ourselves of our legacy, of our values, and not pandering to whomever will hate us less. By reminding ourselves of our calling and extending ourselves to our neighbors. May G-d bless America, may He watch over this wonderful country which has treated us so well, and may WE act in a way that brings blessing to the world.

Ehyeh – I will be with you Parshas Shemos

by Motzen | Jan 8, 2021 | Sermons

Yosef’s Nightmare – The Need for Companionship

by Motzen | Dec 27, 2020 | Sermons

I read an amazing story this week (shared by @ankithharathi) about a janitor named Richard Montanez. Born in Cucamonga, California, sharing a one room cinder-block hut with 14 family members. He dropped out of school in 4^th grade and took odd jobs at farms and factories. In 1976, he became a janitor at a local Frito-Lay (the chip company) plant. He couldn’t read or write and so his wife filled out the application form. The pay? $4 an hour, which was more than he ever made before.

Richard was no simple janitor. He spent his off-time learning about the company’s products, marketing, and more. He would follow salesmen around to better understand the business. In the mid-1980’s Frito-Lay started to struggle, but Richard had an idea. He called the CEO’s office. And this is how the conversation went:

“Mr. Enrico’s office. Who is this?”

“Richard Montanez, in California.”

“You’re the VP overseeing California?”

“No, I work at the Rancho Cucamonga plant.”

“Oh, so you’re the VP of operations?”

“No, I work inside the plant.”

“You’re the manager?”

“No, I’m the janitor.”

The CEO got on the line. Amused and intrigued by this janitor’s initiative, he gave him an opportunity to present to the board in two weeks time. Two weeks later, he walked into the Frito-Lay boardroom and shared all that he learned on the job. He pointed out that the company wasn’t catering to the Latino market, a market, he suggested, that was about to explode. He then pulled out 100 bags of Frito-Lay chips that he spiced himself, Mexican style.

After a few minutes of silence, punctured by crunching, the CEO turned to Richard and said, “Put away the mop. You’re coming with us.”

Flamin’ Hot Cheetos is one of the most successful launches in Frito-Lay history. Richard became a VP and amassed a twenty-million-dollar fortune. Not bad for a janitor. 

Truly, one of the most amazing rags-to-riches stories I have heard. But not the most. As I read this story, I couldn’t stop thinking about someone else who started out even lower than Richard and ended up even higher. Richard lived in the land of the free, the land of opportunities. Yosef, the protagonist of our parshiyos lived in a land of slavery, a land of a caste system that did not allow for and certainly did not celebrate these types of stories.

And yet, Yosef, very much like Richard, did not accept the position given to him. He, like Richard took initiative. When he was called in to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams, he didn’t just do as he was told. He pulled out the equivalent of a PowerPoint and explained to Pharaoh exactly how the Egyptian economy would survive the years of famine. It was so well-developed and demonstrated such energetic initiative that Pharaoh told Yosef to, “Put away the chains. You’re coming with us.”

Yosef was not only a master strategist, with boundless energy and crystal-clear vision, he was also a paragon of morality. Every time I read the story of Yosef and the wife of Potiphar, I hear Paul Simon playing in the background, “Here’s to you, Mrs. Potiphar…” A young, lonely 18-year-old, seduced by the beautiful wife of Potiphar, and overcomes it. He is called Yosef HaTzadik, Yosef the righteous, for all of time because of his restraint.

And yet, despite all this greatness…

Yosef is a failure. Is he not?

He interprets the dreams of the butler and baker down to the detail, securing his freedom. He interprets Pharaoh’s dreams accurately, attaining the second-to-highest position in the region. But his own dreams, the dreams which were the source of his brother’s hatred and caused him to be sold into slavery, the dreams which, according to the Ramban, were the reason Yosef never reached out to his father for all those years, plotting and planning so that the whole family would come and bow in complete submission to Yosef – something that could only work if they did not know his true identity – those dreams were never fulfilled.

(The first dream, the brothers all bowing to him took place but the second dream, involving Yaakov as the sun and his mother, or someone else, as the moon, that never happened.)

Before the charade was over, Yosef was forced to remove his mask. But it was too late, the damage was done. He went from being the brother who everyone was jealous of to the brother everyone feared. And in the final act, we find Yosef crying, not tears of longing, happiness, or sadness, but tears of loneliness (R. Aharon Lichtenstein, zt’l). The family never reconciled. Yosef had spent his entire life chasing his dreams, they were never fulfilled, and all he had for it was an abundance of external success but an empty and shallow relationship with all the important people in his life. Yosef’s dreams were a nightmare.

What Yosef’s dreams really meant are a matter of debate, but what is clear is that Yosef, the man who had a crystal-clear understanding of other people’s dreams, could not interpret his own.

