Festivals, like books, have their fate. Changing times and environments can be either beneficial or detrimental to a festival’s survival and, in this connection, its position within the rubrics and definitions of canon law is relatively unimportant. Witness the observance of the New Moon. There can be no doubt that, in Biblical times, the New Moon was an important festival. It is frequently mentioned alongside the Sabbath; it seems to have been an occasion when people ceased from work, and went back to listen to the teachings of the prophets and other men of God. The vision of the future with which the Book of Isaiah concludes provides “that from one new moon to another, and from one Sabbath to another, all flesh shall come to worship before Me, saith the Lord” (Isaiah 66:23).
Yet, in spite of the rabbinic injunction that the New Moon be marked by an additional service (Musaf) and the recitation of the Hallel psalms, and also by special inserts in the statutory prayer as well as in the Grace after Meals, the New Moon today has all but lost its festive character. A generation ago it was still possible to find pious women who would abstain from work on that day—somehow the New Moon had become especially a women’s festival. But even that aspect of it has been lost. Observant Jews will, of course, still follow the rabbinic provisions regarding the day’s liturgy. This might mean that the daily morning service will have to be even more rushed than usual; the service must be over in time for the opening of offices and stores. The New Moon simply is no longer what it used to be in the days of the Bible!
But just as it is possible for an important festival to lose its importance, so it is possible for a minor festival to gain in esteem. Chanukah is a case in point. For modern American Jews, Chanukah ranks next in importance to the High Holy Days and the Passover. It was not always thus! In Jewish Law, Chanukah is a minor festival. Work is forbidden only during the half hour or so when the candles are burning. There are indeed liturgical inserts for the daily services, similar to those of the New Moon, but they do not make Chanukah any less workaday for all that. In some parts of the Jewish world there may have been the custom of providing the children with “Chanukah money,” but the annual occasion for the exchange of gifts was Purim—not Chanukah.
As a matter of fact, the very reason for the observance was only dimly perceived. The Talmud records a victory of the Hasmoneans over the “Greeks,” which led to the cleansing of the Temple. This, in turn, led to the “miracle of the oil”—a cruse of oil sufficient for one day lasted for eight. Yet Judah the Maccabee is not even mentioned by name. One simply lit candles for eight days to commemorate the miracle.
In the early collections of rabbinic homilies—such as the Pesikta de Rab Kahana—the Chanukah sermons do not contain a single reference to the historical events behind the festival. They all deal with the dedication of the Tabernacle in the wilderness, and with the values of institutional religion. They are based on the Torah readings for Chanukah and, naturally, the Torah could contain no reference to the events of the 2nd century B.C.E. Chanukah could, in fact, be nothing but a minor festival.
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The 19th and 20th centuries were the making of Chanukah. On the one hand, rationalistic tendencies were unkind to the old festival. Nobody could believe in miracles any more, and the “miracle of the oil” was demoted to the rank of a legend, which is nothing to celebrate. Happily, some other forces were at work. The same rationalism which did away with the “miracle” worked to overcome the old rabbinic ban on the reading of the “outside books,” the Apocrypha. The Apocrypha contained the two Books of the Maccabees, where, in stirring language, the Maccabean battles and victories were described. If it was no longer possible to celebrate the “miracle of the oil,” it now became possible to celebrate the “Feast of the Maccabees.”
The first fight in history for the freedom of conscience and of worship! The victory of Jewish monotheism over Hellenistic paganism! The Jewish idea of the equality of all men triumphing over an economy based on slavery—for the latter was still maintained by as enlightened a Greek as Aristotle himself. Such were the motivations for the new celebration of Chanukah. The oil miracle was a small price to pay for such a glorious new festival, a festival, moreover, which was so much in line with contemporary Jewish aspirations for political freedom and emancipation. “Restore my house of prayer,” so ran the old Chanukah hymn, Maoz Tzur, “and there I will sacrifice a thanksgiving offering.” But the 19th century had a different language: “Yours the message cheering,” the new hymn, “Rock of Ages,” proclaimed, “that the time is nearing, which will see all men free, tyrants disappearing!”
