I am sure that many of you have heard about the death of Jewish songwriter/performer Debbie Friedman, whose music permeates not only our services but worship all over the world.
I know that some of you have had the chance to see Debbie in concert and perhaps, even, to meet her and get to know her.
Here are a some of my recollections about Debbie.
The first of Debbie’s songs I heard was “Thou Shalt Love,” which our Missouri Valley Federation of Temple Youth songleader had brought back to our regional institute in August of 1971 from the Kutz Camp in Warwick, New York, Two years later, my brother, Steve, brought home Debbie’s album, “Sing Unto God,” after his summer working with Debbie at the Chalutzim/Pioneer Hebrew-based program at Olin Sang Ruby Camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. I was excited to hear this new music on the American Jewish scene on that album and on Debbie’s second album, “Not By Might, Not by Power.” Our Hillel Choir at the University of Illinois was already singing her music by in the spring of 1974 through Debbie’s many Chicago connections. She visited the campus of the University of Illinois for a weekend in the spring of 1975, songleading at the weekly Shabbat dinner I attended at a dorm across campus, participating in a Friday night service and working with our choir (she taught us her new song “Laugh at All My Dreams”). I also remember that, during her Saturday night Bet Café, Debbie encouraged me to sing an original song I had shared earlier that day.
I enjoy many opportunities to see Debbie in concert in my home community of Kansas City, at the Conference on Alternatives in Jewish Education (CAJE), conferences of the Central Conference of American Rabbis, and at Reform Judaism’s biennial conventions. It wasn’t until the fall of 1989 that I realized Debbie had me on her wide-ranging map of personal connections. After a meeting of the Commission on Synagogue Music, I went up to Debbie to introduce myself and she responded quickly, “Larry, you don’t have to introduce yourself to me!” She had a way of remembering people that made each person feel special, an important part of her world. At the biennial convention in San Francisco in 1993, during Debbie’s concert on the last night, I remember standing with my mom, singing the Mi Shebeirach, soon after my mom had been diagnosed with cancer. The place, but, especially, Debbie and the song, made that moment memorable (and my mom did end up going to several more biennials).
There were special moments at CAJE conventions – singing in the CAJE Chorale was especially enjoyable. Debbie kept us laughing at rehearsals while taking a large group to a point of being performance-ready. At CAJE in 1990 in Columbus, Ohio, Peter Yarrow made a special appearance not only at a major evening program, but also at a kumsitz/sing-along late one night. I was among many people standing in the dorm lounge, enjoying every minute of this songfest. The next morning, Debbie saw me and said, “Larry, I really enjoyed watching you last night during the kumsitz – you were so enthralled!”
A number of years later, Rhonda and I went to a healing service in Kansas City in which Debbie participated. Our son, Adam (now a Berklee College of Music trained R&B singer working at the Union for Reform Judaism) didn’t believe that we knew Debbie personally. Rhonda and I greeted Debbie after the service and told her what Adam had said. On the back of the service booklet, Debbie wrote, “Dear Adam: Not only do I know your ABBA (Dad) but I also know your DOD (Uncle)!”
Hava Nashira, the songleading workshop at Olin-Sang-Ruby camp, has brought together and sustained a community of creative and spirited people who share and have been inspired by Debbie’ guidance and leadership. Her presentation of music included her usual humor that had us laughing almost uncontrollably at times, as well as her special touch of singing her Mi Shebeirach for us before we would sing it together. There are two personal moments that come to mind to me from Hava Nashira. In 2004, just after my mom had died, I was still wearing my k’riah ribbon. I attended the event because, I thought, my mom would have wanted me to go. In a songwriting workshop (with teaching shared by Debbie, Craig Taubman and Jeff Klepper), Debbie sent us out of the room to come up with an idea for a song. Before I left, she pointed to my ribbon and said, “Larry, you need to write about that.” I thought, “Thank you, Debbie, how am I going to do that?” Debbie had, of course, set me on the right path. I wrote a list of words that characterized my mom’s life and set to music the Hebrew of the line from Psalm 118, “This is the day that the Eternal has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.” The chorus/refrain was done; the rest of the song came six weeks later. The next year, I took part in leading a Hava Nashira song session with members of my “homeroom” group, during which I chose to teach a new original song. According to our advisor and mentor, Craig Taubman, our songleading session did not go well at all. Still, as I stood by the beverage station at dinner, Debbie came up to me and said, “Larry, did you write that song you sang today in the song session at lunch?” I said, “Yes, I did.” She said, “Well, I really liked it!” I know many of my colleagues who had the chance to enjoy moments like that as well! Several people have mentioned the time during the Shabbat Morning service at Hava Nashira in 1999 when the lights and power came back on after being out overnight as we were singing Debbie’s “Yotzeir Or” (the One who creates light). Oh, the power of song!
