Parashat Miketz almost always coincides with Hanukkah, and that “almost always” is itself a kind of commentary. It prompts the question: what happens when the Torah’s story of Yosef occurs alongside the lights of the menorah?
Miketz begins in utter darkness. Yosef is imprisoned, forgotten after years marked by betrayal and disappointment. Pharaoh, the most powerful man in the region, suddenly feels helpless before his own dreams; none of Egypt’s experts can interpret them. From that darkness, in a single dramatic moment, Yosef is pulled out of the pit, shaved, clothed, and brought before the king. Overnight, he rises from obscurity to authority, from confinement to command.
That narrative arc reflects the spiritual journey of Hanukkah. Historically, Hanukkah arises from a period of oppression, desecration, and fear. The Beit HaMikdash is defiled, Jewish practices are suppressed, and darkness covers the people. Then, through the bravery of a few and the unlikely endurance of a single jar of oil, light is reignited. In both Miketz and Hanukkah, the transition isn’t gradual; it’s a sudden change from night to day, from uncertainty to clarity, from “no way out” to a new path opening.
Yet there is a striking difference. In Miketz, there is no overt miracle. There is no sea splitting, no plague, no visible suspension of the natural order. What there is, is providence: the “accident” of forgotten dreams suddenly remembered, the timing of Pharaoh’s nightmares, the exact skill set that Yosef happens to have developed, the wisdom that Pharaoh happens to value. The text lets these events stand as political and psychological developments, but Yosef insists, “Bil’adai, Elokim ya’aneh” – “It is not me; God will answer.” (Genesis 41:16) The miracle is hidden in the fabric of history.
Hanukkah is well known as the holiday of both visible and hidden miracles. The “small” miracle of the oil is obvious: one day’s supply lasts for eight days. The “large” miracle—a small group defeating a powerful empire and a minority culture surviving against great odds—can be shared as a straightforward military and political story. Part of Hanukkah’s spiritual purpose is to train the eye to recognize divine presence in what might be dismissed as just good strategy, luck, or coincidence. When read together, Miketz and Hanukkah teach that most redemption resembles Yosef’s story: a series of seemingly natural events that, in hindsight, reveal God’s subtle hand at work.
There is another resonance that makes their pairing so powerful today. When we meet Yosef in Miketz, he is no longer the naive teenager in a striped coat. He carries an Egyptian name, Tzafnat Päneach. He speaks through an interpreter. He marries into Egyptian elite society and handles the empire’s economic policy. On the surface, he has fully assimilated. Yet underneath that exterior, Yosef remains the son of Yaakov, still viewing reality through a covenantal lens, still invoking the God of his fathers in Pharaoh’s throne room.
Hanukkah, by contrast, is the story of resistance to assimilation. It remembers Jews who refused to let Hellenistic culture erase their unique practices, language, and history. If Yosef represents the challenge of maintaining an inner Jewish identity while navigating a foreign world, the Maccabees represent the challenge of knowing when to say “no,” when the cost of outward assimilation becomes too great. The frequent overlap of Miketz and Hanukkah on the calendar prompts a dialog: How can a Jew live successfully within the broader culture like Yosef, without losing the courage and boundaries of the Maccabees? Where is the line between presence and erasure, between integration and surrender?
The Halakhah of Hanukkah candles adds an extra layer. The ideal, is to place the menorah at the entrance facing the public area to “pirsumei nisa,” publicize the miracle outward. However, when there is danger, the Gemara permits lighting on the table inside. The light must shine, but sometimes it shines quietly, inwardly, protected.
Yosef’s story in Miketz is, in many ways, a story of an “indoor menorah.” His faith burns inside a very Egyptian exterior. It is not loud. It is not wrapped in overt Jewish symbols. But it is real enough that when the decisive moment comes, he can say without hesitation, “It is God who interprets dreams,” and he can act out a plan that preserves not only Egypt but ultimately his own family. The Maccabees’ menorah is the opposite – dragged into the public square of history, defiantly visible. Jewish life needs both: the deep, quiet, enduring light of inner faith, and the bold, outward-facing light of visible mitzvah and communal courage.
Finally, the very first word of our parashah, “Miketz sh’natayim yamim” – “At the end of two years” – speaks directly to Hanukkah’s message. There is always a “miketz,” an end point that cannot be seen from within the darkness. Yosef could not know which day in prison would be his last. The Hasmoneans could not know which night the oil would finally burn out. Yet both stories insist that the end of the darkness is already on God’s calendar long before humans see it.
As Miketz and Hanukkah almost always converge, they share a common lesson: do not confuse delay with abandonment; do not mistake hiddenness for absence. Keep tending the small lights – the quiet acts of integrity in foreign courts, the stubborn candles in the window – because at some unknowable “miketz,” a door will open, a dream will clarify, a new chapter will begin.
May learning Miketz alongside Hanukkah help nurture both lights within the soul: the Yosef light that trusts in God’s unseen guidance through the complexities of the world, and the Hanukkah light that proudly and publicly insists that Jewish presence and Torah cannot be extinguished.
