Some added light...

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shnarkle

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It's been a long time since someone said, "Merry Christmas" to me. Last year a telemarketer somewhere in India said it, but today (12/23/19) a clerk in Winn Dixie said it as well as a librarian as she checked out a book for me. I have grown used to people saying "Happy Holidays" so it caught me off guard.

When people say, "Happy Holidays" to me, I respond with, "Thanks, same to you". I can't repeat, "Happy Holidays" back at them because it just sounds weird to me.

Given that it's been a while since anyone has said Merry Christmas to me, I began to think about why Happy Holidays has become preferable to some people. At first it occurred to me that there are a lot of people who have no religious background, and simply decorate trees, and wrap packages, talk about Sant Claus/St. Nicholas, etc.; we're all familiar with those traditions, but then I started thinking about Chanukah, and how I've never heard anyone wish me or anyone else a happy Chanukah out in public.

Then I began to think back to A Christmas Carol, and it made my stomach sour. Why does Christmas have to elicit these Anti-Semitic stereotypes? Granted there are probably a lot of people today who have no clue that Ebenezer is a Jewish name, and in another twenty or thirty years no one will have a clue that it's a Jewish name. Regardless, it still bothers me that we have these stereotypes, and even moreso that so many people are oblivious. When people say, they "Jewed" someone down on the price, they're not saying that because they're Anti-Semites. It's just what they've heard people say, so they say it as well without ever knowing that it's Anti-Semitic. It's become commonplace. No one really cares because it isn't like anyone really cares anymore.

So I feel kind of like Paul because I have spent years studying reading the bible. Not because I love God, but because God has planted this desire in me to study his commandments. I have no other explanation that makes sense because from my earliest days in school, I absolutely hated reading, and the bible was especially detestable to me. It made no sense whatsoever, and as I grew older, it made even less sense.

Over time that all changed significantly, and now I want to share some things I've collected on Chanukah in case anyone is interested in broadening their ideas of spreading light during this darkest time of the year...

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A Man at the Supermarket Reminded Me: Chanukah Reflects Giving
By Linda Goldberg

This morning I looked at last year’s Chanukah picture. You sat in a chair smiling, despite ill health, surrounded by our family. There in your hand was a leather pouch filled with Chanukah gelt soon to be given out to our children and grandchildren, and another pouch for tzedakah.

Behind you, the table was set with potato latkes, applesauce, cheese blintzes, sour cream—all homemade—and doughnuts fried by and for our Israeli son-in-law. Looking at the picture, I can almost smell the aroma as everyone sat around the dining-room table to celebrate.
Last Chanukah, the children helped you out of your walker and into the chair before taking the picture. Everyone was concerned that it was your last Chanukah with us, but we all smiled widely.

Also this morning, I found the menorah you used to light the Chanukah candles for many years.

While cleaning it, I looked outside the window and saw the trees. Some had yellow and orange leaves, even purple, swaying in the breeze as if they were talking to each other.
I had to cut down some of our trees and trimmed others. They are so tall now—the very trees that have seen everything since we moved in here. They witnessed the bar mitzvah in our back yard when we were so proud, and when our parents were alive to see it and rejoice with us together. They saw the blizzards when I and the children watched out the window to wait for you to come home.

Years later, our son bought a house down the street, and we walked there for Shabbat dinners. I helped take care of his boys, who loved to walk back and forth to see us. I taught them to talk to the trees, just as my mother had taught me.

After I finished polishing the menorah, I drove to the market to buy more Chanukah candles. I walked around the aisles looking at shelves of food I didn’t need since I don’t host family celebrations without you, and I fought back tears.

Once outside, while looking for my car, a man wearing a gray shirt and old pants bent over near me, and said, “Pardon me. I hate to ask, but I am on my way to the Natick train station to board the train to Boston because of a family emergency. I don’t have enough money. Can you spare $5? I’m not sure how much the train costs.”

