Creating Our Own Light

Today’s episode is a Shabbat Replay of our Saturday morning service on December 21st when Rabbi Steven delivered a vulnerable and fascinating sermon on the niceties of celebrating Hanukkah as a Jew-by-Choice and in a time of rising antisemitism. How do we muster the courage to shine our light for all the world to see when the world is so frightening?

Donate:
https://mishkan.shulcloud.com/form/donate

****

For upcoming Shabbat services and programs, check our event calendar, and see our Accessibility & Inclusion page for information about our venues. Follow us on Instagram and like us on Facebook for more updates.

Produced by Mishkan Chicago. Music composed, produced, and performed by Kalman Strauss.

Transcript

Transcript

There’s a Christmas tree in my living room. To be transparent, it’s there because I put it there. After a bit of back-and-forth about what kind of tree to purchase (real or fake, tall or short, narrow or wide), my boyfriend Carter and I spent last Shabbat decorating it. And so now there is a 6.5’ pine tree next to the couch — red and green ornaments, twinkling lights, shiny gold star on top — the whole thing. 

I grew up in a household that celebrates Christmas, but this is the first time that I have had a tree in my home as an adult. And it’s certainly the first time that I’ve had anything Christmassy in my apartment since I became a Jew, or a rabbi. But earlier this year, Carter and I moved in together and he has always had a tree in his home. And because relationships are about creating new traditions together, traditions that reflect important parts of both parties but don’t replicate either individual in their entirety, on one side of our living room is a steadily growing collection of hanukkiyot and on the other, a Christmas tree.

And if I’m honest, I was nervous about putting up a Christmas tree (and all the more so, posting about it on social media). What would people think? I know that I’m not the only person who occasionally struggles with imposter syndrome. As someone who chose Judaism at age 22, and who works with a lot of Jews-by-Choice as a rabbi, it’s a feeling that follows most converts. Lacking the immutable fact of inheritance (your birth parents are your birth parents), our Judaism is something we have to do. It’s performative — reinforced through repeated actions that establish and communicate our identity. This isn’t a bad thing, per se. It inspires us to move through our lives with intention and purpose. But there is also a fear that if we stop doing Jewish, we stop being Jewish.

I also know that imposter syndrome is something felt by many Jews-by-Birth, too, and while being a Jew is something you all are stuck with (at least as a fact of your heritage) — so many folks struggle with a sense that they are not Jewish “enough.” Whether it’s not knowing Hebrew, or fumbling through the holidays, or the guilty pleasure of a bacon double cheeseburger, a lot of people I know feel that their Judaism, by some unclear (but also widely agreed upon) standard, is deficient. And so our membership as a Member of the Tribe is also something we need to establish, proving to others (and often ourselves) that we belong here, even if — and here’s the catch — no one actually doubted your Jewishness in the first place, because we were all too busy wrestling with our own imposter syndrome to pay attention to anyone else.

All of this is against the backdrop of a majority culture that is not ours, or at least not ours entirely. There is a lot of hand wringing about assimilation, and while I profoundly disagree with my colleagues who point to intermarriage or declining synagogue membership as signs that we are on the edge of extinction, I do agree that in a country where most people aren’t Jewish, where social events and soccer practice often fall on Shabbat and the calendar conflicts with our holidays (rather than having days off oriented around them), being Jewish is a countercultural choice that requires thoughtful and deliberate action.

And for those of us who are in a relationship with someone who is not Jewish — whether it’s our partner, our in-laws, or our family of origin — finding a way to balance our Judaism and their not-Judaism requires creativity and care. It can be incredibly rewarding (shout out to the Jewish-adjacent folks who support us on this journey!), but it can be also challenging, especially this time of year. Because Christmas is everywhere; it has been for months at this point. And Hanukkah is the endcap display: with a menorah and some candles, anything blue they could find, and a few boxes of matzah. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s next to the Christmas aisle. (Although to be fair, Target’s Hanukkah drop was a hit this year. Sufganiyot plushies? Too cute).

I’m also aware that this is a year when many of us are more conscious of our Jewishness. We have seen a steady increase in incidents of antisemitism, including here in Chicago. I don’t need to run down the long list of what has happened in the past few months to convey the fear that some of us feel walking down the street bearing visible signs of being a Jew. It’s not right that we have the compulsion (or need) to look over our shoulder, but in a world where a man was shot because he was wearing a kippah on his way to shul, this kind of vigilance feels necessary.

I was thinking about this the other day, getting on the bus after an early Hanukkah gathering. I was wearing one of my holiday-themed shirts that only gets taken out of the closet this time of year; it’s a fairly subtle blue-and-white pattern, although the repeated motif of menorahs and magen David makes it pretty clear what holiday I am celebrating. More conspicuous was the large bag of gelt I was holding in my hand. A few years ago, I don’t know if I would have thought twice about being on the bus and who else was on the bus and if any of those people were noticing the visible signs of my Jewishness. But the world we live in now is not the world we lived in then, and I was keenly aware of the fact that I was an obviously Jewish person sitting on the bus carrying a bag of gold.

An aside: when I told Rabbi Lizzi this story, she insisted that we watch the clip about “Jew Gold” from South Park. For those who are not familiar with the one I’m talking about, two of the characters — Eric Cartman and Kyle Broflovski — are attempting to escape a burning building. Just as they are about to reach the exit, Cartman confronts Kyle (who is Jewish) and demands that he hand over his “Jew Gold.” The joke is that, in the end, Kyle is actually carrying a little bag of gold around his neck. And the point of the joke, like much of South Park, is to hold up a mirror to the canards and conspiracies that continue to shape society. Which is to say, what people might think about a Jew carrying a bag of gold on a bus is ridiculous, but also very real.

At its core, Hanukkah is a bold assertion of Jewishness, a counterpoint to the dominant culture around us, whenever and wherever we might find ourselves. The original story of the holiday celebrates the Maccabean Revolt, an uprising against the oppressive (and assimilationist) forces of the Seleucid Empire. The aim was not only to reclaim Jewish sovereignty, but to reestablish Jewish practice after years of repression. What we often leave out from this telling is that Judah Maccabee and his followers not only put Greeks to the sword, but Jews who had become too close and too comfortable with Greek culture.

Several centuries later, the rabbis rewrite the story of Hanukkah. The kingdom birthed by the Maccabean Revolt has fallen. Jews now live under the Roman occupation. And after three disastrous rebellions (which led to the destruction of the Second Temple, the razing of Jerusalem, and the deaths of many hundred thousand people), it’s clear that Rome is there to stay for the foreseeable future. Celebrating a holiday about putting your oppressors to the sword? Probably a bad idea. And so a new story is told, about when the Maccebees went to rededicate the Temple and they found a jar of oil, and in it only enough to light the menorah for one night. But miraculously, it burned for eight. Hanukkah is transformed from a celebration of revolt against an occupying empire to the commemoration of miracles, small acts indicative of God’s continued presence in the lives of the Jewish people, no matter how dire their circumstances.

The rabbis recognize that there are times when we need to change how we move through the world in response to danger. There are two primary mitzvot of Hanukkah: first, we kindle light, and second, we place that light somewhere others can see to pirsumei nisa, or “publicize the miracle.” Writing in the Talmud (Shabbat 21b), the rabbis teach that ideally you should put the hanukkiah outside your front door. If that’s not possible, then you can place it in a window facing the public domain. U’vish’at ha’sakanah, manichah al shulchano v’dayo: “However in a time of danger you may put the hanukkiah on your table and that’s good enough.”

There is something special about walking around the city this time of year and seeing a hanukkiah glittering in someone’s window. It’s a brief moment of connection, a reminder that we are not alone in our difference during the holiday season. And it’s also a bright, bold declaration that the person who lives there is a Jew. At a moment when synagogues and schools and businesses have become the targets of vandalism, I can’t help but wonder: is this a sh’at ha’sakanah, a time of danger? Perhaps we should be lighting our hanukkiyot further from the window.

But then again, doesn’t that feel like it’s letting them (and by “them,” I mean the haters) win? To allow our Jewishness to become diminished, when it already feels so small, the proverbial David against the Goliath of the holiday season? And so I found myself staring at our Christmas tree, unapologetic in its presence, unafraid in its meaning, and unconcerned about what might be happening in the world on the other side of the window. And I felt a bit of envy, along with some nostalgia for the simplicity of childhood wonder, rising up amid the dull sadness that has sat in my chest for much of this year. How nice it must be, to just get to appreciate the hopeful beauty of this season.

And then I remembered: that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

The point of Hanukkah is to remind us of the simple blessing of our existence. That we are here. And we are here because sh’asah nisim l’avoteinu bayim ha’hem ba’z’man ha’zeh, because of the many miracles – big and small – that have sustained those who came before us, in their time, but also (if we pay close attention) the ones we can find in this moment as well. That we are here because we have the ability to create light – and that as we create light, we are reminded of the power of a single flame to illuminate the deepest darkness. That we should never underestimate our ability to brighten the world around us. We are here because our tradition – whether we have inherited it or chosen it – is creative and resilient, because we adapt and pivot and change, because we are willing to rewrite the story when a new story is needed.

This is why I love the absurd commercialization of Hanukkah. I adore driving through the suburbs this time of year and seeing all of the inflatable lawn decorations. I think my favorite is the polar bear (famously, a Jewish animal) wearing a yarmulke, holding a giant dreidel. It’s a reminder that Judaism is always evolving, just as it was designed to do by the rabbis two millennia ago. There was a time when Hanukkah was a minor holiday, but here, in the United States, that’s no longer true. A proximity to that other winter holiday, consumer capitalism, and a degree of integration and acceptance unprecedented in the entire history of our people have all transformed Hanukkah into the Jewish Christmas. And I think that’s a good thing (highly warranted criticisms of overconsumption aside).

The ability of Hanukkah to be a celebration of revolt and the commemoration of a miraculous jar of oil, to be a courageous (and public) declaration of Jewishness or a private celebration to kindle light in the darkness, to grow from a minor observance to one of the most widely recognized holidays in our calendar (inside and outside our community), this is not only what has allowed us to survive, but to thrive. Our ability to adapt and pivot and change and respond with wisdom to our environment, in both hospitable and hostile places over the years, is a miracle worth celebrating. It gives our people the tools to meet a world that is not always at its best. And it gives each of us permission to stop worrying about whether we are doing this Jewish thing correctly (whatever that means), and focus instead on what part of being Jewish feels good and inspiring and life-giving in this moment.

Or maybe another way to say that is, however you’re celebrating Hanukkah this year is the way you are meant to. So maybe this is the year you put the hanukkiah in the window, to remind everyone who passes by of our shared hope for a better future. Or perhaps this is the year when you light the candles on your table, a private act of resistance against the dark. Maybe this year you’re packing your hanukkiah into your suitcase, to take on vacation or light it with family back home. And perhaps for some of those relatives, this will be their first time celebrating Hanukkah with you. Or maybe this year, you’re putting up a Christmas tree. And next to the Christmas tree, you’re going to light your hanukkiah. And as the twinkling lights of the tree and the glow of the hanukkiah illuminate the night, you’ll realize that all of these things are meant to remind us that the brightest light in the room is our own: however we choose to let it shine.