Rabbi Andrea’s Sermon 6th December / 16th Kislev 5786

Rabbi Andrea’s Sermon

About Chanukah, and about the Palestinian Flags

With a note on bowling

You know the joke, right? What are Jewish holidays really about?

They’re all the same, and they all go something like this: “They tried to kill us. They failed. Now let’s eat.”

It’s simple, it’s a little dark, and let’s be honest. it’s also more than a little true. The origins of many of our festivals lie in danger, survival, and relief. And each time, the Jewish people respond not with despair, not with fear, but with ritual, with community, and yes, with food. We respond to attempted destruction by affirming life. This is not only humour; it is theology. And while the joke applies to many holidays, it applies with special force to two of them: Purim and Chanukah.

Purim, of course, is the most obvious example: Haman’s decree to annihilate the Jews of Persia; his plan overturned; his downfall; our survival and then hamantaschen and a good l’chaim. But Chanukah, too, fits this pattern, even if the nature of the threat was different and even if the way we celebrate is different. Chanukah is wrapped in light, in children’s songs, in dreidels, sufganiyot and latkes, but its origins are no less serious. It is a story of those who tried to destroy us, not physically, but spiritually and of our determination, as a people, not to disappear.

So let us begin with the story itself, not the children’s book version, but the story as our tradition preserves it. Chanukah takes us back to the second century BCE, when Judea found itself caught in the power struggles of the Seleucid Empire. The king was Antiochus IV, a man with the modesty to call himself Epiphanes, “God made manifest.” And he did not like Jewish practices: Shabbat, circumcision, Torah study, and the Temple rites. You know, all the things considered “unfashionable” today: taking time for family, giving your sons that little operation, serious Torah study (Torah, not the sanitized version called “Jewish values”), and worship in the Temple in Jerusalem. So tribal, so particular and so insufficiently universal.

The oppression was not merely political; it was cultural, religious, existential. The intent was not just to rule over the Jews, but to erase Jewish distinctiveness, to dissolve the covenantal identity that had sustained us since Sinai. Against this empire rose, not an army of trained soldiers, but a family: Mattathias and his sons, known to history as the Maccabees. Their revolt began as an act of conscience and defiance. It grew into a guerrilla movement. And against all odds, it succeeded. They recaptured the Temple in Jerusalem, purified it, and rededicated it, (Chanukah means dedication), lighting the menorah once more.

The Talmud, written centuries later, adds the detail of the oil that lasted eight days, a symbol of hope within scarcity, a miracle of endurance. Whether you prefer the military story or the spiritual one, Chanukah is fundamentally about Jewish survival against forces that deny Jewish existence. It is about reclaiming the right to be who we are. It is

about resisting those who say: “You may live, but only if you stop being Jewish.”

That form of oppression is subtle, and in some ways more frightening, because it does not always announce itself with violence. Sometimes it comes through the seductive promise of acceptance, if only we would stop insisting on being ourselves. The writer Dara Horn has described this difference with clarity. She points out that the antisemitism of Purim and the antisemitism of Chanukah are not the same. Purim represents what she calls “Purim-style antisemitism”: the attempt to kill Jews physically, to wipe out the people through the sword. It is genocidal hatred. It is Haman’s hatred, and it is tragically familiar in our history. Many of us have family

memories of encounters with this form of hatred.

But Chanukah represents another form of antisemitism, one that is often harder to identify and therefore harder to confront. Dara Horn calls this “Hanukkah-style antisemitism.” This is the antisemitism that says: We do not mind if Jews exist, as long as they are not too Jewish. It is the pressure to assimilate, to abandon Jewish practices, to dilute Jewish identity and to erase Jewish peoplehood. In the time of the Maccabees, many Jews cooperated willingly with this ideology, believing that their future depended on blending in. And here I must say that Dara Horn is 100% current. Because although there are violent threats and attacks, we are living today not primarily under Purim-style antisemitism but under the Chanukah version: the ideology that denies Jewish collectivity, Jewish peoplehood, Jewish self-determination.

