As I reflect back, in my last column published on October 6 I wrote about the halachot [religious rules] around women holding a Sefer Torah.
Ironically, sirens broke out just as we were preparing to joyfully take out the Torah in our women’s Torah reading. Without a bomb shelter nearby, the Home Front Command shut us down, and we joined other prayer services in safer locations.
Since October 7, there has been little Torah that I have studied that has not been reshaped in light of the war. The month of Heshvan, referred to as mar (bitter) Heshvan, has turned out to be one of the bitterest months in our history. However, this week we celebrated Rosh Hodesh Kislev, a month that is a harbinger of Hanukkah, the holiday symbolizing light in the darkness and divine protection against a mighty enemy. We are all praying for a collective Hanukkah miracle.
Light in the darkness
Over the last few weeks, I have been drawn to texts that literally talk about light in the darkness. Whether it is the second chapter of Tractate Shabbat with its description of oils and wicks or the passage in Proverbs describing the candle of God residing in the soul of Adam, I find myself reaching for sources that can inspire me to search for light.
Commenting on Proverbs, French philosopher Gersonides wrote that the intellect helps us to illuminate the presence of God within ourselves by using the candle of our soul to uncover the depths and the secrets of our existence. It is reminiscent of a midrash in Genesis Rabbah in which God is compared to a king who hires an architect to build a palace. The king resides in the palace after it is built by his architect. In the explanation of the parable, God is the king, the architect is God’s heart, and the palace is Adam. Essentially, God “resides” within human beings, who are created in the image of God.
Both speak to the same idea: Only human beings have the unique capability of choosing to reflect divine light into the world. The Tanya, commenting on the Proverbs text, wrote that the soul is compared to a flame that is in constant upward motion, seeking to separate from its wick and cleave to its elemental source. In Chabad theology, every Jew has a divine light within him or her, no matter how weak the flame has become.
Adam features prominently in two rabbinic passages that contrast darkness with light. The Babylonian Talmud speaks of the winter solstice in Tractate Avoda Zara, where it mentions two pagan holidays that take place eight days before and eight days after the solstice. Winter can be a time of intense loneliness. It is hardly a coincidence that for thousands of years, many cultures and religions have held festivals of light at this darkest time of the year. The beckoning power of light in the darkness is a compelling symbol of hope.
When Adam saw that daylight was progressively diminishing, he initially thought it was because of his sin and that the world was becoming darker, on its way to returning to primordial chaos and disorder. He spent eight days fasting and in prayer as a sign of his repentance, all of which are proper responses to impending tragedy. However, he saw that the days began to lengthen and realized that the shortening and lengthening of days was simply the order of the world. To his credit, he realized that it was not his actions that had brought about the desired change but the hand of God.
Following this recognition, Adam observed a festival of eight days. The following year, he celebrated two festivals spanning 16 days, commemorating both the darkest time of year, followed by days of increasing light, reflecting God’s providence in the world.
In Genesis Rabbah, there is another story about man in darkness, which is reminiscent of the Greek story of Prometheus, a Titan who stole fire from the gods to free mankind from darkness and misery. In the rabbinic retelling, God’s relationship to man and fire is portrayed very differently.
Adam, who was created on the sixth day, did not experience darkness until the Sabbath ended, since God, out of honor to the Sabbath, allowed the sun to shine for 36 hours. When the sun went down and darkness began to envelop Adam for the first time, he became terrified, certain that the serpent would attack him. God, out of compassion, showed him two flints, which he struck one against the other, creating his own light to illuminate the darkness.
The midrash provides a wonderful contrast between the Greek myth in which Prometheus is punished for all eternity for helping mankind to find warmth and light, and God empowering Adam to create fire and bring light into his darkness. As in Avoda Zara, Adam comes to appreciate the goodness of light in response to experiencing utter darkness.
Shabbat candles play a similar role in our week. There is no source for the commandment to light candles. Rather, it likely evolved from the most practical of reasons: Lighting a fire on Shabbat is the most explicit example of blatant transgression of Shabbat. To avoid eating the Friday night meal in the dark, candles had to be lit beforehand. However, the Shabbat candles become one of the most important Jewish symbols, incorporating honor, delight, and peace into the home.
Maimonides writes in Mishneh Torah that even if a person wants to sit in the dark on Shabbat, he/she may not. “It is rather a duty, binding on men and women alike; they are obligated to have lamps burning in their homes on Sabbath eve. Even if one has nothing to eat, let him go begging at the doors, buy oil, and light a lamp, forming an integral part of Shabbat delight (oneg Shabbat).”
Nonetheless, there are times when it is necessary to extinguish the candle. Tractate Shabbat brings examples in which darkness can provide a shield from danger or a balm for illness, exempting the person who puts out the fire. In a famous story, Rabbi Akiva, a believer that all that God does is for good, is on a journey and cannot find anyone who will take him in for the night. He sleeps outside the city with a candle, a rooster, and a donkey. At night, the candle is extinguished by the wind, the rooster is eaten by a cat, and the donkey is torn apart by a lion. In the meantime, the people of the nearby town are taken into captivity. While Rabbi Akiva does not assert that any of these experiences are in and of themselves good, he sees them as moving us all toward a divinely inspired good.
At the moment, we are in a period of darkness. It feels like the candle has been extinguished, and yet there have been many moments of intense light as we see the incredible acts of goodness that have united us in the aftermath of terrible trauma wrought by evil.
As I write this column, I am on my way from Binghamton, New York, to Washington, DC, to join a rally in support of Israel in which hundreds of thousands are expected to participate. So much light will emanate from this incredible ingathering of Jews from all over the United States in support of our homeland.
To end with a passage by Rabbi Abraham Kook that I take with me constantly since that black day:
“The pure righteous do not complain of the dark but increase the light;
They do not complain of evil but increase justice;
They do not complain of ignorance but increase wisdom.
They do not complain of heresy but increase faith”
May this be a month of increasing light and diminishing darkness. ■
The writer teaches contemporary Halacha at the Matan Advanced Talmud Institute. She also teaches Talmud at Pardes, along with courses on sexuality and sanctity in the Jewish tradition.