I’ve been working on understanding the necessity of a miracle on Chanukah and I achieved a little clarity that I wanted to share. I want to thank my friend and teacher Moshe for spending some time to help me with this topic.

Chanukah Brings Forth the Light of Man’s Connection to G-d through Torah

In Derech Hashem, the Ramchal states:

“The significance of Chanukah and Purim is to bring forth the particular light that shone at the time of their original miracles as a result of the rectification they accomplished.

On Chanukah, the Kohanim prevailed over the wicked Hellenists, who wanted to disuade Israel from serving G-d. These Kohanim overcame them, and thus brought all Israel back to devotion to G-d. This especially involved the concept of the Menorah, since the Accusers were against what it stood for. The Kohanim, however, were able to restore everything to its rightful state.”

The Greeks Wanted to Eliminate the Spiritual Realm

Man relates in four ascending realms, the physical, the emotional, the intellectual and the spiritual. The Greeks advanced the intellectual realm but they did not recognize a spiritual realm beyond that. They tried to eliminate all spiritual practices involving G-d, because they contradicted their man-centered orientation. The Greeks sought natural explanations for everything in an attempt to explain away G-d. Although the Greeks recognized the Torah as a great work of wisdom, and even had it translated into Greek, they wanted to sever the Torah from its source, G-d.

The Macabees Restored Our Connection to Torah to Its Full Light

The Macabees clearly understood that the Jewish people (and the world) could not exist without man connecting to G-d through the Torah. The Macabbes defeated the great Greek army even though they were greatly outnumbered. They subsequently rededicated the temple and lit the Menorah which symbolizes man’s connection to G-d through Torah. The miracle of the oil burning for eight days occurred in the course of this rededication.

The War Was Also a Miracle

The Maharal of Prague teaches: “The main reason that the days of Chanukah were instituted was to celebrate the victory over the Greeks. However, so that it would not seem that the victory was due only to might and heroism, rather than to Divine Providence, the miracle was denoted by the lighting of the Menorah, to show that it was all by a miracle, the war as well …”

Nature, Hidden Miracles and Revealed Miracles

According to the Ramban and others, the essential difference between nature and miracle is that natural events occur frequently while miracles are unexpected. Miracles can be divided into two categories: those where Divine control is openly revealed; and those where Divine control is hidden and the miracle is made to appear as a natural occurrence. But, clearly, Hashem is behind nature, hidden miracles and open miracles.

If we know that everything emanates from G-d, what is the significance of the Maharal’s explanation of the re-categorizing the Macabee victory as a hidden miracle as opposed to a natural event?

The Need for Intellectual and Emotional Integration

Although we know that everything is from G-d, if that knowledge remains solely in the intellectual realm, it doesn’t transform who we are. The regularity of nature can obscure the fact that G-d’s hand is behind everything. To affect who we are, intellectual knowledge has to been transformed into emotional intelligence, because the heart/emotion controls our actions and the actions of man are integral to defining him. The integrated person uses his intellect to focus his emotions to perform appropriate actions.

Necessity of the Miracle

Seeing G-d’s hand in the open miracle of the oil and the hidden miracle of the military victory enables us to effect the spiritual changes necessary to reconnect to G-d through the Torah. This clear spiritual signal enables us to transform our intellectual knowledge of G-d to the emotional and, subsequently, to action in the service of G-d. After the Greeks had tried to disconnect the intellectual from the spiritual, G-d’s spiritual signal enabled us to re-integrate all four realms of man.

Miracles Lead to Praise and Thanks

In the normal Modim prayer of Shomoneh Esrai, we thank G-d every day for the miracles in nature that He performs as He sustains us each day. When G-d performs a greater miracle, a hidden miracle, greater praise and thanks is required. When we reclassify the miracle of the victory as a hidden miracle, we are obligated to praise and thank Hashem in a more recognizable fashion and thus we have the Al HaNissim addition to Modim on Chanukah as well as the recital of Hallel. This praise and thanks should be on a higher emotional level than normal and should prompt us to focus our actions more acutely on Torah and mitzvos.

In Summary

- Man has four ascending realms: physical, emotional, intellectual and spiritual
- The Greeks wanted to eliminate the spiritual realm and it’s accessibility through Torah
- The Macabees realized the impossibility of a world with Torah
- They won the war and G-d performed an open miracle of the oil burning
- The open miracle clarified that the military victory was a hidden miracle and not a natural act
- Although we know nature is also G-d directed, its regularity can obscure G-d’s presence
- Intellectual knowledge must affect the heart so that it can direct the actions of man
- The open miracle revealed the hidden miracle enabling us to reconnect the spiritual leading to action
- Miracles require higher levels of thanks and praises which is why we have the extra Tefillos of Hallel and Hodaah on Chanukah

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There are countless Torah volumes dedicated to Chanukah, its deep meaning and ramifications. One question I have never seen addressed is the
following: We know that Hashem runs the world through Midah Kneged Midah, (the way one acts is the way Hashem reacts). Why, then, was the consequence of the Yidden going out to battle rewarded with the miracle of the oil?
What is the intrinsic connection between their actions and a miraculous flame?

To answer the question, we must understand the circumstances of the time.
It was a tragic period, one in which our nation had never before experienced. We were infused with foreign morals. A new set of values began to prevail in the hearts and minds of the precious Klal Yisroel. Mitzvos and Torah learning were discarded and ignored. The Torah and the very fabric that we clutched onto to guide and unify us was being torn away. There were many casualties. An entire movement of Jewish sympathizers emerged amongst the people. Many put their hope into a false doctrine as they fell into the lure of the culture of the times.

You probably assume that I am referring to the Greek Empire and to the time of Chanukah. I am not. I am referring to our culture and the state of Klal Yisroel today. “Bayamim hahem bazman hazeh” – In those days as in our time.

The inexperienced and courageous Yidden took arms. With relentless determination they pursued the enemy. They fought for Mitzvos, for the Torah, and for G-d. They fought for their families and their future generations. They were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for the Jewish people. It was a time that called for Meseras Nefesh – the giving of one’s Nefesh/soul for the cause. They rose to the challenge. I am now, referring to the time of Chanukah.

What happened to us? Where are our spears? Where is our commitment?

“Ner Hashem nishmas adam” – The flame of Hashem is the soul of man. I believe there is a reason why upon return from the battlefield, the Chashmonaim were rewarded with the Chanukah miracle. Simply, the Chashmonaim were willing to give their Neshama/flame away for the eternity of the Jewish people. In turn, they were rewarded with a miraculous flame.

That is what each light of Chanukah represents: the souls of the Jewish people. Klal Yisroel was reignited and would now rise on high in its service to its Father in heaven.

Why eight flames?

Statistically it has been calculated that if every Frum Jew would reach out to just eight unafiliated Jews, we would have assimilation licked! Eight …
could the message for us on this Chanukah be any clearer?

The word for eight is Shemonah. The Mekubalim explain that it is the same letters as Nishama.

Today we are not asking for Meseras Nefesh. For generations, we have lit the Menorah with care and love. A seemingly small gesture, but one that has ignited the bitter, dark exile. Like a flame, when one reaches out and touches another, nothing is lost. It only takes a little love, a little warmth.

The Bnai Yissaschar explains that hidden in the flames of Chanukah is the light of Moshiach. Now, is it any wonder that igniting these flames will usher in the time of our redemption?

“Bayamim hahem bazman hazeh” – In those days as in our time. May we all have the fortitude to go a bit beyond our comfort zone and reach out this Chanukah. Through the wonderful Mitzvah of Kiruv, may we all experience great light in our own lives, as well as the lives of our families and all of Klal Yisroel.

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A few questions about Chanukah:

Do most of your non-frum neighbors, friends and relatives light a Chanukah menorah?

What does Chanukah mean to you?
- Seeing the miracles in our lives.
- The need to fight against persecution.
- Understanding the limitations of a man centered society.

What actions has Chanukah inspired you to take?

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It was the twenty-fifth of December,
And when she closes her eyes she remembers,
Just how it was.

A Jewish girl from Queens,
Had fulfilled her secret dreams,
Decorating that bright, forbidden tree.
A Jewish girl from Queens,
Had fulfilled her secret dreams.
She helped hang tinsel merrily.

