How did an old boys’ club evolve out of a matrilineal religion?

by Shaina Cavazos

illustration by Grace Molteni

Hanukkah can be a bit of an old boy’s club.

Don’t believe me? Take the typical (simplified) story:

Powerful Syrian-Greek King Antiochus takes control over Israel, and oppression ensues. Jews are not allowed to worship how they see fit, and the community splits over whether to assimilate to the new Greek ways or maintain the old traditions. Enter the Maccabees, a band of loyal Jewish traditionalists and rebels led by son Judah and father Mattathias.

Before he dies, Mattathias pleads with his sons to continue their fight against the Greeks. They take up arms and eventually defeat the Greek army, with just modest numbers and weapons. When the Maccabees return to Israel, they see the Temple has been destroyed and with it, the menorah, used as a symbol of Judaism in the sanctuary. They find only one day’s worth of oil to light to menorah, but it miraculously lasts for eight. Thus, the miracle of Hanukkah and the birth of the holiday we know today.

Men seize land, men band together, men fight and men win. Hanukkah.

But that can’t be it, can it? Although I am not surprised a monotheistic, father-god religion has left out a mention of women, it does seem a bit odd for Judaism in particular. You see, Judaism, traditionally, is matrilineal — that is, it’s passed down through the mother’s line.

I don’t mean to imply a woman should be her family’s sole spiritual caretaker, but just that women have played, and still play, a vital role in Judaism and keeping Jewish tradition alive. And I’m not the only one who thinks so — the Jewish Daily Forward included 26 women in its list of 50 American Jews who are changing the world, with four in the top five.

“While women have yet to be accepted (and paid) on an equal footing with men in organized Jewish communal life, they are taking leading roles in influencing national policy, cultural norms, religious practice, literature, political advocacy, the performing arts and the ever-fraught conversation about Israel,” said an editor’s note by the publication’s editor-in-chief Jane Eisner.

Now I’ll be the first to say that genes don’t necessarily dictate religion. My mother wasn’t born Jewish, but she converted after I was born, which raises some questions as to whether I’d be accepted as a Jew by more observant, traditional Jewish communities.

But that never changed anything about my personal Jewish identity — I’m a Jew, through and through, genetics be damned. But although both my parents were strong supporters of raising a Jewish family, my mom definitely took on the more public role in our small northwest-suburban Chicago Jewish community. She took my sister and I back and forth from preschool at our temple, carted us to “Tot Shabbat,” participated in the Sisterhood and sat on the temple board for a number of years.

For much of my childhood, she basically carried the torch of our family’s religious observance. This theme might not hold true for every Jewish family, but chances are my experiences aren’t completely unique. It seems more than reasonable, then, that women should get credit on our most visible holidays.

So where are all the mothers in the Hanukkah story? Surely in a time when the entire Jewish community was up in arms over how, or even whether, to practice its faith, women were involved. (Hint: women were always involved, they just didn’t always get written about. Read  more on that in this fascinating tome by Rosalind Miles.)

That brings us to the perhaps less popularly known story, “Hannah and her Seven Sons.” I came across this story once or twice in my religious school days, but I would guess the grand majority of people who know what Hanukkah is have never heard about Hannah and her bravery, although it lives in the same book as the story of Judah Maccabee.

It goes something like this:

Hannah, the mother of seven brothers, was captured along with her family and brought to King Antiochus. The King commanded the family to prove their loyalty to him by eating pork (a no-no for observant Jews). The brothers wouldn’t do it, and they were killed. Hannah was given a chance to save her youngest son, but instead she told him to hold strong. He was also killed. In the last part of the story, she dies, though accounts differ as to whether she was killed or killed herself.

Of course, the seven brothers go on to become examples of martyrs in both Jewish and Christian tradition, according to research from the Jewish Virtual Library. But what about Hannah? The fact that the story was even remembered and written down is a better-than-usual outcome for Jewish heroines, I’d imagine, but I’m not satisfied.

The bravery and heroism she showed were at least equal to, and probably greater than, that shown by the Maccabees. It’s one thing to die fighting for what you believe in, but it’s another situation entirely to watch as your children go to slaughter knowing a seemingly simple recantation could save them. Hannah embodies the spirit of a Jewish mother’s responsibility at its most extreme — urging your children not just to believe, but to believe with abandon.

California Rabbi Naomi Levy, in an article for the LA Times, says that Hannah could be compared to Abraham, considered the father of Judaism. But while Abraham was only asked to sacrifice one son, Hannah sacrificed seven.

“Hanna tells her youngest son before he is murdered that Abraham shouldn’t be so proud of himself that he almost sacrificed Isaac,” Levy said. “She says: ‘I sacrificed seven of my sons for God.’ “

Judaism values life above most all else, but the Torah makes it clear that caving to idolatry or turning your back on your faith is not an option. And Hannah, in the face of overwhelming personal tragedy, stands up simultaneously for her faith and her family. That’s the type of miracle I try to remember on Hanukkah.

Chag Hanukkah Sameach, everyone.

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Shaina Cavazos is a Missouri School of Journalism grad headed to report on all things K-12 education for Chalkbeat Indiana. Although she is fairly wedded to journalism, Shaina finds joy in cooking, reading, and of course, dancing. Follow her on Twitter @ShainaRC.

Grace Molteni is a Midwest born and raised designer, illustrator, and self-proclaimed bibliophile, currently calling Chicago home. For more musings, work, or just to say hey check her out on Instagram or at her personal website.