Last week, I found myself walking into Prospect Presbyterian Church in Maplewood. Rabbi Allie Klein, a colleague from TSTI, had given me a lift to the regular meeting of the SOMA Interfaith Clergy Council. The meeting itself was both deeply wonderful and nothing extraordinary: a group of colleagues sharing life updates since the last time we’d gathered, commiserating on the grind parts of our jobs, and planning our work together in the coming months and years. Normal interfaith stuff.

What was remarkable, though, was what happened when Rabbi Klein and I actually entered the church: nothing.

We parked across the street, walked across the front walk, opened the door, and… walked in. Then we turned to each other and almost in sync said: that would never happen at a synagogue.

There was no security guard. No locks on the door or even a doorbell to ring. We just…walked in. We had apparently entered from someplace far from wherever a receptionist might be seated (if there is one), so we wandered the halls on our own until we came upon our assembled colleagues sitting in the appointed meeting room.

The reality that churches don’t need to do security the way synagogues do is one question to raise. More interesting to me, though, is the symbolism. The guard at the door, the locks on the gates—what does that do to us as a Jewish community?

It is meant, of course, to literally keep dangerous people out. In past generations, Nittel Nacht—Christmas Eve—was a time of terror for Jewish communities living in Christian lands. There is a reason we lock the doors and post guards, and it’s largely the residue of centuries of intergenerational trauma. More recently, though, Christmas Eve was a threat not of physical danger, but of assimilation. The rush to be accepted by mainstream American culture meant that many Jewish families chose to do less Jewishly and more “American”—including the trappings of Christmas, at least the secular parts like home decorations and gifts. (In Soviet culture, the tree part was solved by making it a “New Year’s Tree” since all religion was outlawed. Ironically, many families from the former Soviet Union now have New Year’s Trees; even in Israel, Father Snow is known to visit Jewish families in his red hat and sit by the tree.)

This year, though, things felt different. The chance to light that first candle on Christmas Day changed the conversation. This year, I’ve watched as many Oheb families and friends in the broader community have been able to celebrate both of their traditions. The either/or became a both/and in a way that felt authentic and real.

I’m becoming increasingly passionate about interfaith work. It feels like one of the few places where I can make a difference—where it might really matter to the Jewish community, to our safety, and to our future. The more cross-cultural relationships we can muster, the better it will be for all of America, the Jewish community included. That’s why I’m traveling at the end of January to Israel with a group of interfaith clergy leaders through the Federation’s Jewish Community Relations Council. I’ve also been participating in a group of Black and Jewish leaders—most of whom are not clergy—coming together regularly for dialogue and dinner. It took two years for trust to develop and for real, hard conversations to emerge. The group is still figuring itself out. Because…well, it’s hard to know what to do with the reality that we are not all the same. Which brings me to the question this Christmas-Hanukkah overlap raises: how do we hold our particularity as Jews in ways that feel good, helpful, and holy?

To push it further: what if either/or is no longer a helpful question? What if the question is—how do we hold both and still be good, authentic, committed Jews? At Rosh Hashanah, you were handed a slip of paper with a mitzvah on it…how’s that going? Who are you as a Jew? How have you deepened, done more, shown up…such that Christmas is not a threat, because you are secure in your own house?

In other words: what if we forego stationing security guards and locks at the entrances to our hearts and see what happens if we just let it all wander in and find a place? Is that so threatening to us that we can’t try it and see where it leads? Can we trust that we will take our place as Jews in an interfaith community not trying to change us, but welcoming us with unlocked doors, traveling with us to Israel, in dialogue and also…in family?

Last night, I stood with SOMA town leaders and my Jewish clergy colleagues in Spiotta Park, lighting the chanukiah with the gathered crowd. A public project in fulfillment of the mitzvah of pirsumei nisa (publicizing the miracle of Hanukkah) by lighting the lights where all can see them. As I listened to South Orange Mayor Sheena Collum talk openly about supporting the Jewish community during this time of war and rising antisemitism, I was deeply grateful. What a miracle it is to celebrate Hanukkah publicly in safety and security. We may have security guards posted at our doors and spend countless hours and dollars keeping ourselves safe (and thank you to those who serve on Oheb Shalom’s Security Committee for all of your work and dedication to our communal safety). But at this time of kindling lights during darkness…of sharing sacred days with other faith traditions born from Judaism but not necessarily looking to harm us…we might lean into the miracle of Jewish survival. In lighting candles with our children, grandchildren, and broader communities, the real miracle is right here in us.

Meirav Leshem Gonen, whose daughter Romi, 24, is still being held in captivity in Gaza, wrote this week:

“This year, lighting Hanukkah candles seems more important to me than ever before. This year’s candle lighting is a reminder that light will grow when we agree to accept everyone’s colors and when we understand that our differences strengthen us more than our similarities. That diversity is what truly helps us grow and makes us better, braver, and stronger—not sameness. That every color is needed to illuminate our strength as a people of Israel, as free nations, and signals to all of us, and to many peoples, where the good side of history lies and where true light resides.”

May your Hanukkah be filled with light—within and without.