Every year when Hanukkah arrives, I stand in my living room holding a menorah and face a decision that feels both ordinary and profound. I could carry it to our dining room table, where my family gathers for meals, where the light would belong to us alone. Or I could place it on the small table by our front window, where these flames will announce themselves to every passerby on the street.

Jewish law doesn't leave this choice to sentiment. The menorah belongs at the window table, facing out. Two thousand years ago, the rabbis gave this obligation a name: Pirsumei Nisa, publicizing the miracle. They wanted those flames visible to the maximum number of passersby, announcing to the world: Something extraordinary happened here.

This makes Hanukkah unlike anything else on the Jewish calendar. Passover gathers us around family tables. Yom Kippur unfolds within synagogue walls. But Hanukkah demands a public face. It insists we place our faith where neighbors can see it, where strangers walking dogs at dusk might glance up and notice eight........

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