On July 19^th, I attended Shabbat services at the brand-new Chabad of Lenox, Massachusetts. It opened the prior weekend and this was their second Shabbat service. When I introduced myself to Rabbi Levi Volovik, I mentioned that I am a “Kohen.” I have recently learned the importance of being a Kohen and the critical role of serving the first Aliyah.

As fate would have it, when they began the Torah reading, they needed me as the Kohen for the first Aliyah. I was stunned and moved that the portion was Numbers 26, where Moses commands Eleazar to take a census of the Children of Israel. It was the second counting of the Jews after leaving Egypt. As I read along with the Rabbi, I noticed that the word “Kohen was mentioned in the very first sentence of the parsha which was my Aliyah. This was no coincidence, it was spiritual choreography.

When I reflected on the Torah portion and my role as the first Aliyah, I was drawn to the meaning of math in Jewish tradition.

I remember the first time I helped make a minyan. I was living in Miami, relaxing in the hot tub before Shabbat. A neighbor approached me and said, “I remember meeting you, you’re Jewish.”

“I still am,” I replied with a smile, “and intend to be.”

He asked if I could be the tenth man for a minyan in the building. I said yes but needed to go up and change. “We need you now,” he said.

I hurried upstairs and asked my life partner Joan if it would be alright if I was late for our Shabbat dinner. “Making a minyan is a great mitzvah,” she said. “Take your time.” I heard her words and felt her blessing, but I still didn’t fully understand their depth.

It turns out that Adam (we later became friends) had invited his father-in-law, Howard, who was mourning the loss of his father, Menachem (of blessed memory  (Z”L) )They needed a minyan so he could say Kaddish. My presence, as the tenth member, gave voice to his mourning. Later, at Shabbat dinner, Adam’s wife, Dana, thanked me. Her father had found comfort because he was able to say Kaddish for her grandfather (his father), surrounded by others.

I once believed that prayer was a private conversation with God: intimate, internal, solitary. Leaving that hot tub to make a minyan for a mourner forever changed my understanding. I didn’t know the mourner nor the full prayer. I showed up out of a feeling of obligation. In showing up, I discovered that presence itself is a form of prayer. That sometimes, being the tenth person is more important than being the first.

A minyan (ten adult Jews gathered for communal prayer) is not just a rule, it’s a sacred structure. Certain prayers, like Kaddish or the Barchu, cannot be recited alone. It’s not because God isn’t listening. It’s because some holiness only emerges in community.

This is not a modern invention. It’s rooted in Torah.

In Numbers 26, God commands Moses and Eleazar, son of Aaron, the Kohen to conduct a census of the Children of Israel, tribe by tribe. This was not the first census, the earlier generation had been counted in Numbers 1, with Aaron himself beside Moses. This second census marked a spiritual threshold: the old generation had passed; the new stood on the edge of the Promised Land. Each person was counted not just to tally totals, but to affirm identity, purpose, and place.

Counting, in the Torah, is singularly sacred. Every number reflects a soul. Every soul reflects a spark of the divine. What Rebbe Nachman of Breslov called nitzotzot, holy sparks hidden even in brokenness, waiting to be lifted through prayer, mitzvot, and joy.

There are reasons why ten is the number of a minyan. Ten is a number of completeness in the Torah:

– Ten utterances of creation (Genesis 1)
– Ten trials of Abraham (Pirkei Avot 5:3)
– Ten commandments (Exodus 20)
– Ten fingers on the tombstone of a Kohenim

Ten isn’t an arbitrary value, it’s a deliberate structural choice. Like a skeleton supports the body, ten supports sacred community.

My friends Michael and Tasja once taught me about the intricate organization of a bee colony. Each bee has a distinct role—worker, drone, queen. Yet no one commands them. Their service arises through ritual rhythm. Through inherited instinct. The hive is not just a place of production; it’s a choreographed community. Bees create harmony in their hierarchy.

