by Rabbi Joe Hample
There is no better-known Jewish object than the dreidel, the top that we spin at Chanukkah, with Hebrew letters on the four sides. Together with gelt — coins (or candy coins) given as a Chanukkah present — the dreidel recalls the gambling games supposedly played by persecuted Jews in the Chanukkah story, as a pretext for meetings whose real purpose was religious or military.
How did the dreidel become indispensable? Chanukkah was a minor holiday in the old country but has been inflated in America to compete with the December festival of the host culture. As a counterpart of the holiday tree, Chanukkah offers either the menorah (candelabra) or the dreidel.
The letters on the dreidel are the Hebrew equivalents of N, G, H and S. These are initials of game instructions, in Yiddish, specifying that the player wins or loses money. But they have come to be understood as an acronym for the Hebrew nes gadol hayah sham, “a great miracle happened there.” Possibly the spread of the dreidel to non-Yiddish-speaking Jews encouraged the reinterpretation. Still, it is correct to call Chanukkah a miracle holiday.
The distinctive prayer on Chanukkah, Al ha-Nissim, thanks God for a military miracle. This is also in Maccabees, not officially part of the Jewish Bible, but in Catholic Bibles. Alexander the Great conquers the Middle East. His generals divide up his empire. A hundred years later, the Greek king Antiochus Epiphanes tries to stamp out Judaism. The Jews rebel: a few ragtag guerrillas — the Maccabees — against the Greek army.
Somehow, the Jews win. We Jews are fighting on our own turf, for our homes and families and faith. The Greeks are fighting on a landscape they don’t know very well, and for an abstraction, the dynasty, the Hellenistic order. It’s history’s first war for religious freedom, and it succeeds. Score one for the Jews, or the God of the Jews.
The Talmud describes a different Chanukkah miracle. The Jerusalem Temple has to be rededicated, because the Greeks have profaned it with their pagan nonsense. (Chanukkah means “dedication.”) When we rededicate the Temple, one day’s supply of oil inexplicably burns for eight days. This is supposed to explain why Chanukkah is eight days. (The real reason is that Chanukkah is modeled on Sukkot, the eight-day harvest festival.) The oil miracle provides the excuse for foods deep-fried in oil: potato pancakes or jelly donuts. This is a very popular miracle.
The Biblical reading for Chanukkah is the prophet Zechariah: “Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, says the Eternal of Hosts.” This implies a spiritual miracle: courage in hard times. That’s my favorite miracle of all.
The primary observance of Chanukkah is lighting eight lamps for the eight days of the holiday. The menorah (branched lampstand) in the ancient Temple had seven lights, for the days of the week. However, the Chanukkah menorah has eight lights, plus a service light to kindle the others.
Displaying Chanukkah lights, in public or in the window, is a key religious obligation. Other religious obligations are waived if you lack the resources. But you must beg for Chanukkah lights, because the menorah testifies to the miracle. The requirement is to tell the world.
Around the winter solstice, when the weather is cold and the nights are dark, most cultures eat rich foods and light special lamps. When the days get longer, most cultures process that as a miracle.
Miracles may be embarrassing today, but it’s in the eye of the beholder. Maybe sunset and sunrise are miracles. Maybe walking and talking, hope and faith and love, are miracles. Maybe the harmonious coexistence of different religions, after centuries of conflict, is a miracle. Miracles occur all year round. But this season of light in the darkness is when they loom largest.
Rabbi Joe Hample is the spiritual leader at Morgantown’s Tree of Life Congregation.