The ideology that claims to speak about politics but in fact cuts at the very root of Jewish existence. And we see it around us; in the signs, in the slogans and in the demonstrations. Across cities in Europe and America, Palestinian flags have appeared on buildings, bridges, university halls, municipal offices, and private homes. Some people who display these flags believe they are expressing compassion for suffering; others believe they are making a political statement. But the effect, and often the intention, reaches deeper.

Let me give one example: Belfast. In Belfast, entire neighbourhoods have been draped in Palestinian flags, hundreds upon hundreds of them. They signify, unmistakably, a solidarity not with peace, not with coexistence, but with a narrative in which the existence of Israel is illegitimate by definition. In these displays, Israel is not a country; Israel is a crime. And therefore, Jews who support Israel, or who merely insist on the right of a Jewish state to exist in security, are treated as suspect, as colonialist, as inherently guilty. Now, let me add something important here. There are Jewish voices, sincere, committed, progressive, who see the Palestinian flag very differently. In the USA and in this country, some Jewish organisations have argued that the Palestinian flag, when flown alongside the Israeli flag, can be a symbol of hope, a symbol of two people living in dignity. They even say: “Palestinian flags aren’t the enemy.”

These voices exist, and they often come from within our own Progressive Jewish family. And I genuinely believe there is nothing wrong with dreaming of a future in which two flags can fly side by side, expressing coexistence rather than negation.

But let’s be honest. Let’s say things as they are, painful as it may be: This is not what we are seeing this year on the streets of Europe and the UK.

These flags are not being flown together with Israeli flags in the name of dialogue. They are being flown alone, and often in contexts where the message is unmistakable: that Israel has no right to exist, no right to defend itself, no legitimate place among the nations. In this context, the Palestinian flag is not a call for two states; it is a declaration that the Jewish people should not have one.

This is precisely the kind of ideological assault described by the Chanukah story: not an attempt to murder Jews outright, but an attempt to dissolve Jewish distinctiveness, to erase Jewish peoplehood, to declare that Jewish sovereignty is inherently illegitimate.

So how do we respond to this kind of antisemitism? We respond as our ancestors did. Not with despair, and not with rage, but with proud, visible, confident Jewish practice.

We respond by intensifying our observance of Chanukah itself. Because Chanukah teaches us how to resist spiritual erasure, not by hiding, not by dimming our identity, but by shining light in public.

The mitzvah is not simply to light the chanukiah. The mitzvah is pirsumei nisa, to publicize the miracle. In ancient times, the lamp was placed outside the home, facing the street. It was a declaration: We are still here. Our faith survives. Our people endure.

Even today, the candles we place in our windows testify to the same truth. Each flame says: The Jewish people will not vanish. Our light will not go out.

Chanukah comes during the darkest days of the year, when the nights are longest. And it teaches us that even a small light can push back on vast darkness. The light does not have to be overwhelming; it simply has to exist. It simply has to shine. As the Talmud says, a little light dispels a great deal of darkness.

Therefore, this year especially, this year more than in many years before, we must dedicate ourselves anew not only to the ritual of lighting candles, but to what those candles signify. They tell us that Jewish identity is not something to apologize for. Jewish peoplehood is not something to be debated. Jewish survival is not something to be negotiated. Our existence, like our light, is non-negotiable.

As the world debates our legitimacy, we will answer with light. As others question our right to security, we will answer with light. And now, my friends, after all these reflections on light and resilience, let me explain our way of celebrating Chanukah together. It has become a tradition. We begin, as any self-respecting Jewish community would, with food. And not just any food: fish and chips. Why? Because if Chanukah is the festival of oil, then fish and chips is practically a halachic requirement. It is our way of saying: They tried to extinguish us. They failed. Now please pass the vinegar.

