“Hanukkah: The Shammash Candle and Pillars of Tradition”
by Reverend Charles Blustein Ortman
November 19, 2006
OPENING WORDS:
Good morning and welcome to the Unitarian Church of Montclair. We come together again this morning for worship and fellowship as we openly greet old friends and new visitors alike. This Unitarian Universalist congregation is welcoming of all seekers after truth, beauty, justice and compassion cherishing our diversity of race, gender, sexual identity and orientation, religious background and perspective on life. The mission of this congregation is to be a liberal religious community seeking transformation in our hearts, our homes, our community and our world.
This coming Friday evening is the beginning of the Jewish holiday Hanukkah. Many of us in this congregation come directly out of the Jewish tradition; some of us are not quite so directly related to it, and others, not at all. In our Principles and Purposes of the Unitarian Universalist Association, our living tradition which we share draws from many sources.
We especially claim our heritage from Jewish, Christian, Humanist and Earth-Centered foundations. It’s our practice in the liberal tradition to celebrate these sources that have fed our own tradition, and to recognize the universal values inherent in their themes. And so, today we turn to the Jewish tradition and the message of Hanukkah to consider the value of its themes as they relate to us in our time and place in the course of the world.
We gather together, a community of memory/ a community of hope. And we light our chalice as we begin our worship.
READINGS
Our First Reading is From the Second Book of Maccabes:
Now Maccabeus and his company, the Lord guiding them, recovered the temple and the city. But the altars which the heathen had built in the open street, and also the chapels, they pulled down. And having cleansed the temple they made another altar, and striking stones they took fire out of them, and offered a sacrifice after two years, and set forth incense, and lights, and [sacrificial] showbread.
Our second reading is by Abraham Joshua Heschel from, “Who Is Man?”
Over and above personal problems, there is an objective challenge to overcome inequity, injustice, helplessness, suffering, carelessness, oppression. Over and above the din of desires there is a calling, a demanding, a waiting, an expectation. There is a question that follows me wherever I turn. What is expected of me? What is demanded of me?
What we encounter is not only flowers and stars, mountains and walls. Over and above all things is a sublime expectation, a waiting for. With every child born a new expectation enters the world.
This is the most important experience in the life of every human being: something is asked of me. Every human being has had a moment in which he sensed a mysterious waiting for him. Meaning is found in responding to the demand, meaning is found in sensing the demand.
SERMON
This coming Friday evening, as the sun sets, it will be the beginning of the 25th day of the Jewish month of Kislev, and the start of Hanukkah. At our house and I suspect in some of yours, wherever families of Jews or the decedents of Jews might get together, they’ll gather around the menorah and light the candles saying the traditional prayer:
Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik neir (shel) chanukah.
That prayer will be said (or at least there will be high hopes that it will be said) each of the eight nights, while lighting what will eventually be all eight candles on the menorah. Right? Well, not quite right. On the Hanukkah menorah, there are nine candles. It’s interesting that the one in the middle, the shammash candle, is so rarely counted!
The shammash is the servant candle, it doesn’t hold a place representing one of the days of the miracle that the holiday celebrates. It simply serves by being the bearer of light for the other eight, the loftier symbolic candles. I suppose it’s a kind of a classist comment, the shammash being hardly worth the mention. In a synagogue, the shammash is like the custodian It’s someone who takes care of the premises and makes sure everything is where it ought to be. You may remember my High Holyday offering joke from this past September:
It is Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar. As the day draws to a close, in a small synagogue, the rabbi is praying fervently. "Oh, God," he says, "I am nothing before you!" The cantor also says, "Oh, God, I am nothing before you!" Then the shammash, inspired by their piety, cries out from the foyer at the back of the room, "Oh, God, I, too, am nothing before you!" The cantor raises his eyebrows, looks at the rabbi, and says, "So, look who thinks he's nothing!"
But this is not Yom Kippur, it’s Hanukkah, and the tradition of the shammash is to quietly and respectfully do the job that is set before it, which is to literally burn itself out in service to others. I don’t suspect that we are asked to burn ourselves out – although I’m not sure that we are not asked that – but I do think we are indeed asked to consider ourselves humbly, and to be of service.
There is a wonderful story that was introduced to me by my friend and colleague, Rabbi Steve Kushner, of Temple Ner Tamid. The story comes out of the Jewish tradition, circa 16th Century. It has a few different versions and this one is something of a compilation of my own that includes accounts told by contemporary Rabbis Yrachmiel Tilles and Shlomo Meinsterl and the original account reported by a 16th Century Rabbi Moshe Hagiz who in his book Mishnat Hachamim, writes that he heard this story from reliable people in Sefad – who were reportedly there when it happened.
