The eternal flicker

There is something sublimely and humblingly eternal about candles’ flames.

Specifically when you know your ancestors meditated upon candle flames too.

That they flickered when the ancient Greek colonizers tried to destroy us… in body and spirit, and when – a few centuries later – the Romans tried to do the same.

That they flickered as – against all odds – we learned Torah and taught our children what it meant to love one’s neighbor.

That they flickered as our enemies tried to forcibly convert us, chasing us from our homes, only to find themselves ultimately forgotten by the annals of history.

That they flickered as we were dispersed across the globe from the farthest, most exotic reaches of the East to the comforts of the West.

Look at a flame. It’s always the same, whether you looked at one thousands of years ago or tonight in your living room. You might as well be looking at the same thing, because – in essence – you actually are.

One of the remarkable things about our holidays, which I’ve really only recently begun to appreciate, is that most of them are imbued with a truly timeless element. 

And by “timeless,” I really mean it. 

In today’s world we often use “timeless” to describe materialistic things: “timeless fashion” or a “timeless look.” That’s not really what “timeless” means. In fact, those things aren’t really timeless at all. They’re quite time-bound. “Looks” are dependent on the societies in which they are seen. Fashion, even more so.

“Timeless” is like the flames we ponder on Hanukkah. 

The sound of the shofar we hear on Rosh Hashanah is the same sound our ancestors heard — as they gathered in Jerusalem on pilgrimage. As they went to war. As they announced the new year, or the Jubilee marking freedom.

The smell of the etrog and myrtle on Sukkot; the rustling of the lulav’s leaves.

The taste of the matzah many of us eat may be a bit different today than even 100 years ago (let alone 3,000 plus), but in essence it’s the same. Presumably the dry, crunchy, basic satiation is nearly as timeless as the shofar’s blast or the flame’s dance.

There’s something undeniably brilliant in these timeless elements. Something undeniably Divine, in my opinion.

Would we have survived and flourished this long without hearing the shofar’s blast at least once a year? Or the smell and sounds of Sukkot, the flames of Hanukkah, the taste of the “bread of our affliction”?

We’ll never really know, but what is for certain is that at least a few times a year, we literally force our senses to connect with our past, our ancestors and our Land – that, I think, even to the most skeptical among us, is a truly profound, beautiful and sacred act.