Every year it is like this: On Christmas Eve Jews creep into the silent night prowling the streets like giddy children. All the gentiles are tucked safely in bed, presents like bright gems glittering under the tree. They sleep smiling, comforted by the knowledge that someone else died for their sins. There’s nothing left to atone. Beneath the sky adorned with its endless string of lights, we move quietly. No one speaks. From time to time
A Jewish mother can be heard reassuring her Aaron or Avi, her Rachel or Ronit, that there is no Santa Clause. Relieved, Jewish children resign themselves to eight nights of dreidles spinning in the same, tired circle. Like the red sea we move in waves, claiming the streets a temporary Jerusalem.
Tonight the world is a brightly wrapped gift we tear through like children, eager to claim something our own. Later we’ll go see a movie, some light comedy that’ll make us laugh so hard we’ll cry, choking on butter-soaked popcorn, the salt sharp in our mouths. But soon we’ll grow restless, We’ll whine, we’ll say it’s the weather, the stale candy, the wilting holly hanging from the doorway. In truth We are tired of wandering, forever searching for the roots we’ve lost like that miraculous oil, buried beneath the remains of a ruined temple. We, too, want to sit by the fire underneath a glittering tree; tired of being defeated by the endless dreidle game, sick from too many latkes with globs of sour cream. Even Jesus was bored by that festival. Even Jesus did not leave cookies for Santa. Even Jesus remained a Jew, eternally: he didn’t get to decorate his own tree or wrap presents for Mary Magdalene. If Jesus were alive today, he’d be with the rest of the Jews on Christmas Eve: eating Chinese food at the Golden Phoenix, quietly contemplating his almond boneless chicken. We would tell him this is what it means to be chosen; and he would smile, understanding, perhaps better than anyone. And as he marveled at all the sparkling lights, we would dance in the streets. For once we could pretend we are no longer so serious, throwing our laughter into heaven like chocolate Chanukah gelt, golden-wrapped prayers to God.
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