Eyes closed, hearts awake—
On Yom Kippur, do not fast
from seeing the truth.

I celebrated Sukkot this year in downtown Miami, on a rooftop open to the sky. I felt deep excitement to be celebrating in such a glorious setting, surrounded by friends and a vibrant community. Jordan, our community catalyst, who blends the wisdom of an owl with the tenderness of a teddy bear, gathered us in joy.

I sat between Daniel and Sheldon, friends from my morning minyan. It had been a while since we’d seen each other. I asked a mundane question:
“How were your holidays?”, but for Jews today, nothing feels mundane anymore.

They replied, “We’re from Manchester, UK” and I sensed a sudden shift from light to solemn. One of their friends had been murdered in a terrorist attack at a synagogue on Yom Kippur; another, Andrew, was stabbed and fighting for his life. Andrew, they said, was a kind soul who volunteered as a synagogue guard not out of duty, but love.

After our conversation, I shared an email exchange I’d had with my friend George in the UK. When I wrote to him on Yom Kippur about the attack, his reply stunned me:

“Andy, Chatima tova. First Jew killed for being a Jew in over 30 years in the UK—so not quite as bad as my Israeli friends would like to portray it.”
I was dumbfounded. How could such horror be minimized rather than seen as a spiritual alarm bell?

Then, 5,000 miles away in Brookline, Massachusetts, a Harvard Law School professor fired a pellet gun near a synagogue on Yom Kippur, shattering a car window only steps from worshippers. Police pursued him as he resisted arrest. His explanation? “I was only shooting rats.”
To anyone who knows history, calling Jews “rats” near a synagogue on Yom Kippur is no innocent misunderstanding. Given Harvard’s report on institutional antisemitism and a president’s testimony that “calls for the genocide of Jews” could be justified “depending on the context”, this episode reads less like coincidence than compliance.

I read in the Harvard Crimson article, “Pellet Gun Incident Involving HLS Prof. Apparently Not Motivated by Antisemitism, Brookline Synagogue Leaders Say,” that the local synagogue leader stated, “From what we were initially told by police, the individual was unaware that he lived next to, and was shooting his BB gun next to, a synagogue or that it was a religious holiday.”
Once again, I was dumbfounded. The response—measured, perhaps well-intentioned—felt emblematic of our times, where analysis often replaces compassion. It failed to grasp the gravity of what had occurred: a Harvard Law professor firing near a synagogue on Yom Kippur, claiming to shoot rats. A Harvard student told me she and her Jewish classmates live in fear—harassed simply for being Jewish. How could someone be blinded by eyes that do not see?

On Yom Kippur we are commanded to fast, to afflict the body and awaken the soul. But nowhere are we told to be blind. We are taught to endure hunger, not to close our eyes. Yet many have grown indifferent to the surge of antisemitism in our society.

In just the past year:
• A “Free Palestine” terrorist murdered a man at a wedding in New Hampshire.
• A Jewish woman and her fiancé were shot at the Jewish Museum near the U.S. Capitol.
• An arsonist torched the home of Pennsylvania’s Jewish governor on the first night of Passover.
• A Holocaust survivor was burned alive in Boulder, Colorado.
• An elderly Jewish man was beaten to death in California.

Across campuses and even Congress, chants of “Globalize the Intifada” and claims that “calling for the genocide of Jews can be justified” echo as Jewish students are harassed. This is not random, it is a pattern.

I’m reminded of a story about Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. While camping, Holmes asked, “What do you notice?” Watson replied, “The wind has shifted, the dew point has risen, the constellations are visible.” Holmes smiled. “I notice that someone stole our tent.” This is us. We analyze and contextualize while the tent of Jewish safety is being stolen above our heads.

The Torah warns us to “remember” and “not forget”. To keep our eyes open. In Deuteronomy 32, the portion Ha’azinu, Moses sings:

“Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak; and let the earth hear the words of my mouth.” Later, God laments, “You neglected the Rock who bore you, and forgot the God who brought you forth.” (Deut. 32:18) Ha’azinu teaches that forgetting and blindness are intertwined; remembrance is an act of vision.

Apathy is the new evil. Doing nothing is the new harm. Complacent silence is the new blindness.

