It’s Hanukkah, a festival we all have come to love. It’s eight days of light and joy and latkes. What’s not to love? Few obligations are associated with this holiday beyond kindling candles and reciting a couple of blessings. Over the past few decades, Hanukkah has become a big gift-giving celebration. It didn’t used to be, but its proximity to Christmas has made it a convenient place to help Jewish kids not feel so isolated and ripped off at this time of year. What Jewish kid hasn’t heard some Jewish adult say, to paraphrase Adam Sandler, “Instead of one day of presents, we get eight crazy nights” as an inducement to stay Jewish?
This year, this Hanukkah feels very different. It’s not a carefree, fun time. We are in a very parlous position. The Israel-Hamas war rages on, and the number of Palestinians who are dying in Gaza continues to grow. The rape of Israeli female hostages on October 7th and the apparent indifference of the UN and the general media is revolting. The rise of antisemitism is scary, as is the resultant move in some cities to cancel outdoor Hanukkah gatherings for fear of encountering hate and disruption. The recent testimony of college presidents about antisemitism on campus strained credulity. The precipitous increase in the number of Israeli settlers clashing with Palestinians is foreboding. Congress is blocking aid to Israel and Ukraine, which will have dire consequences for both countries.
In the book of Exodus, we find the 10 plagues. One of them involved a thick and impenetrable darkness that covered the land of Egypt for three days. During this time, the Egyptians could not see anything, and it was described as a darkness that could be felt. It was a darkness so profound that people literally could not see their hands in front of their faces. This terrifying plague came to be called Egyptian darkness.
It feels like the world is encased in Egyptian darkness. We need reassurance; we want to believe that some signposts are showing the way – any way! – out of this sticky quicksand of gloom. We’re all quoting Goethe, who, on his deathbed, kept repeating, “More light! [Mehr Licht].”
It would be too easy to lean into all of the Hanukkah bromides about bringing light to the darkness and the joy of increasing the amount of light every night, etc. I know all of those images and the metaphors behind them. I’ve used them all. But in this year of Egyptian darkness, floating in uncharted waters, they all feel flat and insufficient.
This year, I am drawn to a different set of images. I’m thinking about the first Jews who reentered the Temple in Jerusalem after the Selucids desecrated it in an act of hate, contempt, and brutality. I’m imagining the pain they felt as they entered that holy space. The most sacred ritual items were either stolen or damaged. Animals had been let loose in the holy space so that the aroma of incense was replaced by the stench of the barnyard. And no fires were going, no eternal light flickering brightly, no menorah with its seven branches burning. The holiest space our ancestors knew was flooded in Egyptian darkness.
They stood at the entrance to their sacred temple, torches in hand, slack-jawed, eyes filled with tears, surveying the ruins. I imagine they were silent, too stunned to speak. And then someone said, in the words of Tevye after the pogrom in Fiddler, “Clean up.” It was a grim declaration, but everyone present appreciated the notion that they could do something, anything, to begin to banish the darkness.
This year, this Hanukkah is about doubling down on our pride and gratitude for being Jewish. We will find strength in our community. Locking arms in solidarity and embracing our history and destiny will generate a profound energy that inspires us to move forward. This year, Hanukkah is about rededication. Our commitment to each other will lift us up. We will not surrender to the darkness.
Before Shabbat 