Chanukah is the only holiday celebrated by the ancient rabbis to remember an event that occurred after the biblical period. The miracle of Chanukah, then, is the last miracle that we commemorate.

Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger taught in his classic collection, Sefat Emet, that the memory of all miracles tends to fade in time, so, throughout the biblical period, God would keep performing new miracles when the light of the previous miracle had faded. In this way, Israel always would keep the memory of God and draw strength from it. However, since the time of the Maccabees, the miracle of Chanukah has been the only miracle to sustain us and to keep God's memory alive in us. 

He says, "Chanukah is the last miracle that was performed for us. Therefore, we have to find special strength in it" (pp. 1:208-209).  Chanukah, he says, is uniquely able to keep burning within us because "the light of the Chanukah miracle has the power to keep renewing itself until the final redemption comes." This is why, he says, the holiday is called "Chanukah," meaning, "rededication"—this holiday has the ability to rededicate and renew itself through the ages and never fade.

When we consider that the minor holiday of Chanukah is, indeed, one of the two most celebrated Jewish holidays by Jews in North America (along with Passover), it does seem that this little flickering flame of a holiday does have a remarkable power to keep itself going.

We are on the eve now of the last night of Chanukah, the final commemoration this year of the final miracle that renews itself and must sustain until the world's redemption. Therefore, it is a fitting day to ask this: How do you keep the light of spirituality burning in your life? How do you keep the memory of the miracles you have experienced fresh in your mind? How do you sustain a sense of wonder for the world around you?

This is the great question at the center of all of the world's religious and spiritual traditions. We are not just flesh and blood. We are radiant beings of light created to fulfill a divine purpose, yet we keep forgetting this about ourselves. How do we keep ourselves from forgetting?

Judaism's answer takes the form of a hundred small acts of remembrance to be repeated every day. Every time we express gratitude for the food we have to eat, every time we greet a new day as a magical gift that has been given to us without our asking, every time we help a person in need, every time we struggle to find meaning in our lives, and every time we open our hearts in prayer, we help ourselves to keep the fire within us kindled and to keep ourselves from forgetting who we really are.

Tonight, the Chanukah lights will burn their brightest and then sputter out until next year. However, those lights are a symbol of the light that we can renew daily within ourselves by the way that we choose to live our lives. May this year's Chanukah lights inspire you to rededicate yourself to a year of remembering.

Happy Chanukah!


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Havdalah

We know from the way we light the menorah today that the House of Hillel won this argument. But why? On a purely historical level, the House of Shammai's system seems to make more sense. When the Maccabees lit the Temple Menorah with the one remaining cruse of oil, it must have burned brightest on the first day and gradually faded as the miracle progressed from day to day. On the eighth and final day, we might imagine that the Menorah flame was low, but strong enough to continue until more oil became available. The House of Shammai wanted to light their Chanukah lights to reflect that fading.

The House of Hillel had a different perspective. Lighting the Chanukah lights, to them, was not just a representation of the literal burning of the Temple Menorah when the Maccabees rededicated it. It is meant to represent something deeper, something more spiritual. What does the increasing number of candles on our menorahs represent?

I asked this question a few years ago of a group of students in a b'nei mitzvah preparation class. I will never forget how startled I was when a ten-year-old boy gave this precocious answer: "The lights of the menorah represent the increasing audacity of the miracle." I was floored.

Yes. On the second day after the Temple Menorah was lit, there would have been some surprise and some gratitude that the meager amount of oil was still burning. By the fourth day, the surprise may have deepened into a quiet smiling of the soul. Something special was happening. By the seventh day (that's the day that starts this evening at sunset), there would have been no way to ignore the fact that there was a true miracle. Even if the light had grown more feeble with time, the audacity of the miracle had grown to proportions that could not be denied. Those seven bright, burning lights on our menorahs tonight represent that growing audacity.

And so it is in our lives, if we allow our perception of miracles to burn brightly within us. 

For me, there is no greater miracle in my life than my daughters. On the day that each of them was born, I held them in my arms and knew that I had been touched by God. Every day since, the miracle has grown. They have progressed, step by step, into walking, talking, thinking, feeling, caring and creating people. My oldest now is on the doorstep of remarkable and beautiful womanhood. 

The seventh night of Chanukah has a special meaning in some Northern African Jewish communities. It is called Chag HaBanot, "The Festival of the Daughters." (I learned this today from the blog of my dear friend Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, the Velveteen Rabbi). What could be more appropriate for recognizing the audacity of the miracle tonight than to honor the wonder that parents are privileged to witness in the growth of their children?

