The Light of Chanukah: A Philosophical Letter

Dear Students,

Lighting What We Have

A Chanukah letter about school, mortality, and continuing anyway

Chanukah has never felt to me like a holiday about winning.

It’s a holiday about continuing.

I used to think I’d live a different kind of life. When I was younger, I imagined myself digging in the wadis of Egypt—dust in my hair, language in my mouth, history under my fingernails. That felt like the good life. In some quiet way, it still does.

But life rarely follows our first draft.

The Chanukah story begins when two civilizations press against each other: Athens and Jerusalem, gymnasium and beit midrash, the polished world of Greek reason and the stubborn world of Jewish obligation. The Greeks didn’t only conquer with weapons; they conquered with culture. And that’s always more tempting than force—because it offers ease, belonging, and the relief of not being strange.

The pressure wasn’t simply to live near Greek ideas.

It was to live under them.

That’s the part people forget: the conflict wasn’t “knowledge vs. ignorance.” It was: will one way of seeing replace all others?

And that, strangely, is where my life meets Chanukah.

My brother and I didn’t set out to build a school. We were pushed there by something we often call “COVID,” but what I really mean is a recent, sharp sense of mortality. A season when the world got small, when time felt thin, when you realized—viscerally—that life can close its book without warning.

Mortality has been hitting me hard with each passing day.

I’m not sharing that so people will cry for me. I don’t want that. I think many of us carry this after the pandemic—quietly, privately, and sometimes without words. I’m just trying to use it as fuel: to be more present, more patient, more worthy of the work in front of me.

I’m simply glad I’m trying my best.

This year we had three seniors. For a long time, we had almost none. The year before, I homeschooled a student who got into college—and that mattered deeply to me—but this year felt different. This year felt like a class.

And the direction is clear: the number of seniors is growing.

No one has been rejected from a college.

Some students don’t want to continue their education right now, and I respect that choice. But I’ll also push—with love and with seriousness—to help them reconsider, especially now that more options are opening, including Christian colleges where faith and learning can walk together.

Growth in education is rarely dramatic.

It’s candlelight. Added one by one.

I never thought servant leadership would become my life.

All I wanted was to teach. I wanted the classroom. Administration has never been my favorite cup. But responsibility has a way of choosing you. Somehow, service became the shape of my days—not because it was glamorous, but because it was needed.

And then there are my children.

One acceptance letter brings pride.

A second brings tears.

Two kids accepted, and I’m hoping for a third and fourth to succeed as well—and I say it plainly: I’m filled with joy. Not because of status. Because I can see paths opening. Because I can feel continuity. Because love, time, effort, and community sometimes do add up to something real.

Chanukah, at its center, is not a story about abundance. It’s a story about enough.

One small cruse. One fragile flame.

Not overwhelming. Not loud. Just tended.

Empires burn bright and die. Candles burn small and endure.

The Romans—once allies—would eventually destroy the Temple. History did what history does. But Chanukah survived anyway. Not because the world got easier, but because the light was carried.

So here is one more offer, in that spirit:

If anyone—students or adults—wants to learn Hebrew or Greek, the languages closest to our English Bible translations, I offer my services. After school, as a small act of depth in a shallow age. A way of paying attention. A way of refusing to forget.

Chanukah doesn’t ask us to be heroes.

It asks us to be caretakers.

To light what we have.

To add one flame.

To keep going.

Let us open the book of Chanukah, not a literal text but the story passed down through generations, and read its chapters with both heart and mind. Chanukah, the festival of lights, shines from the pages of history as more than a children’s tale of oil and candles. It is a chronicle of cultural survival, of faith under duress, and of the enduring conflict – and confluence – between civilizations. In writing to you, I adopt the voice of a teacher and philosopher, reflecting on this story’s meaning for a broad audience. I invite you to explore how Chanukah’s narrative connects the ancient Greeks and Hebrews, and even how the Romans – one-time allies of the Jews – eventually became their conquerors. Through this journey, we will consider themes of education and identity, founding and mortality, war and peace.

Chapter 1: Between Athens and Jerusalem – The Clash of Cultures.

The story of Chanukah begins over two thousand years ago in the land of Judea, during the Second Temple period. Alexander the Great had long since swept through the Middle East, and in the wake of his empire the Hellenistic Greek kingdoms emerged. One of these, the Seleucid Empire based in Syria, ruled over the Jews. At first, Greek rule was not especially harsh. In fact, Greek culture – its language, art, philosophy, and institutions – was immensely attractive and influential. Many Jews, particularly among the urban elite, began to assimilate into Greek ways. The Biblical book of Maccabees notes that some Jewish people eagerly embraced Greek fashions and even built a gymnasium in Jerusalem to participate in Greek education and sports – effectively abandoning certain Jewish laws like circumcision to fit in (Orlin, 2018).