We do not need to be superhuman to be kind. Holiness begins with awareness, with seeing another’s need and choosing to act. On 9/11, Rick Rescorla, head of Morgan Stanley security, guided nearly 2,700 colleagues out of the South Tower, returning again and again until the building collapsed. During the Holocaust, Nicholas Winton and Oskar Schindler saved nearly 2,000 Jews. Not because they were extraordinary, but because they refused to close their eyes.

On October 7, 2023, amid unspeakable horror, countless Israelis showed that same sacred clarity. Farmer Oz Davidian drove into the line of fire to rescue 120 people. Shifra Buchris, a mother of ten, pulled victims to safety. Each saw clearly when others looked away.

It does not take perfection to do good; it takes perception. The act of seeing and responding.

Isaiah spoke of a people “who have eyes but do not see, who have ears but do not hear” (Isaiah 6:9). Our sages teach us that the first step of teshuvah(return) is not confession but recognition: the courage to see reality as it is. Awareness is the beginning of redemption.

One of my earliest memories of my mother was a freezing day in Allentown, Pennsylvania. I was five. She stopped the car in traffic, ran across the street, and chased down a hat blowing in the wind. She returned it to an elderly man who had lost it, then calmly got back in the car. That small act of kindness has stayed with me for decades. Holiness begins not in grand gestures, but in moments of awareness. Next time you can do something kind for a stranger, chase after that hat.

On Yom Kippur we close our mouths, but not our eyes. We must not be blind to hatred, nor to our duty to protect one another. The call is not to despair, but to vigilance.

Being a hero does not require heroics. Even a message, a “like,” or a kind word can be a form of light. Silence is more painful than a difficult conversation.

I return to my Sukkot dinner. After hearing Sheldon and Daniel share their loss, I asked, “Are you Manchester United fans?” Their faces lit up. When I mentioned that Patrice Evra is my friend, their smiles said everything.

Patrice Evra, the legendary French footballer who captained both Manchester United and France, earned over 80 caps, played in two World Cups, and became beloved for his passion and motto: “I love this game!” Yet he is an even more extraordinary human being than athlete. Each day, he seeks to lift others and make them smile, creating joy as his new way of scoring goals.

That morning, I messaged him: “Would you be a hero to my friends?” Within seconds, he recognized the signal. When I told him about Daniel and Sheldon’s connection to the Manchester attack, he immediately sent heartfelt video greetings:

“I believe in positiveness and never give up. I send you this message to make you smile and take care of yourself. Life is not always easy. Lots of love.”

In the midst of tragedy, Patrice found a way to shine light.

That same hope reminded me of Noah, who faced a world drowned in despair yet still looked upward. In Genesis 6–9, Noah built an ark to escape the flood. After the waters subsided, God promised the world would never again be destroyed by water, and the rainbow became the sign of that covenant. A bridge of light between heaven and earth. The Torah teaches that “the bow is seen in the clouds,” appearing only when storm and sunlight meet. According to the Midrash, God looked down and Noah looked up, and in that shared act of seeing, mercy replaced destruction. The rainbow reminds us that awareness itself can be sacred: to look beyond the storm and notice light through the clouds is to rediscover faith and hope in a still-healing world.

May Yom Kippur forever teach us not only how to fast, but how to see.

Andy, Sheldon, and Daniel at Succot in Miami, October 6th, 2025

Enjoy a haiku inspired by this blog
Fasting clears the eyes—
heart open, hunger made sight,
light enters the soul.

You can watch the videos Patrice Evra and Daniel recorded below:

Faith, like folded flame,
Bends through time, still burning bright
Names reveal what be.

When I went to boarding school, my grandfather Normy would periodically send me a $20 bill with a handwritten note: “Here’s some lunch money for a pizza with your friends.” Pizzas only cost $5 at the time, but Normy knew I was struggling. Between the academic workload, being away from home, and the stress of growing up, his gesture was more than financial—it was spiritual nourishment. That extra portion of pizza carried an extra portion of love. I felt it deeply every time I opened Normy’s envelopes. (See the appendix for one of Normy’s letters to me from 1982.)

