Dear Friends,

According to a cryptic statement preserved in the Babylonian Talmud, Rabbi Yochanan ruled that one must ensure Hanukkah lamps remain lit until “the feet of the tarmoda’i are gone from the marketplace.” Rashi, puzzling over the meaning of the peculiar word tarmoda’i, suggests that it refers to a group of lumber salesmen who stay open later than most other vendors because the kindling that they sell is used for firelight and it is therefore in demand even after nightfall. The upshot of this–like many of the laws surrounding lighting hanukkiot–is that one should light lamps only as long as it is plausible that passersby will see them, thereby fulfilling the mitzvah to publicize the miracle. And although the window for lamp lighting extends beyond peak business hours–i.e. into the liminal period when the market is mostly closed but still hosts foot-traffic–it does not extend indefinitely. It closes once the marketplace is entirely deserted.

The problem with Rashi’s explanation–which became the traditional understanding of Rabbi Yochanan’s statement for nearly a thousand years–is that it lacks a textual basis. And it relies on a relatively uncommon word, tarmoda’i, meaning something that it means in no other context. Offering an alternative interpretation, Dr. Moshe Benovitz (my teacher and an incisive contemporary Talmud scholar) has argued instead that the word tarmoda’i, in the context of Hanukkah lamplighting, means what it means elsewhere in the Talmud; namely it is a garbled version of the word “Tadmora’a” (a.k.a. Palmyra), which was a Syrian city that became the short-lived seat of an empire, challenging Roman supremacy in Palestine during Rabbi Yochanan’s lifetime in the third century CE. And, just as the Hasmoneans, for religious reasons, opposed a Syrian-Greek imperial incursion in the 2nd century BCE, making a common cause with Rome in the process, so also the rabbis of the Talmud, living some 500 years later, opposed a new Syrian incursion, aligning themselves once again with Roman interests.

I won’t share all the interstices of Dr. Benovitz’s argument (if you’re interested in a deeper dive click here) but a related aspect of his reasoning is the important idea, which has been well-established by contemporary research, that--in contrast to accepted view in rabbinic mythology--Hanukkah was not, in fact, a universally observed Jewish festival from the time of the Maccabees until the time of the Talmudic sages. This explains why when recounting the myth of the purification of the Temple and the miracle of the oil (which is without precedent in contemporaneous accounts of the Maccabean revolt and appears to have been a rabbinic invention), the rabbis introduce the story with the question, “What is Hanukkah?” That question, of course, begs a further, obvious, question: Wouldn’t readers of the text (i.e. Talmudic sages themselves) be expected to know already what Hanukkah is?! According to many modern scholars the answer is perhaps not, the presumption being that Hanukkah, which celebrates the restoration of Temple worship, had, understandably, fallen into quasi-obsolescence in the aftermath of the destruction of the Temple in the year 70 CE. Thus, kindling Hanukkah lamps, at least according to Rabbi Yochanan, was not a commemoration of a historic victory; instead, it was a call to arms against a new adversary. And it was this act of lamp lighting that formed the basis for the holiday that would later become widespread among the Jews and that we celebrate to this day. 

There are two aspects of this alternative historical reconstruction that strike me as particularly illuminating and relevant in the present moment. 

The first is the somewhat surprising fact that our ancient ancestors formed an alliance with Rome–Rome which was otherwise, in the ancient Jewish imagination, the very epitome of the Evil Empire, foreign conquerors and oppressors. Nonetheless, when the moment required it and against a shared adversary, we apparently shared a common cause. This willingness to find allies where we can–even in the face of historic enmity–is, I believe, an important aspect of Jewish resilience and it has served us well throughout millennia of wandering. Being flexible has not and should not mean lacking principle and conviction. But it does mean that we sometimes need to look for friends in unlikely places. And it means being awake to the possibility that our allies today might not be our allies tomorrow. After all, the pharaoh who elevated Joseph was (at least according to a famous Midrash) the same pharaoh who would later enslave us. And while true resilience requires moral courage and integrity, it also requires a degree of flexibility and pragmatism. We needn’t be ashamed of that and we forget it at our peril.