The minyan is our hive. When we show up, we join a sacred prayer not just with our voices, but with our presence, and holy hum. The prayer may be led by one, but it lives in the ten. Especially when the mourner rises to say Kaddish, and we rise too in sacred solidarity.

Then there’s the role I played, not just as one of ten, but as a Kohen, a descendant of Aaron.

I used to wonder what it meant to be a Kohen. Was it just a title? A relic, remnant or ritual of Temple history? But then I began to understand: Being a Kohen is not the coda but the beginning of the blessing. The Kohen are not the center, but the catalyst for consecration of a compassionate community.

In Numbers 6:22–27, God instructs Moses to teach Aaron and his sons the priestly (Kohenim) blessing—“May the Lord bless you and keep you…” These words are not magic. They’re spiritual fermentation. When a Kohen lifts his hands to bless, he doesn’t impart holiness. He activates it. Like yeast added to flour and water, the blessing causes the sacred to rise.

Being a Kohen is like being a sourdough mother starter. It’s not the loaf, but it helps the loaf come to life.

When I worked for the founding family of Kikkoman Soy Sauce in Tokyo, I learned how, after World War II, Kikkoman shared its fermentation agent with other manufacturers to help rebuild. Working at the Goyogura factory which is dedicated to the Emperor of Japan, I learned the process began with cultivating a Koji mash to start fermentation.

Like koji mold in soy sauce—transforming beans into something richer, deeper, more enduring.

Later, I bicycled through Tuscany and met a family who had been making Vin Santo, an Italian dessert wine,  for over a century. I learned about their wild yeast—the cherished mother starter—which had been nurtured and passed down through generations. This story was told by the patriarch of the family, who had recently lost his wife. As he spoke about the sacred continuity of the fermentation process, I sensed a momentary easing of his grief. His tears, born of sorrow, were reflected in our collective awe as we absorbed the depth of his story.

Even now, when I sip his wine, I taste more than sweetness. I remember his love, his mourning, and his oenological ode to family, memory, and time.

In that moment, I thought of the verse, “Wine gladdens the heart of man” (Psalms 104:15). Just as wine is sanctified in Kiddush to mark sacred time, his Vin Santo became a vessel of both zachor (to remember) and nichum (to comfort). Through the wine, his pain was fermented into a legacy, a living blessing passed forward like the yeast itself.

Like the wild yeast of Vin Santo, the Italian dessert wine slowly fermenting into sweetness over time.

Returning to the bees, one of their most vital attributes is their role in cross-pollinating flowers, fruits, and vegetables throughout the surrounding area. In doing so, bees act as natural catalysts of vitality, enhancing the health, growth, and abundance of plant life wherever they roam.

Like a bee, the Kohen cross pollinates across the Jewish Community. The Kohen is the fermentation agent—subtle, invisible, essential.

Maybe that’s why the minyan matters so much. Because it’s not just about having ten people. It’s about having ten catalysts, ten contributors, ten witnesses. When one person mourns, the other nine don’t just attend, they ferment comfort and activate remembrance.

I also reflected on the mesmerizing beauty of math. I thought about how families can find emotional connection through numbers. When my children were young, I remember teaching them math. I gave Caroline and Lucy each a Math Notebook, a pencil, and a big eraser. I explained the importance of always showing your work, of not being afraid to make mistakes, and of keeping a written log of their mathematical journey. The notebook wasn’t just for equations, it was a record of growth, persistence, and wonder.

Lucy and I also used to watch a television show called Touch, in which a nonverbal child named Jake communicates through numbers. He sees hidden connections between strangers across the world, threads of destiny revealed in math. His father, played by Kiefer Sutherland, seeks emotional connection with his son by joining Jake on numerological quests. Through numbers and formulas, they find meaning, connections, and ultimately love.

The show suggests what the Torah has whispered all along: numbers are not just tools of calculation they are vessels of creation. From the ten utterances of creation in Genesis, to the counting of the Israelites in Numbers, to the Ten Commandments at Sinai, the Torah teaches that numbers carry spiritual weight. They reveal order, purpose, and connection. Like Jake, and like my daughters learning math, we are invited to see numbers not as barriers, but as bridges linking mind to heart, and soul to soul.

When we gather ten for a minyan, we step into that design. Completing an equation first written in the wilderness. Echoing the census of Numbers 26. Participating in a pattern as old as Sinai.

I’ve come to believe there are two schools of communal math. One seeks division, subtraction, and fractions. It breaks people apart into tribes, egos, ideologies. It sees difference as a threat and connection as compromise. This is the math of Babel, where language divided rather than united (Genesis 11). It’s the rebellion of Korach (Numbers 16), who split the community with jealousy and pride and was ultimately subtracted from the earth itself. It’s the math of the Golden Calf (Exodus 32), where fear led to fragmentation, and Moses shattered the tablets literally breaking the divine covenant in two.

The Torah teaches a different kind of math—a sacred arithmetic of addition, multiplication, and even exponential blessing. God promises Abraham: “I will multiply your descendants like the stars of heaven and the sand on the seashore” (Genesis 22:17). This is not merely population—it is legacy. Depth. Endurance. Even in Egypt, under Pharaoh’s oppression, “the more they were afflicted, the more they multiplied and spread” (Exodus 1:12). This is exponential resilience. It is the spiritual logic of hope.

And during Chanukah, following the tradition of Beit Hillel, we light the Chanukiah with increasing candles—one more each night—until all eight flames glow in fullness. Light expands, not contracts. Blessings build. This is sacred math not of scarcity, but of abundance. The Torah’s math kindles a world where faith, joy, and presence are multiplied into radiance.

When we count souls in Torah like in Numbers 26, it’s not about headcount, it’s about hearts.  The census doesn’t divide, it dignifies. When ten gather for a minyan, we don’t just add, we elevate. This is the school of math I want to belong to: the one where kindness multiplies, where blessings grow algorithmically, where the spiral of the Torah unrolls into infinite meaning. Like a fractal, the more we turn it, the more we see. In the language of Pirkei Avot (5:22): “Turn it and turn it again, for everything is in it.” This is not just math. This is sacred geometry.

So now, when someone asks, “Can you help make a minyan?” I see it not as an obligation, but an opportunity. I see the hive. I see the starter. I see the mourner waiting to speak the unspeakable and needing nine others to lift his voice heavenward. I see a sacred system, patterned and alive, where everyone counts and everyone helps others rise.

I show up. Not to be seen. But to activate the unseen. Because in this divine mathematics, being present is enough to make a blessing rise.

Enjoy a haiku inspired by this blog:
Silent hands are raised—
Ten sparks lift a mourner’s voice,
Blessings rise unseen.

 Appendix

You can read more about the Kohen here.

You can read about the connection between the Kohen and the famous Vulcan salute here.

You can read more about Jewish mourning here.

You can read about the shehecheyanu blessing here.

You can read more about the brand-new Chabad of Lenox, MA here.

In a time of deepening division and rising fear—both outside and within the Jewish community—I find myself turning to unexpected places for lessons in unity, loyalty, and faith.

This month, I’ve written a series of reflections that aim to shine a light on the fractures we face—and the quiet, often overlooked pathways to healing:

Torah:

• Surviving the Spiritual Divide examines how painful disconnection within our community might be met with listening, humility, and a shared desire for wholeness.
• Banned by Brothers: Kane and Abel explores the original sibling rivalry to understand how spiritual estrangement can arise even among those closest to us.
• The Promised Land we never leave: Destiny of Diaspora explores the importance of the Land of Israel to Jews and the biblical and spiritual interconnections between Exile, Promised Land, and Diaspora.
• The Meaning of Minyan delves into the sacred mathematics at play when we come together as a spiritual community to make minyan.

