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Hanukkah: Lighting Truth in a World That Forgets Light

by Ram ben Ze'ev



Hanukkah: Lighting Truth in a World That Forgets Light
Hanukkah: Lighting Truth in a World That Forgets Light

As we prepare once again to enter the days of Hanukkah, beginning on כ״ה כסלו (25 Kislev) — this year commencing at sundown on Sunday, 14 December 2025 — we are not merely approaching a festival of memory, but a living commandment: to kindle light, night by night, for eight days, and to bring light into the world as our mandate by G-D. Hanukkah is the time when we, the Jewish people, actively fulfil our role to bring light into a darkened world, not metaphorically alone, but visibly, deliberately, and publicly. This is not a private meditation. It is a declaration that light is stronger than darkness, holiness stronger than desecration, and faith stronger than force.


At the centre of Hanukkah stands the light itself, and with it the obligation to be precise in our language and understanding. What is used for Hanukkah is a חנוכיה (Hannukhia, Hanukkah lamp). It has eight equal branches corresponding to the eight days of the miracle, plus a ninth light, the שמש (Shamash, attendant), which is set apart and used to light the others. A true מנורה (Menorah) has exactly seven branches only and no helper candle at all. The seven-branched Menorah belongs exclusively to the service of the Beit HaMikdash and is not interchangeable in meaning, structure, or purpose with a Hannukhia.



The Menorah has seven branches because it was never designed to commemorate the miracle of Hanukkah. Its form predates that miracle by many centuries and belongs to an entirely different context, purpose, and commandment.


For this reason, when large displays are erected in public squares during Hanukkah, they are Hannukhiot, not Menorot. The common misuse of the term is not a harmless shorthand; it erodes distinctions that Judaism has guarded with care for millennia.


The miracle of Hanukkah is well known, yet often misunderstood. It was not merely that a small cruse of oil burned for eight days when it should have lasted one, though that alone would be wondrous. It was the triumph of spiritual clarity over cultural erasure, of covenant over convenience. The oil was sealed, pure, untouched by desecration, and it was that fidelity to purpose which allowed it to burn beyond natural limits. Each night we add light rather than diminish it, teaching that holiness grows; it does not retreat.


The daily lighting follows a precise and deliberate order. On the first night, one candle is lit; on the second, two; until eight lights shine together on the final night. The Shamash stands apart, reminding us that light exists to be shared. One flame kindles another without diminishing itself. This is a lesson not only for the home, but for the moral life of a people charged with illuminating the world.



Hanukkah is also marked by traditions that embody this message through action and joy. Foods cooked in oil, most famously סופגניה (Sufganiyah, jelly-filled doughnuts), recall the miracle not through abstraction but through taste and celebration. These customs are not indulgences detached from meaning; they are embodied memory, teaching that faith enters every part of life, even the kitchen. Songs, modest gifts or Hanukkah gelt, and family gatherings further bind generations together around a shared act of light.


A central element of the commandment is to make the miracle known. The Hannukhia is placed at a window or doorway so that its light is visible beyond the home. This is not an act of confrontation, but of confidence. The light does not argue or shout. It simply shines, and in doing so, it pushes back the darkness.


Hanukkah reminds us that Jewish survival has never depended on numbers, weapons, or approval. It has depended on fidelity to G-D and the courage to guard what is pure even when surrounded by pressure to conform. In every generation, the form of darkness changes, but the response remains the same: we light another candle.


As we stand on the threshold of these eight nights, may our homes be filled with growing light, our language remain faithful to truth, and our actions reflect our calling. We do not merely remember the miracle. We continue it.



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