Rummaging through my pocket book, I found my makeup case, where I keep my emergency money. Knowing how much it costs, I walked over to him and handed him $10.

I remembered you saying, “If someone, even a stranger, has to bend down to ask, you have to walk over to give.”

“Thank you, thank you.” The man was so relieved he was almost in tears. “I hope you have a nice day.” He said after he took the money.

“Don’t worry,” I responded. “Someone will help me someday when I am in need. That’s how it works.”

Once I got home and set up the candles in the menorah, I remembered how much trouble you had lighting the candles last year. Our son wanted to help you, but you insisted on doing it yourself. With each lit candle, a new light shone in your eyes.

If I had to describe you in one sentence, it would be that you were given shoulders to carry burdens—of yours and others. You always gave time and money to help another, and you did it happily.

Looking up into the cloudless sky, I know today was a good day. As you would say, “Giving to charity is like planting a seed that might help someone else someday.”

You remind me of the verse: “Show righteousness for yourselves, reap according to loving-kindness” (Hosea 10:12).

And perhaps that’s the message of the Chanukah lights. That our job as a people is to bring light, kindness and G‑dliness to our world. To light up the life of another. To be a “light upon the nations.”

Now when I look at last year’s Chanukah picture, I see the light in your eyes and know you are at peace.

A Man at the Supermarket Reminded Me: Chanukah Reflects Giving
 
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shnarkle

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The Miracle of the Missing Menorah
By Asharon Baltazar

The household of Rabbi Chaim Halberstam of Sanz was used to things vanishing without warning. Whether it was a silver goblet, an ornate spice box, or the Shabbat candlesticks, all they could do was acknowledge the disappearance and continue on with their day. There was no thief to catch, no mystery to solve. Well known for his expansive adoration of fellow Jews, Rabbi Chaim pawned whatever he could find to help those seeking monetary relief, whether it was an orphan collecting for his wedding or a mother in need of food for Shabbat. With nothing spared, his house remained bare of furnishings most of the time.

Weeks before Chanukah, Rabbi Chaim opened the door to a haggard-looking gentleman and invited him into his study. The Jew, who had traveled long distances to get to Sanz, didn’t say much, but pulled a scroll from his pocket and began showing Rabbi Chaim a distinguished pedigree. He spoke eloquently, with an air one would expect from an aristocrat. When he had finished introducing himself, he rolled up the scroll, buried his face in his hands, and began to sob. Through his tears, he managed to describe his impoverished life. His daughter had reached the age of marriage, and he didn’t have the means to provide for her wedding.

Looking on with softhearted eyes, Rabbi Chaim solemnly shared the man’s misfortune.
“G‑d will help,” he promised.

In his mind, he was already thinking about what to give this poor gentleman.

Rabbi Chaim disappeared into the house. All of his shelves were empty. He skimmed the walls, shelves, drawers, praying he would find something to give the man. Nothing but dust. Everything had been pawned. But he could not send the man away without even a single coin.

The menorah!

Sitting on top of his bookcase was the handsome silver menorah he lit each Chanukah. Rabbi Chaim quickly brought it down, blew off the thin coating of dust, and wrapped it in paper to prevent unwanted stares. The man watched Rabbi Chaim, peering from behind the door, his worry melting into a wide grin.

The man gingerly accepted the menorah, blessed Rabbi Chaim, and soon disappeared from view.

It was a week before Chanukah when the Rebbetzin finally discovered the missing menorah. Though she didn’t confront her husband, she felt a twinge of sadness. She couldn’t imagine her window bare of the festive lights while the homes around them glowed.

One day before Chanukah, she reminded her husband that their house had no menorah. Rabbi Chaim seemed to be unbothered, even calm. He smiled underneath his thick mustache and said nothing.

