This Shabbat, as Rosh Hodesh and Hanukkah converge, we read a visually striking and spiritually resonant haftarah: the prophecy of Zechariah (2:14-4:7). It is a vision saturated with light and hope, yet forged in a time of vulnerability and danger. And that is precisely why it speaks so directly to our moment, especially in the wake of the recent antisemitic terror attack in Sydney, Australia.
Zechariah prophesied to a battered Jewish people during the return from Babylonian exile. Jerusalem lay in ruins, the Temple was only beginning to be rebuilt, and the Jewish community was small, exposed, and surrounded by hostile forces. Into this fragile reality, the prophet delivers a message that has echoed down through the centuries: “Not by might nor by power, but by My spirit says the Lord of Hosts” (Zechariah 4:6).
These words are a declaration of faith and a clear-cut explanation of Jewish survival.
The haftarah centers on the vision of the menorah, golden and radiant. It is an image of uninterrupted light, a symbol of Jewish continuity that does not depend on political strength, military advantage, or numerical superiority. Instead, it draws sustenance from something deeper and more enduring: divine purpose and spiritual resilience.
Hanukkah itself was born from this tension. The Maccabees were outnumbered and outmatched by the Seleucid Greeks, yet they refused to surrender their identity. The miracle was not only the military victory but the insistence on lighting the menorah even when there seemed to be no reason to believe the flame would last. That same insistence has defined Jewish history ever since.
When ancient hatred returns
Which brings us, painfully, to Sydney.
Australia has long been viewed as a safe haven for Jews – far from Europe’s killing fields, distant from the Middle East’s battle lines. And yet, antisemitic terror has once again shattered the illusion that geography can protect us from hatred.
The terrorist attack in Sydney was not merely a heinous act of violence; it was a message. A warning that Jews, anywhere, are once again being targeted simply for existing.
This is not an isolated incident. From campuses to city streets, from synagogues to social media, antisemitism is reasserting itself with frightening confidence. It dresses itself up as “anti-Zionism,” cloaks itself in the language of human rights, or explodes into raw, murderous rage. But at its core, it is the same ancient hatred Zechariah’s generation knew all too well.
However, the haftarah refuses to let us define ourselves by fear. “Sing and rejoice, O daughter of Zion, for behold, I am coming, and I will dwell in your midst” (Zechariah 2:14).
The prophet does not deny the danger. He transcends it.
Zechariah reminds us that Jewish destiny is not dictated by the mobs that hate us or the terrorists who seek to silence us. It is shaped by our refusal to extinguish the flame.
The menorah of the prophet’s vision burns steadily, not because the world permits it but because the Jewish people insist upon it. This is not passivity. It is defiance of the highest order.
The response to antisemitic terror – whether in Sydney, Paris, Pittsburgh, or Gaza – cannot be retreat or capitulation. It must be increased Jewish visibility, deeper Jewish commitment, and unapologetic Jewish pride. We light the hanukkiah not only in our homes but in public squares, precisely because darkness must be confronted with light wherever it may be.
The haftarah’s message is also to the nations of the world. Zechariah foresees a time when “many nations will attach themselves to the Lord” (2:15). But that future depends on how the world responds now. Silence in the face of antisemitism is complicity. Moral equivocation is betrayal.
For Jews, however, the message is clear and unambiguous: We have been here before, and we are still here.
The flames lit on Hanukkah are small, fragile, and easily extinguished – yet they endure because they are not fueled by might or power but by spirit. By memory. By faith. By an unbroken chain of courage stretching from the Maccabees to the Jews of our day who refuse to be intimidated.
This Shabbat, as we read Zechariah’s words and gaze at the Hanukkah candles, we are reminded of a simple but revolutionary truth: The Jewish people do not survive because the world protects us. We survive because we cling to our light, the light of our heritage, nourishing it and protecting it.
And no terror attack – no matter how brutal – will ever succeed in putting it out.