moving past two-mindedness
December 27, 2005 | Filed Under Blog, Classic Posts |A lot of people have trouble with Hanukah. I did, for years. I’d go to parties and nibble on my latke or sufganiya while grumbling under my breath about how there was nothing here to celebrate. I’d light my hanukiyah, but I’d only do the bare minimum needed to fulfill the mitzvah and I’d do my best not to enjoy it.
My problem then, and the problem of the people who this year have already informed me that they’re all but going to boycott the holiday, is that the history of this particular celebration is, well… complicated.
The war through which we celebrate Hanukah was, in part, a Jew-on-Jew civil war, in which zealous traditionalists attacked and killed more assimilationist Hellenized Jews. The catalyst for the violent revolution was the reigning Syrian Greek king, Antiochus IV, who demanded that Jews worship false gods and violate the Sabbath, or die. The Jews who refused to do this were not very pleased with the ones who did.
Historically speaking, the miracle of Hanukah is that this small, bandit guerrilla army (the zealots) triumphed over Antiochus’ large army and formidable weapons, against all odds, not only taking back the desecrated Temple, but re-dedicating it as well.
The “Hanukah miracle” with which most kids are raised was apparently invented by rabbinic sages living 300-600 years after the Maccabean events took place—the first time we hear the story of oil that was meant to last for one day but instead burned for eight is in the Talmud. It’s not clear exactly when the story originated, but some scholars posit that the tradition originated when some of the rabbis still living persecuted under Roman rule figured it wouldn’t be that clever to publicly celebrate a holiday marking the violent overthrow of a foreign government, particularly (possibly) in light of the failed Bar Kochba rebellion. So, instead, they came up with the much more kid-friendly version about the oil which, conveniently, lends itself much more to spiritualized interpretations of Hanukah.
Why was it 8 days originally? There are a few theories. One suggests that the Maccabees were too busy waging war to celebrate Sukkot on time, so they did so later—but that doesn’t explain why Hanukah would become a whole separate holiday in subsequent years. Two others offer a little more irony: one suggests that an eight-day winter festival of lights was widespread in Greek, Roman and Babylonian Antiquity, and another notes that that’s how long the Greeks celebrated their military victories.
All this, frankly, wasn’t even enough to bother me–not even the Jew-vs-Jew part. That’s nothing new as Jewish history goes. What happened afterwards, however, was really disturbing. After the Hasmoneans/Maccabees/Zelots/heroes of our story won, once Israel was reclaimed and the Temple restored, Judah, the Hasmonean leader, and his brothers set to making a mighty Hebrew nation, by force. First they attacked the non-Jews on their own Hasmonean turf. As it says in the apocryphal Book of Maccabees, “they forcibly circumcised all the uncircumcised boys that they found within the borders of Israel.” (I Mac 2:46) As if that weren’t bad enough, Judah “Maccabee” “took [a Gentile-filled] town, and killed every male by the edge of his sword, then he seized all its spoils and burned it with fire.” (I Mac 5:28). He then did the same thing to the innocent people in Maapha, Chaspho, Maked, Bosor, other towns in the region of Gilead, Hebron, Marisa, Azotus, and other places in the land of the Philistines. There are a lot of stories; when the army “saw a tumultuous [wedding] procession with a great amount of baggage, they rushed on them from the ambush and began killing them… the wedding was turned into mourning and the voice of their musicians into a funeral dirge.” (I Mac 9:39-41)
The people that were killed or circumcised here were innocent. I don’t feel any more OK that it was “our guys” doing the unprovoked attacking and killing; that makes me feel worse, more uncomfortable, more upset, and I feel compelled to take some sort of responsibility for it.
One can, perhaps, understand why this holiday made me so angry for so long—why I’d go to synagogue and blurt uncomfortable facts about military history while everybody else was trying to enjoy a nice game of dreydel. It wasn’t really a fun place to be.
Then something shifted. I don’t know what, or why. One year, though, I started sitting meditation in front of my Hanukiya every night, sitting and breathing with the candles as they burned, thinking about renewal, rededication, how to make something from what seems to be the utter desolation of nothing. It’s not that I had forgotten the atrocities committed at the end of the Hasmonean war, it’s that… they didn’t block me anymore. Rather, I began to wonder how I might be able to clean up the despoiled Temple of our history, to once again sanctify my faith—in Hanukah, and in celebrating Judaism as it exists today—even after everything my ancestors had done.
