"The Last of the Light"

The passage of time slowly transforms all religious holidays.

Human experience and history 

    alter original stories and old rituals.

Most traditional observances are actually works in progress,

    and their meanings change to meet current needs.

 

The Hanukkah observance has undergone 

    more than one transformation

        in its long life.

Its origins are probably earlier than the story itself,

    and the story itself has its own history.

In the familiar version,

    the brave Maccabees led a successful uprising

        against their Hellenistic overseers

            and reopened the holy temple in Jerusalem.

Though they had only a single bottle of oil,

    it burned for eight days,

        long enough to rededicate the temple

            and celebrate their freedom.

 

Rabbi Arthur Waskow, a scholar and progressive Jewish thinker,

    has pointed out that the story of Hanukkah

        would have been lost

            if the people the Maccabees defeated

                had not recorded it themselves,

                    in Greek.

The record later became part of the Christian holy books,

    and the Jewish people did not rediscover it

        for many years.

This testament of Jewish identity would never have resurfaced

    if Christians had not preserved it

        and revered it as a holy story from earlier times.

 

This irony adds an interesting twist 

    to the traditional understanding of Hanukkah.

But it's not the only twist there is.

Rabbi Waskow also makes the case 

    for the pagan aspects of Hannukkah. 

 

Far from resisting assimilation,

    the Maccabees were actively competing 

        with the popular culture of their day,

            and their victory was as much spiritual

                as it was military.

The Hanukkah observance is carefully timed to occur

    not only as the winter solstice is approaching,

        but also when the moon is waning:

            the darkest of dark times.

Waskow surmises that the Maccabees rededicated the temple 

    just when the pagans were lighting bonfires

        and praying for the return of the sun.

Returning to the temple was both 

    a repudiation of pagan practices -

        and an adoption of them for their own purposes.

 

The miracle of the light burning 

    for eight days instead of one is no accident either.

It is intentional and symbolic 

    and central to the meaning of this holiday.

        "Since the whole universe was created in seven days,"

            Waskow writes,

                "eight is a symbol of eternity and infinity.

The ability of that single jar of oil 

    to stay lit for eight days

        symbolized how with God's help

            that tiny amount could unfold 

                into an infinite supply of spiritual riches."

Even in the darkest time,

    there are unlimited resources:

        for survival, 

            for celebration

                and for understanding.

 

Such layers of meaning add a universal quality

    to the Hanukkah celebration.

Every faith finds a way to light candles

    in the darkest time of year.

We gather together with our kin 

    and hasten the return of the light

        by making some of our own.

 

Although Hanukkah and other seasonal celebrations

    occur at a dark time of year,

        the message of these holidays is good anytime.

The candle lighting ritual enacts a positive human response

    to darkness of all kinds:

        begin with whatever light you have.

It will grow.

The spiritual value of lighting candles in the darkness -

    as a ritual,

        and as a powerful symbol of hope -

            is universal.

It attests to a larger truth,

    that the light will return,

        and that even when we are down 

            to our last bit of it,

                we have more than we realized.

And yet, though this truth may be simple

    and our rituals persistent and universal,

        we are slow - if ever -

            to believe it wholeheartedly

                or to live as if we did.

 

I understand why.

Whenever life is darkest,

    our faith in the future is challenged

        and our imagination is limited.

We can't see how life can possibly improve;

    all we know is how hard it is right now.

 

And sometimes life doesn't get better

    in the hoped-for ways.

People get sick,

    then they get worse and die.

Relationships go wrong

    and leaving is better than staying.

There is no end to what can go wrong. 

Life brings darkness;

    we all see our share of it.

This much we know is true.

In a way, you have to wonder 

    why people ever came up with hopeful rituals 

        to bring back the light.

Perhaps they did so simply because it was better 

    to gather around a fire together

        than to huddle, cold and miserable, in the dark.

And the sun always did return that way.

 

What does it take, 

    in this day and age,

        to live as if the light will return?

It takes knowing how to rekindle hope.

And it doesn't take much:

    even the smallest spark is enough to keep us going,

        just as the single bottle of oil

            did in the story from ancient times.

People find hope in different ways,

    through action,

        through relation

            and through faith.

 

Rabbi Waskow has written some new words

    to go with the lighting of the menorah candles 

        in today's dark times.

They are straight out of the prophetic tradition.

After naming many of the ways 

    in which a world goes dark -

        from war to global warming -

            the lighting of each candle is a pledge

                to do something about each problem.

The candle lighting ritual becomes an invitation to do everything 

    from car pooling

        to writing legislators

            to lobbying the temple Board.

In response to the despair we see in the world,

    the candle we light in the darkness

        is a promise to do something about it.                  

 

Activism is a worthy way to generate hope for the future.

But some times of darkness are too debilitating

    to bring out the activist in us.

Fear, grief, affliction -

    don't inspire us to action.

At such times we can only begin

    where we are,

        and if we are depleted,

            hope finds us                               

                by the care others give.

 

"At times our light goes out,"

    wrote Albert Schweitzer,

        "and is rekindled by a spark

            from another person."

The various ways in which 

    people sustain each other

        are virtually unlimited.

From a perceptive teacher in the formative years of school,

    to inspiring role models in public life,

        to kind strangers 

            and forgiving friends,

                hope can arise wherever we find ourselves.

I watch my mother, 

    not one to be leveled easily,

        coping with insurmountable grief.

Losing a mate after 58 years has to be 

    one of the most painful experiences

        life can hand out.

She would probably be inconsolable,

    were it not for the other widows

        who have helped her to realize

            that she is not alone.

Since they share an experience,

    they offer credibility,

        compassion,

            and an example of how to survive.

They've got the spark my mother needs.

I hope that she will rekindle.

 

Hope is sustained by action

    and by compassion.

It is also sustained by faith,

    which in its simplest form is a willingness 

        to wait and see what happens next.

Faith is openness to the future,

    to possibility and to dreams.

 

When the Maccabees rushed to light up the temple

    with their one little jar of oil,

        they had little else but faith 

            in what would happen next.

The story tells how their faith was all they needed

    for the light to continue.

To our way of thinking, 

    their miracle is symbolic,

        showing how faith is the beginning

            of great things.

 

It's still a relevant teaching for today, 

    even so.

In a short while we will vote to approve our building program,

    an ambitious but realizable plan

        to create some new space

            and remodel the old.

We've already raised considerably more than the equivalent

    of a single bottle of oil 

        to get started,

            not to worry,

                but we still need to have faith 

                    that we can finish.

Whenever I think about how we got this far,

    from the early dreams of those 

        who wanted to see what we could do,

            to carry forward the possibility,

                to make a plan -

                    I see faith, 

                        an abundance of it.

And I believe that we have what it takes

    to finish what we have begun:

        not simply funds, as needed as they are,

            but also patience, 

                imagination 

                    and a collective love of the power 

                        that gathers us together.

Rabbi Waskow writes that the eight days of light

    represent how an "infinite supply of spiritual riches"

        can come from a small but faithful beginning.

Every time we hope and plan for the future -

    even times like now, 

        which challenge even the most optimistic among us -

            we are living by faith.

Every time we act on the life-sustaining connections we share,

    that unify and direct us to sustain each other,

        we are acting on faith.

Every time we rekindle another's spark

    when the light goes out,

        we are keeping the faith.

 

The holidays have begun in a very dark time.

May all the candles we light

    bring us hope,

        enough to share,

            so we can look forward to the future together.

The story of Hanukkah is told and analyzed by Arthur Waskow in Seasons of Our Joy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1982).