This is the sermon I am delivering tonight at Temple Sinai in Cranston, Rhode Island.

I don’t know too many people who live with the feeling that God is right there, standing behind them, all the time. I don’t know many people who would say that they spend their days imbued with the awareness of God’s presence in their lives. I am envious of such people and, I have to admit, a little bit suspicious of them, too. God’s presence, for me, is something that I can find when I focus my attention on it, and it is something that sometimes barges into my life at unexpected moments. I think that’s the way that most people experience God – at moments when our hearts are opened to God, and at moments when we least expect God.

This week’s Torah portion, Vayeshev, begins the story of Joseph, the eleventh of Jacob’s twelve sons. In the whole Joseph saga, which we will be reading for the next four weeks in the Torah, God is famously absent. Throughout the Joseph story, people talk about God and they pray to God, but God does not appear directly and none of the characters – not even Joseph – ever communicates with God. It is as if, at the end of the book of Genesis, God has stepped into the background and let the human beings take control of the story.

Except that, here and there in the Joseph story, there are moments when God’s presence is hinted at. Quietly and unexpectedly, God shows up in obscure ways throughout the story. Here is an example from this week’s Torah portion:

“One time, when [Joseph’s] brothers had gone to pasture their father’s flock at Shechem, [Jacob] said to Joseph, ‘Your brothers are pasturing at Shechem. Come, I will send you to them.’ [Joseph] answered, ‘I am ready.’ And [Jacob] said to him, ‘Go and see how your brothers are and how the flocks are faring, and bring me back word.’ …When [Joseph] reached Shechem, a man came upon him wandering in the fields. The man asked him, ‘What are you looking for?’ He answered, ‘I am looking for my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?’ The man said, ‘They have gone from here, for I heard them say: Let us go to Dotan.’ So Joseph followed his brothers and found them at Dotan. They saw him from afar, and before he came close to them they conspired to kill him. They said to one another, ‘Here comes that dreamer!’”  (Genesis 37:12-20)

Now, if you are familiar with the story, you will recognize that this is a critical moment in the plot of the entire Torah. The brothers, who are furious with Joseph, will throw Joseph into a pit and then decide to sell him into slavery. Joseph will be taken down to Egypt where he will be the trusted servant of a powerful member of Pharaoh's court, but then he will be thrown into prison when he is falsely accused of raping the courtier's wife. After that, because of his gift for interpreting dreams, Joseph will rise from his prison cell and become the second-in-command of all Egypt, and, yada-yada-yada, he will end up saving his entire family and preserving the future of the Jewish people. All of that happens in this week's Torah portion and the portions that follow, but, first, Joseph has to be able to find where his brothers are grazing those sheep.

Do you notice something odd about how he gets there? The Torah tells us that there was a man – we’re not told his name, or anything else about him – who sees Joseph wandering aimlessly in the fields and he asks Joseph if he needs some help. Joseph tells the man, “I’m looking for my brothers. Could you tell me where they are pasturing?”

How on earth would this man know? If you went up to a perfect stranger at Providence Place and said, “Excuse me, I seem to have lost my brothers. Could you tell me where they are?” what kind of response do you think you’d get? A few odd looks and a few curt replies? “Hey, buddy, how the heck should I know?” You might get someone to take pity on you and ask you where you last saw them, or what they look like. You might even get someone to you ask the question, “Who are you?” But the man in Shechem, the nameless man in the story, does not do any of those things. He just says, in effect, “They went that-a-way.”

Why is this detail even in the story? How does the reader benefit from the interlude of Joseph being lost in a field and needing the help of a nameless person who tells him where to find his brothers and how to get on with his life? I think it’s one of those moments. It’s like one of those moments in life when we are searching for something – maybe we don’t even know what it is we are searching for – and a presence appears to us and helps us find the right path – the path that is waiting for us to fulfill. Maybe it’s God’s presence popping up in Joseph’s life at a moment when he really needs to feel it, or a moment that takes him utterly by surprise.

Have you had an experience like that in your life? Take a moment now to remember the time when God’s presence came to you in some unexpected form, to help you when you needed help, or came to you when you least expected it. Got it? Good.

This week’s Torah portion, which kicks off the Joseph story, is read every year during, or (as this year) right before, Chanukah. I find the this story about God’s hidden presence to be a perfect fit for Chanukah.

