This past Shabbat I hosted the last in the three-part set of gatherings that had been planned, designed and implemented by our congregation’s membership committee. The goal of the gatherings was to introduce our new member families to our community, providing some orientation to many of its moving parts, and to each other. Our final gathering was purely social and it was quite evident that wonderful connections have already been made. In the space of just over a month, those families who chose to avail themselves of this opportunity probably traveled further, in terms of community connectedness, than they might otherwise have done in the space of two or three years of synagogue membership. Our next steps are looking at other groups within our congregation where we could help facilitate this kind of connectedness, whether they have joined us in recent years or been members for over 10 years.
Among the many conversations I had on Shabbat afternoon, was one where a parent thanked us for facilitating and providing the times and spaces for connections to be made beyond the walls of the synagogue and the timeframe of prayer services. With young children she said, quite honestly, that she didn’t expect to be a regular attender at Friday night services, but that they were interested in being a part of a community in other ways and at other times.
Back in the mid-1990s, I had a short first career, before deciding to retrain for the rabbinate. I did my PhD at University College London, in Cultural Geography. My thesis was examining the world of environmental education – so often aimed at youth with the hope that the next generation will be inspired to do more than their parents’ generation to alter behaviors that will enable us to live more sustainably on the planet. In my cultural/sociological research into the lives of some of these children, my research pointed out that, so often, the claims made by educators and the assumptions made about the effectiveness of such education were made in a vacuum. Content or Program alone could not tell you how effective the efforts of environmental educators would be. Children, just like the rest of us, live their lives in connection to others. Why, I might ask them, did they join the Scouts/Guides? Why did they get interested in a particular hobby? What kinds of experiences had they had in different kinds of natural environments? Over and over again it was members of their family who provided one primary set of influences, and their friends – their social connections – that drove the vast majority of what they did or didn’t do. Not so surprising a conclusion, but nevertheless so many people who are passionate about the environment focus solely on the educational content and program and continue to ignore the social context in which all of our everyday behaviors and choices are embedded. The former may be easier to create and form than the latter—it is more concrete and tangible—but that doesn’t make it the most effective way to go about doing things.
I share this, because that background and research has guided much of my thinking about religious education and religious communities too. We Jewish professionals tend to overly focus on the prayer service, the program, and the educational course without spending enough time focusing on the social context. To be successful, we need to know who are congregants are and the lives they are leading. Because of the particular demographics of the community where I am based, those dynamics can be quite different to those of another community in another geographical location. What I am learning is that, by emphasizing how gathering opportunities will facilitate community connection, and then being more intentional to make sure that the timing and the nature of the gathering will truly lend itself to these goals, all of the other Jewish content can be shared too. But we start with the connections. Last Shabbat we shared a beautiful Havdalah ritual together, and I was able to teach something about this ritual that many of the children present (and plenty of the adults too) were seeing for the first time. But we didn’t invite them to a Havdalah gathering; given the lack of context for that for some of them, that would have been a meaningless label to describe the nature and purpose of the invitation.
This, of course, is the whole rationale of what Ron Wolfson has termed ‘Relational Judaism‘ and many congregations are turning their attention toward how they can do a better job of being relationship-based communities. Today I fly to San Diego for the Union for Reform Judaism’s Biennial Conference. Always vibrant and energetic gatherings, this one is bound to be no exception. And, while there will be many useful sessions designed for information and idea sharing on all kinds of topics that will enable communities to reach toward greater excellence on many fronts, these conferences are, ultimately, all about relationship-building themselves. I almost always get more from the individual conversations I have with old friends, with strangers sitting next to me, and with colleagues, re-invigorating me in my work and inspiring me with the things they’ve already thought of and tried in their communities. Understanding this, the conference organizers this year have provided times and places—forums—simply to meet with others who show up around a common area of interest to share ideas and learn from each other, in addition to the more formally organized workshops.
We used to hear a lot of “build it and they will come.” Today, perhaps the more appropriate adage should be “connect, and together we will create.”
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World leaders today have assembled to mourn the death of Nelson Mandela. As tributes are paid to Mandela’s towering legacy and monumental impact in ending apartheid in South Africa, I can’t help but feel the absence of any Mandela-like leader today within the Jewish community.
