Light Shines Through the Darkness

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“Darkness was upon the face of the deep. And God said: Let there be light.”

The tragic terrorist attack and massacre at Chabad Hanukkah celebration in Sydney, Australia, together with the mass shooting at Brown University that targeted a Jewish professor’s exam preparation session, and the murder of a MIT professor in Brookline, Massachusetts are beyond words.

Being part of the Chabad community means no one is distant from the pain. Everyone is either directly connected or one degree removed from the victims and survivors. One of my close friends called me in shock. He and his young daughter had been having lunch on Bondi Beach that day when the area was suddenly locked down, forcing them to hide as events unfolded around them.

In response, I created an art project to express what words could not.

Then I returned to this essay written years ago in the aftermath of another Hanukkah attack. I realized, with sadness and clarity, that its message remains painfully relevant today. The words still matter. But the list has grown.

I felt compelled to add testimony, not as politics or provocation, but as witness. A way of acknowledging how dramatically antisemitism and Jew-hatred have escalated across the world in recent years. In Jewish tradition, testimony matters. To name is to remember. To remember is to refuse erasure.

The Breaking Matzo community mourns each of these tragedies. We pray for the souls of those murdered, for the wounded, and for the families and communities left to carry these unbearable loss. May their memories be a blessing. Such acts of antisemitic violence are morally repugnant and their recurrence demands moral clarity, not silence.

In searching for grounding, I returned to the Torah, to the very first page.

“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. Now the earth was unformed and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep;
and the spirit of God hovered over the face of the waters. And God said: Let there be light. And there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness.”

Light precedes law. Light precedes judgment. Light precedes human argument.

Creation does not begin by eliminating darkness, but by distinguishing it. God does not deny the existence of chaos; He insists on moral separation. This is the first act of order in the universe, not force nor dominance, but discernment.

We cannot fully shield ourselves from the darkness that emerges in our world. But each of us can and must choose every day to bring the light of Day One into the world. A light that is not reactive, not defensive, but intrinsically good.

During Hanukkah, the festival of rededication, the menorah takes on even deeper meaning. Its light does not erase darkness. It divides it. It insists on moral distinction. It declares that not everything is relative and not everything is permissible.

We must vigorously divide the light from the darkness.

To light a menorah is not to deny suffering. It is to refuse confusion. It is to say that terror and hatred do not get the final word and that even in moments of grief, clarity matters.

May we be inspired to cast radiant light in the midst of unspeakable darkness. Not because it is easy. Not because it guarantees safety. But because creation itself begins with that choice. and because light, once lit, still matters.

A Record of Tragedy

A chronology of antisemitic violence, intimidation, and moral rupture

This record is not comprehensive. It is not political. It is testimony.

October 27, 2018 — Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA

A gunman attacked Shabbat morning services at the Tree of Life synagogue, murdering 11 Jewish worshippers. This remains the deadliest antisemitic attack in American history.

Late November–December 2019 — New York City, USA

A series of assaults against visibly Jewish individuals occurred in public spaces, particularly in Brooklyn, creating fear and insecurity during daily Jewish life in the weeks leading up to Hanukkah.

December 10, 2019 — Jersey City, New Jersey, USA

Two attackers murdered three civilians inside a kosher supermarket and one responding police officer. The attack was treated as targeted antisemitic violence.

December 28, 2019 — Monsey, New York, USA

On the seventh night of Hanukkah, an assailant entered a Hanukkah celebration at the Home of Rabbi Chaim Rottenberg and stabbed multiple guests. Five people were wounded; one victim later died from injuries.

October 7, 2023 — Israel

Hamas carried out a coordinated terrorist assault against Israeli civilians, murdering, raping, and abducting men, women, children, and the elderly. This was the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust and was followed by a global surge in antisemitic incidents.

October–December 2023 — New York City, USA

Multiple assaults against visibly Jewish individuals were reported in public streets and transit systems, contributing to heightened fear within Jewish communities.

November 5, 2023 — Thousand Oaks, California, USA

A Jewish man named  Paul Kessler (69) died from head injuries sustained during a confrontation at opposing demonstrations related to the Israel–Hamas war. His death was ruled a homicide.

October 2023 — Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA

A Jewish student at Harvard Business School was assaulted during protests on campus. Criminal charges were later filed in connection with the incident.

May 21, 2025 — Washington, D.C., USA

A Palestinian terrorist killed an American Jewish woman and her Christian fiancé in front of the Capitol Jewish Museum in Washington D.C. in an antisemitic attack.

June 1, 2025 — Boulder, Colorado, USA

An incendiary attack targeted participants at a pro-Israel gathering. Multiple individuals were injured, including the death of a Holocaust survivor. Karen Diamond (82) later died from her injuries.

October 2025 — Manchester, England

An assault occurred during Yom Kippur services, resulting in fatalities and injuries. The attack traumatized the British Jewish community on Judaism’s holiest day.

November 2025 — Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, USA

The residence of Governor Josh Shapiro was targeted in an arson attack during the Passover season. The incident was investigated amid concerns of antisemitic motivation.

December 2025 — Providence, Rhode Island, USA

A mass shooting occurred at Brown University during an exam preparation session associated with a Jewish professor. Two people were killed and several others wounded.

December 2025 — Brookline, Massachusetts, USA

A MIT professor was murdered in his home near the MIT and Harvard campuses, sending shockwaves through the academic and Jewish communities.

December 2025 — Los Angeles County, California, USA

Gunfire struck a Jewish family’s home during the Hanukkah season. No fatalities were reported, but the incident intensified fear within the local community.

December 14, 2025 — Sydney, Australia

A terrorist attack during a Chabad Hanukkah Celebration resulted in the murder of Jewish civilians, including a Holocaust survivor, and injuries to many others. The attack reverberated across Jewish communities worldwide during the Festival of Light.

Each entry marks a life interrupted, a family shattered, and a community forever changed. To record is to remember. To remember is to refuse erasure. May their memories be a blessing.

You can read more about the light of Hanukkah shining through the darkness here.

Guardians of the Light: A Shared Moral Calling

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You can find a Hebrew version of this blog here.

A window stays lit
Someone chose not to look away
Darkness waits outside

Hanukkah is the story of miracles. Some wrought by God, some by human courage, and some by the quiet partnership between the two.

In 167 BCE, Judah the Maccabee led a small, outnumbered Jewish force against the Syrian-Greek empire that sought to erase Judaism from Jewish life and Jewish land. It was a revolt not only against physical domination, but against spiritual erasure. Then there was the second miracle, the oil. A single cruse, enough for one day, burned for eight. Light endured beyond all rational expectation.

We often think of these miracles as ancient history, but there are modern-day Judah the Maccabees among us. Additionally, there are righteous gentiles whose actions, like the oil, allow light to burn far longer than it should.