Think about it. Who is the hero of Chanukah? If you ask most students in our Religious School, they will tell you immediately who they think it is. They will say that it was Mattathias, the brave priest of Modi’in who refused to offer a sacrifice to the Greek gods after he was ordered to do so. Or, they will say that it was Judah Maccabee, the son of Mattathias, who led the rebellion against the Seleucid Empire and drove the Greeks out of the Temple. Or, maybe, they will say that it was whoever found that cruse of oil that was used to light the Temple Menorah – the oil that was only expected to last one day, but lasted eight.

The rabbis of the Talmud knew this about the Chanukah story. They knew that it was a story that seems to point to a human hero, and that made them uncomfortable. For that reason, they assigned a haftarah portion for the Shabbat that falls during Chanukah that says, pointedly, “‘Not by might, and not by power, but by My spirit,’ says Adonai Tz’vaot!” (Zechariah 4:6). They wanted to make sure that everyone understood that God was the real hero of the Chanukah story.

But I won’t correct the student who says that the hero was Mattathias or Judah Maccabee, or even the person who found the oil. Those answers are all correct, too. When we feel God’s presence in our lives, God doesn’t do it alone. It is always people – human beings – who serve as God’s eyes, God’s ears, and God’s hands in making miracles happen.

Remember that moment when you felt God’s presence come to you when you needed help? In what form to God appear? Who served at that moment as God’s eyes, ears, and hands? Who was the unnamed stranger, or the intimate friend, who gave you what you needed to fulfill your destiny at that very moment?

Chanukah is a holiday of noticing miracles and noticing the way that they are sometimes hidden and unexpected. God does not always enter into our lives as the gigantic special effects moment of the parting of the sea. More often, God comes as softly flickering lights in the darkness that help us remember who we are and where we are going.

You know, there is a song we sing during Chanukah that goes like this:

“Who can retell the things that befell us? Who can count them? In every age a hero or sage came to our aid!”

Who is the hero of that song? Who is the song talking about when it praises heroes and sages?

The opening line of the song is actually a paraphrase of a Psalm. It’s Psalm 116, which opens:

Mi yimalel g'vurot Adonai, yashmia kol t'hilato!
Who can retell the mighty acts of Adonai, proclaim all God’s praises!

Even when we sing our songs, just as in this week’s Torah portion, we sometimes let God’s presence step into the background. We sometimes let the human beings take control of the story. That is as it should be. We need to live our lives as if our fate is in our own hands. We need to take responsibility. We need to learn to be the heroes of our own lives.

But we also need to remember, once in a while when we really need it, or when it comes crashing down upon us in a moment of crisis, that there is a Presence ready to help us. We need to notice the quiet and unnamed character at the edges of our story, guiding us, loving us, bringing light into our darkness.

Shabbat shalom.

​Last night, we lit the menorah filled with all of its candles for the last day of the holiday. By now, all of the candles have burned out. You may have already started to clean off and put away your menorah until next year. It would be easy to assume that Chanukah is now over.

But it's not. Today until sunset is the last day of Chanukah. To put an exclamation point on that observation, the rabbis assigned a Torah reading for this morning that includes a verse from the book of Numbers that seems to shout out, "Zot Chanukah!" "This is Chanukah!" (Literally, the verse says, "This is the dedication of the altar on the day of its anointing," but the word for dedication in Hebrew is "chanukah." Numbers 7:84.)

You could ask why the last day of Chanukah, the eighth day, is the day that is known as Zot Chanukah. Aren't the first seven days also Chanukah? One answer is that the eighth and final day of Chanukah is the day whose meaning encompasses and transcends the meaning of all of the other days of the festival.

In Jewish tradition, the number seven is often associated with completeness and wholeness. There are seven days of creation and seven branches of the Temple Menorah. Shabbat is the seventh day that completes the week. However, the number eight (seven plus one) also appears in some interesting places. The covenant of circumcision takes place on the eighth day of life. The Torah was given on Shavuot, the day after we complete the counting of seven weeks. The seven days of Sukkot are not complete until we celebrate Shmini Atzeret, which the Torah literally calls the eighth day of the seven-day holiday (Leviticus 23:36 and Numbers 29:35). 

Eight signifies completion beyond the ordinary. The eighth day is the time when something extraordinary happens. It is the day that we declare that we have stepped beyond the normal counting of time (a week) and into the realm of time beyond time. That is why the Torah is given on day "seven plus one," to signify that it exists outside of time. It is why we circumcise a baby boy on a day beyond time to declare, paradoxically, that he is not really "whole" until he has had a piece of him removed to enter into the covenant.

