Twenty-five years ago, my paternal grandmother, Sylvie, passed away just before Chanukah. Eighteen years later, my maternal grandmother, Nancy, did the same. Every year at Chanukah, I think about them both, and I also spend a bit of time remembering those two strange Chanukahs, when we lit the menorah only hours after their funerals. I remember the way that the grief pouring out of all of us seemed to rise and mingle with the flames of the candles turning to smoke in the air. I remember how surreal it felt, to kindle flames meant to represent hope and joy in a time of deepest sadness.
In Jewish tradition, Chanukah and mourning rituals can coexist, as strange bedfellows. This is actually a feature of Chanukah that makes it different from many of our other holidays and celebrations. Jewish funerals can’t happen on some holidays (like Rosh Hashanah, or Shabbat, or the first and last days of festivals like Passover). There are also Jewish celebrations that it is customary for people in mourning to miss. Chanukah is different. Mourning and candle-light braid themselves together.
For many of us, this year, mourning and candle-light are braided together. Sunday morning brought the horrific news that 15 people had been murdered in an anti-semitic attack on a Chanukah celebration at Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia, and that two students had been killed on Saturday night at a shooting at Brown. The next few days brought news of other murders here in the United States, some of which were very close to home for members of our community (as the Bondi Beach and Brown shootings were very close to home for some members of our community, as well). Many of us are reeling.
On Sunday night at TRS, we welcomed in the first night of Chanukah with a synagogue packed full of families. I have rarely been as moved as I was standing on the bimah and looking out at our community – the kids decked out in sparkly face paint from the festival, and their parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and family friends, all singing the blessings and Maoz Tzur together. In the face of devastating violence against our global Jewish family, we were choosing life, and connection. In the face of people who would try to silence us, we were choosing song.
There’s a Hebrew Chanukah song I’ve always loved, the words of which mean, in part: “each one of us is a little light/but together we shine mightily, and bright.” As we keep adding, each night, to the lights of the Chanukiah, bringing more and more brightness into long, dark nights, my prayer for all of us is that we can feel each other’s presence, and draw on each other’s comfort, and strength. Whether you’re lighting in a big group (like at Shabbat Chanukah this Friday night – everyone is welcome!) or alone in your kitchen, none of us are alone. We are connected to each other – and to all who came before us, and to generations yet to come – in a web of memory and tradition and hope that is thick and deep. It has brought us this far. It can sustain us now, and in the days to come, as we sustain each other.
Chag Urim Sameach,
Rabbi Alexandra Stein