A few years ago, I took a class on Biblical criticism—scholarly theories about who wrote which parts of the Bible when, and why. In class, the professor and my rabbinical student colleagues talked a lot about a sort of a two-mindedness that they think is necessary to be able to both understand probable historicity of the text and to experience them as sacred documents. When teaching, you’re a serious scholar, when praying you’re a religious Jew, and never the twain shall meet.
And yet, it doesn’t have to be that way. Paul Ricoeur talks about a “second naïveté,” the ability to see God shining through the words of the Bible even after one has been immersed in the potentially cynicism-inducing theories of Biblical authorship. Me, I had learned about all this Biblical criticism stuff way back in college, before I believed in God, before I was interested in practicing Judaism. It had seemed perfectly rational and didn’t bother me—so maybe I never had a first naïveté.
A few years later, God showed up pretty powerfully for me (or, more likely, I showed up for God) and I began using the language of “revelation” a lot. It didn’t matter that I knew perfectly well that historically speaking, the revelation at Mt. Sinai story in Exodus 19 and 20 were likely written by this or that authorial school embedded in particular human contexts. It just didn’t matter. That information didn’t impede my experience of Divine radiance pouring through me and around me, making the events on Sinai look more and more plausible. The God I was starting to meet glowed quite a bit like the God described in the Sinai story, and seemed, increasingly to me, to be utterly capable of the events narrated on those pages. Whether the stories in the Torah were literally or metaphorically true, they were telling me something about the nature of the God I had already begun to meet. The Torah, I began to see, was true on its most important terms.
As such, the two-mindedness advocated by my teacher struck me as a bit schizophrenic, and maybe not the most mature theological approach. Isn’t God bigger and more radiant than a few historical facts here and there? Can’t we do better, shoot for more? Dare I say… integration?
A mature adult faith demands that we take in difficult, painful facts and allow them to become part of our understandings of God, our language of faith and connection. Hanukah is not a holiday about innocence. Neither is Purim, actually–Jews did some slaughtering there, too.
Part of adult faith is being able to look truth in the eye, to take responsibility for it, and to not get stuck by the fact that it’s not an easy story. It certainly requires us not to take our frustrations on God. I know too many people whose faith was seriously shaken by Biblical criticism–as though God changes just because our understanding of history might. As though God weren’t bigger and far more expansive than that. As though it’s God’s fault that we’re just getting some new information. As if it’s God’s fault that human beings sometimes behave in ways that are unforgivable. As though God’s Divinity might not shine through texts written at different times and places, for different reasons.
An adult relationship to our tradition has to include the facts of, in this case, bad human behavior and Jewish culpability, and yet also maintain the awe and reverence that God Godself deserves. Is there any reason that I can’t be grateful for the survival of the Jewish religion while condemning the actions of those who were involved in its (miraculous) survival?
Or, to put it another way, perhaps our question is not, “How can we possibly celebrate God and miracles if God didn’t save our pure souls from the evil hands of others?” but, rather, How might we celebrate God and miracles while acknowledging the many complex ways in which our own hands have impacted history? How might our theology shift to accommodate the awareness that our miracles have sometimes had painful consequences for others? How might we now celebrate renewal, rededication, re-sanctification with a greater understanding not only of what it means to receive light, but also to give it out? What might that mean about what we do in the world today, what action we take as unforgivable atrocities rage just outside our door? We leave our Hanukiot in the windows of our houses to publicize the miracle that is God’s ongoing manifestation in the world–how might our behavior, our actions, similarly reflect our desire for all to partake of God’s miraculousness?
We have to be honest about the history that’s happened, to take responsibility for what has been done by Jewish hands and to use what’s past to spark discussion and action about how to behave in our world today. We can and should embrace the rededication of our souls, hearts and minds on a spiritual level, and we should also use these tropes of rededication to look at the world at large, to see what has been defiled and how we can make it holy again. And maybe, after all, being able to move past a child-like faith into something more integrated and whole is, in itself, a sort of re-dedication, re-sanctification–in itself kind of a miracle.
How might we celebrate God and miracles while acknowledging the many complex ways in which our own hands have impacted history?
