Hanukkah evokes imagery and allusion. Freedom. Assimilation. Zealotry. Miracles. Darkness. Light. Joy. Celebration. Gambling with chocolate coins. There are so many directions to go. Hanukkah — like so many Jewish holidays — holds meanings that feel both eternal and intensely of the moment. So what does it mean to celebrate Hanukkah in 2025?

Hanukkah, perhaps uniquely on the Jewish calendar, is public by design. We light the menorah in our own homes, but tradition urges us to place it where it can be seen. The goal is not just to remember the miracle but to share it. Whether we’re celebrating divine intervention — or some oil so overachieving that justifies our latkes and jelly doughnuts a couple thousand years later — Hanukkah is about joy.

But for many Jews, being publicly Jewish in 2025 feels complicated.

Can I put my menorah in the window? 

Can I wear my ugly sweater that proudly declares “Dreidel Legend”?

Can I — hypothetically — do the backstroke through a pool of gelt like a sugar-fueled Scrooge McDuck?

When the news is filled with stories of antisemitism, shining a light on our Jewishness can feel less like an act of Maccabean bravery and more like an expression of vulnerability.

Each of us decides what to make public and what to keep private. But for me, preparing for Hanukkah this year feels no different than every year before it. I feel privileged to be able to place a menorah (full disclosure: many menorahs) in the window. By the eighth night, I fully expect my neighbors to wonder how many open flames one household can display without violating the local fire code.

I look forward to bringing out our beloved heirloom menorah, right alongside the family favorite Menorah-saurus Rex.

I look forward to teasing my mother about the year the water chestnuts in her famous layered salad froze outside.

I look forward to the annual debate about whether sour cream or applesauce is the superior latke topping — even though the correct answer is clearly both.

I look forward to forgetting the rules of dreidel, to sneaking a piece of gelt, to remembering I don’t actually like gelt, to getting hugs from my nephews as they tear open gifts.

And at no point during these eight nights will I feel the need to hide my Judaism nor my Jewishness nor my Jewish identity. For over two thousand years, Jews have celebrated this holiday marking the rededication of the Temple and the victory of Judah Maccabee. History tells us that in those two millennia there have been many moments — perhaps most moments — far more challenging than Detroit, Michigan, in The Year of Someone Else’s Lord 2025.

This is not to say antisemitism doesn’t exist or that everything is okay. Even I can’t muster that level of nativity-adjacent naivety. But it is okay to feel joy. It is okay to celebrate. It is okay to be silly and laugh and overindulge in fried foods. It is okay to say publicly and proudly that it is a gift to be Jewish and to celebrate a minor holiday commemorating an ancient candelabrum.

I could say that if we don’t put our menorah in the window “the antisemites win,” but the truth is simpler: this holiday — and my Jewishness — don’t belong to them. They belong to me. So, as Peter, Paul and Mary taught me, I will light some candles “for the Maccabee children.” But really, I’ll be lighting them for myself. And my family. And for everyone walking past a house that’s making the shortest days of the year just a little bit brighter.

Chag sameach, and happy Hanukkah!