Judaism – Page 2

Counting our blessings

It’s that time of year again. Which I face with trepidation on occasion, because my family celebrates Hanukkah – and that’s it. Some years, I manage to float by in a haze of patience, busy with my family’s celebrations and entertaining, oblivious to everything around me. Other years, I’ve had to interact with the majority culture around me in ways, big and small, that feel difficult. I could go into all the examples of what makes me feel uncomfortable, but that’s not really necessary. Why? Too many readers know what I mean, and those who don’t will suggest that I’m just being overly sensitive, whatever example I raise.

Hanukkah (however you spell it in English) is not a major Jewish holiday, though it has some themes that require adult maturity to unpack. It’s a story of guerilla warfare, a holiday of religious freedom, a tale about light and miracles, and of a small group of locals winning the fight against a big assimilationist majority. It’s not the easiest set of ideas to explain to kids, which is probably why we teach them the blessings and focus on dreidels, fried food, candles and presents.

Hanukkah shares a lot of ground with other winter solstice holidays, of course. It’s really dark at this time of year and all we want to do is bask in a little bit more light, eat lots of calories and find something to enjoy together indoors. Winnipeg, where I live, is a good place to remember this – with the change to standard time, the sun goes down very early, with just about eight hours of daylight.

After all this pondering, I kept coming back to what recipe I could find to make this year one of the “good ones,” where I don’t dwell too much on the frustrations of the season for minorities. It came to me, while driving back and forth to the elementary school. When my kids are on duty as safety patrols, they need to arrive early and leave later, so they can’t take the school bus. Even though they are learning to be responsible in Grade 6, the people who learn the most about responsibility in this scenario are parents. We drive them to school early and wait patiently in the car for 15 minutes after school is done so we can drive them home again.

A person (ahem, me) can get grouchy about this, especially because there’s a lot of traffic at this time of day. However, my special reminder happens when I cross a bridge, under which a river flows. We are lucky to be situated at the forks of two rivers in Winnipeg, so we cross bridges a lot. At a Jewish summer travel camp, long ago, my kids learned to recite a chant reminding us that the Ba’al Shem Tov says water is a siman brachah, a sign of blessing – a good sign.

The Ba’al Shem Tov was the founder of Chassidic Judaism, a teacher and a mystic and the stories of the Ba’al Shem Tov maintain resonance for us today. Remembering that water is a sign of blessing made me think about how very lucky my family and I are. We have clean water, unlike many Indigenous Canadians, and unlike many others in the world. In general, most of us in Canada have a place to live, heat and food. We are not suffering in winter as much of Ukraine is, without electricity or heat. While inflation is rising, we’re not faced with the staggering heat bills hitting the United Kingdom and Europe.

Once I remember to be grateful, I find myself pushing farther – to consciously force myself, when perhaps I am grouchy, hungry or cold, to be more patient and kind. For me, that crankiness is temporary. For people who are struggling, unhoused and don’t have enough to eat, it’s a much longer ordeal.

The Ba’al Shem Tov was a very good teacher and had patience and love for his students, who were small children. I’m also returning to the elementary school now, as I’ve started volunteering one afternoon a week. This, too, has been a gift. Helping kids in Grade 1 with the alef bet (Hebrew alphabet) is another wonderful opportunity to celebrate. If volunteering is giving, I receive the enthusiasm, affection and wonder that these eager learners share. It’s worth the traffic jam struggles of crossing the bridge repeatedly in traffic.

When Hanukkah arrives, we’ll have our night of tzedakah (charity) as well as our nights with sufganyiot (jelly doughnuts) and other small treats. We’ll light our candles and push away darkness as we can. However, the Ba’al Shem Tov’s reminder, that water is a blessing and a good sign, is a year-round gift, just as it is to work with kids. We can choose to use these teachings as a reminder to take that deep breath, find the bandwidth and be kind because we’re grateful and fortunate.

I can’t guarantee I’ll always be patient this time of year. I’m not always up for the parties that are for the “holidays,” but are called wassails, or the repeated Merry Christmas greetings. Luckily, I have lots of chances to look out at the water as I cross the bridge and to look at the joy of kids eager to learn, and to remember to be grateful for these blessings. Have a great Hanukkah!

Joanne Seiff has written regularly for CBC Manitoba and various Jewish publications. She is the author of three books, including From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. Check her out on Instagram @yrnspinner or at joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Neville sworn in with shofar

Anita Neville’s swearing-in ceremony on Oct. 24 included the blasts of a shofar blown by her rabbi, Anibal Mass. (screenshot)

Anita Neville says she “feels the responsibility” of being the first Jewish person to be appointed as the lieutenant governor of Manitoba – an office she was sworn into on Oct. 24, using a Hebrew Bible.

For the next five years, the vice-regal residence in Winnipeg will be where Neville calls home. And she was quick to start carrying out official duties like laying the first wreath during the province’s Remembrance Day ceremony, and reading the government’s Speech from the Throne to open a new Manitoba Legislature session on Nov. 15.

“The whole thing is new. The protocol is new. I’m fortunate that there are very knowledgeable, experienced people around me, so that makes it easier,” Neville told The CJN Daily in an interview from Government House, acknowledging that she has a steep learning curve for her new role.