YES. That’s the question I want to be asking.
Thank you for this. I’m familiar with the Chanukah wrestle — on the one hand the history makes me angry and sad, OTOH the potential for interesting drashes and spiritual messages fills me with glee, and I often feel I spend the week oscillating between the two. I appreciate the reminder that maybe I could work on integrating the two responses to the holiday, instead of just alternating between them. Chag sameach!
Comment by Rachel — December 27, 2005 #
Maccabees is one of those books that is part of Roman Catholic canon, but was rejected at the Reformation by Luther et al on account of having it only in Greek and not in Hebrew.
So I would say “most” Christian denominations never see it as it’s not in The Bible. OTOH perhaps the plurality of human beings on earth who are Christian are still RC.
my sweetie is now muttering about why Rome didn’t accept the decision of the council at Jamnia in 98 CE.
Yes, dear.
Comment by Mag — December 27, 2005 #
I stand corrected. Hopefully the now-amended version is closer to the thing.
I think I remembered who accepted what (between Catholics and Protestants) backwards. Though… didn’t Pancake Dave tell me the other day that Maccabees was one of the daily readings recently? You Episcopalians just complicate everything!
Comment by Danya — December 27, 2005 #
Interesting post, but I would like to offer a
reason why the story of Chanukah was not
included in the Jewish “texts” that Orthodox
Judaism follows. Primarily becuase the rabbis
that choose which books should be in and
would should not saw that the Maccabees
shifted the balance of power between the
priesthood and the kingship. Despite the fact
that God did not want a king for the people,
it was done so and seperate of the cohanim
and levi’im. The Maccabees merged the two
and that was seen as bad in the eyes of
those who made the final decision of
what passed for a Jewish “sacred text”.
Comment by Malcolm — December 27, 2005 #
It’s certainly true that through the whole Maccabean mess, the high priestly line through Zadok got corrupted/lost, and was never fully restored after that. But it’s not like Hazal (early rabbinic sages) were so keen on the priestly elite to begin with. The entire revolution of the Rabbis was to move Judaism from an aristorcracy to a meritocracy, so I’m not convinced that the Hasmonean shift of power would have been the 100% deciding factor. But even so, the canon was closed several hundred years before the Hasmoneans, ending when prophecy was considred to have. So from that POV, any other disqualifying factors are almost irrelevant–miss the deadline, miss the deadline.
Comment by Danya — December 27, 2005 #
Danaya,
You wrote “Why was it 8 days originally? Because that’s how long the Greeks celebrated their military victories.”
It seems that it mirrored the Simchath Baith Hashoeva, as they weren’t able to celebrate Succoth earlier tjat year — see 2nd Book of Maccabees.
Comment by David Kelsey — December 27, 2005 #
I know of that tradition, the parallel Sukkot one, which is interesting (and yes, the explanation in Mac.) but doesn’t explain why, if this was just Sukkot postponed, people continued to celebrate it the years following, when Jews WERE able to celebrate Sukkot at its proper time. Why continue to celebrate “Sukkot” twice, once on time and once in Kislev? The “real” reason will probably never be known, but many scholars point to the Greek war victory as significant. As is–and I forgot to mention this–the widespread practice in Antiquity (Babylonia/Greece/Rome) of an eight-day festival of lights in the middle of winter.
Comment by Danya — December 28, 2005 #
The parallels with today’s fundamentalists are frightening. Stories like this serve as general indicators as to where the current situaion can lead, if it progresses unchecked.
I don’t agree about God’s lack of culpability, though. We always let him off too easily.
Comment by cipher — December 28, 2005 #
I have one bit to contribute to the dating of the oil tradition. I refer my honorable friends to John 10:22-42, which tells the story of a teaching of Jesus at the time of the “festival of the Dedication.” The teaching consists of the closeness between the Father and the Son (and the Son and his followers), and uses the image of sheep. Particularly in John, the image of light is often used in connection with Jesus, and if the light tradition had existed as part of the festival at the time of Jesus (or, perhaps at the time of John’s writing), he almost certainly would have used it.
It seems to me that the oil tradition must be of more recent vintage than the time of Jesus. John is best dated at late in the 1st century, so perhaps Bar Kochba is a good guess.
