THE CONSTANT FIRE: BEYOND RITUAL TO RESPONSIBILITY

We expect to see in any synagogue an ark, a place for the Torah reader (the bimah), and a ner tamid, the eternal light. Often, additional symbols—such as the Ten Commandments, the twelve tribes, or a menorah—adorn the space. Among these, the ner tamid stands out not only as a fixture, but as a powerful symbol. What, then, does this perpetual flame signify?

In Parashat Tzav, the Torah commands that the fire on the altar must never be extinguished: “a perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out” — אֵ֗שׁ תָּמִ֛יד תּוּקַ֥ד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ לֹ֥א תִכְבֶּֽה (Leviticus 6:6). Commentators are struck by the apparent redundancy of the words tamid (perpetual) and lo tichbeh (not to go out). Rashi highlights this doubling, suggesting that the Torah emphasizes the constancy of the flame in the strongest possible terms. The 13th-century commentator Hizkuni expands on this idea, explaining that the fire burned continuously—even on Shabbat, even in states of ritual impurity, and even during the Israelites’ journeys through the wilderness. According to a teaching cited in the Sifra, special measures, such as a protective metal covering, were taken to ensure that the flame never went out. 

This raises a practical question: how was such a fire maintained? In the days of the Temple, it was the responsibility of the priests to tend the flame, regularly adding wood to sustain it. Today, the ner tamid is often an electric light, easily maintained with the flick of a switch. Yet the symbolism remains unchanged. Fire, as a source of light and warmth, represents hope, continuity, and divine presence—but it also requires physical work. Keeping a flame alive is an active process. In much the same way, sustaining hope—especially in times of war, uncertainty, and despair—demands ongoing inner, emotional, and spiritual effort.

ECHOES OF RESILIENCE: KEEPING THE HOME FIRES BURNING

This idea of “keeping the flame alive” resonates beyond Jewish sources. During the First World War, the song “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” composed by Ivor Novello with lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, became an anthem of resilience and longing. Its refrain—urging people to maintain hope and faith while loved ones are far away—echoes the same human need to preserve light in times of darkness.

Keep the Home Fires Burning,

While your hearts are yearning.

Though your lads are far away

There’s a silver lining

Through the dark cloud shining,

Turn the dark cloud inside out

Till the boys come home.

The metaphor of the ever-burning fire, whether in the Temple or in the human heart, speaks across generations and contexts.

THE SACRIFICE OF THANKSGIVING: CELEBRATING DELIVERANCE

Later in the same parashah, the Torah introduces the korban todah, the thanksgiving offering:

This is the ritual of the sacrifice of well-being that anyone may offer to GOD: IF HE OFFER IT FOR A THANKSGIVING, together with the sacrifice of thanksgiving, unleavened cakes with oil mixed in—unleavened wafers spread with oil—and cakes of choice flour with oil mixed in, well soaked. This offering, with cakes of leavened bread added, shall be offered along with their thanksgiving sacrifice of well-being. Out of this shall be offered one of each kind as a gift to GOD; it shall go to the priest who dashes the blood of the offering of well-being. And the flesh of that thanksgiving sacrifice of well-being shall be eaten on the day that it is offered; none of it shall be set aside until morning (Leviticus 7:11-15).

This sacrifice was brought in response to experiencing deliverance—surviving danger, illness, imprisonment, or a perilous journey. It was accompanied by various types of bread and had to be consumed within a limited time, emphasizing immediacy and gratitude. Rashi notes that such offerings were brought in situations of rescue or salvation, echoing the verses in Psalms 107 that call upon those who have survived hardship to give thanks to God:

אם על תודה יקריבנו IF HE OFFER IT FOR A THANKSGIVING — i.e., if he brings it on account of (על) a matter that requires thanksgiving (תודה): on account of a miraculous deliverance that was wrought for him, as being, for instance, one of those who have made a sea-voyage. or travelled in the wilderness, or had been kept in prison, or if he had been sick and was now healed, all of whom are bound to offer thanks-giving, since it is written with reference to them, (Psalms 107:8, 15, 21, 31) “Let them offer thanksgiving to the Lord for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of men!”

In the absence of the Temple today, this impulse finds expression in Birkat HaGomel, the blessing recited by those who have survived danger:

Four individuals are required to render thanks: a person who had been sick and recuperated, a person who had been imprisoned and was released, people who alight [at their destination] after a journey at sea, ve-yordei ha-yam ke-sheh-alu [literally those who go down to sea and then arise] and travelers who reach a settlement (BT Berakhot 54b).

Traditionally said in the presence of a congregation, it acknowledges that even when one has been vulnerable or at risk, goodness has still been bestowed. The categories listed—recovery from illness, release from imprisonment, safe travel by sea or land—closely parallel those requiring a thanksgiving offering in biblical times. Even childbirth is included in this framework, and it is customary for a woman herself to recite the blessing after giving birth, marking her personal experience of both danger and deliverance.

Taken together, the ner tamid and the korban todah convey a shared message: life demands both endurance and gratitude. We are called not only to keep the flame alive through difficult times, but also to recognize and give thanks when we emerge from them.

THE COMMAND TO REJOICE: JOY IN CHALLENGING TIMES

This message feels especially relevant in the context of holidays, which are meant to be times of joy but are often accompanied by stress, exhaustion, and emotional complexity. Expectations can be high, and reality does not always meet them. We may feel the absence of loved ones, the burden of preparation, or the strain of current events. This year, in particular, uncertainty, security concerns, and separation from family members weigh heavily on many. Celebrations may be interrupted, plans disrupted, and the atmosphere far from festive.

And yet, the Torah commands:

ושמחת בחגך אתה ובנך ובתך ועבדך ואמתך והלוי והגר והיתום והאלמנה אשר בשעריך

You shall rejoice in your festival, with your son and daughter, your male and female slave, the Levite, the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow in your communities (Deuteronomy 16:14).

This is not a naive command, but a challenging one. It asks us to cultivate joy even when it does not come easily, to include others, and to hold onto a sense of gratitude and connection despite everything.

Perhaps this is where the image of the eternal flame returns most powerfully. Like the altar fire, like the home fires of the song, joy and hope must be tended. They do not sustain themselves automatically; they require intention, care, and sometimes creativity—even humor. In difficult moments, people find ways to laugh, to adapt, and to carry on traditions in unexpected ways.

May we succeed in keeping our inner flames alive, in giving thanks for moments of goodness, and in finding ways to rejoice—even in challenging times. And may the coming days bring quiet, safety, and peace.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)