Where the Light Comes From: Why Chanukkah Is Really About the Source, Not the Flame
Tuma, Tahara, and the Hidden Meaning of the Eight Days
There is a famous question of the Beis Yosef about the miracle of Chanukkah. Why, he wonders, is Chanukkah an eight-day holiday? Shouldn’t it really be a seven-day holiday?
After all, there was enough oil for one day — so the first day was not miraculous. In other words: let’s say all the oil burned on the first day, and then for the next seven days the Menorah burned “on fumes.” That means there was nothing miraculous about day one and everything miraculous about the next seven.
That is the Beis Yosef’s question — and it is quite famous (at least in certain circles). A lot of ink has been spilled dealing with and answering it. And it would seem a shame to spill any ink on it.
That is why I’m going to write this digitally.
In other words — I have “my” answer to this question. Now, I don’t really know if it is my answer or not, since I have not taken the time to skim (let alone learn) all the various approaches to this question.
So it may not be “mine” in the sense of being unique. And who knows — it may not even be “mine” in the sense of my having come up with it. For all I know, I heard this idea in some sicha some time in some place, and later on I thought I discovered it.
But it is certainly mine in the sense that I resonate with it. I like it, and I think it is true. Of course, I also believe there may be other true answers — but this is the true answer that most speaks to me.
And I hope it speaks to you too.
Here goes.
A Simple Approach
I have a simple method for approaching this problem: read the story as it is presented in the Gemara in Shabbos 21b, and notice what the Gemara itself chooses to emphasize.
We’ll start (almost) at the beginning — from the moment the Greeks enter the Heichal of the Beis HaMikdash. We are told that when they entered, they made all the oils in the Heichal tamei:
שֶׁכְּשֶׁנִּכְנְסוּ יְוָוֽנִים לַהֵיכָל טִמְּאוּ כׇּל הַשְּׁמָנִים שֶׁבַּהֵיכָל
Now, that is interesting.
Did the Greeks purposely make the oil tamei, or did it just happen as a byproduct of ransacking the place? And if it was on purpose — then why? Why not just spill out all the oil, or take it with them? (I’m sure oil had some financial value.)
So that is our first question:
Question #1: Assuming the Greeks purposely made all the oil tamei, why? What was in it for them to “defile” the oil of the Beis HaMikdash?
Let’s continue with the story.
At this point we have a major military success: the Chashmonaim regain control of the Beis HaMikdash. And then it says they searched and found only one small jar of oil which still had the seal of the Kohen Gadol on it:
כשֶׁגָּבְרָה מַלְכוּת בֵּית חַשְׁמוֹנַאי וְנִצְּחוּם, בָּדְקוּ וְלֹא מָצְאוּ אֶלָּא פַּךְ אֶחָד שֶׁל שֶׁמֶן שֶׁהָיָה מוּנָּח בְּחוֹתָמוֹ שֶׁל כֹּהֵן גָּדוֹל
In other words, they found a jar that had not been opened and therefore was still tahor (see Tosafos if you have any halachic questions here).
That is all nice and good — but now I have a second question. Why did they search? Why the bedikah?
After all, the halachah is that they could use tamei oil until such time as they were able to acquire tahor oil. There are halachic principles here — “onus Rachmana patra,” and the idea that under certain circumstances public service can continue even when conditions aren’t ideal. So why the big insistence?
And let me conjecture what is meant by “bedikah.” I think of something like what we do when we do bedikas chametz. There, we are enjoined to search in every nook and cranny. Any place there might be chametz — we check.
So too here: they checked every nook and cranny of the Beis HaMikdash. Any and every place there might be oil — they checked.
Why?
So this is our second question:
Question #2: If it was halachically acceptable to use tamei oil, why make such a big issue out of it? Why the need to search for tahor oil?
And we’ll add one last question:
Question #3: Is there a deeper, substantive connection between the search for the oil and the miracle of Chanukkah?
Obviously on a technical level there is. If you don’t have oil, you don’t have anything to light. But is there something deeper than that — something essential?
