(RNS) — Wait a second, Jeff. There is a ritual for the end of Hanukkah?
It is really quite simple, even if it is not particularly elegant. In some households, Jews put this ritual off for 12 months, only engaging in it when preparing for the next Hanukkah. But, in others (like mine, this year), we get right to it, right after Hanukkah.
I am referring to the ritual cleaning of the hanukkiyah, the Hanukkah menorah.
The sacred de-waxing.
Normally, like many people, I would have put the Hanukkah menorah away the morning after Hanukkah ended. Next year, Hanukkah would come, and I would realize I have a hanukkiyah with waxy buildup, and I would have to do a lot of Hanukkah preparatory scraping.
Wax remnants after cleaning the hanukkiyah, the Hanukkah menorah. (Photo by Jeffrey Salkin)
Not this year. This year, Hanukkah was even more significant than it had been in recent years. Since Oct. 7, we had journeyed from a very un-simchat Simchat Torah, as we awakened to the news of the pogrom, with many celebrations being uncharacteristically subdued.
Then, we went through the month of Heshvan, also called Marheshvan, the bitter month of Heshvan. It is bitter, because of all the Hebrew months, it is the only one without a holiday (other than Shabbat).
This year, the bitterness was pernicious, and deep, and it penetrated the dark places of the soul in ways we could never have imagined: the Hamas onslaught; the accounts of the horrors, the likes of which we had not encountered since the Holocaust; the stories of the hostages; the heartache and moral struggle over the incursion into Gaza; the daily reports of antisemitic acts. For me, this year’s Heshvan was totally mar, bitter.
I believe future generations will call it PTSD Heshvan. We are a traumatized people, and that trauma is not going anywhere any time soon.
So, yes: Hanukkah was the first festival we encountered since the Oct. 7 pogrom. Because of that, it took on a significance we could never have imagined. The stories of resistance, spiritual heroism, the triumph of light over darkness, even and especially the good gentiles who put hanukkiyot in their own windows as acts of solidarity — that was the light that flickered in the darkness.
And for me? Everything buzzed and hummed with symbolism.
First, the glass shamas (master candle) holder cracked and broke. This required some quick Super Glue action, (and me singing the line from Leonard Cohen’s song “Anthem”: There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in).
Then, when we got to the last night of Hanukkah, I discovered the box of designer Hanukkah candles was exactly one candle short. I am not kidding. To borrow a euphemism: I was one candle short of a full menorah. What did I do? I improvised. I used a Shabbat candle for one of the candles. Lesson here: Jewish life, just like everyday life, is filled with improvisations and compromises. You figure it out.
And, finally, today’s ritual: the scraping of the wax off the hanukkiyah.
First, you soak the whole thing in cold water, and then hot water, to soften up the wax.
Then, you get a sharp, thin kitchen knife, or as I did, you unbend a paper clip.
Then, you get to work — coaxing the remnants of the past week’s Hanukkah candles out of their tiny holes; removing burned-out wicks, scraping off the wax.
There is actually biblical precedent here (sort of): the priestly duty of cleaning the ashes of the previous night’s sacrifice off the altar.
The modern equivalent: ridding ourselves of the wax remnants of the festival — yes, the good memories as well as the bad memories. The stories of hanukkiyot desecrated, of people hiding their identities or contemplating doing so.
But, let me give a shoutout to those who have not yet cleaned the wax off the hanukkiyah. It can wait. Perhaps it should wait — wait until next year, when the remnants of this dark festival of light will still be very much with us, but perhaps not as present.
No. Scratch that.
That wax of a dark Hanukkah, it isn’t going anywhere all that quickly.
And, it should not.
Let it linger.
