I was never a theater kid (although my mother might claim I saved a steady stream of theatrics for her), but in 4th grade I found myself cast in the Hebrew School Chanukah play, in my small, suburban Long Island synagogue. I wasn’t the star—some other kid donned a fake beard and played the important role of Matityahu, father of Judah the Maccabee, hero of our Chanukah story. Another classmate, whose name is lost to time, portrayed the daring and brave Judah. I wasn’t shy—and in fact, relished the spotlight. As luck would have it, we were arranged in size order, and owing to my medium height, I happily ended up on the end of the front row in full sight. Dressed in a floor-length floral bathrobe, my hair in long braids, interwoven with ribbon, I played the part of an incensed Judean townsperson, who could shake my fist with the best of them.
Our exasperated, but idealistic junior choir director, a woman with flyaway gray curls, whose name, alas, I’ve also forgotten, appealed to our 1960’s-era flower children parents with a Chanukah score based on Beatles music—the opening number a take on Yellow Submarine. It went something like this:
In the town of Modiin,
lived a special group of Hasidim.
All the Jews were asked to bow,
but Matityahu said, Jews don’t kowtow….
We all live in the town of Modiin,
the town of Modiin,
the town of Modiin…”
This is 100% true.
For those who aren’t familiar with Chanukah or who need a refresher, the Jewish festival of lights commemorates the miraculous victory of an outnumbered, outflanked band of Jewish warriors against the powerful forces of King Antiochus. Encouraged and empowered by Matityahu of Modiin, the Jews, led by Matityahu’s son, Judah Maccabee, rose up against their oppressive Seleucid rulers. In 164 B.C.E., the Jewish people returned to Jerusalem, cleaned and rededicated their holy Temple, eventually lighting a makeshift menorah as the original had been stolen.
Alas, no photos exist of the play, but here’s me at around the same age
And so it goes that only a small cruse of oil was found to light the menorah—enough for only one night. The miracle celebrated each year on Chanukah is that this small amount of oil lasted for an astonishing eight nights. Chanukah, at its core, is a story of strength, determination, and perseverance. The Jewish people, just like the light in that ancient menorah, persisted.
Back in 1980s Long Island, more songs followed in our little Chanukah show, Judaized versions of All You Need is Love, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (which most definitely referenced the band of Maccabees), Get Back (Judah was a man, they said he was a hammer…) All Together Now (in which the Jews worked to clean the reclaimed Temple in Jerusalem). I wish I remembered more songs and lyrics because honestly, they were oddly brilliant.
What I do remember is, after the play, my grandmother, an imposing figure—5’8” in flats and a single raised eyebrow that might’ve sent old Antiochus into the hills, came over and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“That was lovely.” She held up a long, plump, manicured finger. “And important.”
I was certain I’d been one heck of an ancient Judean, but important? Anyway, I’d already turned my thoughts to the following night, when I’d light the menorah with my family, feast on latkes and chocolate gelt (coins), and hopefully get some of the presents I’d been not so subtly hinting at for the past month.
But I found out much later that Grandma said something else too.
My grandmother, whose family fled the pogroms of Eastern Europe, and whose in-laws (my grandfather’s family) lost a large portion of their family in the Shoah, told my mother that, “The true miracle is that 40 years after the Holocaust, that stage is filled with beautiful, healthy children openly and proudly singing songs about being Jewish.”
A miracle indeed.
My memory is hazy and maybe I’m making it up, but I feel like we ended with a junior choir Hebrew School rendition of Here Comes the Sun. Whatever Chanukah lyrics we belted out to that famous Beatles tune are also lost to time and memory—but the message remains clear and resonates—particularly given the challenges we’ve all faced, as a global community, in the past two and a half years.
While scrolling through Instagram, as one does, I stumbled upon a well-known quote by Rabbi Yitzchak “Irving” Greenberg. He says, “The proper response, as Chanukah teaches, is not to curse the darkness but to light a candle.”
Viewed through the increasingly foggy lens of the past, with some added clarity that comes with adulthood, I think, in a way, our little retro pop-culture Hebrew School production was a light—a beacon to our parents, our grandparents and especially our children. A reminder that in and after the darkest of times, there can and will, against the greatest of odds, be light.
This week, as Jews around the world light the Menorah with friends and family, the candles burning brightly into the night, Chanukah remains a forever testament to that miraculous truth.
All Together Now…
My grandparents, Sally and George Schneider, with yours truly