I have been asked which of Debbie’s songs is my favorite. I have many, but there is one that has always captivated me. I first heard “Shelter of Peace,” from Debbie’s “World of Your Dreams” album, at the CAJE convention in 1992. I was overwhelmed by the song, not just because it was a very touching lullaby, but because it was God’s lullaby to us. I realized that it was probably linked to the Hashkiveinu evening prayer and wanted to sing it immediately upon my return home to Topeka. I called Sounds Write Productions, and spoke with Randee Friedman. She told me that the song was, in fact, based on the Hashkiveinu prayer, and that she was willing to fax me the sheet music. I have been singing it ever since, and that is the song that I added to our January 7 service at a time when many people were praying for Debbie’s health.
Debbie didn’t just have a way with words…and music. I was always impressed how she interpreted prayers and biblical and rabbinic texts into a singable and poignant English lyric, with Hebrew included or even interwoven into the words of the song. And there were songs that were only one language that were also very, very powerful. “This is the Day” was the opening song for Adam’s Bar Mitzvah. We also sang Debbie’s “Modim” that day, a setting that Adam and I have sung together during worship several times over the years. I was glad that Adam had the opportunity to join me in singing in Debbie’s CAJE Chorale in 2000, to experience everything that I had seen – her creativity, her humor, her ability to lead us to create a unified sound and get the best harmonies out of our many voices, while saying, almost without fail, “I wish you could all be up here to you sing!”
I was writing a song based on Psalms 111, 112, and 113 for our local Martin Luther King, Jr. birthday commemoration as I heard the news about Debbie’s hospitalization. The song is complete and will soon be posted on my reverbnation site (www.reverbnation.com/larrykarol). I realize that some of the lyrics reflect many of Debbie’s songs taken from Psalms and other text. “A Light is Shining” is a tribute to Debbie’s light that she shared with us: to sing, to create and to bring our faith and spirit to life in lyrics, melody, and personal enthusiasm and presence. May her memory be for blessing, and may her many songs continue to inspire us in the years to come.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Light in their dwellings - January 7, 2011
Shabbat Shalom!
During the plague of darkness in Egypt, the Israelites “enjoyed light in all their dwellings,” while the Egyptians found themselves in thick blackness “that could be touched.”
It may be difficult to imagine such a darkness. The Etz Hayim commentary suggests that this must not have been the type of darkness that could be defined as the “relative absence of light.” The Torah stated that the Egyptians “could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he/she was.”
This mysterious darkness was immobilizing and debilitating in ways that seem physical but could be, primarily, spiritual or psychological. With such an interpretation, we could say that darkness has descended on a community when people are unable to recognize each other as fellow human beings, perhaps due to conflict, accumulated animosity or even hatred.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. thought of hatred and love in terms of darkness and light. In one of his well –known sermons at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama in 1957, he asserted: “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
King’s notion of casting light on a place where there is only darkness relates to the Torah’s tale of the Egyptian refusal to grant the Israelites freedom. As Pharaoh was immobilized and unable to see the good that would come from liberating the slaves in his own heart and for his people, so were the people also caught in a place where they could not recognize the humanity of the Israelites among them. That was the darkness that engulfed them, and there was no guarantee that even granting the Israelites their freedom would dispel that darkness.
We know well that the plague of such darkness persists in many corners of the earth and in the human heart. The words of Psalm 112, as translated by Pamela Greenberg, offer us insight into how goodness and godliness can lift us to a higher place: “For the goodhearted, light shines even in the dark: you are full of grace, compassion and justice.” The “you” can be God or the spark of God in each of us. May we continue to nurture that light within us.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
During the plague of darkness in Egypt, the Israelites “enjoyed light in all their dwellings,” while the Egyptians found themselves in thick blackness “that could be touched.”
