The miracle of light, one spark at a time

Rabbi Elka Abrahamson placed her Hanukkah in the window, with the nine copper branches visible from the street of her home in Columbus, Ohio, as darkness fell. Next to the menorah, a small Israeli flag protruded from a mug filled with pens.

There were so many reasons to be emotionally torn this year, she thought. Normally, the holiday is all about fun for kids, with presents and dreidel songs. Now there was war. Death of innocent Israelis and Palestinians. Hatred on college campuses. Many people didn’t seem to know that Jews were even afraid, she thought. There was even discussion about whether or not to light the menorah for all to see.

She remembered a story from the Talmud. Two great rabbis argued over how to light the menorah. One told them to start with eight candles and settle down. But the other said to start with one candle and add one more every night. His way became tradition. It was a way to show that light must increase and be added to the world, she said.

“We have to keep that in mind all the time now,” Rabbi Abrahamson, the president of the Wexner Foundation, a philanthropic group that supports Jewish agencies and programs, said of the lesson on light. “It can feel very faint and small, and just a spark. But we must determine for each of us how we use our voice, our intellect and our spirit to grow the light.”

Hanukkah, the eight-day festival of lights that ends this week, is a minor holiday on the Jewish calendar, but this year the addition of each candle on the menorah has greater significance. The celebration takes place not only in the literal darkness of the Northern Hemisphere winter, but also in the metaphorical darkness of the rising anti-Semitism, pain and fear that many Jewish families have faced since the Hamas attack on October 7.

And while some Jews fear backlash if they light a menorah this year, many others are turning to tradition. Courage is exactly what matters.

Historically, the holiday is a festival of hope, commemorating the revolt of the Maccabees, Jewish warriors, in the second century BC against the Greeks, who restored Jewish worship in the Temple in Jerusalem. Spiritually, it celebrates the eight-day miracle of the oil that allowed them to rededicate the Temple.

This year, it is especially important to light menorahs publicly, said Rabbi Jesse Olitsky, 39, of Congregation Beth El in South Orange, N.J., an egalitarian Conservative synagogue with about 450 families. He saw new lessons about Jewish community and identity in the old story.

Younger generations have taken for granted the security of what it means to be a Jew in America, he said. He wanted his school-aged children to wear their Star of David necklaces proudly and not tuck them under their shirts out of fear.

“I have no doubt that the Maccabees were afraid,” he said. “The miracle was that even in their fear they were proud of who they were.”

This year, Rabba Yaffa Epstein, senior scholar at the Jewish Education Project, ordered blue and white candles from Israel for her menorah. In the story of the Maccabees, military victory isn’t quite the point, she said. “It’s like this: God has done a miracle for us,” she said.

The Talmud tells the story of the oil several hundred years after the actual event, and after the Jews lost the Temple, she noted. Later sages canonized it, representing the desire to bring more holiness and light, even if the light is lost and darkness returns, she explained.

“The story we tell is one of miracles rather than defeat,” she said. “This year more than ever, there is an obligation to turn on the lights.”

She found special beauty in the shamash, the ninth ‘helper’ candle, which is used every evening to light the candles. It is a tangible reminder that the candles are lit simply to enjoy the beauty of the light, not for their usefulness. “If you have to read, you shouldn’t read by the light of the menorah,” she said. “We do not want you to use the light of the Hanukkah lights for anything other than their own purpose of commemorating the miracle.”

Old practices take on new meaning, strengthened by the hopes of the past. A week before Hanukkah began this year, more than 500 people showed up for a “Bring in the Light” educational event at the Jewish Community Center of Central New Jersey, hundreds more than initially expected. Families spread out picnic blankets in a gymnasium decorated with Israeli flags and prayed with local rabbis, eager to come together during this painful time.

The organizers have set up a discovery area where young children can discover light for themselves. The ancient oil was displayed with modern laser lights: light tablets, translucent dreidels and orbs, neon sticks and light designs were projected onto the walls. The idea was to explore light, but also shadow.

“In Judaism, candles and light are also a symbol of learning,” said Rabbi Paul Kerbel of Temple Beth-El Mekor Chayim, who spoke at the event. “The Hamas attack on Israel has awakened in many Jews the desire to stand up and be proud Jews.”

Candlelight is also fragile and can be extinguished by a light wind, according to Rabbi Josh Feigelson, host of the Soulful Jewish Living podcast. But it is a vulnerability that invites care and courage, not fear, he said.

On the last night of Hanukkah, when the candles are all lit, his family goes outside to watch the scene in the window. Behind the glass is the glow, beneath the wall of old black and white family photos, of loved ones who have lit the same candles year after year.

One was his wife’s father, who was born in the forests of Ukraine in 1942 to parents who fought the Nazis, he said. In the family’s story, the baby cried and betrayed their position. His parents had to leave him behind, hoping to return for him. When they did, they miraculously found him alive, surrounded by shoe prints.

“Either there was a dose of humanity, or they didn’t want to waste a bullet,” Rabbi Feigelson said. “If that hadn’t happened, and a lot of other things – miracles, really – hadn’t happened, she wouldn’t be here, and my children wouldn’t be here.”

“It brings me back to the fragility of the candle,” he said. “The metaphor explains itself.”