Late afternoon, after praying Minchah, all the townspeople rushed home to light the Chanukah lights. One by one, flames popped up in the neighboring windows, but the Halberstam house remained gloomy and dark despite the late hour. Rabbi Chaim was in his study, learning the mystical themes of the holiday. Despondent as they felt, no one wanted to bother Rabbi Chaim and remind him about the neglected mitzvah. The pain they knew they would see on their father’s face was too much to bear.

Suddenly, the study door opened and Rabbi Chaim appeared. If he was worried, he hid it perfectly as he busied himself with the lighting preparations, leisurely going about the room, gathering oil and rolling wicks. But there was still no menorah to light.

As that thought crossed the minds of all present, a rhythmic clatter and the whinnying of horses sounded from outside. A luxurious coach had pulled up to the house. The door opened and a well dressed couple stepped out, a package visible in their hands.

The two breathlessly apologized for the late hour, but also seemed impatient to speak with Rabbi Chaim. For an hour or so, Rabbi Chaim and the couple sat in his study, door closed, discussing a matter of urgent nature. Rabbi Chaim listened and showered them with blessings.

As the couple stood to leave, the man placed the package on the table.

“This is our thank you,” he said, removing the paper.

A tall menorah, wrought of the finest silver, stood twinkling on the table.

Rabbi Chaim’s face registered no surprise. Rather, he delicately moved the menorah to its usual place and crowned it with olive oil and wicks. In his right hand, Rabbi Chaim held the shamash and recited the three blessings.

The miraculous atmosphere of Chanukah was undoubtedly felt by everyone that year.

The Miracle of the Missing Menorah
 
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shnarkle

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I Learned Who I Am in the Greek Islands
By Elana Mizrahi

Consistency. I am constantly working on consistency.

When I was 21, I graduated from university and came to Israel to learn in a seminary (a center for Jewish learning). At the time, I had been keeping Shabbat already for a few years, and I was very happy learning and growing in Judaism. The more I learned, the more I understood that there was so much more to learn, and yet with the learning came more clarity and light.

A few months into the school year, we had a short break and I met up with a friend from college who was studying at Hebrew University. We decided to go on a trip to Greece for a few days.

What can I say? The Greek Islands were beautiful. I appreciate beauty. But something happened on that trip that didn’t sit well with me. Something that changed me. I remember sitting in a non-kosher Greek cafe in my former attire of pants (I had left my long skirts and modest clothing in Jerusalem) and feeling, well, very uncomfortable. It had already been a few months since I had not worn pants and a few months of being in only kosher restaurants.

I thought to myself, “What in the world am I doing here?”

Because you see, while I work hard at being “flexible” and “going with the flow,” inconsistencies don’t sit well with me. I asked myself, “How can you dress one way in one place and a different way in another?” To have one identity at “home” and another one when I was away felt off. It felt contradictory.

Growing up, it seemed like Judaism was simply a religion with traditions and rituals. It was like a membership to a club. Just show up when you want and follow the rules while you are there.

But this wasn’t the only message that I got. I received a fundamental teaching from my grandparents’ survival of the Nazis, and from my other grandparents who in the 1930s and 1940s got turned down from job after job because they wouldn’t leave their Shabbat observance at home.

Yes, Judaism is family, holidays and traditions. There are rules and rituals. But being Jewish is not just about what one does or doesn’t do. Sitting there in that cafe, I realized that Judaism was my entire being. It was who I am—the core part of my essence that no one can take away from me. I realized that I have to be who I am wherever I am, even if the conditions are challenging.

It dawned on me that Torah isn’t even a “way” of life. Torah is life. Torah touches every aspect of your life. Inside, outside. In private and in public.

It demands that you show kindness to your family—not just in public, but in private, too. It demands that you work on your patience and your tone of voice, even if no one is paying attention or listening. It demands that you eat the same kosher food in your home as you do on a trip. Judaism demands that you ask questions and find out when and how to be flexible, and it demands that you hold your ground and stand firm.

How ironic and how appropriate that sitting there in the Greek islands all this came to me.

