As we prepare to kindle the lights of Chanukah, we enter a season shaped by two competing truths: the world can feel dark, and yet we are commanded to bring light. The Maccabees’ story is often remembered as a tale of military victory, but our sages chose a different emphasis. They teach that the real miracle was a single cruse of oil, just enough for one day, that insisted on shining anyway. In other words: the miracle was light that refused to give up.

Chanukah arrives when the nights are longest. Ancient rabbis noted that this was not an accident. They understood that spiritual courage is learned precisely when darkness seems most present, when fear, uncertainty, or despair cast long shadows. In such moments, Judaism does not ask us to banish darkness entirely; it asks us to create even a small point of brightness and trust that it matters.

The mitzvah of Chanukah is wonderfully modest: one candle the first night, then a little more each day. We build light slowly, through patient increments. Our tradition teaches lo habayshan lomeid – the one who is embarrassed to begin will never learn. Chanukah reminds us that beginning small is sacred. A single flame is enough to push back the night.

This year, many of us carry heaviness: with the world’s conflicts, with the uncertainty of our own lives, and with moments when hope feels thin. The Chanukah menorah does not pretend these realities are absent. Instead, it invites us to meet them with a practice of resilience: bringing light into our homes, our community, and our shared world one candle, one act, one gesture of compassion at a time.

When we place the menorah in the window, we engage in pirsum ha’nes – publicizing the miracle. But we are not broadcasting ancient history alone. We are declaring that light still matters, that courage still exists, and that even in difficult times we are committed to increasing illumination rather than diminishing it.

May the candles we light this Chanukah strengthen our spirits, brighten our community, and remind us that even the smallest flame can be a source of hope. And may we, like the Maccabees before us, become bearers of that hope for others.

Happy Chanukah.

Rabbi Todd