Chanuka: Being an American; Being a Jew

by Debby Schwarz Hirschhorn
The Jewish Star Times, December 12, 2001, p. 32

September 11 changed what it means to be an American. Before, we said we were proud of our country. Now, we mean it. Before, we took our freedoms for granted. Now, we don't. Before, we suspected people in this country were good-hearted and generous of spirit. Now, we know it.

It's sad and ironic that something horrific would have to happen to us to know, truly know, that which is good and beautiful in our lives. My generation never experienced that before. Everything came easily; life went smoothly; we suffered no earth-shattering pain. For example, we cried when we read holocaust stories or spoke to survivors; they hurt and they felt almost real. But not quite because we ourselves did not suffer through them. We never woke, sweating and scared in the middle of the night because of them.

It's a good thing, too. It would be almost unbearable if each generation had to go through the holocaust. Yet, it seems, if we don't experience it ourselves, we can lose touch with the meaning and purpose that our fellow Jews of old died for. We can take too much for granted, which is, I suspect, just what happened before September 11 to my post-war generation. In His (or Her) infinite wisdom, G-d wanted to avoid this problem for us. He wanted us to experience the essence of our Jewishness without undue pain and suffering. So He gave us holidays. That way, we would not have to go through the Exodus from Egypt each generation. Once was enough, and the Seders should take care of the rest. In the same way, we could receive the Torah every Shavuout without actually traveling in the desert.

He gave us Chanukah with the same purpose in mind, but I have the feeling that we missed the boat on that one.

The meaning of the other holidays seems so clear: On Passover, we celebrate leaving slavery in Egypt. Pretty big stuff. On Shavuout, we celebrate getting the Torah, the basis for our Jewish identity. And on Chanukah-we celebrate oil burning for eight days. Huh? Excuse me, but what kind of a holiday is that? Okay, okay, it was a miracle. I know that. It wasn't supposed to burn that long, but it did. Whoopie. No wonder we force-feed gifts on our children. We feel obligated to make up for this holiday that has no real point, so we think, with Playstations. (Now that has meaning!)

Except that G-d isn't superficial. It's not about Playstations. It's not even about oil. Come to think of it, Chanukah isn't about oil in the same way this country, the United States of America, isn't about our flag, is it? Our country is much, much more, and so is Chanukah.

Antiochus IV ruled what would now be a combination of Syria and Greece in 175 B.C.E. (which was the Hebrew year 3595). That culture was really about Playstations. I'm not kidding. They gloried in how cool things looked. That was the Hellenist culture. They were really uncomfortable with Jews because Jews, opposite from them, lived lives meant to have inner meaning. Jews really didn't believe in freedom to do anything they wanted. They wanted to be tied, connected, and subservient to the will of their Creator, G-d.

The writer, Matthew Arnold, saw the cultural contrast this way: "The Greeks worshipped the holiness of beauty. The Jews found beauty in holiness." And to Jews, holiness means attachment to G-d.

The Hellenists must have known they were somewhat superficial, but you know, it's hard to change. It's hard to give up all that pleasure and outer beauty stuff. And, just to be irritating, there were those doggone Jews rubbing their noses in just how superficial they were. The Greeks couldn't stand the Jews-and what they stood for-so they forbade Jews to practice their religion, especially that part about worshipping one G-d and no other.

Matityahu the Hasmonean wouldn't accept that. With a small number of souls, he fought back, his son, Judah, eventually taking his place. Judah was one of those guys who was kind of in-your-face. He not only fought, he created a banner that he carried into battle with the following passage on it: "Mi [who] Camocha [is like] BakEilim [You], Hashem [G-d]," which, if you take the first letter of each of these words, becomes [ta-da!!] Macabee. That is, the slogan that gave the Macabees their zeal was the conviction, "Who is like you, G-d!" It wasn't a question, either. It was a proud statement of belief. To the Hellenists, it was a taunt.

Now the symbolism becomes clear, doesn't it? The light that kept burning for eight days was their inner fire. And they won. This notion of inner fire connected to Chanukah is intensely important right now. Right now when we as Jews, no less than we as Americans, are being tested.

We Jews, we humans, we really have suffered a lot. And just when we get complacent, reality jolts us awake. In the case of our dear America, that jolt of pain brought with it renewed appreciation for the things our country stands for. We no longer take any of it for granted. Our Jewish holidays were supposed to accomplish the same thing-allow us to intensely feel the pain, misery, and yes, fervor, of being Jewish the way the Jews of old did so that we wouldn't have to endure what they endured in order to appreciate what we stand for.

Of all the holidays, it is Chanukah that represents a clash of values between ourselves and the surrounding culture. It is about the deeper meaning of being Jews. At a time when America has received a terrible wake-up call as to what it means to be American, and Israel is suffering in proportion too, it seems fitting that we observe Chanuka with Hasmonean fire in our hearts and just toss the Playstations. Chanuka, perhaps more than the other holidays, represents Jewish zeal in the face of terrible odds to protect and promote our religious identity. Chanukah means we value our G-d, our religion, and our Jewishness. If we observe it right-with fire in our hearts-then, maybe we won't need to suffer any more real pain in order to appreciate who we are as a People. Taking Chanukah seriously means celebrating it with joy. It means feeling a thrill at our moral and religious victory over the Hellenizers-then and now. It means appreciating the gift that our Jewishness is. It means knowing what our Jewishness is. And it doesn't mean Playstations.

It does mean feeling that Jewish candle burning inside. For eight days. Even longer.