Is Soup a Meal?

Is a bowl of soup on its own a meal?

Who cares, you say? Well, it’s very relevant if you trade an Armani suit for a meal.

In a classic episode of Seinfeld, Kenny Bania gives Jerry a new Armani suit in exchange for a meal. Jerry takes Kenny to Mendy's, a caricature of the kosher one we know since swordfish is on the menu. Kenny only orders soup, saving the meal for another time. Jerry insists that the soup is the meal. Kenny disagrees. Soup is just soup. Elaine suggests it may depend on the soup. Was it a thick, hearty soup? Were there crackers? Bread? These details could make all the difference. No matter. Bania insists Jerry still owes him a meal.

Believe it or not, Kenny Bania's question seems to come up in Parshat Toldot, too.

Esav returns from the field exhausted and famished. He sees Yaakov cooking a pot of lentil stew and demands some of it. Yaakov sees an opportunity. “Sell me your birthright,” he tells Esav. Apparently more interested in satisfying his appetite than preserving his birthright, Esav agrees.

There’s an noteworthy detail in the Torah's description of the transaction.

“V'Yaakov natan l'Esav lechem u'nezid adashim – Yaakov gave Esav bread and lentil stew” (Bereishit 25:34).

Bread? Who said anything about bread? Esav asked for soup. Yaakov offered soup. The birthright was sold for soup. Why did Yaakov throw in the bread?

Maybe Kenny Bania was right, and soup isn't a meal. Or maybe there's something deeper going on here.

Rabbi Zalman Sorotzkin suggests that Yaakov deliberately gave Esav bread to ensure that the sale of the birthright could not be challenged. After all, Esav claimed he was starving. He even declared, “I am going to die, so what use is a birthright to me?” One could argue that Esav was acting under duress. He was so hungry that he had no choice but to accept Yaakov's terms. Yaakov wanted to make sure that argument wouldn't hold up.  By adding bread, Yaakov made sure Esav received a substantial meal, not just a bowl of soup. Esav could hardly claim he had surrendered his birthright because Yaakov refused to feed him properly.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch and Rabbi Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenburg go in a different direction. Yaakov wasn't just feeding his brother; he was making sure the deal was fair and square. They understand the Torah's account to mean that Yaakov actually fed Esav before discussing the birthright. He didn't exploit his brother's hunger at all.

These interpretations differ in their understanding of the sequence of events, but they share an important concern. Yaakov was not simply looking to take advantage of a desperate man. The Torah concludes the episode with five verbs: “vayochal, vayeisht, vayakom, vayeilach, vayivez Esav et habechorah - He ate, drank, rose, departed, and Esav despised the birthright.” Esav wasn't cheated. He made a choice. Yaakov wanted the birthright because he understood its significance. Esav was willing to give it away because he didn't.

We can also view Yaakov including the bread to create goodwill and make sure Esav was happy with the transaction. Think how restaurants traditionally bring bread to the table before we even order or the “unlimited bread sticks” at Olive Garden. (I only know about this from the commercials. 😊)

Yaakov wanted the birthright, but he also cared about how he got it. The bread reminds us that it's not enough to do the right thing. How we do it matters, too. Fairness, generosity, and goodwill can make all the difference, especially when dealing with someone with whom we don't see eye to eye.

There's something particularly powerful about all this happening over food. Some of life's most important moments happen around a table. Deals are made. Friendships are formed. Disagreements are resolved. Of course, plenty of arguments also break out over meals. Food can bring people together or drive them apart.

That's precisely what anti-Jewish protesters recently tried to exploit in Philadelphia. They targeted Jewish- and Israeli-owned restaurants for a boycott, hoping to turn a meal into a political confrontation. It backfired.

Hundreds of people lined up to support the restaurants. Marti Lieberman, the Jewish owner of Mac Mart, a macaroni-and-cheese shop normally closed on Sundays, opened especially for the occasion. As she told Jewish Insider, “Everything turned into a massive pot of positivity.” The protesters tried to use food to divide people. Instead, food brought people together.

Is soup a meal? Yaakov apparently wasn't taking any chances. But whether it's lentil soup or macaroni and cheese, what matters isn't just what's on the menu; it's what happens around the table.

Food can be transactional, but it can also be transformational.

You Can't Vote Your Brother Out of the Family

It was quite an election!

There were some disappointments, but I'm an optimist. As others are noting, with such a large Democratic majority, the haters won't be as powerful. Halevai!

For me, one statistic sadly stood out. How can it be that 57% of Michigan Jewish early voters supported Abdul El-Sayed?

