by Rabbi Sari Laufer
“This little light of mine….I’m going to let it shine…..”
Throughout history, a candle flickering in a window sent signals to all who passed by. For centuries, it was symbolic in the run-up to Christmas, alerting travelers to the possibility of an open door and a set table; mimicking Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter, it became a symbol of hospitality, a quiet way to let a weary traveler know that they would not be turned away.
In our own history, in times of persecution a lit candle in the window was a signal to the community that a brit milah was to take place. When we were forbidden to live our faith publicly, we were still unwilling to hide it completely; rather, we literally and figuratively shone a light and invited people to join us to celebrate the covenant. In contrast, or perhaps in parallel, rabbinic tradition demanded of us that the Festival of Lights be celebrated publicly. We are taught that our chanukiah be placed in an outside courtyard or a window, that we best publicize the miracle—both of God’s deliverance and of our continued faith. And, of course, the symbol of the Roman destruction of Jerusalem, the Arch of Titus, depicts the menorah—the lamp central to the Temple service—being carried off as the spoils of conquer.
It is that very lamp which opens this week’s Torah portion. As we begin Parashat B’ha-alotcha, we read God’s words to Moses:
Speak to Aharon and say to him: When you kindle the lamps-beha’alotecha-toward the face of the Menorah should the seven lamps cast light.” (Bamidbar 8:1)
Like we are each week, Aaron is commanded to kindle light. But, in the sort of Biblical wordplay that invites interpretation, he is not commanded to madlik light, using the verb with which we bless our Shabbat candles. Rather, the verb is ba’ha’alotecha—he is asked to lift up the lamps, to hold them up. What is the difference, you might wonder?
When we light Shabbat candles, we light each one independent of the other. They stand alone, two separate flames. Rashi, the great commentator, suggests that what Aaron is asked to do in this week’s parasha is different; he teaches that the flames rise upward, thus an expression of ascending is used, implying that one must kindle them until the light ascends on its own. I remember learning once a lesson on fire which taught that fire is one of the few substances that, when shared amongst other conveyors, does not diminish. No matter how many other candles the original is used to light, it grows not dimmer—but stronger.
The Book of Proverbs teaches us that the soul of humanity is the candle of God (Proverbs 20:27). When we hold someone up—when we are with them in their pain or in their joy, when we celebrate or mourn with them, when we stand with them in community and solidarity—we help them find the spark of the Divine in themselves and in the world. And like the candles of the menorah, this serves not to diminish the presence of the Divine in the world, but rather to amplify it.
So this Shabbat, as you light candles with family, friends, or with the Stephen Wise Temple community—imagine yourself to be a part of the flame, sharing your light with those around you and shining bright into the darkness of the world. And as you hold up your light, perhaps you are helping someone else kindle their own. Know that maybe someone, nearby or faraway, needs that light to see something brighter or more hopeful, to see a spark of the Divine in their own lives.
Shabbat Shalom.