Sermon - The Chanukiyah from Cuba
The Chanukiyah from Cuba 12/26/08
Rabbi Mark S. Kram, Temple Beth Or, Miami, FL
Havana, Cuba, 1959. In the 7 year old’s eyes, this was to be a simple visit to see family. “Pack for the trip!” his mother demanded. “Let’s get going.”
They hadn’t seen their family in Miami for some time.
In the minds of a mother and a father knowing they would not be returning to their home, their business, property, the neighborhood or country in which they had lived in since they fled Poland from the Nazis prior to WWII, this was a real goodbye. A goodbye of immense proportions.
I can see the mother surveying her home, slowly moving her kind eyes as she recounted the meals, festivities, birthdays, and celebrations in each corner. It was more than just looking. Because she was also observing with her heart and her head. She was, gazing at the rooms, the furniture, the pictures and decorations on the walls, steadily and intently, as if to create a permanent picture in her mind for a place that meant so much. Sentimentally studying the apartment they had transformed into a home with all of the warmth of family gatherings, the laughter, birthdays, holiday celebrations and even some sadness. Memories as kids were born and grew up. Memories of relatives no longer living, whose voices as clear as ever echoed in her head. But once again, as Jewish history has proven, they would take their leave – permanently.
“What should we take with us?” she asked herself. Not too much, of course. We can’t appear as if we are moving – leaving Cuba for good. We would be arrested straightaway. We have to leave “secretly.” Or face certain arrest. Uncertainty and a feeling in the pit of her stomach – shared by her husband – of the risks they were about to be under. She imagined the police scrutiny, “A trip to Miami? Come on! We know what you are trying to do!” The crossroads between fear and determination created those selfsame feelings our people know all too well. “Take only enough not to cause any undo attention.” Only sufficient clothes to appear to the officials as a week’s worth of belongings for the winter vacation trip to visit Miami.
“OK, let’s think. Clothing, shoes, some toys for this young boy and his older sisters, a couple of books, and what else?” One grows nostalgic – the memories flood back. This is, after all, goodbye, not “lihitra’ot” – “see you later.” Or not at least until much later.
And the memory of so many holiday celebrations. “We have room in the bags. Perhaps a few additional items – after all, what would it hurt?” “Ah, Shabbat Candlesticks, yes!” “And…the Chanukah Menorah” – the silver Chanukiyah – with the music box in the base playing Hatikvah – The Hope – that particular desire that all will turn out well. “Kol od ba’leivav penima, ayin l’tziyon tzofiyah.” Into the suitcase it went for the journey ahead.
Fast forward – it seems almost a lifetime – Chanukah 2008 observed with family and friends – and still that common thread – the one that links their lives here and lives lived in distant places – almost as if in a dream. The silver Menorah. This week, at my friend’s home, I picked up the musical Menorah, as I do each year before candle lighting time. I wound it to hear and to enjoy not only the tune of a renewed Israel and for Jews everywhere, but also for my friend’s memories from another time and another place. Nearly half a century ago!
Far-away memories of a moment in time and a situation which again caused some of our people to seek freedom. This time, in the U.S. A freedom unbound by restrictions or limits or anything! A freedom we celebrate each year at Chanukah. Capturing not just our historic memory of a small army’s victory over the Syrian-Greeks and cleansing the holy Temple nearly two centuries before the Common Era, but also reminding ourselves of God’s miracles for us.
Miracles? Whether today we commemorate the miracle of the single jar of oil found amid the desecrated and shattered holy vessels destroyed in the Temple, or the miracle that a small band of zealots could topple a large army, or that tiny Israel could emerge in 1948 victorious over no less than 7 Arab armies which amassed to defeat her.
Or the miracle of starting over and once again rebuilding a new life in, once again, a new land. Perhaps the hope of Chanukah – that from even the darkest of places, be they winter nights or persecution, light and lightness increases as we add a candle to light on the menorah each night.
I’m not sure about the story of the single cruse of oil which we are told miraculously lasted for eight days. But just maybe, as my nephew reminded me last night, maybe miracles CAN happen!
“Kol od ba’leivav penima, ayin l’tziyon tzofiyah.” The tiny music box sang again from the base of the Menorah from Cuba piercing my serenity – but bringing a smile to my face and to the face of my friend knowing how far his family has come. Hatikvah, The Hope:
“As long as deep in the heart,
The soul of a Jew yearns,
And forward to the East
To Zion, an eye looks,
Our hope will not be lost,
The hope of two thousand years,
To be a free nation in our land,
The land of Zion and Jerusalem.”
And wherever we may be. AMEN [music]