So, all in all:
Why did the Greeks purposely make the oil tamei?
Why did the Chashmonaim insist on searching for tahor oil?
Is there a deeper connection between the search and the miracle?
It’s in the Story
I would like to suggest that the answer is found right within the story itself — in the way the Gemara tells it.
Here is the next line:
וְלֹא הָיָה בּוֹ אֶלָּא לְהַדְלִיק יוֹם אֶחָד. נַעֲשָׂה בּוֹ נֵס וְהִדְלִיקוּ מִמֶּנּוּ שְׁמוֹנָה יָמִים
“There wasn’t in it enough oil except for one day. A miracle was done with it, and they lit from it for eight days.”
It is that small little pronoun — “it.”
To see it, let’s rewrite the line without the emphasis:
“There was only enough oil to last one day. But a miracle happened, and they had eight days of light.”
Look at that. We can tell the story without constantly referring back to this small jar. But when the Gemara tells the story, it does refer back to it — three times:
There was not enough in it except to light for one day.
There was made with it a miracle.
And they lit from it eight days.
There is something unique — or special — or dare we say miraculous — about this jar of oil. If we can find out what that “something” is, then I would like to suggest we have found our eighth miracle.
Because right now we only have seven miracles (the seven extra days). We need an eighth miracle if we are going to celebrate eight days.
And I believe it is hiding here: in this jar.
So what is so miraculous about this jar of oil?
A Simple Answer — and Why It’s Not the Full Answer
We could say, of course, that its very existence is miraculous: the Greeks overlooked it. And I think there is truth in that.
As I understand the story, the Greeks purposely and methodically attempted to make all the oil tamei. We still don’t know why, but at least we can conjecture that they did.
And the Greeks were a serious army. Organized. Dedicated. They almost reached 100%. They almost got every single jar.
We know because it required a bedikah to find the one little jar. It required searching in the nooks and crannies of the Beis HaMikdash.
And yet somehow — they missed one.
So yes, there is a miracle there.
But I don’t think that is the full miracle. I think that is only half of it.
The other half is to be found in the bedikah itself — and it is connected to our second question: why did they search? Why was it so important to them?
And the answer to that, I believe, is found in our first question: why did the Greeks care. And I would like to suggest that they cared — because they “cared” about tuma and tahara.
Why? We’ll get there. But first we need to understand these two words in and of themselves.
Because hidden inside those two words is, I would like to suggest, the essence of this hidden miracle. Because in some ways, the war itself was a war over tumah and taharah.
“Tamei into the Hands of Tahor”
Note the Al HaNissim prayer we say on Chanukkah. In it, we thank G-d for handing over:
the mighty into the hands of the weak (גבורים ביד חלשים)
the many into the hands of the few (רבים ביד מעטים)
the tamei into the hands of the tahorim (טמאים ביד טהורים)
the wicked into the hands of the righteous (רשעים ביד צדיקים)
the wanton into the hands of those involved in Torah (זדים ביד עוסקי תורתך)
I get the first two elements in this list.
That the weak beat the mighty — that is a miracle.
That the few beat the many — another miracle.
And I can even make sense of the last two:
That the righteous beat the wicked and that those involved in Torah overcame those who acted with wanton disregard for the Torah.
But “the tamei into the hands of the tahorim.”
What?
Is there something miraculous about tahor defeating tamei? Does being tamei give you a military advantage? Should we train soldiers to touch sheratzim before battle?
No idea yet — but evidently, there was something either miraculous or deeply meaningful about this.
Note those two words: miraculous and meaningful.
What I am suggesting is that some of the items on our “list” are noteworthy because they were miraculous — such as a small, weaker force defeating a larger, stronger one. But others are noteworthy because they were meaningful — such as revealing what the war was really about.
I believe that that is the case with tuma and tahara. Something about tuma and tahara reveal what this war was about. As such, if we can figure out what the relationship between tuma and tahara and this war, we can find our eighth miracle.