Years later, when I began leading Passover Seders for my children and their friends, I started giving dollar bills as a reward for finding the Afikomen. One day, I looked closely at the back of the U.S. $1 bill. There it was: an Egyptian pyramid. Intrigued, I researched further and discovered that our Founding Fathers felt a deep kinship with the story of the Exodus. John Adams once suggested the image of Moses parting the Red Sea while fleeing from Pharaoh as a proposed seal for the new nation—with the motto, “Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.”

In that moment, I realized that our spiritual founding fathers—Abraham in Torah, and Jefferson, Washington, Adams, and Franklin in America—shared more than vision. They shared faith.

When Moses asks God for His name at the burning bush, God responds with a phrase that is not a name in the ordinary sense: “Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh”—“I will be what I will be.” (Exodus 3:14). God is an unfolding presence—a verb, not a noun. In Jewish tradition, we often say “Hashem” (“The Name”), because God’s essence transcends definition.

This elasticity of God is what has sustained the Jewish people across centuries. It allows us to harmonize ancient rituals with modern life, to root ourselves in tradition while reaching for tomorrow.

It reminds me of a gymnast on a balance beam. The gymnast is constantly moving, adjusting, calibrating against gravity to avoid falling. Balance is not stillness; it is movement with purpose. Our faith in God is the same. It bends and flexes through grief and joy, always holding us aloft.

When our Founding Fathers wrote the Constitution, they did not just draft law—they drafted faith in the future. The longevity of the United States, the oldest representative democracy in history, rests on the Constitution’s flexibility. Article I, Section 8 includes what’s known as the Elastic Clause, which allows Congress to “make all laws which shall be necessary and proper” to carry out its enumerated powers. It’s a statement of dynamic potential. Some truths emerge only over time.

Similarly, the Torah’s definition of God as “I will be what I will be” is the original elastic clause. Both the Torah and the Constitution are rooted in the belief that truth and adaptive authority must endure across time.

Most countries have one name. But both Israel and the United States carry dual identities. Jacob, our patriarch, is also called Israel. Jacob (“heel”) reflects a life of tension and transformation. Israel is the name he receives after wrestling with the divine: “You have struggled with God and with man, and you have prevailed.” (Genesis 32:29). He becomes Israel not by avoiding conflict, but by engaging with it—spiritually, morally, internally.

Likewise, the United States is both ‘United’ and ‘States.’ The Constitution holds the tension between federal authority and state autonomy. We are both: one nation and fifty sovereign entities. From the Federalist Papers to civil rights struggles, we have wrestled with this dual identity. Yet like Jacob/Israel, we have not broken apart.

The United Kingdom built an empire based on monarchy. The United States never aspired to territorial conquest. Similarly, Israel has given up land for peace. Both the U.S. and Israel are covenantal nations, not colonial ones. They fight wars not to expand, but to survive…to win battles and wage peace.

Freedom to worship was central to both stories. Avram left his father’s house and turned away from idol worship to pursue a covenant with the one true God. His embrace of monotheism laid the foundation for Judaism, and later Christianity and Islam. Like the Puritans crossing the Atlantic, Avram crossed into the unknown, guided by faith. In 1790, George Washington affirmed this ideal in a letter to Moses Seixas of the Touro Synagogue: “The Government of the United States gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance… Everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid.”

Founded in 1701, Yale University adopted the Latin motto Lux et Veritas (“Light and Truth”), but uniquely features the Hebrew phrase אורים ותמים (Urim v’Tummim) in its seal—a reference to the High Priest’s breastplate in the Mishkan/Tabernacle, symbolizing divine truth. This blending of biblical tradition and academic pursuit reflects the deep influence of Jewish thought in America’s founding.

Even the word ‘Hebrew’ (Ivrit / עברית) means ‘to cross over.’ From Noah’s Ark to Moses’ basket on the Nile to the parting of the Sea of Reeds, water crossings are rebirth moments. So too, Columbus, the Mayflower, and George Washington crossing the Potomac echo biblical voyages. The U.S. and Israel sail forward with sacred adaptability—transcending the present by honoring the past to reach the future.

