During the cold and dark winter months, I often long for spring and the beginning of the return of more natural light. Especially when reading the next several weeks of Torah portions concluding the book of Breishit (Genesis) and beginning the book of Shemot (Exodus).
Darkness has always permeated these stories with their recurring motif of brothers’ inhumanity to brothers.
It began with the first two brothers, Abel and Cain. The slaying of Abel by his brother Cain was the first paradigm of difficult brotherly relationships.
Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Joseph and his brothers are all emblematic of the troubled relationships of the nations that grew from their descendants.
In the case of Cain, he was fearful that as a result of his actions he would be “hidden from [God’s] presence” (Genesis 4:14).
In the case of Isaac and Ishmael, Ishmael was sent into the wilderness with Hagar his mother, and at their most desperate moment, Hagar placed the dying boy under shrubs (Genesis 21:15), distant from the light of the sun.
At two significant moments in the story of Jacob and Esau, there’s again an absence of light.
First, at the beginning of the story of the stolen birthright when we learn, “Isaac was old and his eyes were so weak that he could no longer see” (Genesis 27:1). This set the stage for the moment when Jacob fools his father into giving him the firstborn’s birthright.
The second time occurs before the brothers are reunited when a mysterious figure attacks Jacob under the cover of darkness. We, the readers of the Torah are “in the dark” as to the identity of the mysterious figure (though there is endless and wonderful speculation), but the attack left Jacob limping, unable to run from the reunion and transformed him into Israel.
The Joseph story’s critical moment, the moment of rising action, occurs when Joseph is tossed deep into a pit (Genesis 37:24), far from the sun and the warmth of a loving family.
Like the stories of our Bible, the winter season provide us with a literal sense of the decline into darkness amidst the spiritual darkness that reaches its apex with the plague of choshech (darkness) at the end of our Egyptian sojourn (Exodus 10:21-29). The days are shorter and the nights are longer.
It is when the absence of light is at its greatest that we need it the most. Which is why Chanukah, the Festival of Light, is so important. Not only for the candles glowing quietly in the darkness, but for what they represent.
Our symbols stand for miracles. Miracles that occur when someone in the midst of a ruined Temple kindles a lamp with only one day’s worth of oil, daring to dream it might last for eight.
Miracles that occur, when a young Jewish child experiences a moment when a rock is hatefully thrown through his window displaying a chanukiah (Chanukah menorah) as happened in Billings, Mont., in 1993, followed by a powerful response. Members of the whole community placed chanukiot in their windows.
Miracles that occur, when people of different faiths assemble, on holidays like Thanksgiving, and embrace each other as family.
One plus one plus one…we beat back the darkness and our lives are warmed, enriched and enlightened when we stand together like the candles of the chanukiah.
Each individual brings light. Together we are brighter. Unified we are radiant.
There are many opportunities in our community to stand together. Opportunities in your homes, with your synagogues, with your federation and beyond.
During this winter season I invite you to create your own miracle. Beat back the darkness and see the face of your brother.
Let us remember the lessons of our teaching, and bring the light into each of our homes in brotherhood and love.
Rabbi Noah Chertkoff is associate rabbi at Congregation Shalom and will become senior rabbi in July. He is also the current president of the Wisconsin Council of Rabbis.
Loading ...