Her boyfriend’s family,
Was friendly as could be.
They had fun watching her delight.
Her boyfriend’s family,
Was friendly as could be.
By the fireplace they sang carols that night.

Then they piled into the car.
It wasn’t very far.
Greetings called to those they’d pass.
Then they piled into the car.
It wasn’t very far.
Each year the family went to Midnight Mass.

But there in a church pew,
She didn’t know what to do,
As everyone else bent down to kneel.
But there in a church pew,
She didn’t know what to do.
In those moments was her future sealed?

Alone, trembling, she stood,
Still uncertain if she should.
What stopped her from kneeling in that place?
Alone, trembling, she stood,
Still uncertain if she should.
The word “Jew” was stamped on her face.

The twenty-fifth makes her remember,
Because it’s Kislev – not December.
She almost fell, like Hellenists of old.
The twenty-fifth makes her remember,
Because it’s Kislev – not December.
Once she, too, chose tinsel, not the gold.

So radiant – hidden away.
A golden light, still pure today.
Flashing bulbs can’t come near its glow.

So radiant – hidden away.
A golden light, still pure today.
Her Jewish home shines with treasures she didn’t know.

For now many years have passed.
Each Chanukahs spins by so fast.
And as grandchildren light, my past becomes less real.
For now many years have passed.
Each Chanukah spins by so fast.
Standing by lights, I whisper thanks I didn’t kneel.

Bracha Goetz is the Harvard-educated author of eleven children’s books, including Aliza in MitzvahLand, What Do You See in Your Neighborhood? and The Invisible Book. To enjoy Bracha’s presentations, you’re welcome to email bgoetzster@gmail.com.

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By Rabbi B. Shafier

Gemara Shabbos 21b: The miracle of the oil

Why do we celebrate Chanukah?
The Gemara tells us the reason that we celebrate Chanukah is that when the Yivanim entered the Bais HaMikdash, they defiled all the oil set aside for lighting the Menorah. When the Chashmonoim were victorious, they searched and were able to find only one small jug of oil with the Cohain Gadol’s seal intact. It had sufficient oil to last only one day, but miraculously it lasted eight days. In honor of the miracle of the oil lasting eight days, Chazal inaugurated these days for Hallel and thanksgiving.

Al Ha’Nisim: the miracle of the battle

The Maharal states that this Gemarah seems to contradict what we say in Al Ha’Nisim, a Tefilah written by Taanim hundreds of years before. In the Al Ha’Nisim, we proclaim thanks to HASHEM for the miracle of the war. We thank HASHEM for delivering the Yivanim armies into our hands: “You fought their battles, judged their judgments, took their revenge. You put the mighty into the hands of the weak, the many into the hands of the few…” According to the Al Ha’Nisim, the miracle of Chanukah was that HASHEM delivered us from the armies of the Yivanim. Yet the Gemara in Shabbos says that we celebrate Chanukah because of the miracle of the oil lasting eight days. The Maharal asks, “Which one is correct?”

The miracle of the oil revealed the miracle of the war.

The Maharal answers that both are true, and both are consistent. The actual event for which we give thanksgiving and sing Hallel is the salvation of the Jewish people. We won a war against all odds. However, it wasn’t clear that the victory was a miracle. To people living in those times, military success seemed to be natural. It was attributed to Jewish resilience and bravery. It didn’t appear that HASHEM had delivered us from the hands of the Yivanim; rather, it appeared as “their might, and the strength of their arms.” It was only through the miracle of the oil that they came to understand the miracle of the battle. Once people saw the oil last eight days – an overt miracle from HASHEM — they then came to see that their success on the battlefield was from HASHEM as well. The miracle of the oil revealed to them the miracle of the war.

Israel didn’t have a standing army

This Maharal becomes difficult to understand when we take into account a basic historical overview.

The events of Chanukah take place around the middle of the era of the Second Bais Hamikdash. From the time that Bavel destroyed the first Bais Hamikdash until that point; the Jewish People lived under the reign of gentile monarchies. Our right to exist and our form of government was decided by the ruling parties. We were a vassal state under foreign rule, and when the Yivanim entered Yerushalayim, the Jewish people did not even have a standing army.

This wasn’t a war of a stronger army against a weaker opponent. It was a war in which the most powerful empire in the world was pitted against a band of unorganized, unarmed, private citizens.

While the war itself lasted 3 years, during the entire first year of fighting, there were no formal battles. Two armies were not squaring off against each other; there was no Jewish army. The fighting consisted of guerrilla skirmishes. Some Jews would sneak up on a lone detail of Yivamim soldiers, kill them and take their arms. Bit by bit, more Jews would join Yehudah Ha’Macabi, but at every point during the wars, the Jews were far outnumbered, outgunned and preposterously less battle-ready than their enemies.

The leaders of the rebellion were Kohanim

Even more startling is that almost all of the original fighters had no battle experience. The leaders of the rebellion were Kohanim. A Kohain is a Torah teacher, one who serves in the Bais Hamikdash, one who guides the Klal Yisroel in Ruchnius. He isn’t a soldier. So this was a war led and fought not by soldiers, but by Roshei Yeshiva. It was akin to Reb Shmuel Kaminetsky leading the Lakewood Yeshiva in battle against the US Marine Corps.

How could anyone not see the miracle of the war?

No intelligent assessment of the situation would have predicted a Jewish victory. How then is it possible that the Jews at the time saw these events as anything other than the miracles that they clearly were?

This seems to be natural to the human

The answer to this question seems to be that when one is many years away and far removed, he gains a historical vantage point. He is able to see an event in context and can easily recognize it as a miracle. But to those living in the day-to-day heat of the battle, it is much more difficult to see the event from that perspective.

To those involved, it seemed to be a natural course of events. Granted the odds were slim, but the Jews won. Skirmish after skirmish, battle after battle, the Macabis came out victorious. There is no question that they did well, which is why it seemed that it was their skill, their cunning, our wisdom in battle that won those wars. And as such, to people living in those times, the miracle was hidden. And then a single event focused their sight.

When the Kohanim returned to the Bais Ha’Mikdash and took out that little bit of oil that couldn’t possibly last for eight days, and saw it remain aglow night after night, everyone knew this was miraculous. When they experienced the miracle of the oil, it reshaped the previous three years in their minds, and they then saw the battles themselves as the miracles that they were.

We see the same phenomena in our times

In our own times we witness an eerie parallel to these events and to the same mistaken interpretation.

For almost 2,000 years we have existed as a lone sheep amongst 70 wolves. Universally hated and oppressed, the Jewish People have survived. And now, after almost 1900 years of wandering, we find ourselves back in our own land.

Since 1948, the Jewish Nation has witnessed profound miracles in the repopulation and development of the land of Israel. But it is the survival of our people that is the greatest miracle.

In 1948, the population in the Middle East numbered roughly 650,000 Jews, surrounded by some 50 million Arabs. On May 15th, 1948, one day after the State of Israel was declared, five nations attacked, each with well-trained armies and air forces, each alone capable of annihilating the small band of Holocaust survivors. At the time there was no Jewish Army, Navy or Air force. Yet, against all odds, we won that war, and against all odds we continued to win war after war – until now, ironically, the Jews are considered the super power in the region.

To most people, Jew and Gentile alike, it seems that this is just the way of the world. To the average witness to these events, it isn’t a demonstration of the hand of HASHEM — It is just the ebb and flow of history.

The lesson of Chanukah is to see behind the veil of nature – to tune our sight into the true cause of events, and to see that it is HASHEM who runs the world, and HASHEM Who fights our wars– then as now.

The Shmuz on the Parsha book is available at www.TheShmuz.com, or by calling 866-613-TORAH (8672), or can be purchased at your local Sefarim store.

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Many families celebrate Chanukah with gift giving. Some people are concerned that this makes Chanukah look a lot like Xmas.

Should we refrain from giving gifts to distance Chanukah from Xmas?

Should we ask our relatives to eliminate or tone down the gift giving?

Should we consider our children’s disappointment in a reduced gift-giving scenario?

Are BTs more sensitive about this issue?

What major messages of Chanukah do you try to impart?

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Keshet – bow

The Jewish astrological symbol for the month of Kislev, is the bow – from the bow and arrow. While this symbol has a number of implications, one of them is to focus on a goal. An archer must aim well for the bow to do its job.
What are your goals? If they are physical, material, like $100,000, a new car, a buffed bod, then they have no potential to give you truly lasting joy. Just as the physical world is temporary, all the joy we get from it is also only temporary.

