The real reason Jews don't have more Hanukkah music is that

Host: The record store glowed dimly beneath flickering neon, the air rich with the scent of vinyl, dust, and nostalgia. The snow outside drifted in slow, lazy spirals, melting into tiny halos against the windowpane. Inside, the soft crackle of a jazz record filled the quiet — the kind of music that sounds like memory itself.

In the corner, by the section marked HOLIDAY – VARIOUS ARTISTS, Jack stood flipping through records. His fingers brushed over album covers of Santa, snow, and sentiment, one after another — the soundtrack of a season the whole world seemed to hum together.

At the listening booth across from him, Jeeny placed a record on the turntable. She smiled, humming along to a familiar tune — that warm, impossible melody:
"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”

The song faded into the hiss of the record’s end. She looked up, half amused.

Jeeny: grinning
“Matisyahu once said, ‘The real reason Jews don't have more Hanukkah music is that, historically, American Jewish singer-songwriters were too busy making Christmas music. “White Christmas,” “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Silver Bells,” and “The Christmas Song” were all written by Jews.’”

Jack: chuckling, shaking his head
“That’s irony wrapped in tinsel, isn’t it? The songs that define Christmas — written by people who didn’t even celebrate it.”

Jeeny: laughing softly, pulling up another record sleeve
“I think it’s beautiful, actually. It says something about connection. About imagination. You don’t have to belong to something to find the magic in it.”

Host: The neon sign outside blinked red and green, casting color across their faces — half Christmas glow, half urban melancholy. The snow thickened, muffling the sounds of the city beyond.

Jack: thoughtful now, flipping through the records slower
“Maybe it’s proof that culture isn’t about ownership — it’s about participation. Irving Berlin didn’t write ‘White Christmas’ for himself. He wrote it for everyone.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly, leaning against the counter
“Exactly. The holiday songs weren’t about religion. They were about longing — for peace, warmth, home. Feelings anyone could recognize, no matter what name they gave God.”

Jack: nodding
“Maybe that’s what makes them timeless. They weren’t hymns; they were prayers disguised as melodies.”

Host: The record store lights flickered again, the music changing — now “Silver Bells”, soft and tender, playing through a slightly warped speaker. The sound filled the space like a ghost of every December that ever was.

Jeeny: quietly, her tone shifting toward reflection
“I think that’s what Matisyahu was really saying — that music transcends the boundaries it was born into. Jewish writers gave the world its soundtrack for Christmas, not because they wanted to belong, but because they already did — as storytellers, as dreamers.”

Jack: leaning back against a shelf, arms crossed, eyes distant
“Yeah. Maybe they understood better than anyone what it means to hope for light in the darkness. Hanukkah, Christmas — both about that, really. Flames, faith, survival. The rest is just packaging.”

Jeeny: softly, smiling
“Different candles. Same fire.”

Host: The record crackled, then skipped — a small imperfection that somehow made the moment more real. The smell of old paper sleeves and static electricity filled the air.

Jack: grinning suddenly
“You know, it’s funny. We talk about these songs like they belong to America, but really — they belong to the world. A Jewish immigrant writes ‘White Christmas’ during a time of war, and suddenly, millions of strangers find comfort in his melody. That’s not coincidence. That’s empathy with a rhythm.”

Jeeny: nodding slowly
“It’s also survival through creation. When you’ve known exile, loss, displacement — you learn how to turn your pain into someone else’s joy.”

Jack: quietly, almost to himself
“Music as a bridge between wounds and wonder.”

Host: The snow outside deepened, the window now misted over with condensation. Inside, their reflections shimmered faintly on the glass — two figures surrounded by records, light, and history.

Jeeny: softly, changing the record
“You ever notice how none of those songs talk about Jesus? They talk about snow, bells, fireplaces. They talk about the feeling of peace — not the theology of it.”

Jack: smiling
“Exactly. It’s the universal Christmas — the kind that belongs to the lonely, the hopeful, the in-between.”

Jeeny: laughing softly
“Sounds a lot like being human.”

Host: The new record began — “White Christmas”, its melody slow and tender. Bing Crosby’s voice filled the space, nostalgic and trembling with emotion.

Jack: after a long pause, his voice quiet
“Maybe that’s the real miracle of it all — how people who felt like outsiders ended up writing the soundtrack for belonging.”

Jeeny: gazing at him, her eyes kind and bright
“Because they understood what it means to yearn for home — even if home is just a feeling that comes and goes with a melody.”

Host: The song swelled softly, filling the empty aisles with warmth. Outside, the snow caught the neon light and turned it into a blur of color — like the world itself was softly exhaling.

Jack: whispering, as if to the music itself
“Funny, isn’t it? All this talk of holidays and faith — and in the end, it’s art that unites us. Words, notes, rhythm. The closest thing we have to shared prayer.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“Maybe that’s what Matisyahu’s point was — that creation is the truest form of worship. It’s how we build bridges without even meaning to.”

Jack: nodding, his eyes lost in the spinning record
“And how we remind ourselves — no matter the season — that we’re all just trying to make something beautiful out of being human.”

Host: The music faded to silence, replaced by the gentle scratch of the needle spinning at the end of the groove.

Jeeny stood, lifting the arm of the turntable with care. The world outside was all white now — clean, forgiving, endless.

Jack: after a pause, quietly
“So, Jeeny… Christmas or Hanukkah?”

Jeeny: smiling as she turned off the record player
“Both. I like any holiday that teaches us to light something small in the dark.”

Host: The neon light hummed softly, casting them in red and green, warmth and reflection.

And as they stepped toward the window, the snow falling heavier now, the world seemed to hum along with them — an unseen harmony born of irony, faith, and art.

And in that gentle silence, Matisyahu’s words shimmered with truth:

That identity is not limitation — it’s contribution.
That faith and art are not opposites — they are languages of light.
And that the holiest music might just be the kind that makes strangers feel at home.

Jeeny: softly, watching the snow
“In the end, it’s all one song, isn’t it?”

Jack: smiling
“One song, a million verses.”

Host: Outside, the night fell tenderly — a world covered in white, written by hands that knew what it meant to keep singing in the dark.