The second aspect is that, for Rabbi Yochanan and for us, the light of Hanukkah burns not in the afterglow of victory, but in the dark throes of threatening times. Like the hanukkiah in the window in the famous photograph (taken in Germany in 1931, it has been shared widely over the past several days), the hanukkiah of Rabbi Yochanan was lit both as a Jewish call to action and as a blazing message to our enemies. To the members of our extended Jewish family we say: Unite, arise, find redemption! To our enemies we say: We have defeated you many times over and we will defeat you again; however long the odds and however long it takes. We will prevail and we will light lights and when the dawn breaks we will rise like lions to greet the morning and serve our creator. But your feet will no longer tread the marketplace.

Chag Urim Sameach,

Rabbi Benjamin Resnick 

Ben

“Banu choshech legaresh, beyadeinu or va’esh; kol echad hu or katan, ve’kulanu or eitan.Sura choshech, hala schor - sura mipnei ha-or.”

"We came to drive away the darkness. In our hands are light and fire. Each of us is a small light, and together we are a mighty light. Begone, darkness - before the light!"

-- Hanukkah folk song

As I write these lines, a white blanket covers the streets and rooftops of Westchester. The world feels hushed on this snowy Sunday morning, the eve of Hanukkah 5786. And yet, even in this quiet, darkness intrudes. The jarring images from the antisemitic attack at Bondi Beach in Sydney shattered that stillness, staining the day with fear and grief.

As my eyes try to absorb the unimaginable, an extraordinary moment of light emerges. Ahmed Al Ahmed, a 43‑year‑old Muslim fruit shopkeeper, ran toward danger, disarming one of the attackers with his bare hands. He was shot in the process, yet his courage saved lives. In the midst of terror, one person chose light.

Slowly, facts came into focus: who the attackers were, who the victims were, and who the hero was. The familiar, painful realization settled in - once again, it feels like open season on Jews. The warning signs were there, in Australia and across the world. We send our deepest condolences to the Jewish community in Sydney as they mourn the lives of their members, and pray for the speedy recovery of those wounded in this vicious act of hatred. 

Recently, during a visit with our Bnei Mitzvah class to the Museum of Jewish Heritage in New York, we toured the exhibit What Hate Can Do. At its entrance stands a timeline of antisemitism. Where does it begin? In ancient Egypt with Pharaoh. Through Purim in Persia. Through the story of Hanukkah under Antiochus. Through the Roman Empire, the Middle Ages, the Inquisition, the expulsion from England, the pogroms of Eastern Europe, the Holocaust. And then—Tree of Life, October 7, Washington, D.C., Boulder. Now Bondi Beach joins this painful list, another bloody chapter in an ancient hatred.

During our visit, we were joined by two PJC congregants, Melanie Stern and Zachary Ehrenreich, who shared with our students two deeply personal artifacts they had donated to the Museum. Zachary showed a Passover Haggadah written from memory by his mother, Dinah Ehrenreich ne Kraus z”l, in a small notebook during her imprisonment in Auschwitz and Bergen Belsen. Melanie told the story of an unmatched pair of tefillin her father, Stanley Stern z”l put together in Buchenwald, which many prisoners secretly came to don in his barrack. Both artifacts are profound symbols of resistance - proof that their parents, not knowing if they would survive or have children, held to their Jewish traditions to endure and to feel alive, giving meaning to their lives even in humanity’s darkest hours. That their children would eventually meet, marry, and share these stories with our students adds another layer of hope and continuity to the narrative.

Students ascended to the top floor to encounter the exhibit, The Courage to Act: The Rescue of the Jews of Denmark” - a powerful and intentional counterpoint to everything they have just seen. After tracing centuries of hatred and violence, this exhibit tells a different story: one of moral clarity and courageous choice. In 1943, when the Nazis planned to deport Denmark’s Jews, ordinary citizens: neighbors, fishermen, teachers—mobilized to hide Jewish families and ferry them to safety. As a result, more than 95% of Denmark’s Jewish community survived the Holocaust.