It may be difficult to imagine such a darkness. The Etz Hayim commentary suggests that this must not have been the type of darkness that could be defined as the “relative absence of light.” The Torah stated that the Egyptians “could not see one another, and for three days no one could get up from where he/she was.”
This mysterious darkness was immobilizing and debilitating in ways that seem physical but could be, primarily, spiritual or psychological. With such an interpretation, we could say that darkness has descended on a community when people are unable to recognize each other as fellow human beings, perhaps due to conflict, accumulated animosity or even hatred.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. thought of hatred and love in terms of darkness and light. In one of his well –known sermons at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama in 1957, he asserted: “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
King’s notion of casting light on a place where there is only darkness relates to the Torah’s tale of the Egyptian refusal to grant the Israelites freedom. As Pharaoh was immobilized and unable to see the good that would come from liberating the slaves in his own heart and for his people, so were the people also caught in a place where they could not recognize the humanity of the Israelites among them. That was the darkness that engulfed them, and there was no guarantee that even granting the Israelites their freedom would dispel that darkness.
We know well that the plague of such darkness persists in many corners of the earth and in the human heart. The words of Psalm 112, as translated by Pamela Greenberg, offer us insight into how goodness and godliness can lift us to a higher place: “For the goodhearted, light shines even in the dark: you are full of grace, compassion and justice.” The “you” can be God or the spark of God in each of us. May we continue to nurture that light within us.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
Friday, December 31, 2010
Don't ONLY Look Back - December 31, 2010
Time and life
require us
to move forward.
We may find
ourselves
looking at
past choices and
crucial decisions
with, in some cases, pride,
and in others, regret.
We may believe
that we can fix
and redeem
mistakes and
errors in judgment
by using the same strategy
with minor modifications.
Sometimes, the lesson
we must learn
is that we must adopt
a totally new approach,
using newly-found wisdom
to fashion a different
foundation in our thinking.
To do so, we may need
to listen more intently
to the many voices
inside of ourselves
in order to find
a healthy combination
of head and heart,
rather than just one or the other.
Like Moses, we need to be brave and persistent.
Like Aaron, we must have words at our command that tell our story and clearly reveal our desires, even our demands
of ourselves and others.
Like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,
whom we remember this month,
we need to find our dream,
our goal, and try to reach it
in a way that is peaceful
and hopeful
with words and actions
that can bring about change
because the ultimate aim itself
speaks to the core of
human decency and goodness.
As Moses and Aaron continued to cry to Pharaoh and all of Egypt,
“Let my people go!”
the people themselves
had to let go of the mindset
of a slave
one step at a time
So that when their day of liberty came, they would be ready
to focus on a future of freedom
rather than
harboring bitterness and hatred
at those who had so ruthlessly
oppressed them.
Every community
has an opportunity
to choose to move forward
with determination and hope,
looking at the new reality
of the present
recognize how it can lead
to the creation of a bright future
founded on generosity of spirit,
understanding and hope.
May we face the coming days
as one community
and along with all humanity
moving forward
together.
require us
to move forward.
We may find
ourselves
looking at
past choices and
crucial decisions
with, in some cases, pride,
and in others, regret.
We may believe
that we can fix
and redeem
mistakes and
errors in judgment
by using the same strategy
with minor modifications.
Sometimes, the lesson
we must learn
is that we must adopt
a totally new approach,
using newly-found wisdom
to fashion a different
foundation in our thinking.
To do so, we may need
to listen more intently
to the many voices
inside of ourselves
in order to find
a healthy combination
of head and heart,
rather than just one or the other.
Like Moses, we need to be brave and persistent.
Like Aaron, we must have words at our command that tell our story and clearly reveal our desires, even our demands
of ourselves and others.
Like Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,
whom we remember this month,
we need to find our dream,
our goal, and try to reach it
in a way that is peaceful
and hopeful
with words and actions
that can bring about change
because the ultimate aim itself
speaks to the core of
human decency and goodness.
As Moses and Aaron continued to cry to Pharaoh and all of Egypt,
“Let my people go!”
the people themselves
had to let go of the mindset
of a slave
one step at a time
So that when their day of liberty came, they would be ready
to focus on a future of freedom
rather than
harboring bitterness and hatred
at those who had so ruthlessly
oppressed them.
Every community
has an opportunity
to choose to move forward
with determination and hope,
looking at the new reality
of the present
recognize how it can lead
to the creation of a bright future
founded on generosity of spirit,
understanding and hope.
