December 23, 2023
Author(s): Rav Hazzan Aliza Berger,
Parashat Vayigash
A Christmas Story
December 23, 2023 —11 Tevet 5784
Temple Emanuel, Newton, MA
My grandfather was a curmudgeon, especially this time of year. He would start to get grumpy mid-November, when Christmas lights started going up around town and his mood would really sour after Thanksgiving when retailers began blasting Christmas carols. Then a simple trip to the grocery store would send him muttering angrily under his breath up and down the aisles and then all the way home. His mood wouldn’t improve until February when the last decorations were finally packed away.
I never fully understood what exactly my grandfather had against Christmas, but I somehow unconsciously adopted some of his feelings. For a long time, Christmas music at the mall or at grocery stores would put me on edge. Christmas lights made me think about climate change. And if anyone wished me a Merry Christmas, I would rush to explain I don’t celebrate but that I hope they had a good holiday season.
But then something shifted. Two years ago, we had a dear friend who was going through a really hard time. She was marooned here in Boston over Christmas, away from family and friends, and deeply depressed. This friend is someone who has always treasured Christmas. She loves Christmas trees and decorating. She loves cooking dinner with family and friends. She loves the whole season. Unlike me, when she would hear a Christmas carol in the grocery store, she would smile and ask, “isn’t this just the most wonderful time of year?”
That year, I asked our friend what she was doing for Christmas. “Nothing,” she said. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What do you mean you aren’t doing anything for Christmas? You love Christmas! It’s your favorite time of the year.” She explained that she didn’t have anyone to celebrate with and the idea of making Christmas alone felt too depressing to contemplate.
At first, I tried to problem solve. What about this person? Or that friend? Could you go to that church?
Then, a last-ditch effort. “Do you want to come stay with us for the weekend? We could do Christmas at our house.” I thought for sure she would say no. Who says yes to Christmas at a rabbi’s house? “Actually,” she said, “that sounds kind of amazing.”
That night, I told Solomon what I had offered. “Ho, ho, ho,” he said, “Merry Christmas, Rabbi.” “Don’t say that” I said to him. “We are not celebrating Christmas. We are just making Christmas for a friend.”
That became my mantra as we schlepped Christmas decorations and helped our friend put up her tree in our living room. I watched her hang ornaments with love and care, saw how happy it made her to turn on the lights, and listened with joy as she became more animated and began sharing stories about Christmas from her childhood. Suddenly, I understood something about the Christmas spirit.
My whole life I resented being forced to acknowledge someone else’s holiday. It made me angry that people didn’t see my experience, didn’t honor my truth. Because I didn’t have any reason to celebrate or to learn more, Christmas just became a reminder every year about how different I am and about how lonely it can be to live as a minority.
But celebrating with our friend changed everything. After we helped our friend celebrate Christmas, I noticed that I didn’t have the same angry charge the following holiday season. Grocery shopping didn’t send me into a mood because of the music. I was able to simply notice lights outside without becoming upset. It’s not my holiday, and it never will be, but the experience of going outside my comfort zone to be present for a friend has forever transformed the holiday for me.
Which reminds me of a gorgeous teaching in the Talmud that I bet the rabbis never imagined would be applied to this moment. The rabbis ask whether one receives a greater reward for saying a blessing or for listening to a blessing and responding “amen[1]”. Answer: the greatest blessing goes to the one why responds “amen.” The rabbis explain that if you say a bracha on your own, that bracha connects you with God and lifts up the action you are taking. But if you say amen to someone else’s bracha, that connects you with God and with the person who recited the blessing.
The rabbis of our Talmud imagined that they were talking to Jews who were saying blessings with other Jews and listening to Jews recite blessings. They never imagined a scenario in which we would be in multi-faith spaces trying to navigate what it means to live Jewishly in a largely non-Jewish world. But I think their wisdom speaks so beautifully to this moment. Celebrating our own holidays is powerful and affirmative. When we gathered as a community to celebrate Chanukah, it was magic. There is beauty and strength in performing the rituals and traditions of our ancestors. But, there is also incredible beauty and power in being able to support others as they celebrate their holidays in authentic ways. Especially in this moment when we are feeling so alone, so abandoned on the world stage, we can find holiness by seeing the people around us and by answering amen to their prayers and to their heart-felt celebrations.
It’s good to have your own spiritual practice. We all need that. It’s good to celebrate holidays with people you love. But it’s also deeply important to find a way to honor and celebrate the people around you and to lift up what they care about. Especially in this season where we are all feeling so alone, so unseen, so left out—there is a real opportunity for us to see the holiness in the world and the spiritual work that others are doing and to amplify it with our words and with our deeds.
This year, our non-Jewish nanny texted me first-thing in the morning on the first day of Chanukah. She was so excited to celebrate and wanted to know what we do and how we celebrate. When I told her there was a community-wide celebration, she couldn’t wait to come and to bring her baby too. I can’t wait to wish her a Merry Christmas tomorrow.