Hanukkah 2020 is a complicated holiday in a complicated year.
Hanukkah is a complicated holiday, more complex than it appears on the surface. It is full of opposites and contradictions.
It is considered a “minor” holiday by many, but also is fundamental to the American Jewish experience. (It was the most observed ritual in Pittsburgh in 2017.)
It is about a war, but also about a miracle. The war is historically verifiable, but the miracle isn’t.
It is eight days long because of a “miracle,” but also because Sukkot is eight days.
It is celebrated in relationship to community but observed by each person or family on their own.
It is from our prophetic and Temple periods but does not appear in the Tanakh.
It is a rabbinic holiday, but we also say God commanded us in the blessing.
Beit Shammai said to light candles starting with eight and count down, but Beit Hillel said to start with one and count up.
Just from that short list, and I’m sure we could come up with more, we can start to see that there is more here than meets the eye.
So in this complicated year, what might we learn from this holiday?
Two years ago, I wrote this piece after the Shooting in Pittsburgh. In that reflection, I wrote about the dynamic between placing the menorah on the table, for safety, and placing it in the window, for publicizing the miracle. I wrote about a blessing that appears in the Talmud but has not survived to the modern age.
It was about haRo’eh, the one who sees the menorahs of others and recites a blessing, a Tradition we collectively no longer maintain. And yet, this person, the one who sees the light inspires me once again this year. This person who stops, sees the light, and blesses.
In this wild year, many of us are stuck at home, bouncing off of the walls during the pandemic. Working in makeshift home offices, chasing children onto Zoom school, and seeking meaning within an electronic rectangle. The challenges abound.
I too have found myself more attached to my devices than ever this year. My face lit up in the darkness of bedtime, which is terrible for sleep. Seeking distraction and connection, hoping for something to brighten my spirit during long days and weeks staring out the window.
This year has been a dark one. Dark in different ways than when I wrote two years ago.
When I was a first or second-year rabbinical student at Ziegler in Los Angeles, I lived in a first-floor apartment with windows that faced another building. There was not a lot of natural light. I had spent the day studying Talmud and Shulkhan Arukh about Hanukkah. My mind swirled with teachings and reflections.
You see, the rabbis were extremely serious about the idea that we are not allowed to “use” the Hanukkah candles. They believed that the central purpose of the candles was to publicize the miracle and nothing else.
לפי שאסור להשתמש בנר חנוכ’ בין בשב’ בין בחול ואפי’ לבדוק מעות או למנותן לאורה אסור ואפי’ תשמיש של קדושה כגון ללמוד לאורה אסור ויש מי שמתיר בתשמיש של קדושה ונוהגים להדליק נר נוסף כדי שאם ישתמש לאורה יהיה לאור הנוסף שהוא אותו שהודלק אחרון ויניחנו מרחוק קצת משאר נרות מצוה:…
Because it is forbidden to use the Hanukkah candles, either on Shabbat or on a weekday, and even to check money or count them with the light it is forbidden. And even to do some holy thing, like studying with the light it is forbidden. And there is one [opinion] that permits holy things and we are accustomed to light an additional candle [the shamash] in order that, if one will use the light, it will be the additional [candle that they’re using], that is the last one lit and placed a little bit farther away from the rest of the candles [that are used for the] mitzvah. (You’ll forgive the slightly stilted translation I hope.)
So, in manifesting that idea, that evening, after my classes, when I lit my menorah alone, I did something I rarely did: I sat down quietly and was present with the candles.
I let their light bathe me as I contemplated my life, the miracle, and Hanukkah generally. I sat there listening to the clock tick and the streetlights strain to reach between the buildings. I watched the light flicker on the tin foil on the windowsill.
It was at that moment that I felt God’s presence like never before.
It felt as though the layers of the universe were peeling back and I could feel just a fraction of God’s radiant light.
It was a powerful moment that unfolded in a blink of an eye and was gone just as quickly. Never before and never since have I experienced such a moment of clarity. My problems weren’t solved, I didn’t have any additional wisdom, and my Hanukkah candles were still there, brightly twinkling with those classic colored wax candles, but that moment changed me.
I carry that memory with me every year, it brings me hope and stability in these dark times. Even though I have never had that experience again, either during Hanukkah or another holiday, I carry that flicker of the Divine presence with me. Every year, even for a fraction of a second, I take time to remember.
This is the lesson I’m reflecting on this year. That when we see the lights, we are engaged with the core element of this holiday: to remember. To remember the miracle and the story, to put ourselves back into the narrative, and see the light, literally and figuratively, in these dark times.
For me, the complexity of Hanukkah is that it is a reminder of so many things.
It is a reminder to stop and breathe.
It is a reminder to turn off the devices.
It is a reminder to let the light in.
It is a reminder to see and be seen.
It is a reminder that the story is bigger than any of us.
It is a reminder that we’re all in this together.
It is a reminder to have faith.
It is a reminder to be hopeful.
It is a reminder to be proud of who you are.
It is a reminder.
As we celebrate Hanukkah this year, I hope that you can find time to sit with your candles. To push off the desire to be distracted, to create space to be present, and to remember.