Don’t get distracted

When the baseball season is over, football, hockey, and basketball seasons get rolling. When the NHL and NBA are done its back to baseball. You can be a sports fan all year long. Watching sports can be fun, and when “your team” wins it can make you happy. But the happiness is only temporary. If you don’t access joy in spiritual things, the happiness of winning the Super Bowl is over when you come home from the game, or turn off the T.V. and you go back to lacking happiness. People who lack happiness and meaning will seek distractions. They will use a Jägerbomb or an Adam Sandler movie. There’s nothing wrong with all of these things. There’s nothing wrong with movies, sports, and alcohol. It’s what we use them for is the issue. If we’re using them for enjoyment to distress or put us in a better mood to enhance our life or allow us to serve God with more joy, then, in moderation, they can be a mitzvah. If, on the other hand, they are an escape from reality because we don’t know where to turn, if our job becomes the place and time when we long for the weekend to escape what we do the rest of the week, there’s something seriously wrong.

We need a goal

A goal directs our attention and helps us focus our efforts. And the goal needs to be spiritual. Our soul will never be satisfied with hamburgers or even tofuburgers, turkey or tofurky, duck or um..well, skip that one. We need to satisfy the soul. There is no alternative. There is no substitute. Everyone has a soul and that soul has a yearning, and that yearning is to become one with the Infinite. It’s time to get in touch with your inner mystic.

A lot with a little

One of the quirky mystical things involves the miraculous. Not the mind blowing sea splits type of miracle, just a highly unusual event where you strongly sense the hand of God. This is the symbol of Chanukah. Sure the oil lasted 8 days instead of one, but if you looked at it you couldn’t tell there was anything out of the ordinary going on. It was somewhat hidden. Only if you stared at the flame for 30 hours straight would you be witnessing a miracle. And the seats weren’t that comfortable back in those days for such a long spell. But the menorah did a lot with a little. We fought off the Greeks who were more numerous and better armed. We did a lot with a little. That’s the power of this time period. Look at your resources and your spiritual goals. Do you feel you lack what you need to accomplish what you want to accomplish? I’ll bet anyone alive at the time of Chanukah felt that way too. Until God showed them the secret. With the Almighty’s help you can do a lot with a little.

Chanukah

When the Jews fought the Greeks during the time of Chanukah they were fighting not for physical survival – the Greeks would have let them live as Greeks – they were fighting for spiritual survival. Ancient Greece was the embodiment of Yavan, a descendent of Noah’s son Yafes. The word Yafes in Hebrew means beauty. All of Greek thought whether its science, logic, or art, can be used to adorn spirituality, it was imbedded in the creation by God not as an end in itself, but to be subservient to spirituality. What the Greeks did was like taking the handle off a large beautiful jug and saying, “What a beautiful work of art this handle is! Let’s make a museum of handles like this.” They missed the whole point. A meteor shower should put awe of God and His creations in your heart and mind. The design of the human body should astound us with God’s intricate design.

It would seem that this is the time period to examine our lives and the world around us. Perhaps we should look for ways we can orchestrate it all in one direction, towards one goal… to be one with the Creator.

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By Marsha Smagley

A ba’alas teshuva of only the last ten years, I have difficulty letting go of the holidays, especially Chanukah.

It is the last night of Chanukah and as I watch the glowing lights of our three menorahs, two with flames from oil and one from wax, I feel sadness at its end. I want to hold onto this night, I want to hold on to this magnificent light.

The wax candles in our menorah are slowly melting down, its flames fading into the night. The oil candles will burn longer; their light is exquisite, I want to hold onto this light. How can I still keep Hashem’s light burning bright, with the lights of Chanukah fading away? Tears fill my eyes, the very tears of the soul, imploring the gate of tears in Heaven to return the eternal light of the Shechinah.

When we gaze upon the lights of the menorah, we are basking in Hashem’s Tree of Light (Rav S.R. Hirsch describes the menorah as a “Tree of Light” in his chumash on Parshas Teruma in Shemos), the gift He gave to His beloved children of Israel, to get through the darkness of winter, and the bitter darkness of gulus. G-d’s light is hidden in the thirty six Chanukah candles. We light a total of thirty six lights during Chanukah, the same number of times the word ohr, light, is found in Torah and the same number of times neir, candle, appears in Torah. When I light the lights of Chanukah, I take comfort in being enveloped in His Divine light.

The soul is compared to a candle; trying to break free of its body of wax, yearning to touch the Heavens. As the candles’ flames seem to shuckle to and fro, I am reminded of the dance of the soul, as it strives to lead the body through life, trying to shine Hashem’s light onto this world.

A little light dispels a lot of darkness. The light of the candle slowly flickers within the recess of my mind, with the realization that we have a pintelle yid, a spark of the Divine forever burning brightly within our soul. As the light in the tent of Sarah Emeinu never went out during her life time, our pintelle yid too forever burns brightly. I take comfort in knowing that G-d’s candle is always burning within me.

“Ki neir mitzvo ve’Torah ohr,” For a commandment is a candle and the Torah is light.” (Mishlei 6:23). Each time we perform a mitzvah, we attach ourselves, like a candle’s flame to its body of wax, to His Divine will, and become an emissary of His light of Torah.

The numerical value of neir is 250, which corresponds to the 248 positive commandments and the 248 limbs of the body. The additional two needed to equal the 250 of neir, is ahavas Hashem and yiras Hashem, love of Hashem and awe of Hashem. When a Jew performs mitzvahs with the koach/strength of their entire life force, igniting the flame of the candle with ahavas Hashem and yiras Hashem, it awakens the pintelle yid within. (Sfas Emes L’Chanukah, suf reish lamed-aleph).

I take solace in knowing that when we light the lights of the menorah, the tree of light, we are reminded not only of the miracle of Chanukah, but our very calling as Jews The Jew is a wick that allows an infinite light to be manifest and that is a miracle, and through the mitzvahs, we illuminate the world with Hashem’s light of Torah, and sanctify it with His glory.

As the flames of the last candles of our menorah reach upwards, I am reminded that I too can strive to perform the mitzvahs with my entire being, and ignite the flames of the pintelle yid within, with yiras Hashem and ahavas Hashem, and keep His Tree of Light forever burning bright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May we merit to touch the Heavens on earth, and ignite the everlasting light of redemption, speedily and with rachamim, mercy.

Marsha Smagley resides in Highland Park, Illinois, with her husband and two children. She has devoted the last ten years to studying Torah, becoming observant, guiding her family in Torah life, and recently, writing articles appearing in The Jewish Observer, Kashrus Magazine, Hamodia, Horizons, Binah Magazine, and Yated Ne’eman, which convey her heartfelt journey to Torah.

This article can not be distributed or published without the prior permission of its author.

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By Ruby

With 5 weeks left to my son’s Bar Mitzvah, invitations were sitting at home waiting to be addressed and mailed. All my wife had to do was create the spreadsheet with all the addresses, set up the mail merge, and feed the envelopes through the printer. I had the really tough job – to buy stamps – and I was determined to do it right. I estimated 150 stamps would do. But which theme stamp would be most appropriate for a Bar Mitzvah? I went looking at the USPS website. Flags? Too standard. “Happy Birthday”? Too juvenile. “I Love You”? Too mushy. Flowers? Too feminine. Fighter planes? Maybe… But not very mitzvah-ish. Then I saw them. Chanukah stamps with a dreidle. Perfect! We’ll be mailing them on Chanukah. And they come in sheets of 20, so I needed 8 sheets of Chanukah. What could be better?

Off to the post office on Pine St. I went, and when my turn came I happily requested “8 sheets of Hanukah, please”.

The clerk frowned and said “Hanukah? We’re out of Hanukah”.

“No! it can’t be!” I exclaimed. “You must have Hanukah stamps”.

So she looked and looked through all her drawers and all her folders. In the end, all she could find was one single sheet of Hanukah stamps.

“But that won’t do”, I said. “One sheet won’t last. I need eight sheets of Hanukah.”

She called over to the next clerk who looked through his folders. He came up with another two. “Three, that’s all we have”, she said.

Suddenly emboldened, I said “Please check in the back. I know you will find 8″.