Comment by Micah — December 28, 2005 #
To the credit of the present-day Jewish experiment in statecraft, it didn’t have a civil war nor any phase of really authoritarian regime. Given our lack of experience in that statecraft department, we’re actually doning OK and there’s some hope left.
Nota bene, Jews would often give up on national sovereignity as long as the ruling empire was tolerant of our eccentricities (the Cyrus precedent, see also Alexander the Great). It was due to Antiokhos’ decision to forcibly prohibit Jewish practices in Judaea (Jews elsewhere weren’t all affected) which sparked the revolt, and once that was done, all hell broke loose, notably the Milhhemeth haYehudime bYehudim (the war of the Jews against the Jews). Mind you, Judah’s war ended in an embarassing defeat. Independence was eventually reached by Judah’s less famous brothers (lesser known than the infamous latter Hasmoneans as well) as well, via compromise, autonomy, some fighting usually alongside a Hellenistic royal pretendent against another.
But a the time the emphasis was put on Judah’s victories rather than on his last battle and defeat, and the fact that independence was due to realistic politics rather than to supernatural military feat, was overlooked. We liked to see it all as Maasseh Pinhhas (Phineas’ act of zeal) as many of us do now; and so when we found ourselves once again under the yoke of a cruel empire, Rome, we rebelled, disregarding the foolishness of attcking a great power at the it highest might, we believed that HaShem Yitbarakh would grant us victory, that He owed us victory. Wrong: Hhurban @ 70 CE. And we fooled oursleves twice (shame on us), and the Bar-Coziba debacle and the Shmad that followed.
No surprise that the following Sages of Blessed Memory put the whole “national liberation” aspect of it under wraps.
But we can look back and learn from the experience, identifying the thought patterns of the ancient Jews still present in us, and coping with that to avoid making the same mistakes. We can enjoy the fact that we exist, that we once again have the ability to exercise sovereign power and so the ability to defend ourselves; power being better than powerlessness with responsibilities attached (I know some of us prefer the less responsible alternative of being powerless and innocent of power abuse, for you cannot abuse what you have not).
I always liked Hanukah as a child, and learning more about its checkered record haven’t changed that. I enjoy it just as well and appreciate it more.
Hhag sameahh !!!
Comment by Raphaël — December 28, 2005 #
Correction
“power being better than powerlessness but with responsibilities attached…”
Hhag sameahh !!!
Comment by Raphaël — December 28, 2005 #
Great post!
I think it’s really important to acknowledge and deal in some way with the negative parts of our tradition.
Partially, I think it’s important because we live in an imperfect world where people still do the sorts of things that appear in Maccabes, the end of megilat Esther and throughout the tanach more generally. Problematic texts may be able to help us make sense of a problematic reality.
I also think a possible problem with glossing over problems with religious texts is that it might lead to a kind of arrogance/fundamentalism. If we overemphasise the good stuff like tikkun olam we might end up feeling as though Judaism is all good in a bad reality. But this isn’t true: injustices occur in our own Jewish, religious world all the time. Perhaps the best way to a self reflective/self critical tradition is to admit that the religious tradition itself is flawed/imperfect.
This brings me to my only criticism of your post: I would go further than just critiquing human action. There are plenty of problematic moments in the tradition that are about G-d: from conquering the land in Joshua to the jealous G-d motif in the Torah and perhaps some ideas in Job and Kohelet.
Comment by ruchel — December 28, 2005 #
Thanks for the essay–I got here by way of misia.
What do you make of God apparently not saying anything about the atrocities committed by the victorious Jews?
Comment by Anonymous — December 28, 2005 #
I am trying to understand the compromise you are advocating. If the texts, histories, and heroes are flawed, how exactly are they holy? And couldn’t the same be said, therefore, about non-Jewish texts? And if so, where is the comparative advantage of Judaism? And if there is no comparative advantage of Judaism, why bother? Whyn not just become truly ecumenical?
Just curious — I like that you had some of the same problems I have with Chanukah, I just don’t understand your reconciliation. Do you think you would have had one if your profession did not require you find one?
DK
Comment by David Kelsey — December 28, 2005 #
David and Anonymous–
For me, I guess the first move I make with any of this is the assumption of God’s goodness, God’s love, God’s–well, ultimately I’m more like Rambam than not, I don’t think that these positive descriptors do much. But my theology doesn’t include a God who is like a person but bigger; I assume that descriptions of God’s, say, anger or whatever (anything human-like really) are metaphors for a reality that is far beyond human language.