Moving Beyond English
If we are going to tackle this, we have to move beyond mere words and less-than-ideal English translations. Writing the words tahor and tamei in italics doesn’t tell us anything. And the fact that there is no good English translation doesn’t help either.
And adding the word “ritual” before pure or impure often misleads more than it enlightens.
In English, the word “pure” often has the sense of a foreign element being mixed in.
So “pure water” means other elements in the water — dirt, particles, contaminants — have been filtered out. They are no longer mixed in. “Impure” means they are still there.
And note: it doesn’t matter whether we can see those foreign elements. Purity or impurity is determined by their presence or absence — regardless of our awareness.
Is that what tumah and taharah mean?
If so, what does it mean to be “ritually” pure? What foreign elements are being mixed in with our ritual acts?
There is another meaning of pure and impure in English: intent.
If I help someone because I genuinely care, we say my intentions are pure. If I help them to get something from them, we say my intentions are impure.
In this usage, “pure/impure” is not about mixture. It is about what is behind the action — what is more fundamental, driving, and motivating it.
So we go back to our phrase: “ritually pure.” Could we understand this in the sense of our intent when we perform mitzvos that don’t obviously have a rational or moral purpose. In that sense, one could try to say that tumah and taharah relate to kavanah — intent.
This sounds like a good contender. It feels right.
But here is the key question:
Is it actually right?
Not so clear.
Because how does one become tahor or tamei? Not via one’s intent, but through contact with certain realities — the classic example being contact with a dead body.
In other words: let a Kohen light the Menorah with the purest intent in the world, with passion and sincerity. But if either he or the oil had contact with death, then he or the oil is tamei.
So as appealing as it is, tahor and tamei seem to have nothing to do with intent.
And so it is with other English meanings of “pure” and “impure”:
Purity as being clean or hygienic.
Purity as being natural or unprocessed.
Purity as being innocent or sinless.
Purity as being perfect, ideal, or unblemished.
Purity as being focused or undistracted.
Purity as being exclusive or unshared.
Purity as being sacred or holy.
For each of these meanings, we can show it does not map onto the halachic category of tumah and taharah.
And that may itself be our hint.
Death, Holiness, and Light
At the end of the day, tumah and taharah may not be irrational, but they are very hard for the rational mind to relate to at all.
Love is not rational, but we can see it exists. So too passion, beauty, desire. None are rational, but they clearly make their mark on the world.
But tumah and taharah — do these things even exist? Are they part of the world we actually live in?
As far as the Greeks (and others) were (and still are) concerned: clearly not. What difference does it make if you were in a tent with a dead body when you light the Menorah? It makes no difference whatsoever.
That was (and still is) the Greek attitude.
Now, Greeks can make peace with quaint “nonsense.” They can look at it with superiority and condescension. A harmless charm.
But that’s only if it’s harmless.
If, on the other hand, they see it as dangerous — as holding us back — then they oppose it.
And that, I believe, is exactly what happened.
Because the Greeks passionately believed in the need and benefits of rationality. Or put differently: they valued light. They believed in light. One might even say they worshipped light.
And then the Jews come along and say: there is this invisible, non-sensical thing called tumah and taharah that affects whether the Menorah can be lit. If the oil is tahor you can light. If it is tamei you cannot — exceptional circumstances notwithstanding.
So one aspect of the battle was about the source of light. Does this world of tuma and tahara exist, and does it affect the kind of light we can bring into the world — the kind of insight and illumination we can have?
The Jews said yes.
The Greeks said no.
And they fought over that yes and no.
To understand this, though, we have to go back to the dead body — and the tumah it imparts.
A Glance at Death
I remember many years ago a friend of mine related an experience. He was on a bus in Mexico. Traffic was backed up for a long time. There had been a terrible accident.
Eventually traffic eased and the bus started moving. As it passed the scene, my friend glanced — and what he saw sent a shudder down his spine.