There is another tradition from Normy that I passed to my children. In addition to treasuring his letters, I carry his favorite saying close to my heart: “Don’t let anyone rain on your parade.” It was Normy’s way of teaching me to have faith in the future and overcome short-term storms. As I reflect, it’s become my personal elastic clause, a phrase I’ve passed on to help my children navigate their own seas of uncertainty. Like the U.S. and Israel, Normy taught me to weather storms without losing spirit, to keep marching forward, even in the rain.

With belief in one God sparked by Avraham, carried by Moses who led the Children of Israel out of slavery, and lived through Jacob who became Israel, our people’s soul was forged through faith and perseverance. Across millennia we have endured: from Amalek to Pharaoh, Babylonian exile to Roman rule, Greek persecution to Ottoman oppression. Still we stand.

The American Revolution was also a triumph against the greatest empire of its time. Both Israel and the U.S. were born in defiance of tyranny—two divine Davids rising up against recurring Goliaths. Sustained by faith. Strengthened by struggle. And anchored in hope.

Perhaps that is the ultimate bond between Israel and the United States: not merely a strategic alliance, but a shared soul. Two peoples with dual names, eternal covenants, and sacred struggles. Each carrying faith like a torch: sometimes flickering, never extinguished.

Haiku:
Two names, one purpose—
Jacob wrestles, States unite
Faith bends but holds fast

Appendix:

This is one of my grandfather Normy’s letters to me from 1982.

Appendix / Further Reading

John Adams

Yale Emblem

Founded in 1701, Yale University adopted the Latin motto “Lux et Veritas”—Light and Truth—but uniquely embedded in its official seal is the Hebrew phrase “אורים ותמים” (Urim v’Tummim), meaning “light and perfection,” a sacred reference to the Kohen Gadol’s breastplate used for divine communication in the Mishkan (Tabernacle) at Shiloh, beautifully linking Yale’s intellectual pursuit of truth with the biblical tradition of spiritual insight. A nod to the deep influence of Jewish thought in America’s founding.

Touro Synagogue / George Washington

In the early 17th century, the Puritans set sail aboard the Mayflower seeking freedom to worship without persecution, founding the Plymouth Colony in 1620 and later the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Their exodus from England was inspired by a deep spiritual conviction—echoing the biblical journey of the Israelites from Egypt. For the Puritans, America represented a new promised land, a place to build a covenantal society rooted in faith and moral law. Their legacy helped shape the foundational ideals of religious liberty that later guided the American Revolution and still echo in the spiritual kinship between the United States and Israel today.

UK Empire Aspirations

In 1982, the long-standing sovereignty dispute between the United Kingdom and Argentina over the Falkland Islands (Islas Malvinas) erupted into a 10-week war after Argentina’s military invaded the British-held territory in the South Atlantic. Britain responded swiftly, reclaiming the islands and causing significant casualties on both sides—255 British, 649 Argentine, and three Falkland Islanders. Though the military conflict ended on June 14, 1982, the diplomatic standoff persists into 2025, with Argentina still asserting its claim and Britain maintaining its position based on the islanders’ right to self-determination. The emotional resonance of the conflict extended even to the tennis world: in 1983, Argentine tennis stars Guillermo Vilas and José Luis Clerc—both ranked in the world’s top five—boycotted Wimbledon in protest of British control. Geographically, the Falkland Islands lie about 300 miles (480 km) east of Argentina and nearly 8,050 miles (12,955 km) from the United Kingdom, underscoring the enduring tensions over this remote archipelago.

1. 1. Moses Seixas’ Address to President Washington

(Yeshuat Israel, Newport, 17 August 1790)
To the President of the United States of America. Sir:

Permit the children of the stock of Abraham to approach you with the most cordial affection and esteem for your person & merits — and to join with our fellow Citizens in welcoming you to Newport.

With pleasure we reflect on those days — those days of difficulty, & danger, when the God of Israel, who delivered David from the peril of the sword, — shielded Your head in the day of battle: — and we rejoice to think, that the same Spirit, who rested in the Bosom of the greatly beloved Daniel enabling him to preside over the Provinces of the Babylonish Empire, rests and ever will rest, upon you, enabling you to discharge the arduous duties of Chief Magistrate in these States.