The Reform Jews who thus re-interpreted Chanukah were usually quite antagonistic toward the rising movement of Jewish nationalism and Zionism. But both the opposing elements helped in the transformation of Chanukah from a minor to a major festival. For the Zionists, too, had a great liking for this festival. Any nationalist movement is in need of heroes whose shining example can be held up to fire the imagination of a new generation. Nineteenth-century nationalist movements in Europe could point with pride to the freedom fighters of past ages. Jewish nationalism had only the “People of the Book.” Jewish Garibaldis were not so easy to find—the glories of Israel have usually been of a spiritual nature. In a world of nations and of empires, Israel was, in the words of the prophet Balaam, “a people that shall dwell alone, and not be reckoned among the nations” (Numbers 23:9). Yet the Jews had their Maccabees—they could serve as an inspiration for the rising nationalist movement. Theodor Herzl wrote a moving piece about the Chanukah candlestick. And the songs of the new movement helped the transformation of the festival. “Who can express the mighty acts of the Lord,” thus sang the Psalmist of old, “or make all His praise to be heard?” (Psalm 106:2). But a modern Zionist Chanukah song proclaims: “Who can express the mighty acts of Israel?” And it goes on to relate that “in those days, at this time, the Maccabee was the savior and redeemer. But in our days, the whole people of Israel will unite and arise to redeem itself.”
Such re-interpretations in and by themselves would have been sufficient to make Chanukah viable in the modern world. But in time a third factor came to strengthen it—one which might have borne the whole burden of the festival even if no re-interpretation had ever been attempted. Chanukah may have been a minor festival in the Jewish calendar. But Christmas is a major festival in the Christian calendar. And the 25th day of the month of Kislev (the beginning of Chanukah) has an uncanny habit of more or less coinciding with the 25th day of the month of December. (Woe unto the American Jewish parents in those years when it does not!)
No doubt, the annual winter festival is older than either Chanukah or Christmas, and both may have a common pagan ancestry. The kindling of lights is common to them, too. But here the resemblance ends—unless, of course, one were to claim that without the victory of the Maccabees in the 2nd century B.C.E. there never would have been any Judaism left two centuries later for Jesus of Nazareth to transform into Christianity. (As a matter of fact, the festival calendar of the Roman Catholic Church does contain a “Feast of the Maccabees.”) Yet all of this is neither here nor there. Yuletide, in Christian civilization, is the traditional season for “peace on earth, good will to men.” And it is this Yuletide “spirit” which is made to live also in the American Jewish Chanukah observance. From the exchange of gifts, to home decorations, to greeting cards, to specially imprinted gift wrapping paper, Chanukah matches Christmas. If, because of religious scruples, the “Chanukah bush” has as yet fallen short of universal acceptance, the candelabrum can be made to enter the competition against the Christmas tree; and cut-out paper Maccabees can console the Hebrew infant for the absence of a crèche. Moreover, if everything else fails, one is fortified by the knowledge that Chanukah lasts for eight long days with gifts every single night.
Festivals, like books, have their fate.
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The kindling of the Chanukah lights gave rise to a question of far-reaching consequences in the Babylonian Talmud. The Talmud establishes the rule that the kindling of the lights is to be preceded by the benediction: “Praised be Thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, Who hast sanctified us by Thy commandments, and commanded us to kindle the lights of Chanukah” (b. Shabbat 23a).
Immediately the question is raised: “Where did God command us to do that?” The underlying assumption here is that the revelation at Mount Sinai was a complete and perfect revelation, in which God communicated to Israel all they had to know about their religious obligations. Yet one may search the Five Books of Moses from the beginning of Genesis to the end of Deuteronomy, and one will not come across the slightest hint of any “commandment” for the kindling of Chanukah lights. Still, if God had really commanded us to kindle the Chanukah lights, how could He have omitted this item in the official transcript of His commands, in the Torah?