I assume that our sacred texts were written by people. As such, they reflect that–with a historical mindset, limitations, human language (”the Torah is written in the language of men”, etc) and so forth. This makes it pretty easy to affirm Biblical Criticism, pretty easy to understand how things that seem very far from the Deity that I, anyway, have ever met (in terms of being unjust, etc) got into our sacred books. On the other hand, there’s a potency, a power to these texts that radiates out in such a way that I am perfectly comfortable with the possibility that these texts are, in fact, a record of profound interaction(s?) between the Divine and human beings. Did Sinai “happen”? Well, from the tiny, tiny glimmers of the Divine that I’ve encountered, I can certainly say that there’s no reason that it couldn’t have–it doesn’t sound like an event that was, you know, too big for God. Did Moshe Rebbeinu speak to God panim al panim? Did somebody? From where did this tradition develop? Someone, somewhere along the way knew something important, profound, extraordinary about Deity and somehow it got into written form. Does the written text that we have contain a “perfectly accurate” description of those events? I’m not sure that that’s even the right question to be asking. I don’t think of the Torah as journalism. Does the written text that we have contain the whole story? Well, maybe. But probably not. There are allusions to other books and writings in the Torah (the “book of Jashar”, the “book of the wars of the Lord,” etc) that we don’t have, there are allusions in the Torah to a bigger picture that we don’t have (eg Miriam is called a prophet, but we never see her prophesey). Which doesn’t mean that what we do have isn’t… reflective of something about God, of an encounter with God, a guide to reaching God, however you want to understand it… that is more foundational or profound than pretty much any other thing. That, in my book, gives the texts a level of sanctity that most texts don’t have.
As for why didn’t God respond to the Hasmonean atrocities? I have several answers. One is that a) see above, God may have said something that didn’t get written down b) the Jewish understanding is that formal prophecy had ended several hundred years before this, so how people heard God from then on may have changed and c) Well, I believe God is communicating all of the time, constantly. It’s just not usually the case that anybody actually truly, truly shows up enough to actually… percieve it. Would that we did. I think the world would be in a lot better shape now if we actually did.
Comment by Danya — December 29, 2005 #
I just don’t see how you arrive at a particularist position from the interaction between God and man you are describing. According to what you are saying, shouldn’t we alos be able to get the same thing from any religious text, such as the New Testement or the Koran? Or any religious text anywhere?
Comment by David Kelsey — December 29, 2005 #
There’s a midrash that says that when God was giving the Torah on Sinai, God translated it into 70 languages, “so that all the nations might hear.” I have no doubt that other peoples and cultures have also heard God, encountered God (which isn’t to say anything goes–there’s a lot that gets passed off as religion that smells toxic to me, but the faiths with ancient roots generally have developed pretty decent filters for that stuff). But even though there are different texts that, possibly, reflect the same Divine reality, I still need to be keeping my eyes on my page, on the Torah translated in a language I can hear, understand, comprehend, live, enact. Over here is work enough, and I’m pretty sure all the solid faith practices will get you to the same place at the end of the day. Which isn’t to say that I believe all the truth claims of all of them (I don’t think Jesus is the messiah, I don’t think Muhammad’s revelation is supposed to supplant all others), which is exactly the point–those aren’t my sacred texts. They don’t have to be. I have my Torah in my language, and the accuracy or not or whatever (not like I know the Divine mind) of other people’s connections to and relationships to God aren’t my business. I just work with what I got, and this is what I got.
Now, if you want to hear why Judaism is the smartest, bestest, coolest religion ever, I’m happy to tell you. But that’s a different story.
Comment by Danya — December 29, 2005 #
The genuine tradition of Israel, preserved in the Oral Law,
explains the true nature of the Hannukah celebration. “What is Hannukah? (RSHI: For which miracle was it instituted?) The Sages taught …. A miracle took place and they kindled the Menorah from it (from the vessel of oil) for eight days” (Shabbos 21 B). The miracle of the lights was the central cause of celebration; for the battles were by no means finished, for soon afterward the power went over to the Hellenisers entirely, after the death of Judah the Maccabbee, and the worst part of the Shmad commenced, followed by 25 years of war. It is thus clear that the celebration of Hannukah was not because of any victory, but because of their rejoicing at the demonstration of the Shechinah in their midst.