On December 14, 2025, during the Hanukkah massacre at a Chabad celebration in Sydney, Australia, terror descended in the most literal way. Amid the chaos, one man did not flee. Ahmed El Ahmed ran toward danger. He leapt onto one of the terrorists, wrestled away his weapon, and was shot twice in the process. His body absorbed bullets meant for others. His courage saved lives.

In that moment, Ahmed El Ahmed became a modern-day Judah the Maccabee. Not because he was Jewish, but because he chose humanity. Because he understood, instinctively, that there are moments when the only moral response is to stand between light and darkness.

This was not the first time Hanukkah light was defended by someone outside the Jewish community.

In 1993, in Billings, Montana, Jews were targeted by white supremacists trying to establish an “Aryan homeland.” A Jewish cemetery was desecrated. Bomb threats were made against the synagogue. A brick was thrown through the bedroom window of a five-year-old Jewish boy, aimed directly at the menorah on his windowsill. Police advised the family to take the menorah down. Instead, the community rose up.

Pastor Keith Torney, became the Judah the Maccabee of Billings. Every revolt needs a leader and he understood that silence would only invite more darkness. He rallied churches. Children drew paper menorahs. Families taped them to their windows. The local newspaper printed a full-page menorah for residents to display.

Soon, thousands of homes lit menorahs alongside their Christmas decorations. It was David versus Goliath, fought not with stones, but with crayons and courage. Hate retreated. Light endured.

In November 2025, I traveled to Africa for the first time to attend a Moroccan Jewish wedding. It unfolded over six days, from the henna to the chuppah to Shabbat itself, each moment steeped in joy, ritual, and an unbroken sense of continuity. During the ceremony, the rabbis and the father of the bride paused to publicly thank the King of Morocco for protecting Jews and allowing them to worship openly and without fear.

The gratitude was neither ceremonial nor abstract. During World War II, when the Nazis demanded lists of Jews, the King of Morocco famously replied that there were no Jews in Morocco, only Moroccans. For that refusal, the Vichy regime exiled him for two years. His people revolted. Their king returned.

Sitting at the wedding and hearing those words spoken aloud under the Chuppah by the Rabbi and Father of the Bride, the moment felt both precious and precarious, a reminder of how rare such protection has been in Jewish history and how fragile it can feel even now. As the tragic events of Hanukkah at Bondi Beach in Sydney unfolded, that expression of gratitude—for safety, for dignity, for the simple ability to celebrate openly—took on an even deeper poignancy.

What binds these stories together is not geography or religion. It is choice.

Ahmed El Ahmed chose to run toward danger
Keith Torney chose to multiply light rather than advise concealment
The King of Morocco chose dignity over compliance. Each, in their own way, became a modern-day Maccabee.

And yet, my soul has also been lifted by quieter miracles.

In the days following the Sydney massacre, messages arrived from non-Jewish friends across the world: Bahrain, France, Ghana, India, Japan, Lebanon, Nigeria, the UAE, the United Kingdom, and  the United States. Each message mattered. Kindness does not require power or position. It requires awareness. The willingness to say: I see you. I am with you.

The silence, too, speaks. Some are silent out of fear, some out of exhaustion, and some out of indifference. History has taught us that silence is never neutral.

During World War II, more than 29,000 non-Jews risked their lives to save Jews. Today, Jews again find themselves asking who will stand up, who will step forward, and who will look away. The consequences of demonization are no longer theoretical. They are written in blood, in broken families, and in communities forced to grieve while still standing.

Hanukkah teaches us that darkness does not disappear on its own. It is challenged. Sometimes by armies, sometimes by oil, and sometimes by a single person who decides that this is the moment to stand.

Heroes walk among us. Some are loud. Some are hidden. All are needed.

This Hanukkah, may we recognize the modern-day Maccabees. May we honor the righteous gentiles. And may we never underestimate the power of choosing light, especially when it would be easier to look away.

Hanukkah does not ask us to fix the world. It asks us not to abandon it.

This holiday season place a menorah in your window. It can be drawn by a child. It can be printed on paper. It can be imperfect. What matters is the choice to be visible.

When you light a menorah, you are not making a political statement. You are making a human one: that Jews do not stand alone, that faith deserves protection, and that light grows stronger when it is shared.

Light does not argue with darkness. It shines through it. And sometimes, that is miracle enough.

Appendix

Guardians of the Light

In every generation, there are those who become Guardians of the Light. Men and women who rise in moments of danger to protect what is sacred, not because they are commanded, but because they recognize truth when it is threatened.

In the Torah, light is the first act of creation “Let there be light.” It is the foundation of order before law, nation, or power. In the New Testament, light is the moral imperative “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” And in the Qur’an, light is guidance itself “Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth.”

Across these traditions, light is not passive; it must be guarded, carried, and sometimes defended by human hands. Guardians of the Light are defined not by faith or identity, but by choice. The decision to stand between violence and the vulnerable, to protect worship, dignity, and life itself. Like the oil of Hanukkah, their courage may seem insufficient in the moment, yet it burns longer than reason allows, reminding us that history is shaped not only by power, but by those who refuse to let the light go out.

Guardians of the Light do not always carry torches. Sometimes, they turn on a lamp and refuse to turn it off.

Photo Credit:  Quincy, my son-in-law, took this photo of Glowworms in New Zealand.  Quincy explained “At first we didn’t see (the glowworms) because the sun was just setting and we’d been walking with flashlights, but once we turned the flashlights off and let our eyes adjust, suddenly we realized we were surrounded by these tiny points of light like stars. It was very magical and while not exactly like the candles of the Hanukkah story, it felt meaningful in a similar metaphorical vein”

You can read more about the light of Hanukkah shining through the darkness here.

You can read this blog in Hebrew here.

Modern Montana Maccabees

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You can find a Hebrew version of this blog here.

Light does not argue with darkness. It does not negotiate with it. It simply shines thru it.

On Sunday December 14, 2025, as news of the Sydney Hanukkah massacre spread, my phone buzzed and my inbox filled. One message stopped me and lifted my soul. It was from my friend Tim. He was writing as a son-in-law, as a witness, as someone who had lived inside a story that suddenly felt topical again.

He wrote about his wife Liz’s father: Keith Torney.

Keith Torney was a pastor in Billings, Montana., During Hanukkah in 1993, when hate decided to test a small American town, Keith Torney stood up. Not as a Jew, not as a politician, not seeking recognition, but as a human being who understood something fundamental: when one of us is attacked, we are all under attack, and we must lead with love in the face of hate.

I had heard the Billings story before, as many of us have. It has become almost folklore now. The story is taught to children through the beautiful book The Christmas Menorahs: How a Town Fought Hate. Rereading it in this moment, with fresh wounds still open, the story lands differently. It no longer feels like history. It feels like an instruction manual and a reminder of who we are capable of being.

