Hanukkah
Hanukkah is often described as the Jewish “Festival of Lights,” which is technically correct but doesn’t get at what the holiday is actually about. Hanukkah lasts eight nights and commemorates a specific historical event: a revolt in the second century BCE against a powerful empire that was actively suppressing Jewish religious practice and enforcing cultural conformity. Jewish law was outlawed, sacred space was desecrated, and the choice presented was assimilation or erasure.
The revolt that followed—led by a small group known as the Maccabees—was unlikely to succeed by any reasonable measure. They were outnumbered, under-resourced, and fighting an empire. Yet they won, reclaimed the Temple in Jerusalem, and rededicated it. That act of rededication is central to the holiday; in fact, Hanukkah literally means “dedication.”
According to Jewish tradition, when the Temple was restored, there was only enough ritually pure oil to light the menorah for a single day. Preparing more oil correctly would take eight days. The menorah was lit anyway, and the oil lasted all eight. That decision—to light the lamp despite scarcity—and the endurance of that light became the symbolic heart of the holiday.
In practice, Hanukkah is marked by lighting a hanukkiah, a nine-branched menorah. One candle is lit on the first night, and an additional candle is added each evening. The structure matters. Judaism does not tell this story as “everything was fixed instantly.” Instead, it insists on increase: a little more light tonight than yesterday. Progress that is real, but incremental. Hope that is practiced, not abstract.
Because the Jewish calendar is lunar rather than fixed to the solar year, Hanukkah shifts annually. Some years it overlaps with Christmas; other years it falls earlier and ends before Christmas begins, as it does this year. That overlap—or lack of it—doesn’t change the meaning of the holiday, but it does affect how visible it is in a largely Christian cultural landscape.
Hanukkah is also frequently misunderstood as a major Jewish holiday or a Jewish analogue to Christmas. It isn’t. Its prominence in the modern West has more to do with calendar proximity than theology. Judaism doesn’t revolve around a single winter celebration; its sacred year centers on liberation, accountability, mourning, joy, and repair. Hanukkah is comparatively small—but its themes are sharp and enduring.
Jewish tradition also does not treat the Maccabees as uncomplicated heroes. While the revolt preserved Jewish religious life, the rulers who came afterward eventually became authoritarian, corrupt, and intolerant of internal disagreement. In other words, the story isn’t “violence solved everything and everyone lived happily ever after.” Judaism keeps that tension intact rather than sanding it down.
Hanukkah traditions vary widely depending on family, geography, and circumstance. Many people gather with community, light candles together, eat foods fried in oil—latkes, sufganiyot—and play games. Mine is quieter, largely out of practicality. I live with a Gentile roommate, the nearest synagogue is over an hour away, and the Jewish population where I live is small enough to barely register statistically. So my observance is simple: lighting the candles each night, making latkes, sitting with the meaning of the holiday—and, on the first night, watching The Hebrew Hammer, because even quiet traditions deserve a little levity.
At its core, Hanukkah is about refusing erasure without pretending that history is neat or tidy. It’s about lighting what you have, where you are, and adding to it night by night—not because the darkness disappears, but because the light endures.
The revolt that followed—led by a small group known as the Maccabees—was unlikely to succeed by any reasonable measure. They were outnumbered, under-resourced, and fighting an empire. Yet they won, reclaimed the Temple in Jerusalem, and rededicated it. That act of rededication is central to the holiday; in fact, Hanukkah literally means “dedication.”
According to Jewish tradition, when the Temple was restored, there was only enough ritually pure oil to light the menorah for a single day. Preparing more oil correctly would take eight days. The menorah was lit anyway, and the oil lasted all eight. That decision—to light the lamp despite scarcity—and the endurance of that light became the symbolic heart of the holiday.
In practice, Hanukkah is marked by lighting a hanukkiah, a nine-branched menorah. One candle is lit on the first night, and an additional candle is added each evening. The structure matters. Judaism does not tell this story as “everything was fixed instantly.” Instead, it insists on increase: a little more light tonight than yesterday. Progress that is real, but incremental. Hope that is practiced, not abstract.
Because the Jewish calendar is lunar rather than fixed to the solar year, Hanukkah shifts annually. Some years it overlaps with Christmas; other years it falls earlier and ends before Christmas begins, as it does this year. That overlap—or lack of it—doesn’t change the meaning of the holiday, but it does affect how visible it is in a largely Christian cultural landscape.
Hanukkah is also frequently misunderstood as a major Jewish holiday or a Jewish analogue to Christmas. It isn’t. Its prominence in the modern West has more to do with calendar proximity than theology. Judaism doesn’t revolve around a single winter celebration; its sacred year centers on liberation, accountability, mourning, joy, and repair. Hanukkah is comparatively small—but its themes are sharp and enduring.
Jewish tradition also does not treat the Maccabees as uncomplicated heroes. While the revolt preserved Jewish religious life, the rulers who came afterward eventually became authoritarian, corrupt, and intolerant of internal disagreement. In other words, the story isn’t “violence solved everything and everyone lived happily ever after.” Judaism keeps that tension intact rather than sanding it down.
Hanukkah traditions vary widely depending on family, geography, and circumstance. Many people gather with community, light candles together, eat foods fried in oil—latkes, sufganiyot—and play games. Mine is quieter, largely out of practicality. I live with a Gentile roommate, the nearest synagogue is over an hour away, and the Jewish population where I live is small enough to barely register statistically. So my observance is simple: lighting the candles each night, making latkes, sitting with the meaning of the holiday—and, on the first night, watching The Hebrew Hammer, because even quiet traditions deserve a little levity.
At its core, Hanukkah is about refusing erasure without pretending that history is neat or tidy. It’s about lighting what you have, where you are, and adding to it night by night—not because the darkness disappears, but because the light endures.