Which is why, shortly after her swearing-in, Neville flew off to attend a round of orientation meetings. She also learned that she will be going to Buckingham Palace, at some point, to present her credentials to King Charles III.

“There are three others who have not presented their credentials to the monarch, so there are four of us in line,” said Neville. “I don’t know where I am in the order, but I look forward to it very much.”

Couldn’t lose face with grandson

Neville was at her cottage with her grandchildren in July when Prime Minister Justin Trudeau called to offer the position. She took time to think about whether she wanted this very public role. After all, she already had a fulfilling career in community service, including as chair of the city’s public school board, and then 11 years as the Liberal member of Parliament for Winnipeg South Centre, from 2000 to 2011. She’s also deeply involved in Jewish community matters, with her synagogue Shaarey Zedek, and the Jewish Heritage Centre of Western Canada.

At first, some members of Neville’s family were worried the new position might be too much for their 80-year-old mother and grandmother.

“I’ve got a very bad back,” she said. Neville walks with the assistance of a cane.

But her decision was made after she thought about her grandparents and her roots, having been born in the traditional Jewish immigrant neighbourhood in the North End of the city, then growing up after the Second World War, when barriers to advancement still existed for Jews.

What clinched it was when a grandson scolded her and said, “How could you not take the job? How many people get this opportunity?” Neville felt that she didn’t “want to lose face with Aaron.”

Considering saying no was “beyond his comprehension,” she said.

Jewish and Indigenous touches

The 26th lieutenant governor in Manitoba’s history made sure to put her own stamp on the official swearing-in. The formal ceremony was full of Jewish symbolism.

It not only involved her choice of Bible to swear the oath, but it also had the piercing blasts of a shofar blown by her rabbi, Anibal Mass – who delivered blessings and then led the audience with a loud “Mazel tov!”

The opportunity is something the daughter of Russian Jewish immigrants in Winnipeg’s North End never dreamed would be possible for somebody with such origins.

In her speech, Neville told the audience that her grandparents fled Bessarabia and Odessa a century ago, to escape a climate of murderous antisemitism, and to find freedom and opportunity in Canada.

“I wanted … the larger community of Manitoba to be aware of who I am and where I came from,” she said. “I did it thoughtfully. I don’t think I was over the top.”

It wasn’t only having Jewish rituals that marked a departure from previous swearing-in ceremonies. Neville pushed to include Indigenous people in the program, which she claims is the first time this has happened. It stems from her own decades of work on their behalf, and it will likely be a key part of her mandate.

An Indigenous elder, Myra Laramee of the Fisher River Cree Nation, delivered an invocation during the ceremony, and even called her longtime Jewish friend by the title of “Auntie.”

A positive signal: Neville

Neville’s swearing-in also came just three days before the Manitoba government adopted the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance definition of antisemitism, becoming the fifth Canadian province to do so. (Canada adopted it nationally in 2019.)

While she did not have anything to do with the timing, and did not work behind the scenes on that file, Neville agrees both things are good for Jews.

“I think, for the Jewish community, it is a signal of positive acceptance, integration,” Neville said. “Not that it wasn’t there before, but it’s a kind of stamp. It’s like getting a check mark.”

Neville isn’t the first Jewish person to hold a similar appointment in Canada: that milestone was pioneered by Myra Freedman, who served as Nova Scotia’s lieutenant governor from 2000 to 2006. (Freedman held Shabbat dinners at the official residence and kept kosher.)

For her part, Neville plans to install a mezuzah at the entrance to her private quarters when she moves into the century-old Government House. And she won’t serve pork or shellfish.

When she was initially appointed, a friend immediately called

her, half-jokingly anticipating an invitation for the fast-breaking meal at the end of Yom Kippur. All Neville can say to that for now is, “We’ll see.”

Centre-left stance on Israel

Neville is a long-standing supporter of Israel, and her appointment comes amid rising antisemitism, including a torrent of hate for Israel and Zionism.

B’nai Brith Canada’s annual audit reported 223 anti-Jewish incidents in Manitoba last year, up from 92 in 2020, and 83 the year before that, according to Janna Minikovich, a spokesperson for the group.

Does Neville fear becoming a target for anti-Jewish sentiment in her new role? During her days in Parliament, she remembers receiving some hate mail, but she declined to comment further on her current opinions on Israel, besides describing those views as “centre left.”

Neville co-chaired the Liberal Parliamentarians for Israel caucus when she was an MP. Moreover, in the House of Commons, she raised the plight of the 800,000 Jewish refugees expelled from Arab lands, saying people needed to pay attention to this historic injustice.

But she also criticized Stephen Harper’s Conservative government for cutting federal funding to KAIROS Canada, an aid agency supported by several churches. The group supports the boycott, divestment and sanctions movement against Israel as a method of combating what it considers oppression of Palestinians. (Neville said at the time that, without clear explanations of the change in funding, it appeared Canada was stifling criticism of Israel.)

Operation Ezra volunteer

Neville has long been an advocate for social justice causes. One that is dear to her heart involves her work with a Jewish-led rescue organization in Winnipeg, Operation Ezra. The group has worked with other faith communities since 2015, to help bring 65 Yazidi refugees to Canada. (The federal government has brought in hundreds more under a federal sponsorship program starting in 2017.)

