At this
winter time of year, when the days seem almost perpetual darkness, it is easy
to bemoan the fading of the light. There is, for many of us, that certain
winter weariness that starts to set in. As I have said before, I don’t think
it’s a coincidence at all that most of the great religions of the world have
some sort of festival of lights at this time of year. We need to remember the
light, and celebrate the light, when winter comes. One of the most important of
these celebrations, of course, is the Jewish festival of Hanukkah.
For eight
consecutive nights, starting last evening, our Jewish neighbors and friends
will light candles in their homes, as will members of the Jewish faith around
the world. These candles will symbolize the rededication of the Temple of
Jerusalem in the year 137 BCE,
when just a tiny bit of sacred oil burned, miraculously, for eight straight
nights. “Hanukkah” is the Hebrew word for “dedication”. It is a time for joy
and celebration, for merriment and gift-giving, and fun and games. It is also a
time when the Jewish people are asked to remember what a dedicated few can do
against a mighty empire.
So that’s
why I think that it is fitting and proper, whether we are of Jewish heritage or
not, to take a little time during the rush of the Christmas season to mark the
festival of Hanukkah as well. For the story of the Maccabees represents a
precious legacy to all of us.
Hanukkah is
about the victory of freedom—religious
freedom, in particular. It doesn’t celebrate the Maccabbes’ military skills or
the might of their weapons or the tactical prowess. Rather, Hanukkah celebrates
the depth of their commitment to a sacred cause, a spirit which inspired a few
dedicated souls to persevere, and eventually to triumph, in the face of
overwhelming odds and great difficulties. Indeed, it is a story written not
just in ancient scriptures, but deep upon the human heart.
Just as it
is easy in December to bemoan the fading of the light, so it is easy to fall
into the trap of becoming mired in the long, sad litany of folly and failure
that litters our human sojourn on this earth. There are certainly enough
stories of war and mayhem and senseless violence in history to go around.
This is, for even the most casual
student of history (for even the most casual observer of life, for that matter)
a hard story to ignore. But it’s too easy to come to believe that it’s the
whole story, because it’s not. Perhaps this is another reason we have Hanukkah
and Christmas and other days that celebrate the human spirit: to remind
ourselves that the story of human stupidity and callousness and depravity is
only about half the story of our human race, perhaps—maybe a little more, maybe
a little less.
For, yes—only a fool can deny the
face of evil in human experience. But we have seen the face of the divine
there, as well. In our own lives—in our history—in our common human story—we
have also seen the many blessed faces of hope. They have met us along the
pathways of our existence in a fascinating and inspiring variety of shapes and
sizes and ages and races. History can depress us, but hope can take our breath
away, as we watch it dancing, and hear it singing, from so many unexpected
corners.
Yes, though humankind walks through
the darkest valley, hope abides.
In the bleakest years of experience
and the grayest years of history, hope abides.
Amidst our deepest fears and our
greatest disappointments, hope abides.
Hope is also always borne by men
and women (and even children) who look just like us.
Who wear the face of humanity as we do—no more, but no less. Who are no
less than fully human, in all that
magnificent potential; no less than fully alive, completely open to the
Spirit’s power moving within us, transcending the limitations of human history;
transforming the often-drear and turgid prose of human experience into the
vibrant, singing poetry of hope.
In spite of persecution and
prejudice and pogrom and even unspeakable Holocaust, the eternal light of the
faith kindled by the Maccabees still shines.
In spite of greed and selfishness
and exploitation and tyranny, the eternal light of hope still illumines the
path of human history.
In spite of darkness and depression
and despair, the eternal light of love still burns in our hearts, and lights
our days and fires our nights, and reminds us that we are created in the image
of the divine.
As Vaclav Havel reminded us, in
words that have become a sort of mantra for me, hope is not the same thing as
optimism. Hope is not the assurance that things will be easy or will turn out
well. Hope is, rather, the blessed assurance that what we are doing makes sense
and has purpose, and that it is the right thing to do, whatever the immediate
consequences.
The words of the great Unitarian minister
Theodore Parker, too, echo with hope: “The arc of the moral universe is long,”
Parker wrote, “but it bends inexorably toward justice.”
Arrogant and self-satisfied little
men might strut about the stage of history for a little while, acting like a
sort of schoolyard bully. But history does not belong to them, and sooner or
later, they always face a day of reckoning.
Hope is a dimension of the spirit;
it is a gift from God. But it is a divine gift which bears a human face. It is
a divine gift passed down by fragile human hands. Hope is a gift from God. But
it only comes alive if we light the lamp, and live out hope within our lives.
