The Winter Solstice will officially occur tomorrow morning at 4:21 am. It will be the shortest day of the year with daylight shining for about 9 hours and 13 minutes. The darkness will preside far longer.
The dark settles so early this time of year. Maybe this is why I love outdoor holiday lights so much. They sparkle in the black cover. I love driving around the neighborhood with my family, rating the interplay of color, installation precision and quantity. It’s not my tradition to hang them, but I certainly delight in them.
The anthropologist in me is fascinated by the way humans have determinedly inserted light into the darkest time of the year. Clearly, Christmas lights do that. Yet it is a cross-cultural phenomenon: Hindus, Jains and Sikhs have the oil-lamp-filled light festival of Diwali (celebrating the triumph of good over evil). Lunar New Year greets a new year with glowing red lanterns and Kwanzaa ignites the lights of cultural pride.
And of course, Jews have Hanukkah. Our sages tell us to place our chanukiyot in the window of our homes to publicize the miracle. The miracle in this case is not just the oil lasting eight nights, but the miracle that even in the darkest times, a hopeful heart can spark enough courage to defeat even the most formidable foes.
When enumerated like this, it feels like all of humanity refuses to accept the darkness and understands its purpose in helping the light to break through even the thickest shadow.
Now, if you’re a follower of the Jewish calendar, you might notice how our holidays line up with new moons and full moons. Hanukkah, interestingly enough, falls on neither. Instead, it is on the 25th of Kislev, far away from the light of the full moon and closer to the empty sky of the new moon. The date cleverly ensures a short day and a dark night, making the light of the chanukiyah even brighter in contrast. The proximity to the Winter Solstice deepens the whole experience.
On Kol Nidre, I shared a midrash about the Winter Solstice and the first human: the Sages teach that when Adam the first man saw that the days were getting shorter between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice, he did not yet know that this is a normal phenomenon, and therefore he said: “Woe is me; perhaps because I sinned, the world is becoming dark around me and will ultimately return to the primordial state of chaos and disorder”…He therefore spent eight days in fasting and in prayer.
Once the winter solstice arrived and he observed that the days started to become progressively longer, he said: ‘Clearly, the days become shorter and then longer, and this is the natural order of the world.’ He went and observed a festival of thanksgiving for eight days. Upon the next year he commemorated both of these observances with eight days of festivities.” (Avodah Zara 8a)
Hm…8 days of festivities. What a convenient number. 8 days in which we celebrate the triumph of hope over despair. It says that while the world may have begun in chaos, disorder, and darkness, the celestial orbits and nature’s rhythms carry a message of hope and defiance.
Similarly, Physics teaches us that nature spirals toward chaos. Among humans, those who cast a shadow - the bigger the muscle or ego - the more powerful they appear. Sometimes it is easier to spread darkness - fear and mistrust - than it is to inspire hope. But God embedded fail-safes into Creation, like the rebirth of light on the Winter Solstice. It’s all about balance.
The rabbis reflect this balance in a midrash about the Leviathan. The Leviathan, according to Jewish lore, is a giant sea monster that lives in the darkest depths of the ocean. Once a year, on the Winter Solstice, the monster Leviathan raises its head from the deep and roars, stirring up the water, creating the choppy, stormy waves we associate with the season. This roar also scares the bigger fish, who normally prey on the smaller ones. The Leviathan's roar disarms the big fish, giving the smaller fish a chance to get away. In this way, the rabbis say, the Leviathan is a tikkun, a Divine act of repair, that resets nature’s balance and allows the little fish to escape the predatory power of the big fish.
This too sounds like Hanukkah, how a small band of committed warriors drove away the powerful brutes to restore order and rededicate God’s sanctuary. With the lighting of the temple’s lamps, hope started to glow again.
And then I start to consider, maybe this time of year is not so much about surviving the dark, but rather celebrating the rebirth of the light. We don’t have to inject light as much as we have to have trust that it is there. Much like our Hanukkah menorahs start with one little candle and grow into an eight-wicked fire, the Winter Solstice draws us into the darkest day just to turn around and start marching toward brighter ones. That’s the natural rhythm of things.
Truth be told, we travel this road every week. Every Friday night, Shabbat begins in darkness. Its first moments are ushered in with the gathering of loved ones, the swipe of a match and the lighting of two little candles. If you follow the Sabbath laws, turning off all electronics and lights, the next 24 hours are quieter and darker, yet strangely warmer. We spend it doing the things that matter with the people who matter. When the havdallah’s three-wicked candle is lit the next evening, we feel the presence, and honor the preciousness, of our inner light.
And so as the darkest days give way to the return of the light, may we, too, find the courage to kindle our own inner flames, knowing that even in the deepest shadows, the light is never far. May strengthen our resolve to stand up for the little fish, no matter how formidable the foe and may it warm our hearts towards hope, trusting in the natural turning toward goodness.