In between rehearsals for the Speech from the Throne and planning her move-in date to her new quarters, Neville made sure to turn up at the Winnipeg airport to greet the latest new arrival.

Ayad Alhussein, now 13, was captured by ISIS forces in 2014 – along with his entire family – when the Islamic extremists took over much of Iraq and Syria and set up a caliphate. Yazidis are not Muslims, and they were ordered to convert, or be killed. Ayad was just 5 years old at the time, and was kept prisoner for five years, until he escaped. He had been living in a displaced persons camp in Iraq, while two of his surviving sisters made it to Canada.

According to Michel Aziza, co-chair of Operation Ezra, it took constant pressure by the committee on local MPs and on immigration officials to get Ayad’s paperwork processed. “The world moved on, from Yazidis, to Afghans, to Ukrainians,” said a frustrated Aziza after Neville welcomed the slightly overwhelmed teenager.

Scenes like this underline why Neville’s swearing-in speech referred to her core values of “tikkun olam and tzedakah,” referring to herself as a descendent of refugees.

“I know that the Jewish community … because of what [feedback] I’ve received, has been very happy and very pleased with my appointment. And I feel the responsibility of it, let me tell you.”

To listen to Ellin Bessner’s podcast with Anita Neville, visit thecjn.ca/news/anita-neville-profile. The swearing-in ceremony can be viewed at youtube.com/watch?v=d0i3C2lce-g.

Talking about addiction with L

Jewish Addiction Community Services (JACS) estimates that one in six members of the Jewish community in Metro Vancouver – or more than 4,000 people – are in need of support for dealing with substance use disorder. And yet, it is a topic that many of us find hard to talk openly about.

“I grew up around alcoholism in the home. There was shame in the family that dad had a drinking problem, and it affected my childhood, there is no doubt,” said L, who had the courage to speak with the Independent about their experience with alcoholism. “My dad was an angry drunk and he’d be embarrassing in public. He didn’t show up for commitments and didn’t turn out to be a very good father. I got to the point where I didn’t count on him because I couldn’t, and I resolved that with myself at a young age.

“Yet, there was a part of his life that was enticing and rather exciting for me,” added L, now a sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and a participant in JACS Vancouver. “When my father would pick me up on a Friday night, we would head to the bar. I thought it was something fun, better than my boring life at home.

“I would be excited to play the bar games and drink Shirley Temples, but I was way too young to be in that environment, way too young to have my views shaped by those experiences.”

Although these tavern trips took place when L was in junior high school, they considered it normal. “I didn’t realize there were no other kids in the bar. It seems weird to me now that no one objected,” L reflected.

L grew up in an environment where Judaism was not talked about much, either. “There was already a stigma within a stigma. There was a great shame about being Jewish. Being Jewish was rarely discussed, the same way Dad’s drinking was rarely discussed. Both topics became elephants in the room.

“I think what I draw from that experience is that I really believe the disease of alcoholism is genetic; it seems to run in families,” L said. “All I needed was that environment to stir up that excitement. My dad had a full wet bar at home, and I just loved it. I was drawn to it like a magnet because I associated it with fun Friday nights when Dad took us to the bar.”

L’s father’s drinking led to L’s mother divorcing him when L was 5. There remained trauma within the home – matters that were not openly discussed – and alcohol presented a means “to take the edge off.”

L established their own relationship with alcohol and began drinking and using drugs as much as possible.

“I was the perfect rebellious child,” L said. “I found ways to drink – whether stealing it from my parents’ liquor cabinet or sneaking out at night to hang out with older kids to drink. I used to hide it in my room. I kept a mason jar of whiskey in my closet.”

As L’s dependence increased so, too, did their obsession to drown out reality. “In high school, I would sneak out to drink and do drugs. I would put a trashcan beside my bed so I would have a place to throw up when returning home. This way, I wouldn’t risk waking my parents, because my bathroom was right next to their bedroom. I was pretty far gone by high school. The more I drank, the less I was interested in life around me. I dropped out of school and then left the house at 16.”

The reliance on alcohol remained for another 10 years. Family members disassociated themselves and L eventually sought help. By the time L “hit bottom,” a phrase used in AA to describe the lowest moment in an alcoholic’s drinking experience, they were “unemployed, suicidal and physically dependent on alcohol to function on a daily basis.”

“I didn’t fashion myself to be that bad, yet I didn’t have any friends left,” said L. “No social network, I was very isolated. I didn’t leave my house anymore. I didn’t check the mail. I couldn’t even go to the grocery store without being drunk or high. I ended up going to a counselor, who thought I should go to an AA meeting. I thought that sounded horrible; I was only 26. AA sounded like it was for a bunch of old men and winos who lived under a bridge. However, my counselor said, ‘It has to be better than the way you’re living now.’”

Though there were struggles initially in attending AA meetings, L picked up a desire chip (sobriety coin) in August 1997 and has not had a drink or drug since, recently celebrating 25 years of continuous sobriety. L remains active in AA, and sponsors others who are looking for relief from their alcoholism.

