Don’t let the light go out

The shamash had been awake for hours.

Not literally, of course. Candles don’t sleep. But for hours, the shamash had been monitoring Lightbook, refreshing Instaglight, documenting every shadow, every flicker of darkness creeping across the world. Its wax had melted down nearly half an inch more than the others, and its flame had developed a nervous twitch.

“Another incident,” it muttered, frantically typing with its tiny, waxy hands. “Third one this week in that neighborhood. Someone needs to know about this.”

The first night’s candle, bright, vibrant, and full of energy, watched with growing concern. “Shamash, when did you last just… burn? You know, enjoy the light?”

The shamash didn’t look up. “How can I enjoy anything when there’s so much darkness out there? Every corner I check, it’s worse. Someone has to fight back.”

“But your flame—”

“My flame is fine,” the shamash snapped, though it flickered weakly as it spoke.

•

By the third night, more candles had joined the cause. They created committees, strategies, response teams. The menorah became a war room. Every gathering was dominated by reports of darkness: where it appeared, how it spread, what it meant for the future of all candlekind.

“We need the young candles involved,” one candle announced during a particularly intense meeting on the fifth night. “They need to learn to recognize it everywhere. In every shadow, every dimly lit space.”

And so they trained the younger candles. How to spot darkness. How to call it out. How to never let it go unchallenged.

The student-candles took to it with zealous energy, creating campus groups devoted entirely to darkness awareness. They held vigils and wrote papers about it.

At one point, a visiting candle noticed something odd. “Excuse me,” it said, “but why is everyone’s flame so… dim in here? I can barely see.”

No one answered.

•

On the seventh night, a candle arrived from a distant community. It burned with an intensity that made everyone else look pale by comparison.

It watched the frantic activity for less than a minute before bursting out:

“STOP! What are you doing?!”

Every candle froze.

“You’re candles!” the bright candle exclaimed. “Your entire purpose is to shine! And instead you’re sitting here obsessing over darkness, becoming experts in it! Look at your flames. Half of you are barely flickering!”

“But we have to fight,” the shamash began.

“I get it,” the bright candle’s voice changed; it was now softer, filled with compassion. “You are afraid of darkness, aren’t you?”

“I am terrified,” admitted the shamash.

“And you want to win over the darkness, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“So here is the simple truth: there is nothing that darkness is scared of more than light. Are you familiar with the saying ‘a little light expels a lot of darkness’? You should be. Because you — we! — hold the secret to win the battle.”

The first night’s candle felt something stir inside. A memory of dancing, of pure delight in burning.

“I forgot,” it whispered.

The shamash looked down at itself. At how much wax it had burned away for nothing, at how dim its flame had become.

“I’ve wasted so much time,” it said quietly.

Then, something shifted.

At first slowly, then faster, flames began to rise. The student-candles stopped their darkness committees and started lighting each other, learning to tend their flames.

The shamash began using its Lightbook account to share pictures of menorah lighting from around the world.

The first night’s candle danced again, and this time others joined in.

•

That evening, a young child walking past stopped and stared at the window.

“Mom, look!” the child exclaimed. “Those candles are so BRIGHT!”

The mother smiled. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It makes me feel… happy,” replied the child.

This column is dedicated in memory of my mother, Mrs. Faiga Kaminker, who passed away this Sunday. May her memory be a blessing.

Mendy Kaminker is the rabbi of Chabad of Hackensack and an editorial member of Chabad.org. He looks forward to your comments at rabbi@chabadhackensack.com.

opinion