Chanukah and the Courage of Complexity
By Rachel Landsberg
I am very glad to be in community with all of you and to have the opportunity to share a few words of Torah to ground and guide us this Chanukah.
The Gemara in Shabbat teaches that it is a mitzvah to place our chanukiah in a visible place מּׁשּום ַּפרסֹומי נִיסא— in order to publicize the miracle.
But what is the miracle we are publicizing? What is the story we are telling when we place our chanukiah in a prominent place for all to see?
Our tradition does not offer a single, simple answer. Instead, it preserves multiple understandings of what the miracle of Chanukah actually was.
The Book of Maccabees emphasizes the human hand in the military victory.
The Al HaNisim prayer emphasizes God’s hand in that same victory.
And in the Talmud, the rabbis center the holiday around the miracle of the oil. It is a spiritual triumph of light over darkness. We celebrate the survival of Jewish tradition and practice in the face of oppression and forced assimilation.
Perhaps our light reflects the complexity of our story. And perhaps, in turn, it reminds us of the complexity of any given story — any given moment, any given people.
For me, at this moment, that complexity looks like this: I’m at a Chanukah party with other Jews, which brings me joy. I get to remember how much I love being Jewish and how proud I am to be a Jew. At the same time, I carry grief and fear following the targeting and killing of my Jewish sisters and brothers at Bondi Beach yesterday as they gathered to celebrate Chanukah. Complexity.
Another complexity: We have placed olive oil out on the tables here to enjoy and to dip our bread into - to remember the miracle of the olive oil - בַּיָּמִים הָהֵם בַּזְּמָן הַזֶּה - at this time so long ago. But also, with intentionality, we decided to use Al’ard olive oil, sourced from Palestinian farmers. The olive harvest is central to the livelihood of Palestinian farmers and is an example of their ties, agricultural and otherwise, to the land. I feel outrage and horror when I think about the extreme settler violence toward Palestinian farmers during this year’s olive harvest. Complexity.
At Smol Emuni, we strive to hold complexity — in our minds and in our hearts. The pain of the past two-plus years has many layers, and we believe it is essential to face and try to hold all of them. We believe it is possible to hold deep love for Israel, to remain firmly grounded in Torah, tradition, and observance, and at the same time to fight for peace and an end to the occupation. We believe it is possible to imagine and work toward a shared future for both Israelis and Palestinians.
I want to share a final thought about how I am understanding what the light of our Chanukiah symbolizes this year.
There is a midrash about the first light God brings into the world, and about humanity’s relationship to that light. Bereishit Rabbah teaches in the name of Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Shimon:
אֹור שבָרא הקדֹוׁש ברּוְך הּוא ְּביֹום ִראׁשֹון, אָדם צֹופה ּומביט ּבֹו ִמּסֹוף העֹולם וְעד סֹופֹו
The light that the Holy One created on the first day — Adam could see with it from one end of the world to the other.
With God’s initial light, Adam could behold the world in its entirety — in all its wholeness and complexity. This primordial light granted perception, insight, wisdom, and depth of understanding: the capacity to truly “hold” complexity.
The midrash continues that as humanity became corrupt — first the generation of the Flood, and then the generation of the Tower of Bavel — God hid this light away.
What was so wicked about these generations that caused God to hide the light?
Radak explains that the generation of the Flood was marked by violence, especially in their interpersonal relationships. Force was normalized as a means to achieve one’s ends. Their behavior threatened the very foundations upon which God had built the world.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests that the sin of the Tower of Bavel lay in its demand for radical conformity. This insistence on sameness violated the dignity of difference that is essential to God’s creation.
Seen in this way, the light is hidden because violence and enforced conformity undermine God’s hopes for the world. These generations suffered from a kind of tunnel vision — unable to see beyond themselves, unable to behold the world מּסֹוף העֹולם וְעד סֹופֹו – from one end to the other.
And yet, the midrash reminds us, the light is not gone forever. The midrash teaches that God set aside the light for the righteous in the future, as it says in Mishlei (4:18):
וְאַֹרח ַצדיקים ְּכאֹור נַֹגּה הֹולְך וָאֹור עד נְכֹון הּיֹום
“The path of the righteous is like a dawning light, growing brighter until the day is established.”
The midrash invites us to help bring this light back into the world — by walking a path of righteousness and justice, by cultivating a fuller vision of reality, and by committing ourselves to holding complexity with compassion and humility.
May we merit, together, in community — through hard work, open hearts, and at times tears — to bring God’s light more fully into our world.
Chag Urim Sameach.
