Sarah Silverman and Adam Sandler Go Head-to-Head Over Hanukkah’s Real Story

Max Sterling, 12/12/2025 Hanukkah is history’s greatest remix: part underdog brawl, part miraculous glow-up. Whether you crave ancient revolt or jelly donuts, this festival flickers between spiritual rebellion and Detroit’s epic menorahs—proof that “Jewish December” is never just one story, but a celebration that burns on its own terms.

One can’t help but notice, Hanukkah never seems to settle in for a regular date. Some years, it plays tag with Christmas; other times, it ambushes Thanksgiving leftovers. The culprit? The Hebrew calendar, a piece of lunar stubbornness that ties Hanukkah to the 25th of Kislev. That date? It slips and slides through the Western calendar like an eel—sometimes late November, sometimes deep into December. Mark the calendar for 2025: candles are set to make their debut on Sunday, December 14, stretching into the 22nd, as if putting Christmas on notice.

But ask anyone—what exactly *is* being celebrated? Here the story splits down two paths, both rich and, frankly, ripe for debate.

First, the action-movie version: the Maccabees, a family of Judean fighters, scrappy as they come, taking down the might of King Antiochus IV. This wasn’t a neighborhood squabble; it was tradition versus assimilation, holy land versus Hellenism. Picture something between Rocky and Braveheart, infused with ancient prayers and the clang of swords. The underdog narrative’s been massaged and mythologized, but the core survives: victory against overwhelming odds.

Then comes the oil—one thin jug, barely enough for a single night, managing to burn for eight. The loaves and fishes of Hanukkah, if you will. Remarkably, this plot twist appears not in the original Books of the Maccabees (which gather dust outside most Jewish Bibles), but in the Talmud, where later rabbis gave miracles top billing. According to historian Malka Simkovich, Hanukkah became less a tribute to military prowess and more a celebration of stubborn light—an unconditional, even contrarian, optimism amid gloom. The rabbis, it seems, chose light over might.

Each generation weighs in, redrafting Hanukkah to suit its mood. The muscle-versus-miracle tension, oddly enough, is as alive in 2025 as it was centuries ago. Consider the American experiment: When 19th-century rabbis like Isaac M. Wise and Max Lilienthal got hold of Hanukkah, they reframed it for U.S. soil. Out went the fire and brimstone, in came playful rituals, songs, and the sort of sugar-fueled festivities that could keep pace with Christmas. Lilienthal himself wrote, “We must do something, too, to enliven our children... a grand and glorious Chanukah festival nicer than any Christmas festival.” Brand management before it was called such, with latkes as the primary deliverable.

Not that the food’s changed much—fried potato latkes remain central, though the applesauce-versus-sour cream split still borders on religious schism. And then come the sufganiyot, those gleefully jelly-filled donuts. These get served up as if every doctor in Michigan suddenly went on vacation. Gift-giving isn’t carved in stone (sometimes it's one for each night, other years families just riff on whatever Santa’s delivering next door), but it’s become part of the fabric.

The menorah morphs for the season, technically renamed the hanukkiah, sprouting nine branches—this isn’t biblical semantics, it’s practical storytelling. The extra candle, the shamash, stands guard to light the rest, each night a fresh act of defiance against winter’s encroaching darkness.

Somewhere nearby, there’s dreidel. Four Hebrew letters—Nun, Gimel, Hey, Shin. The game itself? All luck, zero skill, but heavy on nostalgia. The letters mean, “A great miracle happened there,” unless you’re in Israel, where “there” becomes “here,” and the whole thing turns oddly territorial. In every family, there’s someone convinced they’ve decoded the mathematical odds, but really, it’s an excuse for a little friendly gambling—Chanukah style.

But Hanukkah’s knack for reinvention didn’t stop at America’s shores. Come the 20th century and the rise of political Zionism, the festival got another paint job. In Israel, gone was the emphasis on miraculous light alone; the Maccabees’ military triumph got pumped for nationalist pride. The holiday started to serve as a flex—a nod to sovereignty, self-determination, muscle over metaphor. The candlelighting ceremonies in Tel Aviv? Those double as reminders of hard-won independence.

Not everyone cheered. As early as 1900, Hasidic leaders in Sanz denounced the Zionist “desanctification” of Hanukkah, reportedly tearing down Stars of David in protest—a fitful tug-of-war over meaning that refuses to dim. Even now, the debate lingers. Does Hanukkah canonize conquest or kindle spirits through the dark? Some point to the Book of Zechariah—“Not by military might and not by physical power, but by My spirit, says the Lord of Hosts.” Others shrug off such nuances and just want another round of latkes.

Still, on the streets—certainly in Detroit this year—the holiday lives by its traditions, not its ideological quarrels. The city’s menorahs illuminate cold squares, synagogues and community centers swing open their doors, and families, both old-school and new-to-Hanukkah, gather around tables. Fried food flows; arguments crackle (usually about the candles instead of geopolitics), and kids try to outlast the adults when it comes to keeping their eyes open to watch every last candle gutter and fade.

Hanukkah’s true genius might not lie in miracles or military victories, but in its capacity to absorb what the world throws at it—adapt, reflect, push back, survive. The debates will continue, flaring and fading like the candles themselves. And perhaps that’s as it should be; a festival that’s never quite finished, always alive, and always just a little out of reach. Maybe, if you squint through the smoke and the laughter, you’ll see a miracle happened there—again.

As evening creeps across downtown Detroit, the city’s own metal colossus—a Guinness-honored menorah, broad-shouldered and unapologetically oversized—waits for that first spark. The plaza’s lit with anticipation more than actual candles at this stage. There are kids juggling foil-wrapped chocolate coins, grownups and little ones alike trying to see who’ll catch the warmest gust of candlelight first. It’s a typical December bite in the air, but the laughter is enough to take the edge off. Then, with a rabbi stepping up and a microphone in hand, Detroit pauses to let Hanukkah—this shifting, multifaceted festival—take center stage. Competitive candle-watching, it turns out, might as well be the city’s unofficial winter sport.One can’t help but notice, Hanukkah never seems to settle in for a regular date. Some years, it plays tag with Christmas; other times, it ambushes Thanksgiving leftovers. The culprit? The Hebrew calendar, a piece of lunar stubbornness that ties Hanukkah to the 25th of Kislev. That date? It slips and slides through the Western calendar like an eel—sometimes late November, sometimes deep into December. Mark the calendar for 2025: candles are set to make their debut on Sunday, December 14, stretching into the 22nd, as if putting Christmas on notice.But ask anyone—what exactly *is* being celebrated? Here the story splits down two paths, both rich and, frankly, ripe for debate.First, the action-movie version: the Maccabees, a family of Judean fighters, scrappy as they come, taking down the might of King Antiochus IV. This wasn’t a neighborhood squabble; it was tradition versus assimilation, holy land versus Hellenism. Picture something between Rocky and Braveheart, infused with ancient prayers and the clang of swords. The underdog narrative’s been massaged and mythologized, but the core survives: victory against overwhelming odds.Then comes the oil—one thin jug, barely enough for a single night, managing to burn for eight. The loaves and fishes of Hanukkah, if you will. Remarkably, this plot twist appears not in the original Books of the Maccabees (which gather dust outside most Jewish Bibles), but in the Talmud, where later rabbis gave miracles top billing. According to historian Malka Simkovich, Hanukkah became less a tribute to military prowess and more a celebration of stubborn light—an unconditional, even contrarian, optimism amid gloom. The rabbis, it seems, chose light over might.Each generation weighs in, redrafting Hanukkah to suit its mood. The muscle-versus-miracle tension, oddly enough, is as alive in 2025 as it was centuries ago. Consider the American experiment: When 19th-century rabbis like Isaac M. Wise and Max Lilienthal got hold of Hanukkah, they reframed it for U.S. soil. Out went the fire and brimstone, in came playful rituals, songs, and the sort of sugar-fueled festivities that could keep pace with Christmas. Lilienthal himself wrote, “We must do something, too, to enliven our children... a grand and glorious Chanukah festival nicer than any Christmas festival.” Brand management before it was called such, with latkes as the primary deliverable.Not that the food’s changed much—fried potato latkes remain central, though the applesauce-versus-sour cream split still borders on religious schism. And then come the sufganiyot, those gleefully jelly-filled donuts. These get served up as if every doctor in Michigan suddenly went on vacation. Gift-giving isn’t carved in stone (sometimes it's one for each night, other years families just riff on whatever Santa’s delivering next door), but it’s become part of the fabric.The menorah morphs for the season, technically renamed the hanukkiah, sprouting nine branches—this isn’t biblical semantics, it’s practical storytelling. The extra candle, the shamash, stands guard to light the rest, each night a fresh act of defiance against winter’s encroaching darkness.Somewhere nearby, there’s dreidel. Four Hebrew letters—Nun, Gimel, Hey, Shin. The game itself? All luck, zero skill, but heavy on nostalgia. The letters mean, “A great miracle happened there,” unless you’re in Israel, where “there” becomes “here,” and the whole thing turns oddly territorial. In every family, there’s someone convinced they’ve decoded the mathematical odds, but really, it’s an excuse for a little friendly gambling—Chanukah style.But Hanukkah’s knack for reinvention didn’t stop at America’s shores. Come the 20th century and the rise of political Zionism, the festival got another paint job. In Israel, gone was the emphasis on miraculous light alone; the Maccabees’ military triumph got pumped for nationalist pride. The holiday started to serve as a flex—a nod to sovereignty, self-determination, muscle over metaphor. The candlelighting ceremonies in Tel Aviv? Those double as reminders of hard-won independence.Not everyone cheered. As early as 1900, Hasidic leaders in Sanz denounced the Zionist “desanctification” of Hanukkah, reportedly tearing down Stars of David in protest—a fitful tug-of-war over meaning that refuses to dim. Even now, the debate lingers. Does Hanukkah canonize conquest or kindle spirits through the dark? Some point to the Book of Zechariah—“Not by military might and not by physical power, but by My spirit, says the Lord of Hosts.” Others shrug off such nuances and just want another round of latkes.Still, on the streets—certainly in Detroit this year—the holiday lives by its traditions, not its ideological quarrels. The city’s menorahs illuminate cold squares, synagogues and community centers swing open their doors, and families, both old-school and new-to-Hanukkah, gather around tables. Fried food flows; arguments crackle (usually about the candles instead of geopolitics), and kids try to outlast the adults when it comes to keeping their eyes open to watch every last candle gutter and fade.Hanukkah’s true genius might not lie in miracles or military victories, but in its capacity to absorb what the world throws at it—adapt, reflect, push back, survive. The debates will continue, flaring and fading like the candles themselves. And perhaps that’s as it should be; a festival that’s never quite finished, always alive, and always just a little out of reach. Maybe, if you squint through the smoke and the laughter, you’ll see a miracle happened there—again.