In the nearly 2,000 years that the Jewish people were spread about the Earth, far from their holy city, this phrase was often uttered during the celebration of one of the many holidays of this ancient religion. (I lived in Israel for a semester, and there were more holidays in five months there than the U.S. has in two years!)
Right around the 1,000-year mark of their exile, this phrase had to be considered a bit of a joke; that thing that Uncle Moshe would say at the table, and get a bit of a chuckle from the rest of the family. But they did make it back home to Jerusalem, and now that city burns brightly with menorahs during this season.
Hope is an interesting, nuanced thing. And I think that’s why we humans keep celebrating holidays. We’ve been doing it for all of recorded history, and our planet’s trip around the sun has always been marked by celebrations or observances. Some are full of sorrow (anniversaries of passings, somber remembrances) while others celebrate the seasons (my wonderful hippy neighbors take the solstices very seriously!), or wonderful things like capital L Love on Valentine’s Day or the birth of the messiah on Christmas.
My family was decorating our Christmas tree last night, and we fell into one of those wonderful, meandering conversations about people we know who don’t observe any kinds of holidays on a principal of some sort, whether out of reaction to overcommercialization of holidays in general (I totally get this), or some other sort of religious or ethical compulsion.
But I think that the observation of holidays is a beautiful thing, in the proper context. The lighting of lights (whether on a tree in the forests of Stone Age Northern Europe or the candles of Hanukkah) was a way to ward off the dark nights of winter and lights are still an important image in our present dark time.
There is a Hanukkah menorah burning brightly on the lawn of my wonderful State House this week, and I’m thankful for the message it sends, burning brightly next to my wonderful little state’s official Christmas tree. There is always light out there, even in the darkest of times.
The other day I was buying Christmas presents at a local store, and the whole scene at the register, the plexiglass divider, the masks, the 10-gallon bottle of hand sanitizer, made me sad inside in an unexpected, sudden way. I was on a joyous mission, and bumped up against the reality of our present situation.
But as I engaged the cashier in friendly banter, we both agreed that we hoped to see each other next Christmas with no dividers or other precautions around. “Next year with no plexiglass!” I shouted, alarming the shoppers around us. But the two of us knew what I meant.
“Next year in Jerusalem!”
(Alexander Caldwell lives in Tilton.)