Reprinted with permission from Dr. Naomi Wolf’s Substack.com.
I lit candles tonight for the first night of Hanukkah — with my Irish Catholic husband standing nearby. He proudly mentioned the “shamash”, the guardian candle that lights all the others. “I’ve been doing research,” he said; and I took that as a gift.
My aunt, J., in California, who is a Rabbi, lit candles of her own, and we joined her via Zoom; seeing her lovely face in the candlelight, I was happy to notice the resemblance with, and to remember, my formidable, departed grandma, Dr Fay Goleman.
My grandmother had been tiny; and yet she had been a force of nature: a professor of sociology, far before her time; a defender of civil rights; an advocate for the rights of immigrant women, of farm workers, in her community. Her fierce belief in civil liberties and her disdain for bullies are always with me; her spirit is present in me — yes, I feel it; it keeps me from ever letting the flag of her principles — our principles — droop in the dust.
Grandma Fay is watching.
My grandmother’s face is traceable now in the faces of the women on that side of my family: the lovely hooded eyes, the high cheekbones, the sensitive bow mouths, like the mouths of starlets of the 1920s; the beautiful teeth.
There have been at least five generations of these beauties: from the shtetl of Odessa, to America: Chicago to San Francisco, San Francisco to Sebastopol. My cousin R. is the latest iteration of the beauty that descends from my great-grandmother: the cupid-like lips, the merry brown eyes, the high cheekbones — unmistakeable; how our lineage lives from the past into the present.
But it was not just the lovely women of part of my family — the part of my family that is still is communication with me – that celebrated the first night of Hanukkah with us. My Greek Orthodox stepson had celebrated with us, earlier, too.
Our celebration was unorthodox: we’d had a non-kosher feast of blue crabs, easy-peel shrimp, and garlic- and lemon-soaked mussels, all dumped out on paper sheets on tabletops in a little family-owned hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Somerville, Mass.
The restaurant was called The Happy Crab.
“Not happy any more,” remarked my husband, as he broke one open, with the nutcrackers that were provided for just that purpose.
I came home after this feast, to light the first candle, and to sing “Rock of Ages”.
True love, I think, leads you to open your arms to every important memory of your beloved’s, and to say, I don’t really get it, perhaps, but I will cherish this with you.
My husband’s mom, a nurse, made Cornish game hens for their Christmas every year; coated in bacon, basted in white wine. My husband makes these as well, to remember her; to remember his own now-deceased father, who worked 364 days a year — but not on Christmas day — managing his own donut shop.
I, a Jewish lady who does not understand Christmas or Cornish game hens, open my arms to these memories of my husband’s, because — because love.
Cornish game hens! Christmas! They are, it is, delicious.
When I have prepared Christmases for my husband, he really enjoys them, because I have no idea what to do. On Christmas Day, half-jokingly, I call myself: “Mindy, Santa’s Jewish Helper.” I decorate a brightly-lit little tree, and adorn our home with candy canes, and ply Brian with butter cookies, and encourage his naps — formerly with our elderly dog, now sadly departed, and now with our new puppy, because —what do I know?
My image of Christmas is from movies and from Hallmark cards. I don’t understand what is supposed to happen after the presents are all opened. I don’t get the rhythms or cadences of it, at all.
For my own part, before Christmas arrives, I set up the Menorah, I dig out my deceased father’s recipe for latkes — a recipe that descended in turn from my father’s mother; Rose, “Raisa”, now also deceased; a woman who was born in a humble wooden house in Sighet, Romania, in the early Twentieth century, in a world that no longer exists. The whole world she knew before she came to this country, was an orthodox Jewish one. She kept a holy Sabbath every Friday night and Saturday of her life.
Latkes! Says my husband — whose surname is one of the oldest in Ireland. He opens his arms to the prospect of oily potato pancakes. Because — because love.
Isn’t this all we can do? Witness — and embrace one another?
Isn’t that all it really means, to have a Season of Lights?
Maybe no one alone is right. Maybe no one alone has the whole story. Maybe the whole story is too big for any one narrator to grasp it.
The Maccabees, witnessing their miracle, do not have the only miracle in the world. In our Hanukkah story, the beleaguered Jewish rebels who took up arms against a tyrannical Seleucid world power, entered the devastated Holy of Holies; and found oil remaining for the sacred lamp. The oil that was only enough for one night, burned, implausibly, for eight days.
God showed up for us, and helped us in our direst need; says our foundational myth.
And:
A star appeared over Bethlehem.
A baby was born in a manger.
That baby would be a Light of Lights, Wonderful Counselor, King of Kings.
A virgin would hold and nurse him.
Three kings journeyed to honor to him: bringing gold, frankincense and myrrh. The animals bowed their heads in homage.
God showed up for these people, and healed them in their direst need — says their foundational myth.
Why can’t it — all be true?
Why can’t God find us — everywhere?
In every land? In every story?
Why do labels matter at all?
Maybe the labels are not the point. Maybe God is not at all interested in labels.
Who cares whose miracle wins?
Maybe all the miracles win.