AA, though it often holds meetings in churches, is a non-denominational program. “I am very steeped in Alcoholics Anonymous and that’s my central connection with sobriety,” L said. “It wasn’t until a Jewish friend in AA told me about JACS that I was able to reconcile my long-standing concern with the Christian side of AA.”

After attending some JACS meetings, L felt relieved that they could talk openly about their Judaism, which had been a sticking point for L in AA. Through JACS, L was introduced to the book Twelve Jewish Steps to Recovery, by Rabbi Kerry M. Olitzky and Dr. Stuart A. Copans.

“Just reading the foreword to that book helped me better understand that AA’s founder, Bill W., was only using the God of his understanding, which happened to be based in Christianity, to write the outline for sobriety in the AA literature.”

This realization was a profound moment for L, since they always “railed against [the Christian] part of the AA program,” saying “that never felt right.”

“All of a sudden,” L said, “I realized that AA wasn’t Christian at all, only Bill’s concept of his higher power was. AA allows me to choose the concept of my own higher power, which is based in Judaism.”

Becoming more involved with JACS has opened a whole new perspective for L, which was not found in AA meetings alone. “I couldn’t be more grateful for finding this missing piece of the puzzle at JACS and for the continued support of Shelley Karrel, who runs the Vancouver chapter,” said L, who attributes this shift to becoming more involved in the Jewish community and reconnecting with their lost Judaism.

“I would not have had this spiritual awakening without being more connected to my community and being introduced to JACS,” L said. “Being able to finally connect my sobriety with Judaism feels like coming home for me.

“When I think about my father’s demise – a sad and lonely alcoholic death – I know that could have been my fate as well. There isn’t a day that goes by without being reminded of where I came from and how grateful I am that I survived. I did not have to die by suicide, or alone with a bottle hidden away in my closet. I was given a new life. A sober life.

“Thinking about drinking is the furthest thing from my mind today,” said L. “It used to be the only thing I thought about 25 years ago. The obsession has been removed. I am completely safe and sound when it comes to alcohol now, as long as I stay active in AA and keep on the path of spiritual growth.”

For more information on available resources and support – within and beyond the Jewish community – visit jacsvancouver.com.

Sam Margolis has written for the Globe and Mail, the National Post, UPI and MSNBC.

The music of Shabbat

Az Yashir is an original Jewish music album of songs for Shabbat from singer and composer Yair Rosenberg. As a journalist, Rosenberg has interviewed White House officials, profiled Israeli prime ministers, covered Jews in baseball, and even chronicled the translation of Harry Potter into Yiddish. But, for the last seven years, he has been working on something different.

Az Yashir takes listeners through the experience of the Jewish Sabbath, combining centuries-old lyrics with contemporary musical influences ranging from Irish folk to EDM. With this debut album, Rosenberg follows in the footsteps of his grandfather, Rabbi Israel David Rosenberg, a Chassidic composer who escaped the Holocaust through Shanghai and whose songs from that time are still sung to this day.

Az Yashir features eight original compositions and two new adaptations, performed by Rosenberg, backed by 20 different musicians and produced by Charles Newman of Mother West.

Visit yairrosenberg.com.

– Courtesy Worldisc

One is never too old to learn

I had the privilege of seeing Mark Leiren-Young’s play Bar Mitzvah Boy when it premièred at Pacific Theatre in 2018. It was funny, edgy and insightful, and well-acted by Gina Chiarelli and Richard Newman. It contained a lot of local references, making it even more special.

What I see from the Playwrights Canada Press edition, which was published in 2020 and arrived at the JI sometime in 2021, is that Leiren-Young’s notes on various aspects of the play allow productions to change certain references and pronunciations to localize the action, thereby making it special no matter where it is performed. For instance, the audience first meets Rabbi Michael Levitz-Sharon, who is in her mid-30s to maybe 45 years old, on a jogging path, “dressed in sweats and a ball cap for a local sports team.”

The next scene: in the rabbi’s office, there sits a man in his mid-60s or older, Joey Brant, “decked out in prayer regalia – including tefillin, which are on incorrectly.” This is our first hint that he, despite initial appearances, is not a rabbi or a religious Jew. When Michael arrives, Joey assumes that the relatively young woman in running gear doesn’t belong at the synagogue – and certainly isn’t the congregation’s spiritual leader. This exchange sets the tone for the essentially two-person play that unfolds. The other cast member is Sheryl, the receptionist, who is never seen, only heard. As described by Leiren-Young, the actor of this role (which was Jalen Saip in 2018 at Pacific Theatre) should have “the accent you want the woman who runs your local deli to at least pretend to have.”

I love having these types of stage direction “made public.” It is a completely different experience to read a play than to attend it in person. It’s almost like listening to the acoustic version of one of your favourite pop musicians – if they are able to sing on key and play their chosen instrument skilfully, they really are excellent at their craft. Similarly, if the words of a play still make you laugh and cringe and move you emotionally in other ways, with no cues from actors or audience members, it is a very well-written play. Bar Mitzvah Boy in book form made me do all those things – I chuckled a lot throughout, and also got teary near the end. Michael and Joey (the bar mitzvah “boy,” btw) are both dealing with some serious, raw issues.

Since I finished the book, I’ve been revisiting some of the many topics it covers. I’ve thought about my own beliefs about Judaism and faith, what happens after we die, what makes a good friend, parent or spouse, how people navigate challenges differently, the ways in which a congregation (or any other group) can be both supportive and trying at the same time.