Her eyebrows raised at my attitude, she headed towards the back. As she passed each other clerk I saw her say something to them, and each time the clerk shook his head. After checking with the last clerk, she looked across the room at me and shrugged. I gave her a nod of encouragement and she disappeared into the back. (If I were one of the people standing behind me in line I would have killed me…) Several minutes later she emerged with a triumphant look on her face.

“8 sheets of Hanukah!” she proclaimed.

“Thank you so much for your perseverance”, I said. “I knew you would find 8″.

“How could you be so sure?” she asked.

“Why, it’s the miracle of Chanukah”, I said.

A Freilichen Chanukah to All.

Originally Published December 22, 2006.

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Maybe it’s because I grew up listening to Xmas carols. Maybe it’s because what passes for Jewish music these days is frequently Jewish words grafted onto pop or rock instrumentals. Or maybe it’s because the perpetually waning enthusiasm I see in our young people today might be stemmed if we helped them tap into their neshomas rather than strengthening their connection with secular culture.

I suppose it’s really all three and more. But the bottom line is this: the one thing I despise about Chanukah is the pervasive, annoying, and distinctly un-Jewish niggun the whole world sings to Maoz Tzur – evoking not the heroism of the Hasmoneans but the flaky ambivalence of “Rock of Ages” and the red-suited jolliness of “Good King Wenceslas.”

It should come as no surprise that our popular Maoz Tzur sounds so goyish. It’s been traced back to an old German drinking song, and before that to the 16th Century hymns of the Benedictine Monks. I guess it fits right in with the inescapable practice of gift-giving, also borrowed from Christian society.

I know there are those who don’t object to borrowing Gentile melodies for our niggunim. But why can’t we borrow something that’s worth borrowing? Why do we have to embrace a tune that sounds like it should be accompanied by fat carolers sporting white cotton beards? And if we have to sing it, why can’t we limit it to Maoz Tzur and not repeat it endlessly in Lecha Dodi, Birkas HaChodesh, Shabbos morning kedusha, and twice in Hallel?

Above all, why doesn’t it bother us that on this of all holidays, the season when we celebrate the integrity of Jewish culture, we define our celebration by embracing the culture of Eisav, the culture that continues to dominate us in our final exile and which stands between us and the coming of Moshiach?

What’s that? You don’t know any other niggun? Call me, and I’ll hum a few for your over the phone.

Check out Rabbi Goldson’s latest article on Chanukah in the current Jewish Observer The Candle and The Stars.

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By Azriela Jaffe

The Judiasm of my youth was defined by what I was not able to do. Is that not what characterizes any observant Jew? I may not eat non-kosher food, as G-d commanded. I may not work on Shabbat, as G-d commanded. I may not eat on Yom Kippur – as G-d commanded. I may not eat chometz on Passover – as G-d commanded.

True, but these Jewish ideals were alien to me as a child. We didn’t know from kosher, I had no awareness of even the concept of Shabbat, and although as dutiful – and perhaps superstitious- secular Jews, we always attended synagogue on Yom Kippur morning, we ate lunch that day, too. Our Passover celebration did include a rather abbreviated seder, but I had no understanding of chometz, or the avoidance of it – we bought a singular box of matzohs for the seder table, and enjoyed our bagels the next morning, (with no guilt, mind-you, as my uneducated family had no idea that this was a problem).

So what then, do I mean by this notion that my Jewish identity formed around what I could not do – when in fact, our family was so assimilated, it would have been difficult to differentiate us in any way from our goyish neighbors, and there were seemingly no restrictions on our life?

You knew our Judaism in December. Although my parents worked extremely hard to assimilate our family in every way imaginable – and they succeeded – there was only one time a year when they took a firm stand, and we children knew that we were Jewish, and different from non-Jews. Our family did not have Xmas trees and wreaths of holly on the door. Our family did not go to church on X-mas day, we went to the local Chinese restaurant and to the movies afterwards, where the parking lot was littered with hundreds of other Jewish-owned vehicles. We were Jewish, and therefore, we didn’t celebrate X-mas.

As a child, I saw this as a problem. The rest of the world got to have fun, and we were deprived. When we lit the menorah and eagerly awaited our presents, the complete absence of spirituality around the holiday made it only a competition we were sure to lose – which kids got the most presents – the Jews, or the non-Jews? We would comfort ourselves with the thought: Our holiday lasts 8 days, and the Christians only get one day, so we’re actually luckier. But I distinctly remember as a child that lucky is not how I felt. I was a Jew and therefore, I was not allowed to do the holiday that the rest of the world celebrated. We were different, and deprived.

With the perspective of adulthood, I now see my Chanukah “celebrations” with gratitude. It was my parents’ last hold-out, and through it, they formed my identity, albeit uneducated, as a Jew, different from my Christian neighbors. They had given up all other semblance of separation between us and the non-Jewish world, yet somehow, they hung on to this one. Thankfully, as an Orthodox Jew of many years now, I do not have memories as a child of singing Xmas carols, even if M ’aoz Tzur was not in our family’s vocabulary.

The Judaism of my children’s youth is also defined in part by what they cannot do, according to Jewish law, but now, their heads, hearts, and souls are filled with so much they can, and do, look forward to about Chanukah, there isn’t a glimmer of deprivation. The excitement of Chanukah starts early in school with Chanukah chagigas, lessons from their Morahs and Rebbeim about the true spiritual meaning behind Chanukah, and the exciting story of the Macabees, and of course – what would Chanukah be without homemade menorahs brought out of their storage bags year after year? The house smells of latkes, Tatty comes home early from work so he can light the menorah with us, and as we sing M ’aoz Tzur by the window, we thank G-d not only for the miracles that the Macabbees experienced so long ago, but also, the miracle that we are frum, and despite our secular lineage, we have returned.

The Macabees waged a war against assimilation, and with Hashem’s help, they won. We waged our own fight, and also, with plenty of help from Hashem, we’ve won, too. Thank you, G-d.

Syndicated newspaper advice columnist and author of twelve books, Azriela Jaffe is an international expert on entrepreneurial couples, business partnerships, handling rejection and criticism, balancing work and family, breadwinner wife and dual career issues, creating more luck and prosperity in your life, and resolving marital conflict. Her mission: “To be a catalyst for spiritual growth and comfort. Visit her web site here.

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By Marsha Smagley
Twas the night before Xmas, (or maybe a week before),
When all through the house, (that is. my best friend’s house),
Not a child was stirring, not even a mouse… (Except for the little Jewish girl, that would be me)
In hopes that.. (Santa) soon would be there! (That is until the little Jewish girl chased him away!).

The Episode
When I was four years old, I told Kathy, my best friend who was Catholic, and her three siblings, that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. The little Jewish girl (that would be me) thought she was supposed to tell the truth. Although I do not remember many things from when I was four years old, unfortunately, I vividly remember that one.

It took place in a modest apartment in Chicago in the early 1960’s. The little Jewish girl of fair complexion, with very short thick strawberry blonde hair, stood in front of her best friend and her three siblings, all contently nestled on the couch in their apartment, and innocently, did the unthinkable…

“You know there is no such thing as Santa Claus”! I proclaimed in my little but determined voice. Suddenly all four children, with voices as one, loudly sobbed! There was a waling of tears, an orchestra of disappointment, and I sadly, was the conductor of gloom. Oh how I wish I had not been the messenger. Kathy’s mom, who was my mom’s best friend, came out to see what the commotion was all about and I am sure, was disappointed. She wanted to tell them, but later.

Kathy and I continued to be friends as did our moms. It seemed that all was forgotten, but I did not forget. Kathy in first grade enrolled in Catholic parochial school, and I went to public school. My family was not observant, but my parents instilled good values and were committed Jews, though its practice was more of a cultural one.

Kathy and I had so much in common, yet there were some subtle differences. Kathy still remembers my mom’s knishes, she loved them. Kathy’s mom never made knishes. My family ate rye bread with seeds; Kathy’s family ate mostly white bread. Kathy went to church every Sunday. My family did not. During the spring time, I used to help her color eggs. My family did not do this, but did buy chocolate covered shaped eggs made of marshmallows.

One Sunday I went with Kathy’s family to their church. I was very little but still remember that there was a point during the service when wafers were passed out. Something inside of me (I later discovered to be my soul), told me not to eat them, I also noticed that there benches attached to the bottom of each row of pews. I wondered what they were used for, and then I knew.