Today, the eighth day of Chanukah, is called Zot Chanukah, "This is Chanukah," because it is the culminating moment of the miracle that contains the entirety. Even after all the oil is spent and the final candles have guttered, we feel the building of the light within us even more strongly. We rededicate ourselves at the darkest time of the year, to increase the light within us and throughout the world.

Once upon a time, there was a king who ruled his kingdom wisely and justly. The kingdom was happy and successful. Those in the kingdom who had wealth were generous in supporting the community, and even the poor always had something to eat and clothes for their children. The people were grateful to their king and every year they had a special ceremony to thank him.

The ceremony was held at the darkest time of the year, near the winter solstice when the days were short and the nights were long. On the first night of this Festival of Gratitude, they placed a large torch – taller than the tallest man and brighter than the fullest moon – in the central square of the capital city. The people gathered around the torch and sang songs and told stories of their kingdom's history.

On the second night, they placed two torches in the square – each of them taller than the tallest man and brighter than the fullest moon – and sang more songs and told more stories. The third night they brought three torches. The fourth night they brought four. Each night they sang the songs, told the stories, and celebrated their joy and gratitude. 

This Festival of Gratitude continued for a total of eight nights. On the eighth and final night, the people brought eight torches – each of them taller than the tallest man and, when combined, they burned with a light that was as bright as the sun. The people sang their very favorite songs and told their very favorite stories late into the night. Finally, as the eight brilliant torches began to fade, the king himself appeared in the square. He wept with joy to see the happiness of his people and he returned their expressions of gratitude with thanks of his own for the privilege of ruling such a kingdom.

The next morning, the sun would rise and the people would see that the daylight had begun to grow longer. The time of long dark nights was beginning to give way to the light.

This custom continued for many years and became the highlight of the entire year. People looked forward to the Festival of Gratitude to the point that they prepared all year long to make it as beautiful as possible. Women spent their spare hours weaving beautiful dresses to wear on the eight nights of burning torches. Men collected coins in jars throughout the year to purchase exotic and expensive foods from distant lands to serve their families for the festival. Even children spent time throughout the year making decorations of carved wood to display on the doors of their homes for the days of the festival. 

In time, the special dresses, the exotic foods, and the elaborate decorations became emblems of status among the people. Without ever saying so, the people began to think of the preparations for the festival as a competition. Each person wanted to impress others that his or her display of sincere gratitude was the very best and the most beautiful.

Year after year, the king saw the growing splendor of the festival and he also saw the expanding competition among the people. He was not sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. One year, the tears he cried on the eighth night were both tears of joy and of sorrow.

The following year was difficult for the kingdom. A sickness swept through the sheep and the shepherds were not able to sheer as much wool as in previous years. The quality of the wool was diminished. There was less good yarn for the women to weave into their fabulous dresses.

Stormy seas interfered with the ships that brought exotic herbs and spices from distant lands. The men were not able to prepare feasts that could equal those of the past.

That year, the wood harvested from the forests was more knotty and twisted than in the past. The trees, it seemed, had forgotten how to grow straight and tall. The children could not make decorations for their doors as fine as those they were accustomed to making.

Throughout the kingdom, there was a silent, unspoken sadness. The people knew that the Festival of Gratitude that year would not be as beautiful and as perfect as it had been in previous years. Privately, many people wondered whether the era of their beautiful festivals was coming to an end. Some thought that it might be better not to have a festival at all that year.

As the days grew darker, and the nights became longer, the mood of the kingdom became darker, too. As the first night of the Festival of Gratitude approached, the familiar feeling of excitement was mixed with a feeling of dread. 

As the sun set on the first evening of the festival, the people gathered in the square as they had done for many years. The single torch – taller than the tallest man and brighter than the the fullest moon – was brought into the square. The light of the torch illuminated the way that the dresses were woven with yarn that was thin and wiry. The light of the torch shone through the windows of the houses to display the tables laden with ordinary and plain foods. The light of the torch revealed every knot and the twisted grain of the wooden decorations on the doors. Instead of filling the people with joy and delight, the light of the torch made them miserable. 

The second night was worse, with twice as much light to penetrate into every imperfection of the diminished festival. By the time of the third night, the people lost all heart. Their singing was muted and shortened. The stories seemed repetitious and dull. The people began to wonder how they had ever thought that this hollow and painful farce of a festival could be meaningful or joyful. They asked themselves why they had ever bothered with it at all.

The fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh nights all blurred into each other with nothing to distinguish one from the other. The people felt tired and exhausted by the endless nights of torches, old songs and tired stories. They looked forward to the end of the festival and a chance to get back to normal life. 

On the last night of the festival, the eight torches were brought out – each of them taller than the tallest man and, when combined, they burned with a light that was as bright as the sun. The people squinted from the painful glare. The songs were sung. The stories were spoken until the last one had been told. Relieved, the people began to take down the festival decorations and prepared to return to their homes to finally sleep.

…And then they remembered. The king had not yet come to the square for the climatic moment of the festival. The people asked each other: Where is he? Why didn't he come? There was confusion and hurt feelings. Some children began to cry. Where was he?

And then, they saw him. He was not standing in the middle of the square, as in years past at the end of the eighth night. Instead, he was sitting on a low stool by one corner of the square, watching the people of the kingdom. A quiet came over the people. They looked at him, hoping he would say something to break the awkward silence, hoping that he would do something to remind them of the joy of the festivals they remembered from years past.

The king stood. He walked to the center of the square. He looked at the people all around him and then he looked down to the stones of the square beneath his feet. He spoken softly but clearly.

"There are no words," he said, "that can describe my feelings tonight. Of all the kings in all of the kingdoms of the world, I am the most fortunate. Nowhere is there a king who has the privilege of ruling such a magnificent people as the people of my kingdom. When I look at you, I see the splendor in which you are attired. When I peer into your homes, I am humbled by the delicious fragrances and aromas that fill them. When I see your doors, I am dazzled by your innocent and heartfelt joy to be alive. I am humbled before you. I am unworthy to rule such a kingdom. Please, let me step aside from being your king. Rather than embarrassing myself by pretending to rule over you, you should become my teachers and show me how to be a king."

When the people heard these words from their king, they remembered their profound love for him. They remembered how grateful they were to have such a wise and just king who brought such happiness and goodness into their lives. They remembered the generosity and the gratitude that made this kingdom the greatest to be hoped for or wished for.

The people embraced the king and lifted him up onto their shoulders. The sang their most joyous songs. They told their most heartfelt stories. They wept and danced all night in celebration of the beauty and the radiance that made their kingdom a heaven on earth.

The next morning, the sun rose and the people saw that the daylight had begun to grow longer. The time of long dark nights was beginning to give way to the light.

There probably is no holiday on the Jewish calendar that has been redefined more than Chanukah. In each age, this holiday has been transformed to suit the issues and concerns of its time. 

Originally, Chanukah was a nationalistic celebration of the Maccabees military victory over the armies of King Antiochus IV of the Seleucid Empire. It celebrated Israel's return to sovereignty under the rule of the Hasmonean Dynasty.

The rabbis of Talmud were the first to redefine Chanukah. They downplayed the story of military victory and promoted Chanukah as a celebration of God's power (not the power of the cruel Hasmoneans, whom they hated). They promoted a story about a miracle – one involving a cruse of oil – that occurred when the Temple was rededicated at the end of the Maccabees' war.

The transformation of Chanukah has not stopped since that time. As we prepare to enter the Festival of Lights, we would do well to separate fact from fiction. Here, then are three lies we tell about Chanukah and three truths that we ought to tell:

The Lies
• Chanukah is about fighting the threat of cultural assimilation. It is such a seductive storyline. The villainous Seleucid Empire tried to force their evil Greek ways upon the innocent Israelites until brave Judah Maccabee vanquished the Hellenizers and purified the Israelites from idolatry. It just happens not to be true. The book of Maccabees says that the Israelites celebrated their triumph with garlands made of ivy – a Greek symbol of celebration that is identified with the god Dionysus. That says a lot. The Maccabees' fight was not about assimilation – the Maccabees themselves were assimilated – their fight was about nationalism and power, not cultural identity.

• Judah Maccabee was a crusader for freedom of religion. That statement is true only if you add two words to the end of the sentence: "…for himself." The Maccabees today would be regarded as religious zealots. As much as they fought a military war, they also fought a war for religious domination. "Freedom of religion" to the Maccabees meant freedom to kill Jews who adopted Greek worship.