Leiren-Young dedicates the publication to his mother, Carol Leiren: “I guess it was worth sending me to Talmud Torah.” For viewers or readers of Bar Mitzvah Boy, it certainly was worth it – thank you.

We are inheritors of history

When Toronto poet Simon Constam emailed me with a request to read his debut collection of poetry, Brought Down, he described it as “notable because it addresses people’s daily experience of God and the Jewish religious tradition.” He noted, “it is provocative and well-written as can be attested to by the reviews of it thus far.” Indeed, the reviews I’ve read have been highly complimentary – and justifiably so.

I am neither religious nor a poetry buff, yet I found Constam’s poems engaging. I liked his challenging and questioning manner. At 70+ years old, he has wisdom gained from life experience that includes approximately a decade in which he followed Orthodox Jewish observance. His knowledge of Judaism infuses his writing and I had to look up a few names and concepts, even though there is a glossary at the end of this 61-page volume.

What I greatly appreciated about these poems is the theme that runs through most, if not all, of them: the title idea of “brought down,” as it refers to what we inherit from our ancestors, whether we’re talking about traditions, rituals, genes, coping mechanisms, etc. The lens through which Constam explores these ideas is his Jewishness. In “Yerushalmi,” for example, he writes:

“Today I seem to have the face of a man I briefly stared at, on a bus on Rehov King David in the fall of 1969. / I wear the same clothes, dark jacket, dark shirt, rough tan trousers, dust-scuffed brown boots. / The mirror shows me, grizzled, unkempt, stocky, stoic, almost seventy. / My face is the face my grandfather wore. / My parents, aunts, and uncles swore the resemblance is uncanny. My history is clear. / I was one of Titus’s captives marched through Rome in chains. I collected all my things in a sack to flee from Ferdinand and Isabella along the Jew-choked roads. I missed my fate in Kielce and Bialystock. I hid in the forests by Kishinev.” It ultimately concludes: “I am the inheritor of a furious history that only in this place can I never deny or forget.”

In his struggles with God, Constam contemplates what it means to be Jewish, what it means to be human. While this all sounds quite serious, and it is, there is humour in this collection and, ultimately, it is hopeful. As much as he takes God to task, Constam is calling on all of us to question ourselves, and to accept our responsibility for the state of the world.

Hanukkah in the Diaspora

The reason that is ascribed to the House of Hillel for the custom that we follow in lighting the candles is that we go upwards in holiness. (photo by Maor X)

Hanukkah lives in the sweet spot where there is one story that claims it is “historically true” and yet there is very little contemporary evidence to back this up – the earliest account being written generations after the events – and there is another story, a miracle story whose earliest recording is centuries after its supposed occurrence. We go with the miracle story.

There was no love lost between the rabbis and the Hasmoneans. There are several legends about rabbis (i.e. Shimon ben Shatah) confronting the Hasmonean king Yannai (e.g. Sanhedrin 19a-b) and Yannai killing sages (Kidushin 66a). So, it is not surprising that the rabbis did not glorify the Hasmonean victory, and chose to centre a different legend, which seems to have arisen in the first centuries of the common era. The additional prayer (called Al Hanisim) that is added to the central prayer does not mention the miracle of the oil. The earliest mention of the miracle of the oil is in the commentary (the “scholion”) to a first-century list of holidays called Megillat Ta’anit. This commentary is not mentioned in the Palestinian Talmud. Its first appearance is in the Babylonian Talmud many centuries later.

While this may point to a choice for the miracle story over the martial story, the martial story did not fade away. It arose from time to time, gaining full rehabilitation with the birth of the Zionist movement, whose adherents looked to the Maccabees for ancestral precedent. However, this is not my point.

The earliest rabbinic legal discussion of the obligations of Hanukkah (as opposed to mentioning Hanukkah in passing) is not in the Palestinian Mishnah. It is in a supposed Palestinian baraita (“outside” teaching) quoted in the Babylonian Talmud and not in the Palestinian Talmud. This is the famous debate between the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai as to whether one lights one candle on the first night and then adds a candle each night (Hillel); or, conversely, one lights eight candles on the first night and then subtracts a candle each night (Shammai). This is followed by the obligation to light the candelabrum in the doorway, outside or, if one lives on an upper floor, in the window.

These are the earliest legal discussions of Hanukkah. There are others. The salient point is that many of the laws have to do with the placement of the candelabrum in order to publicize the miracle (pirsumei nisa). One might have thought that a holiday whose legend included the purification of the Temple would have had a Temple-like ritual at its centre. Instead, even the candelabrum does not replicate the seven-branched Temple candelabrum. The focus of the holiday obligations is marking Jewish space. Facing outward at the moment that people return from the market. If one has two entrances, the Talmud asks, does one have to light in both places?

Hanukkah is a diasporic holiday that celebrates place. This place where we are now is the place in which we announce the miracle. This is not a second-rate reminder of a ritual whose better form would have been and will be ensconced in the Temple. It is a diasporic ritual that lays claim to diasporic Jewish space.