Turf:

• Loyalty Lessons from the Locker Room turns to Fenway Park, where teammates like Ortiz and Pedroia teach us how difference and devotion can coexist—and even win championships.
• Tom Brady’s Touchdown Tosses Teach Torah reflects on the sacred spiral of a quarterback and wide receiver—reminding us that spiritual growth, like football, depends on timing, trust, and shared purpose.
• Bowled Over by Friendship chronicles my unlikely camaraderie with cricket legend Chris Gayle and how we formed a meaningful and enduring bond despite our very different perspectives.

Across Torah and turf, these stories remind us that healing doesn’t require uniformity—it requires unity. We don’t need to be the same to stay strong. We just need to have each other’s backs.

I hope these reflections offer perspective, and perhaps even hope, as we navigate the road ahead—together.

• How did it feel when you visited Israel for the first time?
• Have you ever been alone abroad but felt connected to your family?

After college graduation, I moved back to Japan. I had lived in Japan during high school and studied Japanese and Japanese history during college. I also worked for a Japanese company and developed a fluency in the language. I felt so comfortable and familiar in Japan. Although I was a Gaijin (foreigner), I felt at home.

Yet, as the Jewish holidays approached, I encountered an ancient ache: the dissonance between physical welcome and spiritual displacement.

I remember my first Rosh Hashanah at the Jewish Community Center in Tokyo. The melodies were familiar, but the voices were foreign. That dissonance stirred something deep within me. I was surrounded by others, yet alone in my yearning for home.

We hosted a Passover seder in our small apartment. Lacking brisket, we served kosher hot dogs. When we read the words, “In every generation, each person must see themselves as though they personally went out from Egypt” (Exodus 13:8), purpose was palpable in the air. We were distant from Jerusalem, but still drawn into its gravity through memory, ritual, and faith.

Years later, I stood in the desert of the UAE, praying beneath a boundless sky. Around me were Jews from Yemen, Morocco, Russia, and France. The siddurim were new, freshly printed, but the words were eternal. While we faced east, we felt Jerusalem.

These experiences have led me to reflect deeply on the meaning of the Promised Land, Exile, and Diaspora. Not just as historical events, but as living ideas that shape our spiritual geography. Why Israel is so fundamental to the existence of Jews and the meaning of Judaism?

Eretz Yisrael, our Promised Land, is not just a destination we travel to. It is our destiny, our reason for traveling and being, and our spiritual compass. Even when we are physically distant, Israel remains our heart that draws us inward and connects us outward. It is the thread that binds our past to our present purpose.

While we may live around the globe, our shared longing for return—whether literal or spiritual—transforms separation into unity. The Promised Land is what we carry in our prayers, our rituals, and our hearts. It is what makes us not just a scattered Children of Israel, but a determined Diaspora rooted in remembrance, and always reaching home.

From a biblical perspective, the Promised Land is explained in the following ways.

Promised Land in the Bible

God promises Abraham that he will make him a great nation and give his descendants the land of Canaan:

“To your offspring I will give this land.” (Genesis 12)

God tells Abraham, “Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them.” Then He said to him, “So shall your offspring be.” (Genesis 15:5)

Jacob recalls God’s promise, saying, “You said, ‘I will surely make you prosper and will make your descendants like the sand of the sea, which cannot be counted.’” (Genesis 32:12)

When Moses leads the Israelites out of Egyptian slavery, God promises to bring them to the Promised Land “flowing with milk and honey,” (Exodus 3:8)

G-d promised the Children of Israel = a place where they would always return and live with the blessings and fulfill the commandments set out at Mt Sinai and carried in the Mishkan.

“I will give you every place where you set your foot, as I promised Moses.” This passage marks the fulfillment of the promise made to the patriarchs, as the Israelites enter the land of Canaan. (Joshua 1:3)

God tells the Children of Israel, “For you are a people holy to the Lord your God. The Lord your God has chosen you out of all the peoples on the face of the earth to be his people, his treasured possession.” (Deuteronomy 7:6-8)

“Then the Lord your God will restore your fortunes and have compassion on you… He will gather you again from all the nations where He scattered you.” This passage reflects the hope of return from exile to the promised land. (Deuteronomy 30:3-5)

Living in the Promised Land of Israel

Living in the Land of Israel is considered one of the 613 mitzvot in the Torah. As it says, “When the Lord your God will cut off the nations… and you will inherit them, and you will dwell in their land” (Deuteronomy 12:29), and “You shall take possession of the land and settle in it, for I have given the land to you to possess” (Numbers 33:53).

