Parshas Miketz: Before It’s Too Late
Earlier this week, I saw something I’d never seen before. Even as I kept driving, I kept asking myself, “Did that just happen?”
A dead deer had been sitting on the side of the road long enough that vultures had moved in.
That question of timing — of how early or late we respond — is exactly where Parshas Miketz begins.
Miketz opens with Pharaoh disturbed by dreams he can’t shake. Healthy cows swallowed by starving ones. Full stalks of grain consumed by emptiness. The imagery isn’t subtle. Something is wrong beneath the surface, and it’s going to spread.
What unsettles Pharaoh most isn’t only the dreams. It’s that no one around him knows how to read the moment. The danger is sensed, but it isn’t understood. The wisest of the wise are stumped. And without understanding, there is no way to prepare or respond.
Yosef understands what the moment is asking, because he has already learned what happens when warning signs are ignored.
He doesn’t deny what’s coming.
He doesn’t panic.
He doesn’t wait until collapse forces action.
He takes decay seriously before it takes over.
He understands that famine isn’t just hunger. It’s what happens when abundance is assumed and warning signs are ignored. So he responds early and methodically.
That’s where Miketz and Chanukah meet.
Miketz warns us against waiting until “too late.”
Chanukah insists we don’t let the world push us there.
Together, they show a third way beyond denial or despair:
clear-eyed steadiness.
Not panic.
Not retreat.
Preparation. Presence. Light chosen deliberately while things are still fragile.
Seeing vultures gathered on a city street made something visible that is usually hidden.
Miketz names it.
Chanukah answers it.
We don’t light because the world is entirely safe.
We light precisely because it isn’t.
And once lit, light doesn’t stay contained.
It spreads.
It faces outward.
It changes the space it enters.
Each mitzvah and good deed sends that light further into the world, brick by brick, until true safety is revealed with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our days.
As you light your Chanukah candles, or your Shabbos candles, consider giving a little extra tzedakah and saying an extra kapitel Tehillim for all those still in need of our prayers.
Good Shabbos, Gut Chodesh, and a Freilichen Chanukah,
Berke Chein
A dead deer had been sitting on the side of the road long enough that vultures had moved in.
Not somewhere remote.
Not out in the wild.
On a city street, around the corner from my kids school.
They weren’t circling overhead.
Four or five of them stood there already, calmly picking at the carcass.
It was unsettling not because of the birds themselves, but because of what their presence meant.
Not out in the wild.
On a city street, around the corner from my kids school.
They weren’t circling overhead.
Four or five of them stood there already, calmly picking at the carcass.
It was unsettling not because of the birds themselves, but because of what their presence meant.
Vultures don’t appear at the moment of danger. They arrive once something has already crossed the line into “too late”.
Once things reach that point, the only responses left are reactive. Cleanup replaces prevention. Response replaces foresight.
Once things reach that point, the only responses left are reactive. Cleanup replaces prevention. Response replaces foresight.
That question of timing — of how early or late we respond — is exactly where Parshas Miketz begins.
Miketz opens with Pharaoh disturbed by dreams he can’t shake. Healthy cows swallowed by starving ones. Full stalks of grain consumed by emptiness. The imagery isn’t subtle. Something is wrong beneath the surface, and it’s going to spread.
What unsettles Pharaoh most isn’t only the dreams. It’s that no one around him knows how to read the moment. The danger is sensed, but it isn’t understood. The wisest of the wise are stumped. And without understanding, there is no way to prepare or respond.
Yosef understands what the moment is asking, because he has already learned what happens when warning signs are ignored.
He doesn’t deny what’s coming.
He doesn’t panic.
He doesn’t wait until collapse forces action.
He takes decay seriously before it takes over.
He understands that famine isn’t just hunger. It’s what happens when abundance is assumed and warning signs are ignored. So he responds early and methodically.
He builds systems. He stores grain. He accepts responsibility while there is still time.
That is the Miketz move.
Vultures represent the opposite response.
They aren’t predators. They don’t cause death. They arrive once loss is already complete. Their role is response, not foresight. Cleanup, not anticipation.
In nature, that’s necessary.
In human life, it’s unsettling.
