Come Dec. 14, most Jewish households will welcome in the holiday of Chanukah by kindling the first candle on their menorah. Many of us in the Diaspora will choose to light them in a private setting indoors, surrounded by family and friends, yet out of the view of strangers. Some (a smaller number of households, I suspect) may be bolder and choose to display the menorah in a window visible to passing foot and vehicle traffic. An even smaller number of families may light the chanukiyah the way the talmudic sages dictated 2 millennia ago: outside their doors, in the open, its distinctly Jewish message visible to all.
Over the centuries, understanding of the meaning of the commandment pirsumei nisa—“publicizing the miracle” of Chanukah—has changed when it comes to our obligation to entrust that message to the outside world. Unveiling our lighted menorah in public settings has always been an act of faith, one that is frequently vulnerable to the political and social sentiments of the time.
That has certainly been the case since the Hamas-led terrorist attacks in southern Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, the ensuing war and the subsequent explosion of antisemitism in North America. In the last few years, our Chanukahs have been marked by debates of whether it is still safe to exhibit our chanukiyahs in windows and public settings. The truth is, it’s always been a matter of debate. But should others’ ignorance and prejudices become the dominating force in how we live as Jews?
The ancient rabbis were masters at using stories to rally the community and were equally insightful in how to frame halachah (“Jewish law”) that would stand the test of time. We may not all agree as to whether we should share our traditions in public settings. And not all of us may hold fast to the rabbis’ story of a single cruse of oil lasting eight days. Yet the majority of us in the Diaspora will still light their menorahs. More than 2,000 years have passed, and the message of the Maccabees’ battle—another significant time of war to protect Judaism from extinction—still resonates strongly for us.
For the talmudic rabbis who codified the Chanukah traditions we practice today, the rekindling of the temple menorah by this small band of warriors was the true story of the holiday, not the Maccabees’ ability to conquer their foes or their cunning or their tactical accomplishments. The rabbis saw their bravery as a potential and much-needed role model for future generations that may face similar tests of courage. And not surprisingly, they knew that times would come, like the ones we live in today, when that single, poignant example of courage would have meaning to others.
By the first to the fifth centuries C.E., when most of these rabbis lived, the Second Temple had already fallen. The Jewish nation was in flux, with many Jews still in exile. The rabbis knew that there would likely be future conflicts in which cultural differences between Jews and non-Jews could become the flash point for antisemitism and lead to war.
Inevitably, there would also be times when Jews in the Diaspora would find themselves weighing whether their safety should take precedence over religious practices, whether they could afford to practice as Jews. The ancient rabbis, whose outlooks had been forged in one of the most tumultuous and violent periods in Jewish history, understood the importance not only of preserving this simple story, but of making the custom of publicizing the miracle of Chanukah a mitzvah for all time.
As rural Jews, my husband and I have been the subject of antisemitic behavior more than once. Most of the time, it was driven by cultural ignorance about Jews. In one instance, we chose to move. I can’t say those instances didn’t make us wary of exhibiting our chanukiyah. However, we had also seen the fruit of this halachah in the eyes and wonder of my husband’s first elementary-school students, who had never seen a menorah before (much less a Jew) and were fascinated by the story and traditions of Chanukah. Those exchanges later became ground for further growth as the children and parents opened up about their own horrific experiences from racial discrimination as First Nations (Canadian Indigenous) families.
If there is anything Diaspora Jews have learned about antisemitic attitudes in recent years, it is their capacity to spread and fester when there is a vacuum of education and dialogue to counter that prejudice. The rabbis clearly understood that risk. They also knew the power of community. One lighted menorah in the darkness reminds others that there is value and richness in plurality; a whole community of lights in window panes shows there is consensus and faith.
This year that unity is deeply needed, not just in American and Canadian cities that have been rocked by anti-Israel protests and bigotry, but in areas that haven’t. So this holiday season, we’ll be exhibiting our menorah in the window, where others can appreciate its glow. And maybe, just like those children in the tiny town of Lytton two decades ago, some passerby’s world and courage will be emboldened by its beauty and light.