We will gather here in our synagogue, across generations; children, teens, adults, grandparents, sharing a meal, sharing laughter, sharing light. This, too, is Jewish resilience: a table where everyone belongs, where stories move between the generations, where newcomers are welcomed and elders are honoured. A community is woven not only by ideology but by presence, by joy and by sitting together.

And here I should add: in America, believe it or not, bowling on Chanukah has become a genuine Jewish tradition. Synagogues book entire bowling alleys for “Latkes & Lanes,” “Lights & Strikes,” and other gloriously pun-filled evenings. So, we are in excellent company.

After lighting our Chanukah candles, we will head to the bowling alley at the Marina, adding our own playful twist to the holiday. And as I’ve said, even bowling can teach Torah because Jews can make midrash out of absolutely anything. Consider the gutter. If we write the word “gutter” in Hebrew letters גוטר and calculate the gematria, we get 218. Now, the word אוֹר (or), meaning “light,” has the numerical value 207.

So, 218 is just slightly above “light,” which can only mean one thing: When your ball goes into the gutter, you haven’t failed, you’ve merely accessed a higher, more deeply

hidden form of light. So hidden, in fact, that it doesn’t even appear on the scoreboard.

Which is all to say: in our community, even a gutter ball becomes a spiritual achievement. Truly, we are a gifted people.

So, how could anyone say no?

Therefore, dear friends, dear families, dear community of every age:

On Sunday, 21st December, we invite all of you, long-time members and brand-new faces alike, to join us. Come for the fish and chips, come for the chanukiah, come for Havdalah, come for the bowling, come for the joy. Bring your children, bring your parents, bring your friends. Bring your whole heart. In a year when the world often feels dark, we answer with light. In a time when Jewish identity is questioned, we answer with community. In a season that can feel lonely, we answer with laughter rolling down a bowling lane.

May the lights of Chanukah give us strength. May they remind us of who we are.

And may they, like the flames we kindle together, shine far beyond this season; into our homes, our city, and the future of our people.

Amen. And remember to book. Contact the office or the Rabbi.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Dr. Andrea Zanardo, PhD

Further Reading

For a deeper understanding of the themes discussed in this sermon, see Dara Horn’s People Love Dead Jews (W. W. Norton, 2021), which articulates the distinction between “Purim-style” and“Hanukkah-style” antisemitism.

On the history of the Reform Movement and its early anti-nationalist stance, the standard reference remains Michael A. Meyer’s Response to Modernity: A History of the Reform Movement in Judaism (Oxford University Press, 1988), especially the chapters on Classical Reform and the Pittsburgh Platform.

On the mitzvah of lighting the Chanukah candles and the principle of pirsumei nisa, a clear halachic overview is Ezra Bick’s The Proper Place to Light Chanukah Candles, Virtual Beit Midrash, Yeshivat Har Etzion.

For the contemporary British context, the impact of widespread Palestinian flag displays is documented in sources such as Jewish News, “Tower Hamlets council refuses to disclose how many Palestinian flags it has taken down” (13 March 2024), and The Telegraph, “East London’s Jewish community in ‘state of fear’ as Palestinian flags fly outside schools” (19 January 2024). For Belfast specifically, see The Jewish Chronicle’s report on Palestinian flags displayed in private homes and public streets in Northern Ireland in 2024–25, and the concerns raised by local Jewish residents.

On earlier campus initiatives encouraging Jewish students to display Israeli and Palestinian flags side by side in the name of “two states for two peoples”, see: Marcus Dysch, “Union of Jewish Students shows commitment to peace,” The Jewish Chronicle, 15 Sept 2011; and “UJS’s ‘radical, progressive’ campaign? Sensible, or a cause for concern?”, The Jewish Chronicle, 16 Sept 2011.

Finally, for Jewish progressive arguments defending the legitimacy of the Palestinian flag as a national symbol, see Danielle Bett (Yachad UK), “Emma Watson and Palestinian flags aren’t the enemy,” Times of Israel Blogs (4 January 2022), though, as a Reform Rabbi, I respectfully disagree with that position in the present climate