Miketz Chanukah Brief piece

 

On the road and not much time…. This will be a one brief thought, please pardon me.

 

This week’s Parsha, Parsha Miketz, focuses on the famine in Mitzrayim. There are many, many commentaries on, well, just about every part of this story. One could say, however, that this is the portion of the Torah in which we really learn that quite often situations that appear to be hardships are stepping stones to that which must come later.

 

It is terrible that Yosef was sold by his brothers to Mitzrayim – but he had to go to Mitrayim in order to save everyone from the famine.

 

It was difficult that he was sent to the home of Potifar, where the plotting mistress lay in wait – but this was where he needed to go to learn the administrative skills that would serve him well in the time to come.

 

It is horrible that he had to experience being falsely accused – but perhaps this was the source of his realizing that the only way to really understand the brothers’ motives was to falsely accuse them and Binyamin in particular.

 

It was depressing that Yosef had to linger in prison for two years, his kindness to the butler forgotten – but that was the butler’s release was not yet the time for the 7 years of plenty and famine to be set underway and in the prison was a time to learn and understand the working of the minds of the Egyptian people.

 

We all have difficult times in our lives that we, perhaps, wish we hadn’t had to experience. Quite often, however, one step – difficult as it may have been – directly correlates to a far great step in our future.

 

On Chanukah, during the short days of winter – when it is often cold and dark – we struggle, sometimes, to see the light that is to come. But when we shed light on the miracles of daily living and of the incredible history of the Jewish people, as we do each night of Chanukah, we are able to be inspired, and we turn to Hashem in praise each day.

 

May we all try to have insights into the challenges we have faced so that we remember to thank Hakadosh Baruch for the struggles as well as the joys.

 

Wishing you all a good Shabbas.

The Drippings of My Menorah

Do you clean your menorah each night after the flames have finished burning? Goodness knows I don’t, and each night it gets a little trickier to light the menorah. There’s old wax stuck in the hole, even after you use a random household item to try and scrape it out, and the cheap Chanukah candles break when you push them in. Or if you’re using oil (in our house we have both), then the cups from the first few nights are always grimy and slippery from previous splashes. So in our house, where we light quite a few menorahs, by the time we get to the eighth night of Chanukah, we have a pile of broken candles that never made it, lumps of broken off wax drippings (many imprinted with fingerprints) and a few discarded, slimy wicks from the oil menorah. And if you have one of those candle menorahs where the shamash, the lighting candle, is elevated in the middle of the row, every time you try to place the shamash in its proper spot, you bump into the candle next to it, resulting in additional spillage!

The mess of the Chanukah candles may seem  like a silly issue to discuss, but just the other day I was thinking that this issue may serve as an interesting metaphor for Jewish growth. When a person first becomes excited about Judaism, it is like setting up the menorah. There is great anticipation about participating in the new mitzvot, and the first acts of Jewish observance that one does on one’s own can be  compared to the first night of Chanukah. The menorah is in pristine condition and the candles fit in easily (unless, of course, it wasn’t cleaned after last year).

Time passes, however, and for many people who have moved toward greater Jewish observance, living a more involved Jewish life often results in the loss of some of the original sparkle of being new. It gets harder. Unexpected obstacles arise: bosses who have “emergencies” just before Shabbat or relatives who don’t understand the implication of “kosher style.”

More challenging than the unexpected obstacles, however, are the slimy drippings of apathy and routine. Mitzvot that were once exciting start to feel like common acts. There is a constant struggle to grasp again the beautiful inspiration that so energized those original first steps.

The Talmud records a disagreement between two of the great academies of Talmudic study: the Academy of Shammai and the Academy of Hillel. The first believed that eight lights should be lit on the first night of Chanukah, and one less on each night that follows. Hillel’s students, on the other hand, said that on the first night one candle is lit, adding one each night until eight candles are lit on the last night (Talmud Shabbat 21b).

One explanation cited in the Talmud for their different opinions was that the Academy of Shammai was comparing the candles to the decreasing number of bulls brought on the holiday of Sukkot. The Academy of Hillel, on the other hand, was underscoring the idea that matters of sanctity should always be increased rather than decreased” (ibid.).

It was decided that the practice of Chanukah should be observed according to the opinion of the Academy of Hillel. Each night we increase the light until the eighth glorious night when all eight candles burn in its full glory.

Following the path of traditional Jewish life can have its challenges. But the greater the effort that we invest, the brighter the light that we shine. The mitzvah of Chanukah is intended to proclaim to the world our faith in God’s constant and active role in our lives. This is what we do when we tell that boss that we cannot work late on Friday or explain that the term kosher of “kosher rye” refers to a style and not that the bread is actually kosher.

