Rabbi Susan Grossman: December 2005 Archives

They are easy to miss. They are displayed way above eye level in a corridor that one passes through from one exhibit to another. Interactive booths with seats line the walls, attracting everyone’s attention down instead of up. Perhaps the designers of the United States Holocaust Museum planned it this way to make a point about how easy it is to ignore the “writing on the wall.”

In this case, the writing literally on the walls are the front pages of newspapers from the 1930s and 40s reporting on Hitler’s plans to exterminate the Jewish people. What these newspapers tell us is that the Holocaust was not inevitable. It happened not because Hitler was a maniac; not because German culture was authoritarian; not because centuries of Christian anti-Judaism gave power to Hitler’s anti-Semitic claims. The Holocaust happened because otherwise good people and the nations they lived in let it happen.

Will they let it happen again?

That is the specter raised by Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s recent statement that Israel should be wiped off the map. He clearly has the will and the motive, and may soon have the physical nuclear capability to make his threat real.

His statement is the most recent reminder of the special role Jews play in the world.

It used to be that when miners descended into the earth to dig, they took with them a canary. If the canary died, they knew that they had to get out of there because the air had turned deadly.

We Jews are the canaries of the world. In a society in which Jews are attacked, no one is safe.

The killing machine the Nazis created to destroy the Jewish people killed not only six million Jews but millions of others. The terrorists who hijacked the planes that flew into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and crashed in a Pennsylvania field on 9/11 were the heirs of those who first hijacked planes to take Jewish hostages. If Iran talks with impunity about wiping one country off the map, no country is safe.

Speaker of the Swedish Parliament Bjorn von Sydow understood this when he said: “I am willing to defend the right of Israel to exist as strongly as I defend the rights of my own country to exist.” While Ahmadinejad’s statement has been condemned by Western leaders, only Sweden responded unequivocally by cutting all bilateral contact with the Iranian parliament. If anything is to be learned from the Holocaust, other nations will follow Sweden’s lead and go even further to impose sanctions and isolation.

What about us? It’s not exactly a privilege to be the canary of the world. As an Israeli congregant once quipped, “For this we were chosen? Let God choose someone else!”

To be fair, we are not the only people to suffer as the world sits idly by. Rwanda and, currently, Darfur ( www.savedafur.org) are just two of the recent genocides to come to mind. However, Jewish history is among the most marked by such recurring atrocities.

I am not sure why God chose us, the Jews, for this particular purpose, as canary of the world. Perhaps it is the burden of being custodians of the special message which is Torah: that human equality, the rule of law, the limits of power, and the dignity of every individual are not idle dreams but concrete, achievable goals for which we are to consistently strive. Being the canary for us is not a state of being the victim. Being the canary of the world comes with a moral responsibility to be the conscience of the world as well.

The newspapers on the walls of the Holocaust Museum remind us that it is all too easy, when reading bad news, to simply turn the page. Our job, as Jews, is to make sure no one turns the page, not just for us, but for all who are the targets of unmitigated hatred.

The newspapers also remind us that such hatred spreads to envelope the world when left unchecked. That is why it is not just for Israel’s sake that America and other nations should sanction and isolate Iran. It is for all our sakes.

I was hurrying through Reagan National Airport on the way to the United Synagogue convention last week when I passed an enormous Christmas tree on the lower concourse. I appreciated the beautiful decorations and automatically looked around to see if a menorah was also on display. There was not one in sight.

We have made some progress, though. “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” messages now fill the airways and even a few chain stores. The Christmas trees and glitter are still there, but at least there is an effort to show sensitivity and courtesy to those who of us who hold different beliefs.

As Jews, we are particularly aware of the importance of such sentiments, because our holiday, Hanukkah, usually falls around this time of year. However, my neighbors who are Hindu (and celebrate a different winter festival of light) similarly prefer a "Happy Holiday" to the exclusive Merry Christmas. At the very least, the secular New Year is around the corner, so everyone, technically at least, can feel part of a "Happy Holiday" greeting, regardless of religious affiliation or inclination.

That is why recent calls for a boycott against stores who have replaced their Merry Christmas signs with Happy Holiday signs strikes me as mean-spirited. These moves have been labeled as an “attack on Christmas.” Exactly who is attacking whom?

People become angry when they feel that their “rights” have been violated, often when what they were used to has changed. Our American culture is changing, as we begin to publicly acknowledge our diversity, and rightfully so. This is not a cultural minimalist position, just the opposite: When each religion and ethnicity deeply lives its own traditions, the mosaic of American society is enriched. The freedom to be different is a right constitutionally guaranteed by the separation of church and state and the disestablishment of religion. That calls for a little appreciation for and consideration of others, as well as making room in our public culture for those differences.

It is unfortunate that those who launched this “attack on Christmas” boycott feel their holiday cheer diminished by a simple Happy Holiday sign. However, that doesn't give them the “right” to be totally inconsiderate of others who do not share their beliefs. Perhaps some self-proclaimed rights are really wrongs, which is why a just society must at times protect the rights of the minority from the demands of the majority.