To the Hellenistic mindset, the highest ideals were found in human reason, beauty, and the body – exemplified by Olympic contests and philosophical academies. Greek schools and stadiums sprang up on Jewish soil, introducing a new “curriculum” that threatened the old traditions. The Jews were historically devoted to Torah study, ethics, and the worship of an unseen God; now they were confronted by the seductive grandeur of Zeus and Apollo, the Greek gymnasium and theater. A profound tension unfolded between Jerusalem and Athens, between Hebrew faith and Greek secularism. The Rabbis later taught that during this time the Greeks sought “to make [the Jews] forget [the] Torah and violate the commands” of God – an existential threat not of physical annihilation, but of cultural erasure.

This was more than a clash of armies; it was a clash of ideals. The Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV Epiphanes eventually took a drastic, oppressive turn. He issued cruel decrees against the Jewish religion, determined to extinguish the flame of Israel’s faith (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Hil. Hanukkah 3:1). Jews were forbidden from practicing the Torah and its commandments (Maimonides, Hil. Hanukkah 3:1). Sacred rituals like circumcision, Sabbath observance, and study of Scripture were banned (Sacks, 1999). The Jerusalem Temple itself – the holiest site – was defiled by pagan altars and idols. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks vividly describes, “Jews were tolerated but Judaism was not. It was one of the great crises in Jewish history, with a real possibility that the religion of the covenant would be eclipsed” (Sacks, 1999).

Imagine the despair of the faithful in those days. The school of Athens had come to suppress the school of Jerusalem. Some Jews felt there was no choice but to yield: “Let us go and make a covenant with the Gentiles around us… since we separated from them many disasters have come upon us,” said the Hellenizers (1 Maccabees 1:11–15, as cited in Orlin, 2018). Others, however, chose a different path – the path of resistance.

Chapter 2: The Revolt – “Not by Might, Not by Power…”.

In the small village of Modi’in, a spark of rebellion was lit by an elderly priest named Mattathias and his sons. Refusing to worship the Greek gods, Mattathias cried out, “Whoever is for God, follow me!” and ignited an uprising (1 Maccabees 2:27–28). Upon Mattathias’ death, his son Judah Maccabee – a bold warrior whose nickname “Maccabee” meant “Hammer” – assumed leadership. Under Judah’s command, a guerrilla band of devout Jews fought back against the Seleucid armies. They fought for their right to live as Jews in their own land and according to their own law (Sacks, 1999). This was truly a fight for religious freedom and identity – perhaps one of history’s first battles not for imperial conquest or wealth, but for the principle that a people should be allowed to keep their faith and culture alive.

The Maccabees’ struggle was arduous. The Seleucid forces were vastly superior in numbers and equipment – trained war elephants, seasoned generals, and a mighty empire behind them. By contrast, Judah’s followers were few, pious farmers and villagers with improvised weapons. They found strength in their conviction that their cause was just. The Hebrew spirit confronted the Greek sword. Ancient accounts praise the courage of these rebels: they were fighting not just a political fight but a moral one, upholding the freedom to serve God. Later Jewish tradition, in the prayer Al HaNissim, expressed amazement that “the weak were delivered into the hands of the strong, the few into the hands of the many, and the righteous into the hands of the wicked.” It was, in other words, a victory defying worldly odds.

And indeed, after three years of fighting, Judah Maccabee achieved a stunning victory. In 164 BCE, the Jews recaptured Jerusalem from the Seleucids. The Temple was liberated and rededicated to God on the 25th day of the Hebrew month of Kislev. The word Chanukah itself means “Dedication,” recalling how they purified the Sanctuary that had been desecrated. The celebration that followed was unlike any other – a spontaneous eruption of joy and thanksgiving. The First Book of Maccabees records that Judah and his people observed an eight-day festival upon rededicating the altar, “sacrificing peace offerings and praise” to God, and they decreed that these days should be observed every year with gladness (1 Maccabees 4:56–59).

It is here that legend and history mingle to give Chanukah its special character. According to later rabbinic tradition, when the Maccabees sought to rekindle the great Menorah (candelabrum) in the Temple, they found only a single cruse of pure olive oil intact – enough for one day. Miraculously, that oil burned for eight days, until new oil could be prepared (Talmud, Shabbat 21b). This miracle of the oil, though not recorded in the earliest sources, became the central symbol of Chanukah in Jewish memory. Light out of darkness – this is what Chanukah stands for. The nine-branched menorah we kindle each year (eight flames plus a helper candle) commemorates those eight nights when a tiny flame refused to die. It represents, as Rabbi Sacks beautifully put it, “the inextinguishable human spirit” (Sacks, 1999) and the divine spark that the Maccabees kept alive against all odds.

Chapter 3: Triumph and Tragedy – The Mortal Kingdoms of Men.

With the Seleucid Greeks defeated, the Jews achieved something extraordinary: independence. Judah Maccabee and his brothers established a new ruling dynasty known as the Hasmoneans (after their ancestor Hashmon). For the first time in over four centuries, Judea was a sovereign nation under Jewish rule, not a vassal of a foreign empire. According to the medieval Jewish scholar Maimonides, the Hasmonean priestly family “overcame [the Greeks], slew them, and saved Israel from their hand. They appointed a king from among the priests, and Jewish sovereignty was restored for more than 200 years – until the Second Temple’s destruction” (Maimonides, Hil. Hanukkah 3:1). Indeed, the Hasmonean kingdom (140–63 BCE) endured for about a century as an independent state, and for a few decades more as an autonomous client kingdom.

But here our Chanukah “book” reveals an unexpected chapter of sobering historical truth: even great victories can be temporary. The Maccabees’ triumph, while glorious, did not usher in a utopia. The Hasmonean realm was fraught with its own internal problems – factionalism, ambition, and eventually civil war. Over time, the descendants of those once-pious liberators became entangled in power struggles. Different pretenders to the throne battled each other, and Jewish society split into rival sects (Pharisees, Sadducees, etc.). Within two or three generations, the high ideals of the Maccabee revolution were tarnished by the familiar corrosion of power. This is a poignant lesson: the mortality of human institutions. The Jewish kingdom, like all nations, was mortal – subject to decline and fall if justice and unity were lost.

Into this breach stepped the rising empire of Rome. In a twist of fate and irony, it was actually the Maccabees themselves who first invited the Romans into Judea’s story. Early on, seeing Rome’s growing power, Judah Maccabee sought an alliance with the Roman Republic as a counterweight to the Greek monarchies (1 Maccabees 8:17–20). A treaty was struck in 161 BCE promising friendship and mutual defense (Orlin, 2018). The Jewish historian Flavius Josephus later recorded this as the first pact between Rome and the Jews – an offer of Roman support that gave hope to the embattled Judeans (Josephus, Antiquities XII.10). At the time, Rome was seen as a distant but benevolent power; 1 Maccabees speaks almost admiringly of the Romans’ strength and how they “enslaved kings far and near” but kept faith with their allies (1 Maccabees 8:1–16). For the Maccabees, Rome seemed a promising ally – a mighty republic governed by laws and a senate instead of Hellenistic kings (Huffman, 2025).

Yet, history proved this alliance to be a double-edged sword. The Roman friendship would come at a devastating cost (Huffman, 2025). Fast forward a century: by 63 BCE, two rival Hasmonean princes were locked in a civil war over the throne (Huffman, 2025). Both factions, in their desperation, appealed to Rome’s celebrated general Pompey Magnus to arbitrate. Pompey did intervene – but not as a savior. Rome seized the opportunity to conquer. Pompey marched his legions into Jerusalem, and despite initial negotiations, he ended up besieging the holy city. When the city fell, Pompey infamously entered the Holy of Holies in the Temple – an act of sacrilege in Jewish eyes (Orlin, 2018) – and dismantled Jewish political independence. One claimant, Hyrcanus II, was installed as High Priest but with no kingly authority; his brother Aristobulus II was carted off to Rome in chains (Huffman, 2025). In effect, Judea became a client state of Rome from that point on.

The final blow came a century later. The Jews chafed under Roman rule, and in 66 CE they revolted against the Empire in a bid to restore sovereignty. The Roman response was merciless. After a brutal war, Jerusalem was again besieged, this time by General Titus. In 70 CE, the Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans, the very Temple Chanukah celebrates rededicating (Huffman, 2025). Eyewitness accounts from Josephus describe horrific carnage and a devastated city in flames. The Roman conquerors carried the Temple’s golden menorah in a triumphal parade – an image still visible on the Arch of Titus in Rome. For the Jewish people, this was an unspeakable tragedy: the epicenter of their faith reduced to rubble, countless lives lost or sold into slavery. It was, effectively, the end of the Jewish state for nearly two millennia.

