If you and I lived in another place, this week we might see our neighbors celebrating Hanukkah. Walking or driving slowly home at dusk, we might see inside through lighted windows, glimpsing families preparing holiday foods, reciting special blessings, exchanging gifts, playing games. We might see the warm glow of candles burning steady and bright: two on Tuesday night, then three on Wednesday, then one more each night for eight nights, as darkness comes steadily earlier, and the night air grows steadily colder.

Seeing this words of our call to worship might echo in our ears:
We gather in the chill of winter solstice, finding warmth from each other, nourishing hope where reason fails.
Grateful for small miracles, we rejoice in the wonder of light and darkness and the daring of hope.

At first glance, from outside, Hanukkah might look like one more of the many holidays of light that have emerged through the ages in this season of growing darkness, in this winter in the north.

At first glance, from outside, the Hanukkah candles might seem to mirror the Yule fires of Solstice, the twinkling lights of Christmas, the oil lamps of divali, the Kinara of Kwanzaa.

Sometimes, first glances can be deceiving.

It is undeniable that Hanukkah comes during the season of longest nights and shortest days. It is true that Hanukkah celebrates a miracle-story of light. But the story tells us that the timing of Hanukkah has more to do with an anniversary than an annual cycle, more to do with the ancient use of fire in purifying and hallowing a sacred place, than with the equally ancient use of fire to warm and light the darkness. The Hebrew word “Hanukkah” means “dedication,” and the Hanukkah story weaves together two senses of the word. It celebrates the dedication of Jews determined to remain faithful to their religious heritage in defiance of a concerted effort to force them to conform to the state religion. And it celebrates the re-dedication of the Jerusalem Temple to Jewish worship, a ceremony in which the holy lamp was kindled with only enough oil for one day, but miraculously burned for the whole eight days necessary to purify a new supply.

Sometimes first glances can be deceiving.

Tracy Rich, writing about Hanukkah on the “Judaism 101” website observes that “Chanukkah is probably one of the best known Jewish holidays, not because of any great religious significance, but because of its proximity to Christmas. Many non-Jews (and even many assimilated Jews!) think of this holiday as the Jewish Christmas, adopting many of the Christmas customs, such as elaborate gift-giving and decoration. It is bitterly ironic that this holiday, which has its roots in a revolution against assimilation and the suppression of Jewish religion, has become the most assimilated, secular holiday on our calendar.” [http://www.jewfaq.org/holiday7.htm]

Imagine, now, that we can hear through the lighted windows of our Jewish neighbors this week, as they celebrate this more-than-2000-year-old holiday at home. Imagine that we can hear the story that is told to the children, as the tradition is explained, and kept alive. Perhaps the story of Hanukkah is familiar to you. Perhaps you have not heard it for years. Perhaps you have never heard it before. Imagine listening through the falling dusk, with attention to both senses of dedication woven through the tale, with appreciation for the story’s revolutionary nature, with ears open to hear what lessons it may hold for us, two millennia later in a land across the world…

The story begins in the year 332 BCE, (Before the Common Era, counted as the year “zero”) when the young Greek king Alexander the Great defeated the armies of Persia and gained control over all the lands and the people that the Persians had ruled – including the province of Judea. The Jews of Judea were long accustomed to being ruled by foreigners. For more than 250 years first the Babylonians and then the Persians had governed Judea with the help of a Jewish High Priest in the capital city of Jerusalem, who had administered secular regulations while maintaining the integrity of Jewish Temple Law and Hebrew history, culture, and religious traditions. At first, the new administration seemed little different than its predecessors to the accommodating Jews.

Even after Alexander and his successors began to implement policies designed to unify all the citizens of the Greek empire, most Jews were quite open to learning the Greek language and studying Greek philosophy, art, and science. These new ideas did not eclipse their Jewish identity, nor did they interfere with their practice of their unique, monotheistic religion. Gradually, Judean society became increasingly Hellenized, with Greek dress, names, and architecture more and more common. Hellenized Jews were religiously multi-lingual, familiar with the Greek gods and goddesses in daily commerce, but faithful to their own ways in Temple and home. In the second century BCE, Jewish scholars in Alexandria, Egypt completed the translation of the Torah into Greek (what we now know as The Septuagint.) These Hellenized Jews were the majority throughout the Kingdom, but there remained a minority of Jews who feared and resisted Hellenization, and foresaw only negative consequences of what we might call “going along to get along.”

For more than a century, the Greeks, too, were content to allow the Jews a great deal of autonomy in government and religious practice, provided that they paid their taxes and maintained order. Political fortunes rose and fell as they always have, and many citizens were largely unaware of the goings-on in the halls of power, concerning themselves with their own lives, and families, and the struggles of daily living.

But the Greek empire, divided now between the Ptolemaic rulers in Egypt and Judea and the Seleucids in Syria and Asia Minor, became increasingly more chauvinistic. Judea fell under Seleucid rule, and in 175 BCE Antiochus IV succeeded to the Seleucid throne. Ambitious to extend his power and capture Egypt, he needed to ensure the loyalty and support of all people under his rule – most especially the Jews of Judea, which bordered on Egypt. And so began Antiochus’ campaign to bring the Jews completely into line with the state culture and religion. He appointed a Hellenistic High Priest in the Temple, forbade the Jews from observing the Sabbath, studying the Torah, or circumcising their sons – under penalty of death. The Jerusalem Temple was desecrated by requiring the sacrifice, on the Temple altar, of pigs – non-kosher animals that were forbidden in Jewish households under Jewish law.

