David J. Butler
Chanukah always arrives at the darkest time of the year, but this season it feels especially well-timed. The days are short, the nights come early and across the Jewish world the sense of heaviness is unmistakable. Antisemitism is no longer a fringe toxin; it has crept into mainstream spaces with a brazenness we have not seen in decades. Jewish students are told their identity is suspect. Jewish institutions are threatened for doing little more than existing. Many families are asking whether the society they trusted still has room for them.
In other words: Chanukah could not come soon enough.
For all its familiar glow, Chanukah has always carried a deeper charge. Beneath the candles and the latkes is a story of communal resolve that speaks directly to the Jewish moment we are living through. It is the story of a people facing coercion, vilification and cultural erasure — and answering not with retreat but with a stubborn insistence on spiritual presence. Chanukah is about resilience and hope, but it is also about refusal: the refusal to surrender identity, to let fear define us, or to allow darkness to narrow the horizon of Jewish life.
The Maccabees understood that Jewish continuity is not something quietly maintained. It is something publicly lived.
We often teach the Chanukah story as if it were a children’s pageant: A small group of Jewish fighters resisting an empire, oil burning unexpectedly long and a rededicated Temple restored to dignity. But the Jews of that era were expected to soften themselves into disappearance. Their practices were restricted, their institutions undermined, their future negotiable to everyone but themselves.
If that feels familiar, it should. Today’s Jewish community is facing a quieter but recognizable echo. Antisemitism now travels through campus slogans, political rhetoric and social activism. Jewish identity is increasingly treated as something to apologize for. Jewish visibility is met with suspicion, and Jewish safety — something we once assumed — has become a daily calculation.
Chanukah instructs us to reject all of that.
The central act of the holiday is not the military victory nor the discovery of oil. It is the decision to light the menorah publicly. To place it where it can be seen. To announce that Jewish life remains visible, joyful, unapologetic and expanding. That visibility is not ornamental; it is the point of the ritual. In every era when Jews have faced pressure, the menorah has expressed the same conviction: You may threaten us, but you will not diminish our light.
The structure of the holiday reinforces the message. Each night we add a candle, increasing light even when instinct might tell us to conserve it. Jewish law insists on upward movement — we elevate holiness; we do not diminish it. In periods of pressure, Jews do not shrink. We intensify.
This is the deepest challenge Chanukah offers this year. Not simply to celebrate but to build. Not merely to remember a miracle but to participate in one. To understand that Jewish hope has always been a practice, not a sentiment. The Maccabees did not wait for reassurance; they created conditions for renewal. Their courage is the real miracle. The oil is its symbol.
So, what does that demand of us now?
First, to show up — for our institutions, synagogues, schools, federations and community organizations. They have been carrying extraordinary burdens this year: securing buildings, supporting anxious families, protecting isolated students, speaking out when others stay silent. Their work is the backbone of Jewish resilience. They need our partnership, not just our admiration.
Second, to reject the notion that Jewish pride is something to manage or ration. Jewish life — religious, cultural, intellectual and communal — is meant to be expansive even when the environment feels constricting. The menorah belongs in the window for a reason. So do our voices.
And third, to remember that joy itself is a Jewish act of resistance. Chanukah is not somber. It is celebratory, even a little unruly. We gather, we sing, we fry foods in quantities no cardiologist would endorse. We tell our children that Jewish life is vibrant, not tenuous. The Maccabees did not fight merely for survival; they fought for a Judaism that could breathe, learn, pray, laugh and flourish.
That is what we claim when we light the menorah. That is what we declare when we fill our homes with brightness. It is not nostalgia. It is conviction.
At a moment when so many forces are pushing Jews toward caution, Chanukah pushes us toward confidence. When Jewish visibility feels risky, Chanukah reminds us it is necessary.
And when the world feels dark, Chanukah commands us to build light — steadily, deliberately, together.
This year, let the menorah be more than decoration. Let it be a manifesto: a statement of who we are, what we believe and why we will not dim ourselves for anyone.
Chanukah is not merely a memory. It is a mandate. And its light is ours to carry forward.
David J. Butler is an attorney. He is president of Dvash Consulting, LLC and a member of the ownership group of Mid-Atlantic Media, which owns and publishes Washington Jewish Week.