The final exhibit, What Hate Can Do, reminds us that hatred is not inevitable. History is shaped not only by those who commit evil, but by those who refuse to stand by. As the Israeli singer-songwriter Shalom Chanoch wrote, “It is always darkest just before dawn.” It is precisely in the darkest hours that light becomes visible.



Last week, an eight‑year‑old student in Kitah Bet asked a question that burns like the candles we light: “Why do people hate the Jews so much?” What is it about this particular light that provokes such fury? And I ask, why is it that in our deepest, darkest moments, the brightest lights so often appear? The image from Bondi Beach lingers: an unarmed man in a white shirt confronting terrorists dressed in black. Light facing darkness. The metaphor could not be clearer.

On Thursday, December 18, we will gather as a PJC community to light the fifth candle of Hanukkah. We will sing together songs of hope; the voices of our children echoing around the Sanctuary will be a reminder that light does prevail over darkness - and that each of us is a small light. Together, we shine brightly and drive the darkness away. 

May the lives of those who came before us and their stories of upstanding hatred continue to illuminate each of our individual stories, and may their memories be for a blessing.  

Wishing you and your families Chag Urim Sameach. May the lights of the Hanukkiah remind us of the resilience of those who came before us and inspire us to shine our own light brightly into the world.

Be safe,

Ana Turkienicz

Ana

Dear Friends,

I'm writing to you as I gaze outside my window at the snow. Yes, New Paltz received about 7 inches of snow which is hanging around to chill fingers and toes. I spotted an antlered-buck foraging in my backyard. Winter is here and Chanukkah is fast approaching. I look forward to kindling lights with my family. Yesterday, while on our Shabbat livestream, I said Kaddish for my Dad, Charles Saunders who left us 13 years ago. Being on livestream with all of you made marking this passage possible.

Update: I awoke to the tragic news of the despicable murder of 15 Jews celebrating Chanukkah on Bondi Beach in Sydney Australia. The rise in antisemitism around the world is frightening. We need to kindle the lights of freedom, acceptance and inclusion more than ever. It is time to bond together in the hope of bringing about a brighter future.

On a happier note, we are nearing the end of our Jewish Literary Speaker Program - TEXTLINE. It has been a privilege to be part of this endeavor. As a synagogue with many readers, writers and congregants in publishing, we have had excellent turnout for these talks.

Elisa Albert charmed us with her humor and honesty. Albert grew up in an insular Jewish community. Initially, her writing poked fun at what she saw as stifling traditions and exposed "dirty Jewish laundry." Her books, Human Blues and After Birth follow smart, Jewish women for whom things are not going great.

Now, post-October 7, she says Jewish writers no longer have the luxury of "not bearing witness" to the growing antisemitism around us. Currently, she is working on a novel based on her experience of living in Israel during the traumatic period of October 2023.

The Westchester poet, Harriet Shenkman shared poems reflecting her Jewish experiences. Although she was not formally trained in Jewish literary sources, her Jewish 'kishkes' inform her poetry. Shenkman shared poems from two of her collections, Wonderwheel and Un-Coupling. Shenkman has a PhD in Education and began writing poetry late in life. The last author in the series, the Israeli writer Iddo Gefen, will reschedule his talk.

Wishing each of you a joyous Chanukkah.

Barbara

Mrs. Lilienblum's Cloud Factory

by Iddo Gefen

Iddo Gefen's first novel, Mrs. Lilienblum's Cloud Factory is a magical-realism romp in an off-the-beaten-track desert town in southern Israel modeled after the actual crater town, Mizpe Ramon. Unlike his prize-winning short story collection, Jerusalem Beach, this is a light-hearted look at a quirky Israeli family and the current start-up craze.

