Light Amid So Much Darkness: Parashat Miketz, Shabbat Hanukkah.

Light Amid So Much Darkness

Parashat Miketz, Shabbat Hanukkah. Kol Shalom, 2025

On this Shabbat Hanukkah we read Parashat Miketz, a portion that speaks of endings and 

beginnings, of unexpected turns, of darkness transformed into possibility, and of dreams 

that—even in the deepest night—announce a dawn.

Miketz literally means “at the end,” placing us at that critical moment when there seems 

to be no way out. Joseph is in prison—forgotten, silenced. The world around him is 

opaque, unjust, and violent. Yet it is precisely from that place of confinement and shadow 

that a new reality begins to take shape.

It is no coincidence that Miketz coincides with Hanukkah. 

Both narratives teach us that light does not emerge when everything is orderly and calm, 

but precisely when darkness seems to have prevailed. Joseph does not leave prison by 

force, but through his ability to interpret dreams—to find meaning where others see only 

confusion. 

The Maccabees, similarly, were not the most powerful army nor did they possess the 

greatest resources. But they had moral clarity, faith, and a deep conviction that identity 

and freedom are not negotiable.

Hanukkah celebrates the heroism of the Maccabees and their struggle for freedom. It was 

not only a military battle; it was a spiritual and moral affirmation. 

They fought to live according to their identity, to study, pray, and transmit values without 

imposition or humiliation. Their victory teaches us that freedom is not a permanent gift; it 

is a responsibility that each generation must defend. Like Joseph before Pharaoh, they 

remained faithful to who they were even when the cost was high.

But let us not deceive ourselves into thinking that hatred of Jews was born in the time of 

the Seleucid Greeks. Long before Hellenism, and long after it, there have always been 

ideologies and tyrants who singled us out as a threat. Already in Egypt, with a Pharaoh 

who “did not know Joseph,” we see how fear of the other turns into persecution. The 

names, the languages, and the pretexts change, but the mechanism is the same: to 

dehumanize, isolate, blame, to spread lies and false narratives that lead to violence. 

Jewish history is also the history of resisting these forces again and again.

Today, that antisemitism once again shows itself without masks. The attack last Sunday in 

Bondi Beach, Australia, shakes us and causes deep pain. It is neither an isolated nor a 

distant event. It is a reminder that hatred kills, and that indifference enables it. 

Just as in ancient times there were those who dreamed of erasing Jewish difference, today 

we see the reemergence of discourses that normalize violence and relativize antisemitism.

Faced with this social disease, tepid statements and cautious silences are not enough. 

It is imperative that leaders and governments be clear and effective in combating 

antisemitism—clear in naming it without euphemisms, and effective in preventing, 

protecting, and punishing. 

When hatred encounters no firm boundaries, it spreads. 

The Torah teaches us that power without moral responsibility is dangerous, and that true 

authority is measured by the protection of the most vulnerable.

Here emerges another central teaching of Hanukkah: the role of those who are not 

Jewish. Recent history offers us examples of moral courage—people who understand that 

it is not enough to watch and do nothing. Like Ahmed al Ahmed, the Muslim owner of a 

fruit stand, who chose to act, who understood that human dignity allows no spectators. 

His gesture reminds us that the fight against hatred is not only a Jewish problem, but an 

ethical test for all of humanity.

Also, we honor the memory of Boris Gurman. He fought with one of the terrorists but was 

murdered together with his wife Sophy.

No one is saved alone. We need one another. This is a truth that is deeply Jewish and 

deeply human. 

Joseph is not saved on his own: he needs the cupbearer to remember him, Pharaoh to 

listen, and a society willing to change. 

The Hanukiah, like the Menorah in the Temple, too, is not lit with a single candle and left 

that way; each night we add another. Light grows because it is shared, because it 

Multiplies.

The Haftarah of this Shabbat offers us a powerful vision from the prophet Zechariah: 

a menorah sustained not by might nor by power, but by spirit. “Not by might and not by 

power, but by My spirit, says the Eternal.”

It is a vision of hope for a world weary of violence—a world that needs fewer weapons 

and more light, less hatred and greater moral responsibility.

This is, for me, the final message of Hanukkah, the Jewish Festival of Light: 

This light must never be extinguished. On the contrary, it must grow. 

In the face of the darkness of hatred, violence, and terror, we respond with greater 

commitment, greater courage, and greater light. 

May we know how to kindle it, protect it, and multiply it, together, until Zechariah’s vision 

ceases to be merely a prophecy and finally becomes reality.

Shabbat Shalom and Hanukkah Sameach