Suddenly everyone began to kneel down. I wondered how they all knew to do that. I too began to bend my knees because I thought it would be bad not to since all the grown-ups were, but froze in my tracks and stood up straight. I did not know why. Later I would discover that it was my soul telling me that I am a little Jewish girl and we do not do this.

How I wish I had known then, that G-d was in my life and I had a Jewish mission to fulfill. Yet behind the scenes, He was always orchestrating each detail of my life, even on that day at church. G-d was telling me that I am a little Jewish girl who is the daughter of the King, and we do not believe in Santa Claus,

When I was eight, my family joined a synagogue and enrolled my sister and me in Hebrew school. My parents wanted to do this so I would learn about being Jewish. My mom was raised in a reformed German Jewish home, and remembers the light of the Xmas tree, but not the light of the Shabbos candles .My father was raised in a traditional Jewish home but did not know khow to pass this onto his children. I never saw Shabbos candles lit in my childhood home.

The Move
Our neighborhood began to change and Jewish families were leaving. When I was ten years old, a girl threatened to beat me up after school. I had recently gone to her birthday party and thought she was my friend. I had no experience with fighting, but somehow sensed that it would be best to not act scared. Just like that day in church, something deep with in me, told me how to act and what to say. “You are the daughter of The King,” the voice must have whispered.

Jackie, the bully, was much shorter then I, but she was also much tougher physically. She tauntingly told me during our last class at school that this was the day she was going to beat me up. “That’s fine; I we can fight today”. I lied. I then casually added, “My mother is picking me up after school to wait with me for the bus to go to Hebrew school”.

I listened to my words but had no idea who was saying them or where they were coming from. I had not planned this, and I could not believe that I was not scared! Looking back, I can see that my loving Father in Heaven, once again came to my rescue, and gave me the words as well as the inner calm, that helped to transcend this physical threat. Jackie the bully never bothered me again.

Kathy’s family decided to move to a nearby suburb closer to her father’s office. It seemed so far away to me because my parents did not drive and to a child (and an adult too), you don’t want your best friend to leave. We wrote to each other, and saw each other whenever we could.

My father wanted us to move to a more Jewish neighborhood, so when I was in sixth grade, we moved to West Rogers Park, in Chicago. I made another close friend, Lisa*. Lisa was Jewish and lived in a traditional Jewish home. For the first time in my life, I had a Shabbos meal and it was nice. I did not like the liver, but I did like the chicken matzo ball soup and sensed that this was special.

Throwing Away the Bread
Lisa became my escort into forging a stronger Jewish identity, though I still did not know how to live a Jewish life. On Passover, Lisa taught me about kosher for Passover chocolate candy bars which I enjoyed. I could not believe that her family’s sedars lasted until 1:30am in the morning! Our family occasionally attended the sedar at our synagogue, but we did not have them at home.

I learned in Hebrew school that we do not eat bread during Passover. One Passover, when I was eleven years old, I went into our bread cupboard and threw away all our loaves of bread. When my mother questioned me I told her what I learned in Hebrew school. To my mother’s credit, she did not get mad at me. She knew that she wanted me to learn these things.

One day during Passover we went out to eat. The meal included a choice of desert. I chose the bread pudding. “I thought you were not eating bread!” someone in my family teased! I was embarrassed. I was trying so hard, I had only understood the prohibition on bread to be the sandwich kind. I did not know about all the other things you could not eat.

Finding My Jewish Song
I went to a public high school. At least half the kids were Jewish, but non- observant. I joined the symphonic choir. The conductor, who was Jewish, taught us the beautiful “Hallelukah” songs (I wish I knew to use the “K”) to perform for our holiday assembly. We also went Xmas caroling. Although Chanukah also fell around the same time, I do not remember our choir singing any songs about dreidels or menorahs.

Without a strong sense of my Jewish heritage to stand on, I entered adulthood feeling a sense of “Christian envy” during the winter “Holiday” season. Xmas permeates the air and the sound waves. It looked so alluring and magical, with all its shiny lights, warm family gatherings, and charming old movies and song. Yet I knew that deep down, I was still the little Jewish girl looking in from the outside. It bothered me when strangers would happily greet me with “Merry Xmas!” I so wanted to answer, “You mean, Happy Chanukah, I am Jewish!”

The tunes played all the time and some stayed in my head. There was one song, which I wished to get rid of, “When Grandma Got Run over By A Reindeer”. Maybe it reminded me of when I was four years old and innocently, chased Santa Claus away from my childhood friend’s home.

Epilogue
Now more than four decades later, the little Jewish girl became observant, (that would be me). Only ten years ago, in the middle of my marriage and my life, when my son was eight and my daughter was two years old, I went to a Torah class with my friend, with no real plan, but my Father in Heaven had one. I kept learning, and finally heard the true music that was always playing within the depths of my soul, and I came home. With much help from Above, as well as many wonderful people, have led my husband and children to becoming observant. I am so grateful that they did not put me on a sled and chase me away!

I recently spoke to Kathy, my childhood best friend about that fateful day over four decades ago. Then an unbelievable thing happened. It turns out that Kathy and her siblings continued to believe in Santa Claus for at least four more years, after my announcement! They did not stop believing in Santa Claus because of the little Jewish girl, they stopped on their own. Kathy said that she wished I had asked her so many years ago. I realized that the story had now come full circle as had my life. I felt blessed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When what to my wandering eyes
Should appear,
But a miniature sleigh
And eight tiny reindeer!

The eight tiny reindeer that I had been so familiar with from childhood, especially that shiny nosed one, were replaced with the eight shining candles of Chanukah.

I have learned that by observing the Torah mitzvahs, I can become a candle of G-d, a shining emissary of His Divine light. I can also pass the candle; and pass His glorious light on to my children, and to the world.

The little Jewish girl (that would be me), found her way home.

*For privacy, the name has been changed.

The author retains all rights to this article. It can be printed for personal use only; it can not be used for publication or professional use, without prior consent from the author.

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In my family, there are precious few “religious heirlooms”. In fact, other than this menorah, I can really only think of my Grandmother’s small, white, swan-shaped porcelain honey dishes used by my mother each Rosh Hashanah. This menorah is not much to look at. Although it is pure silver, it is small, a bit slanted to one side and it’s missing the shamesh. But to our family, it’s the most beautiful menorah ever.

My mother still remembers that cold winter day when my Grampa brought the menorah home. He was wearing his trademark silk and wool scarf which was easily one and a half times as long as he was tall. He entered the home, menorah in hand. No wrapping paper, no cushioning, heck, no bag. Just the menorah in his shivering hand. This menorah came with silver caps so that you could put the oil right into the cup, place the wick in the oil and thread it through the silver cap. However, by the time Grampa got home that windy evening, a few of the caps had blown away. And, so, the caps were never used. I’m not sure what happened to the shamesh but I wouldn’t be surprised if that blew away too!

Grampa Aaron was something special. He was about as close as I ever got to “the old country”. He had a heavy accent and his English was liberally spiced with Yiddish. He wore long underwear (longe gotkes) all year round including in the summer. He would cross major thoroughfares with absolute disregard for traffic signals and vehicular presence. Holding both arms straight out to his sides as a stop sign was sufficient. When frightened he would say “Oy, I almost became a hearts attack.” Grampa couldn’t understand why ice cream had pits (chocolate chips to me and you) and he, quite simply, did not hear too well. In the summer, Grampa Aaron would sit outside our bungalow in a brown chaise chair, taking in the country air and smiling. He quickly became popular with the colony kids who knew that a quick hello and a smile would yield chocolates, sucking candies and a few quarters for the pinball machine.

I’m not quite sure what it is about this menorah that makes it so special. Perhaps it’s because, like Grampa, though it may be small, old and a bit hunched to one side and though it may be missing a few pieces, beneath it all, it’s pure. And I guess it’s because this menorah is one of the few remaining links of my family’s Jewish past.

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By Reb Yaacov Yisroel Bar-Chaim

One of the most symbolic mistakes I’ve ever made as a newly religious Jew was the way I had been pronouncing – for YEARS! – a verse in the Hallel HaGadol. You see, I had always enjoyed flowing with this series of ki l’oilam chasdo praises for all those fabulous miracles done for our people throughout the expanse of history. From the time I began regular tfilla (praying), I felt I could resonate with the meaning of these words, in contrast to many other tfillas which took quite awhile to identify with, let alone pronounce correctly.

