The Paradox of Power in the Hanukkah Story

I love the Maccabiah Games. It’s one of the most inspiring events on the Jewish calendar. That’s why I’ve never remarked on the paradox. We are celebrating those who revolted against Hellenist acculturation with a Greco-styled event.

But this is far from the only paradox surrounding Hanukkah. Like every holiday, Hanukkah has its special biblical readings. And here’s what’s strange: on the only holiday we have that remembers a military victory, we read Torah portions that deal with sacrifices. Not a sword to be seen. In terms of the haftarah (the section of the later books of the Bible), there’s an obvious candidate: the book of Joshua, which deals with mighty military victories. The conquests of Saul or David could be runners-up.

But we don’t read any of those. In a slap in the martial face of Hanukkah, the haftarah culminates in a verse from the prophet Zechariah: “Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, says the Lord of Hosts” (lo bechayil, lo bekoach, ki im beruchi).

Our sages give us a clear interpretation of these three concepts: Chayil represents military force; Koach represents raw power, coercion, and dominance. And Ruach, the ultimate guarantor of victory, is spirit, endurance, moral direction, and covenantal responsibility.

Quite directly, the sages are telling us that if we read the Hanukkah story as a triumph of force, we have missed its meaning.

What’s more, the Maccabean war did not end on Hanukkah. That day, the 25^th of Kislev, marks the cleansing and re-inauguration of the Temple. The war would continue for thirty more years, and all the Maccabee brothers, except Simon, would perish before its end. Our sages make a point in celebrating a partial, tentative victory.

Why?

The miracle of the oil can shed some light – no pun intended. I have argued in the past that there’s little logic in choosing the miracle of the oil as the centerpiece of Hanukkah, but maybe it makes sense after all. The oil represents the opposite of “total victory.” It’s fragile and finite. Its light must be protected and renewed daily. And it’s time-bound; it burns longer than it should, but not forever.

The sacred, like the light of the menorah, survives because we continue to tend to it.

This is probably what the Jewish philosopher Hans Jonas had in mind when he wrote his seminal book The Imperative of Responsibility. He seems to echo the prophet Zechariah in arguing that when human power expands, ethics must shift from heroism to responsibility, from triumph to preservation.

Hanukkah is already post-heroic theology, because it does something extraordinary for a victory story: it downplays military success. It centers preservation, not conquest; it ritualizes maintenance, not climax.

The Maccabees do use force. But Judaism refuses to sanctify force as the meaning of the event. The story freezes on the 25^th of Kislev, the day of restoration, not of domination.

Hans Jonas talks about “the Promethean Posture,” the glorification of power through mastery and expansion, the hubris that claims that we can fix everything later. These are claims that Hanukkah deliberately refuses.

As Israel emerges from its most prolonged and most traumatic war, we are all asking ourselves questions about the nature of power, the limits of our force, and the ethical dilemmas that the harsh realities of the Middle East present us.

Israel emerges victorious but bruised, strengthened and weakened at the same time. Like the Maccabees on the 25^th of Kislev, we fear that we have reached only a reprieve in a battle that never ends. Israel’s weapons performed superbly, but as the prophet said, it wasn’t might or power that helped Israel prevail. It was its spirit.

While politicians made improbable and self-serving claims of “total victory,” the people knew better. They knew they had to embark on a long path of sacrifice, doing their utmost to preserve the miracle that is Israel. For many of us, maintaining the light is just a metaphor; for the hostages, it was a daily epic of cyclopean proportions. For us, keeping the candle burning is just a ritual; for IDF reservists, it meant crawling in the tunnels of Gaza. But it was never about mere physical courage. The most advanced weapons won’t sustain a mother whose child has been serving in Gaza for 26 months, only ruach will. A fleet of drones won’t help a Nova survivor heal, only inner fortitude and the love of her community will.

The Maccabean victory turned into tragedy when the Hasmoneans adopted the “Promethean posture.” They fell in love with their own power and mistook mere might for genuine strength. They traded liberation for domination and law for force. Because they forgot that the key to victory was ruach, they trampled over the principles that had given birth to their revolution. Their hubris brought about their destruction – and our exile.

Now, the Israeli spirit faces another challenge. After winning the war, can we win the peace? Can the spirit that carried us through these two terrible years help us build a better future?

Like the Maccabees on that day of rededication, we face an uncertain future. Like Hans Jonas, we recognize “the fragility of being.” And, like Jonas, we need to see vulnerability as a call to responsibility and ethics. Like on Hanukkah, victory doesn’t promise eternal light; instead, it commands us to care for the threatened light.

Thank God for our military might. Without it, we probably wouldn’t be here. To minimize the importance of strength in a world that wants you dead is insane and ultimately suicidal. But relying only on that, especially as we embark on the long journey of reconstruction, will guarantee defeat.

David Ben Gurion understood that tension well. That’s why, as Israel emerged from another existential battle, he proclaimed, “The State of Israel will be judged not by its wealth or military strength nor by its technology, but by its moral worth and human values… by its fidelity … to the supreme behest: ‘and thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’”

Let’s be clear, Ben Gurion wasn’t talking about the judgement of others. He cared little for that. After all, another of his famous phrases was, “It is not what the Gentiles will say, but what the Jews will do, that will determine our fate.”

What Ben Gurion cared for were his own values and those of his people. He didn’t seek the approval of others, but the realization of the prayer:

“And you shall bring Peace over the land, and everlasting joy to all the inhabitants therein”

Chag Urim Sameach!