Living Lights: A Hanukkah Story

Living Lights

A Hanukkah Story

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

“Our eyes register the light of dead stars.” So begins one of the most powerful books I ever read, The Last of the Just, by Andre Schwarz-Bart. What the author meant, of course, is that when we look up at the beautiful night skies, the lights we see up there—the stars in their constellations, the galaxy our own planet resides in, and other, more distant stars and planets—are nothing but reminders of what once was, but is no more. What we see is light that has traveled for eons before it finally reaches our eyes.

These tiny lights that pierce the darkness are actually all that remains of huge, mega-explosions that, because of their great distance, seem no more than tiny pin pricks in the dark cover that surrounds our own planet, Earth.

The little Hanukkah candles that we lit tonight are a bit like that. We see little lights, each burning for perhaps twenty minutes.  Yet when we put them all together, as we did here earlier tonight, how brightly they shine—how much light they actually shed! Their tiny flames join together into a great light, spreading warmth and happiness all around.  Sometimes, sitting around the menorah and looking at these dancing lights, we can almost hear them tell their stories, tales of wars and heroes, of darkness and light, of fear and redemption.

The first Hanukkah, more than two thousand years ago, didn’t start out a holiday. It was a war. A terrible and cruel war in which people did terrible things to one another.  It was the middle of winter, a cold winter at that, and throughout the land, oil—used to cook and provide light—was getting scarce. Many of the trees had been cut down, both to serve as fuel and to make weapons out of.  The meager few trees that remained weren’t watered or nourished properly, and many died because of disease.  Food was in short supply. It was a difficult time for all.  From the higher hilltops you could see villages all around that had been set afire by the Greeks. Everywhere, you heard stories of how it was forbidden to teach Hebrew, to sing Hebrew songs, to learn Torah.

Little by little, the people of Judea began to lose hope, and one by one, lights went out. First it was that window that remained dark at night, then another, and another, until in the end every village was dark, and quiet, and hopeless.

It wasn’t only the Greeks that Judah the Maccabee had to fight. It was also the hopelessness he saw all around.  “You can’t win,” people said to him.  “The Greeks are giants! They ride elephants! They have armor that arrows cannot pierce! There are too many of them!”

And everywhere he went Judah tried to convince the Jews that they should never lose hope, that God will yet lead them to victory and to freedom.  Perhaps here and there a person would stop and listen.  A child would not her head and say, “We can do it, Judah, I believe in you.”

There were many tough battles. Many brave Jews were badly injured and had to be carried off the field. Some luckier ones limped back to their homes, leaning on the stronger arms or shoulders of their still-standing fellow soldiers.  Still, little by little, Judah made his way to Jerusalem, leading his brave brothers and the small but dedicated army they were able to gather around themselves.

One dark, moonless and starless night, Judah set out by himself to spy on the Greek armies that had occupied Jerusalem.  He left his horse tethered to a tree a few hundred yards back, walked as quietly as he could until he had to stop, not wanting to be seen by guards. From afar he could tell that the Temple wasn’t in good repair.  On a good day during peaceful times, you could see all the way from Modi’in, Judah’s home village, the smoke cloud that hovered over the Temple. It was the smoke of the many sacrifices the priests were offering day and night. This night, however, from his hiding spot behind some rocks, the only smoke Judah could see was from the many campfires the Greeks had set on the Temple mount.  Some time ago already, they had used up the last of the Temple’s precious supply of pure olive oil.  Now they were burning looted furniture from abandoned homes—empty cupboards, broken tables, chairs left behind in a panic.  Creeping ever closer, Judah could hear the sound of breaking glass, the raucous laughter and lewd songs of the drunken soldiers.

At one point Judah had gotten dangerously close to one of the guards the Greeks had posted around the city. At that distance, he could have easily picked him off. But the sentry’s absence the next day would have been noticed, giving warning to the Greeks that all was not as secure as they had deluded themselves into believing.

Judah knew his small army wasn’t ready yet for the big battle.  Yes, God was on our side, but that wouldn’t be enough in facing the two full garrisons of heavily armed Greeks that Antiochus, the mad Syrian king, had placed in the Temple compound.  If Judah and his Maccabees were going to win this one—and it was essential that they did—they would have to rely on the element of surprise.  So Judah held his breath while the Greek guard walked by, just a few yards away.  There were others, Judah knew.  From his nightly vigil and from the reports of other spies, Judah knew that the guards were posted in groups of four or five; that every few minutes they huddled together for some warmth, then would resume their watch.  And so he crouched silently behind the craggy rock, quiet as a mouse.

Just for fun, he picked up a stone, measured in his mind the distance between him and the guard now pacing away from him, then threw it towards the Greek.  The stone flew the measured distance and landed in a small bush just a few inches away from the soldier. Two birds that had taken refuge in it for the night took sudden flight, crying out in their panic.  Judah saw the Greek soldier jump and practically faint of fear.  He held back his laughter, watching as the Greek swore, took out his sword and started waving it at the darkness, cutting nothing but air.  Two of his fellow guardsmen ran to him, making a racket with their clattering shields and swords, scattering rocks and mice along the way. Judah felt nothing but contempt for them.

When the three soldiers were satisfied that there was no danger there, they laughed in some embarrassment. Then they decided they had had it for one night.  They sat down under a tree and took out a skin of wine, passing it from one to the other.  They talked a little bit about how boring this war had become.  Then one of them began to sing softly a song of the home country.  It told of the quiet hills of Greece, where their homes and families were waiting for them, where a pretty young girl was standing at the shore of the sea, looking out toward the horizon, hoping to see the white sails that meant her sweetheart was coming home to her.  Pretty soon, soothed by the wine and the song, they fell asleep.

Judah stood tall.  For a moment he thought whether to leave a sign that he was there.  Something small—perhaps just take some of their armor or weapons so that, when they woke up the next morning, they would wonder whether any of it had happened, who was there, and whether they might be in trouble with their captain.  But he decided not to do even that.  The less they knew, the less prepared they would be for the battle when it came.

Many days later, when Judah had entered Jerusalem at the head of his army, when he proudly lit the Temple menorah with that last can of untainted oil that he had found, he thought of that night.  He remembered the darkness and the cold he had felt hiding behind the big rock. For a moment he felt ashamed.  A man shouldn’t have to hide who he is or what he is.  No man named Judah, no proud daughter of Israel, must ever hide in fear again.  Looking at the bright lights dancing over the menorah, Judah took an oath.  Never again would people be afraid to study Torah. Never again would Hebrew be a forgotten language.  Never again would Jews cower like mice in the dark and cold.  Not the lights of long-dead stars, but rather the great light of the menorah would remind them.  Tomorrow, the next day and the day after that.  As Judah watched the flames and the halos that surrounded them, he knew this:  That year after year, century after century, Jews will remember this night, when the Temple menorah burnt bright again.  That thousands of years from now, they would celebrate this night with family and friends, with songs and good food, and that they would never be afraid again.

The war wasn’t over yet, Judah was well aware of that.  There was much to do yet before the last Greek soldier was chased out of Judea. But Judah’s heart was filled with gladness and hope.  Jerusalem was in the hands of the Jewish People again.

Judah lifted his voice in prayer and song, thanking God for always being there for us.  

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman