Open the Door to Light

By Rabbi Brian --- This Monday morning, December 15, I sat in the car, parked outside a local DIY store, and my phone beeped, a WhatsApp notification, so I took a look. It was a message from my sister in Australia. “We are in shock here,” she wrote. “This is not the Australia we love. It’s impossible to know what to say or do, we are all heartbroken.” And at that moment I realised my heart was broken too and emotion overwhelmed me. It was OK to be emotional, but as my equilibrium returned, I wondered what the staff of the DIY store would think of my red and teary eyes.

Jewish festivals such as Simchat Torah, Yom Kippur, and Chanukkah, are moments when our collective emotions as a people are at their most profound. Simchat Torah embodies the unbridled joy we feel in celebrating the Torah, the very heart of our Jewish existence. Yom Kippur, by contrast, is marked by deep introspection, remorse, and a sincere yearning to return to the core values and spirituality represented by the Torah. Finally, Chanukkah brings us back to joy, as we gather to embrace the festival’s lights and the sense of hope and resilience they symbolise.

Moments of darkness and loss

But these festivals have been overshadowed by acts of violence and hatred directed at our community. On 7 October 2023, the joy of Simchat Torah was irreparably marred by a horrific genocidal attack perpetrated by Hamas against our people in Israel. The sense of celebration and unity was replaced by overwhelming grief and loss, leaving a lasting scar on the festival and on our hearts.

Tragically, this pattern of violence continued. On 2 October 2025, a gathering in Manchester for Yom Kippur services – our most sacred day – was shattered by an armed assailant. This attack has now indelibly connected Yom Kippur with the pain of antisemitic hatred, casting a shadow over a day devoted to reflection, atonement, and spiritual renewal.

And now, as we step into the season of Chanukkah, the festival of light, our community faces yet another moment of darkness and loss. In Sydney, at the onset of our celebration, we were confronted once again by an ideology of hatred and death, a callous ideology that cynically targets us when we are most vulnerable and exposed, challenging our resolve, but also reminding us of the enduring importance of hope and unity in the face of hardship.

But a fragile flame remains...

Congregant Chantal Tyncke was moved to reflect on the events at Bondi Beach, and she has given me permission to quote her powerful words here.

“After the first night of Chanukkah, a fragile flame remains – not to banish the entire night, but to refuse to go out. After atrocious violence, the miracle does not always appear in the form we expect. It does not descend from heaven. Sometimes it emerges precisely where no one was looking. This year, the miracle has a name. His name is Ahmet. Ahmet, the other, the stranger. The one the story did not expect to stand on the side of light. And yet – he opens the door. He chooses life. He refuses to let darkness have the final word.

What a paradox. And what a lesson.

Our sacred texts have prepared us for this. How often has light come from the outside? How often has the stranger been the bearer of illumination? Abraham welcomes unknown guests at Mamre. Moses is saved from the Nile by Pharaoh’s daughter. Ruth the Moabite becomes the ancestor of King David. Again and again, the narratives teach us that the unexpected one carries the blessing.

The Torah reminds us that light is never the property of a single group, and that humanity is born precisely where boundaries begin to soften. For me, this year, the miracle of Chanukkah is not only the oil that lasts, but Ahmet. Ahmet, who in the densest darkness chooses the human. Ahmet, who becomes the flame. Ahmet, who reminds us that a hero is not the one who responds to violence with violence, but the one who opens a door.

Chanukkah offers us this lesson for the days and years ahead: light does not deny violence – it passes through it. And sometimes, the miracle wears the face of the other, of the stranger, of the one we were never taught to expect.

This year, the first candle whispers a simple truth: light begins when someone, somewhere, chooses not to turn away.”

Amen to that, Chantal!

May the memory of those taken from us be a blessing and may the wounded and traumatised find healing and wholeness.

Chag Chanukkah Sameach