The Talmud (Ketubot 110b) teaches that one should always strive to live in the Land of Israel, and that dwelling there is equal to fulfilling all the mitzvot of the Torah. This elevates the act of living in Israel; it’s not just a physical home, but a spiritual calling. Living in Israel becomes both a mitzvah and a way to draw closer to God.

Exile in the Bible

Jews have  experienced exile multiple times. Perhaps the most significant exile in Jewish history is the Babylonian Exile, which followed the destruction of the First Temple in Jerusalem. The Jews were taken into captivity in Babylon (as described in books such as 2 Kings 25, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel). During this time, the Jews were separated from their land and the sacred city Jerusalem.

There was also the Assyrian Exile (722 BCE): The Northern Kingdom of Israel was conquered by the Assyrians, leading to the exile of the ten lost tribes of Israel (as described in 2 Kings 17).

From Genesis to Deuteronomy, and into the scroll of Esther, we walk a sacred spiritual geography:

The patriarchs wandered. Abraham left Mesopotamia for Canaan, only to journey through Egypt. Isaac never left the Promised Land—rooted and steadfast.  Jacob straddled borders and decades, his body returning to Canaan, his family descending into Egypt. Joseph rose in exile. Moses never set foot in the land he led his people toward.

The Book of Esther appears near the end of the Tanakh and offers a powerful reflection on Jewish life in exile. It stands apart as a story of “man-made” miracles. acts of courage, conviction, and hidden providence that unfold without open divine intervention. Esther reminds us that even in a foreign land, far from the Temple and visibly absent miracles, belief in Hashem and a reconnection to Jewish identity can still lead to redemption. It teaches that exile is not abandonment, and that the yearning to return to Eretz Yisrael, our Promised Land, remains the spiritual compass of our people.

Exile is a state of mind, not a state of place. The Promised Land is a destiny, not a destination. Diaspora is the shared destiny of a people living outside the Promised Land, yet united in their vision of return. Sadly, one can dwell physically in the Promised Land and still feel spiritually exiled.

Exile is the fracture. Diaspora is the thread. The Promised Land is the tapestry still being woven.

From the rivers of Babylon to the deserts of Sinai, from Shushan to Shabbat, we carry not just history but inheritance. The path of our people moves not in straight lines, but in sacred spirals. We are always returning. Always becoming.

There are beautiful contemporary interpretations of the escape from Exile and return to the Promised Land.

In 1978, the Jamaican group The Melodians offered a contemporary interpretation of Psalm 137 through their reggae anthem “Rivers of Babylon.” Later popularized by Boney M., the song transformed ancient verses into a soulful modern lament that captured the ache of exile and the enduring hope of return. It became a spiritual anthem echoing the timeless yearning of the Jewish people to reconnect with their homeland and their heritage.

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yeah, we wept, when we remembered Zion… How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” (Psalm 137:1)

“If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her skill.” (Psalm 137:5)

The concept of the Promised Land being something separate from physical space is explained by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel in his book The Sabbath. He describes Shabbat as a “palace in time”—a sanctuary not built in space, but constructed in spirit. In exile, we build not just palaces in time, but cathedrals of memory. Synagogues born from longing.

The question of Diaspora is not whether we are far from the land, but whether we are close to the promise.

