A Letter from Heaven - Chanukah 5786

We are not defined by our suffering.  We are a people with a mission and a purpose that defines us, despite our suffering.  We are still in the Shiva period for the beautiful Jewish souls who were wiped out, along with all their future generations, by people who don’t deserve to be described as such.  The world witnessed it.  We all witnessed it and we grieve.  We grieve for the holy martyrs who sanctified Hashem’s name, we grieve with their families who are suddenly left without their loved ones in such a cruel and horrific way. May Hashem avenge their blood.  And we pray for the wounded and the traumatized, and all good people around the world.

But we are not defined by our suffering.  Our mission is to bring light, and that is what we continue to do, proudly and without fear.  That is the spirit that has kept us going through the ages facing monsters of all types.  It is gratifying and quite remarkable, though not surprising, that public Menorah lightings around the world have had record attendance.  The only way to dispel darkness is with light.

When our people faced Haman in Persia, who wanted to wipe out our people, they did not accept Haman’s offer to spare anyone who would leave Judaism.  In the face of the real, credible threat of total annihilation, they stood proud as Jews, increasing their study of Torah and adherence to the Mitzvot.  This willingness to sacrifice for Judaism is what brought about Hashem’s great miracle of Purim. 

In the face of rising antisemitism around the world, we stand proud and strong, and Jews around the world are demonstrating it this Chanukah.  Even in the face of this tragedy, which we cannot begin to fathom, we go forth with faith, knowing that ultimately Hashem is with us.

My nephew Rabbi Shneur Matusof, Shliach in Issaquah Washington, wrote a very creative and moving piece, and I want to share it:

An Imaginary Letter from a Holy Brother

Important preface: This thought exercise was born in the wake of a remarkable tragedy with profound personal implications: the massacre and ambush of a proud Jewish community on Bondi Beach, and among the fatalities, the loss of two colleagues—good men who were on the frontline of the Chabad movement in spreading Judaism. Rabbi Eli Schlanger and Rabbi Yaakov Levitan, may G-d avenge their blood. 

I didn’t know either of these men personally, and I do not dare to speak for them, their sentiments, and their legacies. Family and friends have spoken on their behalf, and paint a picture of men of great faith who would never allow a tragedy to dampen the light of Chanukah. They’d push for more light to combat the darkness, more love to ward off the hate, and more faith to overcome the despair. Most of all, more holy Mitzvot to illuminate a world that can seem void of a higher calling. 

That said, I engaged in this exercise as a form of personal catharsis, and those closest to me have encouraged me to share in the chance that it brings light and hope to someone who might read it. The sentiments are mine alone, as I look to find G-d’s infinite light in our shattered hearts, and Judaism’s eternal spirit in a well of fear and sadness. 

This, then, is a “letter” that I imagine these wonderful and holy rabbis would send to the world in the wake of their ultimate sacrifice. 

May G-d bring us peace and light, hope and faith to carry on, and the coming of Moshiach. Right now, Amen.

            * * *

To my dear brothers and sisters—proud and broken, brave and afraid:

You must be shaken by this terrible tragedy, this act of despicable evil that tore through our joyful and peace-loving community. The implications are far-reaching; Jews are targets, and depraved madmen can cause irreparable harm to our people. The loss can never be replaced.

Know this, though: I was not taken alone. I was bringing light and celebration to my community there on the beach—with ties to Jewish history across millennia. I would want you to mourn deeply: not merely because of who you lost, but because of what it means. Because of the next layer of mystery and pain our loving Father and G-d has chosen to puzzle us with, and any feeling of safety as a Jew being shattered. Again. 

Reflect deeply on what I died representing, on the People whose fortune I got tangled up with. Don’t think I didn’t know the risk. As one among nine thousand brothers and sisters in arms serving Chabad houses across the world, we have come to understand: if we live our lives as representing Judaism then we will take the bullets for Judaism—and we’ll do it proudly. But we knew. I knew and yet I couldn’t make a different life. I couldn’t choose a different path. This tortured, miraculous and twisted story of Judaism is what I held most dearly of all. With every tragedy and evil bullet, it is G-d I turned to first. I know the paradox, I feel the dissonance in my bones, but the deepest truth behind all of life and death is faith. Faith in G-d. Faith that G-d will watch me, protect me, guide me, and protect those I love; even when He doesn’t.

So know then, that I sacrificed myself for this cause. I found joy in every Jew that reconnected to this age-old heritage, even if we might feel safer assimilating and disappearing from the face of the earth. I didn’t waver in this belief. And the kicker? I believe every Jew feels this too. Somewhere in the recesses of their psyche because this is how I define the soul; the Jewish soul that is inextricably tied up with this Jewish purpose.

In the aftermath of my sacrifice, remember what I died for and ask yourself: do you have that in your soul? Does it seem to you to be a buried truth that you can’t flee from any more than I was able? Are you and Jews, you and Judaism one and the same? Cry about the loss and ponder that question.

If you knew me more intimately, reflect on my successes and remember my struggles and shortcomings. Count the victories every time I chose giving over taking, because that’s how I would like to be remembered. I hope that’s what I’ll leave with those who knew me. Think about your own struggles, and smile, knowing that it ties into a larger purpose, larger than life itself—the story of the Jew. Feel the pain and become a greater person from it.

Yes, and go light that menorah because I lived and died for the belief that that’s what you really, truly would like to do. And you can never run away from it. Do it with joy, as this is your inalienable birthright. Do it with community, as your souls will feed off each other; one flame sparking the other. 

Do it with conviction and belief, trust and faith. Faith in the past, present, and future of our beautiful People. 

If you find that faith, even for a moment, this is what I would’ve wanted.

I wish you a happy, safe and proud Chanukah.