Thus it was that one day, as I was learning about the deeper meaning of Chanukah, I did a double-take. The drasha (exposition) was explaining how the Chanukah miracle was associated with one of the concluding lines in that prayer:

b’SHIF’Leinu zachar lanu, ki l’oilam chasdo

in our lowliness He remembered us, since His kindness is forever

“Oh WOW,” I exclaimed to myself, with an embarrassed chuckle. “I had always read this as b’SHVILeinu… (for our sakes …)!”

As I continued to learn, the depth behind this “mistake” became painfully clear. Our nation was t-o-t-a-l-l-y unworthy of the Chanukah miracle. We were so extremely shafel, wallowing in the spiritual pits, that it was below what the Creator had designated for being within the purview of His planned interventions. In contrast to Pessach, for example, we weren’t nationally hanging on to even that 1 / 50th level of purity that was the basis of meriting the Exodus. Rather, we had been forgoing circumcision, disusing our holy language and dress, forsaking Shabbos, making public declarations of atheism, etc., etc.

Similarly, I’d learn how the classic mashal (metaphor) about the nature of the feasting we do on the holy days must be modified to accommodate the two Rabbinic holydays, Purim and Chanukah. Whereas on Shabbos our souls are said to be lifted up to the King’s castle to dine with Him and on Yom Tov the experience is likened to His glory visiting our homes, on Chanukah and Purim the spiritual reality is comparable to a King who comes looking to visit His beloved son… and we’re not there! So He starts searching, hears a faint moan, follows it until peering into a deep, dark pit – Oy! There we are. “Gevalt,” the King cries. “My son, my precious son. How did you get in there? I thought I told you to stay farrrr away from these pits!”

But we had no answer.

Then and there, the mashal continues, His royal Majesty jumps into the pit, to the utter consternation of His ministers. “Finally! We’re together again,” our Creator soothingly tells us. “Now let’s work our way back up…” And so we proceed to climb out, slowly but surely. In the process, His holy garments get quite soiled and we expect to receive a giant umbrage from the royal ministers about this. Yet as we emerge, all we see is the awe they have for the King. Why? Because of the deepest love emanating from His Majesty’s eternal eyes…

So that’s the mashal (with a little embellishment!). Now you tell me: Is this about shif’leinu or shvileinu?

Personally, besides my progressive exposure to the teachings of Tsadikkim which made it crystal clear that it’s the former, my ultimate resolution came from within. I had to admit that the fact that I had been pronouncing that line as I did – for YEARS! – despite my relative Hebrew fluency, revealed a giant Freudian slip. Something within my subconscious, obviously based on my liberal, democratic education, was determined to deny any possibility of the existence of shiflus, spiritual worthlessness. Perhaps the intrapsychic term “cognitive dissonance” is more accurate. It means something like this: When the unique network of radio waves that are presently flying around within one’s mind can’t incorporate a particular broadcast of facts coming at it from without, it immediately scrambles them, as a kind of supremely self-sustaining defense mechanism.

B’shifleinu thus naturally blips into b’shvileinu.

Very nice. But surely we’re talking here about more than a natural phenomenon. The words in question are part of a divinely endowed broadcast system! So shouldn’t I assume that My Creator was communicating something through this “mistake?”

Indeed, as I thought more about it I realized that the immature religious side of me had been presuming that at LEAST Chanukah was a time when every Jew is fully appreciated for where he’s holding; at LEAST these eight days were a time for unconditional, “democratic” celebrations.

‘Tis the season to be jolly, right?

Ahem.

Talk about rude awakening. As much as the theory had worked nicely for the so-called Judeo-Xn value system, it simply was not authentic Judaism. That “the Shechina (Divine Presence) never dwells below ten tfachim (about 2 feet),” I’d soon learn, is a substantial principle in the Talmud (Succa 5B). It’s referring to those who indulge in earthbound pleasures. And the fact that the Chanuka Menorah CAN be lit as low as three tfachim is merely an exception to the rule. An exception for the sake of encouraging us – but NOT a reprieve. The special Divine visit we gain at this time is meant to return us to the reality of being ABOVE ten tfachim and strengthen our resolve to NEVER go back to that deep, dark pit where sensualism and atheism call the shots (Nesivos Sholom throughout his Maamarei Chanukah ; see pp. 10, 14, 45-50 for starters).

*

In the meantime, I’ve had a few more years to qualify my relationship with this topic and have come up with a more positive spin, based on a few questions, which I’d like to now share:

1) Why does the verse praise the Alm-ghty’s remembering our shiflus, as opposed to what we say in the post-Shma prayers, that He is magbia shfalim, uplifts the lowly? How does it help to remember us if we’re still stuck!?

2) Every single other verse in the Hallel HaGadol stresses the greatness of G-d and makes no bones about where we were holding. “To the One who performed great wonders alone… To the Splitter of the Sea into pathways… To the Guider of Israel’s passage through it… to the Knocker of great kings…” Etc. So perhaps this reference to our shiflus is not meant to put us down but just to bring out another, unique excuse for praising Him?

3) The Mishna teaches (Avos 4): Haveh meod meod shafel ruach, that we should “be of very very lowly spirit.” The Noam EliMelech (on Shmos) points out that it doesn’t state that we should mashpil rucheinu, actively degrade our spirits, just that we should accept our spiritual state as being very low. Could this be referring to a retrospective orientation; the value of accepting our lowness AFTER the fact of having fallen?

4) The Halacha (Jewish law) is that there is ktsas Mitzvah, a conditional obligation, to feast on Chanukah. Only if a concerted effort is made to imbue the evening with religious song and praises is a Jew justified in feasting then (Rma on O. Ch. 670: 2). This is comparable in the Halachic literature to a bas talmid chacham, daughter of a learned, pious Jew, who marries an Am HaAretz, a coarse, unlearned Jew. The law here as well is that while it may be a perfectly kosher marriage, those who attend should be careful not to eat unless there’s an atmosphere significantly imbued with religious songs and praises (ibid, M. Brura s”k 8, in ref. to M. Avraham in ref. to Mordechai). Now this imagery perfectly fits our discussion. For while this marriage, as far as the girl’s spiritual wherewithal is concerned, is considered shafel meod, a clear antidote is given for uplifting it. So perhaps this is also applicable to the shafel aspects of every Jew on Chanukah?

These are all rhetorical questions, of course. Undoubtedly it helps that He remembers us. As per that mashal, though He might not yet have revealed Himself above our pit, we must believe in the PROCESS the King takes to find His lost son. Similarly, the Hallel HaGadol (which by the way, tradition has it that it’s sung everyday by the angels) is most definitely all about positivity. The point of noting our lowness is not about us but about the miracle of the distance the Creator is Willing to go for Redeeming us.

Even jumping into the pits!

Finally, the idea of viewing our shiflus as retrospective merit is surely the implication of that otherwise problematic Mishna. No one should ever seek degradation, or purposely match a bas tamid chacham to an Am HaAretz. But once that’s the case we must realize that there’s a most beautiful way to gain from it all.

Songs and praises.

That’s it. Incredible! Genuine, heartfelt zmiros and shvachos on Chanukah can turn each and every Jew’s terrible experiences of shiflus into ones worth remembering… for an eternity.

As we sing in the Maoz Tzur:
naaseh nes l’shoshanim

a miracle was done for the roses

We’re the roses; those lovely flowers embedded amongst awesome amounts of thorns. The thorns are not just our external enemies. They are the b’shvileinu-mindsets that try to confuse us into believing the reason our Maker helps us out of so many holes is in order to make our lives there more comfortable. But the truth is the opposite. It’s ONLY in order to demonstrate the greatness of His love for bringing us back home…

ABOVE the allures of this world.

Halleluya!

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It was the December after my ninth birthday. A menorah rested on the bookshelf over the television console. Across the room, beside the fireplace, the lights of a tree twinkled red and green and blue. I was standing next to my mother as she held a candle in her hand. My father wasn’t there. He wasn’t into these things.

My mother lit the lone candle, ushering in the first night of Chanukah. She didn’t recite the blessing. She didn’t know it. I remember watching the wick catch, watching the flame grow bright, and asking myself, “Now what happens?”