In high school, the book Franny and Zooey, by J D Salinger, inspired me.  At the end, Franny reminisces about her mom’s delicious chicken soup. It took Franny the entire book (and her life journey) to recognize her mother’s love and how it was embodied in her chicken soup. As they say, chicken soup is the best medicine because it is made with love. In Zooey’s final speech to Franny, she says “You don’t even have sense enough to drink when…Bessie…brings you a cup of consecrated chicken soup.  So just tell me, Just tell me…How in hell are you going to recognize a legitimate holy man when you see one if you don’t even know a cup of consecrated chicken soup when it’s right in front of your nose?”

Zooey reminds Franny: the sacred is in your mother’s chicken soup. In your own apartment. In the ordinary, rendered holy through awareness.

After discussing the concepts of the Promised Land, Exile, and Diaspora, I wanted to briefly address the concept of a refugee.

A refugee is not only someone without land, but someone who lacks a shared framework of faith and purpose. They are both geographic and spiritual orphans. To feel like a refugee within one’s own homeland is to suffer spiritual dislocation; what I call geographic dyslexia of the soul. If a people see themselves as refugees while living in a foreign land, it reveals a loss of the spiritual belief that should bind them together as a purposeful Diaspora.

The Jewish people have never been true refugees. Even when forcibly removed from our homeland, we carried the Land of Israel within us in prayer, in practice, and in purpose. Our covenantal connection to Eretz Yisrael transformed exile into dispersion, not abandonment. This is why Jews outside of Israel are not simply scattered. We are the Diaspora: separated in space, but never in spirit.

Even exiled, the possibilities of returning to the Promised Land persist.  Even Lot, who parted from Abraham, became an ancestor to King David. Even Queen Esther, hidden in exile, preserved the Jewish people. The story does not require perfect place. It requires faithful participation.

Through it all, we remember: We are not merely scattered. We are planted. We are never only exiled. We are always returning.

We are not simply waiting for redemption. We are rehearsing it. We consecrate in palaces in time, altars in exile, sanctuaries in strange lands.

As Eli Wiesel said “When a Jew visits Jerusalem for the first time, it is not the first time; it is a homecoming”

Abraham received God’s inheritance.  We continue to believe God’s Promise.

As we recite at the end of each Passover seder each year, “Next Year in Jerusalem”.

Enjoy three haikus inspired by this blog:

Promised land within,
Even far, we face toward home
Scattered, yet rooted.

Rivers far from home,
Time’s palace in exile bloom
Faith builds the land.

Distant lands, one heart,
Jerusalem in each prayer
Diaspora breathes.

This cartoon from my upcoming book, Always a Worm, shows the concept of “Destiny vs. Destination”

Appendix:

Tears of Tammuz:

In the month of Tammuz, we reflect on the Golden Calf. Not only as betrayal, but as spiritual confusion. According to Midrash Tanchuma and Rashi, the idol’s eyes melted, weeping its own falsehood. This symbolizes two types of tears: despair when illusions shatter and longing that draws us back to Hashem and Eretz Yisrael.

I wrote about these here.

Unlike reflex or basal tears, emotional tears contain stress hormones and release endorphins, offering calm after crying. In meditation, I learned that tears can water the seeds of future joy. Even in exile, our tears hold power. One flow marks the collapse of falsehood; the other reawakens our purpose. May your tears nourish your inner garden and help you remember who you are and where you belong.

• How can we survive the spiritual divide within our own community?
• What is the guiding principle to help us collectively cross the chasm?

The Torah portion, Parsha Korach (Numbers 16:1), speaks of an uprising, not from external enemies, but from within the very heart of the Israelite community. Korach, joined by 250 leaders, challenged the authority of Moses, calling into question not only his leadership but the divine legitimacy of the roles Moses and Aaron had been given. It is a story of ambition, pride, and rupture. A spiritual civil war that follows closely on the heels of reconciliation after the sin of the Golden Calf. Just as the Children of Israel begin to come together again, they are torn apart from within.

I found myself thinking about this rebellion during what should have been a peaceful and joyful moment: a long overdue lunch with an old friend. I had prepared homemade poached fish and eggplant parmigiana. The sun was shining. The table was set for reunion.

But this wasn’t an ordinary Sunday. It was June 15, 2025, the day the United States launched a bold, unprecedented attack against Iranian nuclear sites. For many in the Jewish community, it felt as if our prayers had finally been answered. The USA and Israel were united in the fight against Iranian terror and protection of Israel and destiny for Jews.

The Iranian funded Hamas attacks on October 7, 2023, marked the largest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust. The Iranian IRGC terror regime had long made its genocidal intentions clear by calling for the annihilation of Israel and escalating attacks against US interests. As Iran advanced its nuclear weapons program, what once seemed hypothetical became an existential threat, one that could bring about a second, and potentially final Holocaust.

During World War II, Jews begged the Allied powers to bomb the railway tracks to Auschwitz and slow the slaughter of Jews. The silence then was deafening. Had the United States acted then as it did now, over one-third of my relatives might have avoided the gas chambers and still be alive.

As the world absorbed the morning’s seismic news, I hoped our lunch might offer a quiet break from the headlines.

Charles and I were college teammates on the soccer team. We had always been on the same side, facing the same opponent, shoulder to shoulder. I was therefore stunned when our conversation shifted so sharply. Charles expressed not relief, but dismay, at the US’s actions; without any concern about Iran’s aggression.  He lamented the outcome of the 2024 election, questioned whether our current President truly supports Jews or Israel, and dismissed the rise of antisemitism on Ivy League campuses as exaggerated.

I sat silently stunned. My teammate, once beside me on the field, now felt across from me in the world.

I gently shared my own experiences: of family and friends, Israeli, Jewish, and Gulf Arab, living under Iranian missile threat; of Jewish students enduring real fear and harassment on elite campuses; of heartfelt letters from Jewish university presidents and faculty acknowledging the depth of the antisemitism crisis. I even shared my own experiences of discrimination, dismissal, and erasure at the hands of classmates I once called friends. I wasn’t seeking agreement, just a moment of empathy.

But the conversation ended abruptly. “Maybe we’ll see each other before the end of the summer,” Charles said, as he and his wife stood to leave. Though it was nearly 80 degrees, I felt a sudden chill. The sunlight still lit the garden, but the warmth of the moment was gone.

I was left with a haunting question: How can the Jewish people survive the spiritual divide, when even among ourselves the chasm feels so wide?

The Torah begins with division. Cain and Abel are brothers torn apart by pride and jealousy. When God asks Cain about Abel’s fate, Cain deflects: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” That ancient response still echoes. From that moment on, the Jewish story has wrestled with the tension between division and unity.

And yet, in Moses, Aaron, and Miriam we see a vision of restored sibling harmony. Together, they led the Children of Israel from slavery toward Sinai and the Promised Land. Even after the division  of the Golden Calf, the Israelites repented, reharmonized, and rebuilt—constructing the Mishkan, a sacred space to house divine presence. Conflict did not define them. Healing and harmony followed.

I was reminded of the old joke: “Two Jews are shipwrecked on a deserted island. How many synagogues do they build? Three. One they attend, one they refuse to attend, and one they wouldn’t be caught dead in.”

Growing up in Allentown, Pennsylvania, my family similarly rotated synagogue memberships among the three local shuls. One we embraced. One we attended while arguing with the rabbi. One we left behind over a disagreement.

Shuls and schisms on an island sanctuary are not just the stuff of jokes, they’re part of our Jewish history. In the 1800s, on the Caribbean island of Curaçao, home to one of the oldest Jewish communities in the Americas, a bitter conflict emerged over whether to introduce organ music into prayer services. Reform-minded Ashkenazi Jews supported the idea. Traditional Sephardic Jews strongly opposed it, citing halacha and sacred tradition. The divide grew so fierce that the community split in 1864, forming two separate congregations. It would take a full century before the two synagogues reunited.

Even in paradise, dissonance can enter, sometimes through a single note of music. Today, our divisions may not be over organs or melodies, but the chords of discord still resonate.

