In this lovely picture book for children, a king has inherited a marvelous collection of birds, but is concerned that they don’t sing. Rabbi Zusya—to give it all away—explains that the king must open the birds’ cages if he wants them to sing. The king is worried that the birds will fly away, but, in fact, while some birds do, even more come to the kingdom. All of them sing.

To me the story is about Jewish observance. The king carefully observes the commandments he has learned from his father(s); he has built a strong fence around the law. But, while he makes sure that everything is done correctly, there is no  inspiration or joy or understanding in his observance. He is not motivated to do more good deeds or contemplate spiritual thoughts. The solution is not to get rid of the birds, but to give them the opportunity to move about in the outside world and return to the palace as they wish. The risk is that some birds—traditions—can be lost and other, different birds may enter the palace. Is this a problem? That may depend on how you view history and on whether you are Orthodox or Conservative or Reform or ….

If we insist on inflexible traditions, then our traditions will never soar or sing.

Jewish demons are sometimes bad, but they can also be good. The bad ones are sometimes more annoying and playful than evil. Similarly, as Buffy argues with Faith, the other unique slayer in Buffy’s generation, not all demons are bad. Some are neutral and some even work hard to do good in the world. They just happen to be different from people, although not necessarily in obvious ways, and they almost always lack souls.

How does a demon without a soul be a force for good? Sometimes because it is easier to survive if you play by the rules of the society you live—or are undead—in. Once, because falling in love with a person makes you want to be worthy of her love. Although the absence of a soul seems to make it harder to know the difference between what you want others to do and what they really want to do. But isn’t that true of soulful people as well?

What is great about all these stories is that demonic behavior is human behavior carried to an extreme so that we can recognize what would otherwise be too much like everyday life. Now go and watch.

In fact, our discussions tend to be very wide-ranging, but lots of fun. We never have enough time to finish exploring the books for a given topic, but usually that’s fine. There are two books from the last two sessions, however, that we didn’t get to. So, even though we weren’t scheduled to meet this week, I will be in the Temple Israel Library on Wednesday (Jan. 17) at 1:30 p.m. to show off —Francine Prose’s Dybbuk with colorful pictures by Mark Podwal and Daniel Pinkwater’s dada-esque Ducks!, which may be about angels, if you can believe what ducks say. And whatever else we end up talking about. Feel free to drop by. No required reading or prerequisites. Alas, I’m sick. Even though the doctor today said I am probably not contagious and it’s just a viral thing that needs to run its course, I don’t want to make any sick. This all started over the weekend, so I shouldn’t have infected anyone in the Temple Israel community. Stay healthy and I hope to see some of you next week on January 25, but NOT this week after all. Maybe there will be a quick look at dybbuks and angels before we discuss demons in Jewish folklore.

A Confused Hanukkah: An Original Story of Chelm by Jon Koons is apparently based on a play. Maybe the play is great; things that don’t seem to work on paper can be very funny when seen on stage. Yes, I know this story is supposed to be cute and silly. But—the Reconstructionist and Havurah Jew in me is coming out—people should know how to celebrate without needing a rabbi. Yes, it’s good that they send someone to get information; but maybe they should have tried the town librarian instead of sending someone to the big city, where he assumes that the Christmas customs he sees are for Hanukkah and returns home where the people of Chelm modify them for Hanukkah. And when the rabbi does return, his explanation of the holiday is the usual glossing over of what really happened. Bah, humbug.

Anyway, The Latke Who Couldn’t Stop Screaming  is much better than I thought it would be.

His explanation of Hanukah is quite reasonable and much more detailed than you would expect. I’m not sure his origin of the dreidel is correct, but he is not the only one who has said it was used to trick soldiers into thinking that Jews were playing games when they were really studying. Similarly, on Lag B’Omer, children play with bows and arrows. I can’t help thinking of scenes in movies where the gambling hall is quickly transformed into a classroom when the police arrive. We do things the other way round.

Some points he makes: Hanukah celebrates a military victory. There is a miracle that has to do with oil used in rededicating the Temple in Jerusalem, so eating fried foods, such as potato latkes, is a popular custom. Gifts are not the most important part of the holiday; lighting the Hanukkiah is.

And, as the latke who can’t stop screaming tries to explain to Christmas objects that also don’t normally speak, Hanukah and Christmas have nothing to do with other. Although, as the pine tree says, “But different things can often blend together. … let me tell you a funny story about pagan rituals.”

There is even a nice moral, which probably has nothing to do with Hanukah specifically: “It is very frustrating not to be understood in this world. If you say one thing and keep being told that you mean something else, it can make you want to scream. But somewhere in the world there is a place for all of us, whether you are an electric form of decoration, peppermint-scented sweet, a source of timber, or a potato pancake.”

As in the books in his Series of Unfortunate Events, Mr. Snicket uses the occasional big word and then defines it in a way that only fits the context in which it appears. For example: ” … arrondissement, a word which here means ‘place where something was being born.’”