In 1993, Billings was targeted by white supremacists seeking to carve out an “Aryan homeland.” They desecrated the Jewish cemetery. They threatened the synagogue with bombs. A brick was thrown through the bedroom window of a five-year-old Jewish boy, Isaac Schnitzer. It was aimed directly at the menorah on the windowsill.

The police advised Isaac’s mother, Tammie, to take the menorah down. This moment, quiet, procedural, and well-intentioned was the crossroads. History often turns not on grand speeches, but on small unbearable choices. Hide or shine. Remove the light or risk more darkness.

Tammie Schnitzer did something brave. She spoke publicly. She asked a question that still echoes: how do you explain to a child that in America, Jews must hide their menorahs; especially during a holiday that celebrates the freedom to worship openly?

Margaret MacDonald, a Christian woman in Billings, heard that question and refused to let it go unanswered. She called her pastor, Keith Torney, and asked if the children in Sunday school could draw menorahs and place them in their windows.

Keith Torney did not hesitate. He encouraged other churches to do the same. What followed still feels miraculous in its simplicity.

Hundreds of hand-drawn menorahs appeared in windows across Billings. Then thousands. The local newspaper printed a full-page black-and-white menorah for residents to cut out and tape to their windows. Businesses joined in. Homes with Christmas trees displayed menorahs beside them. The message was unmistakable: if you target any Jews , you will have to target all of us.

The hate groups tried to push back. Shots were fired into a Catholic school. Church windows were smashed. But hate relies on isolation, fear, and silence. Billings offered none of the above. The volume of light overwhelmed the darkness. The extremists retreated and  left town.

This is why Keith Torney and the people of Billings were modern-day Maccabees. Every revolt needs a leader and in Billings, Keith Torney was Judah the Maccabee: not wielding a sword, but calling others to stand, to act, and to refuse silence.

The original Maccabees were Jews who fought a mighty empire for the right to live as Jews. The miracle of Billings is that non-Jews picked up that mantle, not with weapons, but with paper, crayons, and windows. It was David versus Goliath, fought not with stones, but with children’s drawings and moral clarity. They understood, instinctively, that the Jewish struggle to worship freely is not a parochial concern. It is the foundation of any society that claims to value liberty.

At Yad Vashem, we honor righteous gentiles who saved Jews during the Holocaust. Their names are etched into history because they chose courage when the cost was real and the outcome uncertain. Keith Torney belongs in that lineage. Not because he saved Jews from death camps, but because he understood the same eternal truth: when Jews are targeted for being Jews, neutrality is not an option.

Hanukkah teaches that lesson again and again. After the destruction of the Temple, the rabbis debated whether Hanukkah should still be celebrated. The physical center was gone. The political victory long past. And yet they said yes, because Hanukkah is not about power. It is about persistence. About lighting a small flame in defiance of history’s repeated attempts to extinguish it.

The menorah itself carries that meaning. It is the oldest symbol of the Jewish people, representing creation, order, and divine presence. On Hanukkah, the hanukkiah brings that holiness into the home.

That flame has survived the Inquisition, pogroms, the Holocaust, October 7th, and now a global resurgence of antisemitism that feels frighteningly unrestrained. Synagogues are attacked. Jewish professors are targeted. Jewish students are harassed. The Bondi Beach Hanukkah Massacre 2025. And once again, Jews are being told; sometimes explicitly, sometimes gently, to be quieter, less visible, and less Jewish.

The answer is the same now as it was in Billings in 1993. Do not dim the light. Multiply it.

To my non-Jewish friends asking what they can do: During this holiday season—Hanukkah or Christmas—place a menorah in your window. It can be drawn by a child. It can be printed on paper. It can be as simple as the paper menorah below .

When you place a menorah in your window, you are not performing a ritual. You are making a statement: that Jews do not stand alone, that faith deserves protection, and that light grows stronger when it is shared.

Keith Torney understood this more than thirty years ago. A town understood it with him. And because of that choice, paper and ink became courage, windows became sanctuaries, and a small Montana winter became part of the eternal Hanukkah story.

Light does not argue with darkness.
It shines thru it.

Sometimes in oil.
Sometimes in crayons.
Sometimes because someone decides to lead and others decide to follow.

How to use this illustration:

  • Print this illustration.
  • Cut out the menorah or display it as is.
  • Place it in a window during Hanukkah or the holiday season.
  • Share the light with your neighbors and your community.

This menorah is a faithful modern recreation inspired by the newspaper printed menorah used in Billings, Montana in 1993

You can read more about the light of Hanukkah shining through the darkness here.

You can read this blog in Hebrew here.

The Memorable Magic of Moroccan Cuisine

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Moroccan cuisine feels like a tapestry woven by many hands. Berber, Jewish, and Arab traditions, layered and intertwined, all bringing their own melodies. Walking through the markets of Marrakech, I saw pyramids of spices. Golden turmeric, brick-red paprika, cinnamon sticks like little scrolls of Torah; each one carrying stories of trade routes, holidays, and family tables. The air itself is seasoned with memory.

Staying at La Mamounia felt like a home away from home; each day the staff greeted me with warmth and excitement about my premier fois visit to Morocco, as if they were personally hosting me in their own house. As I wandered through its courtyards, salons, and gardens, the architecture and design offered so many private, welcoming spaces that when I left, I found myself already promising to return for my prochaine fois in Marrakech.

On my first visit to Morocco in November 2025, I wanted to not just taste Morocco, but to learn how these dishes are created. How simple ingredients, time, and intention become something so soulful. What I discovered is that Moroccan cooking is less about fancy technique and more about faith in the process. You add a little spice, a splash of water, and you wait. What looks thin at first slowly deepens and thickens, becoming rich with flavor. It reminded me that our lives can feel watery and unfinished too, but with care, warmth, and patience, they can turn into something unexpectedly full of meaning.

These four new recipes are my first Moroccan “playlist.” Four songs in the same key, each with its own rhythm.

The fish tagine is the taste of the sea meeting the spice market. Fresh fish is nestled into a bed of tomatoes, peppers, herbs, and chermoula (garlic, cilantro, cumin, paprika and lemon). As it simmers, the sauce turns bright and tangy, a kind of Moroccan “chraime” that feels right at home on a Jewish table. I could imagine serving it for Shabbat, letting the aroma do the welcoming long before the first blessing.

Zaalouk, a smoky eggplant and tomato salad, is what happens when humble vegetables are treated with respect. The eggplant is charred, the tomatoes slowly cooked down with garlic and spices, then everything is mashed together until it becomes a silky dip. It’s served at room temperature, spooned into small bowls, surrounded by bread. Zaalouk taught me that side dishes aren’t really “sides” here they are an essential part of a chorus.