This places Hanukkah on the same axis as Purim, again a holiday that is about and in Diaspora, and would not make sense in the Land of Israel. However, the difference is Purim posits that redemption is impossible and that, as long as the king is maliciously or foolishly evil, there will be a never-ending drama in which first Haman succeeds and then Mordecai succeeds. Hanukkah celebrates the fact of being here. Light in whatever many religious or secular metaphors it is clothed is brought into these Jewish spaces. The reason that is ascribed to the House of Hillel for the custom that we follow in lighting the candles is that we go upwards in holiness and not the opposite. We light the candles and increase the holiness. Here.

Hanukkah is a diasporic holiday in that it is portable. The celebration of Hanukkah defines the space that is celebrated as a Jewish space – like a mezuzah on a doorpost or an eruv (ritual boundary) in a city. Like these other markers, it creates Jewish space that is non-exclusive. Jewish space that has permeable boundaries. Jewish space that lives in proximity to others, despite the fact that this proximity is risky. From the start, the halakhah (Jewish law) of Hanukkah decided that, in a time of danger, one need not light the candelabrum on the outside or facing out, rather one may light inside on a table.

When we light candles today, we again announce that we live in Jewish spaces that are proximate to other spaces and, while we embrace this proximity, we are aware that it is risky – and yet still we increase the holiness, the light, from day to day. Here, in this time, and in this place.

Rabbi Aryeh Cohen is a fellow of the Kogod Research Centre at the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America and professor of rabbinic literature at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies of the American Jewish University, where he teaches courses in Talmud. He is also the rabbi in residence for Bend the Arc: Jewish Action in Southern California. For more articles by Cohen, visit jewschool.com, where the original of this article can be found. For articles by other Shalom Hartman scholars, visit hartman.org.il.

Weather … an eternal subject

While the flood in Noah’s time, and his building of the ark, may be one of the more famous biblical weather incidents, along with the wind that battered the ship in which the prophet Jonah was hiding, they certainly are not the only ones (Metropolitan Museum of Art: Adele S. Colgate bequest, 1962)

It seems that everybody talks about the weather. Has it always been the case? While it’s admittedly impossible to prove whether it has, weather was certainly talked about in ancient times. The Hebrew Bible, or Tanakh, contains many weather references.

Right off the bat, in Genesis 2:6, we find mention of mist. In this context, G-d has spent the week creating the world. On the seventh day, He fashions the first man: “but there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. Then the Lord G-d formed man of the dust of the ground….”

Five chapters later, we get to the flood story. We read about heavy, sustained rain and catastrophic flooding – “and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I blot out from off the face of the earth. And the waters prevailed, and increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters. And He blotted out every living substance which was upon the face of the ground … and Noah only was left, and they that were with him in the ark.” (Genesis 7:18,23)

Rain, however, functions as both a positive and a negative force. In Leviticus 26:4, G-d states that He will bring the rain at the proper time, enabling the trees and the land to be harvested: “I will give your rains in their season, and the land shall yield her produce, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit.”

When the flood in Noah’s time ends, G-d promises to refrain from ever again bringing such a destructive deluge. He does this symbolically with the rainbow: “I have set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between Me and the earth. And it shall come to pass, when I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the cloud and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.” (Genesis 9:13-15)

The same duality that applies to rain also applies to wind. It is a positive force, as seen in parting the Red Sea, allowing the Hebrews to safely depart from Egypt (Exodus 14:21-22). But, it is also a punishing power that drowns the Egyptian soldiers who are in pursuit.

In the Book of Jonah, G-d brings a tremendous wind with the intention of smashing apart the ship in which the reluctant prophet Jonah is hiding: “… the Lord hurled a great wind into the sea, and there was a mighty tempest in the sea, so that the ship was like to be broken.” (Jonah 1:4)

image - Jonah and the Whale — Jonah and the Whale. *(Metropolitan Museum of Art: Joseph Pulitzer bequest, 1933)*

While we generally consider a whirlwind to be violent but brief, it has a different meaning in the Tanakh. In Hosea 8:7, it symbolizes ineffectiveness: “they shall reap the whirlwind; it hath no stalk, the bud that shall yield no meal.” Nonetheless, the whirlwind is also a blessing, which carries the prophet Elijah to heaven: “Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven. And Elisha saw him no more.” (2 Kings 2:11-12)

Other storm-related phenomena appear in the books of the Hebrew Bible. Both thunder and lightning, for example, are mentioned in the Book of Job, chapters 36 and 37: “He covereth His hands with the lightning and giveth it a charge that it strike the mark. G-d thundereth marvellously with His voice.” Likewise, the prophet Isaiah warns that G-d plans to bring thunder: “There shall be a visitation from the Lord of hosts with thunder.” (Isaiah, 29:6)

Hail is also written about in a few places. In Ezekiel 13:11 and 13, G-d threatens to bring a hailstorm. Significantly, in the Book of Exodus (9:18,25-26), hail is one of the 10 plagues G-d casts down upon the Egyptian people because of Pharaoh’s intransigence against freeing the Hebrew slaves: “Behold, tomorrow about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the day it was founded even until now. And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast; and the hail smote every herb of the field and broke every tree of the field. Only in the land of Goshen, where the children of Israel were, was there no hail.”