Like so many other questions in the Talmud, this one was asked only to provide an excuse for a good answer. The good answer was given by Rab Iviya, a 4th-century Babylonian teacher, and was in the form of a reference to the 17th chapter of the Book of Deuteronomy. There we read that “if there arise a matter too hard for thee in judgment . . . then thou shalt come unto the priests the Levites, and unto the judge that shall be in those days; and thou shalt inquire; and they shall declare unto thee the sentence of judgment. And thou shalt do according to the tenor of the sentence, which they shall declare unto thee. . . . According to the law which they shall teach thee . . . thou shalt do; thou shalt not turn aside from the sentence which they shall declare unto thee, to the right hand, nor to the left” (Deuteronomy 17:8—11).
In the evolution of Rabbinic Judaism, these were very important verses indeed. It is evident that here the Law was making provision for the eventuality that a matter might arise in the future which was not specifically covered in the codes of the sacred text. Naturally, in such a case, the priests would be the ones whose “lips should keep knowledge,” and at whose “mouth one should seek the Law” (Malachi 2:7). This, indeed, seems to have been the procedure in the days of the First Temple, and at the beginning of the period of the Second Temple. But our text does not only speak about the Levitical priesthood. It also contains a reference to “the judge that shall be in those days”; and this was the basis seized on by the lay scholars in the days of the Second Temple in their attempt to break the priestly monopoly. Not just the hereditary priesthood, so they claimed, but also the lay Israelite—to the extent to which his knowledge qualifies him for the office of judge—can act as an interpreter of Torah. Here was the origin of the Pharisaic movement.
Anything then, which, though not contained in the Five Books of Moses, was ordained by a duly constituted authority—priestly or otherwise—could rely on the scriptural support furnished by the 17th chapter of the Book of Deuteronomy. And, since the authority behind Deuteronomy was divine authority, was, in fact, God Himself, that authority carried over to the later enactments reached on the basis of Deuteronomy. Now Chanukah, it was believed, was instituted by the duly constituted Bet Din, or court of law, of the Hasmoneans. Therefore Rab Iviya could invoke this chapter of Deuteronomy as the scriptural basis for the “commandment” of the Chanukah lights.
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A more sophisticated generation was unable to follow this chain of reasoning. Rabbi Isaac M. Wise, for example, the organizer of American Reform Judaism, seems to have been bothered by the same question which bothered the Talmud, but was unable to give Rab Iviya’s answer. In his reformed prayer book, the Minhag America, Wise omitted the benediction about God’s commanding us to kindle the Chanukah lights. Instead, he made use of another benediction, one which the Tradition had prescribed for the first night of Chanukah, thanking God for “keeping us alive, sustaining us, and letting us reach this season”: he simply then tacked on the words: “to kindle the Chanukah lights.” Wise would not have done away with the Festival of Chanukah, for the reasons we have discussed. But he was also too much of a rationalist to believe that God Himself had commanded its observance.
Wise and those who thought like him thus missed a very good opportunity of grounding their Reform Judaism in the Tradition itself. For what is implied in Rab Iviya’s answer is this: the word of God is not confined to the Five Books of Moses. Each generation has its own unprecedented religious needs—unprovided for by the earlier codes. But God does not remain silent; He is behind the endeavor of the authorized interpreters who take into account the new needs and the unprecedented circumstances. If God’s word were confined to the Five Books of Moses, there could be no Reform Judaism. There could not even have come into existence a Rabbinic Judaism. But if, on the other hand, the Tradition concedes that an innovation of the Hasmonean law court represented a divine “commandment,” then, and only then, are we justified in speaking about the “unfolding” Will of God, and about “progressive revelation.” (Perhaps, then, Rab Iviya in the 4th century was an even better “Reform Jew” than Rabbi Wise in the 19th.)
On reciting the benediction praising God “Who has commanded us to kindle the lights of Chanukah,” it is good to bear in mind the 17th chapter of Deuteronomy—and its Pharisaic interpretation which made possible the evolution and development of a Judaism which can be as fresh and as alive “at this season” as it was “in those days.”
Indeed, the Talmud raised a question of far-reaching consequences.
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The story of Chanukah, as presented in the Sunday school, is a story of “good guys” (the Maccabees) and “bad guys” (the Greeks, or—with somewhat greater historical accuracy—the Hellenistic Syrians). Of course the “good guys” won—or there would be no Festival of Chanukah to celebrate. This makes a good story, and it lends itself beautifully to stage productions. The only trouble is: life is stranger than fiction.