Our Sages say, ein adam ro’eh nig’ei atzmo, a person cannot see their own flaws. We’re very good at seeing each other’s flaws, at understanding exactly what you are doing wrong and what you need to do. But self-discovery? To know what I need to do? What I am doing wrong? What path I should follow?

Yosef HaTzadik, Yosef the great strategist, Yosef the dream interpreter could not interpret his own dreams!

It’s not only our shortcoming that we cannot see. Quite often we also cannot see our own qualities. I’m always amazed at the people who are so loving of others, genuinely. The people who see good all around them, but then beat themselves up endlessly. They can see the world in brilliant, nuanced color, and forgive all their wrongdoings, but for themselves, they only see in black and white.

There is no greater joy than clarity; who we really are, what we really need to do. But it’s hard to attain and we cannot do so one our own.

Some are blessed with friends who can tell them the truth, even when it hurts, and some are blessed with family members who can compliment genuinely and can criticize without causing defensiveness. Others may need a therapist, someone who they can talk to openly and who is trained to reflect their impressions compassionately. But none of us can do it on our own.

Last week, I mentioned that the true focus of these parshiyos is who will assume the leadership of B’nei Yisrael. Reuven is eliminated, and Yosef, though a great manger, is not the leader the Jewish People need. It is Yehuda who climbs from the bottom to the top. There are many differences between the characters of Yosef, Reuven and Yehuda, some of which we discussed last week. But one feature which is often overlooked is that Yehuda had a friend. He is the only figure in the five books of Moshe who has a friend. Perhaps, just maybe, that is the secret to his success. The feedback, the give and take, the compassionate criticism and the genuine compliments gave Yehuda the wherewithal to grow.

It took Yosef his entire life to realize that his dream was a nightmare. There’s no need to wait that long. We don’t have the tools to interpret our dreams on our own, but there is a friend, a family member, a rabbi, or therapist out there who can help us.   

Show me your vaccine post!

by Motzen | Dec 18, 2020 | Sermons

Scrolling through Facebook this morning, I saw a post that made me chuckle: “It seems like the most common side effect of getting the COVID vaccine is inability to shut up about getting the vaccine.”

Just when we finished getting bombarded with Menorah pictures, our collective social feeds were getting plugged up with images of front-line workers getting pricked with needles. I laughed because I was also starting to get a little cynical about these posts. But then, after saying Hallel for the final time this Chanukah, a counterpoint emerged:

A few days ago, I was talking to a number of teenagers and in the course of the conversation one of them said that their lives are filled with endless tragedy and constant suffering. I looked around and was shocked to see his friends all nod in agreement. These are kids who are living comfortably, receiving a stellar education that will enable them to get into the best colleges, who are mostly healthy, and when they are not, receive the best medical care available in the world, and yet, they’re telling me how bad the world is. What is going on here?!

In truth, it’s not their fault that they see their world in such a negative light. They are a product of our news-cycle that highlights every societal ill and ignores any positive progress made. They are the children of a society of kvetchers who at dinner parties (remember those?) complain about their many ‘first-world problems.’ And most importantly, they are human. We are programmed to focus on all that is wring and to ignore what is right.

there’s a story told of a professor who gave an assignment to his students. He gave them each a piece of white paper with a small black dot in the center and asked them to write what the picture represents. Some students wrote of the infinite darkness found in a black hole, others spoke of the negative emotions that the blackness represented, and still others wrote of the black dot symbolizing their darkest secrets.

The next day they received their papers back and were shocked at their grade. They all got F’s. The professor explained, “I asked you to write about what you saw on this page. The black dot took up a fraction of a fraction of the page. You all chose to focus on the dot and ignored the 99% of the paper that represented warmth, clarity, and beauty.”

It is human nature to focus on what stands out and not the norms of life. Illness is so distressing because we are so accustomed to being healthy. Untimely death is so jarring because we live such long lives. And similarly, bad news is news because most of the time things are good. Not only are things good, but as Steven Pinker compellingly argues, things are getting progressively better.

Today is the final day of Chanukah. Chanukah, as we’ve discussed so many times, is a strange holiday in that the victory was not long-lasting. The Hasmonean dynasty crumbled due to in-fighting and Jewish sovereignty that was so valiantly fought for was quickly lost to the Romans. Our sages debated the centrality of the Maccabean victory for years and it took time until they decided to add Chanukah to our calendar of holidays.

Their decision to include a small and short-lived victory into our lives is a powerful message: Not all good lasts forever, there is pain and there is suffering. But an even greater tragedy would be if we lose sight of the good as fleeting as it may be. This is the message of Chanukah; l’hodot ul’halel, to give thanks even when the gift will be gone tomorrow.

Saying thank you and appreciating the good is not an easy task. Human nature directs our attention to what is broken. But we are Yehudim, from the word hoda’ah, thankfulness; we pride ourselves in being able to see and celebrate the good even in the darkness. So share those pictures of your rolled-up sleeves; what a miracle that we have a vaccine! Let me know when that person on the cholim list is feeling better; “blessed is the healer of all flesh!” Tell your kids and tell yourself that for all the frustrations, today was a good day, that you woke up this morning to the most precious gift there is, life itself; “Modeh ani… she’hechazarta bi nishmasi!” And may we only share in good news.  

I’m a Jew/ I’m a Greek

by Motzen | Dec 7, 2020 | Sermons

Contrary to how Chanukah is taught in school, Chanukah does not represent freedom of religion, freedom of expression, and the power of the few over the many. The real Chanukah story involved two groups of Jews fighting over the soul of the Jewish People. There were the traditionalists, holding on for their dear life to the ways of their parents, arguing that the Jewish People must never change their ways, and the Hellenists, who sought to merge the wisdom of Aristotle to that of Moses, and wanted to part ways with the laws that seemed outdated. Antiochus and his Greek army were supporting actors at best in this epic drama. 

What made this battle so fierce was not the great divide between Athens and Jerusalem, but their many similarities. Yes, there were barbaric fights taking place in the coliseums, the Greek focus on aesthetics, and a certain amount of hedonism. But at the same time, there was no other culture that shared so much with the Torah. In the Hellenized states, the great Greek thinkers were pondering the meaning of existence and promoting an ethical life. It was the Greeks who put the word civil into civilization; they were creating an international community, not out of oppression and terror, but out of tolerance and the mixing of old and new. “Yaft Elokim l’Yefet” (Bereishis, 9:27) – There is a reason the Torah describes Greece as beautiful, that the Talmud (Megillah, 8b)  allows for a Torah scroll to be written in Greek, and that the Zohar (Shemos, 237a) proclaims that “Yavan/ Greece is close to the path of true faith.”  

Despite the great joy that surrounds this holiday – with eight days of fried food and family fun it’s hard to complain – in truth, I struggle mightily with enjoying this holiday. The Greeks we defeated were the forefathers of Western civilization and all that it has to offer; public education, equality, civil responsibility, the arts; all the many positive features of our society can be traced back to those ancient Greeks. Yes, there are elements of this Greek beauty that conflict with my religious value system, but there is also so much I adore. What exactly am I celebrating? More importantly, is the war even over? As far as I’m concerned this ancient battle is alive and well, raging inside of me. And that’s because –  

There is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that has no tolerance for any divisions made on racial or religious lines. And yet, there is a part of me that is Jewish – a part of me that believes that as Jews, we are a special people with a special role to play in this world.

There is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that believes that every country should be totally democratic and not have any religious flavor. And yet, there is a part of me that is Jewish – a part of me that believes that God gave the Jewish People the land of Israel and I take great pride in a state that is distinctly Jewish.

There is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that believes that quality of life is paramount, and a person should have full autonomy over his/her own body. And there is a part of me that is Jewish, that believes that our bodies are a gift from God, not ours, and that every moment of life, as painfully challenging as it may be, is priceless.

There is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that believes that there should be absolute equality for both men and women. And there is a part of me that is Jewish, that sees in the Torah a dual role played by women; that of an Ishah, Eve’s primary name; a name that connotes equality with man, and Eve’s secondary name, Chavah, a name that represents motherhood (Akeidas Yitzchak, Parshas Vayeitzei). And perhaps, the differentiated obligations of the Torah reflect the emphasis that Judaism places on family.

And lastly, there is a part of me that is Greek – a part of me that if I were to be totally honest, at times is troubled with miracles I did not witness, in authorship I cannot verify, and in a future that seems so distant and foreign. And yes, in the darkest of times, even struggles with the existence of a Being I have not heard from. And at the very same time, there is a part of me that is so powerfully Jewish – a part of me that is over-awed by the majesty of the world, the profundity of the Torah, the arc of history, and even if it cannot be articulated, just knows that there must be an Author. A part of me that is awakened during prayer and feels a presence that shatters those doubts into millions and millions of pieces. 

No, this battle is not over. All night long we wrestle. It’s not easy celebrating Chanukah when you’re both Jewish and Greek. 

***

Nonetheless, I do celebrate Chanukah. Into this dark confusion, I light a candle. 

To me, that small flame represents the march of history. It reminds me that this is not the first time that Jewish values were viewed as archaic or backward. In Abraham’s times, child sacrifice was fashionable. Aristotle, the most enlightened Greek of all, endorsed pederasty, intimate relationships between adult men and young boys, because it was a wonderful form of population control. It wasn’t always easy or fashionable to be Jewish and to live by its laws, but that ner tamid, that ever-lasting flame represents a history which has shown us time and time again that today’s morality is tomorrow’s backwardness.

To me, that small flame reminds me how Jewish values, such as the emphasis on the family, are needed today more than ever; that although there has been incredible progression in regards to equality in the workforce, progression which I embrace, there has also been a steady decline in family life that has gone along with it. In the 60’s, 71% of Americans were married. Today, the number has dropped by over 20%. In the 60’s the average household in America had 3.5 children, today it has dropped by almost half. That fire of my candle warms my heart, calling my attention to the beauty and necessity of family life.

To me, that small flame reminds me of another small flame, one I do not see but believe in; my soul, a Godly gift that is imbued with holiness and thirsts for meaning. She is a powerful rebuke and rebuttal to the aimlessness and hedonism that is rampant in society. As believers in a soul, we do not need to create meaning; our neshama represents a purpose and calling that is intrinsic to our existence.

“A little bit of light,” the Lubavitcher Rebbe once said, “can banish a lot of darkness.” 

*** 

“Vayizrach lo hashemesh” (Bereishis, 32:32), the sun will one day rise, this battle will be over. However, the struggle will not end with one side defeating the other. “Yaft Elokim l’Yefet, v’yishkon b’oholei Shem – God will give beauty to Yefet (the ancestor of the Greeks), and he will reside in the tents of Shem (the ancestor of the Jewish People).” The struggle will end when we properly integrate the beauty of Greece into the tents of Torah. 

This is the great paradox of the Chanukah candle. On the one hand, it can be used to strengthen our resolve, our faith, and our confidence in the Torah; the light overpowers the darkness. And all the same, our candle can guide us through the darkness, in the delicate art of nikkur hagid (removing the sciatic nerve), giving us strength to rescue the sparks, and the wisdom to properly merge the world of Yefet with that of Sheim. 

Rembrandt’s Jacob and the Angel A short thought on Parshas Vayishlach

by Motzen | Dec 3, 2020 | Sermons

One of the most enigmatic passages in the Torah is the famous struggle between Yaakov and the angel; Yaakov, on the night before his fateful encounter with his brother is seemingly attacked by an angel. This nocturnal struggle has been painted through the ages, mostly by Christian artists, all depicting a wrestling match between Yaakov and a winged-being. However, Rembrandt, the famous 17^th century Dutch painter, depicts the angel, not as fighting, but in an almost loving embrace. The angel seems to be supporting a failing Yaakov, not trying to overcome him.

This imagery is very much in line with a number of our classical commentators. The most well-known interpretation of this encounter, suggested by Rashi, has the angel representing Eisav and the battle is a foreshadowing of their encounter. However, Ibn Ezra suggests that the purpose of the encounter was to reassure Yaakov, to give him strength, to comfort him. Rembrandt’s depiction of the angel captures Ibn Ezra’s reading perfectly. 

The implication of this approach is that Yaakov was in need of comforting. So scared, in fact, that Rashbam suggests that he had awoken that night not to continue marching towards Eisav, but to run away! Despite having come so far in his personal growth, despite the ability to face his father-in-law and rebuke him, despite his excellent three-pronged strategy to overcome Eisav, at this final moment, Yaakov was overwhelmed with fear and decided to flee! Ultimately, the angel’s reassurance works, and Yaakov turns around and confronts his greatest challenge (yet), reconciling with his estranged brother.

Before parting the angel gives Yaakov a new name, Yisrael, and he explains why: “Ki sarita (because you struggled) im Elohim v’adam (with angels and man) vatuchal (and you prevailed).” Interestingly, the final part of the sentence, Yaakov’s prevailing, is not reflected in his new name. Yisrael, is made up of only the first idea; sarita im Elohim – you struggled with great powers. Strangely, there is no mention of his ability to overcome. 

It would seem that struggling is the essence of Yaakov’s new name and in turn the essence of our national identity as Am Yisrael. We are a nation that knows how to struggle. From our inception, we have struggled against external foes, sometimes prevailing but also sometimes losing. The victory of the Maccabees, which we will be celebrating this week, was far from decisive. The Maccabees won the battle, but they ultimately lost the war, as the Maccabean kingdom crumbled a few years after it was established.

Despite these setbacks, we still celebrate, not victory, but the strength it takes to struggle. Sometimes the struggle is with angels, sometimes the struggle is with powerful nations like the Greeks. For most of us, the struggle is with ourselves. With our own weaknesses, with our own vices, with the flaws and fear we grapple with that no one else can see. Chanukah is a celebration in winning battles even when we do not immediately win the war.

When we find ourselves in such a battle, in the dark, without hope, without strength, let’s use the imagery of Rembrandt and imagine that angel, calm and reassuring, to remind us that although you and I may not see it, God, through His angels, is sending us the strength we need to continue with this battle. After all, our name is Yisrael; our greatness lies, not in victory, but in being willing to confront and to struggle.