The Chanukah lights are not just a reminder of events that happened to other people, long ago. They are a reminder of the blossoming miracles that we experience in our own lives. Tonight is the seventh night. This year's Chanukah cycle almost has reached its climax. Look into those lights and recognize the overflowing growth of the miraculous all around you.

Happy Chanukah!


Other posts on this topic:
The Blind and the Light
What is Chanukah?
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah
Season of Miracles, Season of Hope

It has become a cultural joke among North American Jews that today is a day for going to the movies and a Chinese restaurant. After all, they seem to be the only things that are open.

I have no problem with that and I might partake myself. (I recommend the new Muppet Movie. The eggplant with garlic sauce at the Chinese place in Old Palm City is quite good.)

But I also want to suggest a different take on December 25th. Think of it this way: There is nothing to buy. Your out-of-the-house wokplace is closed. The streets are quiet. Nobody expects you to do much. The kids are home. Chances are that it's a beautiful day. This is your once-a-year chance to turn off the hustle and bustle of our non-stop, busy, wired and wireless, 24/7 society.

I'm turning my computer off now. You can do the same. I think I'll go play with my kids, go for a walk, read a book, sip some wine, and just have myself a lovely little day.

Happy sixth night of Chanukah.


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How Does a Joyful Jew Respond to "Merry Christmas"?

Chanukah is a time when we create light against the darkness. We do not understand this act just on a simple, literal level, though. The lights of Chanukah represent the hope with which the Maccabees lit the Temple Menorah even though they only had one day’s supply of oil. The lights represent the struggle against ignorance and intolerance typified by King Antiochus. The lights represent our desire to see beyond material, physical reality and to glimpse the divinity that is hidden in the reality all around us.

This lesson from the Talmud comes to remind us of something else about the Chanukah lights. They are not just there for our own benefit. The light of hope is there for us to help the hopeless. The light of justice and tolerance is there for us to show others the way to create a more just world. The light of mystical insight is there for us to bring greater meaning and understanding to the lives of others. If we look at the Chanukah lights only for our own benefit, we are making ourselves blind to their most important power.  

The light we create at this time of year is a light that is meant to be shared. There are two unique mitzvot associated with this holiday. The first is to kindle the Chanukah lights. That is the mitzvah of creating the light for ourselves. The second mitzvah is pirsum ha-nes, “to make the miracle known.” We put the lit menorah in the window so that everyone who passes by our homes will see it and know of God’s miracles. That is the mitzvah of creating light for others, to give them hope, justice and understanding.

We also must remember that, sometimes, we are the blind man. Sometimes it is we who are groping through the darkness. It is then that we need the assistance of others to help us through life’s difficult ditches, thorns and briers. We hold up the lights of Chanukah as an act of humility that says, when I am in need of help, I am willing to allow others to come and aid me.

Have a happy fifth night of Chanukah!


Other posts on this topic:
What is Chanukah?
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah
Season of Miracles, Season of Hope
Devarim: How?

That's why, a few years ago, I created a dreidel board game to make things a bit more interesting. The board and the cards for the game can be downloaded below. The rules are printed on the board. You will need a few additional items: A dreidel, chocolate gelt, a menorah, candles, and different colored game tokens for each player to move around the board.

Players in "The Dreidel Game" take turns, spinning the dreidel and moving around the board accordingly. It's a cooperative game in which everyone works together to light all of the candles in the menorah. (I don't actually light the candles with fire. Just putting a candle into one of the holders on the menorah means that it is "lit.") When all the candles are in place, the game is over and everyone wins. 

The game works well in my family because my daughters don't like competitive games with "losers." It might also be more interesting than the traditional dreidel game, especially for older kids and adults, and it gives everyone a chance to hear and tell the Chanukah story and to think about miracles in their lives.

This is my Chanukah gift to you for the fourth night. You're welcome to give it a try tonight or any time you want. It's helpful to print the board in the largest format your printer will allow, or enlarge it on a color photocopier. Let me know if you like it.

Happy Chanukah!

Chanukah is the most interpreted and reinterpreted holiday in the Jewish calendar. Even the rabbis of the Talmud were not certain how to define it. They began their discussion of the holiday by asking the question, "What is Chanukah?" (B. Shabbat 21b)

Apparently, at the time of the rabbis, there was no single, clear answer to the question. I don't think there is one in our times, either.