In a little Schocken book, The Maccabees, Professor Elias Bickermann takes a second look at the conventional Chanukah story, and contrasts it with what the historical sources themselves have to say on the subject. The results are somewhat startling. The glorious Maccabean war turns out to have been first and foremost a Jewish civil war, with the Syrians called in by one of the contending factions. At issue was the question of “Hellenization.” There was a powerful section of the Jewish population prepared to throw overboard their Jewish heritage and to swallow, hook, line, and sinker, the government-sponsored brand of Hellenism, which had already been willingly accepted in the surrounding territories. Some of the “best families” of Jerusalem were counted in on this. The Maccabees, at first a mere band of guerrillas, became the leaders of those other sections of the population who were determined to remain “loyal to the covenant of their fathers.” The Maccabees emerged the victors—but their victory by no means settled the question of Hellenization.
When the victorious Maccabees instituted the Festival of Chanukah, Bickermann argues, they did something unprecedented in the annals of Judaism. No previous victory in battle had been commemorated by an annual observance in the Jewish calendar. The Greeks, however, were in the habit of fixing this kind of celebration. What is more, in choosing the kindling of lights as the characteristic observance of their victory celebration, the Maccabees imitated a typical Hellenistic custom. The very observance of Chanukah, then, looks like a Jewish bow in the direction of Hellenism. What, therefore, was the battle all about?
The succeeding history of the Hasmonean dynasty was one of typical Hellenistic princelings—with all the trappings. This is easy to shrug off by reminding ourselves that the later Hasmoneans sided with the Sadducees, and that they are, therefore, not really representative of the “mainstream” of Judaism. But the picture does not change when we look into the documents which form the very basis of Pharisaic-Rabbinic Judaism. Professor Saul Liebermann has written two important books on Greek in Jewish Palestine, and on Hellenism in Jewish Palestine—the titles almost tell the story. And what Professor Liebermann is discussing is not the question of fringe groups in Judaism, of Sadducees and degenerate scions of the Hasmonean house. He is talking about the Mishnah and the teachers of the Mishnah. He is showing how the Greek language and Greek ideas—and even Hellenistic cultic forms—have entered the main citadel of Judaism, and helped shape the very form taken by Jewish legal codes and teachings. Again, we might be tempted to ask, was the Maccabean battle fought in vain?
We find an answer to this question—a negative answer—in Bickermann’s work. There were, says Professor Bickermann, two forms of “Hellenization.” The one was marked by the willingness to throw away one’s Jewish heritage and put the foreign culture in its place; the other tried to find room within the Jewish culture for the good things which Hellenism had to offer. This was the Hellenism of the Maccabees.
What the Festival of Chanukah commemorates, therefore, is not the struggle of Jewish faith and culture against Hellenism and Greek culture. Rather is it the commemoration of a struggle between those who were ready to assimilate their Judaism to Hellenism, and those who were ready to assimilate valuable aspects of Hellenism to their Judaism.
It is the question of “assimilation” which the celebration of Chanukah induces us to ask anew each year. “Assimilation”—that much misunderstood word! In some Jewish circles it is given a negative connotation exclusively. If you admit that you are in favor of assimilation, they put you down as opposed to “Jewish survival,” as uninterested in Jewish values. But others have read Ahad Ha’am, and know that there is a difference between “assimilation” and mere “imitation.” Still others have read Hermann Cohen, and know how to distinguish between “active assimilation” and “passive assimilation.”
Assimilation is something that cannot be disposed of by slogan thinking. In its negative aspect, it is pursued as much by the Zionist radical who wants the Jews to be “a nation like unto all the other nations” as it is by the more conventional “assimilationist” who is eager to lose all traces of his Judaism, and to merge in the crowd. In its positive aspect, it is something that has gone on in Judaism since time immemorial, and something that is going on as long as Judaism desires to remain alive. The Maccabees were neither the first nor the last to enrich Judaism with borrowings from Hellas. But it takes study and much thought—and also taste—to know where to draw the line.
And come to think of it, what are we to say about our 20th-century American Chanukah?
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