The lamb—our M’rouzia—sits at the center like a slow-cooked sermon. Onions sweat in the pot, then lamb, spices, water, and patience. For hours, you gently stir, flip, and watch. In a world that often celebrates speed, Moroccan lamb teaches a different kind of wisdom. Flavor comes from trust. You keep tending the pot even when nothing dramatic seems to be happening. Little by little, the sauce reduces, the spices bloom, and the meat relaxes on the bone. It is time made edible.

Finally, there is Seffa, a Moroccan cousin of noodle kugel made with sweet vermicelli with milk, almonds, and raisins. The fine noodles are steamed again and again until they are impossibly light, then dressed with perfumed milk, honey, cinnamon, and orange blossom. Raisins and almonds bring texture and a dusting of powdered sugar makes it feel like a celebration. Seffa blurs the line between side dish and dessert, between everyday and holiday. It’s a gentle reminder at the end of the meal that sweetness deserves its own place in the story.

Together, these four dishes feel like a journey through Moroccan hospitality and a reunion with familiar Jewish flavors. They invite us to slow down, to stir a little longer, to let the sauce thicken in its own time. They ask us to see how traditions can meet and mingle, like spices in a shared pot.

Water and Rainbows: Fracture, Light, and What Endures

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Melted doubts drift off.
Fractures bloom in hidden hearts—
Rainbows born from pain.

Water is the only natural element that exists commonly in all three physical states: solid, liquid, and gas. Temperature catalyzes its transformation. The introduction or removal of energy reorganizes its internal structure and changes the ratio of air embedded within it. This installation uses these characteristics as a medium for exploring perception, time, and transformation. By juxtaposing water, ice, and glass the piece reveals how slight internal differences create profound visual and symbolic divergence.

Abstract of the Installation

From a distance, the viewer encounters a serene pool of water accompanied by two simple containers holding seemingly identical cubes. Through closer inspection it is revealed that one bucket contains ice cubes and the other contains glass cubes of the exact same size.

The installation is intentionally participatory, transforming each visitor from observer to co-creator. Every participant completes a two-step ritual:

  1. Take an Ice Cube
    The visitor lifts an ice cube and tosses it gently into the pool. Because the crystalline structure of ice expands and traps air, it floats effortlessly on the surface.
  2. Take a Glass Cube
    The visitor then selects a glass cube. Using a wooden mallet placed nearby, they tap the cube to create a subtle internal fracture. A shattering occurs inside the cube while its external form remains intact. The fractured glass cube is then tossed into the pool, where it sinks slowly below the surface.

Temporal Evolution

The installation unfolds over hours and days, using time as a central medium.

Immediate Observation (First Few Minutes)

The contrast is clear:
• The ice cubes float, their lower density making them buoyant.
• The fractured glass cubes sink, their high density pulling them below the surface.

Quiet dichotomies appears: lightness versus heaviness, fragility versus solidity, transparency versus opacity.

Short-Term Transformation (Hours)

As the ice melts, its solid form dissolves into the larger body of water. The literal disappears, leaving only the memory of the participant’s action.

Meanwhile, the fractured glass cubes begin to interact with sunlight. Internal cracks refract the light, creating small rainbows that shimmer below the water’s surface.

Material transformation becomes visual transformation.

Long-Term Display (Days)

After several days, the pool becomes a constellation of refracted color. As sunlight moves across the installation, the fractured cubes generate shifting prisms of light. Dynamic rainbows dancing across the water and surrounding environment.

The installation, once minimal and serene, becomes radiant and full of motion.

Artistic Intention

The piece leverages physical science to express a deeper meditation on:

  • States of being: Solid, liquid, and fractured forms coexist, reflecting human emotional and spiritual states.
  • Impermanence: Ice melts; only its effects remain.
  • The beauty within fracture: Cracks in glass become conduits for color, revealing the hidden aesthetics of internal disruption.
  • Perspective: From afar, everything appears identical. Closer participation uncovers the truth of variation and vulnerability.
  • Time: The artwork evolves without intervention, emphasizing patience, observation, and natural transformation.

Visitor Experience

The installation invites participants to:

  • Engage physically, not just visually.
  • Contribute to the evolving sculpture.
  • Witness how identical external forms diverge profoundly through internal structure.
  • Reflect on how subtle internal differences like air content, density, fracture patterns can lead to dramatically different outcomes.

The viewer becomes a collaborator in a quiet choreography between nature, physics, and light.

Biblical Symbolism and Interpretive Framework

Rainbows After the Flood: Promise After Suffering

In Genesis, following the Flood, God places a rainbow in the sky as a covenantal sign that destruction will never again be visited upon the world in such a total way. The rainbow emerges only after the storm symbolizing mercy, renewal, and divine presence following suffering. The installation echoes this moment: the refracted rainbows emerging from fractured glass within the water recall God’s promise that brokenness can give rise to beauty, covenant, and hope.

Breaking the Glass: Memory, Covenant, Fragility

The act of striking the glass cube with a mallet invokes the breaking of the glass at a Jewish wedding. That ritual simultaneously remembers the destruction of the Temple and affirms the irrevocable bond between bride and groom. Here, breaking the glass transforms it into a prism. An object whose internal fractures allow light to radiate outward. Pain is not denied; it becomes the source of illumination. A shattered inner structure becomes an engine of beauty.

Seeing From Afar vs. Seeing Up Close: A Commentary on Jewish Peoplehood

From a distance, the ice cubes and glass cubes seem the same much as the tribes of Israel, or the Jewish people in any era, may appear unified. Yet upon approaching, the differences become evident. This resonates deeply with biblical narratives where surface unity masks diverging inner commitments.

The Twelve Spies (Numbers 13–14): Faith vs. Fear

All twelve spies were children of Israel, tasked with viewing the Promised Land.
Yet ten returned with fear, despair, and rejection of God’s promise. They sought to stone Caleb and Joshua, who alone upheld faith and mission. The ice cubes represent those whose spiritual core is “full of air,” lacking substance and resolve. They float for a moment but inevitably melt into the undifferentiated water lacking the internal structure to endure.

Joseph and His Brothers (Genesis 37): Envy vs. Vision

Similarly, ten of Joseph’s brothers were consumed by jealousy and sought to destroy him. Superficially, they were all sons of Jacob, but their spiritual resilience diverged dramatically. Like the ice cubes, envy dissolves, leaving no enduring form.

Ice and Fractured Glass: Two Inner Responses

This installation does not seek to define or divide people, but rather to explore different inner responses to pressure, faith, and time—responses that can exist within individuals, communities, and even within a single life.