This is not to say that we lack impressive Jewish leaders today. To the contrary, there are a number of individuals, rabbis and non-rabbis alike, who do extraordinary work at the local level—at synagogues, JCCs, and local NGOs. But we don’t seem to have a leader, or series of leaders, who can rally apathetic masses to support moral causes at a systemic level. We lack the towering leadership of a Heschel, a Soloveitchik, a Wise, a Kaplan. And my question today is: do we need one?
On the one hand, from the perspective of community organizing or democracy building, the answer ought to be no. Real change, from this paradigm, starts from the ground up, at the local level. Leaders are effective when they know what the local issues are and can engage relationally with those in their communities. I, for one, think this model has an incredible amount to offer, and indeed carries the best prospects for the future of an engaged and committed American Jewry.
But, on the other hand, I feel a sense of absence by the lack of national moral leadership. I can only begin to imagine how it might have felt to stand with Heschel and King during the Civil Rights Movement. I recall fondly–though I was only a few years out of diapers–the successful efforts of the Jewish community to free Soviet Jews in the 1980s. And, more recently, Jewish leaders were at the forefront of the Save Darfur effort. But who and where are the Jewish leaders rallying national support for social or economic justice today? From raising the minimum wage to enacting a cap and trade program to stem climate change, I can’t think of a single figure or group of figures who are at the forefront of these efforts, who are working to catalyze the public at a national level and have the moral resonance and strategic savvy to make such change plausible.
So my question to you today, as we fittingly pay tribute to the legacy of Mandela, is whether we still need Jewish national moral leadership to bring about the change our tradition calls us to pursue. What do you think?
In less than a week, so much has been said to eulogize Nelson Mandela. Together with Frederik Willem de Klerk, he was responsible ”for the peaceful termination of the apartheid regime, and for laying the foundations for a new democratic South Africa” (Nobel Foundation).
Mandela was a world icon, showing that nonviolent progress towards justice is possible.
Reading the eulogies has helped me as I struggle day after day to find hope. Generally, I don’t believe that humanity is evolving morally or spiritually. I find it tragic, in fact, that the wisest people are retired, while young learners lead the world. Human history seems a repetition of terrible mistakes.
Frankly, I cannot wrap my mind around the vision of Messianic time, even though the great Jewish philosopher Maimonides insists that hope is a pillar of Jewish spirituality. On Yom Kippur, I had a quick glimpse of hope. The idealism of my son and his friends, the liturgy’s endless prayers for peace, and the community’s yearning for self-improvement seduced me. But the glimpse soon faded into memory…
Until this week.
Last week, Rabbi Tsvi Blanchard commented on the story of Joseph’s reconciliation with his long-lost brothers. What a risk Joseph takes when he reaches out to these men he knew only as bullies! He reveals himself, literally and figuratively. Literally, he cries and cries. Speaking his brothers’ language, he says “I am Joseph.” Figuratively, he opens his heart, showing that he hopes to be received with love.
Where does Joseph get the courage to take the risk? He actually explains it in his own words. He tells his brothers, “Don’t feel bad that you sold me into slavery, because God put me here to save lives. God sent me ahead of you, to keep you alive ” (Genesis 45:5-7). Joseph believes in a grand narrative where everything ultimately turns out for the better.
Rabbi Blanchard says: Often we secretly hope for reconciliation, but fear taking the risk. Could we, he asks, follow Joseph’s lead? Could we allow ourselves to believe that the rift is part of a larger story with a happy ending? If we believed that was where we were headed, would we be more willing to take a risk?
This week, Rabbi Julie Danan says: Nelson Mandela must have believed in a greater good, too, as he became the public face of “Truth and Reconciliation.”
Hillary Kaplan adds: It’s easy to draw parallels between the Biblical character Joseph and the real man Mandela. Both were harmed in their youth; both served long prison terms; both were skilled politicians; both took risks for reconciliation; both were criticized for compromising too easily with the seat of power, and for failing to broaden economic opportunity.
Compromising is a risk, too, when you’re a politician. But you compromise in order to reach a vision of a greater good.
The great midrash collection Genesis Rabbah explains that the world was created for the sake of such a vision. In the mind of the editor, everything that happens leads ultimately to the flourishing of the Jewish people. And, of course, the flourishing of the Jewish people is necessary for the redemption of the world. History has a plan; the plan is set out symbolically in the Book of Genesis; and it is being realized even now.
