To vanquish our hidden enemies
By: Rabbi Dovid Samuels
The Jewish calendar is structured like the human body, with each festival corresponding to a vital organ or limb. The three Biblical festivals – Pesach, Shavuos, and Sukkos – correspond to the three patriarchs: Pesach to Avraham, Shavuos to Yitzchak, and Sukkos to Yaakov. These festivals form the torso of our spiritual body, representing the eternal covenant – the body and the heart of the Jewish people.
But Purim and Chanukah are different. They are not Biblical festivals. Instead, they were established by our Sages in response to historical redemptions. If the three festivals from the Torah are the torso, these are the legs, providing the stability and endurance needed to traverse the long journey of galus. Throughout exile, these rabbinic festivals have sustained us, teaching us how to find Hashem when His presence seems concealed.
Two Enemies
Yet Purim and Chanukah, while both rabbinic festivals that sustain us in exile, represent two fundamentally different types of challenges. The threats they remind us of and the threats they prepare us to face operate on different planes of existence.
Purim’s danger was unmistakable. Haman’s decree was explicit: “to destroy, to kill, and to annihilate all Jews”[1]. The threat was physical, immediate, transparent. Every Jew knew their lives hung in the balance. The enemy had a name, a face. When salvation came, Jews could see their redemption unfold: Haman hanged, the decree reversed, enemies defeated.
“The Greeks did not seek to destroy our bodies; they sought to corrupt our souls.”
Chanukah’s danger was far more subtle. The Greeks did not seek to destroy our bodies; they sought to corrupt our souls. “Write on the horn of an ox that you have no share in the God of Israel,” they commanded. They wanted us to remain Jews who thought like Greeks, attend the gymnasium, study philosophy, embrace Hellenistic culture, but strip Torah of its Divine origin. Many Jews did not recognise this as a threat. The Misyavnim saw themselves as enlightened, sophisticated. They were modernising Judaism, making it relevant. The danger was invisible precisely because it disguised itself as progress.
The Jewish people’s victory was not merely military. They rekindled the Menorah in the Beis HaMikdash, reasserting that Torah’s light cannot be replaced by human wisdom. They found one cruse of oil with the Kohen Gadol’s seal intact; purity that survived, authenticity untouched. The miracle of the oil burning for eight days announced that when we refuse to dilute our commitment, Hashem provides supernatural sustenance.
The contrast between these festivals reflects two modes of attack throughout our history. Sometimes enemies come with swords drawn, hatred unconcealed: the Egyptians who enslaved us, the Babylonians who exiled us, the Romans who destroyed the Temple. Even the Arabs who sharpen their daggers against us. Against visible enemies, our identity crystallised. But the Greeks nearly succeeded where brute force failed, because they convinced many Jews that surrender was sophistication. The threat was not to our bodies but to our souls, not to our existence but to our essence.
Hidden Enemies in Our Lives
This pattern continues in our personal lives. We face both Purim-type challenges and Chanukah-type challenges, both visible threats and invisible ones. The visible threats are easier to combat because we can name them. Financial crisis. Serious illness. Family conflict. Opposition to our observance. These are our ‘Hamans’ – threatening – but at least we know what we are fighting. We can daven with full hearts, seek advice, rally support. The crisis mobilises us.
But what of the hidden enemies? The slow erosion of spiritual vitality that happens so gradually we barely notice? The compromises made bit by bit, each seeming reasonable? The distractions that pull our attention from what matters, not through force but through enticement?
“Anxiety masquerades as conscientiousness. Materialism presents itself as responsibility.”
These are our Greek challenges. The allure of materialism that says we need just a little more before focusing on G-dly spirituality. Cultural messages subtly reshaping our values. Busy-ness crowding out Torah study and meaningful tefillah. Cynicism mocking sincerity. Anxiety and depression whispering we are unworthy of Hashem’s love, that our avodas Hashem is inadequate. These enemies are particularly dangerous because they disguise themselves. Anxiety masquerades as conscientiousness. Materialism presents itself as responsibility. Cultural assimilation markets itself as being a “light unto the nations”. The yetzer hara whispers, “You can have both. You don’t have to choose. Just adjust a little.”
And because these enemies are hidden, we must cultivate sensitivity to others’ struggles. We witness only the external facade. We cannot see the internal battles, the hidden Greeks laying siege to their souls. The person who seems to be coasting may be fighting desperately against despair. The confident one may be battling crippling self-doubt. The perfect-looking family may be struggling with unimaginable challenges. This awareness should inspire compassion and humility. Compassion, because we must judge everyone favourably. Humility, because we too have blind spots where the Greek within has gained a foothold without our awareness. Just as the Jews needed to search carefully for the pure oil, we must help others search within themselves for the untainted essence that remains.
