Ner Li, Ner Li
When I close my eyes and think about my favorite Chanukah memories, I don’t see latkes frying in the kitchen, a plethora of gifts on the dining room table, or a nine-branched candelabra illuminated by small multi-colored candles. I see a piano, a fairly worn book of Chanukah songs, and my mother sitting at the piano bench, her fingers resting on the keys. Every year I looked forward to opening that book and singing my favorite songs while I watched my mother play. I don’t remember my father or my sister joining in — just my mom and me, sitting close and feeling the warmth and joy that only singing can elicit.
My favorite song was “Ner Li, Ner Li,” which, translated literally, means “I have a candle.” The translation in our book, while not literal, meant something to me for all of those years and, today, means even more. It read:
There’s a tiny candle glowing through the night,
shining at the window, it brings a special light.
“Oh Chanukah!” it seems to say,
thank you oh Lord, for this special day.
When I was younger I imagined our Chanukah candles as that candle—alive, speaking to us through their flames, reminding us of the Chanukah miracle, reminding us of the menorahs that our ancestors lit for thousands of years. I imagined the candles communicating, laughing and singing along with us as we celebrated.
Even though I now realize that candles probably do not have relationships with one another, much less with anyone else, I still find solace in that stanza. For the last year and a half, I have worked as an Education Fellow at the Goldring/Woldenberg Institute of Southern Jewish Life in Jackson, Mississippi. We work with 77 different Jewish communities in a 13-state southern region. We write curriculum and programming, lead services, give sermons, and become part of wonderful communities in cities and states that many of us would are not likely to visit otherwise. We bring our light—our enthusiasm, our commitment to Judaism, our investment in education—to each of our communities, on each of our visits, but we always leave glowing more brightly than when we first arrived. Our flames are enhanced by our community members, by the gifts that they give us, by their ruach (their spirit), by their fellowship. Our tiny candles collectively illuminate the darkness, producing a brilliant, resilient, powerful glow.
We as interfaith leaders are that tiny candle in my favorite Chanukah song. We illuminate darkness. We constantly thank God through our stories and our actions as we try to make the world around us—locally, nationally, and globally—a better place to live. We emanate a special light as we spread messages of cooperation to our communities and campuses. Each day we find hidden light in others and in ourselves. Each day we glow more brightly than the day before.
Tonight, when I kindle the second light of Chanukah, I will think of my mother and of our piano, but I will all also think of the tiny candles at IFYC and at the ISJL—of individuals who have brightened and who will continue to brighten their world for many Chanukahs to come.
The content of this blog reflects the views of its author exclusively. We'd love to hear your thoughts. Please share your comments on IFYC's Facebook page