So how do we move forward? I believe there are three deep roots that anchor us against the storm of spiritual fragmentation:

Faith in Hashem: Avram became Avraham when he opened his heart to Hashem. Avram rejected idol worship and adopted monotheism – the belief in only one G-d, Hashem. From that moment, a covenant was born. G-d promised Avram that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand in the desert. Today, I see too many Jews return to idol worship and reject G-d, pulled away from our divine covenant. This new form of idol worship is the idolization or demonization of political leaders, the prioritization of ideology over identity. When disdain overtakes faith, spiritual oxygen runs out.

Connection to the Eretz Yisrael, the Promised Land: The Land of Israel is more than a place, it is our Jewish purpose. It was Moses’ divine destiny, the center of Jewish yearning during exile, the unspoken hope in Queen Esther’s Persia. And yet, many Jews today feel disconnected from Israel, even hostile. That detachment is not merely political—it is spiritual amnesia. Without the Promised Land our wandering becomes aimless.

Covenant of Compassion: When Jacob sent Joseph to find his brothers, he asked him to seek their shalom. Joseph did not find harmony, but he searched. He cared. In contrast, Cain shrugged: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” That’s when the divide begins, when we stop asking how our brothers are. Rabbi Sholom Lipskar (of blessed memory), founder of The Shul in Bal Harbour, taught: “When two Jews are together, they should always ask, ‘How can we help the third Jew who is not here with us now?’” Seeing the “shalom of our brothers” is the heartbeat of Jewish unity.

At that lunch, Charles and I disagreed intellectually. That wasn’t the problem. The Torah welcomes disagreement. What hurt was the absence of empathy. I did not feel heard. I felt dismissed.

Medically speaking, a person can be declared brain-dead yet still technically alive. The brain may signal, but the heart pumps life. The heart moves blood to the lungs, sending oxygen to the body.

So too in our community. The Torah is our blood and Faith in Hashem is our oxygen. Without it, we are alive, but not truly breathing.

We may not agree on politics, policies, or presidents. But if we lose compassion, kindness and concern for one another then we lose the very thing that has sustained us through exile, return, and rebirth.

Even the Greeks imagined a divine response to dissonance. Ares, god of war, and Aphrodite, goddess of love, had a daughter: Harmonia, the goddess of harmony. If mythology can birth unity from opposition, perhaps we can too.

Returning to that deserted island, where two Jews built three synagogues, we ask: How can we avoid becoming shipwrecked?
By holding fast to our compass and staying true to our spiritual north.

The Torah, and our faith in Hashem, remain our most compassionate and consistent compass. Even in exile, our yearning for the Promised Land—Eretz Yisrael—points us in the direction of spiritual truth.

Since October 7, 2023, we have witnessed a powerful resurgence of Jewish faith and practice. Baking challah for Shabbat is no longer just a tradition; it has become a sacred act. A biblical braiding that connects family, memory, and community. We’ve heard of hostages in Gaza who kept Shabbat burning bright in their hearts, even in the darkness of terror tunnels. That is the strength of spiritual light; it cannot be extinguished.

May our Jewish community be guided by our eternal signposts: Faith in G-d, Torah, and the shalom of our brothers, to find its way home, toward the Promised Land, not only on a map, but in our souls.

Enjoy a haiku inspired by this blog:

Beneath sunny skies
Hearts can break from cold silence
Torah warms the soul

Appendix:

“Only eyes washed by tears can see clearly”-Louis L. Mann (1865–1931)

The Parable of the Twigs

Once, a wise father gathered his four sons and handed each of them a single twig.

“Break it,” he instructed.

Each son snapped his twig with ease. Then the father took four new twigs, tied them tightly together with a simple cord, and gave the bundle to each of his sons.

“Now, break these,” he said. One by one, the sons tried, but none could snap the bundle.

The father looked at them and said:
“Alone, you are vulnerable. Together, you are unbreakable. Stay united, and no force will divide or destroy you.”

You can read another blog about bridging the divide here.