Parashat Miketz: Lighting Our Dreams, One Flame at a Time

We continue to live through days marked by loss, fear, and an uncertainty that seems relentless. We keep trying—without fully succeeding—to make sense of the violence directed against identity, today against the Jewish people, even as we know that this logic of hatred never stops with one name and ultimately threatens every form of difference. And yet, even in the depths of pain, something refuses to be extinguished. 

The day after a brutal attack, while grief still burned in every gesture, the Jewish community of Sydney gathered once again on Bondi Beach. Alongside them stood many non-Jews who defend religious freedom and freedom of expression. It was not a political rally nor an act of violent defiance. It was the lighting of another Chanuka candle. That quiet, stubborn act captures one of the most profound responses of our people throughout history: not to deny the darkness, but to insist on lighting a flame within it. To affirm, with humility and conviction, that even a small spark can pierce the deepest night. And above all, to remain faithful to our traditions, laws, and customs while living side by side with those around us, being inclusive to them in our daily lives—both in times of joy and in moments of personal introspection.

Perhaps that is why the Torah gave us the commandment of a perpetual light. First in the menorah of the Temple—witness to the miracle of Hanukkah—and later in every synagogue, through the Ner Tamid, the eternal flame that never goes out. Not as ritual decoration, but as an ethical reminder: never to surrender to darkness.

When the Talmud describes how the Hanukkah lights are kindled (Shabbat 21b), it offers far more than a technical instruction. It presents a philosophy of life:

“The Sages taught: The basic mitzvah of Hanukkah is that each day a person lights one lamp for himself and his household.

And those who are mehadrin—meticulous in fulfilling mitzvot—light one lamp for each member of the household.

And those who are mehadrin min hamehadrin adjust the number of lamps each day.

Beit Shammai and Beit Hillel disagree as you know: Beit Shammai says that on the first day eight lights are lit and thereafter the number decreases. Beit Hillel says that on the first day one light is lit, and thereafter the number increases until eight are lit on the final day.

There are disagreements—welcome disagreements—about how to regulate light. The basic commandment is simple: a light in every home for eight days. Over time, other approaches emerged, until the view of Beit Hillel prevailed. We add light each day, and we relight the flames of the previous days as well. It is hard not to see in this a mirror of our own lives. We can live measuring what has been lost, what is running out, what is missing. Or we can choose to treat each day as an opportunity to add clarity, meaning, and responsibility to our personal and collective story. Tradition chose—and invites us to choose—the latter.

The Talmud then asks another question: until what time may the Hanukkah lights be lit? And the answer is as poetic as it is halakhic (Shabbat 21b):

“The mitzvah is from sunset until pedestrian traffic ceases in the marketplace.”

And the Gemara asks: Until when exactly? Rabba bar bar Hana said in the name of Rabbi Yohanan: “Until the foot traffic of the people of Tadmor—the tarmoda’ei—has ceased.”

Who were the people of Tadmor?

Rashi explains (Shabbat 21b:4:1): “The tarmoda’ei were wood sellers. They remained in the marketplace until people returned home after nightfall, lit their fires, and, if they needed more wood, went out again to buy from the tarmoda’ei.”

They are those who remain outside, waiting for someone to come and buy wood. Those who, despite having everything needed to be surrounded by light themselves, choose to stay in the discomfort of the night in order to serve someone else who needs light.

This image is deeply moving. As long as they are still out there, the night is not over. As long as there is someone who needs light, we are still in time to kindle it. Our Sages later taught that even if we were unable to light the candles at the proper time, we are still allowed to fulfill the mitzvah until dawn.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, taught an idea that resonates profoundly with this image. Quoting his father-in-law, he explained that a chasid is like an old-fashioned lamplighter: someone who walks with a flame at the end of a long pole, igniting lamps that are already there, waiting to be lit. The fire does not belong to him. He does not create it. He carries it—and his task is not to keep it for himself.

To see ourselves as lamplighters is not a naïve metaphor. Especially in this times of deep darkness, when the temptation to retreat into our own pain, anger, or fear is strong. Yet we carry a fire that is not ours—and precisely for that reason, it cannot be owned or hoarded. It is the fire of an ancient tradition: the covenant of Abraham, the tablets of Moses, the lessons of the wilderness, the story of our land. It is the music of George Gershwin, the brilliance of Einstein, the dialogue of Martin Buber, the ethical and political vision of Herzl—and even today, the State of Israel’s relentless work in developing technologies and cures that serve all humanity, not only the Jewish people.

It is the sustaining power of community, the mitzvot that ease another’s suffering, a language that refused to die, a calendar that teaches us to experience every climate of the soul: joy and mourning, self-examination and forgiveness, responsibility and commitment to the most vulnerable.

With that fire—one that does not belong to us but lives within us—we are called to go out and ignite.

It is no coincidence that Hanukkah speaks, year after year, with Parashat Miketz. There, the Torah introduces us to a world of dreams—not as escape, but as disruption. Pharaoh dreams and is terrified; Joseph dreams, interprets, and acts. When listened to responsibly, a dream can become a source of salvation.

Joseph is no longer the naïve youth who spoke without considering the consequences. He is a man shaped by prison, loneliness, and forgetfulness. He has developed deep emotional maturity: he can read another’s fear, give words to inner chaos, and translate it into ethical action. As Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch teaches, Joseph’s greatness lies not in technical skill, but in moral capacity—the ability to turn a disturbing vision into a plan that protects life, as he did with Pharaoh.

True leadership does not deny fear; it acknowledges it and organizes reality so that fear does not become destruction.

Joseph’s reunion with his brothers further exposes the complexity of our most intimate relationships. There is no quick reconciliation, no sentimental resolution. There are tests, silences, hidden tears. It is a profoundly emotional narrative: the past erupts into the present, painful and unresolved, demanding time. The Torah does not idealize brotherhood; it portrays it as wounded, yet open to transformation.

This reunion is not only familial—it is paradigmatic. It speaks of fractured communities, of identities that no longer recognize one another, of brothers divided by irreconcilable narratives. Joseph does not seek revenge, but he does not rush forgiveness either. He needs to know whether something has changed—in them, and in himself.

Miketz leaves us with difficult but necessary questions: What do we do with our collective fears? How do we lead without denying anguish? How do we hold the complexity of the relationships that define us? How do we dare to dream without fleeing reality?

To dream, in this parashah, is to imagine a different future in the midst of darkness—exactly what we do when we light one more candle each night of Hanukkah.

As we light the sixth flame today, let us affirm that light grows precisely when darkness insists.

May the flames we kindle be not only symbols, but an active commitment to human dignity, memory, and the non-negotiable demand for freedom.

Jag HaUrim Sameach. Happy Hanukkah. Shabbat Shalom U’Mevorach.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier