“Hope springs eternal,” wrote essayist Alexander Pope. This sentiment forms the spiritual core of Chanukkah, the Jewish festival of lights, and (not coincidentally) also this week’s Torah portion, Miketz.

Hope, by its nature, transcends perceived reality however bleak. Hope is what remains when the night seems most dark, when the chips seem most down, when the deck seems most stacked against us. Hope sometimes is irrational, propelling us forward (or keeping us afloat) against seemingly endless odds. And yet, time and again, history and spirituality vindicate irrational hope as a powerful force of renewal.

Such is Chanukkah’s mythic history of Jewish resistance to Greek dominion: outnumbered and overpowered, ancient Jews had little earthly reason for hope that they could prevail. They did anyway.  Maccabee victors had no earthly reason to believe that remnant oil would be enough to rekindle and sustain the Temple’s eternal flame.  It did anyway. In this week’s Torah portion, the biblical Joseph had no earthly reason to believe that a forgotten political prisoner wrongly accused would catapult to Egypt’s highest civil office. He did anyway. Egypt had no earthly reason to believe that the nation could survive such a famine as never seen before. It did anyway.

Jewish life (and, indeed, all spiritual life) testifies to the miraculous illuminating power of hope – how even impossible odds can’t defeat hope without our consent. It is hope whose light we kindle on Chanukkah, the eternal spring of possibility precisely amidst seeming impossible odds.  This is the hope that dispels darkness: as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. put it, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that.” Hope is the miracle before the miracle, and this hope is in our hands and hearts to bring to light.

This week, we can physically light candles for the Festival of Lights. Better yet: let’s spread the light of hope to somewhere dark in our lives or the lives of others. Even better still: let’s ourselves become that light, that source of hope, where it’s needed most.

It really is possible.  It starts with hope.  It starts with us.

R’ David Evan Markus

This is the time of year that people either look forward to or dread seeing their families with Thanksgiving, Hanukah and Christmas in the holiday line-up for the next month. In my family, we joke that “family” is the other “f” word. If you ask adults and children for what are they thankful, many will respond “family.” For some though, that is a more nuanced issue and our torah portion gives us some parallels and perhaps some perspective.

This week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach, centers on Jacob encounter with his twin brother Esau. This is their first encounter since Jacob ran away to their mother’s family to escape Esau’s wrath at having had their father’s blessing deceitfully stolen from him. In advance of the encounter, Jacob divides his entourage and sends emissaries with all kinds of livestock as gifts or tribute. From our perspective, Jacob has every right to be fearful, many years have passed and the brothers have not made peace with each other.

The early Rabbis disagree on whether Jacob should have appeased Esau. Even some later scholars, such as Sforno (16th century), say that Jacob was “like a reed, able to bend in the wind, rather than a cedar which is strong but can be uprooted by a strong wind” (Ta’anit 20a) in contrast to Nachmanides who believes Jacob should have acted with strength not weakness. For them, these brothers represented warring nations and the dilemma is really how best to make a lasting peace treaty. To what extent is the more powerful thing to do to compromise or to stand firm? Is the answer the same when we narrow our lens and look at families?

There are many families like our ancestors, who experience a major (or minor) hurt that causes a major rift, and a family break occurs. The family gathers for Thanksgiving, all except for the family member who was hurt or caused the hurt. In fact, each party may have a grievance with the other. Who should make the first move to repair the relationship? Does it really matter who apologizes? Like Jacob, can’t we wrestle with our resistance to let go of the hurt and prevail? Can we be at peace if we are not at peace with others? Some hurts can not be reconciled so easily, and carrying the pain is a very heavy burden. Sometimes being at peace with ourselves requires us to let go of those relationships completely.

Thanksgiving is a perfect to time to begin a practice of opening our hearts, becoming more accepting of others, and becoming less judgmental. We can expand our families and “adopt” new family members offering love, hospitality and peace.

JoHanna Potts

The mere act of asking is emotionally challenging. We don’t want to seem weak or stupid or be an imposition on others. So we hesitate to ask. We can update our perspective on asking based upon the Torah reading for Toldot, which shifts some of the focus to the person being asked.

Isaac is 40 years old and asks or entreats God on behalf of his wife Rebecca to have a child. The text says something simple and yet striking,  יהוה לו וַיֵּעָתֶר  God lets God’s self be asked. The response from God presumably results in Rebecca conceiving twins. Simply understood, the act of Isaac asking is met with God allowing God’s self to be asked.

If we consider the stress we feel when asking a question, we can also appreciate that same level of anxiety others feel. The key then to alleviating the tension is for all of us to give notice the way we receive questions. We can show kindness to each other by allowing ourselves to receive questions. It is God-like to invite questions.

I think of this as I embark on fundraising efforts.  I was once taught that asking for a donation to a charity is giving another person an opportunity to do a mitzvah or a holy act.  That helps relieve some of my stress in asking, but not all of it.  Rather, the loving-kindness of another person to invite the question truly makes asking for a gift a moment of Godliness.

In the approaching year-end and holiday time charitable solicitations reach a peak.  According to our CPAs this is vital year-end tax planning time to get income tax deductions. Certainly, we will be asked in one way or another to give – whether it is the red suited Santa outside of a supermarket or the robo-caller asking for used items to be donated. We cannot possibly give to everyone who asks. But we can be kind in receiving the request and acknowledge the holy sparks that are present when one person offers another person the opportunity to be of help to others. And rather than taking umbrage at being asked, we can at least give the person asking the honor of being acknowledged for the difficulty of their task. A little kindness in receiving a request is already giving something back.

R Evan Krame

Be honest: at pivotal life moments – maybe when you thought nobody else was listening – you bargained with God. Maybe it was immature jitters (“Lemme get an ‘A’ on this test and I’ll be good forever!”); maybe it was mature worry (“Let the test results be negative and I promise to quit smoking”). Whether faith, emotion or desperation, it’s human nature to bargain with God (or the Universe, or Fate, or Something) amidst challenge. The issue isn’t whether we bargain with God, but what our bargaining means and what we make of it.

In this week’s Torah portion (Vayera), Abraham bargains with God over the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah: would God save the cities for 50 righteous? 40 righteous? How about 10?(Gen. 18:23-33). The Rosh Hashanah morning Haftarah finds Hannah bargaining with God: if God gives me a son (Samuel), I’ll dedicate him to God’s service (1 Sam. 1:11). Jacob, on waking from his dream of an angelic ladder, also bargains with God: if God protects me my journey, I’ll tithe all I have for God (Gen. 28:20-22).

Our biblical bargainers seemed to fare well: Abraham couldn’t save Sodom but did get a personalized dialogue with God. Hannah got a son. Jacob felt God protecting his journey. Other bargainers don’t fare so well: modern hospitals and courtrooms overflow with pleas seemingly unheeded and bargains seemingly rejected. And still, we bargain.

In her landmark 1969 treatise, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross called bargaining one of the five stages of grief (like denial, anger, depression and acceptance). In its wake, some imagine bargaining to be a behavior of desperation, or a psychological stage to get past like a bad part of town en route to somewhere better. It’s tempting to suppress bargaining instincts in service of reason and playing it safe. (After all, bargaining with God is risky business: how would losing, or feeling ignored, affect what we think and feel about God?)

We probably can’t know whether God hears and answers our pleas on the terms we bargain for: not everyone is cured, not everyone is exonerated, not every bargain is honored. But the fairest measure of bargaining isn’t always winning an outcome: the Integrative Theory of Bargaining includes our emotions as bargaining outcomes. We feel better speaking our hopes and fears aloud – as Kübler-Ross confirmed, it’s good for us psychologically. And as Narrative Theorists teach, bargaining is part of who we are as humans (and, perhaps stereotypically, as Jews): calling out to God (or the Universe, or Fate, or Something) is part of our emotional and spiritual DNA. To suppress our bargaining instinct is to suppress an essential part of ourselves. Speaking to God, even bargaining with God, is sound spirituality.

So take a page from Abraham, Hannah and Jacob: feel free to bargain with God. We may or may not get what we bargain for, but we’re sure to come away with more of ourselves.

R’ David Evan Markus

I found one of the most absurd moments in Torah in the reading for this week, parashat Noah. One particular verse made me lose my appetite and tested my theology. That’s a lot for one Torah reading.

We read that for forty days and forty nights Noah, his family, and an assemblage of the animals rode out the waves of a rain-swollen planet. The journey continued until they found dry land.  Upon alighting Noah makes a barbeque. “Then Noah built an altar to the Lord and, taking of every clean animal and of every clean bird, he offered burnt offerings on the altar.” (Genesis Ch. 8 v. 20).

After rescuing all of the animal species on the planet (but for the unicorn said Shel Silverstein), Noah starts firing up the grill and eats kosher animals. These are the same animals that Noah had rescued from the flood! God’s reaction was to receive the sweet smell and promise to God’s self never to destroy humankind again. As a religious tradition, the Jewish people kept on sacrificing animals until the Second Temple was destroyed. After the destruction of the Temples we tried prayer instead of animal sacrifices to get God’s attention. However, I’m not sure prayer alone is working out sufficiently well for this world. Perhaps we are reminding God not to destroy again. But while God may have kept God’s promise not to destroy humankind, it seems like we have been doing a good job of destroying this planet on our own.

For example, think about the food we eat and the way we obtain our food.  I recently watched the movie Food, Inc. The movie provides far too much disturbing information about how we mistreat animals and disregard human rights in the process of feeding ourselves. I’m now wary of red meat, conventional fruits, and processed foods. We’ve abandoned sacrificing animals as ritual and now we have a system of food production that is irreligious.

I remain disturbed about the way we treat animals, the way we manage our food supply and the damage we have done to the environment. I take the issue of food production as a theological challenge. In Jewish Renewal circles we call this eco-kosher. I’m here to remind you that the promise not to destroy all humankind because of the smell of a barbecue isn’t working out so well. Our practices certainly haven’t been good for the animals, our own health is harmed and our planet is suffering. The planet is literally becoming the altar upon which our environment is burning up. The odor is not pleasing. The promise of salvation is fading.

All that’s left is for the prophets of today to call out to the world; if God isn’t preserving our world, we have to do the job. Perhaps the point is that God put us here to do God’s work. We can and must do a better job of curating this planet. Let’s start by focusing on food. What will you do this week to affect safer food production? Can your food choices make the world safer, cleaner, or better? And what should I do with the steaks in my freezer?

Rabbi Evan J. Krame