In the Talmud, the rabbis tell the story of how God sustained a single cruse of oil to keep the Temple Menorah lit for eight days. That version of "the miracle of Chanukah" does not appear in any sources earlier than the Talmud, even though the events of Chanukah occurred more than 250 years earlier. What is more, the rabbis gloss over what previously had been the central miracle in the story—the military victory by the Maccabees over the Seleucid Empire in the year 165 b.c.e. 

Why didn't the rabbis of the second century c.e. like the story of Judah Maccabee and the improbable victory of the Israelites over the far more powerful Seleucids? There are at least two reasons: 

1) They despised the Maccabees' descendants, the heavy-handed Hasmonean Dynasty, which ruled over Judea into the first century c.e. The rabbis opposed the Hasmoneans military expansionism and the cruelty with which they ruled their own people. They were not about to celebrate the birth of that dynasty by making Chanukah a holiday about Judah Maccabee. (His name does not even appear in the Talmud).

2) The rabbis lived in a time when Judea was under the rule of the Roman Empire. The Judeans had suffered horribly after disastrous rebellions against the Romans in 70, 117, and 135 c.e. The rabbis opposed any further militant action against the Romans as self-defeating. Their reluctance to celebrate Chanukah as the commemoration of a military victory over occupiers may have been because they did not want the holiday to incite further rebellions.

So, what did the rabbis do? They changed the central story of Chanukah. They cut out the Maccabees military triumph and replaced it with the story about the cruse of oil. The rabbis established a passage from the book of Zechariah as the special reading for the Shabbat that falls during Chanukah. In this passage, the prophet sees a vision of the Temple Menorah and an angel tells him, "'Not by might and not by power, but by My spirit,' says Adonai of Hosts" (Zechariah 4:6).

Get it? The rabbis are telling you that if you're looking for a hero on Chanukah, it isn't the guy with the sword in his hand. It's God.

The rabbis changed the meaning of Chanukah. The funny thing is, we've never stopped changing its meaning to this day. Today, many American Jews love to talk about Chanukah as the anniversary of the world's first rebellion for religious freedom, or as a battle against the threat of assimilation. Both of those versions of the Chanukah story say a lot more about our own times and the attitudes of today's Jews than they say about anything that happened in the second century b.c.e. 

First of all, the Maccabees were not interested in the concept of freedom of religion for anyone other than themselves. They would not have been fans of the First Amendment, which defends the rights of all religions. The Maccabees killed people, including Israelites, for not adhering to their own version of Torah.

The book of Maccabees was written by Jews in the first century b.c.e., and tells the story of the rebellion long before the time of the Talmud. It contains no mention of the miracle of the oil, but it does tell a story about how the Maccabees celebrated their victory by wearing garlands made of ivy (II Maccabees 10). Ivy is the Greek symbol of celebration, associated with the god Dionysus. Why would the Maccabees, of all people, celebrate their victory over the scourge of Greek culture by using a Greek symbol? It seems that cultural assimilation was not really the main point of their rebellion. They were interested mostly in not being under foreign control. 

The meaning of Chanukah has continued to change with the times. To mystics of European Chasidism in the 18th century, Chanukah was the holiday of complete repentance through the ecstatic love of God. To the Zionists of the middle of the 20th century, it was a holiday to remember that "in every age a hero arose to redeem us," and which calls upon the Jewish people to arise again.

So, let me suggest that we are again at a moment when we need to find new meanings for this holiday of many meanings. American Jews today do not need another reason to celebrate military victories while living in a country that has, by far, the most powerful military the world has ever seen. We do not need another reason to preach against assimilation to a Jewish community that needs to make interfaith families feel welcomed, not shunned. We do not need another occasion to get huffy about our right to practice our religion while living  in a society which, honestly speaking, has done more to protect our religious rights than any society in human history.

What we do need, however, is to return Judaism to being a religion of joy, not one that forever bewails our tearful past. We need to return Judaism to a tradition in which people can fulfill their spiritual needs and find meaning in their lives. Chanukah can be a holiday to celebrate that, and more.

The root of Chanukah is hope. It is a holiday in which we light candles at the darkest time of year to coax the cosmos into turning the clock around and start adding light to our days instead of taking it away. (Miraculously, it works every year.) It is a holiday about finding joy, and not despair, in dark moments. It is a holiday about connecting to our families and communities despite a society that seems to try to pull us apart from one another. It is a holiday in which we celebrate difference—both our own uniqueness as Jews, and also the diversity within the human family that has many and glorious ways of celebrating this time of year. 