• Chanukah is the Jewish answer to Christmas. The funny thing is, not even the Christians are sure they want Christmas. Why should we? Already in the 18th century, Puritan Christians wanted to ban the observance of Christmas because it was too materialistic. Most of my Christian clergy friends today bemoan the way that Christmas has been transformed into a shopping frenzy. Far from a time for families to come together and enjoy the simple virtues of peace and love, Christmas has turned into a whole month that teaches children some very un-Christian values – like avarice and greed. Rather than trying to create a Jewish Christmas, we should be happy not to have one in the first place.

The Truths
• During the eight days of Chanukah we add light to some of the darkest days of the year. Across the world, many cultures have rituals in which they light up the night around the time of the Winter Solstice. Chanukah is one of these rituals. During these days, we remember that, even in the darkest times, there is the hope and promise of light. We celebrate Chanukah with our families as a ritual of remembering to hope even in times of despair.

• Chanukah is more a celebration of the future than it is of the past. In the Talmud, the rabbis argued about whether one should light eight lights on the first night and reduce them to one on the last night, or if one should start with one light on the first night and increase them to eight on the last night. (I don't need to tell you which side won.) Those who wanted to light eight lights on the first night used history as their argument. They said that, when the Temple stood, it had been the practice to sacrifice thirteen oxen on the first day of Sukkot and to reduce them each day for the eight festive days; the Chanukah lights, they argued, should follow historical precedent.The rabbis who wanted to start with one light and increase each day based their argument on the idea that holiness only increases over time and never decreases. The future is always brighter than the past. Chanukah is about looking forward, not looking back.

• Chanukah is not about presents; it's about the presence of spirituality in our lives. The rabbis chose a special haftarah to be read on the Shabbat that falls on during Chanukah. The passage is from the prophet Zechariah and it includes his vision of the golden Menorah that stood in the ancient Temple. In the passage, an angel tells the prophet, "'Not by might of soldiers, nor by brute force, but only with My spirit,' says Adonai of Hosts." At this time of year, when everything around us is so focussed on sales and spending, it is profoundly comforting to remember that the real truth of our lives has little to do with how many things we have or how much power we have accumulated. The real measure of our lives is in remembering the spirit that lies within us and connects us to each other and to the sacred.


Other Posts on This Topic:
What is Chanukah?
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah

The challenges and contradictions of being a Jew in America are never more obvious than in the month of December. Christmas is unavoidable from before Thanksgiving until well after New Year's. Every year, I wonder how much I should participate in the hoopla. There are holiday parties and holiday shopping all around. The streets are decorated for the "season" and my kids are encouraged to share in the "cheer" in their public schools. At what point does ignoring it or intentionally removing myself from it become more bother than it is worth? At what point does giving in to it become assimilationism – the first step toward losing our Jewish identity?

Years ago, I remember walking with my daughter, then six years old, on a downtown street in a small New England town. She was wearing a red knit hat and a stranger mistook it for a piece of Christmas apparel. "What is Santa bringing you, little girl?" he asked. I was so shocked that I didn't know how to respond. "We don't celebrate Christmas," is what I heard myself say. The kind stranger was obviously embarrassed, and I felt a bit embarrassed, too, for his confusion, and my own. 

No, it is not easy being a committed Jew in a society that so obviously and confidently assumes that everyone loves Christmas. Even the current "politically correct" habit of wishing people "Happy holidays" does not really make things any easier. Chanukah is often treated as an ersatz Jewish Christmas, the only difference being the substitution of blue and white wrapping paper for red and green. It some ways, it only makes the issue more confusing for both Jews and non-Jews.

I don't have all the answers to the dilemma, but here are a few that have worked for me and my family over the years:

• Avoid the temptation to use Chanukah as a substitute Christmas. Chanukah is a minor holiday that is best observed by lighting candles, giving modest and cherishable gifts to our children, eating too many latkes, and singing Ma'oz Tzur, Oh Chanukah, Mi Y'maleil and I Have a Little Dreidel. The moment, though, that we turn Chanukah into the shopping spree that is Christmas, we will have lost more than we have gained.

• Feel free to support non-Jewish family members in the celebration of their holiday. From a fairly young age, children can discern the difference between the holidays they call their own, and those that belong to the non-Jewish people they love. Enjoy the rewards of living in a pluralistic society.

• Establish your own Chanukah traditions as a family. Many people have come up with different themes for each of the eight nights, for example, one night could be for playing dreidel, one night for singing Chanukah songs, one night for inviting neighbors, one night for a tzedakah project to help people in need, etc. Give this minor holiday a distinct foundation that makes it your own.

