Two Faiths, One Light

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

–John 1:5

As I write, it’s the third night of Hanukkah, the eight-day Jewish festival of lights. Hanukkah celebrates the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem after the victory of the Maccabean rebels over the occupying forces that had desecrated it. The story is told that the priests found only enough oil to light the lamps for one night, but miraculously, the oil lasted for eight nights, long enough that more could be made and the Temple could be fully rededicated.

That story of resilience in the face of oppression has defined the Jewish people for centuries, and it’s a story that endures down to our own day. As antisemitic violence continues to break out in the world, the heirs of Abraham still light the lights and claim the promise that God is present in all times and places, and the light of God’s people will never be extinguished.

One of the great gifts of my life over the past nearly 17 years has been getting to know, appreciate, and integrate my husband’s Jewish faith and practice alongside my own; lighting the Hanukkah lights each year has enriched and deepened my own faith and my commemoration of Advent and Christmas. As I watch the lights of the menorah grow each night, I can’t help but think that what our traditions share runs deeper than anything that might separate us; that we both dare to light a candle and boldly declare with that simple act that hope will not be snuffed out and the promise of peace will not be forgotten. At heart, we share a conviction deeper than any fleeting emotion, more powerful than any prince or ruler, more true than any passing fad: that we are not alone, we will not be forgotten, and injustice will never have the final word. We may be two faiths, but we share one light—the light of hope and steadfast faith.

The clergy staff at Central Synagogue in New York City offered these words to begin Hanukkah this year:

“How do we begin this Festival of Light? We begin the way Jews have always begun: by refusing to let darkness have the last word. The Talmud teaches that the Hanukkah lights are placed at the entrance of our homes, facing outward. Meaning: our candles are not only for us. We are commanded to shine outward—into the public square, into the places where fear and hatred try to claim territory. We proclaim: there is another way to live. As we enter Hanukkah: we will light candles, even if our hands tremble. We will say the blessings, even if our voices crack. We will show up for one another, because kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh—we are responsible for one another. We will bring light into the world, because a candle is small, but it changes what is possible in the dark. One flame. One act of kindness. One donation. One hug. One moment of prayer. One brave conversation. One refusal to be numbed. When we recite Shehecheyanu—thanking God for enabling us to reach this moment—we do not mean that this moment is easy or good. We mean something deeper: that life is precious, that presence matters, and that being here obligates us to bring more light.”

On Christmas Eve this year, when we share the lights of candles and remember the birth of One in whom dwells the promise of hope and peace, I will remember the one light we share, and give thanks for the gift of love that binds all of us, whatever our faith or background, together.

Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, shehecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh.

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the universe, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season. Amen.