“We light the candles for eight nights because the oil burned for eight days,” my mother had told me. What oil? I wondered. But something about her brief explanation convinced me not to ask. Maybe she didn’t know, either.

A year or two later, at my suggestion, the menorah had disappeared and only the tree remained. Waiting for the morning of December 25th when all the presents could be opened at once seemed far more dramatic than diluting the experience over a week, especially when those wrapped boxes mysteriously appeared under the tree day after day over the course of almost a whole month. Chanukah just couldn’t compete.

Only two decades later did I come to appreciate how much my own experience had truly been a Chanukah story.

When I left home for college I left behind the tree with the menorah. December 25th had become as irrelevant as Santa Claus, and I preferred an envelope with a check to wrapped presents that would most likely be returned for credit. I eagerly adopted the ambivalent agnosticism of so many of my peers, celebrating dormitory weekends by emptying six-packs rather than observing commercialized annual holidays with empty rituals.

Sometime toward the end of my university career I found myself attracted to Zen. Not in the traditional style, with its practices of discipline and self-mastery, but the pop-spiritual variety learned from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and similar modern scriptures.

Aligning myself with the spiritual energy of the universe became my goal. I wanted to choose good over evil because ultimately that brought good karma and spiritual contentment. Surely, this was the road to Truth.

But we all know which road is paved with good intentions. As sincere as I may have been in my aspiration to travel the road to truth, I found with annoying frequency that when my desire to do good clashed with my desire to indulge evil, good threw in the towel at least two times out of three. Forced to take stock of myself, I had to concede that, for all its high-sounding ideals, a spiritual discipline that produced no moral discipline wasn’t worth its mantras.

I hadn’t developed much discipline in my academic life, either. Oh, my grades were good enough, but four years studying English literature and writing had left me with neither gainful employment nor vocational direction. It was 1983, a decade late to join the hippies or beatniks, but that didn’t stop me from swinging a backpack over my shoulders and hitchhiking across the country. If I hadn’t found Truth in the ivory tower, perhaps I might find it in the heart of America.

Sixth months crisscrossing the country brought me no closer to Truth, but it did whet my wanderlust, and I soon boarded a flight across the Atlantic to continue my journey through Europe, after which Africa, Asia, and Australia lay upon my horizon.

Half a year in Europe ended with a short hop across the Mediterranean to Israel, where I sought the classical Jewish experience of volunteering to pick oranges on a kibbutz. But it was December, with little agricultural work to be done; moreover, the dollar was strong, resulting in some 9 million American tourists in Europe, many of them draining south into Israel as winter weather set in. I found the kibbutz placement office blocked by a line of 20-somethings camped out like they were waiting for Rolling Stones tickets, oblivious to signs screaming, NO PLACEMENTS BEFORE JANUARY.

Desperate for a break from the stresses of travel on a shoestring, I cast about for some way of imposing routine upon my life before departing for Africa and, somehow, found myself invited to attend yeshiva.

Yeshiva? The word was unfamiliar, but the offer of a bed, hot meals, and a daily schedule of classes proved irresistible. It was two weeks before Chanukah, and I would finally learn about the secrets of the menorah and the miracle of the oil.

Although a period of peaceful coexistence followed Alexander the Great’s occupation of the Land of Israel, it didn’t take long after Alexander’s death before the Greeks began to feel first discomfited and later threatened by their Jewish subjects and the Judaism they practiced. Greek philosophy recognized man as the pinnacle of creation, perfect in his accomplishments, answerable to no one but himself. Greek mythology embraced a pantheon of gods characterized by caprice and selfishness, by lust and vengeance, thereby sanctioning similar behavior among men. How offended must the Greeks have been by a Jewish society devoted to self-perfection through submission to a divine code of moral conduct.

When they could no longer tolerate the Jewish threat to their ideals, the Greeks contrived to destroy Jewish ideology. Whereas their predecessors, Babylon and Persia, had employed violent oppression, the Greeks plotted with far greater subtlety: in place of physical violence or outright prohibition of Torah observance, they originally banned only three practices: Shabbos, bris milah, and Rosh Chodesh, the sanctification of the new month.

The Sabbath testifies to the divine nature of the universe; without this weekly reminder, we easily loose touch with and ultimately forget our relationship with our Creator. Bris milah is the sign of our higher calling, reminding us that we can control our physical impulses rather than allowing them to control us, that each of us is a work-in-progress striving toward self-completion and self-perfection. Rosh Chodesh is the ceremony that fixes the calendar and imbues the Jewish holidays with an intrinsic holiness. Without Rosh Chodesh, placement of the holidays would become arbitrary, leeching all meaning from them the way American Federal holidays have lost all substance in the eyes of most Americans.

The Jews refused to submit, and in the end the Greeks resorted to more oppressive decrees and, ultimately, to violence. But their plan had been sound: had they succeeded in stopping our adherence to these three precepts, they would have succeeded also in reducing Torah observance to an empty ritual, one that might have continued on for generations, but would have quickly become bereft of all meaning and spiritual significance. For this reason, the observance of Chanukah always includes one Shabbos, always passes through Rosh Chodesh, and is eight days long as a remembrance of the bris, the covenant between the Jew and his Creator.

Chanukah celebrates victory not only over our Greek oppressors, but also over the Hellenists, those Jews who promoted a new synchronism of Judaism, wherein they hoped to intermingle Jewish practice with that which they found most attractive in Greek culture. The Maccabees recognized the total incompatibility between Greek ideology and Jewish philosophy, and that ultimately one would have to prevail over the other. Without staunch defenders fighting for Jewish identity, the flame of Judaism would inevitably be extinguished and only the tree of foreign culture would remain.

Despite the victory of the Maccabees, the Greeks did not disappear. To this day they persist in their cultural assault against the values of Jewish tradition. The nine year old boy in America, or Britain, or even in Israel, who looks at the Chanukah candles and wonders what they mean, who sees no difference between the flames of the menorah and the twinkling lights of the tree, testifies to the victory of the Greeks.

But not every child has forgotten the lights. The rekindling of the menorah each year reminds us that the torch of Jewish tradition continues to illuminate generation after generation and dispel the darkness of apathy and assimilation. However much the ideological descendants of the Greeks strive to extinguish the lights, the eternal flame that burns within the soul of the Jewish people still shines on and on.

In my own observance of Chanukah, I rejoice that my own children are growing up not only with the lights of the menorah, but with a growing understanding of what they mean. I’m grateful that I can give them what my parents were unable to give me: self-knowledge, the greatest weapon against cultural extinction. They have always known that a tree beside the fireplace in December is not part of their world; as they grow older, they come to appreciate why it is not, and why a menorah is.

Through the generations and across the world, our people have successfully adapted to living as guests among disparate societies, but only by retaining a strong sense of our history, the values of our heritage, and a familiarity with the culture that keeps our sense of identity alive and vibrant. Compromise these, and the Jew, together with his Judaism, will surely vanish. Preserve them, and we guarantee that the victory of the Hasmoneans over the Greeks will be renewed in every generation as a victory of the Jewish people over assimilation.

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By Rabbi Dovid Schwartz

Suppose you read two reviews in competing newspapers about the same Broadway play. One went something like this: “This drama tells the coming of age story of a young Knight. Set in medieval Scotland, the hero’s dilemmas still speak to modern audiences. The dialogue was crisp but even after a thorough review of the periodic table, chemistry between Mr. Boyer and Ms. Klapholtz was nowhere to be found.” The next notice read “The stages floorboards were mahogany inlaid with spruce. The latest halogen equipment illuminated the boards causing the actors to perspire profusely. The orchestra included some moonlighting philharmonic clarinetists”. You’d probably conclude that although both reviewers witnessed the same performance the second had “missed the boat” and was not offering any real insight as to what the play was about or whether or not it was worth seeing.

Chanukah celebrates the triumph of Torah wisdom over that of the Greeks. Of all Yomim Tovim this theme seems most relevant to us. While we all acknowledge that there is brocha- worthy wisdom among the nations the issues of confluence, congruence and conflict with Torah vex us. Where does Wisdom end and Torah begin?