The episode of the miracle of Hannukah “was not permitted to be written” (Yoma 29 A). It is certain that none of the Sages ever mentioned the book of the Hasmoneans (the book of the Maccabbees); and this book has not been in the hands of our nation throughout the past two millenia. It was illegal for loyal Jews to have any public writings other than the Scriptures. All secular narratives were forbidden as “outside books” (Sefarim Hitzonim) (Sanhedrin 90 A), and no sacred writing other than the 24 books of the Scriptures was permitted. It was forbidden to write even prayer-books (Shabbos 115 B), and there is no mention of a written Mishnah or Talmud until the days of the Rabbanan Savorai, after the last of the Amoraim. All historical narrative was contained in the Oral Tradition in the form of carefully-memorized Baraisas, of which a number are found in the Talmud and other compilations, such as Seder Olam and Midrashim; but, like all the Oral Tradition, this had been forbidden to put into writing. Even Josephtus states: “We do not possess an unlimited number of books among us … but only the books of the Scriptures” (Contra Apion I, 8), and he states: “Every one is not permitted of his own accord to be a writer” (ibid. I, 7). Josephus wrote his own books not for the Jews (vid. Jos. Vita 76). The book of Hasmoneans (including II Hasmoneans) was therefore certainly not composed by any of the Sages or their disciples (who were always the majority of the nation, as testified even by Josephus-Antig. XIII, 10, 5; XIII, 10,6).
The narrative of the book of Hasmoneans concludes soon
after the period of Jochanan Hyrcanus (I Hasmoneans 17: 25 ). Since it goes no further, it obviously was composed at that time (for if it were merely a chronicle of the Syrian wars, it did not need to include the history of Jochanan Hytcanus). This demonstrates that it was written under the regime of the Sadduccee-Hasmonean rulers, of whom Jochanan Hyrcanus was the first; and the writer was under their dominion. Because the Sadduccee regime of Jochanan Hyrcanus forbade the practice of all Rabbinic laws and inflicted punishment (in some instances death) upon those who observed these laws (Antiq. XIII, 10, 6), the writer was careful to omit any mention of the Rabbinical law of kindling the Hannukah lamp. He could therefore make no mention of the miracle of the Menorah which the entire nation knew as the occasion for this Rabbinical law. The practice of Hannukah was not repressed, although it was a Rabbinical edict, for it was the memorial of the glory of the Hasmonean family and the sole justification of their authority. Josephus, who followed the Sadduccee chronicles throughout, also omitted the miracle of the Menorah; but he could not brush off the fact that the entire nation kindled the Hannukah lamps, and he therefore mentions the festival called Lights (Antiq. XII, 7, 7). He gives a lame explanation: “I suppose the reason (for this name of Lights) was because this liberty beyond our hopes appeared to us” (ibid.).
Despite the attempts of the Sadduccees to suppress the
fame of the miracle of the Menorah and the practice of the Mitzvah, the Sages and the nation made every attempt to publicize this miracle; and the universal practice of the people was to kindle the Hannukah lamps at the gates of their homes, in the public thoroughfare (Shabbos 22 A; Bava Kama 62 B).
from “Tzur Hate-udah” by Avigdor Miller
Comment by ac — December 29, 2005 #
I’d take anything said by R’ Avigdor Miller a”h with a grain of salt. He was highly regarded here in Flatbush, but his approach towards secular culture was not particularly conciliatory. Anyone with even a high school background in biology and chemistry would probably have that reaction to, e.g., his “Rejoice O Youth”, a defense of creationism.
Comment by thanbo — December 30, 2005 #
I’ve read that Hannukah was declared as eight days for two reasons: 1) it was modeled on the original dedication festival for Solomon’s Temple and 2) because the Temple had not been made ready by Sukkot and it was an attempt to have a substitute for that holiday in that year, and commemorate that in successive years. This part about being modeled after Greek victory celebrations is news to me. Can you explain where that explanation is drawn from and comment on these alternate theories?