There is a hint of “The Gingerbread Man,” in so far as the latke jumps out the frying pan, runs around the community, a word which here means “places where there are Christmas objects,” and—to give it all away—gets eaten in the end.

I remember how shocked I was to learn that there is another way of seeing Chanukah. Elias Bickerman’s The Maccabees: An Account of Their History from the Beginnings to the Fall of the House of the Hasmoneans points out many contradictions related to the holiday and its background. For example, the Maccabees were fighting to return to traditional Jewish practices—not for freedom of religion—but one of the first things they did when they regained the Temple was to create a new Jewish holiday!

The Talmud’s question, “Mah Chanukah? (What is Chanukah?),” includes a long discussion about oil and Hillel’s explanation that we increase the number of lights we burn each night of Chanukah because we always want to increase in holiness. There is no mention of oil in the Books of the Maccabees.

Three different slants on the holiday. Who is right? Does it even make sense to ask that?

Our library has the Books of Maccabees (I and II), the works of Josephus, Bickerman’s short book, the Encyclopaedia Judaica, and other books of Jewish history and holidays. I invite you to read them, come to your own temporary conclusions, and find what inspires you to increase in knowledge, good deeds and holiness.

Happy Chanukah!

One of these stories describes how Abraham began to worship one aspect of nature only to realize that another could overpower it. Jacqueline Jules’Abraham’s Search for God relates how Abraham concludes that there must be a God who exists outside of nature and is more powerful than anything in the world. I like the logic of the story; it uses a proof by contradiction: If you assume that X is greatest, but there is always something greater than X, then there is no X such that X is greatest. Similarly, there is not largest number.

Other cultures also have stories about what is most powerful. In one instance, a mouse king wants his daughter to marry the most powerful being in nature and concludes that such a being is a mouse. In another, a stonecutter keeps changing into what he thinks is most powerful and, as a mountain, realizes too late that a stonecutter can chip away at him. A Jewish version of this story, The Stonecutter Who Wanted to be Rich by Getzl, restores him to his original, human form.

All of these stories are circular. The Abraham story shows that there is something (Something?) beyond the circle.

This week’s recommended book is Mordecai Gerstein’s The White Ram: A Story of Abraham and Isaac. It is the winner of the 2007 Sydney Taylor Honor Award Winner for Younger Children given by the Association of Jewish Libraries. But, although it is a beautifully illustrated, colorful picture book, it deals with an adult topic: How can a just God–the Hebrew of Genesis 22:1 refers to a God of Justice, not of Mercy–ask anyone to kill someone? In particular, how can God ask Abraham to kill Isaac? One answer is that God made arrangements way in advance so that Abraham would not kill his son. Gerstein’s book looks at the Midrash about the ram who was created on the sixth day of Creation to act as Isaac’s replacement. How much more in advance can you get? (The first tongs are said to have been created then as well. After all, if you need tongs to make tongs, then how else could the first ones have been made?)

Some midrashim answer questions that the text raises; the above story shows that God is good, in spite of what the text might seem to say. Sometimes, a midrash uses the text to give meaning to a contemporary problem. We plan to discuss in this week’s TILT (Temple Israel Library Talks) some of the midrashim of the Middle Ages in which Isaac is killed by Abraham and why Jews of that time needed this interpretation. Join us in the library on Wednesday, November 9, at 1:30 pm.

We usually look at several versions of folktales, both secular and Jewish, and see how they are different. Especially how the Jewish versions differ from the secular ones, because that tells us something about Judaism. I use picture books a lot because I like them. I enjoy the pictures, which can be beautiful, and the way in which the illustrations tell their own version of the story in the book. Since picture books are short, no preliminary reading is required. As one quickly discovers, many of these books have much more to say to adults than to children.

This week, I’m looking at Lilith and Eve. The Bible has two Creation stories. In the first, God creates man (ha-adam) as male and female. In the second, God creates man, (ha-adam), and then creates woman to complement him. Are these two different descriptions of the same story? Or was there a first woman, say Lilith, and a second woman, whom Adam named Eve? And if the latter, then what happened to Lilith?

Lilith and Eve are traditionally opposites. Lilith is a demonic destroyer of children and Eve a nurturing mother. Or Lilith is the outspoken equal of Adam and Eve is meekly subservient. There are many kinds of opposites.

After a brief explanation of the sources in which Lilith is mentioned, I want to explore stories in which opposites are featured, particularly those in which an Adam chooses (between) a Lilith and an Eve. Jane Eyre comes quickly to mind. A more complex set of relationships occurs with Jacob and Esau and their parents. There’s Vashti and Esther. Cain and Abel. Odile and Odette. Like Ko-Ko in The Mikado, I have a little list, but the task of filling up the blanks I’d rather leave to you. Please join the conversation, either virtually here or really in person.