WE MUST BECOME BECOME MACCABEES: A HANUKAH TALE

Hanukah is a time of miracles. It commemorates how a small band of the faithful, the Maccabees, succeeded against enormous odds to reclaim the Temple in Jerusalem from the Syrian-Greeks.

My synagogue participated in an interfaith Thanksgiving service the night before Thanksgiving. Sponsored by the Evanston (IL) Interfaith Clergy Association, its theme was “Celebrating Diversity - Living in Unity.” The American-ness of the Thanksgiving holiday has the capacity to join us together, in gratitude for our blessings, and despite our religious differences. We are all given the opportunity, by governmental decree, to pause to give thanks. Three choirs joined their voices to sing praise and gratitude, from Beth Emet, my congregation, from the Jewish Reconstructionist Congregation, and from the First Congregational Church. The Archbishop of Chicago, Francis Cardinal George gave the sermon. I was asked to dedicate one of my psalms to Cardinal George, and it was read by Beth Emet’s Rabbi Peter Knobel. I hope the Cardinal liked my selection.

One Hundred Forty

Thanksgiving Day

Thanksgiving has always been my holiday. Since the time I married, 26 years ago, it was the holiday spent with my family. When my husband, Reid, began his medical residency and seemed always to be on call on Thanksgiving, the celebration moved to our house. My brother and his family come in from Buffalo, my sister and her husband come in from Boulder, and they bring Mom with them and converge on us, ready or not.

Rosh Chodesh Kislev slipped by this week, but I could hardly tell it from a walk outside. Even as leaf blowers, pushing away the abundance of gold and brown were echoing, the weather here in the Midwest has been fooling me with record high temperatures and sunny skies. But I guess that duality is rather Kislev-like. This is the month we begin with the sorrow of Kristallnacht and end with the delight of Chanukah. The glimmer of broken glass transforms to light beaming through window glass, broadcasting miracles. Kislev holds stories of many dualities, just as life brings us half-empty and half-full glasses, our choice to pick the one we wish to drink from. Sweep up your memories and count the days to Chanukah, count the days to miracles.

The telephone rang Tuesday morning at 9:00 and my rabbi wondered, "Sorry it’s so last minute, would you like to appear on a local cable access television program with me called ‘Clergy on Call’"? And, by the way, it was scheduled for 5:30 that afternoon. Usually such appearances, while ultimately exhilarating, initially scare me to near paralysis. But this time, I really didn’t have a chance to freeze up. "Sure, why not?" I said and so it was that Rabbi Peter Knobel and I were sitting in the little studio of the Evanston Cable Access station, and talking about prayer and community. I’m sure the program was seen by at least 10 people: 5 in the booth, 4 who called in with questions, and my daughter who lives in Evanston and taped the program for me. But what we talked about, that our community is opening up to caring, was important, no matter how many saw the show. People are coming out of all sorts of closets. No longer do we struggle with illness or disability, financial downturns and family strife alone. We are making a place in our synagogue to offer gentle and dignified responses to need. We are naming names for prayers of healing. We are making sure that minyans arrive for shiva. We are trying. We are looking for ways to forge connections.

Last Sunday marked a blessed beginning at my synagogue. As part of our 50th anniversary celebration, we have commissioned the writing of a new Torah scroll. On Sunday, with a bit of learning, a bit of ceremony, and a bit of cheesecake, the first word, Bereshit, was written. Rabbi Shmuel Miller, the master scribe, trained in Tunisia and New York, who will write our scroll, came from his home in California, to teach us. His work, he said, is "not an art in the modern sense. It is a craft which requires religious knowledge, spiritual preparedness, and calligraphic skill." Speaking to a large gathering of our Reform congregation, Rabbi Miller embraced us with his knowledge and gentle humor and was patient with explanations. He sat our rabbi, Peter Knobel, down to write the first letter, the bet of Bereshit, and then completed the word to our applause. It will take him a year to do the writing; with God’s help, we will welcome the new scroll next year on Simchat Torah. Cantor Jeffrey Klepper composed a new song for the occasion. And I did, too.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I think it would be impossible to meet someone who has not been touched in some way by breast cancer. Herself, a mother, sister or aunt, a dear friend, a member of the many communities we belong to. It is all around us. News of diagnosis seems to come in bunches. We hear of one woman, two, four in the same month. Last June, a good friend and her adult daughter walked 60 miles in an AVON Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk that raised $4.7 million in funds for breast health and early detection programs. My husband, who is a physician, sees women with breast cancer nearly everyday, to perform a special diagnostic procedure. Jewish women worry if we are at special risk. Do we have the breast cancer gene?

When I married 26 years ago, I became part of a large extended family. My husband’s mother is one of three sisters, each of whom has three children. The nine first cousins grew up together, though my husband’s family lived about an hour’s drive away from the rest of the clan. There were Nana and Papa Joe, the grandparents, and assorted, more distant cousins. It was daunting to be thrust into this amalgam, coming as I did from a much smaller family.

Building a sukkah was the first and biggest Jewish thing we consciously decided to do. Inspired by reading The First Jewish Catalog, my husband Reid designed a three-sided structure that hung, cantilevered, off the back of our house. It was a beauty, lashed together at the corners with the rope tricks he had learned as a Boy Scout, no metal except the two eyebolts that attached it to the house. I tied-dyed sheets for the walls (this was 1981) and carefully hand-lettered the required blessings to hang as placards.