"They thought they had only enough oil to light the fire for one night; but in fact it lasted eight days and nights"
It used to be that Jews gave gifts to each other at Purim, since in the book of Esther it says that Mordechai commanded the Jews, in their rejoicing, to give gifts to each other and to the poor. But in this country the giving of holiday gifts seems to have moved itself to Hanukkah. And this is the occasion for some complaining -- 'It is just trying to keep up with Christmas' and so on.
But think for a minute about what it is like to receive a Hanukkah gift. Hopefully it is wrapped up tight, taped closed, with ribbon tied all around. Maybe you're one of those people who tears the wrapping paper right off before you even read the card; or maybe you're the one (that I was always envious of as a child) who unties the bow and saves the ribbon, who carefully lifts each piece of tape so as not to wreck the pretty paper. But eventually you open the box. Maybe inside is the sweater or the CD you admired months ago; maybe it is something the giver saw someplace and thought of you, something just right that you never even knew you wanted. Maybe it's your best color or your favorite flavor. Maybe it's a check or a gift certificate that enables you to do something you wouldn't have been able to do otherwise.
Whatever is inside the wrapping and under the bow, hopefully it is a surprise. And surprise is the perfect emotion for Hanukkah. Surprise is a form of grace, of rachamim, of unearned favor. We are taught that God has two fundamental aspects, two tendencies. God exhibits middat ha-din -- the middah, the measure or characteristic, of strict justice, recompense, balance. And God exhibits middat ha-rachamim, the quality of mercy, grace, kindness that is not merited, not earned, not deserved. God is constantly moving between din and rachamim, and -- since a spark of God is within us -- we have that inner oscillation as well. Gifts and surprises certainly come from the measure of grace. So by giving and receiving gifts on Hanukkah we actually cultivate a fine and useful spiritual perspective.
I've been finding myself thinking a lot lately about grace, about rachamim. Just the other day I was walking with a friend who was very sad because of a personal misfortune. He was feeling lonely and hopeless, and I was scrambling inside my head trying to think how to muster up some comfort from my own small well -- when down the road towards us comes someone he knew, though not so well, who threw her arms around him, burst into tears and said, "I just love you so much. You are so important to me" And so on. A total surprise. Grace. Unexpected favor, unplanned intervention for good. A gift, beautifully wrapped.
You may have read in the Megillah a couple of months ago about the surprise seven-fold Bat Mitzvah that took place at the women's retreat this summer. I wrote about kvelling and kvelling. What I didn't write about, but people at the retreat unfortunately knew, is that I had actually been quite thoroughly miserable at the retreat. I was tired of planning it, cranky, feeling put-upon, trying to be a good sport and failing dramatically. As I drove to the camp and all through the beginning I kept saying little prayers -- 'Help me find the inner strength to not be so crabby. Help me to see the good going on here" I was doing my best, which was pretty unimpressive. And then came this unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime surprise, these seven angels (several the very ones I was being so unpleasant towards) who had created this fabulous celebration for us all and for me. That bat mitzvah accomplished a lot of things; one small one being that it answered my prayer, transformed my hard heart and filled me with delight. It was something I wouldn't have imagined, much less planned for, in a million years. Grace. Surprise.
Our Torah portions these days keep repeating the motif of a barren woman in despair because she can't get pregnant, until -- far after such a thing would be utterly unimaginable -- divine intervention, grace, rachamim, brings unexpected good news.
Every year when Hanukkah rolls around I spend some time thinking about how the holiday speaks to us this year. Hanukkah is about a lot of different things. It's about ethnic and religious pride, about multiculturalism and homogenization, about the clash between liberalism and fundamentalism; it's about the bourgeoisie and the proletariat; it is about the priesthood being overtaken by the intellectual elite; it's about clashes of world social forces; it's about war and empire. For a "minor" festival, it gives us years worth of material to think about.
But this year, like the child I will always be, I am drawn to think about the presents. I'm drawn to the little story of the Maccabees -- stunned, I'm sure, to have beaten back the massive Syrian army -- reentering the precinct of the Holy Temple and seeing it in shambles. Pigs had been slaughtered on the altar. The gold and silver dishes for the holy service had been looted and given as a bribe to forestall a crisis that happened anyway. And the eternal flame had been doused. You can imagine the search to find pure, consecrated oil to light the sacred lamps again. It would be like turning on the light in your house after it had been burglarized -- the first, most important thing you would want to do. Finally a small bottle (do I remember from childhood that it was called a "cruse" of oil?)-- just enough for one night -- was found. Still, they went ahead and lit the lamp. I would too. And then came the gift, the unexpected grace. The lamp burned for eight days, for long enough that they could find and consecrate an ample supply.
Sometimes we may feel like we're out of fuel. Sometimes we may feel like our holy inner precinct has been ravaged. Sometimes we may have fought a battle and, even if victorious, we may feel too depleted to do what is called for next. Sometimes we may not be able to have something we passionately yearn for. Sometimes we may just be cranky and miserable.
And sometimes it happens that there comes a gift. Sometimes something works right that we had every expectation would work out wrong. Sometimes we find a box with our name on it, and when we open it up it has exactly what we need. Sometimes it is something we didn't even know we wanted, but it is just right. Sometimes someone walks up to us out of nowhere with the right word of comfort. Sometimes the very person who seems frustrating and irritating does something just the opposite, something that lifts your heart to where it never expected to be lifted.
I'm hoping for all of us that this is a season of gracious surprises. I've heard that in some lucky and beneficent households, one gift is given the first night of Hanukkah, two the second night and so on until a staggering eight gifts are given on the last night of the festival. At the very least I hope that each of us receives --and gives -- something you have wished for; something you never even knew existed; something you have given up all hope of ever receiving; something necessary; something playful; something that helps you keep going in the direction you want to be going; something that opens up your heart; and something that makes the whole world shine brighter. Grace is always possible, but never more so than in the dark -- happy Hanukkah, my dear community.
© 2002 Rabbi Margaret Holub
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Updated 11/24/2002 (rge)