Seek out and find your own angels
of hope, my friends. Listen to the stories of your own days, your own stories,
and ponder the deeper questions in your hearts. Discern for yourselves who it
has been—which people, which men and women, have spoken words which lit up the
darkness, have lived lives which reflected that deep hope?
Then remember this: The spirit that
was within them also lives within you. It
is within you right now, waiting in this season of Hanukkah, this season of
Advent, to come alive, to bear fruit, to grow, as the perennial seed lies
waiting in the ground of winter for its season of new life to come again.
There are angels of our common
human history who call to us, as well. Some walk still among us now; others are
long gone, except in memory. All still live in special places in our hearts;
they still burn in the candles of the menorahs of our souls.
We can remember Mahatma Gandhi, his
creativity, his persistence, his discipline. We can remember his commitment to
human liberation, not just of the physical person, but of the mind and soul as
well.
We can remember Rosa Parks who got
sick and tired of being sick and tired, and took her seat on that bus in
Montgomery on the first day of December in 1958, and launched a new American
revolution.
We can remember Nelson Mandela,
whose quiet grace and dignity led a nation away from an almost certain abyss of
violence and bloodletting, and onto a road toward promise and possibility and
peace.
We can remember Lech Walesa, a
simple electrician in a shipyard on the Baltic coast of Poland, who through
conscience and courage and religious faith and good old Polish stubbornness
alone, decided that working men and women in his country, no less than anywhere
else, deserved to be treated with dignity and respect. And so, Solidarity was
formed, and the face of Europe (and the world) was changed.
When we take the easy way out and
despair of the sad state of our world, let us take time to remember this great
cloud of witnesses that travels with us on this human journey. Remember these
cherubim of the human spirit, these seraphim of hope: men and women, sometimes
of extraordinary powers, but oftentimes not; all somehow inspired, either by a
spark from heaven, or some spark deep within their souls, to put aside the
easy, well-worn path of lukewarm living, and find within themselves a little
more love, a little more courage, a little more responsibility, and little more
hope.
Back in the year 137 BCE, the
Maccabees could have said: “Oh, the Seleucids are too strong. We’re doomed. Our
people will never be free. Let’s just worship their pagan idols.” Or, later,
they just could have lamented: “Oh, there’s not enough oil. We can’t rekindle
the lamp. The Holy Light will never burn again.”
But they didn’t. They fought on.
They lit the lamp with the little bit of oil they had. And so, the lights of Hanukkah
still shine.
Gandhi could simply have said: “The
British are too strong; they’ll never leave India. But I’m well educated; I’m
bright; I’m ambitious. To heck with these Untouchables; I’ll just set up a law
practice for myself and make enough money to get by comfortably.”
But he didn’t say that, and so the
lights of Hanukkah still shine.
Rosa Parks could have just gotten
up from her seat when that bus driver in Montgomery told her to. It would have
been easier for her just to get up, and walk to the back of the bus.
But she didn’t. She sat in that
seat—a defiant and courageous angel of the human spirit. And so, the lights of
Hanukkah still shine.
Mandela could have given into those
who told him to preach violence and race war and revenge. It would have been
easy to do so; it could even have been justified. But he didn’t. He chose the
more excellent way of non-violence and reconciliation. So, light another candle
on history’s great menorah.
Walesa could have lost himself in
personal concerns. “Why should I worry about anyone other than myself?” he
could have asked. “I’ll join the Communist Party instead; I’m become a
careerist, an apparatchik and boss
other people around.”
But he didn’t. So boldly light
another candle, and let the hope of Hanukkah still shine.
There are other lights, too—small
and flickering now, perhaps; but waiting to be fanned into full flame by the
winds of hope.
Light a candle for Myanmar, for
Burma, where the seeds of democracy planted by brave souls like Aung San Suu
Kyi might truly be bursting through the hard ground of tyranny.
Light a candle for Syria, where
brave men and women once again have proven (nearly 40,000 of them with their
lives) that the way of hope is seldom easy, but that no amount of military
force or totalitarian tyranny can quench a people’s longing for freedom.
In Burma—and Syria—and in so many
other places around our world—the true lights of Hanukkah still shine.
Emma Lazarus once wrote:
Kindle the taper like a steadfast star,
Ablaze on evening’s forehead o’er the earth,
And add each night a luster till afar
An eightfold splendor shines above thy
hearth.
Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued
horn:
Chant psalms of victory till the heart take
fire,
And the Maccabean spirit leap new-born.
May the spirit of Hanukkah be born
anew within us, every year. May that spirit of justice and freedom—and of
hope—move within our hearts and hands, and resonate in our time, and illuminate
the world.
Shalom. Amen.
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