Jewish life is a spiral of cycles. There are the daily cycles of prayer, the weekly cycles of Shabbat, and the yearly cycle of holidays. Each requires preparation. If I, as a working mother of five, don’t pick away at the “wax drippings” of chaos that dominate my home every morning, then I won’t have time for the daily morning prayers. If I don’t prevent “slippery spots” from entering my schedule, then I have to work harder to prepare for Shabbat, and if I don’t prepare in advance, then I cannot make the most of the beauty that inhabits each of the Jewish holidays.

If I were to continue my metaphor of the crowded menorah, then perhaps I would say that not only do I shine brighter the more effort I invest, but I would also connect to the shamash.  For everything that I do, my role is now that of being a continual helper. How I treat my own menorah -- my own spiritual development -- is reflected in the lights that surround me, the neshamot (souls) of my children.

This year, as the lights of Chanukah increase and we each stand by our menorahs trying to remove the drippings from the night before, think not of the struggle against the wax, but rather of the incredible brilliance and rays of  holiness of your beautiful Jewish soul.

The Gift of Gifts

The other night, a friend of mine told me how incredulous she was about how strongly her husband’s family focussed on the gift-giving aspect of Chanukah. In her own traditional childhood, her family had only given children Chanukah gelt, a few pennies or coins. Her husband’s family, on the other hand, celebrates Chanukah with a large party and lots of gifts. The Chanukah menorah was lit, but that appears, in her opinion, to be the extent of tradition.

As I listened to my friend’s insights I noticed that I felt mildly uncomfortable. From a strictly traditional opinion, she was right: There is no historic tradition of gifts associated with Chanukah. On the other hand, my own memories are filled with warm recollections of my parents giving my brother and me little presents each night (and one or two big ones). Those long ago evenings, when my brother and I would ask over and over if my father would soon be home so we could light the menorah, as we tried to pretend that we weren’t really asking how soon until we could get presents, built a foundation for the Judaism that I knew I wanted to give to my own children.

Even before I chose a more traditional lifestyle than the one in which I had been raised, my excitement for the Chanukah holiday had refocused on the act of lighting candles, rather than the gifts (not that I didn’t appreciate them as a teen as well).

In my early twenties, I began to take a deeper interest in Jewish life and Jewish law. I spent a year in Israel studying Judaism in depth. The more I have studied, the fewer halachic (Jewish legal) connections I have found for the giving of gifts, while, at the same time, the more I have noticed what an important role they play in modern Jewish life.

My friend felt that this tradition of giving gifts was a reflection of Christmas and Jewish assimilation. Sadly, this is probably true in many North American homes. It’s even true that when I was a kid, I felt that there was a competition–and often that I had the better end of the deal.

On the other hand, one can, and many have, traced the root of gift-giving back to a custom of Chanukah gelt. Gelt itself is a Yiddish word that might lead one to perceive an Eastern European origin to this tradition.

It is a tradition, however, that has its roots in two Talmudic discussions: One stating that lighting the Chanukah menorah is so important that one who cannot afford oil (or candles) should beg in order to purchase oil, and the second, expressing a correlation between lighting the Chanukah menorah and having intelligent children. From these two concepts, the custom developed to reward children for their studies with a little bit of money. This is Gelt. In time, a penny turned into a small token, which, probably in competition with Christmas, became a bundle of presents.

Let’s face it, most American Jews can recall being asked at least once if they really receive a present on each night of Chanukah. Indeed, most of us can also recall being asked whether Chanukah is “the Jewish Christmas.” This second question is quite ironic, given that the holiday of Chanukah is actually a celebration of a victorious battle against assimilation. At the time of the Maccabees, many Jews found it more comfortable to Hellenize their lives rather than fight to maintain a traditional Jewish lifestyle.

When I was a child, I rarely associated Chanukah with Christmas. We had our holiday and they had theirs. But I can, of course, be honest enough to admit that if I had not received Chanukah presents, I probably would have been jealous of, and desirous for, Christmas.

As a small child, the presents were a major focus, but, because of that, I developed a love for this holiday. As I grew older, my brother and I received fewer presents, but that did not diminish my connection to the holiday.

As a teenager, the societal pressure to celebrate Christmas bothered me tremendously. I was the outspoken choir member who insisted on adding Chanukah songs to the holiday concert and the high schooler who made certain a menorah was also part of the holiday display. My actions were driven by my Jewish pride, not by my desire to compare Chanukah to Christmas. I wanted the Jewish students who were less connected than I was to have a reason to be excited about their own heritage.

Listening to my friend’s dismay at the customs of her husband’s family, I felt, at first, embarrassed that this was the type of home in which I had been raised. The more I thought about it, however, the more I realized that because my parents had never mixed our Chanukah presents with even the slightest hint of that other holiday--there was no Chanukah bush or tinselly decorations--the gifts had been just one more aspect in developing my proud Jewish identity.

As a parent living a traditional Jewish lifestyle, I have not cast away this seeming remnant of assimilation. Instead, my husband and I have incorporated the important Chanukah lesson of Chinuch (education, a word that shares the same Hebrew root as Chanukah). On the nights when our children receive Chanukah presents, each child must answer a question about either Chanukah or the weekly Torah portion. Likewise, when there are gifts to be exchanged between my husband and myself (or the kids and one of us), we must also answer a question.

