Several years ago I was about to go to Jerusalem for a year of study. A day or two before my arrival, a bomb exploded at a popular café on Emek Refaim, one of the commercial centers near my intended new home. On the shuttle from the airport, we passed by the spot, shielded with blue boards and covered with little candles and signs which said in Hebrew, ein ha’or me’ir eleh mitoch hachoshech – the light can only shine in the darkness. I have never found a classical source for this phrase, so for me, the original text comes from those signs erected over the site of tragedy and terror.
Three years ago, I saw similar words again in another spontaneous public shrine near Mori Point in Pacifica, California. I don’t know how it started, but somehow, in those first months of the pandemic, people had begun to leave pictures of lost loved ones, stones and sticks of driftwood, painted with phrases and names. Eventually, there was a labyrinth of pathways and sitting areas, memories and inspiration, centered by a battered old Cedar, just off the pathway alongside the ocean. There, I found a stone that said, “Stars can’t shine without darkness.”
It seems that something in us needs this idea in times of suffering. When all seems lost and dark — that is when our light matters most, when we can perceive the power and beauty of a single flame or star. Heroics only happen when there is a crisis. And while generosity and kindness really should be daily practices, they become life-saving against the backdrops of war and catastrophe. Adversity can be frightening and painful, but it can also call us to our most important and defining action.
I think of the righteous gentiles risking their lives to save Jews during the Holocaust. Schools and communities devoted to teaching peace amidst decades of intractable conflict. Activists and organizations that run towards the pain instead of tuning it out. Those lights may have been shining all along, but when the darkness falls, they shine the brightest.
This reminds me of the shamash candle on the first night of Chanukah, the “helper” that lights all the others. First light in the darkest time of year; moon waning, solstice nearing, that feeble single candle always offers its light during the longest, darkest nights of winter. It must be hard to be the shamash. Maybe lonely. But it’s from that single light that all the others ignite.
This year I don’t have to tell you about all of the darknesses in our world. I don’t have to tell you it can be lonely to maintain a moral center and a loving capacity when there is so much shutting us down with fear, grief, and anger. Yet that is when our compassion and righteousness matter most.
This Chanukah, may we all have the courage, strength and perseverance to believe in the importance of our own light, find our fellow candles, and shine.
rabbikatiemizrahi 