Early this fall I got a phone call from a trusted colleague. An African-American pastor from a neighboring church had received a gift. Of a chanukiah. “Do you have a Temple Menorah? We don’t have a use for a nine-branched menorah. We don’t celebrate Chanukah.” I assured him we did have two! And I raced over to see his new chanukiah. We agreed to arrange a swap.
This Friday night, we dedicated both candelabras for sacred service. It was part of our regular Friday night Kabbalat Shabbat service. It was also Human Rights Shabbat and a week before Chanukah, which means dedication.
When we planned this service, with a focus on light, we didn’t know how much we would need a service. It was a difficult week for the Jewish community. Rising, violent anti-semitism was evident in an attack at a kosher grocery store in Jersey City, NJ left six people dead. The president’s executive order on anti-semitism had Jews arguing about the role of the government plays in defining anti-semitism and who is a Jew. To say nerves were frayed might be an understatement.
But Shabbat came, like it does every week, offering the gift of calm and peace, if we are able to receive it. We met in the sanctuary and read the Psalm of the Dedication of the Sanctuary, Psalm 30. We sang songs about light—Or Zarua, Light is sown for the righteous and joy for the upright of heart. Or Chadash, Let a new light shine upon Zion. “This little light of mine.” “Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary.”
I had pre-lit Shabbat candles and one shamash, the helper candle in each menorah. We blessed the candles with the reading from the old Union Prayer Book. “Light is the symbol of the divine.” And se sang boldly: “Light one candle for the Maccabee people, give thanks that their light didn’t die.”
Apostle Larry gave a brief sermon on racism—and why each of us has to be the light. He talked about the triangle of Prejudice, Discrimination and Racism that is outlined in the book White Fragility. And he talked about the power structure of Exodus Chapter 1. Pharaoh who enslaved the Israelites. Pharaoh who wanted to kill every newborn Israelite boy. Pharaoh who was black, who had prejudice against the Israelites, who didn’t really know them, who then discriminated against them and used his power to institutionalize that discrimination. That’s racism.
I spoke briefly about Exodus Chapter 25 and building a mishkan, a wandering tabernacle full of beauty, a place to meet G-d, where the offerings of our hearts will be accepted. Where we ourselves become klei kodesh, holy vessels, just like the menorah.
We ended the service by singing Olam Chesed Yibeneh, You shall build this world with love, a text from the Psalms arranged by my friend and colleague Rabbi Menachem Creditor. It truly was an evening of Unity on Division Street and just what this rabbi needed.
This is the tale of two menorot. But even more so, it is the tale of two communities. Kingdom Advancement Center and their leadership team have worked with CKI on important things like National Night Out, distributing food with the mobile food pantry and bringing the Gail Borden Public Library Book Mobile to our corner of Division Street.
More importantly, their leaders have been thoughtful and careful partners with us in the aftermath of the police shooting that occurred in March of 2018. Once a month a few select leaders meet with the police chief and her command staff to talk about really difficult topics. Racism. Mental Health. Parenting. Gun violence. Healing. Forgiveness. (We’re not there yet.) Police policies and procedures. We spent a long Sunday afternoon on the shooting range seeing demos of equipment—a robot, a bat (that’s an armored vehicle and it is not used for what you think it might be.), a rope, pepper guns that they practice with baby powder, a 40 MM, and some life sized video scenarios. When I tried my hand at it, I was shot dead in 32 seconds. By a white guy in a white hoodie. Oy!
We are working our way through some books, On Killing, White Fragility, Emotional Intelligence 2.0. Just this week, at our monthly meeting, I gave everyone a copy of the Sunflower. This is hard, deep work. Painstakingly slow. Bridges are being built as trust is regained over mac and cheese and black and white cookies. Last month, we all ate corned beef together.
It would be impossible to capture the nuance of some of the conversations that happen at the police station. It is even more difficult to capture what happened after the service were able. People stayed and stayed and stayed. There was genuine warmth. And light. And food. And dreidels.
Two menorot. Two communities. Two meanings.
In the words of “Light One Candle,” “Don’t let the light go out.” I don’t think it will.