Kindling the Eighth Light: Internal Coherence, Alignment, and the Work of Hanukkah

Hanukkah Reflection given by Rabbi Jo Beilby
The Wandering Temple
Eighth Night of Hanukkah, 2025.
First of Tevet, 5786.

Hanukkah is not a single moment.
It is a journey.

We move from the first light to the eighth light — night by night — carrying whatever the world has placed in our hands as we go. Each evening we add light, but we do not begin again. We build on what has already been lit.

This year, we began that journey disrupted.

On the first night of Hanukkah, we lit the candle late. Not because we were distracted. Not because we forgot. We lit late because we were watching something no one should have to watch — people being shot.

And that matters.

Because Hanukkah does not float above the world. It meets us exactly where we are. And this year, the journey began differently for us all. Some in shock, grief, and moral disorientation, with the burden of responsibility and care, — not just for Jewish people, but far beyond the Jewish community.

Over these eight days, I have responded to hundreds of inquiries, statements, and requests for spiritual care — hundreds — alongside all the other things that happen in life. And I want to name something that I can guarantee is true: every rabbi on the planet will have experienced this, and pretty much every Jew on the planet will have felt it. And it will not have stayed within Jewish communities. It moved straight through Christian communities, Muslim communities, and people everywhere.

Because when something happens to one of us — however that “one” is defined — it ripples outward. It does not stay contained.

That is why the visible light of Hanukkah matters.

It is not only a light for the Jewish community.
It is a light for everybody.

Tonight, we arrive at the eighth light, carrying the weight of everything that came before it.

I speak a lot about narrative — and specifically about what I call relational narrative intelligence. Relational narrative intelligence is the understanding that the quality of our relationships depends on what we bring to them: what we bring to one another, and what we bring to ourselves. In that relational space, we discover who we are, who the other person is, and sometimes we even glimpse something we might call the sacred.

The Hanukkah light is an external light. We are commanded to place it where it can be seen. It is a light that says to others: you may shine. And just as importantly, it gives us permission to shine ourselves.

This is different from the light we kindle on Friday night for Shabbat. Shabbat light says: come in, gather, rest, be safe. It is an inward light. It does not announce itself to the world. It is meant for the home, for the body, for restoration.

Both are holy.
But they do different work.

One says shine inward.
The other says shine outward.

And this is not only a Jewish lesson. It is a human one.

Every tradition — religious or secular — holds some version of this truth: we must protect an inner space where we can be ourselves, and we must also learn how to show up in the world without erasing either ourselves or others.

That means refusing identity erasure.
It means refusing to collapse narratives.
It means saying: this is who I am today, this is how I stand today — without demanding that someone else stand where I stand.

And it also means recognising that our light changes.

From yesterday to today.
From morning to afternoon.
From one season of life to another.

Your light looks different because you grow. Because you are exposed to new things. Because you learn things about yourself. That changing light is not a failure — it is evidence that you are alive.

In psychology, we call this internal coherence.

Internal coherence means that who you are on the inside is what drives how you act in the world. The Hanukkah light, in this sense, is meant to be an outward expression of inner coherence.

Psychology did not invent this idea. Psychology inherited it. Much of what we now call psychology was once held inside religious wisdom. We simply changed the language.

Everyone has some degree of internal coherence. It may not be dominant. It may not be well developed. But it is there.

When internal coherence is weak, we feel like a leaf in the wind — blown from here to there, unsure of who we are, unsure of what we believe. And when that happens, we quietly give others permission to stand in our place. We allow someone else’s light to replace our own.

And we suffer for it.

We suffer because we are not being ourselves.

Hanukkah says: be yourself.
Shine your light.
Do not accept being smothered.

Now, there is an important distinction here.

Survival is not the same as surrender.
Trauma is not the same as alignment.

If you are in survival mode, your nervous system may do what it needs to do to keep you alive. That is not what I am talking about.

What I am talking about is walking up to someone and saying, I will align with you — not because I honour your light and you honour mine — but because I need your approval.

That is the difference.

Internal coherence allows relationship without erasure.
External alignment replaces the self.

Alignment itself is not the problem.

We align with love.
We align with justice.
We align with covenant.
We align with community.

None of that is wrong.

The danger is alignment that replaces the self — alignment that asks you to surrender how you experience something, to override your inner compass, your moral sense, your interior life, in exchange for belonging.

That is where identity erasure begins.

We saw this on the very first night of Hanukkah this year. We delayed lighting the candle because we were watching people being shot. And the question we must ask is not only what laws should change or what punishment should follow, but also: how does a human being arrive at the point where they can do that?

That question does not absolve responsibility.
Compassion is not acquittal.
Understanding is not excusing.

Accountability remains.

And — the human story underneath the harm still matters.

Judaism insists that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim — in the image of God. That image is not uniformity. It is not obedience. It is not alignment at all costs. It is the irreducible moral interior of a person.

When that interior is overwritten — by fear, by coercion, by ideology — profound harm becomes possible.

This is what we mean by moral injury. Moral injury does not only happen to soldiers and veterans. It happens anywhere a person is trained to violate their own moral core. And once that core is fractured, people can be made to do almost anything.

That does not remove responsibility.
It deepens our obligation to understand.

This is why collapsing narratives causes harm.

When we say all Jews feel this, or all Jews don’t feel that, we erase the person standing in front of us. When institutions respond to crisis by saying you are welcome here, they may mean well — but they also assert power. They say: you are different, and we grant you space.

That can feel like care.
And it can also feel like exclusion.

Second-hand harm is often done with good intentions. And good intentions are not enough.

Every single one of us has a different narrative.
And our narratives change.

We should never assume another person’s story. Ever.

Relational narrative intelligence requires restraint. It requires curiosity. It requires us to let the other person remain other — without demanding sameness.

And so the responsibility does not sit somewhere abstract.
It sits with each of us.

When something challenges us — when we are shaken, frightened, angered, or pulled toward certainty — the work is to pause and ask: is this actually what I believe?

Is this coming from my internal coherence — or from fear, pressure, or the need to belong?

That checking-in matters. Again and again.

Internal coherence is not something we achieve once and keep forever. It is something we must actively return to.

And just as importantly, we must allow others the same dignity.

I do not get to impose my internal coherence on you.
And you do not get to impose yours on me.

The light we shine is not a demand.
It is an offering.

It is meant to stand in the world without erasing the light of another.

That is the work this Hanukkah has taught us.

Tonight we light the last Hanukkah candle and start the new month of Tevet. We fulfil the light and start anew.

Do the work.
Find out who you are.
Actively go looking for what you believe.

Start there.
Grow from there.

Find your internal coherence — so that you, and the people around you, may live coherently with who we all truly are.

That is the Hanukkah light.
That is the hard lesson.
And that is the challenge ahead of us all.

Hanukkah Sameach, Chodesh Tov,
Love, Light and Peace to us all.