In this week’s Torah portion Joseph is raised from the prison to be the viceroy of Egypt. At no time does he deny is Judaism. That is the lesson that we should be proud of our heritage.
When we last left Yosef, he was sitting in an Egyptian prison. He had helped the cupbearer interpret his dream and asked only one thing in return: remember me. Yet the Torah tells us, “The chief cupbearer did not remember Yosef; he forgot him”—for two full years.
How could that be? Yosef literally saved this man’s life. But the answer is painfully simple and deeply human: most people are concerned primarily with themselves. Once the cupbearer was restored to his position and back in Pharaoh’s good graces, Yosef no longer mattered to him.
There is another layer here. When Yosef identifies himself, he says, “I am a Hebrew, from the land of the Hebrews.” That is a strange way to answer—but an important one. Yosef openly identifies as a Jew. The cupbearer doesn’t care about justice or gratitude; he cares only about his own standing with Pharaoh. Yosef, the Hebrew prisoner, is expendable.
This teaches an enduring lesson for us as Jews. We may have friends in the world who appear to support us—but often they do so for their own reasons, not because it is morally right. There are exceptions, but they are rare. We should never confuse convenience with loyalty.
There is a famous story about Jeane Kirkpatrick, the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations under President Ronald Reagan. While visiting Israel, she was asked, “What do we have to do to get the world to like us?” She replied, “Commit suicide—but I don’t recommend it. There’s no future in it.”
The point is sharp and uncomfortable: if Jews chase the love of the world, we will never achieve it. But if we do what we must do—with self-respect and moral clarity—we will earn respect, even if not affection.
Yosef had to learn this lesson. Ultimately, he understood that everything comes from God, not from human favors. Only when the cupbearer needed Yosef—when Pharaoh was disturbed by his dreams—did he suddenly “remember” him.
And significantly, when the Torah later begins the Book of Exodus, it tells us that a new Pharaoh arose “who did not know Yosef.” The commentators debate whether this was literally a new Pharaoh or the same one who chose to forget what Egypt owed Yosef and the Jewish people. Either way, the message is the same: gratitude is fragile, especially when Jews rely on it.
It is no coincidence that Parashat Miketz always falls during Chanukah. Chanukah is not primarily about a war against the Greeks. The Hebrew text is very precise: it speaks of the Mityavnim—the Hellenized Jews, the assimilationists. The real battle was internal: would Judaism remain Judaism, or dissolve into Greek culture?
Yosef faced that same test. After years in prison, he emerged mature and spiritually aware, ready to stand before Pharaoh openly as a Jew, without compromise. The Chashmonaim did the same—fighting not just for survival, but for Jewish identity and spiritual integrity.
That is the shared message of Miketz and Chanukah:
Do not seek approval.
Do not rely on favors.
Stand with self-respect, faith, and clarity—and let the outcome rest in God’s hands.
Something to think about.
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