• It's better to speak up than to feel guilty or ashamed. If you feel that the pressure to conform to other people's holiday expectations is too much, say something. I once had a congregant who told me that he was expected to wear a Santa hat at his company Christmas party. It felt wrong to him, but he was afraid to jeopardize his job. Know where your boundaries are and be willing to maintain them. 

Finally, try to remember what matters most at this time of year. A few thousand years ago, a bunch of Jews decided that being Jewish was important enough to take some risks. Even when things looked at their darkest, they were willing to light a small flame of hope and watch it increase day by day. That is the way it should always be.


Other Posts on This Topic:
How Does a Joyful Jew Respond to "Merry Christmas"?
What Is this "Christmas" of which You Speak?

The eighth day of Chanukah always seems like a let down after the candles have burned out. The holiday will not be over for another twenty-four hours, but there is not much left to celebrate. Apart from reciting Hallel in the morning service and eating leftover latkes (as if anyone could resist them at the first serving), there is not much to do on the last day.

In some ways, though, this final day of the holiday's lingering seems appropriate. Chanukah was the last holiday added to the calendar by the rabbis of the Talmud, at least as far as its origins are concerned. The events that Chanukah commemorates occurred in the second century BCE, after all of the events recorded in the Hebrew Bible. As such, Chanukah represents the last celebration of a miracle performed by God for the Jewish people. Ever since then, we have been lingering anticlimactically — like we do on the eighth day of Chanukah, after the candles are spent — waiting for the next miracle.

Of course, just because we don't have a holiday on the calendar to celebrate another miracle, does not mean that there are no miracles today. (Some will argue, and I will agree, that Yom Ha'atzmaut is actually the commemoration of a modern miracle). Miracles surround us all the time. 

Later today, I will be traveling to a mikveh in Orlando for the ritual conversion to Judaism of a woman I have been working with for the last  year. Her story is nothing short of miraculous. She discovered, quite on her own, that Torah and the Jewish approach to God and life spoke to her much more powerfully than the religion of her upbringing. Without ever being a part of a Jewish community, she learned on her own until she came to the synagogue in search of a place to practice the tradition she had already adopted in her heart. 

I love that story. I love the idea that in this crazy world with so many things tugging at us to abandon ourselves to our own immediate gratification, wealth, and privilege, people still have a deep craving to discover something deeper, richer, and more fulfilling. People are still searching for God, even in an age when God can sometimes seem very quiet. That, to me, is a miracle.

It is a miracle that is very fitting to the last day of Chanukah, after the candles have guttered. Even in a moment of lingering and waiting, we discover dear and beautiful miracles waiting for us, all around us.

Happy Chanukah.


Other Posts on This Topic:
A Day of Chanukah
The Last Miracle

The well hyped convergence of Thanksgiving and Chanukah is now history. We'll never see the two holidays come together in this way again. What did we learn? Here are some thoughts:

1) It usually takes me a week to work off the weight I gain over Thanksgiving and a week or two to work off the latkes and sour cream of Chanukah. I am not making any predictions about how long I'll be recovering from a combined orgy of sweet potatoes, sufganiyot, cranberry sauce and chocolate gelt. This could take a while.

2) For all the many words that have been written by myself and others about the things that Thanksgiving and Chanukah have in common, one thing emerges as the central truth: Family brings us together. It's not turkey, it's not the latkes, it's not the candles, and it's not watching football that people love about these two holidays. Chanukah and Thanksgiving each hold a place in our hearts because they are holidays that bring us together with family near and far.

3) Like most American Jews, my extended family includes Jews and non-Jews. We all get together every year for a Thanksgiving celebration that is warm and joyful, but without much ritual or overt spirituality. I think that all of us — Jews and non-Jews — found something meaningful in lighting the Chanukah menorah together as a moment of intentional reflection on our blessings and the miracles in our lives. Even if we never celebrate Chanukah at Thanksgiving again, I hope our experience this year will bring greater spirituality for all of us to our Thanksgiving gatherings in the future. 

4) In the end, the hype did not really matter. All of those creative recipes for pumpkin challah, sweet potato latkes, and sufganiyot filled with cranberry sauce, did not transform either holiday into something new. The turkey menorahs were cute, but they will just join the many Chanukah menorahs already on the shelf that our kids made in Sunday school or that we got as wedding gifts from forgotten relatives. "Thanksgivukkah" was the Jewish Y2K — a calendrical oddity that will soon be forgotten.

