Parashat Vayeshev: From Darkness to Miracle

This Shabbat, Parashat Vayeshev brings us once again the story of Yosef—a story where inner light coexists with betrayal, and where light ultimately confronts the deepest darkness. And this year, as we prepare to light the first Hanukkah candle on Sunday night, that contrast between light and darkness takes on an even more urgent meaning. We are not just reading an ancient text; we are reading the world. 

Lighting the Hanukkah lights is both a spiritual and political act. It is an affirmation that even when we are pushed to the edge, even when others attempt to define who we are, our light does not negotiate its existence. Hanukkah reminds us that Jewish continuity has never been linear or comfortable: it arose from debates, tensions, resistance, courage, and difficult decisions. The miracle was not merely that the oil lasted eight days; the miracle was that there were Jews capable of lighting it even under oppression.

In Vayeshev, one of the most human and painful family scenes in the Torah unfolds: Yaakov’s explicit preference for Yosef, symbolized by the ktonet passim—a garment that, though born of love, wounds. Yosef possesses dreams, visions, sensitivity… yet his light becomes a threat to his brothers. The consequence is brutal: he is thrown into a pit, torn from his home, rendered invisible.

And it is impossible not to hear, in that pit, the echo of contemporary darkness. The tunnels where so many were held captive, in total darkness: “the six beautiful,” whose videos we saw yesterday. Spaces created to dehumanize, to break spirits, to erase dignity. And yet, in those images—as in Yosef—a light shines that no darkness could extinguish: the light of humanity, courage, and the Jewish people who, even in the deepest darkness, do not surrender.

They have returned to Israel for a dignified burial. Yet not all have returned. There remains a child of our people still in the shadows: the body of police officer Ran Gvili (z”l), who left his home on October 7 to protect lives. His dedication embodies what Yosef represents in the Torah: light that insists on existing. For him, for his family, and for all those still awaiting justice, we cannot stay silent. To light candles without raising our voices would betray Hanukkah’s profound message. Hanukkah is not just light; it is resistance.

Returning to the text, Yosef’s dreams—his soul’s language, his spiritual intuition—were interpreted by his brothers as provocation. This is where hatred begins. When the light of another is perceived as a threat, violence follows. This ancient dynamic repeats itself painfully today. We see how global antisemitism distorts our light: our desire to live, our right to defend ourselves, our collective identity. They would silence us. But we are not a silent people.

Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Rebbe of Piaseczno—whose light burned even in the Warsaw Ghetto—interpreted the dream of the sheaves with a play on words: aluma (sheaf) and ilem (mute). He taught, “It is not the same to choose silence as to be forced into it.” Today, the world tries to make the Jewish people mute: to not protest for our captives, to not denounce terrorism, to not assert our right to exist. But we are not ilem. We are not destined for silence. We light Hanukkah candles to make the light visible, not to hide it in the kitchen.

Just as Yosef maintained his Hebrew identity in an Egyptian prison—so much so that the chief cupbearer forgot his name but knew he was Hebrew—so too are we called to maintain ours in a world that again demands we hide. If Yosef did not relinquish his identity in that dungeon, how can we do so here, in freedom?

I think of the Jews of the Kovno Ghetto asking Rabbi Efraim Asheri whether they should place mezuzot or if they could light a fire on Shabbat. Jews on the brink of death seeking to know what Judaism expected of them. With what right can we say we are “too tired” to uphold our Jewish life?

This, too, is Hanukkah’s message. Under Greek rule, many abandoned Torah, seduced by Hellenistic culture. To resist then required spiritual courage. And it does today. Maintaining our identity, our mitzvot, our public voice, demands strength and bravery. But history assures us that even a single flame is enough to begin conquering the night.

This year, more than ever, may we draw inspiration from Yosef—his light unextinguished by pit or prison—Yaakov—the ethical call to reflect on how our actions impact the lives and dignity of those we love—and Hanukkah—the triumph of identity over oppression—to sustain each other.

May our light be clear.

May our voice be firm.

And may our hope be stronger than any darkness.

Chag Urim Sameach—may we have a joyful celebration of the Festival of Lights.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Gustavo Geier