Normally, this kind of thinking seems ludicrous to me. It’s irrational, it’s patently false, it’s ethnocentric. Nothing in my mindset resonates with this at all.
But this is not a normal week. It’s the week of Mandela’s passing and the anniversary of Joseph’s reconciliation.
I hold Mandela in high moral esteem. His belief in social evolution seems beautiful, blessed and true. And, like Joseph, I do believe in interpersonal healing, and I do sometimes take risks to achieve it. Sometimes rupture is only a chapter in a story of deepening friendship.
Through these reflections, I receive another glimpse into the reality of Messianic time. Hope is visionary. It does not have to reflect current conditions to be real. When it motivates people to move forward personally and socially, it is real.
I want to grow my hope, to string together glimpses into a clear vision. But I need help. Can you tell me: What makes hope real for you?
Image: the times.co.uk. Cross-posted at On Sophia Street.
On the eighth night of Hanukkah our synagogue’s young adult group hosted an event in collaboration with the Denver Jewish Chamber of Commerce. It was our 2nd annual Spin The Dreidel Networking evening that brought people from an array of sectors and professions out for a night of relationship building, networking and good Jewish food. What does business networking have in common with the work of building Jewish community? How does an event of that nature fit into the vision of a Jewish organization, particularly a synagogue?
The answer lies in exploring the nature of Jewish peoplehood for the young adult community. The young adult community, those within the millennial and Gen X demographics, are poised to become the majority of American society, including the American Jewish community, in the not so distant future. Jewish identity today in the 21st century is not our grandparents identity. It is layered in complexity and with competing interests, passions and commitments.
Is Jewish identity strictly religious? Is it ethnic? Is it nationalistic? Is it cultural? How do notions of Jewish peoplehood fit with other values like universalism and equality? How does one navigate the tensions between a particularistic identity and a universalistic worldview? What about the role of social justice? Environmentalism? Civil rights? In a digital world, is there a Jewish ethic and Jewish framing questions about the role of technology?
The understandings of Jewish peoplehood amongst young adults today is continuously evolving and shifting. It, for the most part, reflects these real conversations about the balancing of competing identities and interests. Young adult engagement today must be one that does not suppose to know all the answers and all the paths to take for the participants but rather transforms participants into stakeholders and owners of their own Jewish destiny. It is about providing the resources, knowledge and tools to each individual so that person can find their own voice in the Jewish community and become an active partner in the further development of Jewish life.
The next chapter in the Jewish journey of each individual can be written on one’s own terms and in one’s own unique way. It is fully embracing the complexities that people bring to the table and the multi-faceted dimensions of modern life.
So how did we end up with an annual Hanukkah networking event partnered with a business professional organization? We listened, partnered, collaborated and helped catalyze the Jewish journey of our young adult demographic. By embracing the varied and diverse ways Jews enter the conversation around peoplehood, identity, Jewish authenticity and meaning, we create the room for Jewish communal flourishing and it is precisely this flourishing of Jewish life that will enable a stronger Jewish communal future.
Every night, for years, when I put my son to bed, I enjoy the ritual (which I know will probably not last much longer) of lying down next to him and reading, and then, at lights out, I say, “Do you know how much I love you?” and he says ( these days, somewhat groaningly), “Yes….”
“How much do I love you?”
“More than the entire universe.”
But a few weeks ago, after the usual exchange, he asked me, “What if you had to choose between the whole universe and me?”
I have to admit, I didn’t really know what to say. He answered his own question, though: he continued, “you would have to choose the universe, because I can’t exist without the whole universe.”
I was reminded of this exchange recently when a colleague posted a question about how to explain the Akedah to a child. How do explain that we have a story in which God asks a father to sacrifice his child, and the father does so? A child that our story claims is beloved by the father?
It is unsatisfactory (and not true to the text) to say that Abraham actually failed the test. But what we can ask is what my child asked me, “What if you had to choose between the universe and me?” and realize that perhaps there is no answer, because without the universe, there is no saving even a remnant of it, and maybe that’s what the metaphor of the story is.
The secular laws that govern America intend to prevent any religious coercion or bias among us. “We the people” have the right to practice or not practice any religion we choose. Some might claim that the freedom from religion that Western 21st century encounters has led to a weakening of religion. Within Judaism, for example there is actual debate over what do we mean by mitzvah – for several thousand years it simply meant “commandment,” as in “Do this” or “Do not do that;” within the Torah there are 613 of them. Yet, the Conservative Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary actually has a Mitzvah Initiative, which helps Jewish communities explore mitzvot as” an organizing principle of Jewish life.” There is an active conversation about the meaningfulness of being commanded (or not).
This willingness to question even central ideas, I believe, is a good thing. Jewish leaders love to celebrate the plasticity of Jewish development over time, yet some bemoan change when it happens on their watch.
Holding on too rigidly to religious control does more to weaken religion than the American born “freedom from religion.” Consider two modern cases as proof: 1) The election of a right-wing Chief Rabbi in Israel has lead to a deepening disenfranchisement for secular Israelis from the value of religious observance. 2) Yesterday, a woman sued the U.S. Catholic Bishops over a miscarriage treatment:
“The lawsuit accuses the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops of creating health care directives “that cause pregnant women who are suffering from a miscarriage to be denied appropriate medical care, including information about their condition and treatment options.” – Chicago Tribune
The religious beliefs of the Catholic Bishops prohibited best medical practices from being offered. As with the Affordable Care Act, religious communities want the freedom from offering the largest net of possible coverages or procedures, on religious ground. From the perspective of these selfsame religious institutions, their position is mistaken and will hurt them rather than help them in the long-run.
I believe that if religious groups offered health-care to all their employees and religiously funded hospitals could preform all safe procedure, even abortions, it would not weaken the religious perspective of those groups. People who adhere to the religious viewpoint of the institution would be strengthened in their faith as their actions were made out of choice rather than coercion by creed. What would emerge are developments in belief and developments in practices, which in the long-run strengthens the influence of religion.
Despite the changes in Jewish identity in America, 94% of U.S. Jews (including 97% of Jews by religion and 83% of Jews of no religion) say they are proud to be Jewish. Three-quarters of U.S. Jews (including 85% of Jews by religion and 42% of Jews of no religion) also say they have “a strong sense of belonging to the Jewish people.” - Pew Research Center (2013).
The effect has been a changing Jewish landscape, but one in which Jews still strongly, with pride and even with numbers, identify as Jews. We are more clearly then ever progressing from being “the Chosen People” to the “Choosing People.”
Yes, everyone in the Jewish world and beyond knows today is Thankgivukkah. But there’s another quirk of the calendar that Hanukkah gives us every year—and is one that very few people seem to know about.
It just so happens that the night we light the seventh candle is always also one of the darkest nights of the year. Not the shortest night, but the darkest night, owing to the new, tiny, sliver of a moon — Rosh Hodesh Tevet, the new month of Tevet, begins at sundown of the seventh night of Hanukkah. In other words, the seventh night of Hanukkah is one of two nights that are closest to the winter solstice on which there is no visible moon. (The second is Rosh Hodesh Shevat, which falls on January 1st this year.)
I highly doubt that this was an intentional placement on the calendar. It’s just as “planned” as the fact that we’re likely to be in the Torah portions telling the Joseph story during Hanukkah, as well—the seventh night of Hanukkah falls on this ultra-dark night of the year occurs just because a few different ways of setting Jewish time happen to coincide. But I find that there’s something quite powerful in knowing that the seventh night of Hanukkah is the night that most requires us kindle lights.
On the seventh night, our Hanukkiah is almost full. With eight of the nine candles flickering in the window, we see almost all of our lights. As Hanukkah in general reminds us of holding onto hope in the most difficult times, lighting the Hanukkiah reminds us that we can bring light even in the darkest times. And on this dark night, we are using almost all of our candles to bring some light into this world.
But the key word there is “almost”—we are not bringing all of our lights. We might think that it would be great if this dark night happened to fall on the eighth night, the night on which our Hanukkiah is full and we would make a powerful statement that “Even in our darkest times, we can bring all of our lights to shine!”
Except our Hanukkiah is not full on this specific night. There’s one candle missing—and that’s wonderful, because it reminds us of so many other things we might forget otherwise. It reminds us that even when we bring our light, there is still darkness in this world, for our world is not yet redeemed. It reminds us that there is still more work that needs to be done, and so there is always more light we can bring. It reminds us that even in our happiest times, life is not all joyous—we all face moments of doubt and despair, and those are parts of the human condition, as well.
