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Darkness, in Bo, was not merely the absence of light, but the collapse of moral vision — the inability to see the person beside you. The Israelites, by contrast, … were able to preserve connection within their homes. Connection is also light.

Jacob’s words remind us that life’s most sacred moments call us to speak truth and to recognize our deep ties with one another. Even when relationships are fraught, even when pain tempts us to turn away, we are bound together.

In this moment, when our communities carry fear, grief, and uncertainty, the identity of wrestling feels especially urgent. Wrestling is a powerful metaphor for faith. It means to hold on — even when understanding feels out of reach.

Adar is a month that invites us into an ancient, collective experience. It calls us to cultivate joy, even when we do not feel it naturally. Our ancestors knew there would be Adars when joy was hard to find, yet they committed themselves to honor the spirit of the month, to dare to seek joy even in the hardest times.

May we protect one another with whatever vision and creativity we can muster and continue to teach hope and dignity to our children. Let us be strong and strengthen each other.

For those who are experiencing darkness today, light will come — we just need to commit to the belief that darkness is unacceptable.

We must not merely curse the world as irreconcilably wicked, incapable of beauty, love, or justice. Rather, we must bless what is good, offering our gratitude for the holiness in our lives and in each other, so that we may see to our work to repair the world with that much more love and compassion.

The rabbis of the Talmud knew there would be times when we would have no choice but to build our sukkot beneath a thick shadow cast by mountains. They knew there would be moments when it would feel audacious to build a sukkah at all.

Can we sing our longings this year in a way that lets all the feelings come through? Can we allow our heartbreak to summon us toward something new?

In the wake of the events of October 7, 2023, many of us in the global Jewish community have found ourselves longing for liturgical language to speak to the sense of loss, hopelessness, and heartbreak we have felt over the past year. The following words are an adaptation of El Malei Rachamim (“God full of compassion”), a prayer traditionally recited over the dead at funerals and during Yizkor on Yom Kippur, created by Rabbi Sharon Cohen Anisfeld, President of Hebrew College.