A Light in the Darkness: A Chanukah Miracle in Prison

Rabbi Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin—there’s hardly a Jew anywhere who hasn’t heard of him. The name became known across the Jewish world during the years he spent behind bars. Rubashkin, an American Jew and Chabad Hasid, managed what was then the largest kosher meat processing plant in the world. In 2009, he was convicted of bank fraud and sentenced to 27 years in prison. Then, in a surprising turn of events, he was released on Chanukah 2017 when President Donald Trump shortened his sentence.

After his release, Rubashkin visited Eretz Yisrael. At the home of the Lelover Rebbe, he shared the incredible story, which Rabbi Yaakov Lustigman later published on the Dirshu website.

“It was my first Chanukah in prison,” Rabbi Rubashkin recalled. “A few weeks before the holiday, I began worrying about how I’d be able to light the menorah. I knew that under U.S. law, prisoners are supposed to be allowed to observe their religion, and lighting candles is a core part of Chanukah. So I wrote to the prison’s religious coordinator and reached out to people outside the prison for help. After some back and forth, I finally received permission.”

“On the first night of Chanukah, the guards escorted me to a small, empty room where a menorah with one candle and a shamash had been set up on a table. Before stepping out and locking the door behind them, they told me to knock loudly when I was done so they could return me to my cell.”

“The door closed, and I stood there, ready to light. But then I noticed—there was a toilet in the room. I couldn’t bring myself to say a blessing in a place like that. I thought maybe I could turn my back to it and just go ahead, since this was my only chance to light. But my heart just wouldn’t let me do it.”

“Prison isn’t a summer camp,” he explained. “Everything is tightly controlled. You can’t just decide to change rooms or ask for special accommodations. And trying to explain to the guards that I couldn’t say a blessing in a room with a toilet? They barely understood the basics of Judaism, let alone the nuances.”

“But from the start, I had made up my mind: no matter where I was, it was Hashem who put me there—not the guards, not the warden. So I knocked on the door.”

“A large guard appeared. I explained that I couldn’t light in that room and asked if there was any other place I could go. Lighting a flame in our cells was strictly forbidden, and this room was my only shot.”

“He didn’t quite get it, but after I kept asking, he finally agreed to ask for permission. The prison warden, from what I knew, was a no-nonsense man who was fed up with prisoners trying to outsmart him.”

“He showed up and asked, a bit annoyed, what I wanted. I explained everything to him, respectfully, laying out the reason I couldn’t light the menorah in that room. In my heart, I didn’t think I had a chance. But you have to try.”

“To my amazement, he agreed. And not only did he say yes—he went so far as to let me light the menorah in his private office. It was completely unexpected.”

“I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I thanked him deeply, though he didn’t show much emotion in return. We walked to his office—me in the middle like a chassan being led to his chuppah, with guards on each side like groomsmen. The warden followed behind us, maybe already wondering if he’d made a mistake.”

“The original permission was to sit for 30 minutes, as required by halacha and arranged by the prison’s religious advisor. But in Chabad tradition, we light candles that last at least 50 minutes and stay with them the whole time.”

“I debated whether I should ask to stay longer. After all, the warden had already broken the rules to accommodate me. Was it right to push for more?”

“But I decided I had to at least ask. If he said no, I would still know I’d tried my best to keep the mitzvah the way I had all my life.”

“I turned to him and said, ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being ungrateful. I truly appreciate what you’ve done for me. Thirty minutes is fine by Jewish law, but as a Chabad Hasid, I’ve always sat with the candles for 50 minutes. I’d be so grateful if you’d allow me to do that now as well.’”

“He looked at me carefully, and I worried for a moment that he might take back his original permission. We walked in silence for a few minutes. Then, out of the blue, he asked me, ‘Rubashkin, when you used to light at home with your family, how long did you sit by the candles?’”

“I told him it varied, depending on the day, but often two or three hours—sometimes even more.”

“‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I want you to sit by the candles for three hours, just like you did at home.’”

“I was speechless. This was the same stern warden, the one who’d seen it all. And here he was, not only allowing me to light in his office, but encouraging me to sit there for three hours. It was surreal.”

“But in that moment, something clicked inside me. I already knew this in my mind, but now I felt it in my heart: it’s not the prison system or any human being that determines my fate. Hashem put me here for a reason. I may not understand it, but I can serve Him right here, even in prison.”

Rabbi Lustigman, who recorded the story, said that when Rabbi Rubashkin shared it at the home of the Lelover Rebbe, he wasn’t just retelling an old memory. He was living it again, and everyone present felt the emotion in the room. When he finished speaking, the Rebbe stood up and said, “Reb Sholom Mordechai, when you were freed, Jews in America danced with you. But here, in Eretz Yisrael, we haven’t yet danced to celebrate your salvation. Let’s dance now.”

There weren’t many people there—just a minyan—but the singing and dancing carried on joyfully and could be heard from far away.

Later in the visit, Rubashkin spoke about the day of his release—Chanukah 2017. “Just the day before,” he said, “I received the final letter: my last appeal was denied. It was official. There were no more legal paths left to take. It was over.”

“I put the letter aside. I told myself, ‘Hashem put me here. He knows why. My job is to stay strong, not to fall apart.’ I lit the Chanukah candles and tried to feel the joy of the holiday.”

“At 6:30 p.m., the guards locked us in our cells and began their headcount. It was the eighth night of Chanukah. I washed my hands, ate matzah and tuna, and said a tefillah from deep inside: ‘It’s Chanukah, please Hashem, make a miracle… bring me home.’”

“Suddenly, I heard my name over the loudspeaker. I quickly finished a prayer. A guard appeared at the door. ‘Rubashkin, come down. You’re being taken somewhere else.’ That could mean anything—another prison, another interrogation. But it was already evening. Something felt different.”

“They brought me to the admin building, where the officers sat. I entered a room. They came in and stared at me like they were witnessing the splitting of the sea.”

“Before I could say a word, they handed me a letter and said, ‘Read it. You’re being released. You’re going home.’”

“It was unbelievable. A miracle. Just a day earlier, it had seemed hopeless. And now I was free.”

“And the first words that came out of my mouth were: ‘Thank You, Hashem, for Your kindness.’”

“Only later did I remember I hadn’t yet said the Birkat Hamazon. Normally, you’re supposed to return to where you ate to say it. I asked permission, but they wouldn’t allow it. So I said it where I was—and they even brought me water to wash.”

That was his private Chanukah miracle.