Finding the Pure Oil
The miracle of Chanukah offers us a strategy for confronting these hidden threats. When the Jews entered the desecrated Temple, they searched for pure oil. They did not accept the readily available oil that had been defiled. They refused to compromise. And when they found one small cruse with the seal intact, that stubbornness was rewarded with miracle. The message is clear: we must search within ourselves for what remains pure, for the ‘pintele Yid’ that no amount of external pressure can contaminate. We must refuse to accept the “good enough” that the world offers and insist on authenticity, even when it seems impractical, even when only a tiny amount remains.
Moreover, that small cruse was sufficient for only one day‚ yet they lit the Menorah anyway. They did not wait for perfect circumstances. They acted with what they had, trusting Hashem would provide the rest. This is the antidote to despair, the voice claiming we are too damaged, too far from where we should be. We light the Menorah with whatever pure oil we can find within ourselves. We take the small step we are capable of taking. And Hashem extends that light beyond what seems naturally possible.
The Chanukah lights must be placed at the entrance to our homes, visible to the outside world. This is not a private, internal celebration. Even as we confront hidden enemies and internal struggles, we proclaim publicly: “We choose to remain distinctly Jewish. We will not be assimilated. We will not extinguish our light to make others comfortable.” But the lights do not merely proclaim; they actively fortify. Each evening when we kindle the Chanukah candles, we are engaging in an act of spiritual resistance against the hidden enemies that besiege us. The Greeks sought to extinguish the Menorah in the Beis HaMikdash, to darken the source of Divine light. By lighting our menorahs, we declare that this light cannot be extinguished, that no matter how dark the world becomes, we possess the power to illuminate it.
This is not merely symbolic. The act of lighting itself strengthens us. When we are battling our hidden enemies and they whisper to us that our efforts are meaningless‚ we light the candles and watch the flame grow stronger. When materialism tempts us to believe that acquisition brings happiness, we light the candles and experience the joy that comes from fulfilling a mitzvah, from connecting to something eternal. When cultural pressures urge us to blend in and minimise our distinctiveness, we light the candles in our windows for all to see, reaffirming our identity.
The halachos of the Chanukah lights reveal their protective power. We light them when darkness falls, specifically during the time when “when feet cease from the marketplace”, when the day’s pursuits end and the quiet darkness could allow negative thoughts to creep in. We light at precisely this vulnerable moment, pushing back the darkness both literal and metaphorical.
Additionally, we are forbidden to use the Chanukah lights for any practical purpose – not to read by their light, not to illuminate our way. “Haneiros halalu kodesh heim, v’ein lanu reshus l’hishtameish bahem” – “these lights are holy, and we have no permission to use them.” We simply gaze at them. This gazing is itself the remedy. In a world that constantly demands that everything serve a practical function, that every moment be productive, that every experience be useful‚ we sit and simply behold the lights. We reconnect with the reality that kedushah has intrinsic value, that the spiritual is not merely a means to an end but an end in itself.
For thirty minutes each night (longer on Erev Shabbos), we are commanded to ensure these lights burn. During that time, as we sit near them, their light enters our consciousness, their message permeates our soul. We are reminded that we are children of light, that Hashem’s presence illuminates even the darkest exile, that the hidden enemies – no matter how subtle – cannot overcome the light of Torah and mitzvos that burns within us. This is why we add a light each night. The battle against hidden enemies is not won in a single moment but through persistent, daily recommitment. Each night we grow stronger, we add light, we increase the illumination. The message is one of hope and growth: yesterday’s victories give us strength for today’s battles, and today’s light will illuminate tomorrow’s darkness.
The Long Walk Through Galus
Purim and Chanukah carry us through exile with different lessons. Purim teaches us to stand firm when threats are obvious, trusting that Hashem can reverse our fortunes. Chanukah teaches vigilance against subtle threats, discernment to recognise spiritual danger in friendly guises, and courage to choose purity over convenience.
As we kindle the Chanukah lights, adding one each night, we remember that even in deepest darkness, surrounded by enemies both visible and invisible, we possess the power to illuminate the world. We need only search for that sealed cruse of oil – that core of authenticity that remains untouched – and have the courage to light it. The lights burn at night, telling us: precisely when darkness seems overwhelming, when hidden enemies threaten to extinguish our spirits‚ that is when our light shines brightest. That is when the miracle becomes visible, strengthening us and inspiring others who fight their own hidden battles in the long darkness of galus.
Esther 3:13 ↑
