Light in the Pit: God’s Wink to Us

A Chanukah Reflection on Light, Connection, and Unfinished Redemption

Dedication: In loving memory of our holy soldiers who fell sanctifying God’s Name and our land: Ephraim ben Liat and Shmuel, Yosef Malachi ben Dina and David, Eliyahu Moshe Shlomo ben Sarah and Shimon, Yosef Chaim ben Rachel and Eliyahu, Netanel ben Revital and Elad, Yakir ben Chaya and Yehoshua. May their memories be blessed, and may the elevation of their souls bring merit and strength to all of Am Yisrael.

We enter #Chanukah this year carrying a deep contradiction. There is talk of “victory,” yet the trauma is still fresh, the ground still unsteady. #BondiBeach reminded us how quickly fear returns.

And yet the candles waited — calling us not to perfect joy, but to honest, imperfect faith.

Last year, on the #EighthNight of Chanukah, I wrote a letter to #God. I was overwhelmed, unsure, deeply sad — and I sealed the letter and put it away.

This year, as I lit the first candle, I opened it again and was stunned by what I found. I had forgotten how dark the world felt then. But even more shocking was the gratitude I had written in the middle of that despair.

Real gratitude.

How had both lived inside me at once?

Sitting again by the first flame this year, I felt that same contradiction — heartbreak and thanks sharing the same small space. The flame seemed perfect, but the moment felt fragile. That tension became the starting point for everything I want to explore tonight: what is the secret of our people? How do we stand in darkness and still give thanks for the light?

This secret has been in our spiritual DNA since Yosef — the first Jew who learned to live inside contradiction, to see God in the pit and in the palace, to hold pain and purpose at the same moment. His legacy is the beginning of the Jewish ability to navigate an unfinished world with an unbroken heart.

This year, I finally saw something simple but important: the children’s version of Chanukah — the clean story with the happy ending — never really existed. The light came, but the world wasn’t fixed. And suddenly, Yosef in our parsha made perfect sense. Yosef is the Torah’s model of living inside unfinished redemption: pulled from the pit only to be sold again, elevated to power precisely as famine begins. His life teaches us how to stand in the middle of a story that has not yet resolved.

Chazal deepen this connection. Yosef brings blessing wherever he goes, even in exile. The Sfat Emet teaches that Yosef reveals the or haganuz, the hidden light that exists even within hester. The Maharal writes that this is the essence of Chanukah’s light — illumination that does not depend on circumstance. Together, they teach that Jewish light is internal. It shines even in places that should have broken us.

Yosef’s life is not a neat rescue, but a chain of incomplete victories — the same pattern we live on Chanukah. The Mityavnim were defeated, but the victory unraveled. The Mikdash was rededicated, but later destroyed. The oil burned, but sovereignty did not return. We do not light because the story is complete. We light because the light is real.

Maoz Tzur affirms this truth. It speaks not in triumph but in a plea. “Az egmor b’shir mizmor” — then I will complete the song. Right now, the song is incomplete. Chanukah is about singing while the world is still unfolding.

Why do we publicize the miracle? Because the menorah is meant to face the night. The Mishnah teaches that the mitzvah is fulfilled outside, at the entrance, in the public domain — precisely where the world is wounded. The Rambam explains that this placement is an act of spiritual courage. Even one flame can stand against vast darkness.

Bondi Beach became the living commentary: Jews returning to the place of violence to light, to sing, to insist on hope. This is the light of Chanukah — light born in exile, light that grows from within hester, light that refuses to retreat.

But there is another layer. The light is not only defiance — it is relationship. The Ramban teaches that the purpose of the Mikdash is that the Shechinah dwell among us. And the Midrash says the Menorah was a testimony that God’s presence rests with Israel. When we light Chanukah candles, we reenact that testimony. The flame becomes a quiet dialogue, a small wink from God: I am still here. I remember you. I have not left.

Chanukah is not a search for perfection. It is a celebration of connection.

This Chanukah asks something deeper of us: honesty about our pain, courage to bring light into frightening places, resilience after trauma, and the faith to believe that small miracles are seeds of something larger. Shir HaMa’alot (Tehillim 126) captures this perfectly: “When God returns the captives of Zion, we will have been like dreamers.” Redemption is written in past tense — as if, when it comes, we will look back and see that even the darkness belonged to a larger story.

This is what Yosef models: naming God in every stage. This is what the Maccabees model: acting without guarantees. And this is what Am Yisrael models now — a people who sing while the story is unfinished, who light when the night is deep, who trust that the fractured song will one day be whole.

And so we end with the blessing carried in the words of Maoz Tzur: “Az egmor b’shir mizmor” — may we one day complete the song we are only beginning now. “Chasof zero’a kodshecha” — may God lift us from our pits as He lifted Yosef, with love and strength. “Kraiv ketz hayeshua” — may the small lights we kindle gather into the great light of geulah, the light for which every Jew still waits.