Blog

A few years ago, a rabbi visited a prison to lead a Chanukah service. As he lit the menorah, one of the inmates whispered, “Rabbi, this is the first time I’ve seen a candle in years.” The prison prohibited open flames, but for this one sacred night, they made an exception. The man stared at the flickering light, his face a mix of awe and longing. “I forgot how much light one small flame can bring,” he said.

This week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh, focuses on another sacred light—the ner tamid, the eternal flame that burned in the Tabernacle, later in the Temple, and which is represented in the eternal light in our sanctuary and Freeman Family Chapel (our Cooper Chapel has the sun and moon which serve as symbolic representations). God commands Moses to instruct the Israelites: “You shall command the children of Israel to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.” (Exodus 27:20)

The ner tamid is more than an ancient relic, though; it’s a metaphor for the role each of us plays in bringing light to the world. I’ll invite us to focus on one oft-overlooked detail hidden in the command: the oil must be “beaten”—pressed and refined—before it can burn. There’s wisdom in that. Our brightest lights are often born from struggle, resilience, and effort.

In a world that sometimes feels dim, where headlines overwhelm and challenges seem insurmountable, Tetzaveh reminds us that our job is not to banish all darkness at once but to kindle and sustain light where we can. Yes, we have our eternal lights in our worship spaces, but we should not overlook that a kind word, a small act of justice, a moment of presence—these, too, are our lamps, our ner tamid.

I think of that inmate, eyes locked on the Chanukah candles, rediscovering hope in a single flame. Sometimes, we don’t realize how much light we carry until someone else sees it. And sometimes, all it takes is one small flame to remind us that darkness never has the final word.

Shabbat Shalom.