When Sarai Lilienblum, an amateur inventor, suddenly goes missing, she is found drinking a martini at the bottom of a crater in the Israeli desert. This image goes viral. Eli, Sarai's son, sets out to discover what could have possessed his enigmatic mom.

Eli learns that Sarai has invented a way to turn sand into rain - with an unplugged vacuum cleaner. Suddenly, the whole world wants a piece of the action. Eli, a formerly unambitious homebody, finds himself managing the new family start-up CLOUDIES. While things initially seem to be running smoothly, the veneer of startup culture quickly fades as the company spins out of control. Along the way, Eli must solve the mysterious and legendary disappearance of an Irish hiker called McMurphy while falling in love with Tamara, a strangely inquisitive visitor to his family's hostel at the edge of the crater.

Mrs. Lilienblum's Cloud Factory explores society's weird fixation with valuation and funding while probing the secrets kept within families and the vicissitudes of romantic love with warmth and compassion.

Barbara

A Narrow Bridge

Barbara Saunders-Adams

Finley is off on a chase. Our gentle giant has a pointy black head with a white stripe down the middle, slender black body, spotted white legs and soulful black eyes. I watch him joyfully chasing a deer in the twilight enveloping the woods of Mohonk Mountain Preserve. Finley howls. Stunned. My husband, Sam, sees the antler of a young buck strike his side. Finley cocks his head as if to say, “This is a game, why did the deer hurt me?” He staggers on the path with a silver dollar-size hole in his side. It’s Saturday night at 8:00 pm – nearby veterinary hospitals are closed. There is a two-mile walk back to the car.

Finley mouths a pain killer from my fingers. My husband, Sam, cleans his wound and covers it with antiseptic, gauze and strong black tape. “This should last until morning, but he will need stitches” Sam says. Sam places Finley on the bed with me, but the dog cannot settle. Finley slides off the bed, lumbers to the closed door and looks back at me sadly. I know he wants to leave. I open the door. In the kitchen, Finley contorts his long, lean body. I kiss him and leave the room. It is too upsetting to watch. Sam takes over Finley’s care. Finley can’t keep anything in his stomach.

Finley was a present for my 68th birthday. He was a seven-month-old rescue from South Carolina. As a puppy he was sweet, soulful, goofy, had large black and white paws and a long thick black tail with a white paint brush on the end. I didn’t realize the size of his paws indicated how tall he would become. Finley’s thick black tail thumped wildly when Sam came into the room swatting me in the face. Mostly black lab, Finley’s white-spotted origins were unknown. He had been anonymously dropped off at an animal rescue center. Our house is across the street from the Wallkill Rail Trail. I walked Finley on his leash for an hour most mornings. He would eagerly greet both humans and dogs. If the other dog was aggressive, my big boy would roll over on his back submissively.

My stomach is roiling. I can’t fall asleep. A Shalom Hanoch song is repeating in my head – Gesher tzar meod al hanahar - the bridge is narrow across the river. What river? The thread between life and death? I can’t stop hearing the song as I thrash in my bed, turning the pillow over.

I stumble out of bed at 5:00 am. Finley is no longer in the kitchen. I find him in his favorite “safe spot” lying under the dining room table. Cold. One eye open, one long, black ear cocked. His joyful essence gone. I touch his cold, hard body. I kiss his nose and run to tell Sam. “He’s gone.”

We are both devastated. Tearfully, Sam and I clutch one another. We lie down in each other’s arms.

When we arise, we consider what to do with our 62-pound stiffening dog. The mid-August heat is not favorable. Our best option is cremation. Tearfully, I take out a Hebrew prayer book and say the Kaddish blessing over the dead. We surmise that the antler which gored Finley’s flank pierced an internal organ. Could he have been saved if we drove to the only 24-hour animal specialty hospital an hour away? We will never know.

At bedtime, the king-size bed looks bereft without Finley’s cuddly body next to mine. I can’t fall asleep. I go to the computer to look at dogs to rescue. Sam cries, “He’s just died and you’re already looking for a replacement!” For me, it’s a way to move forward. For Sam it is a travesty. I continue my search surreptitiously. For each of us, grief must take its own course.