And yet for me, knowing that there is one “missing” light reminds me most of the words of Rabbi Tarfon—”Lo alecha ham’lcha ligmor, v’lo atah bein chorin l’hibatel mimenah,” which we usually translate it as “It is not upon you to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.” Often we take that to mean, “The world is never going to be perfect – but we have to try.” I read it a little bit differently. The Hebrew says, “Lo alecha”—”it is not upon you,” and the word for “you”—alecha—in the singular. So I read that quote as, “It is not upon each of us by ourselves to complete the work—but we do have to do our part to the best our ability.”
So the message of Rosh Hodesh Tevet, the seventh night of Hanukkah, is that there is always something we can do to help bring more light into this dark world – and there is always something we must do.
Last week, in the midst of an independent study meeting with a fourth grader, I was exploring the topic of mixing up holiday traditions, and trying to gauge my student’s opinions. Because it had just recently shown up on my Facebook feed, I shared with her the website for a Menorah tree – the latest innovation in cultural appropriation during the December holiday season. When I asked her what she thought, my incredibly bright and thoughtful student responded, “I think I’d need to know more about the origins of both symbols before I could decide.” No knee-jerk reaction. No embracing of the commercialism or rejecting of the “non authentic.” Just a considered response that indicated the need to understand more about symbols, where they come from, and what they mean to people, before reaching a personal conclusion.
One of the things that I’ve noticed this year, with the confluence of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah, creating Thanksgivukkah for those celebrating in the USA, is that I’ve had many thoughtful conversations like this over the past few weeks, with middle schoolers, high schoolers, and adults alike. Yes, people are having fun with their “Menurkeys“ and blended Thanksgiving meal menus this year, but what I’m finding is that people are asking really good questions and having really good conversations about the meaning of the holidays, what the symbols represent, where a valid connection can be made, conceptually, between parts of the Thanksgiving myth and parts of the Hanukkah myth (as so eloquently laid out by my RWB colleague, Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan, earlier this week). When my congregants had these conversations with me, it has provided many opportunities to share aspects of Hanukkah at a deeper level. People are asking – they want to know. They want to find ways to make it all as meaningful as possible and, in order to do that, they are looking to mine the riches of our traditions, not simply invent and make up new ones. That’s why, in my congregation this Shabbat we’ll be celebrating and highlighting Thanksgiving and Hanukkah in one of monthly ‘Ritual Lab’ services, providing another opportunity for our community to examine both holidays, compare and contrast and learn together while also celebrating Shabbat together (courtesy of my colleague, Rabbi Joe Eiduson, who has put together an innovative weaving of materials).
So, while I’ve read other articles where the authors wish that Hanukkah could just be Hanukkah (you know, that authentic Jewish holiday where we play a 10th Century Anglo Saxon gambling game with a spinning top, eat fried foods common to the cuisine of Germany and Central Europe, and sing a festival anthem set to the melody of a Medieval German marching tune!), I believe otherwise. This year’s juxtaposition of secular and Jewish calendar has opened up rich and meaningful conversations that might not otherwise have taken place. More people know a little bit more about their Jewish heritage and traditions than they otherwise might have.
There’s something else that I think we might consider dropping when we talk about Hanukkah. Let’s stop describing it as ‘a minor Jewish holiday’. The origins of this statement may be halachic in nature – the rabbis did not require Hanukkah to be like some of our other Festivals where we do no work and follow many of the other restrictions of a Sabbath day. They did insert some additional liturgy to mark the holiday, but not at the scale of many of our other festival days. This move was partially historical, but also somewhat political – there were reasons that the Rabbis were, in fact, somewhat ambivalent about the Hasmonean rule that emerged from the Maccabee victory and, while the festival was already firmly established, they did not want to overemphasize its importance in the Jewish calendar.