More than 2,000 years ago, the Syrian-Greek Empire conquered Israel and oppressed the Jews. One of the main ideals of the Greek empire was outward beauty. The Greeks taught that beauty is physical. It is a body without a soul.

But Judaism incorporates body and soul. Judaism emphasizes truth and moral purity; physical, spiritual, they are always connected. Our work in this world is to use all aspects of our physical world to fulfil our G‑dly mission.

The war between the Greeks and the Jews was a battle to connect the body to the soul. A miracle happened, and the Jews won the military war. Every year we celebrate not only the military victory, but the miracle of the light of the menorah in the Holy Temple. The miracle of being able to illuminate physicality with spiritually.

We celebrate by lighting the menorah’s candles (representing the soul and spirituality) in the most public place (representing communal and physicality) for all to see.

As a child, I couldn’t understand inconsistencies. Actually, most children cannot. And as a parent, I see that one of the most effective parenting tools that I possess is consistency. If I am not consistent, then my children don’t believe me or in me.

The word for Chanukah has the same root as the Hebrew word for “education,” chinuch. Is that a coincidence? No, in the Hebrew language, there are no coincidences.

A Greek island, Chanukah, the menorah, education. It all goes back to being consistent with who we essentially are.

I Learned Who I Am in the Greek Islands
 
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Hidden In Him

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It's been a long time since someone said, "Merry Christmas" to me. Last year a telemarketer somewhere in India said it, but today (12/23/19) a clerk in Winn Dixie said it as well as a librarian as she checked out a book for me. I have grown used to people saying "Happy Holidays" so it caught me off guard.

When people say, "Happy Holidays" to me, I respond with, "Thanks, same to you". I can't repeat, "Happy Holidays" back at them because it just sounds weird to me.

Given that it's been a while since anyone has said Merry Christmas to me, I began to think about why Happy Holidays has become preferable to some people.

Maybe some know you well enough to know you are Jewish, so they say "Happy holidays" in order to politely include both yours and theirs (i.e. both Christmas and Chanukah).
Then I began to think back to A Christmas Carol, and it made my stomach sour. Why does Christmas have to elicit these Anti-Semitic stereotypes? Granted there are probably a lot of people today who have no clue that Ebenezer is a Jewish name, and in another twenty or thirty years no one will have a clue that it's a Jewish name. Regardless, it still bothers me that we have these stereotypes, and even moreso that so many people are oblivious. When people say, they "Jewed" someone down on the price, they're not saying that because they're Anti-Semites. It's just what they've heard people say, so they say it as well without ever knowing that it's Anti-Semitic. It's become commonplace. No one really cares because it isn't like anyone really cares anymore.

Wow. I've never viewed A Christmas Coral from that perspective. Made me do a little research on it.
I know about the very negative Jewish portrayal of Fagin in Oliver Twist, but as something of a champion of the poor, this likely may have stemmed more from Dickens' general distaste for the rich, given that Jews had a reputation for wealth at the time (hence the term "Jewing" someone down, as you referenced). According to the wiki article, Dickens did a 180 degree turnabout when he realized the early chapters were being received as highly anti-Semitic (see "Fagin and Jews in Oliver Twist," last paragraph).
Racism in the work of Charles Dickens - Wikipedia
 

shnarkle

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Maybe some know you well enough to know you are Jewish, so they say "Happy holidays" in order to politely include both yours and theirs (i.e. both Christmas and Chanukah).

People who know me, don't say "Happy Holidays". They say, "Merry Christmas".


Wow. I've never viewed A Christmas Coral from that perspective.
The name Ebenezer comes from the Hebrew ebhen hā-ʽezer stone of help; from the application of this name by Samuel to the stone which he set up in commemoration of God's help to the Israelites in their victory over the Philistines at Mizpah (1 Samuel 7:12)
 

Nancy

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Merry Christmas to everybody.

Merry Christmas to you too Pearl :)

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