“Where Are the Maccabees?” On Israel’s Chanukah Spirit

“Where are the Maccabees?” Long before this question was immortalized by Saul Tchernichovski in his 1923 poem They Say There is a Land, it was posed by the leaders of the Bilu movement in 1882, as they called out to their Russian Jewish compatriots: “Arise, Judah, arise!” From its earliest days, the Zionist movement drew inspiration from the national struggle of the Hasmoneans and their military triumph. The Hasmoneans’ successful resistance and the sovereignty they established in the Land of Israel became a beacon of inspiration. As A. D. Gordon observed: “Had our ancestors in the days of the Hasmoneans […] adhered strictly to realpolitik and straightforward logic, their hands would surely have faltered, and the Jewish people would have been doomed to extinction.”

After nearly eighty years of Jewish flourishing in Israel, and with so much at stake, reconsidering the Chanukah message feels both timely and necessary

This Zionist focus on the human courage and military achievements of the Maccabees, however, did not sit comfortably with Jewish Orthodoxy, which traditionally emphasized the Divine element in the Chanukah story while minimizing the military aspect. Consider the contrasting lyrics sung by children in Orthodox and non-Orthodox schools. While both sing the classic Y’mei HaChanukah (the English Oh Chanukah mirrors the melody but not the words), they diverge at the punchline. The original version praises “the miracles and wonders that the Maccabees wrought,” while religious schoolchildren sing of the miracles “that Hashem performed for the Maccabees.” This subtle difference speaks volumes, reflecting the enduring divide between Charedi and non-Charedi perspectives on the Jewish return to the homeland.

In this piece, I wish to reexamine these matters in light of time—so often the ultimate arbiter of contentious questions. After nearly eighty years of Jewish flourishing in Israel, and with so much at stake, reconsidering the Chanukah message feels both timely and necessary.

 

Chanukah vs. Purim: Two Paradigms of Redemption

Several notable discrepancies distinguish the two rabbinic festivals of Chanukah and Purim. Among them is the recitation of Hallel, which is integral to Chanukah but absent from Purim—a discrepancy explained by the Gemara (Megillah 14a) with three possible reasons. However, the most striking difference is their respective length: Chanukah spans eight days, while Purim is celebrated on a single day alone. This distinction invites closer scrutiny.

The eight-day length of Chanukah has several explanations. The most famous, found in the Talmud (Shabbos 21b), is the miracle of the flask of oil that burned for eight nights. Other primary sources, such as the Books of Maccabees and the Al Ha-Nissim prayer, attribute the duration to the Hasmonean victory and, in the case of II Maccabees, to the need to compensate for the missed observance of Sukkos that year. Some also draw a connection to the ancient pagan winter festival of Calandria, noted by the Gemara (Avodah Zarah 8a), suggesting that Chanukah, like other Jewish festivals, elevated a natural or cultural phenomenon to spiritual significance.

Purim celebrates Jewish survival, while Chanukah celebrates what we survive for. Purim celebrates Jews. Chanukah celebrates the greatness that Jews can touch

Whatever the original reason, the resulting contrast between the eight days of Chanukah and the single day of Purim reflects a deeper distinction: two paradigms of Jewish celebration. At its core, the difference lies in the nature of the salvation each festival commemorates. Purim celebrates Jewish survival, while Chanukah celebrates what we survive for. Purim celebrates Jews. Chanukah celebrates the greatness that Jews can touch.

 

Exile and Redemption: Two Models

Exile manifests in many forms, with Jewish tradition identifying four distinct exiles corresponding to the four animals in Nebuchadnezzar’s dream. The Midrash further teaches that these exiles were experienced, on a microcosmic level, by Yaakov Avinu.

The first exile, Babylon, characterized by plunder and pillage, parallels Lavan’s claim, “The women are my daughters, the children are my children, and the flocks are my flocks” (Bereishis 31:43). The final exile, Rome, mirrors Yaakov’s descent into Egypt and is marked by its extraordinary length. These prolonged exiles—of Yaakov’s descendants in Egypt and of the Jewish people for two millennia—threaten to erode the core of Jewish identity.

The second and third exiles, Persia and Greece, are particularly relevant here. The Persian exile, akin to Yaakov’s confrontation with Esav, was a threat of total annihilation. Haman sought the extermination of the Jewish people, and salvation came through Divine intervention orchestrated by the heroism of Mordechai and Esther. The Greek exile, paralleling Shechem’s assault on Dinah, posed a threat of cultural and spiritual defilement. Greek anti-Jewish decrees sought to erode Jewish faith and practice, spurring the Hasmoneans to take up arms to restore the sanctity of the Temple and the purity of Jewish life.

