Parashat Mikeitz opens with a phrase that is easy to pass over but difficult to dismiss once we pause long enough to sit with it: “At the end of two full years.” Two years of waiting. Two years of silence. Two years in which nothing visible changed for Joseph, even though much was taking shape beyond what he could see.

Joseph did not arrive in prison because of failure or poor judgment. He arrived there because he refused to betray who he was. He chose integrity over advancement and faithfulness over convenience, and he paid the price for it. By the time we reach this week’s portion, Joseph has been forgotten by the very man who once promised to remember him. From a human perspective, it looks like abandonment. From God’s perspective, it was a matter of timing.

When Pharaoh dreams, the limits of human power are quietly revealed. Egypt, the most advanced empire of its time, built on order, knowledge, and control, discovers that none of its systems can reach the truth it now needs. Its magicians and sages fall silent, not because they lack intelligence, but because truth does not submit to human authority. Power can organize a world, but it cannot interpret God’s purposes.

Only then does memory return. The chief cupbearer remembers Joseph not because his conscience suddenly awakens, but because the moment demands it. What had seemed like neglect now appears differently. Had Joseph been remembered earlier, he might never have stood before Pharaoh. What Joseph experienced as delay was, in truth, God holding the moment until it was time.

When Joseph is brought from the pit to the palace, the Torah offers no dramatic buildup. There is no attempt to defend himself, no effort to reclaim dignity, no subtle demand for recognition. Joseph speaks simply and directly.

It is not in me; God will give Pharaoh an answer of peace.
Genesis 41:16

These words reveal who Joseph has become. He does not seize the moment to elevate himself or reframe his suffering as qualification. He understands that wisdom is not something he possesses, but something entrusted to him. Joseph knows that only God reveals what is hidden, and only God can bring peace where fear has taken hold.

He reinforces this again when explaining the dreams.

What God is about to do He has shown to Pharaoh.
Genesis 41:28 

Joseph refuses to turn revelation into personal achievement. He does not present foresight as talent or insight as intelligence. He points, consistently and without drama, back to God. That kind of humility is not instinctive. It is formed in places where recognition is absent and patience is required.

Pharaoh’s response is striking. A man regarded as divine by his own people recognizes that something beyond him is at work.

Can we find a man like this, in whom is the Spirit of God?
Genesis 41:38 

This is not a confession of faith, but it is an acknowledgment of reality. Pharaoh recognizes that discernment detached from God has limits, and that authority without truth is fragile. Joseph is elevated not because he sought influence, but because truth could no longer be ignored.

The Haftarah from Zechariah speaks into the same tension. The people have returned from exile, but rebuilding feels slow and uncertain. The Temple stands unfinished. The work feels heavier than expected. Into that moment, God offers a necessary correction.

“Not by might nor by power, but by My Spirit,” says the Lord of hosts.
Zechariah 4:6 

This is not a comforting phrase meant to quiet frustration. It is a reminder of how God works. What is driven by force may advance quickly, but it rarely lasts. What is sustained by God’s Spirit often moves slowly, but it endures. The menorah burns not because human hands constantly intervene, but because God Himself ensures the flow.

This is why Shabbat Chanukah belongs naturally with these readings. Chanukah is not primarily a story of military success. It is a story of resistance to erasure. The Greek world did not always aim to eliminate Jewish life outright. More often, it attempted to redefine it. Jewish practice could remain, as long as it no longer carried covenantal weight. Identity was permitted, but only once it was emptied of responsibility and meaning.

The Maccabees refused that offer. Like Joseph, they were not the strongest or the most numerous. They were simply unwilling to surrender who they were in order to live more comfortably. Their victory did not come through dominance, but through devotion. The light they kindled outlasted an empire that believed itself permanent.

We live in days that recognize this kind of pressure. It rarely announces itself loudly. More often, it whispers. Adjust your language. Soften your convictions. Keep your faith private. Be reasonable. Be quiet. Be acceptable. Truth is tolerated only when it no longer asks anything of us.

Parashat Mikeitz reminds us that God often does His deepest work when His people feel confined, overlooked, or delayed. Zechariah reminds us that what endures is never sustained by force alone. Chanukah reminds us that faithfulness, even when it seems small, carries weight beyond what can be measured.

Joseph did not design his rise. The Maccabees did not calculate their victory. Those who rebuilt the Temple did not rely on strength alone. And we are not asked to manufacture outcomes either.

We are asked to remain faithful, to speak truth without insisting on immediate affirmation, and to trust that seasons of waiting are not without purpose.

Because when the moment comes, when certainty gives way and answers are needed, God remembers. And the light that was sustained quietly will be the light that guides the way forward.

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Chanukah Sameach!

Moran