Awash in a sea of black and white, I stuck out like a sore thumb in my khaki pants and blue button-down shirt. Over a decade ago, during a year of study in Israel at the Conservative Yeshiva, I wanted to experience a different type of Chanukah celebration, so along with a few rabbinical school colleagues, we decided to spend a night with the Belz Chasidic community in Jerusalem. I was struck by a number of things when we were there: the massively opulent synagogue they had constructed in modern-day Israel that was a near perfect replica of the one that existed in Belz Ukraine in the 19th century, the hypnotizing swaying of hundreds of hasidim as they sang Chanukah songs, and the many looks we got as the colorfully garbed outsiders.
But what caught my attention most was what happened after the lighting of the candles by the current Rebbe of Belz, Yissachar Dov Rokeach. After the final blessing ended and a 25-minute rendition of Maoz Tzur began (yes, you read that correctly), I watched the Rebbe as he intensely stared at the candles. Every few minutes I would glance back over as another stanza began and there he was, gazing deeply at the massive menorah.
What could he possibly be thinking about, I wondered. This was another level of intention than I had ever experienced. As the song entered its last stanza and finally ended, his eyesight finally broke with the candles, but I find that scene etched into my mind’s eye as Chanukah approaches each year.
This year, it popped into my head as I learned the following text responding to a legal debate about whether we are permitted to use the light of the Chanukah candles for anything other than looking at them. The final halakhic decision is that we cannot use them for anything else, but as you might expect, there is a back and forth between the two proponents of each opinion.
This debate is taken up by the chasidic masters as a metaphor for how one should structure one’s spiritual life. One teaching in particular caught my attention, because it brought me back to the Belzer Rebbe and it felt particularly applicable to us today. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev (18th century Ukraine), eponymously known as the Kedushat Levi after his seminal work, taught a parable to illuminate this debate (Drashot Chanukah 4):
A great king came to visit an impoverished constituent of his. This person having never seen such a grand figure had two paths of joy to tap into. On one hand he could be joyous at the sight of the richness of the king’s stuff or on the other hand he could be joyous at the fact that the king came to visit him. He chose the latter form of joy for he knew that material stuff wasn’t significant for such a grand king, so why should it be for him? So too it is for us.
We celebrate miraculousness on Chanukah—but for God, performing miracles is commonplace. So we should luxuriate in the fact that we can feel the divine presence in the light of the candles. The school of thought that says we can benefit from the candles is like the impoverished one who celebrates the grandiosity of the king’s stuff, while the school of thought that says we can’t benefit from the light, that we should simply should sit with the light, is like one who is overjoyed at being visited by the king.
That reminded me of the Belzer Rebbe. Truth be told, to simply sit is actually the very opposite of simple. In the cacophonous and fast-paced world in which we live, dwelling in one moment is a lot to ask of ourselves. Digging even deeper, I wonder if, in a world that seems fueled more and more by grievance, this Chanukah lesson might be a deeply counter-cultural and powerful antidote to what ails us.
Researchers at the Greater Good Institute at UC Berkeley have shown that being able to incorporate some practice of regular mindfulness in one’s life increases the brain’s gray matter—the tissue that, among other things, increases our capacity for self-regulation. Do I think that the Belzer Rebbe was trying to intentionally calm himself down at that moment? Probably not. But I do think his action was instructive in a world that feels so rife with people jumping at every opportunity to air their grievances.
Can we take the lesson of the Chanukah candles that challenge us to sit with them? Don’t use their light for anything other than basking in their glow. Just be. The same message is further embedded in this week’s portion as Joseph, the protagonist of these next few weeks of the book of Genesis, finds himself in jail:
So Joseph’s master had him put in prison, where the king’s prisoners were confined, and Joseph was imprisoned. God was with Joseph—extending kindness to him and disposing the chief jailer favorably toward him.
You’ll note there that the last clause of the first sentence is bolded for being potentially redundant. After all, the sentence begins with him being in prison, so what does this add? The aforementioned Kedushat Levi offers the following thought (Vayeshev 17):
There are moments in life when we are surrounded by challenging circumstances and our natural inclination is to do something physical to change it. But this moment is meant to teach us that first we have to note the predicament and have faith that things will be okay in the long run. When the text adds here that ‘he was imprisoned,’ it signals to us that despite the fact that Joseph could’ve done something to move out of his incarceration, he had to start by simply finding his faith.
There is nothing superfluous in the Torah. Here, the Kedushat Levi takes this seeming redundancy and weaves together a beautiful teaching. Joseph’s first move after being put in this situation could have been to find a way out, but instead, he takes stock of the fact that he’s there and reminds himself that God is with him and things will be ok because of that belief.
Taken together, the two texts, one about the Chanukah candles and one about Joseph, illustrate a powerful lesson about presence. We live in a world that pushes us to constantly think about everyone and everything’s utility: How does this serve me? The Kedushat Levi tells us to push back on that.
The holiday season that is approaching is replete with reminders of the goodness of family and unity, but those bonds are fraying. Certainly within the Jewish community we can notice this, but in the larger cultural fabric, violence and enmity continue to rise. We need this reminder of the candles more than ever.
However you mark your holidays, be they Chanukah or something else, dwell in the presence of the light, just like the Belzer Rebbe did, and ask yourself:
Can I pause? Can I breathe? Can I be?
By (not so) simply being, we can remind ourselves that the grievance, grief, or any other all-consuming emotion of the moment isn’t forever. In her book The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion wrote when dealing with her husband’s sudden death, “I needed to know that grief had limits, that it was identifiable and could be approached.” What we’re feeling now isn’t forever. Sometimes we just need a little light to remind us of that.