The Tanakh likewise has references to snow in a few places, though there is practically no mention of snow having fallen – almost always, snow is used metaphorically. Thus, in Exodus 4:6, someone with leprosy has “skin white as snow.” Later, this phrase is repeated in Number 12:10 when Miriam, Moses’ sister, has leprosy.

The lack of precipitation is likewise an issue. Similar to hail, drought is used as a threat or as an actual way of punishing the Hebrews. As the

Hebrews were an agricultural society, a drought meant crop failure: “And if ye will not … hearken unto Me, then I will chastise you seven times more for your sins. I will make your heaven as iron and your earth as brass … your land shall not yield her produce, neither shall the trees of the land yield their fruit.” (Leviticus 26:18-20)

Meteorology has certainly advanced since ancient times, of course. Back then, there were no radar, satellites, radiosondes, supercomputers or advanced multidisciplinary weather graphs to interpret or predict the weather. In the Tanakh, the chief forecaster, G-d, is also the creator of these weather situations. As such, He has a considerable edge over everyone and everything.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

No promises to reach goals

Imagine being in a meeting where everyone is asked to set “reach” goals for the next season. How about those self-help gurus who invite you to visualize your ultimate success? Perhaps there’s a social media post where you’re invited to dream, with reels of beautiful drivers in fancy cars, enormous luxury estates and vacations in exotic locales.

I was once part of an online writing group that emphasized setting goals. This included how many words you’d write a day, where you’d sell your work and how much you would earn. They repeated a refrain: “Writing is a positive addiction.” I retained a healthy cynicism about it all, but the thing I actually fell for was an exercise where you drew the cover of the book you were creating.

I drew the cover of the novel manuscript I was writing. Now, I’m happy to say that, since then, I’ve published books (all non-fiction) and articles with reputable publishers. I once won a fiction short story contest. I’m an actual writer and get paid for my work. I’m proud of this achievement! It’s also a real milestone for many who start out as grade school scribblers.

But, despite many attempts, I never sold that novel manuscript. Those who read it said it was good – but it remains unpublished. That book cover I posted above my desk for motivation makes me feel embarrassed. Who did I think I was? It’s hard for me to let go of my goals and cut myself a break. I held myself accountable.

This feeling of shame grew when I had a family because, as anyone with kids knows, it’s hard to make solid promises when dependents are in the picture. Even with family, spousal and childcare support, things can happen. The pandemic reminded us all that we have much less control over our lives than we thought. Sick kids happen. My children’s needs will always come before my work. There are no guarantees that you’ll always meet that deadline or reach the goals you set.

All this came to mind as I studied the Babylonian Talmud tractate Nedarim (Vows) and got to daf (page) 9. Nedarim is all about how to understand a vow, which, in Judaism, is taken very seriously. The rabbis explore definitions of how a vow works. Even though I’d never been taught these texts directly before, I have always hesitated to promise things that perhaps I can’t deliver. Just as we should not “swear” to things, we shouldn’t even promise anything if we think something might come up.

In Nedarim 9b, there’s a question about making a vow when it comes to bringing an offering. This itself could be strange, as the rabbis in the Gemara are reflecting on a time they never experienced. Very few of these rabbis were alive before the destruction of the Temple. They’re still concerned with the protocol of bringing an offering there, just in case the Temple is rebuilt. The real lesson is in how it’s theoretically done, even if no one’s ever making a physical offering again.

A person shouldn’t make a vow to bring an offering, the Gemara says, because “perhaps he will encounter a stumbling block” that would violate the prohibition against delaying. That delay would interfere with fulfilling the vow. Further, it’s a bad idea to designate a specific animal for the offering in advance because, again, something might happen to it. For instance, say it is a sheep, but it’s shorn by someone by accident. Perhaps someone works with a consecrated animal in some way when he shouldn’t. This is a misuse of a consecrated animal, and it’s prohibited. The animal can no longer be used as an offering.

Then, a story is told about Hillel the Elder. No one ever misused his offering. Why? He would bring it to the Temple courtyard unconsecrated. Only after he arrived, would he consecrate it. Then he’d place his hand on its head and slaughter it. There was no opportunity for misuse.

Upon reading this, I better understood my hesitancy in terms of big goals. The generations of parents who said to their children “We’ll see” rather than promising things? This made good sense. The rabbis understood the concern that sometimes even sure things fall through.

Some traditionally religious Jews say “bli neder,” or “without a vow,” when committing to something. It means – I’ll try to the best of my abilities, but I’m not making a serious vow. I’ve never used this, but it has such power. Yes, we all want to reach milestones and accomplish huge things. Absolutely! However, it can be heartbreaking when we don’t quite get there, even if we have valid reasons for why we didn’t.

It can be anti-climactic to be like Hillel the Elder. After all, there was no announcement, anticipation or build up for him around his vows. It was very low key.

I remembered something similar that happened long ago, when I was an undergraduate. Friends doing science degrees would plan big parties after their last exams, bar-hopping and celebrating when the semester ended. I often had only one or two exams. Mostly, I wrote many final papers in my dorm room. With stacks of books everywhere, I’d write alone at my computer each morning. Then, I’d print the paper, walk across campus and put it in a professor’s mailbox. That was it. When the last paper was finished, boom, end of my semester. No big announcement or party followed. I packed up by myself and traveled home.

