Not that we’re happy that we had to fight. Peace is the highest ideal of the Bible and the Jewish people. But the Maccabees, in the second century before the Common Era, realized that King Solomon was right. "There is a time for peace and a time for war," he wrote in his book of Ecclesiastes. So they fought against those who wanted to destroy every spiritual blessing the descendants of Abraham brought to the world—and their victory is what we still celebrate as the festival of Hanukkah.

Come on, you didn’t really believe that the reason for Hanukkah is to commemorate the miracle of a little cruse of oil that should only have burnt for one day but instead lasted for eight. That might have saved on Temple expenses but surely wouldn’t warrant remembering for more than two thousand years. The oil, the rabbis taught us, is a symbol of the Jewish people. All other liquids readily dissolve and disappear when they’re mixed. Oil maintains its identity, remains recognizable and rises to the top. And that’s why it’s the perfect way to illustrate the miracle of Jewish survival. A people that by all natural law should have disappeared from the world scene remained, preached its message of ethical monotheism to humankind and brought light to the four corners of the earth.

The Maccabees realized there are some things that are worth fighting for. Love of peace isn’t always the same thing as pacifism. Peace at all costs can sometimes cost too much, if the price is every value that you hold dear. So the Maccabees, whose name comes from the Hebrew word for hammer, made use of their strength to wage war against evil. But the Maccabees had opposition. There were those who felt that fighting was wrong, and not because Jews must never resort to violence. Their objection was simpler: "After all, we are God’s people. If God wants us to survive, God will surely fight our battles for us. Our role should be restricted to prayer. Let’s have faith and put our trust in the Lord. Having God on our side certainly frees us from going to battle."

The argument had its followers. But, thankfully, the Maccabees rejected it. They understood what the rabbis would subsequently incorporate into the Talmud as a basic principle of Judaism: We dare not rely solely on miracles. We aren’t meant to be passive recipients of God’s help and God’s blessings. We are commanded to be partners with God in perfecting the world.

By now it may be a cliché, but that doesn’t negate its truth: God does only help those who help themselves.

For the mystics, this idea is imbedded in the profound meaning of a number that has special relevance to the Jewish people. Eight is what defines our mission. That is the day designated for circumcision. Why? Because God created the world in seven days. That was as far as God went. God left it incomplete—so that we might have a role and continue to perfect what God didn’t finish.

Eight teaches us not to leave things for the Creator of the Universe. If we want a better world, we have to do all in our power to bring it about. Once we fulfill our obligation, then God blesses us with the miracle that allows our efforts to succeed.

So when the Maccabees found themselves victorious in the fight for their beliefs, even though they were the few against the many, they declared it a holiday for the ages. And not so coincidentally, this holiday lasts for eight days! That’s the number that is always meant to remind us that those who struggle for what is right, just and holy are partners with God in creating a better world, and will be rewarded with miracles.

What message could be more relevant for us, as Jews and as Americans, at a time when we confront the evils of terrorism and the threats of those who seek to destroy our way of life?

By Judy Lash Balint

In this novel, which won both the Sapir and the Sadeh Prizes in the original Hebrew version, Sabato invites the reader into the inner world of a young Israeli soldier during the period surrounding the 1973 Yom Kippur War. The narrator, Haim, is similar not only in name to the author, but in circumstances, too. Like his protagonist, Sabato arrived in Israel as a child of Egyptian immigrants in the 1950s, served in the tank corps in the Yom Kippur War, and is a man of deep religious conviction.

Adjusting Sights, with its deceptively simple story line, is in fact a book about profoundly challenging issues. "My point of view for this story," Sabato says, "is in fact a way of examining the relationship—during times of extremity and testing—between man and his Maker. I wanted to tackle questions such as the impact and meaning of prayer on life and death, the questions of faith that arise during war, the fate of the Jewish people and of the State of Israel."

In the book, Haim tries to come to terms with the disappearance of his best friend Dov. The two boys, barely out of yeshiva high school, are sent to train together as tank operators in the Sinai. Haim is the gunner, Dov the loader. They pass their time on the night watch discussing passages from the Mishnah. Suddenly, with the outbreak of the war, their unit is sent north to defend the Golan Heights, where they’re assigned to different companies. It’s the last time they will see each other.

Sabato describes with painful clarity the searing impact of war on the young Haim and his longing for news of Dov. Haim tells his story in the sparing, almost naïve language of a yeshiva student, interspersing narrative with reflections on the fundamental questions forced upon him by the war: "It was true, I thought. Sometimes God had mercy on the undeserving and shone His light on them. That mercy and that light stayed with you forever. They were a debt you had to repay. There was no getting around it. I thought of the vow I had made while dodging bullets in the wadi. I knew the world would never be the same."

Throughout the tumult of the days of intense battle that bring about fundamental changes in Haim’s world, the young man never forgets his religious obligations. One Saturday night in the midst of battle, Haim and a fellow soldier of Hasidic background manage a makeshift observance of the Melave Malka festive meal, bidding farewell to the Sabbath. As they make the blessing and savor the sip of wine they’ve managed to scavenge, Haim ponders aloud a passage from Maimonides, which says that a man who goes to war mustn’t fear. Using his yeshiva-acquired skills, Haim relates the idea to the weekly Torah portion, and finally concludes that Maimonides "forbade not the idea of fear itself, but the yielding to it." The young Haim concludes that dwelling on the horrors of war will weaken him and his will to fight.

These flashes of insight into the struggles of a young combat soldier distinguish this novel from most other writing on Israel’s wars. "This book just poured out of me like a stream," Sabato says. For him, writing a lightly fictionalized account of his own experiences was not only personally cathartic, but a unique window into a painful period in Israel’s history.

Some readers unfamiliar with traditional Jewish texts may have difficulty with the preponderance of Talmudic and Jewish prayer references, but thanks to Hillel Halkin’s finely rendered translation, Sabato’s compelling tale of faith in difficult times may now engage a wider audience.