The Light of Courage and Hope: Hanukkah 5786

The Light of Courage and Hope: Hanukkah 5786
By Rabbi Hilly Haber

In December of 1940, at the age of 18, Isaac Neuman, of blessed memory, found himself celebrating Hanukkah in a Polish monastery amidst the German occupation of his hometown, Zdunska Wola. In his memoir, Neuman recalls the monastery's open gate beckoning him inside on a frigid, winter day and the welcome he received from Brother John, who brought him a bowl of hot soup and invited him to stay and work for the community. With his parents’ permission, Isaac slept in the monastery’s barn, scrubbing floors, caring for the animals, and lighting the stoves every morning, all while hiding his Jewish identity from the other brothers. Before beginning his daily chores, Isaac would don the tallis and tefillin he hid in the straw and daven shacharit.

As Hanukkah drew near, Isaac collected melted wax from the chapel floor and fashioned makeshift candles using the tzitzit from his tallis. On the first night of the holiday, Isaac climbed into the church attic, lit his menorah, and sang “Maoz Tzur.” Isaac’s joy soon faded when he turned to find another monk, Brother Peter, staring at him from across the attic. As Isaac struggled to come up with an explanation for his behavior, Brother Peter smiled and said, “Let us sing the Maoz Tzur together.          

Recalling this moment years later, Isaac wrote:

We sang about wanting to reestablish the Temple and to rededicate the altar. We sang about the troubles in Egypt and Babylonia. We sang about the plans for the oppression of the Jews by Haman and by the Greeks and about the seven shepherds who would conquer Israel’s enemies. As we sang, I watched our shadows on the wall. For a moment, just a moment, they seemed to merge into one.

For over two thousand years, Jewish communities around the world have illumined the darkest moments in our history by the light of the menorah. Rabbi David Hartman, of blessed memory, taught that the actual miracle of the first Hanukkah was not that the oil lasted for eight days, but rather, that the Hasmoneans lit the candles at all, knowing that they did not have enough oil to rededicate the Temple to its holy purpose. The miracle lay in their spiritual strength: strength to begin again, with no guarantee of success; to build anew, amidst imperfection; to defy the odds, seize the opportunity, and kindle the light they could. [See ‘The Courage to Defy Mass Culture: Reflections on the Lights of Hanukkah,” https://www.hartman.org.il/the...]

The menorah’s lights come to us each year, carrying a message of courage and hope that has been kindled over the centuries and across the world. That light burned in the hanukiyot which hung on the doorposts of Jewish homes in Tunisia, Morocco, and Algeria; in the hanukiyot of Aleppo, with their extra shamash candle; it burns in the hanukiyot which still line the streets of the old city in Jerusalem, set inside glass boxes to withstand the rain and wind, to fulfill the mitzvah of placing the Hanukah light outdoors, for all to see.

In the fragile flicker of the lights that illumine the darkest moments on our calendar, we see the miracle of our people’s survival, against all odds; we sense the courage that led them to strike the match even during the darkest chapters of our people’s story.

Rabbi Hugo Gryn, of blessed memory, recalled celebrating Hanukah with his father in Auschwitz. When the time came to light their makeshift menorah, Rabbi Gryn’s father placed a fabric wick in his melted margarine ration and prepared to celebrate the first night. In shock, the young boy protested: how could you forgo our meager rations simply to light the Hanukah candles?

Rabbi Gryn’s father answered, “My child, we know you can live three days without water. You can live three weeks without food. But you cannot live for three minutes without hope.”

Shortly after celebrating Hanukah in the monastery, Isaac Neuman returned to his family, who were living in the Jewish ghetto. He survived nine concentration camps; after the war he went on to receive rabbinic ordination from Hebrew Union College and led a storied congregation in Illinois. In 1965, Rabbi Neuman marched in Selma, Alabama with Dr. Martin Luther King, putting his life at risk because, he told his congregation, he knew the experience of oppression.

In the Book of Isaiah, we are called:

A covenant people, a light unto the nations— “l’or goyim”
Opening eyes deprived of light,
Rescuing prisoners from confinement,
From the dungeon those who sit in darkness.

What does it mean to be “a light unto the nations”? We are called to reflect the light of Torah in all that we do; to be a beacon of justice and compassion for all to see. When we care for those who are vulnerable, uphold the highest Jewish ideals, and live ethical and righteous lives, we can be living hanukiyot that light up the darkness around us. By our own actions, we can testify to the beauty of our tradition, the deep truths of divine teaching. Just as the light of the Hanukah candles binds the Jewish people together, so too does it illuminate the shared humanity and dignity of all people.

In a few days, we will strike our own matches as we celebrate Hanukah, the festival of rededication. We will honor the courage and hope of our people, which shines across thousands of years, from the halls of the restored Temple, to the darkness of Auschwitz, and the tunnels of Gaza.

We will remember Hersh, Carmel, Eden, Almog, Or, and Alex, who kindled the Hanukah lights, in courage and hope, during their captivity.

Like them, let us kindle the lights we can. Let us rededicate ourselves to the sacred work that calls us to begin again. In this time, when so many in our country and in our world suffer the weight of persecution and oppression, may we strive to live lives of moral courage and compassion. Like the pillar of fire in the darkness of the desert, may our lights shine bright.