Ice

Ice is light because it contains air. It floats easily, but it cannot endure warmth for long. In the installation, ice represents moments when commitment is thin, when faith feels distant, or when connection to Torah, God, or Israel becomes fragile under heat or strain. Ice is not condemned; it is temporary. It appears solid, yet it inevitably dissolves back into the larger body of water, leaving no distinct form behind.

Fractured Glass

Glass, by contrast, is dense and enduring. When struck, it does not disappear—it fractures internally. Those fractures become pathways for light. In the installation, fractured glass reflects moments of struggle, doubt, or suffering that do not erase faith but deepen it. Even when broken, glass retains its structure and transforms light into color. What appears damaged becomes radiant.

Brokenness as Brilliance

Within this visual language:

  • Ice suggests impermanence—ease without depth.
  • Glass suggests endurance—strength that survives fracture.
  • Melting becomes a metaphor for dissolution.
  • Fracturing becomes a metaphor for transformation.
  • Rainbows emerge as symbols of covenant, hope, and divine presence revealed through struggle.

The work is not about who belongs and who does not. It is about what endures, what transforms, and what refracts light when tested.

For a more personal and narrative reflection on the ideas within this work, the companion essay, Remember the Rainbow That Remains, invites the reader into the lived and imagined experience behind the installation.

 

Remember the Rainbow That Remains

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Imagine you are walking along a quiet stretch of Miami Beach just after sunrise. The air is cool and the horizon soft with possibility. As you approach a wooden table resting gently on the sand, you notice a large circular pool of water. The water is perfectly clear, like a lens waiting to reveal something you cannot yet name.

Next to the pool sit two glass buckets filled with identical cubes. At least, that is what they appear to be from a distance. But, as often happens in life, the truth reveals itself only when you draw closer. One bucket holds ice cubes while the other holds glass cubes.

On the table lies a small wooden mallet. You are invited to participate.

You reach for an ice cube first. It melts slightly in your hand, leaving a glistening trace on your fingertips. When you drop it into the water, it floats effortlessly.

Then you pick up one of the glass cubes. It feels entirely different in your palm, dense and steady. You tap it lightly with the mallet. A delicate web of fractures blooms inside the cube. Not outward destruction, but inward transformation. You let it fall into the water and watch it sink, slowly and inevitably, finding its place beneath the surface.

Over the next few minutes, you see the floating ice and the sinking glass living side by side. Minutes turn to hours. The ice dissolves completely, disappearing into the larger body of water. But the glass remains. When sunlight hits the fractured glass at just the right angle, light bursts into rainbows, scattering color across the pool and dancing on the table like a whispered promise.

Over the next days, the entire installation becomes a constellation of shifting prisms. What began as simple cubes now radiate an unexpected beauty. Brokenness has become brilliance.

I often think about the first rainbow in Genesis.—After the Flood, God showed Noah a rainbow in the sky and promised that forevermore, a rainbow would follow suffering. A covenant of hope, revealed only when light passes through water. Only after the world has endured fracture. Rainbows are not decorations; they are reminders that even in the aftermath of devastation, beauty can still emerge.

Striking the glass cubes reminds me of the shattered glass at a Jewish wedding.  A moment that holds both memory and promise. The past is broken; the future is unbreakable.

This installation becomes a meditation on how we see ourselves and one another. From afar, the ice cubes and glass cubes appear exactly the same. Just as in Exodus the twelve spies all looked alike, yet only two saw the Promised Land with faith. Just as Joseph’s brothers all looked the same to their father, yet ten were hollowed by envy while one carried vision.

Here is the deeper truth revealed by the pool: the difference between the ice cube and the fractured glass cube is the difference between those who lack faith in God, Torah, and Israel and those whose faith gives them inner strength, resilience, and radiant purpose. One group floats temporarily on air; the other, though cracked, refracts divine light.

Some of us float for a while on emptiness. Others crack under pressure and yet shine through the fractures.

The secret is this: the fractures are not the end. They are the beginning of radiance. Our broken places are not voids; they are prisms. When we bring our own cracked selves into the divine sunlight, we begin to shine in colors we never knew we carried.

So come closer. Pick up an ice cube. Pick up a glass cube. Strike it gently. Watch what happens in your hands. See what dissolves. See what remains. What endures is a latent light born of pain, awakened by fracture, and blossoming into a rainbow of beauty and compassion.

Melted doubts drift off.
Fractures bloom in hidden hearts—
Rainbows born from pain.

ספקות נמסו.
שֶבֶר יִפְרַח בְּחֶבְיוֹן לֵב—
קֶשֶׁת תֵּלֵד מִכְאֹב.

For those who wish to explore how this meditation takes physical form—through water, glass, light, and time—the full art installation proposal, Water and Rainbows: Fracture, Light, and What Endures, offers a deeper look into the structure behind the story.

Kyoto Stones, Seder Songs: Where Ryoan-ji Meets Dayenu

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Fourteen stones in view
the fifteenth waits in stillness,
afikoman heart.

Our family loves Japan.

“日本語が大好きですね.” (I really love Japanese!) Lucy texted me that the other day. A minute later came another message in English: “I just spent so much time talking in Japanese. It was lit!”

I wrote back:
「ルーシーが日本語を好きなのは、ご飯の白さみたいに当たり前だね。」
(Your love of Japanese is as natural as white on rice.)

That’s a typical exchange between my favorite younger daughter, Lucy, and me. She tells me how much she loves Japanese; I beam with pride at her determination and proficiency. Lucy and I even shared the same first-year Japanese teacher at Harvard. When I arrived, Kageyama-sensei was the youngest instructor. Years later, when Lucy was a freshman, she had become department chair. Time braided our lives in a very Japanese way.

Over a recent lunch, a new friend who had also lived in Japan asked a simple question: we’re both Jewish and infatuated with Japan, what connects the two? Until that moment, I hadn’t tried to name the bridge.

I lived in Japan in high school, in Hanazono-ku in northwest Kyoto, with the generous Kitamaru family. Ryoan-ji was nearby. The first time I entered its rock garden, I felt quietly transported. There are fifteen stones, but from any vantage you can see only fourteen. The fifteenth is hidden. Zen teaches it’s felt in the heart.

Years later I took Caroline and Lucy to Japan for a summer when they were thirteen and ten. They studied in a local school and something in Lucy lit up. That seed later blossomed in college Japanese and today she texts me in nihongo for fun.

Two ideas, one from each tradition, keep interplaying in my mind. The first is gratitude. Near Ryoan-ji’s garden stands a small stone basin, a tsukubai. Its inscription reads 吾唯知足: ware tada taru o shiru: “I only know contentment.” Dayenu in another language. At our Passover table, Dayenu is a family favorite. We even play with  small gratitude game: “If we had only this delicious dinner with Caroline and Lucy, and not the rest of our friends and family—Dayenu.” Given Breaking Matzo’s tradition of many international charoset recipes, “If we had only one kind of charoset, and not eleven—Dayenu.” The formula trains the heart to notice “enough” before “more.” The hidden fifteenth stone and the Seder’s afikoman feel like cousins. Something precious and deliberately concealed which reminds us that a hidden piece of ourselves completes the story. You can read more about Dayenu here.

