There is a striking verse in the book of Yirmiyahu. The prophet compares the Jewish people to “Zayis ra’anan yefei peri to’ar—A flourishing, beautiful olive tree” (Yirmiyah 11:16).
Chazal ask why the Jewish people are compared specifically to an olive tree. The Midrash offers two explanations, one of which is especially poignant.
If you were to try a simple experiment at home—take a glass of water and pour in orange juice, or milk—you would see that the liquids blend together. But if you pour in oil, something remarkable happens: the oil rises to the top. It refuses to blend in. No matter the environment, oil remains distinct.
This, the Midrash teaches, is the nature of the Jewish people. Wherever Jews find themselves, under any circumstances, they rise. Not out of arrogance, but out of identity. We all have the opportunity not only to grow in Torah learning, but to rise in middos and become role models for our families and communities.
But what does it truly mean to “rise to the top”?
Many times, I have traveled to Poland. People often ask me, “Why do you go there? So much Jewish blood was spilled on that soil. Why return to a place of such pain?” My answer is always the same. I do not go to Poland to see how Jews died; I go to Poland to see how Jews lived. I go to show that even in the darkest, most brutal moments of history, Jews held on to mitzvos with unimaginable courage.
Take a look at these two ordinary forks. At first glance, there is nothing special about them. Each fork has four prongs; eight prongs total. But in the concentration camps, Jews did something extraordinary. They melted wax and placed a small amount on each prong. They used cotton or even a shoelace as a wick, lit it carefully, and suddenly, they had eight flames. From two forks, they fashioned a Chanukah menorah.
Who could imagine such ingenuity, such determination, such mesirus nefesh? And yet, that is exactly what happened. Even there, stripped of dignity, freedom, and safety, Jews found a way to fulfill a mitzvah. That is what it means to rise to the top.
That is why Chanukah is not only a story of ancient history. It is a timeless message. The Jewish people have endured hardship, persecution, and exile, but again and again, we rise.
Let me share a remarkable story.
Reb Elimelech Tress, known as Mike Tress, has a full book written about his life. He was a truly great tzaddik and a central figure in Agudas Yisrael. My cousin, Stuart Tress, once told me the following remarkable story.
He was in Miami, standing in shul during davening. As many people do, he had his name embroidered on his tallis bag: Stuart Tress. Suddenly, a Satmar chassid approached him. He had curly peyos, a bekisheh, and a deeply emotional expression. The man asked him, “Your name is Tress?” “Yes,” my cousin replied. “Do you know a man named Elimelech Tress?” “Yes,” my cousin said. “That was my father.” At that moment, the man took my cousin’s hand, held it tightly, and began to cry.
My cousin was startled. “Is everything okay?” he asked gently. “Why are you crying?” The man said, “I need to tell you something.”
He explained that he had arrived in America in the late 1940s, broken and penniless after the war. He had no job and no money and no way to provide food for Shabbos for his wife and children. Living in Williamsburg, he went door to door asking people if anyone could help him find work. Each person answered honestly: “We’re struggling too. We don’t have anything to offer.”
But again and again, people told him the same thing: “There is one man you must go to—Elimelech Tress. He works for the Agudah. He loves helping people. Go to him.” Eventually, he found his way to Mr. Tress’s office on Bedford Avenue. He walked in not knowing who he was, and Mr. Tress greeted him warmly. “Shalom Aleichem. How can I help you?” “I need a job,” the man said. “What do you do?” Mr. Tress asked. “I’m a glazier,” he replied. “I fix windows inside homes, stores, cars.”
Mr. Tress smiled. “You’re in luck. I know a glazier on Marcy Avenue who just told me he needs help.” He took out a piece of paper, wrote a short note, and handed it to him. “Give him this.” The man walked a few blocks to Marcy Avenue, gave the note to the shop owner, and was hired on the spot. Every Friday, he was paid. And every Friday, he was able to bring food home for Shabbos. For the first time since arriving in America, his family had dignity and stability.
After four months, his employer called him in and said, “Tell Mr. Tress he no longer needs to cover your salary. I’ll take it from here.”
That was when he learned the truth. Mr. Tress had written on that note: “Hire this man. I will personally pay his salary for as long as necessary.” Once the employer could manage on his own, Mr. Tress quietly stepped aside.
That is what it means to rise to the top.
Imagine that level of chessed. Imagine taking responsibility not just to help someone once, but to carry them until they can stand on their own feet. That is Jewish greatness.
We have it in so many forms: the forks turned into a menorah in the camps; the quiet heroes who lived with dignity under impossible circumstances; and the life of Mr. Tress.
And here’s one more point.
One of the most important lessons of Chanukah is found in a well-known machlokes between Beis Shammai and Beis Hillel (Shabbos 21b).
According to Beis Shammai, we light eight candles on the first night, followed by seven on the next night, and then six, five... until one. According to Beis Hillel, we begin with one and increase each night.
The Gemara explains why we follow Beis Hillel: “Ma’alin bakodesh v’ein moridin—In matters of holiness, we always go higher.”
That is the message of Chanukah.
If you learn one Mishnah a day, make it two. If you give a dollar to tzedakah, make it a dollar fifty. If you never said korbanos, start saying them. If you don’t bench from a siddur, start benching from a siddur. I never bench without one. Even for an Al HaMichya, I take it out and say it inside. My aid, Voltaire, already knows; he brings it to me automatically.
Everyone has to ask: what will I do more this Chanukah than I did last year?
A young boy from a very poor family was sent by his mother to the grocery store to buy fruits and vegetables. He picked up a tomato and an apple and went to the counter to pay. The store owner looked at him and said, “Yingele, is that all you’re buying? I saw you staring at those cherries. Why don’t you take some?” The boy said, “I’d love to, but I can’t afford them.”
The owner said, “I’m the owner. I’m telling you; you can take some.” The boy refused. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.” So the owner said, “Then I’ll take them for you.” The boy went back, looked again at the cherries, his mouth watering, but still didn’t take any. He returned with only the tomato and apple. The owner smiled, walked over, took a large handful of cherries, and put them into the bag.
When the boy came home, his mother saw the cherries and said, “Where did you get these? You didn’t steal them, did you?” The boy told her the entire story. She paused, then asked him gently,
“When the man told you twice that you could take the cherries, why didn’t you take them yourself?” The boy answered, “Because he has a bigger hand than me.”
That, said Rabbi Meir Shapiro, is why we say in Ashrei, “Pose’ach es yadecha—Open Your [Hashem’s] hand.” Anything we truly need, only Hashem can give, and His hand is bigger than anyone else’s.
That is ma’alin bakodesh. Just like that boy got more cherries by letting the one with the bigger hand give them, so too when we do a little more for Hashem, He gives back more.
Middah k’neged middah. You take one step up and Hashem will lift you higher.
