It is not a simple matter to be a Jew in America this time of year. Not in Jerusalem either, a few miles from Bethlehem. Christmas, as John Updike writes, is Christianity "at its sweetest." Many have written, some with an air of sweet resignation, about the yearning Jews feel as the days darken: to share in the melodies, the hearth, the love of the child.
It was only a matter of time--was it not?--that we would start finding ways to be absorbed into the spirit of the moment. So we exchange presents, greet the "season," tease out of the ancient Chanukah story our own celebration of light and grace--God bless, eight days, not just one! And we leave behind, in mildly embarrassed obscurity, the tale of Maccabean guerrilla war against Greek occupiers around 165 BC--a mythical victory that had been so much solace for medieval rabbis, forced into ghettos, and more recently, for outnumbered Zionists.
But when you give a second thought to the Chanukah behind the candles, you do feel at odds with the spirit of the time, and not really because the ancient heroics of Judeans seem out of step with Pickwickian fellowship. The fact is, Chanukah is Judaism at its gravest: a radical attack on all forms of idol-worship, including the worship of the love of the child.
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