Purim commemorates survival; Chanukah celebrates revival. Its eight days reflect the rededication of Jewish values and the enduring light of Torah

Naturally, these differing threats shape the character of their corresponding salvations. Purim is about survival, encapsulated in the words of the Megillah: “Relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place” (Esther 4:14). Chanukah, however, is about restoration. It celebrates the assertion of Jewish identity even in dark times when overt Divine intervention is absent. Purim commemorates survival; Chanukah celebrates revival. Its eight days reflect the rededication of Jewish values and the enduring light of Torah.

 

The Human Spirit of Chanukah

An eloquent articulation of this idea is found in an 1879 essay by George Eliot, in which the author presents is a reflection on contemporary anti-Semitism and the challenges facing European Jews during the 19th century.

“The heroic and triumphant struggle of the Maccabees,” she writes, “rescued the religion and independence of the nation from the corrupting sway of the Syrian Greeks.” And the spirit has never faded. “Thenceforth the virtuous elements of the Jewish life were engaged […] on the side of preserving the specific national character against a demoralising fusion with that of foreigners whose religion and ritual were idolatrous and often obscene.”

Eliot sounds almost Charedi when she writes about the “Foreign party reviling the National party as narrow, and sometimes manifesting their own breadth in extensive views of advancement or profit to themselves by flattery of a foreign power.”

Eliot sounds almost Charedi when she writes about the “Foreign party reviling the National party as narrow, and sometimes manifesting their own breadth in extensive views of advancement or profit to themselves by flattery of a foreign power.” Whenever such conflict occurred, however, it only “tightened the bands of conservatism, which needed to be strong if it were to rescue the sacred ark, the vital spirit of a small nation.” In times of crisis, she notes, “many Conservatives became Zealots, whose chief mark was that they advocated resistance to the death against the submergence of their nationality.” For good measure, she states that “for my part, I share the spirit of the Zealots.”

The specifically human initiative that maintained the vital spirit of Judaism is, indeed, a hallmark of Chanukah, once again as opposed to Purim.

Except for Mordechai and Esther, the actors in the Purim story played their respective roles without any conscious intent to save the Jews. Bigtan and Teresh, who plotted to kill Achashverosh and paid with their lives, could not have known their actions were somehow related to the final salvation. Haman’s advisors, who recommended that he fashion a gallows for Mordechai, could not have dreamed that Haman himself would ultimately hang on them. As Rabbi Pinchas rules (Yerushalmi, Megillah 3:7), “Even Charvona,” one of the king’s chamberlains, “is remembered for the good” for his share in Haman’s downfall. The message is clear: Hashem orchestrates the tale of Jewish survival.

On Purim, Hashem looks out for us; on Chanukah, we look out for Him

In contrast with the hidden miracle of Purim, the Chanukah salvation includes no players other than the Hasmoneans. The miracle of Chanukah was entirely human, wrought by Jews who understood the call of the moment and were ready to act upon it. They were not called, as Esther by Mordechai, to join the Divine tale of Jewish salvation; they had to write the script themselves. Jewish survival, the theme of Purim, is guaranteed by Hashem; Judaism, the theme of Chanukah, is guaranteed by the zealotry of human agents. On Purim, Hashem looks out for us; on Chanukah, we look out for Him.

Rabbi Ami thus notes that Esther is the last of miracles (Yoma 29a). Addressing the challenge of the Chanukah miracle (which is chronologically later), the Gemara explains that the miracle of Esther was committed to Scripture, while that of Chanukah was not. Though not an explicit miracle, the tale of Esther remains Divine in its essence. It is the last of biblical miracles. Chanukah opens up a new chapter of miracles, those of the human variety.

 

The Menorah: Israel as Chanukah

I was once present when a rabbi, giving a shiur to a group of disciples, claimed that the State of Israel is a “Purim miracle” rather than a “Chanukah miracle.” Based on the foregoing explanation, this would mean that Israel was established by the workings of Divine providence, albeit by people who lacked conscious awareness of the profoundly Divine significance of their actions. The Zionist leaders, at best, would be like Charvona: zachur la-tov, remembered for the good, provided they did not actively fight against religion—but nothing beyond.