This year, as I light my family's Chanukah menorah, I look up and down my street and see a dazzling display of lights celebrating many versions of different holidays. To me, it is not threatening. It is beautiful. Chanukah is an occasion for knowing ourselves to be a part of the bigger story of the cycles of nature and the undying fire of the human spirit. 

What is Chanukah? It is a holiday of joy.

Happy third night of Chanukah!


Other posts on this topic:
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah

Have a glorious and satisfying second night of Chanukah!

However, a miracle occurred and the oil lasted for eight days. That is why we light our nine-branched Chanukah menorahs for eight days, in memory of the miracle. We spin the dreidel with the four letters Nun, Gimel, Hey and Shin to remember the phrase Nes Gadol Hayah Sham, "A Great Miracle Happend There."

So, as you may have guessed, the problem is that, looking at the story in its most simple form, there was no miracle on the first day. There was a quantity of oil that was supposed to burn for one day, and it did. There was nothing miraculous about that, just oil burning the way it was supposed to burn. 

Move along folks. Nothing to see here.

Yet, we call the first day holy. We recite Hallel on the first day of Chanukah as if it were a full festival. We recite the prayer, Haneirot Halalu, in which we say:

We light these candle for the miracles and the wonders, for the redemption and the victories that You made for our ancestors, in those days at this season, through Your holy priests. During all eight days of Chanukah these lights are holy. We are not to make ordinary use of them, but only to gaze upon them to give thanks and praise to Your Great Name for Your miracles, Your wonders and Your redemption.

We say, "All eight days." We say, "For Your miracles." What is the miracle of the first day?

The miracle of the first day is that the Maccabees lit the Menorah at all. The miracle is that they knew that the single cruse of oil was supposed to burn out long before they could get more oil, and they lit it anyway.  They didn't stop to question their obligation to restore sanctity to their community and to their lives. They didn't say, "Let's just wait until we get some more oil and light it then."

They had hope. They had the ability to look at a bad situation and still believe that it could become better. They believed that things would work out if only they had the courage to do what was right.

I talk to my kids about this. When they feel discouraged by difficult situations at school with their friends or when other kids are being mean to them, I tell them to have the courage to hope and try to make the situation better, even if they don't think it will work. I tell them that, when they are willing to hope and believe in what they know is right, it is far more likely to happen. Miracles don't happen to people who expect the worst. Miracles happen when we hope.

Have a wonderful first night of Chanukah tonight. Light that one little candle with its feeble, flickering flame and know that it represents a full, complete miracle. It is the miracle that, on one of the longest, darkest nights of the year, we light a small candle of hope—the hope that the days will soon get longer and our every darkness will turn into light.  May it be so for you.

Happy Chanukah.


Other posts on this topic:
Season of Miracles, Season of Hope

Or, for that matter, how do we respond to "Happy Holidays"?

December can be a challenging time for Jewish families. We live in a society that seems to want everyone to celebrate the same holidays with the same symbols and festivities. Ironically, it is usually not churches, priests or ministers who send this message. It mostly comes to us from schools, work places, civic programs, advertising and commerce.

Most of us can bear most of it with a shrug. I usually just smile and offer my own good wishes when the bank teller or grocery clerk says, “Merry Christmas.” Unfortunately, it is not so easy for children to understand when they hear conflicting messages about the season and its symbols. Many parents feel like villains when they have to tell their children that there are some types of celebration in which we do not participate.

The problem does not only exist for families in which Judaism is the only religion. Many of our interfaith families have an even tougher time keeping the symbols and holidays straight. They have to figure out how to maintain a strong sense of Jewish identity for their children while respecting and honoring the traditions of  other family members.

I do not have any simple solutions to the “December dilemma.” I believe that each family must discuss some fundamental questions. What is the line that divides civic and social celebrations from the violation of our Jewish integrity? How can we resist the temptation to turn our lovely minor festival of Chanukah into a “Jewish Christmas”? What are our responsibilities to our children when mixed messages make them feel badly for being different?

To turn the problem into a opportunity, though, let me make one suggestion. December is a wonderful time to teach our children (and why not remind ourselves at the same time?) that Judaism is beautiful in its differences. Our tradition celebrates the dark and cold time of the year, not in lavish displays or over-the-top spending sprees, but with the simple recognition of a miracle. The best evidence of that miracle, I believe, is that the Jewish message of peace and hope for the future has survived while kingdoms, empires, and more have risen and fallen around us. Even while the days come to their shortest and darkest of the year, we light one more candle than the night before to say, “A great miracle happened there.”

I'm speaking tomorrow morning at the Annual Holiday Service at my daughter's secular school. This is what I am going to say.