The second idea is time. In tea culture there is ichigo ichie—一期一会—“one time, one meeting.” Each encounter is unrepeatable. Years ago, I gave Lucy a calligraphy of this saying and she still treasures it today. Ichigo ichie is the foundation of omotenashi; Japanese hospitality, an anticipatory welcome that treats this guest, this cup, and this breath as singular. Judaism answers with Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s “palace in time.” Shabbat arrives every week for twenty-four hours, independent of place. Our holy days live on the calendar, not in a building. We celebrate anywhere: at home, on the road, even davening in the desert. Only Sukkot asks for a place; a fragile hut beneath the sky, precisely to remind us that place, too, is temporary while time remains holy. You can read more about Rabbi Heschel here.

Order is central in both Japan and Judaism. Japan orders life by place: the bento’s compartments, elevator etiquette, and the meeting’s seating chart. Judaism orders life by process: Seder literally means “order”: blessings, washings, telling, tasting, remembering.

Leadership is structured differently in each culture as well. In Japan, deference flows to age and rank. In Judaism, the youngest asks the Four Questions and a thirteen-year-old bar or bat mitzvah can deliver a d’var Torah.

Even our washings share purpose while diverging in rhythm. At Ryoan-ji’s tsukubai, you purify your own hands and pray quietly, often alone. In Jewish life, the Levites wash the hands of the Kohanim and; at the Seder we wash twice, and we often pray with a minyan-not because
God can’t hear us solo, but-because community is part of the prayer.

A recall a small scene from my time in Japan: a tea host bowed, hands low. Steam rose from a small chawan. Mr. Mogi and Lucy spoke in quick Japanese; I sat in quiet gratitude. I mouthed “Dayenu” as the first sip touched my lips, enough, right here.

Why does this matter? Because I realized how long I kept these loves in separate silos. Japan in one reservoir, Judaism in another, not  letting them irrigate each other. The moment I let the waters mingle, curiosity began to flow again. No new facts, just new awareness. Jacob’s ladder (Genesis 28) comes to mind: angels going up and down on the same rungs. My up-and-down years, Japan and Judaism, share one ladder. The Torah teaches integration over compartmentalization. The Ark is overlaid with gold inside and out. Wholeness is holy; not celebrated separateness.

And this learning doesn’t end in me. On our first visit to Ryoan-ji, Lucy was ten, chattering in front of the stone garden and distracted by the heat. On our last trip, it was a joy to walk Japan with her language and cultural fluency lighting the way. Back at Ryoan-ji, she settled into the stillness of the inner stone sanctum and met her own quiet. Around the corner she discovered the tsukubai and, smiling, performed the solitary cleansing. Her growth in Japan was palpable. With Caroline and Quincy’s wedding and, God willing, future generations of Goldfarbs around our Seder table, I can imagine teaching the next generation both the ichigo ichie of the present moment and the Dayenu of enoughness.

A small practice, if you’d like to try it this week: before lighting candles, whisper ichigo ichie; one time, one meeting, to honor this unrepeatable Shabbat. After Kiddush, offer one personal Dayenu line: “If I had ______ and not ______—Dayenu.” One sentence is enough. Enough is the point.

Japan has been my mind; Judaism, my soul. From today, I will live them as one; inside and out. Dayenu.

Ladle: Dayenu
a palace made of set time,
once is everything.

Postscript remembrance:
I remember fondly my Harvard professor Henry Rosovsky, who taught me Japanese economics and was a pioneer in forging relations between Jews, Israel, and Saudi Arabia in the early 1980s. Back then I saw these pursuits as separate and distinct. Now I see Henry’s life and work in a newly integrated light, fractured facts harmonized into a beautiful rainbow.

Further reading:

Tsukubai are stone water basins that are used in purification rituals and tea ceremonies. The zenibachi is a famous tsukubai located at the Ryoanji Temple in Kyoto. The zenibachi is shaped like an ancient Chinese coin. The round shape represents the Earth and the square cut into the center represents the heavens. There are four characters carved into it with the following meanings:

Together they translate to “I only know plenty”, a quote with a myriad of meanings and inspirations. I interpret it to mean “I am content with what I have”, a spiritual parallel to the Hebrew Dayenu: “It would have been enough.” I am filled with joy each time I see this unique and meaningful structure. You can learn more about the zenibachi here.

You can read more about Ryoanji and Japanese hospitality of Omotenashi here and here.

You can read about Heschel’s Temple of Time here and more about Dayenu here.

You can read about the Fugu Plan and  the connections between Japan and Jews in World War II here.

Exodus 25:11;  Holy Wholeness, not celebrated separateness
Hebrew:
וְצִפִּיתָ אֹתוֹ זָהָב טָהוֹר; מִבַּיִת וּמִחוּץ תְּצַפֶּנּוּ, וְעָשִׂיתָ עָלָיו זֵר זָהָב סָבִיב.

Translation (literal):
“You shall overlay it with pure gold; inside and outside you shall overlay it, and you shall make upon it a rim of gold all around.”

 

Tidal Waves Begin with a Single Raindrop.

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In mid-October 2025, I felt a tidal wave of emotion seeing the final release of the 20 living hostages from Hamas captivity to freedom in Israel. The outpouring of relief in Israel and the Jewish world;  particularly here in Miami, was overwhelming. For two years at our weekly minyans, we prayed for every hostage. At the same time, a US-brokered ceasefire offered hope that Israelis and Palestinians might live free of Hamas terror.

Thinking about that wave, a raindrop came to mind. Many raindrops form a tributary; many tributaries become a roaring river; and from there a tidal wave.

Here is my personal raindrop:

Since October 7, 2023, I have worn my yellow ribbon hostage pin at our weekly Shabbat minyan. Each week we danced, solidarity and spiritual awakening. One week I looked at my lapel and saw only the back of the pin. I dropped to the floor looking for the missing ribbon. Others joined me in my search, but it was gone. At our next Shabbat minyan, my friend Joe smiled and pressed a new yellow pin into my hand. Everyone saw. There was no speeches or ceremony, just a tiny act of chesed. One raindrop joined by other raindrops.

By fortuitous fate, the following week I was invited by a GCC delegation to visit the United Nations. I wore my newly gifted pin to the UN, a small emblem in a very large room, not always sympathetic to our cause. I was proud that many noticed the yellow hostage pin.

Our raindrops were now becoming a stream.