Deprived as we heretofore have been of the invaluable rights of free Citizens, we now with a deep sense of gratitude to the Almighty disposer of all events behold a Government, erected by the Majesty of the People — a Government, which to bigotry gives no sanction, to persecution no assistance — but generously affording to all Liberty of conscience, and immunities of Citizenship: deeming every one, of whatever Nation, tongue, or language equal parts of the great governmental Machine:

This so ample and extensive Federal Union whose basis is Philanthropy, Mutual confidence and Public Virtue, we cannot but acknowledge to be the work of the Great God, who ruleth in the Armies of Heaven, and among the Inhabitants of the Earth, doing whatever seemeth him good.

For all the Blessings of civil and religious liberty which we enjoy under an equal and benign administration, we desire to send up our thanks to the Ancient of Days, the great preserver of Men — beseeching him, that the Angel who conducted our forefathers through the wilderness into the promised Land, may graciously conduct you through all the difficulties and dangers of this mortal life: —
And, when, like Joshua full of days and full of honor, you are gathered to your Fathers, may you be admitted into the Heavenly Paradise to partake of the water of life, and the tree of immortality.

Done and Signed by order of the Hebrew Congregation in Newport, Rhode Island, August 17th 1790.

Moses Seixas, Warden

You can view a PDF of the full address here.

2. George Washington’s Reply to the Hebrew Congregation

(21 August 1790)
Gentlemen:

While I receive, with much satisfaction, your Address replete with expressions of esteem, I rejoice in the opportunity of assuring you that I shall always retain a grateful remembrance of the cordial welcome I experienced on my visit to Newport, from all classes of citizens.

The reflection on the days of difficulty and danger which are past is rendered the more sweet, from a consciousness that they are succeeded by days of uncommon prosperity and security.

If we have wisdom to make the best use of the advantages with which we are now favored, we cannot fail, under the just administration of a good government, to become a great and happy people.

The citizens of the United States of America have a right to applaud themselves for having given to mankind examples of an enlarged and liberal policy — a policy worthy of imitation. All possess alike liberty of conscience and immunities of citizenship.

It is now no more that toleration is spoken of as if it were the indulgence of one class of people that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights; for, happily, the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.

It would be inconsistent with the frankness of my character not to avow that I am pleased with your favorable opinion of my administration and fervent wishes for my felicity.

May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants; while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid.

May the father of all mercies scatter light, and not darkness, upon our paths, and make us all in our several vocations useful here, and in His own due time and way everlastingly happy.

On Wednesday, September 10, Charlie Kirk was assassinated. It was a turning point for the world. A young man was killed for his words and beliefs. Charlie was not a politician; he was a private citizen whose mission was to share his ideas, invite dialogue, and debate those who disagreed. He was a gatherer of people. Like Abraham, who pitched his tent open on all four sides to welcome strangers, Charlie created a space for conversation. Others found hate within debate; Charlie saw it as opportunity for collaborative curiosity. Others kept ideological opponents at a distance; Charlie welcomed them inside and in his signature style say, “Step to the front of the line if you disagree with me.”

For more than twenty five years, I have often visited Lenox, Massachusetts, and made regular pilgrimages to the Norman Rockwell Museum. Norman Rockwell was an iconic illustrator whose Saturday Evening Post covers entered living rooms across the country, sparking conversations about the pressing issues of the day. While Charlie carried a microphone to make his point, Norman Rockwell wielded a paintbrush.

I often brought my daughters to the museum, and together we would stand in the central gallery surrounded by Rockwell’s most famous works: the Four Freedoms. Each painting filled a wall., Each visit to the museum invited a new discussion. I can still recall the joy of hearing my children’s fresh insights as we studied Freedom of Speech, Freedom to Worship, Freedom from Fear, and Freedom from Want.

Charlie’s passing drew me back to those enduring canvases. Just as Rockwell painted with sincerity and vision, Charlie lived these Four Freedoms with equal devotion, embodying their ideals through his voice, actions, and life.

I would like to visit each of these paintings in memory of Charlie.

Charlie’s devotion to Freedom of Speech ended at the barrel of an assassin’s gun. He was killed while speaking freely to the college students who had become his flock. A radicalized young man filled with hate silenced him. The tragedy recalls Robert F. Kennedy, assassinated in 1968 by a Palestinian radical, even as he too advocated for Israel as a homeland for Jews, Christians, and Muslims. Both Charlie and RFK paid the ultimate price for their commitment to free speech and Israel.