May we face the coming days
as one community
and along with all humanity
moving forward
together.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Reaching Higher - December 23, 2010
The sun was hot.
As taskmasters stood over them, the people attended to the work that had been forced upon them.
They could hear cries of agony around them,
And the calls of the foremen, chastising them for lack of energy
and for their supposedly slow progress.
Was this the life their recent ancestors had expected when they came to Egypt?
Was this the hallmark of this great civilization, building monuments
on the backs of slaves who were accorded no human dignity?
Still, when the day was over, the workers would return to their homes.
While they could not totally forget the toil of the past hours,
They took comfort in being one community.
From almost forgotten memories of preceding generations, they knew
That someone might arise again, like Joseph, to save them,
Or that someone like Jacob, who received his name Israel,
Meaning “one who struggles with God,”
Might help them find strength to face their own challenges
as their bondage grew more intense with each passing day.
One day, they caught a glimpse of a man who was one from among their people
Who, they heard, had grown up in among Egyptian royalty
And was now making his case to Pharaoh to end their servitude.
His protestations made their work even more difficult.
They didn’t know if they should hate him for the proclamation
Which he said came from their God, “Let My people go!”
Or, if they should be thankful that someone was trying to bring them hope
And strength and faith that a time of suffering and pain could end
And that they could once again live in dignity and freedom.
As they attended to their work day after day, some of them began to sense
A spark of optimism welling up inside of them,
A feeling that slavery was not the ultimate destiny of their people.
Some began to be grateful for this new leader and put all of their faith in him
And in the God for whom he said he spoke
But others realized that liberation would only begin
When they themselves, within their souls, began to imagine the freedom they deserved.
That was truly the beginning of their own liberty
When, even in a sea of cruelty,
They still could ascend, within themselves and, perhaps, along with others around them,
To a place that was higher and holy.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
As taskmasters stood over them, the people attended to the work that had been forced upon them.
They could hear cries of agony around them,
And the calls of the foremen, chastising them for lack of energy
and for their supposedly slow progress.
Was this the life their recent ancestors had expected when they came to Egypt?
Was this the hallmark of this great civilization, building monuments
on the backs of slaves who were accorded no human dignity?
Still, when the day was over, the workers would return to their homes.
While they could not totally forget the toil of the past hours,
They took comfort in being one community.
From almost forgotten memories of preceding generations, they knew
That someone might arise again, like Joseph, to save them,
Or that someone like Jacob, who received his name Israel,
Meaning “one who struggles with God,”
Might help them find strength to face their own challenges
as their bondage grew more intense with each passing day.
One day, they caught a glimpse of a man who was one from among their people
Who, they heard, had grown up in among Egyptian royalty
And was now making his case to Pharaoh to end their servitude.
His protestations made their work even more difficult.
They didn’t know if they should hate him for the proclamation
Which he said came from their God, “Let My people go!”
Or, if they should be thankful that someone was trying to bring them hope
And strength and faith that a time of suffering and pain could end
And that they could once again live in dignity and freedom.
As they attended to their work day after day, some of them began to sense
A spark of optimism welling up inside of them,
A feeling that slavery was not the ultimate destiny of their people.
Some began to be grateful for this new leader and put all of their faith in him
And in the God for whom he said he spoke
But others realized that liberation would only begin
When they themselves, within their souls, began to imagine the freedom they deserved.
That was truly the beginning of their own liberty
When, even in a sea of cruelty,
They still could ascend, within themselves and, perhaps, along with others around them,
To a place that was higher and holy.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
Friday, December 17, 2010
Sacred Sites - December 17, 2010
Shabbat Shalom!
During our trip to Kansas City/Topeka last weekend (where we took part in a Father/Daughter B’nei Mitzvah in Topeka), Rhonda and I had the chance to make one of our periodic drives through my hometown to briefly revisit my past. The path took us by my elementary school, the house I grew up (right by the school), my high school, and, finally, to visit the graves of my parents, Joseph and Ruth Karol. That cemetery was originally adjacent to Congregation B’nai Jehudah in Kansas City, which moved to a new location in Overland Park, Kansas in 2002. This is one way we have to “see my parents,” so to speak, other than through photographs and memories. We stood by their graves for a few moments, perhaps waiting to hear some sage advice, but mainly, we felt the cold breeze moving through Rose Hill Cemetery. We hold that place as sacred, and we hope to return their whenever we have the opportunity. It is meaningful to me that my parents are buried in the shadow of the former Temple site where they were so involved in building community within the congregation which offered me important beginnings in my lifelong path of developing my personal and Jewish identity.