Sometimes Jewish texts can be hard to connect to, because the issues seem old, irrelevant or don’t include me as a woman. This time, though, I was right there with the rabbis’ stumbling blocks and the low-key anti-climax of Hillel the Elder. I wish that everyone could hit those big reach goals and fulfil their aspirations – but perhaps we might not voice them as promises ahead of time. According to the rabbis, that quieter approach is entirely OK, too.

New learning, old discoveries

On Sundays, we work together as a family to clean the house. We’ve just moved to an historic home that is in the midst of renovations. We aren’t fixing the house to create new modern luxury, but rather so that all the plumbing works and nothing freezes in the wintertime. We’re excited about creating updated versions of what this house might have looked like when it was built in 1913 – with necessary improvements like removing knob and tube wiring and asbestos, as well as insulating and fixing pipes.

A friend was excited about the house’s historic details. She said her husband wouldn’t consider moving to an older home because of ghosts. While I won’t belittle anyone, I’m not particularly worried about ghosts in old houses. Instead, I love knowing that people lived, died, gave birth and had many important, regular and extraordinary life events, both happy and sad, inside these same walls. Imagining past inhabitants who washed their faces at the sink, ate meals in the dining room or celebrated birthdays with loved ones, just as we do, gives me great joy.

Like any house, ours has its creaks and groans. It’s perhaps worse than usual because we’re new here. We haven’t yet effectively bled the radiators. Maybe we don’t always properly close a storm window. This morning I heard sounds, but I suspect there’s a squirrel in the attic. Even this annoying intruder reminds me that our family’s not the first one here. Hopefully, not the last either, although I hope we can get the squirrel to leave first!

When I think about Jewish tradition, it’s a lot like this opportunity to inhabit an old house. Judaism is old, but as each of us “moves in” to our identity or tradition and makes a place for ourselves, both the tradition and the people grow and change. Jewish practice isn’t exactly the same as it was 2,000 years ago, no matter how much some people would like it to be. Similarly, when we’re done fixing up our old house, it will be different, functional for today, and perhaps even better than when we got here. The same, but different, and that’s OK.

I reflected on this when we hit this Jewish month of Heshvan, sometimes called by its older name, likely connected to Akkadian, Marheshvan. In English, this could be translated to “Bitter Heshvan.” As time passed, language changed. With the connections to other ancient languages forgotten, the rabbis called this month “bitter” because, in their understanding, it didn’t contain any big holidays. To some, this might be a relief after the fall High Holidays and, to others, it’s a weird thing to say. Shabbat still happens every week and that’s important, too. There’s even a little-observed Ashkenazi tradition, the Fast of Behav, which I just learned about while writing this column, and it happens during Heshvan.

This learning process is one of those chances where I realized Judaism can grow and change just as we do with our old house. A year ago, I wrote about Heshvan as the time when I would begin to learn to chant Torah – and, yes, while I still have a long way to go, I learned to do that well enough to read Torah twice.

This year, I realized that, actually, Heshvan isn’t mar or bitter due to a lack of holidays because Sigd is on the 29th of Heshvan. As of 2008, Sigd is an official holiday in Israel. It’s a Beta Israel (Ethiopian Jewish) holiday, 50 days after Yom Kippur, and it celebrates the acceptance of Torah. Today, it’s celebrated by fasting, reciting psalms and gathering in Jerusalem to hear the Kessim (priests, like the Kohanim) read the Orit (the Octateuch, or eight biblical books: the five books of the Torah, plus the books of Joshua, Judges and Ruth). Then, when the ritual ends, it’s time to break the fast, dance and celebrate.

I learned this from Wikipedia and other sources online. I haven’t experienced this in Israel or met Jews who celebrate the holiday. However, that doesn’t mean the holiday doesn’t exist! Our tradition has multiple ways to celebrate and observe. For instance, many Jewish organizations take two days off for some holidays, even though only part of the Jewish community observes for two days. Many Jews don’t observe minor fast days, such as the Fast of Behav, which I just heard of today.

How do Heshvan and Sigd relate to living in an old house? Living in old houses has offered me so many ways to learn the social histories of our ancestors. Discovering the plumbing of a bedroom sink, long removed, or a window that was blocked off during a renovation helps me see not only how the original owners of the house used it, but also how subsequent families and businesses chose to reinvent their living spaces. While we can’t understand everything about their lives, we find reminders of the past that can inform us now.

In my house, the contractors recently removed the quarter-sawn oak flooring of a room to deal with the water damage from a long-ago flood. We found a 1925 penny on the subfloor. Perhaps it fell out of the pocket of the house’s first owner, a doctor, as he undressed, or a worker lost it during a renovation. That penny was produced nearly 100 years ago, but 12 years after the house was built. Sometime later, it fell between the boards.

We’re often so immersed in our rituals, as family members, congregants or people in a particular ethnic or national group, that we miss out on other ways to enrich our knowledge and traditions. If we look beyond the easy, and later, interpretation of the word Marheshvan and consider its Akkadian roots, or the diverse holidays that in fact do happen this time of year, we can turn around this bitter message.

Wishing you a happy Heshvan, full of both new learning and old discoveries.