5) There are four candles (plus the shamash) burning on my menorah right now, and they look lovely. In past years, we never let the gaudy glare of Christmas diminish their glow. This year, Black Friday didn't distract us, either. These lights are meant for gazing upon, remembering and praising the Source of our blessings. That is the same this year as it is every year. We will have four more nights of it this week. Make the most of them!


Other Posts on This Topic:
Chanukah Chaiku
The Audacity of the Miracle

I ran this morning in the Concord Turkey Trot. I can't brag about my time, but my cousin Bonnie had the best time for a woman over forty. (Yay, Bonnie!!).

I had a lot of fun running. This was my third time participating in this annual Thanksgiving tradition. It was my first time, though, running with a Chanukah menorah hat on my head. Over the past two years, I had seen plenty of people running the race with turkey hats and other Thanksgiving-themed costumes. I thought, this year, it is Chanukah's turn.

The hat got a lot of comments. I heard plenty of "Happy Chanukah!" "Great hat!" and "Where'd you get that?" (The true and ironic answer to that question is here.)

It would be a stretch to say that running through the streets of a New England town with a funny hat on my head is a holy act. I will say though, that it felt like I was doing a small part to fulfill the central mitzvah of Chanukah. From a traditional perspective, the reason for lighting a Chanukah menorah is pirsum ha-nes, to "make known the miracle" (B. Shabbat 21a-24a). This is why a lit Chanukah menorah ideally should be placed in a window where it can be seen by the public. For each person who smiled at my silly hat, I felt that I was helping to remind people of Chanukah, a minor holiday that celebrates God's power to change a defeat into a victory, darkness into light, and despair into hope.

Why was publicizing the miracle of Chanukah so important to the ancient rabbis? In large measure, it was because they recognized that they were living at a time when Judaism was in fierce competition with other beliefs and philosophies. In ancient Babylon and the ancient land of Israel, Jews were in competition with Christians who taught that the holiness of the Temple had been broken and replaced. Gnosticism rejected the idea of a single creator God who is the only deity. The rabbis used the public display of lit menorahs at the darkest time of year as a powerful form of advertising for the unique God who brought a miracle to affirm the Temple's holiness and who ruled the universe alone.

We also are living in a time of competition for the hearts and minds of today's Jews, although the terms of the competition have changed. For Jews who believe that religion is nothing more than a grandiose superstition, or who believe that the synagogue is a place of stuffy and meaningless rituals, we have a lot of public relations work to do. "Making known the miracle" today may mean presenting an image of Judaism that is meaningful, spiritual, fun and joyful. We need to publicize a Judaism that helps people grapple with the most difficult challenges of their lives and that helps them discover their own greatest happiness and fulfillment in life. 

Does wearing a silly hat help in that publicity campaign? Maybe a little. In any case, it is a gentle reminder that there are plenty of folks in the world today who are proud to be Jews, who think that Judaism is far from a stuffy and meaningless aspect of their identity. It is a way of making known that being Jewish, and loving Judaism, feels great.


Other Posts on This Topic:
The Last Miracle
How Does a Joyful Jew Respond to "Merry Christmas"?

You must know by now that this year, for only the second time ever, the first day of Chanukah will fall on the American holiday of Thanksgiving. You also may have heard that this will not happen again for tens of thousands of years. (More on that misconception below). 

I am resisting the temptation to merge these two holidays into a single hybrid with a name that is a registered trademark. Chanukah and Thanksgiving are separate holidays, but they do have some things to teach each other.

Chanukah commemorates a miracle. In the second century BCE, the Maccabees defeated the Seleucid Empire to regain Jewish sovereignty over the Land of Israel. At the end of the war, they needed to dedicate the Temple in Jerusalem to the God of Israel, which included rekindling the great seven-branched Temple Menorah. However, they found only a single cruse of sanctified oil to light the Menorah — enough to burn for only a single day. Yet, when the Maccabees lit the Menorah, the oil lasted for eight days, long enough to press new oil under the supervision of the Priests. 

There is a question, then, about the first day of the holiday. What was the miracle of the first day? It hardly counts as a miracle if a cruse of oil, expected to burn for one day, burns for one day. Right? Why do we light a candle on the first day of Chanukah to praise a miracle that occurred on that day? What miracle?