Thus, the same Romans who had once been hailed as allies ultimately became the destroyers of the Jewish commonwealth in what some historians call the Jewish Wars. Chanukah’s founding story meets a mortal end on the stage of history: the Maccabees’ descendants fell, and their kingdom died. The lights of the Temple were extinguished by force, and the Jewish people were sent into a long night of exile. It is little wonder that, as Rabbi Sacks notes, some Jews in the first century questioned whether Chanukah should continue to be celebrated at all – after all, “the victory had turned to dust” with the Temple’s destruction (Sacks, 1999). How painfully ironic: each year at Chanukah, Jews rejoiced over a Temple that, in reality, now lay in ruins.

Chapter 4: The Eternal Light – Memory, Meaning, and Hope.

Yet Chanukah did not die in that ruin, and therein lies one of its most poignant lessons. Instead of being abolished, the festival was reinterpreted and its flame kept alive. The focus shifted away from the military victory – which was ephemeral – to the symbolic miracle of the lights, which carried a more enduring spiritual message (Sacks, 1999). Our sages asked, “What is Chanukah?” and answered not with the tale of battles won, but with the story of the oil that miraculously burned against all expectation (Talmud, Shabbat 21b). Chanukah became a celebration not of might, but of spirit (Sacks, 1999). As the prophet Zechariah had declared long before, “Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit – says the Lord of Hosts” (Zechariah 4:6). This verse was understood anew as the essence of Chanukah’s meaning. The Maccabees fought bravely, yes, but it was ultimately the spirit of their dedication that was to be commemorated – their faith that God’s light could triumph over the darkness of oppression.

It is fascinating to see how different Jewish writers through the ages understood Chanukah. The historian Josephus, writing in the 1st century, calls it the Festival of Lights – but he doesn’t mention the oil miracle at all. Instead, Josephus muses that perhaps it was called “Lights” because “beyond our hopes, this right [to worship freely] was brought to light for us” (Josephus, Antiquities 12.325). In his view, the “miracle” was the unexpected restoration of religious liberty – a light of hope after a period of darkness. For Josephus, a former general in the Jewish wars who had witnessed the Temple’s destruction, Chanukah’s lights symbolized the Jews’ resilience and God’s providence, even when political fortunes turned bleak.

Later, Maimonides in the 12th century codified the laws of Chanukah and subtly refocused its theme. He too recounts the miracle of the oil and the eight-day celebration (Maimonides, Hil. Hanukkah 3:2–3). But at the very end of his discussion, Maimonides draws a universal lesson. He rules that if a household can afford only either the Shabbat lamp or the Chanukah lamp, the Shabbat lamp takes precedence – for the sake of peace in the home (Maimonides, Hil. Hanukkah 4:14). And then he writes a remarkable line: “Great is peace, for the whole Torah was given to make peace in the world” (Kellner, 2016). Think about that: a holiday born from war is, in Maimonides’ eyes, ultimately about peace. The lights of Chanukah, which we place at our doors and windows, are meant to “publicize the miracle” (Maimonides, Hil. Hanukkah 3:3) – not to gloat over a military triumph, but to spread a message of hope and peace to all who see them. The purpose of these lights is to illuminate the darkness – any darkness – with the calm glow of faith, courage, and reconciliation.

Chanukah’s story, therefore, does not end with the fall of the Hasmonean kingdom. It lives on as a spiritual victory. Empires rise and fall – Greece and Rome have long since crumbled into history – but the ideas and faith kindled by Chanukah have survived. The Jewish people carried the memory of Chanukah’s lights throughout their exile, lighting menorahs in lands far from Jerusalem, from Babylon to Rome, from Spain to Poland, from the Middle East to America. Those little flames in every generation proclaimed: we are still here, our covenant lives, and hope is not lost. In a very real sense, Chanukah became a “portable homeland” of the spirit. One can lose a Temple, lose a country, but as long as one retains the story and its lessons, the light continues to shine.

We see this poignantly in modern times as well. In 1991, on the first Chanukah after the fall of the Soviet Union, Jews in Russia lit menorahs openly, after decades of religious suppression. Rabbi Sacks, who was present, told how he explained to a visiting Mikhail Gorbachev that he himself had become part of a Chanukah miracle – by letting the light of freedom shine again for millions of Jews (Sacks, 1999). In our own country too, public menorah lightings have become common, symbolizing religious liberty in the public square. Each small candle we add on the menorah during the eight days sends a timeless message: the human spirit, nourished by faith and freedom, can outlast even the mightiest empires.