On the side of the road lay a man — dead. He didn’t see the face. Just the outline. A blanket covered the entire body. That’s how he knew.
That was it — a momentary glance. But it made an effect. Not trauma for life, but an impression. A negative impression.
Now ask: when he returned to class the next day, could he focus?
If it was math, could he understand the formula? If it was history, could he remember facts? If it was English, could he write creatively?
The Greek answer is: yes. Of course. Thinking is thinking. Reason is reason. A glimpse of death doesn’t change the logic of an equation.
But the Torah says: no — there is an effect.
Not necessarily an effect in the realm of ordinary cognition, but an effect in an aspect of reality the Greeks were blind to: holiness.
Where Tuma and Tahara Actually Matter
Let us note for a second: where does it really matter whether something is tahor or tamei?
It is in the world of things that are holy — things that participate in kedushah.
Terumah
Terumah may only be eaten by a Kohen who is tahor. Tuma does not change the food itself; it disqualifies the person from consuming something holy.Karbanot (Kodashim)
Offerings must be brought, handled, and eaten in a state of tahara. Tuma does not reflect a defect in the animal or the owner’s intent; it limits participation in the sacrificial domain.The Avodah in the Beis HaMikdash
A Kohen who is tamei may not perform the avodah, regardless of righteousness or sincerity. Tuma functions as a boundary for engaging in Divine service.Entry into the Beis HaMikdash
Certain forms of tuma bar entry. The restriction reflects the sanctity of the space, not moral failure.Sacred vessels and objects
Vessels designated for holy use can become tamei and require specific procedures to be restored. Their practical function remains intact; their sacred status does not.
What Is Not Affected by Tuma and Tahara
Ordinary food (chullin)
Moral standing or righteousness
Intent, emotion, or sincerity
Intellectual or spiritual insight
In short: tuma and tahara do not describe physical conditions, moral worth, or psychological states — they regulate access to the domains of holiness.
In other words, we do not allow death to enter the realm of the holy.
When we connect to the Divine — the ultimate source of life and existence — we do so from a perspective of life. And if we have come into contact with death, we surround ourselves with an element associated with life — water — and then re-enter the realm of holiness.
We immerse in a mikvah — enveloped in life — and then engage with the holy.
So far, I don’t think the Greeks would necessarily object. They may not see the need, but I doubt they would fight a war over it.
But that changes when it comes to the Menorah.
The Menorah Is Different
The Menorah is holy. It is in the Holy Temple. Its oil must be tahor. It too must have no connection to death.
And here the Torah is saying something radical: the ability of the Menorah to shine — not physically, but spiritually — is tainted by contact with death.
This is where the Greeks said no.
This, they felt, holds us back intellectually.
We can almost hear an echo of the serpent in the garden: G-d is holding you back. He doesn’t want you to open your eyes.
In other words, the Greeks saw in Torah something that would limit our ability to “shine light” into the world — to understand it, to be inspired by it, to discover within it.
And as such, they attacked.
Not merely the Jews physically, but the Jewish perspective on death and light.
It is as if they said: if you want to keep death away from sacrifices, fine. But if you want to say death affects light — that we cannot allow. That is anti-intellectual. That cannot stand.
And the problem for us is that at first glance, it seems they have a point.
What is the connection between tuma (read: death) and light?
What the Greeks Missed
It seems obvious that we can understand the world regardless of our interaction with death. Not everything obvious is true — but let’s grant it for a moment.
Even then, something is missing.
There is more to the mind than understanding. There is also discovery and inspiration. I may be capable of understanding a math equation, but that does not mean I can discover one.
And there is also influence. I may love an idea, but it does not follow that I can ignite that love in someone else.
In other words, if we want a world of light, we need more than cognition. We need revelation — the emergence of truths that were hidden. We need inspiration — the ability to see possibilities and to move others to see them too.
And this is one of the Torah’s key insights: holiness is not just something we do. It is an awareness of reality and a way of interacting with it.
But it is also a dangerous realm. We are entering the world of the Divine, and how we enter affects how we see.
