Parashat Miketz opens with a dramatic shift in Joseph’s story. After years of imprisonment and obscurity, Pharaoh’s troubling dreams propel Joseph from the depths of the dungeon to the centre of power in a single day. The Torah tells us that it is “at the end of two full years” that Pharaoh dreams, reminding us that waiting, uncertainty, and silence are themselves part of the process of becoming. Our sages in the Talmud note that Joseph’s release did not come simply because he was skilled or righteous, but because the moment was finally ripe. Redemption, they teach, arrives not when we demand it, but when the time is right.
The dreams themselves are unsettling. Seven years of abundance followed by seven years of devastating famine. Joseph’s greatness lies not only in interpreting the dreams, but in what he does next. He plans. The Talmud in Berakhot teaches that wisdom is not merely insight, but foresight. Joseph understands that spiritual awareness must be paired with responsible action. Faith without preparation is incomplete. He urges Pharaoh to store grain during the good years so that lives may be saved during the hard ones.
This balance between trust and responsibility feels especially relevant today. We live in an age marked by unpredictability. Political instability, economic anxiety, rising antisemitism, and global conflict have left many communities feeling exposed and vulnerable. Like Pharaoh, we sense that something is wrong, even if we cannot always articulate it clearly. Like Joseph, we are challenged to respond not with panic or denial, but with moral clarity, communal responsibility, and long term vision.
Miketz is also a parashah of recognition and misrecognition. Joseph’s brothers stand before him in Egypt and do not know who he is. The Talmud reflects that sometimes the greatest truths stand directly in front of us, yet we fail to recognise them because they do not appear in the form we expect. Joseph, too, must confront his past, testing whether his brothers have changed, whether they are capable of responsibility and compassion. Healing, the sages teach, requires not only forgiveness, but transformation.
As we read Miketz, we are in the midst of Chanukah, the festival of light kindled in the face of darkness. Chanukah is often remembered for its miracles, but the Talmud emphasises that the primary mitzvah is to light the candles in a way that publicises hope. The light is small, fragile, and easily extinguished, yet we are commanded to place it where it can be seen by others. This is not a private comfort, but a public declaration that darkness does not have the final word.
Joseph’s rise in Miketz mirrors this Chanukah message. From a prison cell to the palace, from forgotten to indispensable, Joseph becomes a source of light not only for Egypt, but for surrounding nations. His leadership saves countless lives. He does not abandon his values in power, nor does he forget the suffering that shaped him. Instead, he uses his position to preserve life, dignity, and hope.
This message feels especially urgent in light of the horrific attack on the Jewish community at Bondi Beach in Australia, where people had gathered to commemorate Chanukah. A moment meant for light, memory, and unity was met with violence and hatred. Such events shake us deeply. They remind us that antisemitism is not confined to history books, and that even celebrations of joy can become targets.
Yet Miketz and Chanukah together refuse to let fear define the narrative. Joseph does not allow betrayal to harden his heart. The Maccabees do not abandon their faith because of threat or oppression. And we, as a people, are called to respond not by retreating into darkness, but by strengthening our light.
Lighting Chanukah candles after such events takes on added meaning. It becomes an act of defiance against hatred and an affirmation of life. Each flame says that Jewish presence, memory, and continuity will not be extinguished. Each flame honours those harmed by violence and recommits us to building communities rooted in compassion, resilience, and mutual care.
Miketz teaches us that preparation saves lives, that leadership requires moral courage, and that moments of crisis can become turning points. Chanukah teaches us that even a small light matters when the world feels dark. Together, they challenge us to ask how we are storing hope for the future, how we are caring for one another in uncertain times, and how we can ensure that our light is visible, shared, and enduring.
May this week inspire us to respond to fear with wisdom, to hatred with solidarity, and to darkness with acts of light. May the memories of those harmed by violence strengthen our resolve to live openly, proudly, and compassionately as a Jewish community. And may the light we kindle this Chanukah continue to shine long after the candles themselves have burned down.