It is no coincidence, I think, that so many cultures and religions celebrate festivals and holidays at this time of year. The days are growing short; the nights are long. It is the time of darkness in the annual cycle of the seasons. It is a time that turns us inward as we face the darkness within ourselves and yearn for the light.  It is no coincidence that so many traditions for this time of year include the burning of lamps and candles, bright displays that fill the darkness with light.

In my own religious tradition, Judaism, this time of year is associated with the minor holiday of Chanukah. It is a holiday that remembers a rather unremarkable military victory in the 2nd century before the common era, in which a relatively small group of Israelites, called the Maccabees, overcame the mighty army of the Seleucid Empire. Today, only scholars of ancient history remember the once-great Seleucid Empire. The Maccabees are only remembered because, two centuries after this victory, their descendants were the rulers of Israel just before that land gave birth to two of the world’s great religious traditions, Rabbinic Judaism and Christianity.

The story of the holiday of Chanukah takes place after the military victory had been won. The Maccabees celebrated by rededicating their Temple—the word, Chanukah, means “dedication” in Hebrew. According to a legend, the Temple had to be dedicated with the relighting of the seven-branched lamp that illuminated the Temple’s interior. However, only a small amount of the sanctified oil used for the lamp was available. It would take eight days to press and prepare more oil for the lamp. Still, the Maccabees lit the lamp and, miraculously, the one small container of oil that was supposed to last for only one day kept the lamp lit for eight days, enough time to prepare more oil to keep the lamp lit continuously.

Chanukah, as I said, is a minor holiday. If you think about it, the holiday commemorates a rather minor miracle. The parting of the Red Sea, the falling walls of Jericho, the giving of the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai—now those are some big miracles! A little container of oil burning seven days longer than it was supposed to? Little, tiny miracle. 

So, what do we do to mark this little, tiny miracle? On one of the longest nights of the year, we light a candle to add a little bit of light to the darkness. Then, on the next night, we add a little bit more. Then, on the next night, a little bit more. And a little bit more every night until we have lit an entire candelabra to fill our darkness with light. With our acts of light, we proclaim that even when the world is at its darkest, we are filled with hope that the darkness will turn again to light. 

Hope is the real miracle. We human being are puny creatures. We inhabit a universe that we did not create. All that we can do is to stare out at it—barely comprehending its vastness—and try to imagine that we hold some place of significance within it. Despite that, despite the futility of our ever truly comprehending our own unfathomable, improbable existence, we continue to hope. We hope to live lives that matter. We hope to gain some meaningful amount of knowledge and understanding. We hope that all of our strivings and aspirations will add up to something that will allow us to hold up our heads and proclaim that our presence in this vast universe will have made a difference. 

It is a magnificent thing to hope. It is a miraculous thing that we have the courage and the character to hope for lives of meaning. It makes us—despite our puniness—into creatures of nobility.  We dare to look out into the inky darkness of space and light a candle, and imagine that it matters.  The very act, the hope for ourselves and for our future that this act conveys, is enough to ensure that we will matter. 

This is a season of miracles. For every faith, every language, every culture, every nation and for every name that every group of human beings have ever called themselves—this season of lighting up the dark nights of the beginning of winter is a time for the miracle of hope.

I want to ask each of you here today, during this year’s season of miracles, to look beyond the barriers that separate one human being from another. Look beyond the boundaries of your neighborhood, your town, your religion, your nationality, your race, your gender, your sexual orientation, your birthplace and your personal interests and opinions—and see yourself as being part of the great experiment called the human race. 

Know that you are bound to every person on the planet, every person who has ever lived and every person who will ever live, by the experience of hope. You—like everyone else the world over—you hope for a life of fulfillment, of meaning, of joy, and a life that really matters. That hope is what makes you human and it is what connects you to everyone else on this planet. Learn to see hope as the thing that makes us all the same, and makes us all the noblest creatures that could possibly ever be.

Two thousand years ago, a small band of fighters who called themselves the Maccabees, lit a lamp with enough oil to last a single day. Why did they bother? They could have waited. They could have decided that it made more sense to put off their sacred rededication until they knew that there would be enough oil to keep the fire lit. But they didn’t. Instead, they committed an act of hope. They lit the lamp anyway. The result was a very, very small, barely noticeable, tiny little miracle. 

My hope for you, the students, faculty and staff of the Pine School, is that, during this season of hope, you will find the tiny little miracles within your own lives, and let them light up even the darkest moments with the brilliance of your own miraculous selves.

Thank you.


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Devarim: How?