It began with a pig.
Aristobulus and Hyrcanus, two Hasmonean brothers, were locked in a bitter and destructive civil war. A century after the Maccabean revolt that we celebrate on Hanukkah, Aristobulus controlled the Temple Mount while Hyrcanus held the surrounding countryside. They hated each other, but they had managed a fragile truce: Those inside the city lowered a bucket of money through the walls, and those outside sent up kosher animals for the Temple sacrifices.
For a time, it worked. Messengers continued the careful exchange of money and animals. Even in the thick of a bitter fight, they worked together, aware that sacred rituals carried the weight of eternity, while their conflict was tied to a moment in time.
Then, on the urging of a traitor, the messengers on the outside sent a pig — a grotesque desecration. As its hooves scraped the sacred walls of Jerusalem, the earth itself quaked in rage. What little unity the brothers had managed to muster crumbled in an instant. Whispers inspired by enemies of the Jewish people further stoked the fire, urging both sides to see each other not just as rivals but as existential threats.
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That word — existential — captures why the story feels so relevant now. What divides us today also feels existential. The stakes are real, and so is the fear. It is easy to see how Aristobulus and Hyrcanus each came to believe they were fighting for their very survival. And in the end, neither won. Both fell to the forces waiting to exploit their division.
This story, told in the Talmud (Menachot 64b), has long been seen as a cautionary tale. When we factionalize, the rabbis warn, we weaken ourselves. We become easy prey for those who seek to destroy us. But while the story offers a sharp diagnosis, it does not offer a remedy. It tells us what went wrong, but it does not tell us how to hold ourselves together. And that is the harder question: How do we keep from repeating this story? How do we preserve the ties that bind us?
It begins with choosing our messengers wisely. Whose voices shape the way we see each other, our world, and ourselves? Whose messages carry the most weight? And what becomes of us when we lose sight of what truly threatens us — and of the sacred ties that are meant to hold us together?
When conflicts feel existential, we often look for warriors. The Maccabees were warriors, and for a moment in history, they were exactly what was needed. Warriors fight with clarity and urgency; they win battles that feel impossible. But by their very nature, warriors see the other as the enemy. They are not concerned with how we hold ourselves together once the war is over.
Today, politicians often serve as messengers. Politicians too have their place. They can build coalitions and keep the machinery of government moving. But politicians are, by necessity, focused on being popular. They need to win the moment, again and again, even if that means making decisions that serve short-term goals at the expense of our long-term purpose.
The present moment, I would suggest, is one for rabbis. Not because they have all the answers, but because they know how to ask the right questions. Rabbis do not ask us to erase our differences, but to hold them alongside the ties that make us a people. They remind us of what we are striving to preserve — our connection to Torah, to the divine, and to one another.
Finding that kind of rabbi takes effort, and you may have to seek them out. Maybe it is the rabbi who greets you even if you only show up once a year. Or the one whose words stayed with you longer than you expected. Maybe it is a rabbi you have never met but whose teaching or presence you’ve heard about from someone you trust. Maybe you’ll have to ask: “Do you know a rabbi who gets it?”
While rabbis like this can remind us of our shared purpose, the work of holding us together is still ours. We are the ones who send down the money for the sacrifices, and who refrain from sending a pig in return. It is on all of us to resist letting whispers of betrayal or anger break the sacred bonds between us. Trusted leaders help us stay focused on what truly matters, but it is up to us to keep those ties strong.
This Hanukkah, as we watch the flames flicker in our windows, we can choose to see the reflection of all of us, everywhere, who are lighting these holy lights. It is not easy work; the whispers of division are loud, and the temptation to pull away is strong. Each candle is a quiet defiance of division, a commitment to the sacred ties that make us a people. We are the ones who pass this light, through struggles and disagreements, because it connects us to something far greater than ourselves. May these flames guide us — not just through the darkness, but back to one another.
This article initially appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Shabbat newsletter Recharge on December 14, 2024. To sign up to receive Recharge each week in your inbox, click here.