Many Jews fled Jerusalem for the isolation and anonymity of the countryside. But Antiochus’ soldiers were there, too, calling together the villagers and demanding that they make Greek sacrifices to Greek gods. Some Jews gave in, holding the law of the land above the Law of the Torah. They argued with their neighbors and cousins, urging them to try to fit in, not to draw attention to themselves and their disagreement with the demands of the government. Perhaps they could still hold their beliefs in private, while appearing to be Greeks in public. After all, sometimes first glances can be deceiving.

But other Jews, confronting this Greek challenge, were strengthened in their Jewish identity in all its manifestations – public and private, political and religious. Among these was the priest Mattathias, elder of a priestly family and father of five grown sons. When Greek soldiers demanded that he kill and roast a pig and eat some of its flesh, Mattathias not only refused, but struck out at a Jewish villager who agreed to make the sacrifice, killing first the Jew and then the Greek commander.

Fully aware of the enormity of this act of defiance, Mattathias and his sons fled to the mountains, leaving behind all the comforts of home and establishing there a base for several years of guerilla resistance to Greek soldiers and Hellenized Jews alike. Mattathias’ third son, Judah, called by his father “strong and mighty from his youth” [Marilyn Burns. 1981. The Hanukkah Book. p. 18] was nicknamed “Maccabee,” “the hammer.” Judah led his brothers and their growing band of followers in raids and battles. The name “Maccabees” soon stuck to all five brothers – and to all who followed them in their support for Jewish law, Jewish identity, and the freedom to practice their own religion publicly as well as privately, without persecution from foreigners, neighbors, or assimilators in their own families.

Some, in telling the story, emphasize details of the battles, glorying in the Maccabees’ daring and courage. But at its heart, this is not a story of warfare and military victory. Suffice it to say that the Maccabees, sustained by their dedication to lives lived in honor and worship of their God, succeeded against overwhelming odds. In the late fall in the year 164 BCE, Judah Maccabee and his followers seized the Temple in Jerusalem from the Syrian soldiers.

Hearing this, words of our call to worship might echo in our ears:
Holy One of Blessing Your Presence fills creation.
You performed miracles for our ancestors in days of old at this season.

In that fall of 164 BCE, the Maccabees were heartsick at what they found in their Temple. The gates were charred from fire. Weeds grew in the once-beautiful courtyard. Temple vessels were broken or gone. The altar was broken, defiled with the blood and smelling of the burned fat of sacrificed pigs. The curtains had been torn down – perhaps used as blankets by the soldiers, whose spurs and spears and leavings littered the floors. The lamp, which always burns in the innermost chamber, was cold and dark.

They wept and mourned. They prayed to their God for guidance, and strength. And then they got to work, dedicating their hands and their spirits to rebuilding, refurbishing, restoring, renewing. When all was in readiness, they opened the last jar of purified oil, only enough for one day’s lamplight, and poured it into the lamp. Then with prayers and chanting, they re-kindled the holy flame. With singing and dancing they re-sanctified the holy place. With story-telling and with the work of their hands they re-enacted and renewed the memory of their covenant with their God and also with each other, of their struggle to live in right relationship with their highest values and also with their best interests. For eight days they celebrated, and for eight days, against all logic, the flame burned steady and true, until new oil was ready to refill the holy lamp.

Picturing this, words of our call to worship might echo in our ears:
Holy One of Blessing Your Presence fills creation. You made us holy with Your commandments and called us to kindle the Hanukkah lights.
For remember, the meaning of “Hanukkah” is “dedication”

And so it is that every year, in the late fall, on the twenty-fifth day of the Jewish lunar month of Kislev, Jewish families dedicate eight nights to the lighting of candles in the nine-branched Hanukkah menorah. Every year, for eight nights, stories are told, and special foods are eaten, and songs are sung. For eight nights attention is paid to the struggle to live in right relationship with God and also with each other, with highest values and also with best interests. At first glance, it may look like one more holiday of light, but first glances can be deceiving.

And when we look again, look deeply, we recognize that two thousand years and a half a world away from the Maccabees, we, too, struggle to live our values in a society that sometimes seems determined to pull us off our center. We, too, face the temptation to “go along to get along.” Sometimes we are the ones urging accommodation, urging change from within. Often, so often, we are the ones working to build bridges, not barricades; the ones reaching out to celebrate common cause with those whose faith or politics or philosophy would cast us out.

And when we look again, look deeply, we see that dedication wears many faces. Some are militant, and battle-scarred. Some are patient, steadfastly prepared to work for slow, steady change. Some are tear-stained, mourning lost dreams or beloved companions or better days that seem to have gone forever. Some are thoughtful, remembering and retelling a story of sacrifice and redemption, enacted once, and then again, and surely yet again. And some glow with hope like the light of one candle, burning against all logic in a cold, dark night.

Let us take time, then, to look again, look deeply. Let us settle into silence and look into our own selves, and see there the face that dedication wears for us, within us.

The bell will lead us into silence, and music will lead us out.

Bell
Silence
Meditation music

Shalom and amein.

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