However today, when I hear people talk about Hanukkah only being a ‘minor’ holiday, what I hear is more of a disdain for the commercial competition with Christmas. But too often, what we are actually telling our communities, inadvertently, is not ‘don’t go over the top with the secular and commercial aspects of the holiday’ but rather, ‘this isn’t really one of our important holidays.’ And so, in fact, we end up sending the message that Hanukkah cannot and should not be held up, embraced, celebrated, enriched and enjoyed (and yes, that means the light-hearted commercial kind of enjoyment too) as a meaningful winter holiday of hope and light in the midst of the dark and the cold. We send the message that only Christmas can do that at this time of year – our little holiday simply can’t ‘compete’. Why do we want to impart that message? If having an inflatable, lit-up menorah on your front lawn, or a menorah tree in your house, eight nights of gift-giving, or creating new secular-styled ‘pop’ Hanukkah songs makes for a joyful celebration in your home and extends the time you spend thinking about and celebrating this Jewish holiday, isn’t that a good thing?
As we arrive at erev Hanukkah, and erev Thanksgiving, tonight, I wish you all a wonderful, enjoyable, and meaningful Thanksgivukkah!
By now it seems that the entire Jewish world is abuzz about Thanksgivukkah, the once in a lifetime convergence of Hanukkah (choose your spelling) and Thanksgiving. There are stories on NPR and The New York Times, sweet potato latke recipes everywhere you look, and even a kickstarter campaign by a fourth grader to design a “menurky” that raised $48,000. Perhaps the height of absurdity is that Thanksgivukkah even has its own Twitter account.
Why all the fuss?
Let’s be clear: the convergence of Hanukkah and Thanksgiving is a big deal for Jews, but not so much for American society. Frankly, most non-Jewish Americans I have spoken with are mildly amused and politely supportive, but hardly excited about the overlap of the two holidays. For Jews, though, it is as if this year is Hanukkah’s debutante ball—a coming out party for the holiday to symbolize it finally warranting conversation within—if not wholesale merger with—American culture. I can’t help but wonder whether, for fairly secular Jews, the excitement stems from the fact that Hanukkah, for the first time in as long as I can remember, will not culturally serve as the ugly step-sister of the melodious, ornately decorated, and wholly secularized Christmas. It is being viewed as an equal, as the name Thanksgivukkah itself suggests.
But I would like to suggest a more constructive role for Thanksgivukkah. While some are bemoaning the merger of these two holidays, I think there are at least two reasons why both Jewish and non-Jewish Americans alike benefit from the convergence of the two. First, as my colleague Laura Duhan Kaplan eloquently wrote, Thanksgivukkah provides a wonderful opportunity for re-telling, and therefore revitalizing, the Hanukkah story. This is entirely in keeping with Jewish tradition, where Hanukkah has been retold, and reinterpreted, many times throughout our history (after all, the miracle of the oil lasting eight days doesn’t even appear in the two Books of the Maccabbees, but only “surfaces” centuries later in the Talmud).
Second, I think Thanksgivukkah has potential to be instructive and wisdom-creating for Jews and non-Jews. Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday for gratitude. It is, as its name connotes, a day for giving thanks for the bounty we enjoy in our lives. Gratitude, of course, is an important part of Judaism, as it is in all religions. It is the ethical posture with which we begin each day when reciting the prayer Modeh Ani. A famous Jewish saying, from Pirkei Avot (Ethics of our Fathers) 4:1 posits:
Who is rich? One who appreciates what one has.” We are encouraged in the Talmud to recite 100 blessings each day (BT Menachot 42b) as a means of reflecting upon our good fortune and expressing gratitude.
But Hanukkah is not primarily about gratitude. It is about (re-)dedication. Gratitude is (at least within Judaism) inherently passive, a mental process of reflection and appreciation, of self-cultivation. Dedication is about taking action, about embodying values, about doing what is necessary to enable a life of sacred meaning. The original purpose of celebrating Hanukkah (outside of the sordid political machinations of the Hasmoneans that, frankly, would make the Borgias dynasty blush) was to enable the Judeans to celebrate the fall harvest of Sukkot which they hadn’t previously been able to due to the profane state of the Temple under Seleucid rule. That is what the “dedication” was all about, and also why Hanukkah and Sukkot are both 8 days long. This lesson of dedication, of action in pursuit of the holy and the good, is one which all of American society would do well to receive. Especially in Washington, we do a great job of talking ad nauseum, but we seem incapable of even the most common-sense action.
