Pass or Take the Shot; See or Be Seen?

On January 6, 2007, a young basketball star named LeBron James scored in double digits.

Nothing unusual about that - except that he would go on to do it again. And again. And again. For the next 1,297 consecutive games, over the span of 18 years, LeBron James scored at least ten points in every single game he played. It became the longest double-digit scoring streak in NBA history - so massive that you would need to combine the next 11 active players just to catch him.

And then, last Thursday night, it ended. LeBron scored only eight points.

The Lakers were in a tight game against the Toronto Raptors. In the final possession, LeBron had the ball. He could have taken the shot, possibly extended the streak and maybe even winning the game himself. Instead, he found Rui Hachimura in the corner, who hit a three-pointer. Lakers win 123-120!

After the game, LeBron was asked for his thoughts about the streak ending. He answered with one word: “None.” Why? “We won.” He added that this was a career highlight and said, “I’m going to show my son this box score.”

"He's such an unselfish player," Lakers center Jake LaRavia said. "He had the opportunity, but because of the player he is and just who he is as a person, he made the unselfish play, passed it to Rui and we won the game."

LeBron had a streak that defined individual greatness. But in the defining moment, when the choice was “me” or to see the other, he chose to see.

We need to be looking for the “open man.” That’s how we win. We need to see.

Rabbi Kenneth Brander, the head of Ohr Torah Stone in Israel, discusses the Talmud (Shabbat 22a) connecting the laws of Chanukah lights with the story of Yosef in the pit.

Chanukah lights must be placed low enough to be seen because the mitzvah is about visibility. Immediately afterward, the Talmud recalls how Yosef’s brothers failed to see him. They ignored his cries, overlooked his danger, and allowed their own jealousy to blind them to his humanity. The juxtaposition teaches that the light of Chanukah can only illuminate the world if we first learn to truly “see” one another. Just as the menorah must be within our line of sight, the people around us - family, friends, and those who are struggling - must remain within our moral line of sight.

Spiritual light and ethical responsibility are intertwined. We cannot bring light to the public square if we are blind to the pain of those closest to us. Chanukah, therefore, calls us to correct the failure of Yosef’s brothers by cultivating empathy, responsibility, and genuine attentiveness to every human being who needs to be seen.

Every marriage deals with this tension. Every family confronts it, as does every community. A moment where we must decide: Do we take the shot for ourselves, or do we look for the open player? Are we focused on our own score, our own streak, our own accomplishments? Or are we ready to see others, help others, elevate others and serve the community and strengthen the whole? Are we only concerned with the Chanukah lights being seen and our own celebrations or are our eyes wide open to see the needs of those around us?

I love the pirsumei nisa aspect of Chanukah, our obligation to publicize the miracle. We share Chanukah candles and gifts with our Jewish neighbors (thanks Barry & Debra Frohlinger!), we host an outdoor menorah lighting, and we blast the holiday’s message of Jewish resilience to inspire the community. Chanukah deserves – and needs – to be seen so that it reminds us to see. We must keep our eyes wide open for what we can do to add light and hope to a world steeped in darkness.

When we choose to seek out – to see – the other, something profound happens: We may lose a personal streak, but we win the game that really matters. Sharing the light of Chanukah is not only about others seeing it but about us seeing others. Greatness is not only measured by how often we score for ourselves, but by how often we see, uplift, and create victories for all. 

Wrestling with Blessing

I admit it. I watched professional wrestling as a kid.

So when Parshat Vayishlach comes around, I can’t help thinking of the first real “main event” in history — and this one wasn’t choreographed.

The Torah gives us the play-by-play:

“And Yaakov was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn.
When he saw that he could not prevail, he struck the hollow of Yaakov’s thigh…
The man said, ‘Let me go, for the day breaks.’
Yaakov said, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.’
The opponent said, ‘What is your name?’
He said, ‘Yaakov.’
The man said, ‘Your name shall no longer be Yaakov but Yisrael, for you have struggled with God and with man - and prevailed.’” (Bereishit 32:25–29)

Most commentators debate the identity of the mysterious opponent. I want to look at something else: the nature of the struggle and the surprising truth that the struggle itself becomes the blessing.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asks a simple question: Why did Yaakov fight at all? Yaakov was no fighter. He was yosheiv ohalim, the quiet student, the man of the tent. Eisav was the hunter, the warrior. What was Yaakov doing in a wrestling match he seemed destined to lose?

The Rav explains that Yaakov was not displaying koach - physical strength. He was displaying gevurah - spiritual heroism. Gevurah begins where logic ends. It’s what happens when a person believes in something so deeply that retreat is no longer an option. A hero in the Torah is not defined by the battles he wins but by the values he refuses to surrender. Heroism is passion, conviction, purpose - even when the odds are against you. That is why Yaakov fights.

Yaakov’s fight foreshadows three dimensions of the Jewish struggle. The Torah uses the word va’yeiaveik. It comes from three related ideas and together they outline the story of Jewish history.

1. Avak - dust. Like dust in the wind, we have been scattered again and again.
2. Avak - to wrestle. We have endured endless physical battles - threats, attacks, persecutions.
3. Va’yechabeik - to embrace. In modern times, our struggle is not only with enemies but with the seductive embrace of assimilation, the pull of a world that wants us to blend in until there is nothing distinct left to protect.

These are the fights of Yaakov. These are the fights of the Jewish people.

Yaakov wrestles the entire night. He emerges limping, injured, forever marked. So, did he win?

The Torah’s answer is yes because victory is not defined by walking away unscathed. Victory is defined by who you become through the struggle. Yaakov receives his new name, Yisrael - the one who struggles and prevails. His wound becomes part of our identity. We remember it every time we avoid the sciatic nerve. It may limit our access to a cut of kosher filet mignon, but the real reminder is not culinary; it’s spiritual.

Our wounds don’t diminish us. Our struggle doesn’t weaken us. Our struggle is part of our blessing.

Last night, I met Effi Eitam, an IDF brigadier general, former leader of the National Religious Party, and like so many others, a man with an October 7th story. When the attacks began, he put on his uniform, got in his car, and drove toward the danger. He found himself face-to-face with a Hamas terrorist and fought. He spoke with pain about two sons wounded in Gaza. He spoke with pride about his grandson in officer training. He spoke with humor about the young soldier — barely older than his grandson — who informed the 72-year-old general that he, the rookie, was now in command. And he spoke with absolute confidence that Am Yisrael will prevail.

Looking at that man, a Yom Kippur War hero who is still fighting, it is impossible not to think of Yaakov: fighting, unbroken, and blessed.

In 1964, Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote his landmark essay Confrontation. He argued that Jewish sacredness requires boundaries, that identity demands clarity, and that not every embrace is holy. Our uniqueness means we cannot dissolve ourselves into the identities or the theologies of others. Struggle does not endanger who we are. Struggle defines who we are.

Today, we face our own confrontation - enemies on the outside, confusion on the inside, a world that too often misunderstands or misrepresents us. Some shrink back. Some despair. And yet so many have stepped into the ring with courage, with conviction, with faith. We may never have the numbers of our enemies, but we have something far stronger: the truth of our story, the strength of our people, and the God Who promised us that struggle leads to blessing.

If we remain engaged in the struggle, we will prevail. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “If we know who we are, we need fear neither the hostility of the nations nor their friendship. For we are strong enough to fight for our safety and for our values.” That is the legacy of Yaakov. That is the name Yisrael. That is the message of our generation. We struggle, and we prevail. We are wounded, and we walk forward anyway. We enter the ring again and again because that is who we are.