In the mid-16th century, there is a Marrano Jew – a Marrano is a Jew from the Iberian Peninsula whose ancestors hid their Jewishness during the Inquisition in an attempt to shield themselves and their families from persecution; some of them were successful to the point that after several generations even many of the decedents themselves did not know their own heritage. In our story this Marrano from Portugal moved to the holy city of Sefad. Deprived of the opportunity to do so in his youth, he was overjoyed to finally be able to practice the religion of his ancestors openly.
Years later, he heard a talk by the rabbi of the synagogue he attended about lechem hapanim, the "show-bread" which was offered in the Holy Temple each Friday before Shabbat (see Leviticus 24:5-9). After discussing the various laws and procedures governing the preparation of this offering and touching on its mystical significance, the rabbi bemoaned the fact that, “…because of our sins, we no longer have this ready means to appease G-d.
The immigrant Jew took these words to heart. When he arrived home, he asked his wife to prepare two special challahs on Friday. He related to her all the details he remembered from the lecture on show-bread. She should sift the flour thirteen times, knead it while she was in a state of ritual purity, and bake the dough very well in their oven. He told her that he wished to present these loaves as an offering to G-d; hopefully He would consider them an acceptable sacrifice, and eat them.
His wife loyally fulfilled his request, and early that Friday afternoon, when no one was likely to be in the shul, the man brought the loaves there under his cloak. He prayed and cried that G-d should look upon his offering with favor, and eat and enjoy the lovely, freshly baked bread. He went on and on, like an errant son begging his father for forgiveness. Then he placed the loaves, well wrapped, in the Holy Ark, beneath the Torah scrolls, and quickly left for home.
The shammash (caretaker) of the shul arrived later that day to complete the preparations of the shul for the holy Shabbat. One of his duties was to check that the Torah scroll was rolled to the appropriate place for the reading the next morning. When he opened the Ark, he was surprised to see that a package had been neatly placed inside. He opened it, and there were two fine-looking challah loaves! He had no idea where they had come from, but he didn't think too much about it; they looked and smelled delicious!
So he took them and decided to deliver them to some poorer members of the congregation. It didn’t take him long to find two families who were without bread for the Shabbas. They blessed the shammash for the gift. Those were the sweetest challahs they ever tasted and made for the sweetest Shabbat.
That evening, the Marrano waited impatiently for the end of the prayers. When everyone had left the shul, he approached the Ark with great trepidation, and swung its doors open. The loaves were not there! He was so happy. He hurried home to share his joy with his wife. He innocently proclaimed that G-d had not disdained the poor efforts of such insignificant people as themselves. Indeed, He had accepted their two loaves, and eaten them while they were still warm!
The man exhorted his wife, “Let us not be lazy, for we have no other way to honor Him, and we see that He loves our bread. Every week we must try to give Him this pleasure, with the same care and devotion that we did this first time.”
His wife was swayed by his wholehearted excitement, and gladly cooperated. Every Friday morning she faithfully prepared two beautiful loaves, paying careful attention to every detail, great and small, and every Friday afternoon he delivered them to the shul, and earnestly prayed and pleaded with G-d for their acceptance.
Every Friday the shammash would come along and happily pick up the delicious challahs and deliver them, quite happy to fulfill the mitzvah of giving charity to those who then ate them with great appreciation. And every Friday night the Jew from Portugal ecstatically informed his wife that once again their meager offering had been accepted.
So it went, for many weeks and months.
One Friday, the rabbi of the shul stayed much later than usual, until the afternoon. It was the same rabbi who had given the speech about "show-bread" that had so inspired the Marrano from Portugal. He was standing on the bimah (reading platform), reviewing the sermon he planned to give the next day, when, to his surprise, he saw one of his congregants enter carrying two loaves of bread, walk up to the Ark, and deposit them inside. He realized that the man was unaware of his presence, and he heard him utter fervent prayers for G-d to accept his offering and enjoy the challahs.
The rabbi listened in astonishment. At first he was silent, but as he began to understand what was going on, his anger arose. Finally he was unable to restrain himself any longer, and burst out in fury: "Stop! You fool! How can you think that our G-d eats and drinks? It is a terrible sin to ascribe human or any physical qualities to G-d Almighty. You actually believe it is the L-rd who takes your measly loaves? Why, it is probably the shammash who eats them."
At that moment the caretaker entered the shul, blithely expecting to pick up his challahs, as usual. He was a bit startled to see the rabbi and another man standing there. The Rabbi immediately confronted him. "Tell this man why you came here now, and who has been taking the two challahs he has been bringing each week."
The caretaker freely admitted it. He wasn't embarrassed at all. He couldn't understand why the rabbi was so agitated, and why he was yelling at the other man who looked so unhappy, whom he knew to be an unlearned but sincere Jew.
As the rabbi continued his rebuke, the man burst into tears. He was crushed. Not only had he not done a mitzvah as he had thought, it seemed he was guilty of a great sin. He apologized to the rabbi for having misunderstood his lesson about the show-bread, and begged him to forgive him. He left the shul in shame and despair. How could he have been so wrong? What was he going to do now?
Shortly thereafter, a messenger from the "Holy Ari" Rabbi Isaac Luria, who was one of the great mystics of his day, strode into the shul and approached the rabbi. In the name of his master the messenger told the Rabbi to go home, to say goodbye to his family, and to prepare himself, because by the designated time for his sermon the next morning, his soul would have already departed to its eternal rest. Thus it had been announced, the messenger assured him, from Heaven.
The rabbi couldn't believe what he had just heard, nor could the disciple explain it to him. So the rabbi went directly to the Ari, who confirmed the message and added, as gently as possible: "I heard that it is because you halted G-d's pleasure, the likes of which He hasn't enjoyed since the day the Holy Temple was destroyed.
“That is what He felt when this innocent Marrano would bring his two precious loaves to your shul each week, faithfully offering them to G-d from the depths of his heart with joy and awe, and believing that G-d had taken them, until you irrevocably destroyed his innocence. That is what he felt as the shammash had gathered the challahs each week, and had taken the time to find deserving recipients who would otherwise be hungry, and now once again will be because you ended his service to them. For this the decree was sealed against you, and there is no possibility to change it."
The rabbi went home and told his family all that had transpired. By the time of the sermon the next morning, his soul had already departed to hear Torah in the Heavenly academy, exactly as the Ari had said.
I love this story for a lot of reasons. It reminds us that we don’t have to be somebody in order to be somebody; that whatever our position or role in a religious community each of us is accountable for the fulfillment of our covenant and our mission; that whatever our role in any situation life calls us to answer to life. It reminds us that traditions are there as touchstones and guideposts, not as substitutes or replacements for authentic experience. It reminds us that awe and gratitude and service are more important than law and propriety and shame; that to do good work we must listen to our hearts and keep our eyes open of opportunities.
The story holds up for us the constant need for vigilance in regard to oppression. That is, it deals squarely with issues of ethnicity and classism by recognizing the merit of the uneducated Marrano as well as the value of the lowly shammash, especially as they are seen in relationship with the privileged and not so thoughtful rabbi. But I think it begs the issue of sexism as seen in the subservient, yet apparently acceptable relationship of the Marrano Jew with his wife. She is a shammash of sorts, too, but one who was not so adulated.
I’m not terribly sure of the role of God in all of this, but I’m definitely pleased with some of the characteristics that are attributed to God in the story. God cannot be described in human terms – something, which by the way, is violated by everyone except the shammash. God takes delight in the destruction of the temple, which I take to mean the destruction of idolatry, even the idolatry of God’s self. God takes delight in the Portuguese couple for their faithfulness and their heartfelt joy and awe. And God takes delight in the Shammash, the lowly servant who put service above propriety, going out of his way to strengthen the connections that bind each to all. And finally God in this story is the God of Universalism. Sad the rabbi had to die, but where did he end up at sermon time? He was in heaven, not in a place of fiery revenge, having been sentenced there by some vindictive fiend.
It might be enough for me to simply conclude now by saying, “May your roots grow deep, your branches spread far. May you find the world to be a wonderful place and leave it even better for those who follow.” But there are just a couple of thoughts, perhaps by way of a few questions that I would like to add. I suspect from our reading earlier that Rabbi Abraham Joshua Herschel might encourage us to ask them as well…
Who did you identify with most in this story? And why do you suppose that is? How willing are you to be unimportant in order that the important work of love and justice, of beauty and truth might be advanced? When you feel that you are an outsider, how willing are you to step through your experience of differentness in order to serve the larger good? How best can you allow tradition to inform the choices you make while embracing all of the unexplored possibilities of being in life, in love, aware and awake? How are you called to serve the Spirit of Life?
Hanukah is a season that especially celebrates the human qualities of faithfulness, courage and hope. I suspect that if we are willing to spend time with these questions, we will be developing our faithfulness, and our courage, and our hope.
Now I think I can say it – May your roots grow deep and your branches spread far. May you find the world to be a wonderful place and leave it even better for those who follow. And happy Hanukkah, may the lights of the season, all of the lights, help to remind you of who you are and what you are doing. And may that knowledge always bring you to faithfulness with courage and hope.
CLOSING WORDS
Some Wishes for You, by Charles S. Stephen, Jr., from The Gift of the Ordiary:
I wish for you a troubled heart at times
As woes of world and friend come close beside
And keep you sleepless.
I wish for you the thrill of knowing
Who you are,
Where you stand,
And why.
Especially why.
Not prosperity, but dreams I wish for you;
Not riches, but a sense of your own worth I wish
For you.
Not even long life, however proud we'd be to have it so.
But life that is crammed with living,
Hour by hour.
And love I wish for you;
May you give it frequently.
I wish for you solitude in the midst of company,
And a mind full of company within your quiet times.
Full todays I wish for you, and full tomorrows.
As we extinguish our chalice, our worship is ended and our service begins.
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