Every year as Chanukah approaches, I find myself returning to a line from the Talmud about the mitzvah of kindling the lights: “We increase holiness; we do not diminish it.” It’s the principle behind the classic disagreement between Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel. Shammai wanted us to begin Chanukah with eight lights and count down. Hillel insisted we start with one and build upward—adding light, night after night, even when the world feels dark.
This year, that teaching feels less like a legal detail and more like a spiritual lifeline.
We are living in a moment of deep complexity. All of our living hostages have finally come home—an unimaginable relief and a blessing we have prayed for relentlessly. And yet there are still three (as I am writing this) families who still wait for the bodies of their loved ones to come home. Their pain is real and unrelenting. The war continues to leave devastation in its wake. The political landscape—in Israel, here in the U.S., and around the world—feels charged and anxious. Antisemitism is rising in ways we haven’t seen in decades.
So how do we talk about light in a moment like this?
The miracle of Chanukah was never about the oil. The miracle was that our ancestors dared to light the menorah before they knew if anything would come of it. They kindled light in a desecrated
Temple, at a time when hope felt foolish. And once they took that first step, holiness increased.
Chanukah asks us to do the same.
It calls us to kindle l ight—not because everything is resolved, but because faith begins with the decision to show up. It invites us to increase holiness—not the world is fine, but because every act
of compassion, every commitment to justice, every effort to see the humanity in others builds a world worthy of God’s presence. And it reminds us that even in times of grief and uncertainty, our
tradition insists that joy and hope are not luxuries; they are acts of moral courage.
As we gather to l ight our menorahs this year, I invite us to hold many truths at once: gratitude for lives saved, heartbreak for lives lost, determination to advocate for our safety in this country, and a recommitment to caring for al l individuals who live in vulnerability. Let the l ight we kindle be a prayer—for healing, for safety, for wisdom, for compassion, for peace.
This Chanukah, may we each bring a little more l ight into a world that desperately needs it. And may we, like our ancestors, have the courage to believe that even the smallest flame can push back
a great deal of darkness.
Chag Urim Sameach—may this Festival of Lights bring strength, resilience, and hope to us all.
