opinion
Chanukah Is the Holiday That
America Needs Right Now
By Rabbi Isaiah Rothstein
A 14
DECEMBER 22, 2022 | JEWISHEXPONENT.COM
America needs a Chanukah because when walls
and windows are breached and broken, whether
in 2021 or 2,200 years ago, it is hard to believe
one would ever see light again.

That’s why I believe that just as the Jewish peo-
ple need a Chanukah to usher in a time for light
in the face of much darkness, America needs a
Chanukah, too.

With ideological and culture wars pinning social
groups against one another, many search in the
darkness for even a few Maccabees to remind
Americans what our democratic seal still stands for.

In the year 164 BCE, Antiochus of Greece
breached the doors of the Jerusalem Temple,
defi ling the sacred, leaving but one fl ask of
oil. Though not a direct parallel, in the year
2021 C.E., a dangerous mob of white suprem-
acists breached the doors of the United States
Capitol building, defi ling democracy and sending
defenders running for their lives.

America needs a Chanukah because our light still
burns strong and we must recommit to the demo-
cratic ideals of our nation.

America needs a Chanukah so that when we come
across darkness and hate in the media, we can com-
bat that rhetoric with language of justice, love and
openness. America needs a Chanukah because when walls
and windows are breached and broken, whether in
2021 or 2,200 years ago, it is hard to believe one
would ever see light again.

The Alter Rebbe of Lubavitch taught: “A little light
dispels a lot of darkness.” The Reverend Dr. Martin
Luther King Jr. taught: “Darkness cannot drive out
darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive
out hate; only love can do that.”
For thousands of years, lighting the hanukkiah
was an act of protest, reclaiming who we are,
reclaiming our stories and rededicating ourselves to
the past lights, and the ultimate restoration of the
menorah’s light in a rebuilt Jerusalem. A time when
systems and structures exist where all people feel
like they can bring their light, and that they belong.

As we approach the winter months and the year
ahead, let us remember there is always light, and we
must let ours shine. JE
Rabbi Isaiah Rothstein is the rabbinic scholar and
public aff airs adviser for the Jewish Federations of
North America.

tomertu / iStock / Getty Images Plus
s a young child, I often wondered why people
light the hanukkiah, or Chanukah menorah, in
so many diff erent places. Some light the candles on
their front porches and driveways, some in the streets,
others in city parks and a very select few even light
candles at the White House.

But with the recent rise of antisemitism, some
only shine their lights in the inner chambers of
their home, a place that feels safe and secure. As
the Shulchan Aruch, or Code of Jewish Law, warned
centuries ago, the mitzvah of persumei nisa, or pub-
licizing the miracle (Talmud Shabbat 23b), was con-
tingent on the dangers of institutional antisemitism
and our enemies’ desire to extinguish the Jewish
people’s light. (Shulchan Aruch, O.CH, Chanukah 3:5)
In America today, our democracy faces a similar
problem. The barrage of threats to our civil society,
increased polarization and a heightened threat from
domestic extremists are pushing the light away, to
the detriment of us all.

Many Americans today feel that they cannot
express their true identities because of how others
might perceive or treat them. The fear of rejection,
the fear of violence, or worse, cause too many
to hide their light, acquiescing to the oppressor.

Chanukah literally means to rededicate, rebuild,
reconstruct — our institutions and our selves. We
are to fi x that which has been broken so we can
reimagine what is possible for the future. During
this festival of lights, we are reminded to embrace
our unique identities, regardless of what oppressive
systems might dictate.

As a proud American Jew whose ancestors on one
side fought in the American Revolution while other
ancestors were enslaved on American soil, and as an
Orthodox rabbi working to build communities of the
21st century that work for everybody, I understand
the way systems of oppression conspire to extin-
guish our lights.

Systems of oppression are often described using
“the four I’s”: ideological, interpersonal, institutional,
internalized. The Greco-Syrians of the Chanukah
story opposed the Jewish people’s relationship
to God and the Torah (ideological), forced the
Jewish leaders to coerce their loved ones to pub-
licly defame the Torah (interpersonal), renamed
Jerusalem “Antiochus” and decried that Jews remove
their mezuzahs, sacrifi ce pigs and write above the
door of their houses “there is no God in this place”
(institutional). Finally, they caused many Jews to
embrace the ways of their oppressors (internalized).




opinion
Pan Am 103: Prisoners of Hope
By Rabbi Charles S. Sherman
Air Accident Investigation Branch / Wikki Commons
O n Dec. 11, I awoke to the stunning news that the
man accused of making the bomb that killed 270
people in 1988, the Lockerbie bombing, was now in
custody. On Dec. 21, 1988, I was the senior rabbi of the
largest synagogue in Central New York. It was a
cold, blustery, uneventful early morning until “that
phone call.” It was from Syracuse University, inform-
ing me of the bombing.