Comment by Adam J. Bernay, The Radical Rabbi of the Right — January 3, 2006 #
I addressed the Sukkot issue in another comment–there’s no reason to have continued a celebration called “Hanukah” the following year if it was just the delayed Sukkot–they would have celebrated Sukkot on time and not anything in December in that case. As for the Temple, according to Melachim Alef and Divrei Hayamim, the dedication was 14 days. I Kings 8:65-66: “Solomon and Israel… observed the feast at that time before God, seven days and again seven days, fourteen days in all. On the Eighth day he let the people go”, meaning day 8 wasn’t part of the celebration–it was pretty explicitly either 7 or 14.
As for where I learned about Greek battle stuff, it came from a seminar with Dr. Shaye Cohen, noted scholar of Hellenistic Judaism, when I was at Brown (he’s at Harvard now, though–study with him if you can). If you don’t hold by him, you don’t. I do.
I find it fascinating that people have been coming to nitpick with me about the tangental factiods of this historical event rather than addressing the heart of what I’m trying to say, which is all based on Jewish tradition and a book found in the Septuagint (that is to say, Maccabees.) Fight with one tiny fact thrown in the corner of the essay and you successfully deny that there’s a problem with the theological bigger picture? Not so easy.
In any case, if I don’t answer everybody’s textual objections about everything, it’s not necessarily because I don’t have any response, but rather because I don’t have time. Just to put that out there. Keep commenting, people, and I’ll do the best that I can with the time that I have.
Comment by Danya — January 3, 2006 #
As to the claim that the, uh, m’Sinai Rabbinic tradition included a tradition about Hanukah–well, besides the fact that it implies a theology of predestination to which I simply cannot and do not ascribe, namely that God knew and taught about the Hasmonean wars before human beings used their God-given free will to get themselves embroiled in it… besides all that, I will simply have to part ways with the assumption that the oral tradition later preserved in mishnayot and baraitot were perfect, unchanging, and davka given at Sinai. I accept oral law as authoritative, and I am every inch a Rabbinic Jew, as well as a halakhic one… but the anti-intellectual approach which implies that every word found in the Talmud–or the Mishnah, even, was taught at Sinai, it just doesn’t make any sense. Why does the Mishnah preserve machloket (dispute)? Why does the Mishnah preserve machloket in different individual’s names? They may have had different traditionS, or they may have been poskening halakha, or some combination of things. But if the Oral Torah were really that pure and untaintedly Divine word (I believe it’s Divine wisdom, as filtered through human interpretation, but I don’t think it’s clear, or obvious) there would be no machlokot, wouldn’t there? What God wanted from us would be clear? Whereas it’s never been, anywhere in the rabbinic tradition, unequivocably clear. There are something like 5000 machlokot in the gemara, with only 50 resolved on the page. With the unresolved ones, how do we know for sure what God wants of us? Later poskim go through and decide what they think the right answer is, but–it’s all human beings trying the best they can to discern Divine will. Very different than having a answer key straight from God Godself. If someone believes differently, we’ll have to agree to disagree on this.
So yeah, I don’t believe that the Phariseac/Rabbinic tradition is the “true” one repressed by the Hasmoneans. There’s just no bloody evidence for that, anywhere in the texts themselves.
Comment by Danya — January 3, 2006 #
P.S. The gemara on Hanukah is Amoraic, not Tanaaitic. How do we know this? Mai Hanukah? It’s written in Aramaic! Which is not the language of the Mishnah, as the Mishnah is in Hebrew. Aramaic like that is totally from Bavel. Even if you DO accept Mishnah M’Sinai (and yes of course there’s an ancient oral tradition, duh, it’s just a question of where you think it comes from), the great minds commenting on the Mishnah later, in galus, from Bavel, are attempting to interpret the oral tradition. Not (except when they cite baraitot, which anyone who’s studied gemara can tell you, do not always agree with each other any more than mishnayot or halakhot within a mishnah always do). To assume that amoraic gemara is from Sinai–well, see my other comment about machlokot. God has a lot of clarifying to do, if that’s the case.
Comment by Danya — January 3, 2006 #
[…] The Journal piece is here. And yes, it’s an adapted version of a post that made its debut on this very page–for those of you who’d like to see the 1/3 longer director’s cut (with 800 bonus words about Biblical Criticism! Whoo!), it’s here. […]
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