Epilogue: Lessons from the Book of Chanukah.

As we conclude this letter, what enduring wisdom can we, as a broad audience of diverse backgrounds, take from the “book” of Chanukah? Several reflections emerge:

• Culture and Faith: Chanukah teaches the importance of holding on to one’s identity and values in the face of assimilation. The Greeks brought gifts of knowledge, yet demanded conformity at the expense of Jewish tradition. The Chanukah story challenges us to ask: How do we balance openness to the world’s wisdom with faithfulness to our own roots? It reminds us that education (“school”) is never neutral – it carries values. The gymnasium in Jerusalem was not just a place of exercise; it represented a worldview. The Jews had to build spiritual “schools” of their own to sustain their heritage. Today, in a global culture, Chanukah gently encourages communities to cherish their unique light while respecting others.

• Courage and Providence: The Maccabees’ saga underscores the power of courageous individuals to change history. It is a story of a small band facing a superpower – an underdog story that continues to inspire people of all faiths and nations. Their victory, as they themselves believed, was not purely by their own strength. They saw it as Providence, as a higher justice at work. This doesn’t negate the human effort – rather, it ennobles it by suggesting that when we fight for what is true and just, we align ourselves with something greater. As one famous Jewish teaching goes, “A little bit of light can dispel a lot of darkness.” Just so, the Maccabees showed that a little bit of determined light – a few brave souls – can overcome an empire’s darkness.

• The Mortality of Empires vs. the Immortality of Values: The fall of the Hasmonean kingdom at Roman hands is a sobering reminder that no political power is eternal. Nations, even ones founded in great idealism, can crumble due to external force or internal decay. Mortality is the fate of all human creations – be it the Greek gymnasium or the Second Temple itself. Yet, what can endure is the memory and meaning we extract from those creations. The Temple was destroyed, but the idea of the Temple – as a place for God’s presence and peace – lives on in synagogues and in the human heart. The Hasmonean kingdom perished, but the values it stood for – religious freedom, dedication to faith – have become immortal ideals that inspire people to this day. Chanukah, therefore, is a study in contrasts: physical fragility versus spiritual endurance.

• Hope and Light: Above all, Chanukah speaks of hope. Lighting candles in the darkest, coldest time of year is no coincidence – it is an ancient act of defiance against despair. Each tiny flame asserts that darkness is not absolute, that it can be pushed back. The Jews kept Chanukah even when it recalled a loss, because it offered hope that what was lost could one day be regained. And indeed, in our time, Jews returned to the land of Israel and kindled the menorah once more in Jerusalem’s old city after nearly 2,000 years, a remarkable fulfillment of hope. But even beyond the Jewish context, the Chanukah lights inspire all who yearn for freedom and dignity. They call on us to rededicate ourselves – in our families, communities, and personal lives – to those ideals that better humanity. As Maimonides hinted, the ultimate goal is peace: “all its paths are peace” says Proverbs (3:17), and Chanukah’s path leads there as well (Kellner, 2016).

In closing, dear students, remember that the story of Chanukah is still being written in a sense. Each of us, when we choose to bring a little more light – knowledge, kindness, or faith – into the world, adds a new chapter to that ancient book. We are the heirs of both the Greeks and the Hebrews: beneficiaries of classical wisdom and science (the legacy of Athens and Rome), and bearers of a moral-spiritual torch from Jerusalem. Chanukah asks us to unite the best of these worlds: to shine intellectual brilliance together with ethical and spiritual warmth. In doing so, we ensure that the “light brought forth beyond hope” so long ago continues to illuminate our world.

May the lights of Chanukah brighten your homes and your hearts. May you be inspired by the courage of the Maccabees, learn from the follies of the past, and strive for a future where the lights of understanding and peace burn ever brighter.

References

Kellner, M. (2016). Maimonides’ Purim and Chanukah message of peace. TheTorah.com.

Huffman, M. (2025, October 31). How did the Romans become the rulers of Judea? TheCollector.

Orlin, E. (2018). Chanukah and the politics behind the Maccabean Revolt. TheTorah.com.

Sacks, J. (1999, December 4). The miracle of Chanukah. The Times (London). (Reprinted on RabbiSacks.org).