In the Torah reading for this week, Joseph and his entire extended family, having settled in Egypt, at least temporarily, made a return visit to their family’s roots. Their father Jacob died, and they knew what they had to do to give him a proper burial. The entire family, plus a very large entourage of Egyptian officials, traveled to Hebron, to the Cave of the Machpelah, the burial plot that would become known, eventually, as the “Tomb of the Patriarchs.” We could imagine that this experience of revisiting their origins had a great impact on Jacob’s children and grandchildren, as well as on the Egyptian leadership who had joined them. It was not only the site that had significance for them, but also the stories and memories of past generations that formed the beginnings of their family history, as well as the relationships that drew the family together. It is likely that Jacob’s burial strengthened the ties of his entire family to the land to which Abraham had journey three (and four) generations before, a land to which they would return only after emerging with rediscovered freedom from a long and difficult experience as slaves in Egypt.
It is likely that all of us have places that are sacred and special in our lives which reflect our personal and family history, the story of the web of our relationships, and moments when we took significant steps towards who we are now. Whatever those places may be, may they offer us strength, hope and inspiration as we revisit them in person or in our mind’s eye.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
During our trip to Kansas City/Topeka last weekend (where we took part in a Father/Daughter B’nei Mitzvah in Topeka), Rhonda and I had the chance to make one of our periodic drives through my hometown to briefly revisit my past. The path took us by my elementary school, the house I grew up (right by the school), my high school, and, finally, to visit the graves of my parents, Joseph and Ruth Karol. That cemetery was originally adjacent to Congregation B’nai Jehudah in Kansas City, which moved to a new location in Overland Park, Kansas in 2002. This is one way we have to “see my parents,” so to speak, other than through photographs and memories. We stood by their graves for a few moments, perhaps waiting to hear some sage advice, but mainly, we felt the cold breeze moving through Rose Hill Cemetery. We hold that place as sacred, and we hope to return their whenever we have the opportunity. It is meaningful to me that my parents are buried in the shadow of the former Temple site where they were so involved in building community within the congregation which offered me important beginnings in my lifelong path of developing my personal and Jewish identity.
In the Torah reading for this week, Joseph and his entire extended family, having settled in Egypt, at least temporarily, made a return visit to their family’s roots. Their father Jacob died, and they knew what they had to do to give him a proper burial. The entire family, plus a very large entourage of Egyptian officials, traveled to Hebron, to the Cave of the Machpelah, the burial plot that would become known, eventually, as the “Tomb of the Patriarchs.” We could imagine that this experience of revisiting their origins had a great impact on Jacob’s children and grandchildren, as well as on the Egyptian leadership who had joined them. It was not only the site that had significance for them, but also the stories and memories of past generations that formed the beginnings of their family history, as well as the relationships that drew the family together. It is likely that Jacob’s burial strengthened the ties of his entire family to the land to which Abraham had journey three (and four) generations before, a land to which they would return only after emerging with rediscovered freedom from a long and difficult experience as slaves in Egypt.
It is likely that all of us have places that are sacred and special in our lives which reflect our personal and family history, the story of the web of our relationships, and moments when we took significant steps towards who we are now. Whatever those places may be, may they offer us strength, hope and inspiration as we revisit them in person or in our mind’s eye.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
A View from the Heights - December 6, 2010
However we tell the story of Chanukah, one of the central aspects of the Maccabean victory for religious freedom was the nature of their cause. Part of their struggle was focused on the tyranny of the Syrian-Greek rulers who sought to eliminate the Judaism from their realm in order to unite the entire population of the Seleucid Empire under a banner of Greek thought, faith and culture. The other component of this conflict was that Jews who had totally adopt Greek customs had sided with the Seleucid rulers against the Maccabees and the many Jews of Judea who believed that they should have the right to be different, to retain their identity and heritage. The original tale, as recounted in the books of the Maccabees, and the “miracle story” we know so well from the Talmud (one day’s supply of oil burned for eight days), asserts that it was dedication to a higher purpose – acknowledging and celebrating God’s presence in their lives - that led the Jews of Judea to triumph in their struggle for freedom.