It is tempting to call this the butterfly effect, but it’s different. The butterfly effect is chaos math: an accidental flutter becoming a storm. What I witnessed was the covenant effect: collective, consistent, compassionate chosen action repeated until it gathers enough force to move history.

In Genesis, our sages teach (Rashi on 2:5) that God sent rain only after Adam and Eve, so humans could ask for and appreciate the blessing. We pray for rain because we know its goodness.

In 1979, when Iranian terrorists seized the US Embassy in Tehran and 52 Americans were held hostage for 444 days, yellow ribbons became a national symbol of hope Across the country we tied ribbons to windows, trees, lapels and more while we prayed for return. Yet there is a contrast: in Noach, there is too much water, the flood.

How do tributaries handle obstacles? Rivers find a way around rocks; persistent water wears them down.

When I wore my yellow hostage pin at the UN, a man approached me in the Security Council room and said he was Israeli and the UN forbade him from wearing a yellow hostage pin. This motivated me to wear my pin even more.

Wearing a hostage pin is, to me, like placing a menorah in the window: we illuminate the street not to provoke the dark, but to remind the dark that it cannot last. While pins found lapels, some people ripped down hostage posters from poles. No one would remove a “lost dog” poster, why tear down a hostage poster? Removing a sign cannot remove a soul, and yet it wounds the one doing the tearing.

This fight only makes us stronger. My niece Gabrielle was told by her Washington, DC landlord that she could not hang a mezuzah on her apartment door. Rather than acquiesce, Gabrielle used the laws of our land to assert the laws of our people. Her legal victory made headlines, a beacon of light into the darkness.

I think of Muhammad Ali in Zaire in 1974,the Rumble in the Jungle. George Foreman pounded away, round after round. In the seventh round, Ali leaned close and said, “Is that all you got, George?…Is that all you got?” Foreman sagged; Ali turned the tide and won.

Heraclitus taught that no man steps into the same river twice for it is not the same river and he is not the same man. Our community is that river. At the headwaters is the snowmelt of cold convictions.  The midstream are the tributaries carrying different sediments. At the mouth the freshwater wrestles with salt. Though there are different waters and different views, it is all the same river.

The story of the children of Israel has often turned on individual raindrops. In Exodus, when Nachshon ben Aminadav stepped into the Sea of Reeds, the waters did not split at the first splash. He kept walking, deeper, steadier until faith met its own momentum and the Sea of Reeds yielded, and Moses led the Children of Israel out of Egypt into the wilderness. Not a miracle of spectacle, but a miracle of accumulation: step upon step, heartbeat after heartbeat, the stream becoming a river and the river making a path where there was none.

So here is my prayer: May we each be a first raindrop. May our small, stubborn acts find one another in alleys and boardrooms, in sanctuaries and city squares, in WhatsApp threads and around kitchen tables, until streams of courage become rivers of consolation, and at the sea hostages return, soldiers come home, and every mother finally sleeps.
Commitment is necessary; belief makes it sufficient. Together, belief and commitment turn raindrops into tidal waves. They don’t start in headlines; they start in human hearts. Put on the pin. Light the menorah. Touch the mezuzah when you leave and when you return. Offer the quiet kindness someone will remember a week later, a year later, a lifetime later. Let us choose the actions that help us gain our souls and help others find theirs.

Be the raindrop, move the sea.

 

raindrop on tallit—
rivulets of kindness meet;
the sea parts for love.

 

Further Reading

You can read more about Mohammed Ali and the in the Rumble in the Jungle here.

You can read more about Gabrielle’s story of fighting for her mezuzah here.

Wisdom Begins with Wonder: The Beginner’s Mind of Moses

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Burning, not consumed—
Moses turns aside to see.
Wonder leads to truth.

There is always a first time. For me, it happened on Rosh Hashanah. Joan and I were having dinner at Chabad in Lenox, Massachusetts, on the first night of the holiday. Our table was deeply engaged in conversation about the Torah, Israel, and Jewish meaning. The woman seated next to me, Naomi, asked, “When did you convert to Judaism?”

I was caught off guard. After a pause, I asked, “Why do you think I converted?”

She replied matter-of-factly, “You kept referencing things in Judaism and Torah that you recently learned.”

I smiled and explained, “I was born Jewish, but I never stop learning.”

We both laughed. That moment inspired this reflection on what I call the “Beginner’s Mindset” and the pursuit of lifelong learning.

The Torah gives us an ideal model of a lifelong learner: Moses. His journey begins not with grandeur, but with attention. We are told that Moses “looked this way and that way” before acting (Exodus 2:12), pausing to see from more than one direction. Later, in Exodus 3:2–4, he encounters the burning bush; an ordinary sight in the wilderness that becomes extraordinary only because he turns aside to look again. He does not rush past it or explain it away. He notices. That simple act of curiosity becomes his divine awakening. Moses meets God not through certainty, but through the humility of a beginner’s mind—by looking again, and then looking closer.

This transformation reminds me of Wayne Gretzky, who once said that even after scoring 200 points in a season, “I am always learning new things about hockey, and seeing things on the ice I have not seen before.” Like Moses, Gretzky never stopped being a student. Greatness isn’t about final perfection, it’s about continuous learning and determined discovery.

As a lifelong tennis fan, I’ve always found meaning in the backhand. For two tennis greats, Mats Wilander and Roger Federer, the backhand became a tool of transformation.

Mid-career, Wilander added a one-handed slice backhand to complement his two-handed bludgeoning backhand, drawing inspiration from legendary Swede Bjorn Borg. The added variation gave his game unpredictability and helped him win three Grand Slams in 1988, rising to World No. 1.

I’m reminded of my college squash coach who once told me: “If you want to hit your forehand harder, try also hitting it softer.” Contrast, not just power, can disrupt and surprise.

Roger Federer’s backhand, once considered a liability, evolved through precise technical adjustments and a heavier racquet. By striking earlier and higher, he transformed his weakness into a weapon. From 2017–2018, he returned to dominance; not by inventing something new, but by mastering something old.

In Japanese philosophy, 初心忘るべからず (Shoshin wasuru bekarazu) means “Never forget the beginner’s spirit.” 生涯学習 (Shōgai Gakushū) translates to “lifelong learning.” These values, deeply rooted in Zen and Confucian thought, echo Moses’ evolution. He never stopped learning From Hashem, his people, and his own failures; Moses epitomized Shoshin at the top of Mt Sinai.

Later life in, Moses added a new skill. When God called on him to lead, Moses resisted: “I am not a man of words… I am slow of speech and slow of tongue” (Exodus 4:10). A Midrash suggests he burned his tongue as a child. Moses pleaded for Aaron to speak in his place. Yet by Deuteronomy, Moses evolved into the most loquacious leader of the Children of Israel. The hesitant shepherd became the eloquent prophet.

