|
Dear Friends, One of the quiet truths of Hanukkah is that its beauty comes from fragility. A candle is not powerful because it lasts forever but because it doesn’t. We light it anyway and enjoy it for however long we can. This year, Raina and I opened a box of Hanukkah candles and discovered they weren’t the usual mix of four or five or six colors I’ve come to expect. Instead, there were just two. That, in itself, wasn’t a problem. But there was an issue with them: these candles simply refused to light. Every single night this week, it has taken us at least three attempts to get the shamash burning. And once it finally caught, we had to hold that flame to each candle far longer than usual. By the time all the candles were lit, the shamash was already halfway gone. Its job was nearly complete before the full light had even taken hold. As I reflected on our seemingly “defective” candles this morning, I realized there was a lesson hiding in their nightly attempts to frustrate us. Sometimes creating light takes work. Light is fragile. It is delicate. And it does not sustain itself without intention, patience, and care. Our tradition has always known this. Jewish history is not the story of an indestructible flame, but of a fragile light guarded and nurtured by each generation. We are a people who have learned, again and again, that illumination is never guaranteed and that security, even when it feels solid, can be far more delicate than we imagine. The horrific antisemitic attack we witnessed this week in Australia is a painful reminder of that truth. Jewish life there, as elsewhere, was not targeted because it was loud or aggressive, but simply because it existed and was visible. Our people were attacked because Jews dared to bring light into a public space. Jews were murdered in cold blood simply because they gathered, celebrated, and refused to disappear. And yet, this year, something extraordinary happened here in our own community. Despite understandable concerns about security, despite real and wholly understandable reasons people might have chosen to stay home, we witnessed the largest turnout I have ever seen at our public menorah lighting. People refused to give in to fear. They came anyway. Reform Jews and Conservative Jews. Orthodox Jews and Chabad Jews. Unaffiliated Jews, members of our congregation, and Jews from across the broader community stood together. And alongside us, shoulder to shoulder in the cold, were non-Jewish allies who understood that bringing light into the world is a shared responsibility. There we were, bundled up, breath visible in the night air, choosing presence over retreat, community over isolation, light over darkness. |
 |
|
Like our stubborn “defective” candles at home, Jewish life right now requires effort. It requires showing up more than once, holding the flame longer than we’d like, and trusting that eventually the light will take. And like the shamash, those who step forward first, our leaders, volunteers, and allies, may have to expend themselves a bit more in the process. That, too, is holy work. We are living in a moment that reminds us how delicate our security can be. But we are also living in a moment that shows us how resilient Jewish life remains when we refuse to let the flame go out. When we stand together, hold the light for one another, and choose visibility over fear we help illuminate the darkness. May this Shabbat give us the strength to keep the light alive, the patience to keep holding one another, and the courage to keep shining… especially when it takes more work than we expected. Shabbat Shalom and Happy Hanukkah, Rabbi Daniel Cohen |