We build early warning systems. We have hospitals for the sick, sanitation departments for the trash, and leadership responsibility precisely so we don’t reach the point where the only thing left to do is manage what’s already been lost.
But systems are not the only response the Torah asks of us. Sometimes the moment calls not just for preparation behind the scenes, but for visible action in the open.
And that’s where Chanukah enters the conversation.
Chanukah doesn’t wait for safety.
It doesn’t wait for certainty.
It doesn’t wait for ideal conditions.
If Miketz teaches us how to read signs early and act while there is still time, Chanukah teaches us how to bring light before safety is guaranteed.
This isn’t abstract for me.
My great-grandfather, Reb Berke Chein, a Chabad chassid imprisoned in the Soviet Union for teaching Torah, lit Chanukah candles while incarcerated despite the risk of execution. Fellow non-Jewish inmates helped improvise a menorah from an onion, used butter from food rations as oil, threads from clothing as wicks, and created fire by rubbing cloth against stone. The prisoners shielded the flame with their bodies while he recited the blessings and lit the candles each night of Chanukah, undetected by guards. He later described this as his personal Chanukah miracle.
That is what doing your part to end the darkness looks like.
This is the choice the Maccabees taught us to make, carried forward even in a Soviet prison centuries later.
They didn’t pretend danger wasn’t there.
They didn’t wait until everything was secure.
They were farmers and scholars who chose responsibility when the moment demanded it.
They lit when it still felt risky to light.
That is the Miketz move.
Vultures represent the opposite response.
They aren’t predators. They don’t cause death. They arrive once loss is already complete. Their role is response, not foresight. Cleanup, not anticipation.
In nature, that’s necessary.
In human life, it’s unsettling.
We build early warning systems. We have hospitals for the sick, sanitation departments for the trash, and leadership responsibility precisely so we don’t reach the point where the only thing left to do is manage what’s already been lost.
But systems are not the only response the Torah asks of us. Sometimes the moment calls not just for preparation behind the scenes, but for visible action in the open.
And that’s where Chanukah enters the conversation.
Chanukah doesn’t wait for safety.
It doesn’t wait for certainty.
It doesn’t wait for ideal conditions.
If Miketz teaches us how to read signs early and act while there is still time, Chanukah teaches us how to bring light before safety is guaranteed.
This isn’t abstract for me.
My great-grandfather, Reb Berke Chein, a Chabad chassid imprisoned in the Soviet Union for teaching Torah, lit Chanukah candles while incarcerated despite the risk of execution. Fellow non-Jewish inmates helped improvise a menorah from an onion, used butter from food rations as oil, threads from clothing as wicks, and created fire by rubbing cloth against stone. The prisoners shielded the flame with their bodies while he recited the blessings and lit the candles each night of Chanukah, undetected by guards. He later described this as his personal Chanukah miracle.
He couldn’t change the situation he was in.
But he could change how he responded to it, the same way Yosef does in Miketz, by acting before a spiritual famine could set in.
This is the choice the Maccabees taught us to make, carried forward even in a Soviet prison centuries later.
They didn’t pretend danger wasn’t there.
They didn’t wait until everything was secure.
They were farmers and scholars who chose responsibility when the moment demanded it.
They lit when it still felt risky to light.
That’s where Miketz and Chanukah meet.
Miketz warns us against waiting until “too late.”
Chanukah insists we don’t let the world push us there.
Together, they show a third way beyond denial or despair:
clear-eyed steadiness.
Not panic.
Not retreat.
Preparation. Presence. Light chosen deliberately while things are still fragile.
Seeing vultures gathered on a city street made something visible that is usually hidden.
Miketz names it.
Chanukah answers it.
We don’t light because the world is entirely safe.
We light precisely because it isn’t.
And once lit, light doesn’t stay contained.
It spreads.
It faces outward.
It changes the space it enters.
Each mitzvah and good deed sends that light further into the world, brick by brick, until true safety is revealed with the coming of Moshiach, speedily in our days.
As you light your Chanukah candles, or your Shabbos candles, consider giving a little extra tzedakah and saying an extra kapitel Tehillim for all those still in need of our prayers.
Good Shabbos, Gut Chodesh, and a Freilichen Chanukah,
Berke Chein