Where Do You Put Your Menorah?
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More recently, and more interestingly, in 1978 an intra-Jewish squabble took place between the then head of the Reform movement, Rabbi Joseph Glaser, and the then (and maybe still) head of Chabad, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson. It was at this time that Chabad began to erect huge menorahs in public spaces, most famously in Philadelphia in front of the Liberty Bell, and in 1979 – in the midst of the Iran hostage crisis – in Lafayette Park near the White House. Though the debate between Glaser and Schneerson was ostensibly about the constitutional issues surrounding the display of religious symbols on government property, at stake was a far more subtle and substantive question. For Rabbi Glaser of the Reform movement, Chabad’s huge menorahs were a sort of aggressive exhibitionism – a public display of Jewish pride taken one step too far. For the Lubavitcher Rebbe on the other hand, these public menorahs were part-and-parcel of the mission of Chabad. Like the ancient Hellenists, he said, “many of our brethren have left us and accepted idolatry as a way of life.” “We must be like that faithful band of Hasmoneans, [and] remember that there is always a drop of … pure olive oil” hidden deep in the heart of every Jew, which, if kindled, “bursts into big flames.” (Quoted in D. Ashton, Hanukkah in America, pp. 243-245) The debate was not just about tactics, whether outreach should or should not take place in public space. At the core of the debate was how these great rabbis understood their comfort and discomfort in the American context. Should Judaism be public or private; do we live in a time of danger or comfort? As goes the menorah, so, too, Jewish identity.
We are living neither in the sixteenth century, nor for that matter, the twentieth century, but in a new era in American Jewish life. So let me put the question directly to you: Where is your menorah? At kiddush you can tell me the precise location in your home, but for the moment my question to you is more metaphysical than physical. Not just about how you feel, about whether being Jewish is core to who you are. Rather, does the light of your Jewish identity shine forth in your day-to-day existence, or is it something you keep hidden out of sight? At home, at work, on the street, or at play, does the fact that you are Jewish differentiate you from those around you? Simply put, do you live proudly and distinctly as a Jew?
The question is a simple one, but no doubt it makes us squirm. “What do you mean, Rabbi? Of course I live proudly as a Jew, my ‘menorah,’ if you will, is there for all to see.” For some of you, that may be true. But let me probe a little deeper. Were you to do a self-inventory of the week gone by (Hanukkah candles aside), did you live a distinctly Jewish life? Observing Jewish law is the most obvious measure: Was there anything you did or – more interestingly – did not do, eat, or say because of Jewish law? What about your words? Do the people around you know you to be a vocal supporter of Israel, or do you shy away from those conversations for fear of taking a stand on a controversial subject? What about your home? Beyond the mezuzah on the door, would someone walking into your home know by the art, the books, the rhythms of your home, that yours is a Jewish one? What about how you spend your time and money? If I had an Excel spreadsheet of the volunteer hours and charitable dollars you have spent this year, would I be able to distinguish – or more importantly – would you be able to distinguish your allocations from those of a non-Jewish New Yorker?
Unlike those other moments in Jewish history, I think the question of menorah placement is different for us. Thank God, we are not living in a time of danger. Arguably never before in all of Jewish history has a diaspora Jewish community had it as good as we do here in America. But in all that comfort, we have lost our ability to articulate our distinctive Jewish presence and voice. Fun as it may be to point out Jewish Nobel prize winners, the “who’s a Jew?” game doth not ensure Jewish continuity. Ours is an America, depending on your generation, of Stretch Cunningham from Archie Bunker, Ross from Friends, or Baby from Dirty Dancing – Jews whose Jewishness is understood but not spoken. We smile or cringe at the knowledge that Jerry Seinfeld, Sarah Silverman, and Jon Stewart are Jewish, but it is not at all evident to me that their work moves the needle of Jewish continuity in a positive direction. In all the news of this past week, you may have missed that Leon Wieseltier and Franklin Foer resigned from their positions at The New Republic, a sign understood by many as the crumbling of the tradition of the American Jewish public intellectual, the idea that there is a differentiated and critical contribution Jews make – as Jews – to American discourse.
Journalism, entertainment, politics – by any measure, the distinctive place of Jewish life in America is on the wane. Not the oppression of tyrants, and not even the allure of foreign culture is at the root of the modern-day Hanukkah dilemma. Our problem is rather that despite the freedom to do so, somewhere along the way we have lost our ability to articulate a passionate argument for Jewish distinctiveness. The promise of America is not a melting pot, in which differences between faiths are elided into one indistinguishable stew. The promise of America, to appropriate Horace Kallen’s imagery, is that of an orchestra of different instruments in which each one makes a unique contribution to the symphony of American life. Merely living in New York surrounded by other Jews fails the test of our Maccabee predecessors. We can participate fully in Jewish life – but we don’t. We can send our kids to Jewish summer camps – but we choose otherwise. We can set a communal value that Jews aspire to marry other Jews – but I fear far too many are fumbling this basic talking point. Different does not mean better or worse. Different means that the Jewish people have a role to play here in this world, without which our collective humanity would be diminished. It is not just humanity that needs the Jews, but the Jewish people that needs you. In this festival of lights, ask yourself, press yourself, about the degree to which you do or do not contribute to the light of Jewish life in all its manifestations – ritual, communal, cultural, intellectual, philanthropic, and beyond. This is the litmus test of our Hanukkah lights.
Eventually, we know, Joseph will reveal his true identity, reconcile with his brothers, and be reunited with his father Jacob in Egypt. The final scene of Jacob’s life will have Joseph bringing his children, Jacob’s grandchildren, near for a final blessing from the great patriarch of our people. In what are perhaps two of the most heartbreaking words of the Bible, Jacob motions to the boys and asks Joseph “Mi eleh, who are they?” Jacob does not recognize his grandchildren. The commentators explain that he could not differentiate his own flesh and blood from typical Egyptian youths.
Joseph was many things worthy of emulation, but a model for the transmission of Jewish identity was not one of them. Successful as he was, he failed to give his own children a sense of what being Jewish meant in the diaspora, and by the time he got around to it, it was too late. It is a gulp moment of the highest order to realize that the blessing and challenge of being Jewish in America is that if we fail to live differentiated Jewish lives, we have nobody to blame but ourselves. The decision of where you put your menorah is yours and yours alone. On this Shabbat of Hanukkah may we commit to living and displaying it proudly and prominently.