Finley’s untimely demise brings on all kinds of crazy thoughts. It’s shaking the underpinnings of my world. Despite my grief, I must choose life, as it says in the Torah. Finley brought joy, comfort and anguish. His presence in my life enabled me to connect with neighbors. Caring for Finley gave my life structure. I can no longer deny that untoward events happen.

The hardest question to wrap my mind around is “What happens when the essence of a soul leaves the body? Where does it go?” Again, I recall the Shalom Hanoch song. The bridge between life and lifelessness is narrow.

 Barbara

I Am A Jew

by Amy Gallatin

I am a Jew.

My story has been defined and distorted by others —

but never my core,

never my soul.

I know who I am.

I know from where I come.

We have journeyed far,

scattered by hatred,

carried by hope —

yet every step forward

was still a step home.

I know who I am.

I know from where I come.

Two thousand years distant —

but never gone.

We adapted.

We endured.

We remembered.

Scars became strength.

Memory became map.

I know who I am.

I know from where I come.

We are a People

not because others named us —

but because we never forgot

who we are.

And who we are

is inseparable

from where we come.

My identity is mine —

not a canvas for others to rewrite.

My history is ours —

not a story for others to corrupt.

I gave you foundations

you now walk upon.

I wish you peace.

Let me have mine.

Israel is not a place we found —

it is who we are.

There is no Jewish People without Israel.

And there is no Israel without the Jewish People.

We are Israel.

Israel is us.

One People.

One heart.

One home.

Forever.

I am a Jew.

Am Echad b’Lev Echad.

Am Yisrael Chai.

"Share a Simcha" allows congregants to share their news with our PJC community. Please submit news about family members -- engagements, births, job updates, kid achievements, community acknowledgements and any other milestones -- to the HaKol Editor, Barbara Saunders-Adams.



* Mazal Tov to the Owen-Michaane Family on the occasion of Caleb's Bar Mitzvah

*Mazal Tov to our December Birthday Celebrants:

Lois Katz, Sharon Stampfer, Cheryl Goldstein, Richard Pine, Justin Cohen, Eric Sasson, Chloe Krulak, Emily Abeshouse, Alexander Malkis, Andrew Radvany, Aaron Adams, Steven Martin, Tatyana Jacobson, Eugene Lief, Ariel Gretz, Sam Adams, Andrew Katz, Daniel Morgan, Joshua Morgan, Naomi Rossman, Annabelle Zusin, Elizabeth Zusin, Jonah Ehrhenreich, Madison Glick, Hannah Steinberg, Alyse Moshe, Cheryl Agris, Oliver Krulak, Benjamin Levitz, Adina Sasson, Christopher Winquist, Jonathan Sigel, Rebeca Lodhi, Aiden Spitzer, Daniel Einzig, Emily Prager, Alex Serebransky, Beth Yelsey, Rachel Mailick

Share a Simcha is a regular HaKol feature, so keep your news and updates coming!

Tributes

Donations to General Fund

• Efrem and Frederica Sigel
• Alec Cecil and Diane Zultowsky
• Ruby Vogelfanger
• Bob and Sandra Goldman
• Nathan and Fannye Foundation

Billing statements are emailed monthly. 

Checks made out to the Pelham Jewish Center can be mailed to Pelham Jewish Center, P.O. Box 418, Montvale, NJ 07645. Credit card payment instructions are on your monthly emailed billing statement, or go to https://thepjc.shulcloud.com/payment.php. 

If you are interested in paying via appreciated securities or IRA distributions, please email Mitch Cepler.

It is the policy of the Pelham Jewish Center to make every effort to assist members experiencing financial challenges. Financial challenges should never be a barrier to being an active member of the PJC community. You can reach out to President, Lisa Neubardt, Treasurer, Mitchell Cepler or Rabbi Benjamin Resnick to speak confidentially concerning your ability to pay PJC dues and Learning Center tuition.