Let’s return to our Rosh Hashanah at the Lenox Chabad. On the second day of Rosh Hashanah, Rabbi Levi honored me with blowing the Shofar and receiving the first Aliyah as a Kohen. At Kiddush afterward, Naomi and I laughed about her assumption the night before. The “convert” became a “Kohen” and was now chanting blessings and sounding the shofar.

May we each have the courage to pause, the curiosity to look again, and the humility to begin anew. May we continue to turn aside, to see, to listen, and to grow. May our “nevers” become ”nows” as we experience new perspectives and learn new skills. I am filled with anticipatory excitement about my next opportunity to say, “There is always a first time. For me, it happened on…” …to be discovered.

Shoshin at Sinai,
Even masters seek to grow—
Fire never fades.

Appendix:

Roger Federer

Grand Slam victories after his backhand evolution

  • In 2017, Federer won two Grand Slams: the Australian Open 2017 and the Wimbledon Championships 2017.
  • In 2018 he won the Australian Open 2018 (his 20th major).
  • His career total is 20 Grand Slam men’s singles titles.

Win‑loss record & ranking

  • For the 2017 season: win–loss record of 54–5.
  • Career stats: 103 ATP singles titles; Grand Slam singles finals: 20 wins, 11 losses.
  • He achieved world No. 1 ranking multiple times, and notably returned to No. 1 in February 2018 at age 36.

Mats Wilander

Grand Slam victories after his one‑handed slice/backhand shift

  • According to sources, Wilander “mid‑career, in 1987, developed a highly effective backhand slice.”
  • His peak year was 1988 when he reached world No. 1 (12 September 1988).
  • He won 7 Grand Slam singles titles total: these include the Australian Open (1983, 1984, 1988), Roland Garros / French Open (1982, 1985, 1988) and the US Open (1988).

Win‑loss record & ranking

  • Career high ranking: No. 1 (September 1988) and he finished year‑end No. 1 in 1988.
  • Career singles match record: 571 wins – 222 losses.

I Used to be an Idol Worshipper

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In sun-dappled woods,
four leaves whisper easy luck
I learn to bind light.

My first time worshipping an idol was at Camp Winnebago when I was eight. I was walking in the forest on a sunny day, when a found a four-leaf clover. I stared and marveled at it as I envisioned the luck it would bring me. I imagined the candy it would provide, the toys it would summon, the good fortune it would pour into my life. I hurried back to the bunk and showed my bunkmate, Jack, waiting for him to wonder at it as well. Jack took the clover, put it in his mouth, and swallowed it. My idol disappeared in a single gulp. As an eight-year-old, I learned the Torah’s first principles in a simple, stern way: “You shall have no other gods before Me… you shall not make for yourself a graven image” A four-leaf clover is not a covenant.

My second idol lasted longer. After college, backpacking through Europe, I visited Monaco and the Casino de Monte-Carlo. With some beginner’s luck I won big…big for newly minted graduates anyways. I decided to stretch the streak by keeping one poker chip. I called it my “lucky coin.” I saved it for years. Before important calls or meetings, I’d hold it, as if its plastic edge could tilt the universe. I even gave each of my daughters a “lucky coin,” passing along not just an object but a belief. Then, sometime in my forties, I lost mine. I didn’t look very hard to find it. Jacob once said, “Put away the foreign gods… and purify yourselves,” and he buried them under a tree at Shechem. I didn’t bury my coin; it slipped away and I let it stay lost.

After October 7, 2023, I committed to laying tefillin each morning. Holding my great-grandfather’s tefillin, I felt lineage and legacy. I believed in the purpose and felt prayer’s quiet force. I prayed for each of my family members by name, for their hopes and the strength to meet their struggles; for our hostages and IDF soldiers; for leaders to have courage; for my daughter Caroline and Quincy’s wedding to be filled with joy; for Joan’s success on her certification exam.

In late September and October 2025, blessings unfolded. The wedding was luminous with nachas; Caroline and Quincy were filled with joy, and our family and friends stood in harmonious support. Joan passed her certification exam. Miraculously, our living hostages came home. A week later, Joan saw me laying tefillin one morning, noticed my emphatic fist pump when I finished, and asked why. I told her I was simply grateful that so many of my daily prayers were being answered. Where I once clutched a casino chip, I now bind a mitzvah: “Bind them as a sign upon your hand and let them be frontlets between your eyes” I no longer reach into a drawer for luck; I wrap my arm and head with faithful focus, enrobed in familial tradition.

Today, at the JNF world event (which my niece Gabrielle helped organize), I heard Omer Shem Tov speak about surviving 505 days in captivity. In the absolute dark he spoke each morning to Hashem,—First he asked how God was and whether there was anything he could do for God. Then he thanked God for breath, even as Hamas starved him in their terror tunnels. Omer credits faith with sustaining him through what should have been unsustainable. His story revived my heart.

I look back with incredulity at the things I worshipped: a clover that could be simply swallowed, a poker chip that could be luckily lost. I also see that I once prayed only for myself, selfish and soulless, an object for an outcome. Now I pray with God, asking Him to help my family and our world toward life and fulfillment. Friends have asked me to pray for them; though I felt ill-equipped at first, I prayed anyway.

I am resolved: I will not serve false idols like a lucky coin or a four-leaf clover. I’m reminded of golf legend Gary Player. After a round that included two chip-ins and a near hole-in-one, he was asked, “How are you so lucky?” He said, “The harder I practice, the luckier I get.” I’ll revise it: “The more I practice with faith, the more I pray the luckier I get.” I still believe in luck; the difference is that I now hold a deep and divine sense of gratitude.

Luck slips through my hands;
leather binds morning to heart—
gratitude abides.

Additional Reading

Omer Shem Tov
Omer Shem Tov, 22, was abducted by Hamas from the Tribe of Nova music festival on Oct. 7, 2023. He was held underground in Gaza for 505 days, enduring prolonged isolation and starvation. He was released on Feb. 22, 2025, in a cease-fire exchange. Since returning home, he’s become a public advocate for the remaining hostages, sharing how daily prayer and gratitude sustained him in captivity and meeting communities worldwide to keep attention on their release.

You can watch a segment from a talk he gave here and read a profile on is advocacy work here.

Torah references:

  • “You shall have no other gods before Me… you shall not make for yourself a graven image” (Exodus 20:3–5).
  • “Bind them as a sign upon your hand and let them be frontlets between your eyes” (Deuteronomy 6:8; cf. 11:18; Exodus 13:9,16).
  • Jacob once said, “Put away the foreign gods… and purify yourselves,” and he buried them under a tree at Shechem (Genesis 35:2–4)
  • JNF (Jewish National Fund)Since its founding in 1901, Jewish National Fund USA’s passion, commitment, and vision for the future of Israel and the Jewish people has remained clear and unwavering.