This is where we have to understand kedushah.
Kedushah, Death, and the Source of Light
Let me now address the deeper issue that underlies all of this: what holiness (kedushah) actually is.
Here is a working definition. Kedushah refers to those items, actions, and spaces that are dedicated to helping us connect to, perceive, and understand God. In other words, when we enter the world of holiness, we are entering the realm of the ultimate — that which stands behind everything that exists.
And it may very well be that this itself is part of the fundamental disagreement with the Greeks: whether reality has an ultimate, transcendent foundation, and whether human beings can meaningfully relate to it.
The Torah’s claim is that when we bring death into this realm, it has consequences — not merely emotional ones, but real effects. It affects three things at once:
What we can discover in the realm of holiness
What we can understand within it
Our ability to influence others, to inspire them, and to draw them toward that reality
Some may argue that this has no bearing on areas like mathematics or science — and perhaps they are right. But I am not so sure. It may be possible to formulate a serious hypothesis that even in those domains, immersion in death ultimately blinds creativity and insight.
But even if one grants the Greek their claim in the sciences, the Torah insists on something else: when it comes to the Divine, when it comes to ultimate meaning, there must be a separation. If death is allowed to intrude, our vision of reality becomes distorted. We may still function, but we will not truly see. We will understand less, and our influence will be diminished.
And here we arrive at one of the most remarkable features of Torah — and, indeed, of Chanukkah itself.
The miracle of Chanukkah has had an outsized influence on the world. It has inspired people to act, to sacrifice, to see possibilities they would otherwise never see. Inspiration itself is a form of light. It moves people. It opens their eyes.
It allows one to see that a small minority can defeat a vast empire.
That the weak can overcome the mighty.
That a morally constrained group can defeat a powerful but corrupt force.
That those devoted to Torah can overcome those who act wantonly against it.
This is not merely a military insight. It is a way of seeing the world.
And it is a way of seeing that spread do to those who deeply believed in and dediated themselves to the reality of tuma and tahara — after all, it was a Kohein who started the revolt against the Greeks.
And with this, let us return to the war itself.
The War Over Tumah and Taharah
When the Greeks entered the Beis HaMikdash, they did not destroy the oil. On the contrary — they left it. “Light all you want,” they seemed to say. “Have as much oil as you like.”
But don’t tell us that it matters whether that oil is tahor or tamei.
And so they deliberately made it tamei.
Not because they believed in tuma.
But because they believed it was meaningless.
This was their way of dismissing and delegitimizing the entire concept. A way of saying: this does not exist. And now — go ahead and light your Menorah.
But when the Chashmonaim began to experience victory — when the tahor defeated the tamei, when the weak, moral, Torah-committed minority overcame the powerful Greek empire — they understood something.
They understood that this war was really about tuma and tahara.
And therefore, it could not be that all the tahor oil was gone.
It must be, they said, that God left something behind.
And so they searched.
And they found.
And this itself was the first miracle.
The First Miracle: Seeing the Banner
The word nes does not merely mean “miracle.” In Tanach, it also means a banner — something raised high in war to signal direction, purpose, and meaning.
A nes shows people where to go.
The ability to believe — against all odds — that there must still be tahor oil, that holiness has not been extinguished, that death has not won — that itself is a kind of nes. As the Gemara relates:
נַעֲשָׂה בּוֹ נֵס
A miracle (nes) was done with it
And the fact that this belief proved true — that they actually found the flask — completes that miracle (read: nes).
This is the first day of Chanukkah.
The existence of tahor oil at all was already miraculous. And it is that type of light which burns beyond what the Greek view of light would allow. The Greeks may obtain facts, but they cannot reach the heart and souls like the Maccabees did. They cannot create a 2,200 (and counting) holiday. They cannot bring light into the darkness.
But the light that comes from the belief that G-d wants the source of our light to be tahor — that light will keep on shining.
In the Besi HaMikdash it will shine for seven more days.
In history — it will shine for eternity.