Dark of Winter
The dark of winter surrounds us.
The sun appears for only nine hours a day.
We are held in the womb of the night.
Dark, starry skies embrace us in the infinite
Darkness invites us to come inside, to gather around the fire,
the hearth, to light oil lamps, candles, and the chalice.
This month of the shortest days and longest nights becomes a time for stories.
Long ago, Israel was ruled by a foreign king. The King decreed the Jews could no longer practice their religion. No longer would they be allowed to worship according to their conscience. Because of their religious identity, they would not enjoy the same rights and privileges accorded other citizens.
A small group of Jews, freedom fighters called Maccabees, stood up to the powerful. They refused to be oppressed by the Goliath of the empire. They were greatly outnumbered, clever, brave, and finally victorious.
These freedom fighters returned to the religious home taken from them. The Maccabees returned and found their temple vandalized, trashed, defiled.
As they reclaimed and rededicated the temple, only one small amount of sacramental oil remained. The practice was to tend the oil lamp with a continual flame to remind people of the eternal’s abiding presence.
The one small amount of oil was enough to burn for one day. The light lit the temple as the people cleaned and cleared and more oil was prepared. Miraculously the light burned for eight whole days.
An old story.
The story resonates ~ the deep universal longing for home, for sanctuary. The Maccabees reclaim their homes. In own time, in this country six million people lost their homes to the Goliath of the empire, through foreclosures and the lending practices of banks. The Occupy movement protests this economic inequality and acclaims all people’s right to homes.
The persecution of minorities continues through human history. During World War II, we know six million Jews, Roma peoples known as gypsies, people with mental illness, gays and lesbians, were killed. Today undocumented workers lose their jobs, homes, loved ones, face detention and deportation. Always some group ostracized.
Do you remember this story?
A cold December night in Billings, Montana. Christmas lights twinkle on many houses, and from a few homes Hanukkah menorahs shine.
Suddenly, a loud crash. Icy air breaks into the room. The big front window of a child’s bedroom shatters. Shards, tiny slivers, and jagged pieces of glass cover the floor and on the bed, a big rock lands.
The air so cold, 5 year old Issac fears being in his own room. He wonders, “What if I had been in the bed when the rock came flying through?”
The family calls the police. A hate crime, the officer says. A small group of people have been causing trouble, sending out leaflets saying hateful things about Jews. They damaged the synagogue. Now they target homes with menorahs. The police officer suggests, “Be safe. Take down your menorah.”
“But celebrating Hanukkah is part of being Jewish. We’re not going to let this bullying keep us from practicing our religion.”
The family shares their story with the local TV stations. School teachers talk with students about Hanukkah and persecution. They ask, “Has anyone ever been picked on for being different?”
The community gathers. People ask how they can help. Someone tells the story about what happened in Denmark during World War II. Nazis ordered Jews to sew stars on their clothing so they could be easily identified. The King of Denmark announced that if the Jews had to wear stars, he would wear one, too. Nazis threatened to punish people who helped Jewish neighbors. Nevertheless, when the king appeared wearing a star, many Danes began wearing them too.
In Billings, Christian neighbors of the Jewish family with the broken window decide to place a menorah in their window.
Religious leaders meet and invite their members to place menorahs in their windows.
As the days of Hanukkah continue, more and more menorahs appear. A miracle ~ Billings, a town of only several dozen Jewish families, has homes with counts of somewhere between 6,000 and 10,000 menorahs.
A few years back, a couple in this congregation had rocks thrown through their windows. On their sidewalks were written homophobic slurs and hateful messages.
The young men who hurled the rocks and the obscenities were caught.
The couple invited their neighbors and the young men’s families to a party at their home. They offered a chance for people to know them, believing that is the way to reduce hate crimes. The families of the young men came. Miraculous invitation, miraculous acceptance. The family too wants to be seen for who they are, more than the relatives of vandals.
Imagine if the young men also had sat down with the couple. Imagine they all talked. The couple could share how they felt, their fear, anger, the feeling of violation, the mess, the cleaning up of the broken glass, the ugliness of the hateful words.
Imagine if the young men and they together had come up with what would make it right.
Imagine if the young men could tell about their lives. What has hurt them, angers them and makes them want to lash out?
Maybe it really has nothing to do with the couple or gays at all.
Winter time, night visitors, what surprising connections we might make.
A folk tale tells the story of a Hanukkah guest.
A bear rouses from winter sleep. He smells delicious scents, lumbers out to follow the smell.