I was told that, among the 270 people killed, 35
were Syracuse students flying home for Christmas
after a semester abroad. The Jewish chaplain, a col-
league and good friend, was already on his way to
JFK to be of assistance. The university, with its large
world footprint, wanted and needed to bring its
community together almost immediately and asked
if I would represent the Jewish community.

Thirty-four years later, now living in Elkins Park, I
clearly remember putting down the telephone, sob-
bing uncontrollably, a transformative moment, one
of the most difficult days of my life as a pulpit rabbi
— and not exactly sure if I had the content and com-
posure to offer the necessary wisdom and context.

The bombing, of course, was a tragedy for every-
one on board and their loved ones. But when so
many young students, at the prime of their lives,
were taken, it was especially jarring and unbeliev-
able; all of their dreams and potential were gone in
seconds. That evening, Hendricks Chapel, a very impressive
centerpiece of the Syracuse campus just steps away
from the better-known Carrier Dome, was over-
flowing; there were students, faculty and members
of the larger community — thousands of people,
seated and standing in the aisles and thousands
more on the campus in silence, in pain and disbelief.

Inside the chapel, every faith tradition was repre-
sented. Leaders from different traditions and beliefs
were all there for the same purpose — sharing the
importance of community, at times of a faceless
community, where people still feel connected by a
culture of reciprocal responsibilities.

No political commentary was necessary. The hei-
nous nature of the crime was obvious. And I, a “per-
son of faith,” seized with anger and disappointment,
needed to somehow relay a message of honest
belief and confidence. My immediate response was
one of reassurance.

In part, this is what I said:
“There are certain matters of the soul that will
always defy mathematical or scientific explanation.

We can’t know if there is a heaven or if God exists.

We can’t know why bad things happen to good
people. Humble acceptance of the limitations of our
knowledge is where faith begins. Faith is learning to
live in that zone of discomfort. Faith is learning to
feel at home there. But faith is also action. It is an
act of faith to take what we can know and use it to
fulfill God’s purpose on earth.

“It’s tempting and understandable to say, ‘Why
me? What did I do to deserve this? It’s not fair. It
shouldn’t be this way.’ Yet, such sentiments reveal
more about us than they do about God. When we
say something is not fair or we do not deserve it,
we haven’t sat down with a scale and put our merits
on one side and demerits on the other side to see
our merits outweigh our demerits. No, what we
really mean is: I do not want life this way. I want it
to be the way I want it. The thing is, life comes as
it comes. It is what it is. And faith is our trust in our
ability to handle that which we cannot control. It
is what God has given us to live fully, bravely and
meaningfully in this less-than-perfect world.”
The late Leonard Fein, a friend, was a brilliant
social scientist, a passionate and gifted writer and
a veteran social activist. In trying to cope with
his daughter’s sudden death, a personal tragedy
beyond description — “the permanent presence of
an absence” — he confronted one of the toughest
questions there is: How can we pick up the pieces of
our lives and go on to laugh and love in the after-
math of grievous loss?
“We live neither in the valley of the shadow of death
nor atop the mountain of redemption; that we live
instead in a desert of shifting sands where the best we
can do as we seek to come to a better place and a bet-
ter time is to press our bodies against those who falter
and are about to faint, hold them close and upright
until we come to the next resting place, there to
regather our energy and then to resume the journey.”
The news of the man arrested brought it all back.

On some levels, it is still very fresh for me.

I often wonder how best do we honor those lost
that day? How have we resumed the journey? When
you enter the “quad,” the Syracuse main campus,
bucolic, busy and rooted in tradition, there are some
steps you must climb that lead to a centerpiece
called The Place of Remembrance. It is a semicircu-
lar, extraordinary concrete structure that includes
the names of the 35 Syracuse students who died on
Pan Am 103.

Each year, the Syracuse community gathers in that
sacred space during Remembrance Week for a can-
dlelight vigil and rose-laying ceremony. It reminds
us to look back and act forward in resuming the
journey. For in the end, we are Jews, assirei tikvah (pris-
oners of hope). We suffer with all who suffer; we
remember that we, too, were strangers once, and
more than once; we remember the winding through
the desert; and we know there is not only a prom-
ised land but also a promised time. We know that
they who plant in sorrow will surely one day reap
in joy! JE
Rabbi Charles S. Sherman is the rabbi of Melrose B’nai
Israel Emanu-El in Elkins Park.

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