By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel in Chula Vista, California
One of my favorite projects with my boyhood Hebrew class was when we would make a homemade menorah out of wood and aluminum foil. The project brings to mind the following story:
It was the first night of Chanukah in the Bergen Belsen Concentration Camp. It was time to light the Menorah. A jug of oil could not be found, not a candle could be seen anywhere. Was the holiday of Chanukah to be forgotten?
Not quite.
An old wooden shoe of an unknown inmate was used to form the base of a make-shift menorah. The shoestring was used as the wick; black shoe-polish (made out of oil) was used in place of the olive oil.
Human bodies hunched together to participate in this wondrous moment. Human skeletons sang in unison the traditional melodies as Rabbi Yisroel Spira of Bluzhov recited the blessings.
The Rebbe reached the third blessing, the shehecheyanu prayer. “Blessed art Thou, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has kept us alive, and has preserved us, and enabled us to reach this season.”
The camp, despite its moments of despair and gloom, often had exciting debates on matters pertaining to faith, truth, and religion. One skeptical man asked the Rebbe the following question immediately after the candles were lit.
“Rabbi Spira, you are a clever man. I can understand why you light the candles and recite the traditional blessings. But, how could you thank God for enabling us to reach this season when there are literally hundreds of dead human bodies surrounding the shadows of the Chanukah lights? For all the hundreds of living skeletons, who are being massacred, for this you are thankful to God? For this you praise God? This you call ‘keeping us alive?'”
“Zemnowski,” you are right. When I reached the third blessing, I found myself asking the same question. As I stood and beheld the large crowd of living Jews surrounding me, I saw that their faces were full of faith, devotion, and concentration as I recited the traditional blessings.
At that moment I asked God, “Has ever a nation at times like these, when during the Chanukah lights they see in front of them the dead bodies of their brothers, fathers, and sons, and death is looking at them from every corner? Indeed, I was blessed to see such a devoted people with so much faith and fervor. That is why I recited the third blessing.”
Years later in the state of New York, Rabbi Spira received regards from Mr. Zemenchowski. He told the old Rebbe that the answer he gave him that dark night of Chanukah has stayed with him ever since.
Chanukah teaches us that out of a small cruse of oil can come forth miracles despite the odds we are faced with. Darkness is a universal symbol of gloom, hostility, desolation, loneliness, confusion, and depression. Just a little bit of light can push away the darkness. The Book of Samuel (II 22:29) describes this: Yea, thou art my lamp, O LORD, and my God lightens my darkness.
As a child of the generation that survived the Holocaust, I see us all reliving the dark and evil days of WWII. The daily murder of Jewish children by armed, adult men wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.
We Jews had forgiven, if not forgotten. Taken the reparations. We desperately wanted to believe that the world had changed, that it had become a more compassionate place. We hoped that as Jews we would never see people march down the streets of Paris or Berlin, shouting “Death to the Jews.” Yet, today, this kind of evil is banal. It is commonplace.
The forces of hatred and cruelty are once again being indoctrinated to a young generation, a legacy of antisemitism that seeks to finish what Hitler and the Nazis only started.
The State of Israel has endured more than 15,000 terrorist attacks just over the last two years. Despite it all, the Israeli spirit remains strong and steadfast. Even now as Jews across the state of Israel celebrate Chanukah, they are determined to live proudly as Jews.
Last Sunday’s massacre at Bondi Beach in Sydney reminded me of the Park Hotel in Netanya, blown up on Seder eve. As Jews were gathered for a Chanukah celebration—lighting candles, sharing joy in one of Australia’s vibrant Jewish communities—suddenly, the sound of gunfire shattered the night. Two gunmen, inspired by ISIS ideology, opened fire on the crowd, killing 15 people, including two rabbis, a Holocaust survivor, and a 10-year-old girl named Matilda.
They wounded many more, including police officers. It was a holiday that turned into a nightmare, a family gathering that will scar and sear the survivors’ memories for as long as they live, even if they walked away without a scratch. I cannot even begin to imagine how an injury or death would affect the families.
In the aftermath, as the Sydney Opera House was illuminated with a massive menorah in tribute to the victims, and as mourners gathered for funerals like young Matilda’s, I find myself like Rabbi Spira, wondering:
How can a people who experienced the horrors of the Holocaust and now face such brazen antisemitic terror—gunmen charging into a Chanukah event, turning light into darkness—muster within themselves such faith? How can they still recite the blessings? Who has kept us alive?
Chanukah teaches us that we must strive with every ounce of our strength to keep this Godly lamp burning continuously despite the adversities. Chanukah teaches us that we must face the world’s darkness and ignorance with the confidence that God will somehow help us see our way through.
Talmudic wisdom teaches us that we should never evaluate a container per se based on its external appearance but rather evaluate it based on its contents.
The Maccabees knew and understood the power of faith and commitment. It was this spirit that kept our people alive, as it did their ancestors. Let’s keep the flame of the Menorah burning brightly by renewing our commitment to keep our faith and our people alive, safe from the diabolical forces which seek to destroy us.
Rock of Ages, let our song praise Your saving power. You amid the raging throng were our sheltering tower. Furious they assailed us, but Your help availed us. And Your word broke their sword when our own strength failed us.
Armed with a legacy of strength, courage, and the power of hope and prayer, let us do everything we can in word and in deed, individually and collectively. Just as our ancestors experienced great miracles, let us pray that our words and deeds make us worthy of experiencing miracles in our own day, as we did in the days of yore.
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Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California.