How Jews Celebrate Christmas

If you know, you know.

photo: Dad Grass/Unsplash

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You can also listen to the podcast version of this essay on Apple Podcasts, YouTube Music, YouTube, and Spotify.

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Christmas, for Jews, has always been less about nativity scenes and more about survival scenes.

Whether it was surviving our first awkward encounter with Santa at the mall, or the existential dread of explaining to our kids why the biggest holiday of the year isn’t ours, Jewish Christmas has become a tradition of subversion and humor.

In the wake of October 7th, the stakes feel higher. The world is intense.

But even as Jewish identity feels heavier, Christmas remains a light-hearted reminder that we can take a break from doom-scrolling and focus on the important things — like wondering whether kugel could win in a cooking contest against eggnog.

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Historically, Jews and Christmas have been playing a weird game of cultural tag. In the medieval period, Jews were often forced to stay indoors on Christmas Eve, leading to the tradition of Nittel Nacht, a mystical night of Torah abstention and playing cards. Because nothing says “resistance” like a rousing game of gin rummy.

Fast forward a few centuries, and Jewish songwriters somehow became the unofficial composers of Christmas. Irving Berlin, a Jew, gifted the world “White Christmas.” Johnny Marks, also Jewish, wrote “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” It’s as if Jews collectively decided: “Fine, if we can’t celebrate it, we’ll monetize it.”

This delightful irony plays out today as Jews belt out “All I Want for Christmas Is You” with the same fervor as if it was part of Israel’s national anthem, Hatikvah.

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Chanukah in Israel feels like the festival was made for the land itself — a celebration that doesn’t just light up windows but the entire country. Here, it’s not just a holiday tucked into the corners of a larger culture. It spills into the streets, woven into the rhythm of daily life.

Every bakery competes for the fluffiest, most over-the-top sufganiyah¹, filling their windows with rows of jelly, chocolate, and halva-stuffed delights that somehow disappear faster than they can be restocked.

Menorahs aren’t confined to the inside of homes. In Israel, even bars and restaurants get in on the Chanukah spirit. As the sun sets, staff and patrons gather around a menorah perched on the bar or by the entrance. Someone strikes a match, and suddenly the whole place pauses — glasses lowered, conversations hushed — as the blessings are sung together.

It’s a moment of shared warmth, where strangers become a little closer, united by flickering candles and ancient words. And once the menorah is glowing, the celebration flows right back into the night — with a little more light, laughter, and maybe an extra round of sufganiyot² on the house.

And then there’s the sense of unity. In Israel, lighting candles feels less like a personal ritual and more like a communal heartbeat. From Tel Aviv’s bustling streets to Jerusalem’s ancient alleyways, each flame is part of something bigger.

Public candle lightings draw crowds to city centers, music echoes through the air, and the story of the Maccabees isn’t just retold — it feels alive, embedded in the very ground beneath your feet.

Chanukah in Israel is special because it feels like home. The holiday isn’t just about remembering a miracle — it’s about living it. In a land where survival and resilience are part of the everyday story, the light of Chanukah feels like more than tradition. It feels like a promise.

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This year, in our post-October 7th world, the mood is different. The events in Israel have forced many Jews into deep reflection about identity and resilience.

For the Diaspora, Christmas feels like a strange mirror — a world enveloped in lights and cheer while many of us are grappling with heavier questions about safety, community, and the complexity of Jewish life.

Still, there’s something deeply Jewish about leaning into humor and ritual as a form of coping.

This year, Jewish families actually have something to look forward to on Christmas Day — the first night of Chanukah. As the world settles in for holiday movies and eggnog, we’ll be lighting candles, spinning dreidels, and piling our plates high with latkes.

It’s a rare moment when the Jewish calendar aligns with the mainstream one, reminding us that even in the darkest times, there’s light, warmth, and a good reason to break out the applesauce and sour cream.

There’s something powerful about standing in front of the menorah, knowing that for over two thousand years, Jews have gathered to celebrate this very miracle.

This year, it feels especially significant. Lighting those candles isn’t just a ritual — it’s a reminder that even when the world feels heavy, we still show up, we still kindle light, and we still find reasons to celebrate.

Each flicker carries with it prayers not just for miracles of the past, but for the return of those still held hostage in Gaza since October 7th.

Chanukah has always been a story of survival and defiance, and as we stand in front of the menorah, we’re reminded that the light we kindle isn’t just for us. It’s for those who can’t light their own candles this year, for the families waiting, and for a hope that refuses to burn out.

And maybe that’s the quiet power of this rare overlap — a reminder that even as the world celebrates, we hold space for grief and joy, for latkes and longing, for gelt and for grace. Because to be Jewish has always meant holding it all at once — and finding ways to keep the flames alive, even in the darkest of times.

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1. Jelly doughnuts traditionally eaten during Chanukah

2. Plural for sufganiyah (Jelly doughnuts traditionally eaten during Chanukah)