The Zionist leaders, at best, would be like Charvona: zachur la-tov, remembered for the good, provided they did not actively fight against religion—but nothing beyond

I do not agree with this assessment. Certainly, some Zionist leaders were all too distant from Hasmonean consciousness—those for who Zionism was a means to “be as the nations,” bereft of the Jewish exceptionalism that Chanukah defines. Today, such views sadly continue to air on some Israeli media channels and newspapers. Yet, this was not mainstream Zionism. Certainly, it wasn’t the vision Herzl, the founder of political Zionism, wished to realize. In fact, Herzl’s 1897 The Menorah, perhaps the most poignant articulation of his imagination, references Chanukah as the inspiration for the Jewish State.

Clearly an autobiographic work, The Menorah[1] begins with a description of a man distant from Judaism who nonetheless “deep in his soul felt the need to be a Jew.” You Despite his reasonable material condition, the continued prevalence of antisemitism tormented him until “his soul became one bleeding wound” driving him back to his roots: “He began to love Judaism with great fervor.” This new affection grew so powerful that the story’s protagonist realized “that there was only one way out of this Jewish suffering—namely, to return to Judaism.”

Steeped in modern sensibilities and non-Jewish customs, and having absorbed “ineradicable elements from the cultures of the nations among which his intellectual pursuits had taken him,” it was clear that this return to Judaism would not a simple feat—certainly not for the present generation. Herzl’s hero thus focused on his children: “[T]he next generation, provided it were given the right guidance early enough, would be able to do so.” The means to achieve the educational transition were an obvious choice: the Chanukah Menorah.

When all the candles are ablaze everyone must stop in amazement and rejoice at what has been wrought. And no office is more blessed than that of a servant of this light

For Herzl, the Chanukah Menorah became a microcosm of the rekindled light of the Jewish nation. “The first candle was lit and the origin of the holiday was retold: the miracle of the little lamp which had burned so much longer than expected, as well as the story of the return from the Babylonian exile, of the Second Temple, of the Maccabees.” The candles became the focus for musing over Jewish national aspirations: “Candle after candle was lit in the menorah, and together with his children, the father mused upon the little lights.” Finally, the last day of Chanukah arrived:

There came the eighth day, on which the entire row of lights is kindled, including the faithful ninth candle, the shamash, which otherwise serves only to light the others. A great radiance shone forth from the menorah. The eyes of the children sparkled. For our friend, the occasion became a parable for the awakening of a whole nation. First one candle—it is still dark and the solitary light looks gloomy. Then it finds a companion, then another, and yet another. The darkness must retreat. The young and the poor are the first to see the light. Then the others join in, all those who love justice, truth, liberty, progress, humanity and beauty. When all the candles are ablaze everyone must stop in amazement and rejoice at what has been wrought. And no office is more blessed than that of a servant of this light.

To be sure, Herzl was no High Priest. Yet, the awakening he describes is one deeply rooted in the Chanukah struggle and the Hasmonean legacy

To be sure, Herzl was no High Priest. Yet, the awakening he describes is one deeply rooted in the Chanukah struggle and the Hasmonean legacy. As Rabbi Avraham Eliyahu Kaplan said in his eulogy, Herzl “taught us two words, which until he arrived, we did not dare and could not speak: Ivri Anochi!—I am a Jew.”

In the space of under a decade, the Jewish People experienced two momentous, history-changing events. The first, the horrific Shoah, was a Purim story. Threatened with total obliteration, wounded and depleted, we ultimately survived. The second, the establishment of the Jewish State, belongs to Chanukah. Like its founder, the State of Israel is no Purim affair. Providing us with the capacity to realize Jewish life in its fullness, it is very much the stuff of Chanukah.

***

I complete this essay on the sixth day of Chanukah, having just returned from the military funeral of Uriel Peretz, HYD, a Charedi soldier who served in the Netzach Yehuda battalion and fell in battle fighting for nation and state. His battalion commander, in a short message recorded amid fighting in Gaza, noted that Uriel joined the army after October 7, sensing that he could stand by no longer and seeking to realize his courage and piety within the IDF. Uriel didn’t initially tell his parents which division he was joining. When he did, his father asked him, “Why did you choose a combat unit?” “If I won’t go,” answered the son, “who will?”

Standing at his funeral during Chanukah, I knew that before me was a modern-day Hasmonean—one of many we have witnessed since October 7—whose example will surely inspire others to follow. This piece opened with a simple question, “Where are the Maccabees?” At its conclusion, I can say that we have seen them.

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[1] All quotations are from the translation by the Herzl Institute. The full version can be found here: https://herzlinstitute.org/en/theodor-herzl/the-menorah/.

Photo by Andres F. Uran on Unsplash