As we turned to the right in the central gallery, we faced Rockwell’s prophetic Freedom to Worship. Yet just around the corner, another canvas came into view: The Problem We All Live With. In it, Rockwell depicted Ruby Bridges, a six-year-old Black girl, walking to school past rotten tomatoes staining the school wall and under the jeers of segregationists.

Ruby’s story is often remembered as a triumph of courage and innocence, yet the political reality was harsher. In 1960, when she integrated the William Frantz Elementary School in New Orleans, Louisiana’s Democratic governor, Jimmie Davis opposed desegregation. Like many Southern Democratic governors of the era, he resisted federal court orders enforcing Brown v. Board of Education. Ruby’s entry into school was not permitted by state leadership but compelled by federal authority, with U.S. marshals escorting her through hostile crowds. Across the South, other Democratic governors including Orval Faubus in Arkansas, Ross Barnett in Mississippi, George Wallace in Alabama, and Lester Maddox in Georgia fought bitterly to preserve segregation and divide Black and White students. Rockwell’s painting immortalized Ruby’s bravery and the cruelty she endured, reminding us that progress came not through local goodwill but through federal intervention against entrenched local resistance.

When I studied at Harvard, I was privileged to learn from Dr. Robert Coles, the psychiatrist who counseled Ruby during those tense days. He recalled that as U.S. marshals escorted her past angry crowds, Ruby sometimes paused, her lips silently speaking. When he later asked what she had been saying, she answered softly, “I was praying for them.” A child, facing hatred, offered not fear but forgiveness. That is the power of worship, to transform persecution into prayer.

After Charlie’s death, we witnessed something unusual. So often, tragedy is followed by riots, vandalism, and violence. But in this case, people gathered in vigils and prayer. His death broke our hearts but somehow unified our spirits.

The next painting in the central gallery as we turned further right was Freedom from Fear. How do we live without fear when a man can be shot for his opinion? I think of President Reagan after the 1981 assassination attempt. Lying on the operating table, he asked his surgeon, “Are you a Republican or a Democrat?” The surgeon replied, “Mr. President, today we are all Republicans.” In the wake of Charlie’s death, perhaps we can say: today, we are all Charlies.

Our final turn to the right put us in front of the last of the four paintings,  Freedom from Want. Charlie’s generosity also lives on in stories of scholarships and travel grants for students to attend Turning Point USA. In this, Charlie embodied Rockwell’s Freedom from Want. Not in material wealth, but in spiritual and professional opportunity. His spark helped others kindle their own futures.

In the spirit of Charlie’s biblical pedagogical process, I looked to the Torah for some answers. However, the Torah offers no story of a leader who was assassinated. While there were threats of killing when Esau plotted against Jacob,  reconciliation won. When Saul sought David’s life, but David cut only the corner of Saul’s robe, showing honor over vengeance.

I then looked to the biblical figure most like Charlie is Moses. Moses is forever speaking, teaching, rebuking, and inspiring the Israelites toward the Promised Land, yet himself never entering. Moses faced many challenges among the Children of Israel as he led them from slavery toward Eretz Yisrael / The Promised Land.  In the wilderness there were determined dissents: the Golden Calf, the spies’ defection, and Korach’s rebellion. Yet Moses inspired the Children of Israel to remain united, overcoming these fractures by lifting up the voice of God and renewing faith in the Promise Land.

Harmony of Opposition

In our own day, Charlie faced rebellion and dissent each time he stepped onto a college campus. Yet, like Moses, he kept his tent of teaching open, inviting dialogue with his detractors. In doing so, he turned conflict into conversation and built blessed bridges where others only saw division. With staff and with microphone, in the desert and on college campuses, Moses and Charlie spoke hope into dissent and created community from conflict. Even Greek mythology points to this truth: Harmonia, daughter of Ares (god of war) and Aphrodite (goddess of love), embodied the union of opposites. From war and love came harmony. So too did Charlie, harmonizing love and conflict into dialogue, and turning the clash of ideas into a canopy of community.

What is God’s plan?

An eternal question is how can a man such as Charlie who was so committed to his faith in God in every way, be taken from our world so tragically at such a young age?  In Erika Kirks’ own words, she said  “God is Good. There is a reason for God’s Plan”

Perhaps this week’s Torah portion, Deuteronomy 26, offers a clue. Moses warns the Israelites of destruction if they abandon God’s commandments. He also commands them to bring their bikkurim, their first fruits, as offerings of gratitude upon entering the Promised Land. His words carry both rebuke and hope: a reminder of consequences and a vision of abundance when faith is honored.

Charlie’s life and death echo this message. Before his passing, he built a passionate community which has greatly expanded since his death.  His message of faith, freedom, and courage has spread further still, while his haters have been unmasked by their own words and actions.

We live in a time when antisemitism and attacks on Israel have exploded. In the last 30 days, our nation’s moral core has been shaken—on August 29, 2025, in Minneapolis, six Catholic children were murdered while they prayed, with bullet casings engraved with hatred toward Jews, Israel, and Catholics. As Pastor Martin Niemöller warned after the Nazi regime: “First they came for the socialists … then they came for the Jews … then they came for me.” Hatred may begin with Jews but never ends there. Today hateful attacks have also targeted Christians, Ukrainians, Hindus, and others—reminding us that an assault on one faith is ultimately an assault on all.

John F. Kennedy, in his Inaugural Address on January 20, 1961, famously said: “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.” In that moment, JFK inspired a generation to dream boldly, to act selflessly, and to build a better world together.

Just days before Charlie’s death, a young Ukrainian woman, Iryna Pushka, was stabbed to death on a Charlotte, North Carolina train while passengers looked away in chilling callousness. It was the horrific opposite of the call to community. Instead of service, there was silence. Instead of courage, there was complicity. The moral turpitude of those passive passengers raises the searing question: how can a society become so barren of compassion that not one person intervened? Despite explicit video evidence of Iryna’s murder and of the passengers’ complicit complacency, the muted response from much of the media and the indifference of some public leaders revealed an even deeper wound: apathy layered upon atrocity.

That same multi-headed monster of hate, apathy, and grieving has resurfaced beside Charlie’s assassination.  Inexplicably, there are many that have celebrated Charlie’s murder which feels like Sodom and Gomorrah revived.

JFK himself was assassinated, and with him a piece of America’s moral vision was wounded. His ideals of courage, service, and sacrifice now seem tarnished in the mirror of our current moral decay. The challenge before us is whether we can recover that spirit and reclaim a society worthy of compassion, courage, and community.

Why was Charlie assassinated?

What if God needed Charlie to help amplify his message, just as Moses did in Deuteronomy? Reminding a “mixed multitude” that faith and gratitude are the keys to entering the Promised Land. Perhaps Charlie’s message needed to shine down from heaven rather than remain bound to earth. In Exodus, manna rained from heaven on the first Shabbat, God’s sustenance for his children. Charlie, too, fervently honored the Jewish Shabbat each week, living in rhythm with that eternal gift.

As we mourn Charlie Kirk’s death, the Jewish prayer of the Mourner’s Kaddish offers us a guide. Each week, Jewish mourners recite this ancient prayer. Two elements stand out as guideposts for us today.

First, the prayer itself never mentions death. Instead, it magnifies God’s name, affirming life and hope in the face of loss. Tradition holds that the earliest form of this prayer was offered after the passing of a great teacher whose words were deeply missed. Two lines capture its essence: “May His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity,” and “May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and for all Israel” These words remind us that even in grief we can choose to make a name into a blessing and to seek peace beyond ourselves.

Second, the Mourner’s Kaddish is never said alone. Jewish law requires a community of at least nine others to surround the mourner, to share the burden of grief, and to amplify the prayer. So too may we, in mourning Charlie, continue to unite as a community, to carry one another in sorrow, and to bring peace into our fractured world.

In Erika Kirk’s words,

“I will never, ever have the words to describe the loss that I feel in my heart … Charlie … I know you do too. … Our world is filled with evil. But our God … is so good. So incredibly good. … And we know that for those who love God, all things work together for good…” Charlie, baby. Charlie … I promise I will never let your legacy die … Rest in the arms of our Lord … ‘Well done, my good and faithful servant.