Of course, action in pursuit of the holy, unmediated by gratitude, can lead to the zealotry that ultimately destroyed Judea and is currently causing unspeakable tragedy throughout the Middle East. But gratitude unmediated by dedicated action equals mere platitude; it is a Hallmark card that is politely read and then thrown away. The duality of gratitude and dedication is what makes Thanksgivukkah a truly special holiday. So let’s take advantage of Thanksgivukkah this year and spread the message of why we, as Americans, need both gratitude and dedication if we want to prosper as a society. After all, it is going to be another 70,000 years before we have another opportunity to do so!
Maybe even a re-dedication, which is the literal meaning of the word Hanukkah.
Do you know how challenging it can be for rabbis, teachers and writers to come up with a new Hanukkah insight every year?
This year, the blogosphere overflows with creative teachings.
Aren’t change and creativity part of the fun of celebrating a holiday year after year? It’s great to return to the candles, singing, latkes, and the story of the Maccabees. And it’s also great to make a new menorah, learn new songs, try new recipes, and retell the story in a different way.
Actually, retelling the story in a different way is a very old tradition. Neither Thanksgiving nor Hanukkah has clear foundations in recorded history. Our very earliest descriptions of both holidays offer multiple interpretations.
Three eyewitness accounts from 1621 describe the first Thanksgiving season in Plymouth’s English colony.
William Bradford describes the great bounty at Plymouth: fish, fowl, and Indian corn. Yes, folks, he says, all those letters home about how great things are in the New World are true.
Edward Winslow explains that one day the Englishmen were out playing with their guns. The local Indians, though bound by a formal peace treaty, came to investigate. Everyone went hunting together, and then feasted for three days.
William Hilton affirms the natural abundance and the good relationships with the local Indians, but tells a harsher truth. Members of the English colony “were sick and weak, with very small means.”
No wonder some people use Thanksgiving to celebrate multicultural cooperation; while others focus on abundant feasting; and still others count their blessings, simply grateful to be alive another year. Each theme is a part of the original story of Thanksgiving, depending on which original story you follow.
Maccabees I gives a political account of events. Alexander the Great was tolerable as conquerors go, but one of the local Syrian Greek rulers, Antiochus, was not. Antiochus was a petty tyrant, and the Judeans, led by the Hasmoneans, successfully rebelled against him. The Hasmonean military leaders restored the Temple, lit the menorah, and gradually took over the priesthood.
Maccabees II gives a conservative religious account of events, showing the hand of God behind the political history. The Judeans had fallen away from true spiritual practice, activating Divine wrath. Thus, God allowed Antiochus to invade. But Judah Maccabee called the Judeans back to true worship; God’s anger turned to compassion; and the Judean forces were victorious.
Five hundred years later, the Talmud introduces a new detail not found in either book of Maccabees. When the Hasmonean forces tried to restore the Temple, they found only one jar of pure oil, sufficient for only one day’s lighting. They lit the menorah anyway and through a miracle, the oil burned for eight days. The holiday was established to commemorate the miracle.
The usual teachings about Hanukkah are based not in fact but on these highly creative accounts. Hanukkah reminds us to gather political strength under oppression, to remain culturally true to Judaism, to know God performs miracles when we need them, and that the light of our soul shines bright even when hidden by difficult times.
Knowing how flexible the meaning of Hanukkah has always been, I am enjoying Thanksgivukkah teachings with no guilt whatsoever. The convergence has brought into focus a wonderful set of possible meanings for Hanukkah.
Thanksgiving is about gratitude; so, too, is Hanukkah. Hanukkah is about being Jewish, and being Jewish means being grateful. Our name “Jews” comes from the Biblical name “Judah,” which means “gratitude.”
Thanksgiving celebrates the harvest. So, too, does Hanukkah. The original eight-day celebration of a restored Temple was modeled on the eight days of Sukkot, the Jewish harvest holiday. Sukkot, taught the prophet Zechariah, could be shared by all cultures and religious traditions.
Thanksgiving is a deeply meaningful cultural event that cuts across religious and ethnic divisions. So, too, is Hanukkah. The themes of gratitude and hope are deep spiritual experiences for religious and secular Jews alike.
Thanksgivukkah reminds me how flexible Jewish tradition has always been in helping us find meaning. Perhaps that’s my favorite teaching of all.
Image: Seth Goldstein wears a Thanksgivukkah hat. Cross-posted at SophiaStreet.