A grandmother makes potato latkes. She is 97 year old, does not hear or see well. Still she makes the best potato latkes in the village. Everybody makes their way through the snow to her house. How they love those latkes.
The first night of Hanukkah she makes plenty. The rabbi is coming. There’s a knocking at her door, more like a thumping.
“Why, Rabbi, how nice to see you!”
“Grrrrrump,” growls Old Bear.
“And Happy Hanukkah to you too. Come in, come in. I’ll take your coat, Rabbi. My how thick it is.” She tugs on the bear’s fur.
“Grrrrowwww.”
“Oh, you prefer to leave your coat on…fine.”
Old Bear follows his nose to the oven. “Rabbi, I’m surprised at you; you know we don’t eat until we light the menorah.”
“Grrrrr!”
“That’s all right. I know you were teasing. I’ll light the candles. Will you say the blessings?”
“Rrrumph…grrrooowr…rrrrr….”
“’Who has kept us, preserved us, and sustained us to this time.’ Oh, Rabbi, you say the blessings so beautifully.”
Then the old woman serves up latkes with jam and stacks them on Old Bear’s plate. Old Bear snuffles with pleasure as he gobbles the last latke. He eats it up.
The old woman laughs. “You should use a fork. You have jam all over your beard.” She wipes his muzzle clean.
Old Bear shuffles to the door. “Rrrrumph,” he growls and ambles off into the night.
“Good night to you too, Rabbi! Happy Chanukkah.”
She washes the dishes when she hears another knock.
“Shalom,” greet the neighbors.
“Shalom, everybody. Come in, come in. I’m sorry I don’t have any more latkes. The rabbi came by. He ate them all.”
“Don’t you recognize me?” asks the Rabbi.
The old woman scratches her head. “Something strange is happening here. An imposter is going around. He looks like you. He talks like you. He even has your beard.”
Two of the neighborhood children cry, “Come, look!” There on the kitchen floor: Bear tracks!
“A bear!” says the old woman. “Either the bear was very clever or I was very foolish. Ah well, I had a happy Hanukkah. And so will you. Go to the cellar and bring up some potatoes. Soon, latkes for everyone!”
[told by Eric A. Kimmel in The Chanukkah Guest]
Maybe you have some loved ones who seem like grumpy old bears.
Maybe during dark nights, you can mistake them as welcome visitors.
Still go a little easy on the latkes and jam. And everything else. Go easy.
I tell myself. “You need to reclaim the temple of your own body. Don’t stuff it with latkes, liquor, fudge, sludge. Clear it out, cleanse your body, this temple, rededicate it. Breathe in clean air. Enjoy fresh water. Eat lightly.”
Winter time, visitors, stories, sweet connections.
This week Bill and I visited long time member Joan Swift. Joan is in hospice care in a board and care home. In the busyness of the day, I may have been thinking Bill was a bear, but Joan tugs on his beard and tells him he is a handsome man. He eats it up.
The three of us remember a time years ago when Joan took a fall. We called 911. Firefighters came and she flirted with the young men.
This is the night time of Joan’s life. Her voice is just a whisper. She blesses us. She recites the 23 Psalm. Green pastures, still waters, a table before us, cup running over, shadow of death, fear not. Surely goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our lives and we will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Love, keep us, preserve us, and sustain us.
Joan, Bill, and I sing together, words to songs we all know by heart. She is peaceful, accepting, unafraid. Whatever complaints there once were….all seems loving now.
Maybe there will always be oppressors.
Maybe there will always be people singled out and ostracized.
Maybe there will always be rock throwing and slurs.
Maybe there will always be grumbling old bears.
And there will always be groups of freedom fighters, maybe small in number, clever and brave who stand up to the Goliaths.
Always there will be people who don stars, light menorahs.
Always there will be people who offer miraculous invitations.
Always people who miraculously accept.
Always those who treat us like welcome guests.
Celebrations will happen; candles will get lit.
There will be the dying of a day, of a year, of a life.
Love will abide.
Babies will be born.
Joan, nearing the end of her life, and baby Melinda beginning hers, aren’t doing much. Not much, but just enough.They aren’t doing, so much as, being. Just their being draws forth love.
Winter darkness reminds us of our brief days.
All of us together…a little while…. how wonderful.
In the dark of winter, let us…just…be, And let our being draw forth love and peace from the world and from our own hearts.
Copyright © 2011 Rev. Barbara Hamilton-Holway. All Rights Reserved.
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