Twenty-four years ago, I went to a Jewish studies lesson in Jerusalem that was so memorable, I still think about it now. It must have been around Chanukah time. I was embarking on my first Jewish studies classes at a seminary for women, and the rabbi had an American accent. I can’t recall his name, unfortunately, but I remember his lesson well. He began by sharing with us his amazement that there were Jewish rituals and traditions that those very far from being practising Jews still continued. There were people, he said, who ate non-kosher food, but who wouldn’t eat pork. There were those who ate everything including pork, but who still held a seder. There were those who ate bread at Pesach but fasted on Yom Kippur. And he met a couple once who didn’t keep anything, not even Yom Kippur, but who wanted their new-born son to have a brit milah.
He paused so we could absorb and ponder that. He then added, in a lower and slower tone, that he asked the couple why they wanted their son to have a brit, and they couldn’t really answer. He paused again, this time for longer. The rabbi had a theory, and I liked it. That’s the part I remember. But I also liked how, when those rabbis who are good at teaching, as he was, have a point to make, they start with the quandary, the conflict, the bafflement. Like all good storytellers, they pique our curiosity, then keep the tension and momentum going, perhaps adding a twist. They engage our attention but make us wait for the finale, which they often deliver in a sing-song voice, sometimes with a forefinger pointing upwards (I only know Orthodox rabbis: I’m not sure if any others do this).
I’m not saying this to make fun; I’m saying this because many rabbis are skilled oral story-tellers, and oral story-telling is almost a lost art. It’s as old as humankind. The stories told educated and entertained, offered life lessons and moral teachings, shared the journeys of those who developed spiritually through trials and tests, generated societal connection and cultural cohesion, reminded people of the honour of their heritage, and recorded, sustained and preserved history.
Told by venerated members of society, the narratives became especially important to communities inhabiting new lands. In most societies, oral narrative traditions have disappeared, and in the modern world, we rely increasingly on technology for communication and entertainment, which lacks verbal interaction and is largely anti-social. But in synagogues around the globe, in our homes on seder (if we hold one) and around our tables, oral story-telling is alive and well, and that’s worth pausing for a moment to absorb and ponder.
Before we return to the memorable Chanukah story, allow me another example. A divorced former colleague of mine is looking for a new partner on a dating app. He’s a non-practising Jew who is cynical and critical of Judaism and Jews, and doesn’t want to meet or date someone Jewish, but on his dating profile he’s written ‘Jewish’ in the ‘Religion and Spirituality’ section. Like the rabbi, I asked him why, and like the couple with the baby, he shrugged.
Why? It makes no sense to me.
The rabbi’s reasoning goes like this. In the darkness of the inner sanctum of the Holy of Holies, the flame that was supposed to be alight always burned steadily and continuously, against all probability, until a fresh batch of oil was ready. That’s why, the rabbi said, pausing again. No matter how far a Jew is from Judaism, he went on, against all probability, a tiny flame is always burning deep, deep, deep inside, in the darkness of their inner sanctum, in their Holy of Holies.
I just love that. Whether you agree or not, I love how visual it is. How profound. In my mind’s eye, I picture in the darkness the steady, orange glow of a lone lit candle. And I like the idea of that being inside us, no matter what. The fact that I can remember his lesson years later is like the little flame itself staying alight in my memory.
We need to keep telling our stories. Happy Chanukah.
