The Post-Chanukah, Post-Hasmonean, Dilemma

On this Shabbat of reading Parshat Mikketz, we are invited to contemplate the fact that the Hasmonean dynasty did not last long after the events that we celebrate as Chanukah.  Looking at the history this way may cause us to feel a dilemma that our ancestors sacrificed and fought for religious freedom only to see that freedom dissipate.  Inspiration from the Torah reading in Mikketz and the Haftarah about King Solomon can help us with a fresh, and energizing perspective, not to remove the dilemma but to see ourselves in a more dynamic way such that we can live with, and beyond, the way this dilemma makes us feel.

The last Chanukah candles are now just colorful wax on the menorah.  Our family menorah has gathered up so much multi-colored wax over the years, but we never chipped away at it since it was evidence of years of prayers, singing, a reflection of our family’s story, a journey through time, similar to the wine stains on Passover Haggadahs.

 

The remains of the candles also tell another story, a story that unlike the Chanukah miracle, tells of a reality that occurred after the miracle days ended.  The Hasmonean regime that grew from the sons of Matityahu remained in power for a little over 100 years until the Romans came in and then there was no sovereign Jewish presence in the Holy Land until 1948, just under 2,000 years later.  

 

And so we might begin to wonder what is the justice of such a great victory both of faith and of armed struggle to happen and then to flicker on for such a short time compared to a much lengthier period of foreign rule and oppression?

 

Our readings today offer two helpful perspectives on the big picture of justice in history, one comes through Judah, not the oldest, but the emerging leader from among Joseph’s brothers, and the other comes through King Solomon in today’s Haftarah.

 

In the Maftir reading today, Judah steps forward to Joseph, who he does not know is his brother Joseph at that time, and responds to Joseph’s accusation that someone has stolen his special cup.  None of the brothers took the cup, Joseph had it put in Benjamin’s bag.  Now Joseph tells the other brothers to leave while he will hold Benjamin in Egypt, since he is responsible for the crime.  

 

To this, Judah says Ma nomar ladoni?  Mah nedaber Uma nitztadak?  What can we say to My Master?  What is there to say and how can we prove our innocence? God has discovered our sins.

 

Rabbi Shmuel David Luzzato makes an observation here that clarifies Judah’s thinking, Luzzatto explains Judah knows if he presses their innocence, Joseph, here disguised as vizier, will get even more angry.  How could he not?  The brothers are travelers, outsiders.  He realizes in that moment he cannot save Benjamin, and so instead he takes up the guilt for stealing the cup on all the brothers so that it will not fall on Benjamin alone.

 

In thinking on the short lived Hasmonean dynasty following the dislodging of Antiochus and the Seleucids from power, instead of lamenting how relatively short lived it was, Judah’s example reminds us of the power of unity, the strength of the Am, the Jewish people, when we strive for unity, and hold true to a sense of purpose even when other great empires or events push and pull against the Jewish people and the countries where we live.  Joseph’s brothers choose to be a ‘we’ instead of an ‘I’, and years like 2020, when it can be tempting to focus on the ‘I’ and the survival instinct kicks in, it’s even more important to stay connected to the ‘we’, the anachnu, if we take a closer look at the 2^nd paragraph of the Shema, we’ll see the responsibility to keep the covenant falls on us as a people.  God is telling us we’re responsible for each other both during the times when it’s easy to do this and when it’s not.  As a colleague of mine taught me, the Hebrew word for life, Chayim, is in the plural, we might feel alone sometimes but we’re not, and if anyone in our communities is feeling this way then it’s up to each of us to bridge the gap.

 

The second perspective on justice comes from the famous story of King Solomon, Shlomo Hamelech, in today’s Haftarah, the story of two women, one woman’s child dies in the night and she places the dead child in the arms of the other woman and takes the other woman’s living child for her own.  When the dispute comes before Solomon and the women cannot be reconciled, he decrees, cut the child in half and give one half to each.  One says, please don’t kill the child, give the other the living baby!  And Solomon now knows who the real mother is.

 

The real mother’s feelings are raw and real.  Solomon is clever enough to find a way to bring them out.  A lesson here about justice in the fall of the Hasmoneans just a few generations after the Chanukah story is that our emotions also tell a story through us.  On Chanukah we still feel keenly and deeply the pain of losing our holy places, the pain of being subjugated, the pain of not being able to be who we are and who we want to be.  The sufganiyot and latkes are delicious, the songs are beautiful, but there is a feeling of righteous indignation that is discomforting, and that is a good thing. When the Hasmonean dynasty fell, that feeling became lodged in the Jewish soul, and as uncomfortable as it is, it’s a spur to action, to connection, and it’s needed.  Sometimes we rub a bruise or a wound long after it’s gone, and the memory is bittersweet, and can be painful, and it can also remind us of strength we have that we thought we lost.

 

The Chanukah candles may have burned down for 2020, for 5781, but they are lit up inside us, inside us all, when we look at each other we can see them, and each of us is a shmash, here to relight the flame in each other when inevitably it will temporarily go out from time to time.  Perhaps this is what the Rabbis were thinking of when they composed the words, or chadash al tziyon Ta’ir, may a new light sine on Zion, because every time the light wanes or goes out, we’re there and ready to light it again.