On the Sunday after Chanukah ended, I took advantage of the bright sunshine and made my way down to Market Square to pack up the menorah from its stand on the bullnose.
Each year, when I undertake the annual tasks of installing and removing the menorah, I feel a bit conspicuous – after all there is no Department of Public Services or city support needed, so it’s just me crawling under the outstretched branches of the Christmas tree to unplug the extension cord and then squeezing everything into the back of my car like a December game of Tetris.
Despite my self-consciousness, no one seemed to take note of the rabbi scurrying around with some hand tools and a 4-foot PVC menorah. Contrary to my experience lighting the menorah in Market Square, in this instance, I was glad to fly under the radar.
There is a long tradition of celebrating Chanukah in the public square, one that goes back much further than the first national menorah lighting that took place in Washington, D.C., in 1979.
In fact, the ancient rabbis of the Mishnah declared that one of the purposes of the menorah is pirsumei nisah, publicizing the miracles of Chanukah – the oil that lasted eight days and the unlikely military victory over the Greek Seleucid Empire. As many people as possible are supposed to be able to see and appreciate the light of the Chanukah candles.
Yet this year, the public Chanukah gatherings that took place in Newburyport and Amesbury, and in thousands of cities across the world, had a very different tone.
I woke up on the morning before the first night of Chanukah to the news of the horrific attack at a public menorah lighting and Chanukah party at Bondi Beach in Australia: 15 people were killed and scores more injured, targeted for their desire to celebrate the joy and light of Chanukah with their community, in public.
I did not consider cancelling our menorah lightings, despite feelings of sadness and some unease. In the face of a continued rise in antisemitic speech and acts, I can’t afford to let the joy and light of Jewish tradition and community be snuffed out by fear. I would have stood out there alone if I had to.
Thankfully, I didn’t have to. Not only did many members of the Jewish community show up throughout Chanukah, so did friends and allies. I am thankful that so many people recognize the vicious poison present in the attacks in Australia, in the conspiracy theories spreading all too freely across social media and in rhetoric like Holocaust denial that has no place being aired privately, much less publicly. I hope that we are able to continue educating those who do not understand, or choose not to see, the harm being inflicted.
I am also grateful for the support of the city governments and the police departments in Newburyport and Amesbury that do everything they can to help make the Jewish community feel as safe as possible. I hope that governments and civic institutions at all levels will continue to take the threat of antisemitism seriously and hear the concerns of their Jewish citizens (which the Jewish community in Australia have said were overlooked leading up to this attack).
I generally resist characterizing participation in Jewish life as an act of defiance, yet I know that is how many members of our tiny global Jewish community might describe their experience of being Jewish right now.
The metaphor of a small candle defying the darkness can be a powerful one, as described explicitly in a Hebrew Chanukah folk song, “Banu Choshech Legaresh.” The lyrics translate to “We came to banish the darkness. In our hands we hold fire and light. Each of us is a small light, but together we are tremendously bright. Flee darkness! Back off darkness! Flee in the face of the light!”
There is only so much we can do to push back the darkness, but we must hold onto whatever light we can muster with all our resolve.
Rabbi Alex Matthews is the spiritual leader at Congregational Ahavas Achim in Newburyport.