Who in your life lit the flame of Judaism for you? Maybe it was a rabbi or a teacher, or it could have been a family member who didn’t know an aleph from a bet, but lived out their Judaism in their actions. Who in your life gave you the spark?
As I thought about this idea of making a spark, I could not help but think about the Olympic torch.
Have you ever wondered why the Olympics begin with the lighting of the torch? I know, it's a simple question, but I learned that the Olympic torch relay has a surprising and interesting story.
Fire was considered holy to many ancient civilizations, so it is no surprise that the Olympics, which began in ancient Greece, used fire to kick off their games. In the case of ancient Greece, the fire was supposed to represent the fire that the Greek god Prometheus stole from Zeus.
To celebrate this passing of fire from Prometheus to human, the Greeks would hold relay races, where athletes would pass a torch lit with fire to one another until the winner reached the finish line.
The Olympic Games, first held in 776 B.C. by the Greeks, were held every 4 years honoring Zeus and other Greek gods. The games were a way to unify the people and promote peace. The lighting of the flame was also the starting point of a sacred truce from all wars that would last throughout the games. The flame represented purity, reason, and peace.
The use of the Olympic torch as we know it today, the fire beginning in Olympia and then being passed from athlete to athlete around the world is actually a modern invention. The origin story of fire according to the Greeks was of fire as a gift that the gods wanted to hide from humanity until a rogue god shared this secret with humanity.
Judaism has its own origin story for Divine fire, and we find it in this week’s parashah, Tetzaveh:
שמות כ״ז:כ׳-כ״א
(כ) וְאַתָּ֞ה תְּצַוֶּ֣ה ׀ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל וְיִקְח֨וּ אֵלֶ֜יךָ שֶׁ֣מֶן זַ֥יִת זָ֛ךְ כָּתִ֖ית לַמָּא֑וֹר לְהַעֲלֹ֥ת נֵ֖ר תָּמִֽיד׃ (כא) בְּאֹ֣הֶל מוֹעֵד֩ מִח֨וּץ לַפָּרֹ֜כֶת אֲשֶׁ֣ר עַל־הָעֵדֻ֗ת יַעֲרֹךְ֩ אֹת֨וֹ אַהֲרֹ֧ן וּבָנָ֛יו מֵעֶ֥רֶב עַד־בֹּ֖קֶר לִפְנֵ֣י יְהוָ֑ה חֻקַּ֤ת עוֹלָם֙ לְדֹ֣רֹתָ֔ם מֵאֵ֖ת בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ (ס)
Exodus 27:20-21
(20) You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly. (21) Aaron and his sons shall set them up in the Tent of Meeting, outside the curtain which is over [the Ark of] the Pact, [to burn] from evening to morning before the LORD. It shall be a due from the Israelites for all time, throughout the ages.
The flame of the Mishkan seems so similar to the Olympic flame, and yet, it teaches a much different lesson.
The flame that Aaron and the priests have to kindle isn’t a flame that begins and ends like the Olympic games.
The light of the Menorah was not stolen from God, nor was it created by God alone; it was a human and divine partnership, and, it was a daily ritual. Rashi points out that someone had to fill the cup with oil every night, and someone would light it every morning. Maimonides took it a stop further claiming that the light of the Menorah never went out and it had to remain lit at all times.
The flame of the Menorah is the model for the Ner Tamid, the eternal light.
Our view of the Menorah and who could kindle it evolved over time. At first, it was literally a flame that existed in one place, but when that place was destroyed, that flame spread throughout the world in our Mikdashei Me’at, our small, holy places of gathering - our Batei Knesset. The responsibility of keeping the flame alive went to all the people, not just the priests, as we were reminded by Moshe that we are a Mamlechet Cohanim, a nation of priests.
As Jews, we are obsessed with keeping the flame alive.
And this brings us to Purim.
At first, Purim might seem like an unlikely holiday to pair with this theme. After all, Purim is full of chaos, disguise, and hiddenness. The name Esther itself comes from the Hebrew root hester, meaning "hidden," and God's name is famously absent from the entire Megillah. Where is the light in Purim?
The answer lies in the very essence of the story.
Purim is the story of a people on the verge of being extinguished. Haman sought to snuff out our flame, to end our existence. But instead of darkness, Purim brought forth a new burst of light.
The Talmud (Shabbat 88a) teaches that at Mount Sinai, the Jewish people accepted the Torah under duress—it was as if God held a mountain over them and said, "Accept the Torah, or else!" But at the end of the Purim story, we see something remarkable:
"The Jews confirmed and accepted upon themselves..." (Esther 9:27)
The rabbis interpret this to mean that on Purim, the Jews reaffirmed their commitment to Torah—voluntarily, joyfully, and without coercion. The light that was first kindled at Sinai did not burn out; it spread.
Purim teaches us that light is not always obvious.
Sometimes, it is hidden—just as God is hidden in the Megillah. Sometimes, it flickers—just as the Jews of Shushan feared for their survival. But even in the darkest moments, the spark of Torah remains, waiting to be rekindled.
This is why, on Purim, we don’t just read the Megillah; we take action. We give mishloach manot—spreading kindness and connection. We give matanot la’evyonim—bringing light to those in need. We gather in celebration, ensuring that joy, like fire, radiates outward.
The question for us today is this:
How do we keep the flame going? How do we ensure that the light of Torah does not dim in our generation?
Our sages teach, "A mitzvah is a candle, and the Torah is light" (Proverbs 6:23). The responsibility of kindling that light now rests with our young people.
Like the Olympic torchbearers, our youth must carry it forward. Like the Kohanim in the Mishkan, we must tend to it daily. Like Mordechai and Esther, we must recognize that in moments of crisis, our actions determine whether the light will spread or fade.
Purim reminds us that even when God seems hidden, even when the world is full of uncertainty, we have the power to ignite the Jewish spark, and let it spread.
May we have the strength to be torchbearers for future generations.
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