What Our Fear Reveals About Love
Last week, Hanukkah began in fear, marked by a horrific terrorist attack against Jews celebrating on Bondi Beach—fifteen innocent lives were stolen.
This week began differently. Tens of thousands came together on Bondi Beach to grieve and to show solidarity, hope, and resilience, lighting all eight flames of the giant hanukkiyah. Fear led to bravery.
Jew-hatred is not new to us, nor is the fear it awakens deep within us—as Jews who long to live in safety and to ensure that same safety for the next generation. Harvard Medical School psychologist Susan David writes about the relationship between fear and courage:
“Courage is not the absence of fear; courage is fear walking. Walk directly into your fears, with your values as your guide, toward what matters to you. The more you choose moves that are toward your values, the more vital, effective, and meaningful your life is likely to become.”
Fear can become a mirror of what matters most to us—as individuals, as Jews, and as human beings. When we allow ourselves to face our fears, to look deeply into what they reveal, we unlock what it is we care about most.
Joseph is a great example of this in this week’s parashah, Vayigash. At first, he keeps his identity concealed from his brothers-perhaps out of fear of reopening the wounds of his past, or of discovering that, after all these years, they have not truly changed. Yet through his interactions with his brothers, and through his own inner growth and transformation, Joseph moves from fear to courage, from concealment to pride. He reveals himself, choosing connection, reconciliation, and truth. We can assume he is still terrified—afraid to learn the fate of his father, unsure whether his brothers feel remorse or shame, and haunted by the possibility that, despite his power in Egypt, he may still not truly belong in his family.
Courage does not replace fear; the two coexist. And yet fear can lead us to a deeper understanding of who we are and what matters most.
In an emotional TV interview last week just days after the attack at Bondi and the murder of Rabbi Eli Schlanger, z”l, his family friend Sorella, shared the following story. In defiance of rising hatred after October 7, she and her husband chose to keep a large menorah burning brightly outside their home.
When the family came home after the horrifying attack on the first night of Hanukkah, their children were in tears. “Please,” they begged. “Turn off the menorah. Our house is going to become a target.”
At first, Sorella and her husband refused. “No,” they said. “We can’t go down like this.”
But the children kept pleading, overwhelmed with fear, and Sorella made the hardest decision a parent can make. “As a mother,” she said, “we’re turning the menorah off.”
The next day, a neighbor, who is not Jewish, knocked on their door. She explained that she and her daughter had driven past the night before and noticed the menorah was no longer lit. Her daughter began to cry and said, “They’re turning off the menorahs. Evil can’t win.” That was all it took. They relit the menorah. Sorella later reflected, “That would be Rabbi Eli’s message. We do not go down in darkness. We shine light. That is how we push back darkness. We spread goodness and kindness. That is who we are as Jews.”
In all of my fear, I am reminded that this fear comes from a deep, unmatched love of humanity, and from a Judaism that values human life above all else—a Judaism that sees God in each of us. It is a tradition that begins each day, the moment we gain consciousness, with gratitude for our own lives, “Modeh Ani,” and continues with a declaration of responsibility and love for others: “hareni mekhabelet alai mitzvat haborei ve-ahavta lere’akha kamokha.”
In the midst of fear and darkness, these are the Jewish values that anchor me. They are the spark of Judaism I am committed to living, kindling with each of you, and passing on to the next generation.
Though we have finished lighting our Hanukkah candles until next year, we now turn toward the light of our Shabbat candles—allowing one to hold the reality of our fear, and the other to remind us of what we care about most, and to let that light shine brightly and with pride.
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Rebecca Weintraub