I wrote this essay about a year ago, the last day of Chanukah. I was in the East Coast for a friend's wedding and while I sat in my (other) friend's kitchen, staring at her father's menorah, the blinking lights from her neighbor caught my eye. I grabbed my notebook (I try not to travel without one) and wrote this piece.
It’s the end
of Chanukah, the festival of lights, and I don’t find it a coincidence that it is
the same time as their festival of lights. Each non-Jewish house just
trying to outshine its neighbor, each one boasting of its glorious, magical
twinkling designs. And in the center of it all is their gilded tree.
I see that lights every year as I set
up and pack away my own brass menorah. It’s nearly impossible to not see their
lights; they don’t hide their holiday season very well. Once November draws to
a close I see them scrambling around, pulling out strings of white lights,
green lights, blinking lights, placing them in intricate designs around the
neighborhood.
And every year I wonder more and more about the significance of
the lights, ours and theirs. Their lights last for longer, sometimes only
coming down in mid-January. Their lights laugh at me, poking fun, reminding me
that I am an outsider; I am not one of them. Perhaps I need that reminder.
After all, I share their styles, I share their language and I share their
country, but I do not share their lights.
I think about how their lights never waver, never fade, shining
and blinking from the sunrise to evening and through the night. This observation
bothers me because I know it’s my faith that never fails, my faith that is the
ultimate truth. But somehow their holiday is more tempting and small wax
candles and homemade donuts. I know this because the numbers of my faith are
slowly falling, becoming lower and lower as more people want to touch the
forbidden lights that look so inviting.
I cannot reconcile these ideas until, one day, I realize.
Yes, their lights never waver. Yes, our lights dim every night.
But their lights aren’t real. Their lights are a fraud. Their
lights are a cheap imitation of spirituality and connection. Their lights are an
electric, a plug-in, a one step solution to reaching out to holiness.
And my lights? My lights are hard work. My lights are devotion.
My lights may flicker and eventually fade, but I will come back tomorrow. I
will come back and light them again and then I will light another. There is no
single solution to life. My relationship with G-d is every day, every moment,
constantly reaching out and connecting.
We live in a world where effort no longer matters. Everything is
temporary, nothing is permanent. To reach out and truly connect takes too much
time, too much energy. There is no such thing as an easy way out, it is just
simply the only way.
Perhaps that’s why so many of my brothers and sisters are slowly
crossing the lines from religious to irreligious to atheist or not even Jewish
anymore. The requirements for a real relationship with G-d are just too
demanding. The tree is an easier substitute for the menorah, there is less stress
involved. Instead of coming back, night after night to light up the darkness,
they simply push a plug into an outlet and light up their rooms.
And in those dark winter months, their lights may last for a
longer amount of time. But when I look at my eight small flames reflected in
the window, I am reminded of those small G-d fearing Jews who miraculously
triumphed over the Greek Empire and saved Torah.
Perhaps our story is not so different from theirs. Or perhaps
the story of the Greeks is not really over. A sequel is being written, with
America instead of Macedonia, placing an over-emphasis on beauty and the
strength of man. And like in Greece, it looks like we may lose. It looks like
the Jews will become blended in with the rest of mankind, a forgotten relic of
the past.
But what we already know is the ending of our story. We know
that if we fight, gather together the remaining pure Jews, we will fight and
win. We know we can find the oil, we know it can burn for eight days. We can
never underestimate the power of G-d, even if we are small in numbers. They lit
the oil and they saw a reward for their faith.
So when I look at my lights, I see eternity.