Maybe love is the only real miracle; and all the stories simply manifest this river of love.
Wondrous lights in a ruined temple; divine child in a manger; holy night, or nights; isn’t it all in essence the same miracle?
Humans embrace one another, and thus honor their Lord.
Isn’t that the only miracle, after all?
The way love weaves through us and through generations, from Sighet to Chicago to San Francisco to Sebastopol; the way love says: How amazing! I am here for you!
Cornish game hens! Easy-peel shrimp! Latkes!
Isn’t that the Hanukkah miracle, the Christmas miracle?
Isn’t the light in the ruined temple — everyone’s light; and isn’t the baby born to save us all, the salvation of everyone?
Doesn’t God talk to us in every single language He knows?
Whatever the answer — God bless you and keep you and yours; and cherish you and your family, my friend; this Hanukkah and Christmas season.
This is the song my family used to sing on this night, when my dad was alive and my brother and I were small:
”Rock of Ages let our song,
Praise thy saving power;
Thou amidst the raging throng,
Wast our sheltering tower.Furious they assailed us,
But Thine arm availed us
And Thy wordBroke their sword,
When our own strength failed us.
And Thy wordBroke their sword,
When our own strength failed us.”
Chag Sameach.
Happy Hannukah.
And Merry — almost-Christmas.
“Romania, Romania, Ro-MAAA-nia! . . . ”
A very old and moving Yiddish song. Thanks for the memories of my own relatives, now of blessed memory, as well as my own life with my shiksa goddess.
Chag sameach.
God Bless you and your family from a second generation Irish American named Collins from Kilmallack Tipperary County.
The Ancient Greeks have triumphed over the Maccabees. Dr. Naomi Wolf, the modern Jewess-lite, has been Hellenized and she doesn’t even realize it. Only Greco-Pagan-Aristotelian reason can produce a respectful, loving, tolerant, truce between two opposed faiths like Judaism and Christianity.
“Durant refers to Aristotle as “this amazing Greek who . . . upset three religions.” Barnes writes, “He bestrode antiquity like an intellectual colossus.” Aristotle continues to upset the religions, and he now bestrides the modern Western world. His philosophy provides a proper understanding of the method of reason—and from that comes all that is good in modern secular culture: rational philosophy, the arts, the sciences, medicine, technology, prosperity.
Durant, speaking of the medieval renaissance, writes, “Aristotle’s philosophy was a Greek gift to Latin Christendom, a Trojan horse concealing a thousand hostile elements. These seeds of the Renaissance and Enlightenment were . . . ‘the revenge of paganism’ over Christianity.” To put it more accurately: the Renaissance and the Enlightenment were the triumph—not the “revenge”—of Greek rationalism over Christianity. More precisely still, these monumental events were the triumph of Aristotle over religion.”- Andrew Bernstein
“The Enduring Positive Legacy of Aristotle – Aristotle Versus Religion (7 of 7)”
The great Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, called the Rambam by us and Maimonides by the rest of the world, was an admirer of Aristotle. He lived in the 12th century. He was certainly no Hellenist, but rather one of our most revered religious scholars. We hold that there is wisdom among the Nations, but there is Torah only among the Jews.
Reliance upon the mind of man, the created, over the outstretched hand of the Creator. And how well has that stubbornness worked through the ages?
“The only man who can stave off another Dark Ages is the Father of the Enlightenment [and the Renaissance — Aristotle].
It is true that Aristotle has flaws, which always gave his enemies an opening. But now the opening has been closed [by Ayn Rand].
The solution to the crisis of our age is love, as everyone says. But the love we need is not love of God or the neighbor. It is the love of the good for being the good. The good, in this context, includes reality, man the hero, and man’s tool of survival [reason].
Some remnant of such love still survives in the West. Above all, it survives in the people of America — which despite its decline, is still the leader and beacon of the world.” – Objectivist philosopher Leonard Peikoff
The solution is love, love of this earthly, natural not supernatural, life and world. Love of man and his rational nature which gives him the power to become a hero, which means rejecting the doctrine of Original Sin and accepting that a man is innocent until proven guilty.
Love one another not as sacrificial animals and profiteers-on-sacrifice, as victims and parasites, but as productive, independent, sovereign, human beings. Neither sacrificing yourselves to others, nor sacrificing others to yourselves.
Some people will light candles and place them in their windows its said to guide Mary and Joseph on their way to Bethlehem
So how does your Irish Catholic husband square with your abortion fervor?
Beautiful song and a reminder of how blessed we are to be called Children of God.
Mark 10:45 The Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many
Isaiah says, “Trust in Yaweh forever. For Yah, Yaweh is a Rock of Ages.
Christians believe in this Rock; cleft, wounded for us. God, the Rock of Ages, has made a space for us in the wounds of Jesus. He has hidden us in the cleft of Jesus’ heart as He hid Moses in the cleft of the rock when He passed by.
The story of Hanukkah and Christmas is one story. As C.S.Lewis says, this narrative is the revelation of a true myth. It is true materially and spiritually; full of light.
All true light comes to us from the Father of Lights.
I love you Naomi!