Last I looked, Christmas is alive, well, and … everywhere. The real attack is not on Christmas by the Happy Holidayers, but on courtesy and kindness by the anti-Happy Holiday crowd.

“Love thy neighbor as thyself” is a cardinal virtue of both Judaism and Christianity, part of the Scripture we both share. That means showing the same courtesy to others that you would want for yourself.

That means when I know someone celebrates Christmas, I wish that person a Merry Christmas. However, when in doubt, or when greeting an ethnically or religiously mixed group, a Happy Holiday instead of a Merry Christmas becomes a basic act of kindness, a way of showing consideration and courtesy to others.

My minister friends tell me Christmas is supposed to be about showing kindness and generosity of spirit to others, not about whether a store sports a “Merry Christmas” or a “Happy Hanukkah” sign. That’s why my family will be making a special effort this year to shop at Target and the other stores being boycotted by the “attack on Christmas” crowd. On our way out, I’ll be sure to let the store managers know just how much I appreciate their "Happy Holiday" signs.

Epiphanies can happen in the strangest places.

We had gone to see a movie. I don’t remember which one. It was years ago. My son was young, perhaps six or seven. It was holiday season. A large Christmas tree stood in the lobby of the theater. My son stood at the foot of the tree and looked up at the sparkling lights and decorations. Then he turned around, as if searching for something and asked, “Where is the menorah?” Spotting an electric menorah on a counter, I pointed it out to him. “It’s so small,” was his reply as he took my hand.

We just stood there for a moment, hand in hand, halfway between the tree and the menorah. He looked back and forth from one to the other and then said, “Christmas is beautiful, but Hanukkah is my holiday.” He said those words with a quiet determination, as if situating himself as a proud minority within a dominant culture he could appreciate but need not be envious of.

When I was his age, my response had been very different. I so wanted to be part of the magic Christmas seemed to offer. I came up with a plan. I saved my pennies for weeks before I had enough to purchase a small bag of tinsel, an envelope of hooks, and a box of tiny ornaments, little glass balls of red, blue, and green. I precariously took my mother’s prize jade plant off the kitchen window sill and set it in the living room. It looked like a tree, with its branches and large central stem, so I decorated it accordingly, carefully draping the tinsel and hanging the little ornaments from their hooks. I was so proud of my accomplishment, looking at it this way and that, until my mother walked in. “It’s a Hanukkah bush!” I triumphantly explained as her face fell. I did not fully understand her dismay until my neighbor and playmate, Kris, came in and asked why I had a funny-looking Christmas tree in my living room. “I thought you were Jewish,” she explained. “We are,” I replied. That evening I removed all the decorations and returned the jade plant to the kitchen window sill, longing to have what Kris had: a glorious tree covered with lights and surrounded by piles of presents.

My parents were first-generation Americans. They both grew up in kosher homes. Their mothers lit Shabbat candles every Friday night. However, like most of their generation, they fled what they experienced as the stifling restrictions of an old-country Judaism of rote and rules that offered little by way of meaning or inspiration. My parents felt Jewish, and most of the time that was enough. We lit the Hanukkah candles each year, though I don’t remember singing any songs or even playing the dreidel as a child. My mother baked hamentaschen for Purim. We held two Passover seders and, for eight days, refrained from eating bread or bacon–because they were not pesadik (kosher for Passover). We gave money to Israel. It was not until the end of college that my search for spiritual meaning brought me back to the Judaism hidden from me as a child, a Judaism rich with symbolism, joyful traditions, and a path toward personal and spiritual growth.

My son, of course, knew nothing of my inner struggle. From birth, he knew the joy of welcoming angels to the flicker of Sabbath candles; of his parents’ hands resting on his head in blessing each Friday night. He felt the anticipation of spending weeks planning our family Purim costumes and of relishing the taste of Israeli fruits on Tu B’Shevat. His child’s need for decorating and delight was fulfilled in the thrill of unpacking our boxes of decorations, making new decorations, and finding the perfect place to hang them all in our Sukkah each fall. It was no wonder he could appreciate Christmas without the sense of unease, envy, and guilt I had always felt growing up. In his world, Hanukkah did not need to carry the weight of Christmas comparisons because it was but one of a weekly and monthly parade of particularly Jewish celebrations, each joyful, holy, and special in its own way.

Looking down at my son, a weight lifted from my own heart. I realized that I, too, could appreciate Christmas for all its once-a-year pageantry without the discomfort of feeling left out. I was not about to join the nearest carolers or the local 'Messiah' sing-in.

There is a difference between being an appreciative observer and actively participating in the religious rites and rituals of others. However, I could finally enjoy the lights, and even the ubiquitous holiday music and decorations, without the baggage of my youthful yearning, just as I might enjoy any other culture’s ethnic or religious festival, with curiosity and pleasure. Since I experienced this Hanukkah epiphany looking through my son’s eyes, I, too, have been able to see that Christmas is beautiful, and that Hanukkah is my holiday, one of many holy and happy days we share together throughout the year.