Hanukkah Reflections, Part 1

Light the Festive Candles

BY AILEEN LUCIA FISHER Light the first of eight tonight—
the farthest candle to the right.

Light the first and second, too,
when tomorrow's day is through.

Then light three, and then light four—
every dusk one candle more

Till all eight burn bright and high,
honoring a day gone by

When the Temple was restored,
rescued from the Syrian lord,

And an eight-day feast proclaimed—
The Festival of Lights—well named

To celebrate the joyous day
when we regained the right to pray
to our one God in our own way.

Bits of trickled information over the years hinted at my Jewish heritage. Our Germanic or Eastern European surname indicated connection from my father’s family. With southern evangelical roots and a wandering into progressive mainline Christianity as an adult, I yearned to know more of my deeper heritage, my forebears, my Christian connections to Hebrew legacy.

An affirming moment came during a pilgrimage to Israel, standing in the Research Room of Yad Vashem, The World Holocaust Remembrance Center in Jerusalem. There I discovered dozens of recorded surnames in the Central Database of Shoah Victims’ Names, with both the same and variant spellings of my unique family name. That is when I knew, I felt in my bones: these were my people, my shared humanity, my alikeness.

With a yearning that burned deeper each passing year, I purchased a menorah last Hanukkah season and set out to learn more about this Celebration of Light. These reflections came during each of the eight days of Hanukkah, as I lit a new candle daily at sundown.

Repair of the World: Hanukkah 1

Tikkun olam, translated from the Hebrew as “repair of the world” has become a catchphrase in contemporary Jewish life for doing good in the world. The idea of tikkun olam brings us to a place of our human responsibility, a call to action. In Christian practice, the tradition of worship often brings us not so much to action, but rather to contemplation and peace. Tikkun olam reminds us that these precious moments of Christmas are a dead end without the response of action. With tikkun olam, we not only bear responsibility for our own moral and spiritual goodness, inspired by the birth of Christ who lived among us, but also for our place in the world at large. It demands action far beyond the feel-good seasons of our faith.

Simply That: Hanukkah 2

The Christian Christmas story is a Jewish story. It was written by and for Jewish people, about a Jewish family who had a Jewish baby. Simply that. Theologians, biblical scholars, and curious students of the gospel have debated whether we diverged over the years from the original and intended Jewish story. Why, where, and how did we get off track in the retelling, as we gave profound artistry to this very Jewish narrative? We argue the details, claim correctness, and ballyhoo various bits and parts of the story as unlikely fact. The birth of our baby Jesus is the simplest story of all. What we know to be true is this: a baby was born, and his birth story continues to be repeated year after year. The story has never stopped being told. Simply that.

Moral Generosity: Hanukkah 3

These days my mailbox is filled with various non-profits seeking my generosity. That is the word they use most often: generosity. In Jewish practice, the idea of tzedakah takes us a different way. It is a moral obligation to give, whether we feel moved to do so or not, whether we have wealth or not, whether the time feels right or not. Rather than “charity,” the word tzedakah means something closer to “righteousness,” or perhaps more accurately “right-ness” in our English language.

Once I served on a criminal jury where, in determining guilt or innocence, I concluded I could not agree fully with law as it was written. The judge reminded me, with a stern nudge, that I was called as a juror to base my decision on the law, as it stands, not my opinion of the law. He said I must serve, whether I felt moved to do so or not.

And this is how tzedakah works. We practice generosity for the sake of rightness. We are called to act upon what is just, at that time and in that place. In our generosity, we do not give to others simply when we are moved by a story, a photo, or a well-crafted marketing piece. Like jury duty, tzedakah is our mandatory call, a right-ness obligation, a practice of justice whether we feel up for it or not. Without tzedakah in practice, both in law and in our giving, our society is broken, and we fail those most in need.

Read Daily Light tomorrow for part 2.

Karen Ebling

Author