The other night, I did not say any of this to my friend. I smiled and listened and gave sympathetic answers of tacit agreement. Perhaps I should have said that the end result of the Chanukah presents my parents gave me was the greatest gift of all--my strong sense of my Jewish self.

You've Got To Give A Little

When I was five or six years old, my parents gave me a scarf for the eighth night of Chanukah. I can picture all of the candles alight on the kitchen table as my dad and brother went to the basement to shoot a game of pool and my mom followed shortly thereafter. Left alone in the kitchen, I sulked over the lousy final present. After all, shouldn’t the last night of Chanukah be the night reserved for the best present? I can honestly say, I don’t know exactly what I was thinking, but I do know that when my mom came upstairs a few minutes later she found me holding the box over the flames. Thank G-d, no damage was done to anything but the box (not even to the ugly scarf).

In our family, Chanukah was definitely about the presents. Blessed with generous parents, my brother and I received something on all eight nights. We waited anxiously for my father to return home from work so we could quickly eat dinner and begin our “Hot and Cold” search.

In hindsight, perhaps the best part of the Chanukah gift giving custom was the many lessons I learned from it.

Anticipation is often the best part of exchanging gifts -- something I discovered the hard way when I was probably around 10 years old. A few weeks before Chanukah, I stumbled across the place in the basement where my mother would stash the gifts. I knew what I had asked for and was delighted to see a wrapped box of just about the right size. Lo and behold, just my luck, a corner of the wrapping had come loose. Now what would you do? Of course I peeked. It was the Barbie Dream Van for which I had so fervently hoped. I was so happy, but I had no one with whom to share my excitement because no one could know that I knew. I certainly had great expectations of playing with it, but when I brought the large box to the table from its hiding spot that Chanukah, I felt something missing inside. There was no curiosity, no anticipation, no need to shake it to try and guess what was inside. I had spent my excitement before I even had the gift, and I am certain that my parents were well aware of my dampened level of excitement. I can honestly say that never again did I wish to peek at the presents ahead of time.

As we grew older, the family rules of Chanukah changed. Once we were in college, the “rule” became two presents for each person. And when my brother married, his wife was incorporated into the two-gift custom. Alas, I wish I could say that I was not, deep down, still that spoiled little girl who tried to burn her scarf. Truth be told, however, I was resentful of the fact that I now had to give gifts to four people, but was not receiving back as many as I gave. Married couples, of course, were allowed to give as one unit. So while I was buying two each for mom, dad, brother and sister-in-law, I was only receiving four, two from mom and dad and two from my brother and sister-in-law. (Now you do the math and tell me how that was fair!) Every year it was a struggle not to announce how cheated I felt on this deal.

By the time I graduated college, I had become more observant and had spent a year in Israel immersed in Jewish studies. Through my studies, I gained a new appreciation for the holiday of Chanukah. The word Chanukah shares the same root as the Hebrew word chinuch, education. The main mitzvah of Chanukah is to publicize the miracle. This is accomplished by lighting a menorah in a public area where others will see it. While I was not yet ready to forego exchanging gifts (Hey, I was a poor graduate student at the time!), I needed to incorporate my new understanding of Chanukah into the gift exchange. I therefore started my own personal custom of buying each person one book of Jewish content. Not only did giving Jewish books tie in to the real “theme” of Chanukah, but I also found myself excited at the prospect of choosing these presents.

It was only with the birth of my first niece that I can truly say that my inner gift giving spirit fully changed. There is nothing comparable to having a small child to spoil, especially when the toys then stay at someone else’s house. This change, however, was all encompassing. I began to thoroughly enjoy finding and giving gifts...and I worked at it. I tried to think about what each person would really want, not just what was cute or easy to find. On a highly limited budget, this was no easy task!

Judaism teaches us that if we wish to truly love someone, we must learn to give to them. This doesn’t mean that we should just bring them a cake or a bouquet of flowers, or do some random act of giving. In order to truly give to a person, you must really look at them and see what their needs and wants are. You need to try to understand them, an action that really connects you to them. Of course I already loved my family, but now I really feel in sync with them when I give them something I think they want.

Now I too am married and have my own children. My oldest child is 2 1/2 and quite old enough to be aware of receiving gifts. My husband and I are at a point in our lives where we must choose to establish our own family customs. Certainly we will continue the extended family gift exchange (which has now been modified to giving gifts just to the children). But what will we do in our own home? A gift each night? Probably not. But to take away all giving seems to me to be sacrificing a crucial element of childhood.

During my lifetime of Chanukahs, I have experienced a journey from selfish receiver to joyful giver. Indeed, now, I am often more excited to watch everyone else open their gifts than to open the gifts that I receive. And, because of that, I can now honestly apologize to my parents for ruining the surprise of my Barbie Dream Van.