The Torah readings for last week and this week feature the touching narrative of the reunion of Joseph and his brothers and their subsequent reconciliation. In his conversations with his brothers as they again became a family, Joseph reiterated time and again that everything had happened for a reason: that it was God who had put him where he needed (as second to Pharaoh in Egypt) to be able to save his family from the throes of the famine in their land. However, he did not see himself as the hero of the situation. He was merely a conduit, enabling the divine plan for his family’s survival to unfold. Where it seemed, at the beginning of his story, that Joseph was full of himself and his ego, he was, as he reconciled with his brothers, filled with a sense of the higher purpose to which his dreams had led him and his family.
There are always higher purposes and causes to which we can dedicate ourselves: freedom, hospitality, friendship, strength of community, and local and global peace. In his book, I’M GOD, YOU’RE NOT, which I just began reading, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner makes the point time and again that we are at our best when we realize that life isn’t always about us individually, but, rather, about seeing ourselves as one member of a team, whether that team is a family, a congregation, a city, a nation or all humanity. This relates to what we might call the “altruistic impulse,” and it is also connected to the times when we say the Shema. When we declare that God is one, whether we are alone or at Temple, we become a part of Oneness of the universe, in which our uniqueness takes its rightful place in the greater whole. As we move forward in the coming months to find new ways to sustain our community and congregation, let us remember the higher purposes that can guide us on a sacred path.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
The Torah readings for last week and this week feature the touching narrative of the reunion of Joseph and his brothers and their subsequent reconciliation. In his conversations with his brothers as they again became a family, Joseph reiterated time and again that everything had happened for a reason: that it was God who had put him where he needed (as second to Pharaoh in Egypt) to be able to save his family from the throes of the famine in their land. However, he did not see himself as the hero of the situation. He was merely a conduit, enabling the divine plan for his family’s survival to unfold. Where it seemed, at the beginning of his story, that Joseph was full of himself and his ego, he was, as he reconciled with his brothers, filled with a sense of the higher purpose to which his dreams had led him and his family.
There are always higher purposes and causes to which we can dedicate ourselves: freedom, hospitality, friendship, strength of community, and local and global peace. In his book, I’M GOD, YOU’RE NOT, which I just began reading, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner makes the point time and again that we are at our best when we realize that life isn’t always about us individually, but, rather, about seeing ourselves as one member of a team, whether that team is a family, a congregation, a city, a nation or all humanity. This relates to what we might call the “altruistic impulse,” and it is also connected to the times when we say the Shema. When we declare that God is one, whether we are alone or at Temple, we become a part of Oneness of the universe, in which our uniqueness takes its rightful place in the greater whole. As we move forward in the coming months to find new ways to sustain our community and congregation, let us remember the higher purposes that can guide us on a sacred path.
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
In the Lights - December 1, 2010
What do you see when you look into the Chanukah lights?
The first light is a beginning, an act of faith that this initial step of dedication to fulfilling this mitzvah will inspire us to complete tasks we begin.
The second light reflects companionship, as two candles stand side by side with the shamash looking on (almost as if the shamash represents the light of God shining upon us).
The third light signifies the beginning of community. Ecclesiastes tells us that two are better than one and that three are better than two (in sustaining a business or a community)! Three can often generate what two might not be able to accomplish.
The fourth light represents progress towards a goal, the halfway point from which we can look back upon how far we have come and from which we look forward to the experiences that await us.
The fifth light illustrates our persistence and focus on goals we have set for ourselves or for an entire community, as we recall the persistence required of the Maccabees in their fight for religious and political freedom.
The sixth light offers a hint of the warmth to come from the care that we have shown in lighting the Chanukiah, the same care, concern and warmth that can sustain a family, community or congregation.
The seventh light is a harbinger of hope that we have “made it this far” in our Chanukah journey and can see the culmination of our dedication in sight. Such hope can sustain us in all aspects of our lives.
The eighth light brings together joy, wonder, amazement and a feeling of accomplishment. Every night, besides reciting the blessings, we might read the prayer Haneirot Halalu, “these lights are holy.” May we find during Chanukah and throughout the year sacred moments that bring to mind and heart all of these values.
Happy Chanukah to all, from our home to yours!
L’shalom,
Rabbi Larry
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