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The Torah states that the pit that Joseph was thrown into had no water. The Midrash states that it had snakes & Scorpions. This teaches us that without Torah (symbolized here by water) you will end up with snakes & scorpions.

That’s a rich and meaningful reflection — beautifully showing how midrash, story, and even cultural history all weave together into a single lesson about Torah and spiritual life.

Here’s a quick summary and some elaboration on the main ideas you touched on:

1. Yosef in the Pit — “The Pit Was Empty, There Was No Water” (Bereishit 37:24)
The Torah’s detail that “the pit was empty, there was no water” seems unnecessary unless it teaches something deeper. The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 84:16, Rashi brings it as well) says:

“There was no water in it — but there were snakes and scorpions.”

This teaches that spiritual emptiness never stays empty. When there isn’t mayim (symbol of Torah), other things — symbolized by snakes and scorpions — inevitably fill the void. It’s a powerful lesson about the human soul and about societies in general: if we don’t fill ourselves with Torah values, with meaning and holiness, then something else — often dangerous or destructive — takes its place.

2. The Idea of Filling the Void — Bais Yaakov and “Our Sto”
You connected this to the historical example of the Beis Yaakov movement, when teaching Torah to girls was controversial. The rabbinic response, often attributed to figures like the Chafetz Chaim, was “Better our sto than their sto” — meaning, better that Jewish girls gain their worldview (hashkafah) from Torah sources than from worldly or secular philosophies. Again, if Torah doesn’t fill the void, something else will.

3. The Golem Story and Jewish “Science Fiction”
Your connection to the Golem of Prague story and Rabbi Dr. Schneur Leiman’s research is also insightful. The 19th-century version of the Golem legend seems to have been written to engage Jewish youth who were increasingly drawn to secular European science fiction — Jules Verne, Mary Shelley, and so on. So the author created a kind of Jewish fantasy literature to re-inspire interest in Judaism. Once more, even storytelling becomes a tool for filling the “void” with something positive and connected to Torah, rather than letting outside influences take over.

4. The Takeaway
The image of the pit — empty of water, full of snakes — becomes a metaphor for our inner spiritual lives and education. If we don’t consciously fill our minds and environments with Torah — moral clarity, faith, acts of kindness — then confusion, cynicism, or harmful ideas can creep in.

It’s not about closing ourselves off from the world; it’s about grounding ourselves so that when we engage with it, we do so from a place of Torah, purpose, and discernment.

You ended with a wonderful line:

“We can look at the world always, but remember the basis of our knowledge has to be what’s in the Torah.”

Exactly — that balance between engaging the world and staying anchored in Torah wisdom is the message of Yosef’s pit.

Just as Potiphar’s wife accused Joseph of the crime she wanted to commit, so too, with our enemies, they accuse us of the crimes they want to commit against us.

In this week’s parashah, we follow the story of Yosef: sold into slavery, rising to prominence in the house of Potiphar, and then falsely accused by Potiphar’s wife after he refuses her advances. When Yosef will not do what she desires, she accuses him of attempting the very sin she intended. As a result, Yosef is thrown into prison.

This pattern should feel disturbingly familiar. We see it repeated in the world today. Hamas openly declares its intention to destroy the Jewish people, committing rape, murder, and brutality—yet afterward accuses Israel of the very crimes it itself commits, despite Israel having neither the intention nor the culture to do such things. This is not accidental; it is projection. People who are willing to commit atrocities assume others will do the same, because that is how their minds work.

I once heard an account from World War II about American intelligence interrogations. Nazis, accustomed to torture, would break quickly—not because Americans tortured them, but because they assumed they would. Their own moral corruption shaped their expectations. As we know, the most powerful torture chamber is the human mind.

This is the lesson of Yosef. Potiphar’s wife accuses him of what she wanted to do. Our enemies accuse us of what they seek to do. The Torah teaches us to be clear-eyed: those who wish to destroy us will lie, manipulate, and accuse us of their own intentions. It is something to think about—and something to remember.

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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.

Joseph asks the cup bearer to remember him to Pharaoh. The cup bearer forgets about him. This teaches us that, while we have to make all preparations to succeed, we have to remember that it is God who will redeem us in the end.

This week’s parsha ends with the story of Yosef and the dreams of Pharaoh’s cupbearer and baker. They come to Yosef troubled, and they somehow sense that he can interpret dreams. Yosef tells the baker that in three days he will be executed, and the cupbearer that in three days he will be restored to his position.

Yosef asks only one thing of the cupbearer: “When things go well for you, remember me to Pharaoh.” But the Torah emphasizes that the cupbearer promptly forgets him.

There’s an interesting detail here. Chazal note that Pharaoh would hold his goblet resting in the palm of his hand. Many Jews have a custom to hold the Kiddush cup this way on Shabbat—because Shabbat is the day when we are like royalty. Why does the Torah bother to tell us such a detail? Perhaps to remind us that even small moments in Torah contain hints meant to elevate our lives.

But back to the cupbearer: when he finally remembers Yosef in next week’s parsha, he refers to him dismissively: “A Hebrew boy, a slave…” Rashi says this teaches us that even when a wicked person tries to do good, he does it in a degrading manner.

Yosef had done everything he could to create his own salvation. He interpreted the dream correctly, built a relationship, and made a request. He did the hishtadlut, the human effort. But in the end, salvation didn’t come from the cupbearer at all—it came two years later, directly from God.

And that’s the lesson:
We prepare. We plan. We train. Soldiers drill. Doctors practice. We put in effort. But ultimately, the results are in God’s hands. We are obligated to act—but never to assume we control the outcome.

There’s a story from the great earthquake in Safed in 1837. A rabbi leading Mincha had a sudden premonition and motioned for everyone to flee the synagogue moments before it collapsed. Everyone survived. Only the rabbi himself suffered a broken arm from falling debris.

When asked why he alone was injured, he explained:
“God was giving me a message. If I believed there was danger enough to tell others to leave, I should have left as well. You don’t rely on miracles. Do the right thing—and trust God with the results.”

That captures our message perfectly.
We must take action—but we must also remember that the outcome rests entirely with Hashem.

Something to think about as we head into Shabbat.

When Esau and Jacob meet after many years, Esau invites Jacob to be with him. Jacob does not. He knows that Esau is bad and will be detrimental to his family. To keep the peace between them he goes his own way. He had to build a wall between himself and his brother.

The struggle depicted in the portion of the week is symbolic of the struggle we have with God and ourselves. We should try to be spiritual, but we cannot forget that we have physical needs as well.

The reason that Jacob was upset at the actions of Shimon & Levi was that he felt that they acted outside the law. He was against vigilante justice. He felt that their reasoning was sound but that they took the law into their own hands.

When Jacob had his meeting with Esau, he hid his daughter Dina for fear that Esau would want her. According to the midrash, she was supposed to be Esau’s wife. The reason was that she would have made him a good man.

One of the problems that we face is that we think everyone is like us. When we run into someone who doesn’t we are shocked. Esau made clear his intentions. Our enemies throughout history have made their intentions known. The problem is that we do not listen to them.

When Lavan accuses Jacob of stealing his idols, Jacob not only says that he did not but cursed anyone who did. He did not realize that Rachel had stolen them. She did so with all the good intentions, but it was still wrong, and she suffered for it.