Perhaps one key to unlocking this enigma inheres in Chazal’s choice of the words Chochma Cheetsonis- External wisdom to describe non-Torah disciplines. Both Torah and nature are revelations of HaShems will. Yet we mustn’t forget which of the two reveals the inner essence and which uncovers the merely peripheral. Without scripts and playwrights, theaters become superfluous. “If not for my covenant day and night (Torah) I would not have set up the laws of heaven and earth (Nature)”. Torah is the Divine drama being played out in the theater, and on the stage, of nature. Uncompromising directors and producers want the lights and the sets to be “just so” as well as the script and the casting. So if it falls our lot in life to be carpenters or lighting technicians in HaShems production then we ought to do our jobs capably and with keen awareness of His will in their implementation. But, we should never confuse those chores with the play itself. If they are true theatre fans even the carpenters will spend every spare moment watching, reading and acting in plays. Imagine a lead actor voluntarily jumping into the orchestra pit to grab a fiddle! The play’s the thing!

During this thanksgiving festival our hearts should overflow with gratitude for our own personal Chanukahs, not only for the miracle of an infinite inexhaustible light, that began as a small fragile flicker, shining into our lives, but also for the miracle of our individual recognition of the primacy of the inner wisdom and the secondary, peripheral nature of the external wisdom. The underpinning of brocha (blessing) is establishing ikkar (primary) and tofel (secondary).

The bard said, “”All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” As such, each of us should say “Blessed are you our Lord King of the universe who chose us from among the nations and gave us his script to read and play a major role in and did not relegate us to carpentry or props.” Chanukah gave us lights… it’s time for action! The show must go on!

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Gil Ronen has made a new short film, showing Chanukah scenes in Israel.

http://films.izfone.com/chanukah

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Rabbi Dovid Schwartz

Chanukah celebrates more than a miraculous victory; it celebrates the triumph of the miraculous over the natural, and the sacred over the mundane and desecrated. We identify this triumph of the miraculous with establishing the preeminence of Torah vis a vis generic wisdom. (Mosarta…zaidim b’yad oskei torahsecha =[and] you delivered… the malicious into the hands of those who busy themselves wit the study of your Torah).

Since at least the pre-Chanukah period of Hellenization of large swaths of the Jewish population, Jews have grappled with the confluence, congruence and conflict of Torah and generic Chochma. In contemporary Judaism this tension is most evident in various debates over the relative quality, quantity and goals of Torah and secular education, in particular higher education. Ba’alei T’shuva, whose own educations typically inverted both the sequence and initial primacy of these two competing/contradictory/complementary branches of learning are generally more conflicted and bring unique questions and perspectives to bear on these nettlesome issues.

Apropos to the Chanukah spirit I’ve translated a brief but profound insight on the topic from one of the seminal Torah thinkers of the previous generation. Due to my great respect for the author O.B.M. and my fear over distorting his message I have refrained from adapting the piece and have attempted what I hope is a faithful, hence quite literal, translation. In so doing the lyricism and beautiful poetic meter of the original has been done great injury and some meaning may have been lost or distorted as well. If it has I hope to clarify the meaning to the best of my understanding and ability in the comment thread. (more…)

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By Sarah Rochel Hewitt
Originally published in the National Jewish Outreach Program’s Bereshith Newsletter.

When I was five or six years old, my parents gave me a scarf for the eighth night of Chanukah. I can picture all of the candles alight on the kitchen table as my dad and brother went to the basement to shoot a game of pool and my mom followed shortly thereafter. Left alone in the kitchen, I sulked over the lousy final present. After all, shouldn’t the last night of Chanukah be the night reserved for the best present? I can honestly say, I don’t know exactly what I was thinking, but I do know that when my mom came upstairs a few minutes later she found me holding the box over the flames. Thank G-d, no damage was done to anything but the box (not even to the ugly scarf).

In our family, Chanukah was definitely about the presents. Blessed with generous parents, my brother and I received something on all eight nights. We waited anxiously for my father to return home from work so we could quickly eat dinner and begin our “Hot and Cold” search. In hindsight, perhaps the best part of the Chanukah gift giving custom was the many lessons I learned from it.

Anticipation is often the best part of exchanging gifts — something I discovered the hard way when I was probably around 10 years old. A few weeks before Chanukah, I stumbled across the place in the basement where my mother would stash the gifts. I knew what I had asked for and was delighted to see a wrapped box of just about the right size. Lo and behold, just my luck, a corner of the wrapping had come loose. Now what would you do? Of course I peeked. It was the Barbie Dream Van for which I had so fervently hoped. I was so happy, but I had no one with whom to share my excitement because no one could know that I knew. I certainly had great expectations of playing with it, but when I brought the large box to the table from its hiding spot that Chanukah, I felt something missing inside. There was no curiosity, no anticipation, no need to shake it to try and guess what was inside. I had spent my excitement before I even had the gift, and I am certain that my parents were well aware of my dampened level of excitement. I can honestly say that never again did I wish to peek at the presents ahead of time. (more…)

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Last year I was asked to speak at a small Chanukah gathering for a kiruv organization. The crowd was a mixed one ranging from not- yet-shomer shabbos to fully frum for 15 years. As always, I didn’t know what to speak about until the night before. This is what I said:

Last night my family and I went to my mother’s house for a Chanukah party. We do that every year, getting together with my brothers and their respective families. Even though there is a minhag to have dairy on Chanukah, at my mother’s house we always have meat. (You have to listen to your mother) Everything was going along fine. My mother was giving the grandchildren “the chocolate gelt”, which no Chanukah party would be complete without, and there was a whole tumult. I was in charge of buying the gelt this year because my mother doesn’t drive and she couldn’t find pareve gelt close to her home. I walked over and asked what was going on. They screamed “these are dairy, they’re dairy!” I asked myself “How did I do that?” I remembered when I had bought the gelt that the packaging of the dairy and the pareve coins were strikingly similar. Usually, they put the dairy coins into the blue nylon plastic netting and the pareve ones in the red netting or the gold foil is the dairy and the silver foil is the pareve. But these were exactly the same except for the little writing on them saying “pareve” or “dairy”. I grabbed the gelt and sure enough they were the pareve ones, call me the “Man who saved Chanukah.”

I was thinking about what we can learn from that confusion. We see in the story of Chanukah that there were two warring cultures, the Greek culture and the Jewish culture. We usually spend our time discussing the differences between these cultures, how disparate they were and that, thank G-d, the Jewish culture was able to win that physical war and that ideological war.

What we often overlook is that there is a lot that is very similar between the two cultures. Winston Churchill speaks of how the Jewish people and the Greek people have made the greatest contributions to Western civilization. He says that Jerusalem and Athens were the prime places from which wisdom and knowledge eminated. But we don’t have to rely on Churchill for this point. The Rambam, one of the greatest Jewish philosophers, says that Aristotle, the greatest Greek philosopher, was just a step below prophecy. There is a halacha that a sefer torah can be written in one of two languages. One of them, of course, is Hebrew, the other is Greek. There are many references in the commentaries, especially the Zohar, that speak in praiseworthy terms of the Greek culture and how there is a certain level of respect that must be given to it and that the “ancient Greeks” had a certain level of “emunah” that should not be ridiculed. I was thinking how this is a very interesting thing. I think we find in our struggles, in our daily lives, that most of us are not running after something that is obviously “not Jewish”, obviously “not Jewish”. If there is any type of a question or any area that we personally or communally fall into it’s because it is something that “looks” Jewish, it is something that sounds good, it sounds right. We’re not running out to do something that we know is completely forbidden. What we can learn from that, just like the story of the chocolate coins, is that you’ve really got to look very well at whatever it is that you are interested in incorporating into your life. You’ve got to look to see if it’s pareve, see if it’s dairy, see if it’s kosher. Even if things are packaged exactly the same way, you’ve got to look deeper than the surface.

One of the understandings of Chanukah is that we bring light into our homes, into our lives. Light is exactly what we need in order to distinguish between two things that are apparently the same.

The gemorah (Brachos 53b) states that you cannot make the brocha on the havdalah candle until you have benefited from its light. The gemorah defines “benefit” as being close enough to the light to distinguish between two coins. That is one of the reasons that some people look at the tips of their fingers in the light of the havdalah candle (since the difference between the nail and the skin can be determined by the same amount of light that you need to distinguish between two coins). We need to shine the light of our intellect and the light of the Torah into our lives so that we can properly discern what is Jewish and what is “all Greek to me.”

A Lichtiger (Illuminated) Chanukah to everyone.

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