Perhaps the miracle is that the Maccabees lit then Menorah at all. They certainly could have waited until they had more oil. But they did not. What insight caused the Maccabees to light the Menorah, even though they knew that it would take an act of God to sustain it?

Here's a way to think of it. The Maccabees spent years fighting the Seleucid Empire. They had pitted sword against sword and suffered terrible losses. When they won, they had every reason to believe that their victory was the result of their own cunning, bravery and personal sacrifice. Yet, the Maccabees recognized that the victory belonged to God, not to themselves. 

This is what gave the Maccabees the confidence to light the Menorah with only a day's worth of oil. They knew that the rededication of the Temple was won "Not by might and not by power but by [God's] spirit" (Zechariah 4:6). They never lost awareness that it was God who had sustained them through the war and that God would continue to sustain them. 

And this, too, is what we celebrate on Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving is the most spiritual and universal of all American holidays. It is a day to recognize that there is something beyond ourselves that we must thank. On this day, we remember that it is not just by our own sweat and effort that we have received the bounty and riches that we enjoy in life. We give thanks on Thanksgiving for the very same reason the Maccabees lit the Menorah. We recognize that we are blessed by something beyond ourselves. 

We do have some good reason to celebrate these two holidays together, if only as a once-in-a-lifetime event. And, now, it appears, for the very last time ever.

Since 1941, the United States has fixed Thanksgiving as the fourth Thursday in November, making this year's observance, on November 28, the latest possible date for the holiday. This year, the first day of Chanukah falls on its earliest possible date on the Gregorian calendar, November 28. However, this is the last century in which Chanukah can land as early as November 28. 

The Hebrew calendar is slightly out of skew with the Gregorian calendar. With the passage of time, Hebrew dates move forward on the Gregorian calendar by an average of three-quarters of a day per century. By the end of the 21st century, this shift will make November 29 the earliest possible Gregorian date on which Chanukah can land. This year will be the last time the holidays will ever converge.

You may have heard some people say that the holidays will come back together in tens of thousands of years, after the inconsistency of the Hebrew and Gregorian calendars pushes Chanukah deeper into winter, through the spring, across the summer, and back into late autumn. But that can never happen. 

The Torah requires that the Jewish holidays stay in their proper seasons. In particular, Passover must be celebrated in the spring (according to Deuteronomy 16:1). Long before Chanukah migrates across the seasons, the Hebrew calendar will have to be revised to keep Passover in the spring. When that happens, Chanukah will be locked in place, never to find itself coinciding with Thanksgiving again. 

So, enjoy the convergence now and for the last time ever. Make the first day of Chanukah this year a unique opportunity to remember that the miracle of the first day is the miracle of saying, "Thank you," to a Source beyond us all.

Happy Chanukah! Happy Thanksgiving!


Other Posts on This Topic:
Giving Thanks
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah

How should I answer? What words of wisdom can possibly be offered about a man who would enter a kindergarten classroom and murder little children? Is there a way to make any sense of it at all? 

How I will cling to my children tonight! How I will cry out in pain for those lost little ones in Connecticut and for their families!

To make matters worse, tonight is the seventh night of Chanukah. We are near the climax of our holiday that celebrates increasing the light. Today's events are all darkness—a pit of swirling, unending darkness. 

Our tradition tells us that we are obliged to defy darkness. It is our duty not to give in to despair, but to insist that we are sustained by hope. We must rail against the fatalism that says that there is nothing we can do. We must dedicate ourselves to declaring that the world can be—must be—better.

The reporter on the other end of the phone line took down my words as best she could. Tomorrow, maybe, they will be in the paper. And the day after that they will be in the recycling bin. But something from this experience—by God—has got to last longer than that. 

Today is not the day, but tomorrow surely will be, to say that there are things that we can do—must do—to stop events like this from happening again. Our governments, state and federal, can take action. Our communities can take action. Our schools and families can take action. Each one of us as individuals can do something. We have an obligation to rail against the darkness, to increase the light where there is despair.

My Chanukah plea to you is this: Be part of the light. Call your Congressmen and Senators on Monday morning and tell them how you feel about gun control. Show up at the next school board meeting and make your voice heard about emergency preparedness. Get in touch with your local police department and talk with them about how to prevent violence in your community. Support organizations that advocate effective treatment for mental illness and provide support for the families of people who are mentally ill. 

Do something. That has always been the Jewish response to despair. Confront the darkness.