Charlie asked “to be remembered for courage for my faith … the most important thing is my faith.”

As Maimonides wrote in Mishneh Torah, Bikkurim, Chapter 4, after offering the first-ripened fruits (bikkurim), one must also bring a peace offering and recite song, raising the fruits in all four directions as a sign of gratitude to God, before remaining in Jerusalem overnight. This ancient ritual of fruit, peace, song, and four directions mirrors Rockwell’s Four Freedoms. Just as the pilgrim turned in every direction to proclaim thankfulness, so too we now turn to Charlie’s legacy: freedom of speech, freedom to worship, freedom from fear, and freedom from want. With each direction, we offer gratitude, and with each prayer we trust that Charlie rests in Jerusalem—the eternal city of peace—and in the heavens, embraced by divine abundance.

As Charlie would remind us: faith first, family always, life is sacred, and work as service; this is how we count our blessings, and how we can live with purpose.

And if we do, then step by step, soul by soul, … together, as a mixed multitude,…we will enter the Promised Land.

Epilogue

In what became his final public words, Charlie Kirk was asked to share a favorite passage. He responded simply: “This too shall pass.” Hours later, he was gone. Yet those words, rooted in Jewish wisdom (Gam Zeh Ya’avor), carry an enduring lesson. Seasons of trial are not eternal; grief itself will one day give way to healing. Charlie’s life and his message now live beyond the tragedy of his death, reminding us that despair will pass, but faith, courage, and community remain. As he once said, “I want to be remembered for courage and for my faith. The most important thing in my life is my faith.” May we carry that charge forward, remembering not only that pain passes, but that purpose persists.

You can read more about Kirk’s last word here and more about Gam Zeh Ya’avor here.

Further Reading

You can read more about finding harmony in opposition here.

You can read about how we can overcome spiritual schisms here.

You can read more about grasping how tragedies can befall good people here.

You can read about how the tragic death of the Bibas boys became a powerful call for community here.

You can read more about the promised land here.

Appendix: Torah References

Abraham’s Open Tent

• Genesis 18:1–8 – Abraham sits at his tent’s entrance, welcoming three strangers, offering food and hospitality. This passage is the source for the teaching that Abraham’s tent was open on all four sides.

Esau and Jacob

• Genesis 27:41 – Esau plans to kill Jacob after the blessing.
• Genesis 33:4 – Instead of killing him, Esau embraces Jacob, symbolizing reconciliation.

David and Saul’s Robe

• 1 Samuel 24:11 – David spares Saul’s life in the cave, cutting only the corner of his robe to show honor over vengeance.

The Golden Calf

• Exodus 32:1–35 – While Moses is on Sinai, the people demand a calf of gold; Moses intercedes after God’s anger.

The Spies’ Defection

• Numbers 13:1–33; 14:1–45 – Twelve spies are sent to scout the land. Ten spread fear, while Caleb and Joshua urge faith and courage. The people rebel.

Korach’s Rebellion

• Numbers 16:1–35 – Korach and his followers challenge Moses and Aaron’s leadership; the earth swallows the rebels.

Bikkurim – First Fruits

• Deuteronomy 26:1–11 – Instruction to bring the first fruits of the land to the Temple as an offering of gratitude to God.

Blessings and Curses

• Deuteronomy 28:1–68 – Moses lists the blessings if Israel obeys, and the curses if they disobey God’s commandments.

The Mixed Multitude

• Exodus 12:38 – When Israel left Egypt, a “mixed multitude” went with them, symbolizing diverse peoples joining in the journey.

Manna and the First Shabbat

• Exodus 16:22–30 – Manna falls from heaven with double portions on the sixth day, teaching Israel to rest on the seventh, the first Shabbat.

Norman Rockwell Museum

Located in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, the Norman Rockwell Museum houses the world’s largest collection of original Rockwell artwork. Its galleries showcase not only Rockwell’s iconic Four Freedoms and Saturday Evening Post covers, but also later works grappling with social justice themes. A pilgrimage for anyone seeking to understand the visual roots of American ideals, the Museum offers rotating exhibits, educational programs, and deeply moving art that invites reflection and dialogue.

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.