El-Sayed made opposition to American aid to Israel a centerpiece of his campaign. His hateful rhetoric and response to antisemitism deeply troubled many in the Jewish community. Yet, according to an exit poll, a majority of Jewish voters supported him.

I understand that people vote for different reasons. Supporting a candidate doesn't mean endorsing every position. Still, the results raise a troubling question. What happens when Jews disagree not just about politics, but about Jewish peoplehood itself? When some Jews reject the idea that we share a common destiny or owe one another any special loyalty, how are the rest of us supposed to relate to them?

Can Jewish peoplehood survive when some Jews don't believe in it?

The parshah provides an unexpected perspective. When Avraham dies at the age of 175, the Torah describes his burial: "Vayikberu oto Yitzchak v'Yishmael banav - And his sons Yitzchak and Yishmael buried him" (Bereishit 25:9).Yitzchak and Yishmael were not particularly close brothers. Yishmael had been sent away from Avraham's home. Their lives and destinies had taken very different paths, yet they came together to bury their father.

Rashi notes that Yitzchak is mentioned first even though Yishmael was older. This indicates that Yishmael repented and acknowledged Yitzchak's precedence. Their reunion wasn't simply a matter of putting aside their differences. Yitzchak remained the heir to Avraham's covenant, and Yishmael recognized his brother's position.

Yitzchak and Yishmael didn't share the same destiny, but they shared a father. They were not two Jews arguing about Judaism, yet their encounter illustrates an essential feature of family. Even profound differences and years of separation need not erase the bonds that connect brothers.

“Yisrael af al pi shechata, Yisrael hu - A Jew, even though he has sinned, remains a Jew" (Sanhedrin 44a).

The statement is taught in connection with Achan, whose violation of God's command endangered the entire nation. His actions harmed other Jews. Nevertheless, he remained part of the Jewish people. Jewish identity is not something we earn by voting correctly, believing correctly, or behaving correctly.

The Talmud (Keritot 6b) teaches that a communal fast that does not include the sinners of Israel is not considered a proper fast. During moments of religious aspiration, one might think the sinners should stay home. Instead, Judaism demands the opposite. The proof comes from the chelbenah, an ingredient of the incense offered in the Beit Hamikdash. Although it had an unpleasant odor on its own, it was an essential component of the service. Similarly, the Jewish community cannot consist only of Jews we agree with.

We know that "Kol Yisrael areivim zeh bazeh - All Jews are responsible for one another." But what happens when some Jews reject that responsibility? If a Jew doesn't believe he owes anything special to the Jewish people, do we still owe something to him?

We need to distinguish between three things: belonging, concern, and trust.

Belonging is unconditional. A Jew remains part of the Jewish people even when he rejects that connection.

Concern extends even to those with whom we profoundly disagree. We must care about their welfare, safety, and Jewish future.

Trust is different. Trust depends on conduct, judgment, and mutual responsibility. We don't have to pretend that someone whose actions undermine Jewish interests is a reliable partner or representative of our community.

Our responsibility cannot end with recognizing that all Jews still belong. We need to engage with them. Talk to them. Listen to them. Challenge them. Invite them to experience Jewish peoplehood rather than simply argue about Jewish politics. We may not change their minds, but writing them off will only deepen the divide.

Consider Moshe's response to Datan and Aviram during Korach's rebellion. They openly defied him and rejected his summons. He asked to meet with them, and they rudely replied, "Lo na'aleh - We won't come!" What did Moshe do? He went to them. The Talmud (Sanhedrin 110a) derives from Moshe's conduct the importance of not perpetuating a quarrel.

Moshe didn't compromise his principles or validate their rebellion, but he made another effort to reach them. He was willing to walk toward people who refused to walk toward him. His efforts didn't succeed. Reconciliation isn't guaranteed, but that doesn't absolve us of the responsibility to try.

We learned on Tuesday that politics has changed. Maybe it used to be simpler. Maybe it will get worse. There are many maybes. The one certainty is that, like The Big Lebowski’s The Dude, the Jew abides. We are not going anywhere. Our responsibility is to continue living proud, passionate Jewish lives. That includes engaging fellow Jews, even those who don't see Jewish peoplehood the way we do.

Jewish unity doesn't require silence or agreement. We can criticize political choices we consider dangerous and challenge Jews who reject Jewish solidarity. At the same time, we cannot simply give up on them.

Yitzchak and Yishmael went their separate ways, but they came together to bury their father. We don't get to choose our brothers and sisters. Sometimes we don't understand them. Sometimes we're deeply disappointed by them. Sometimes we must stand firmly against what they believe or do. Nevertheless, they remain our brothers and sisters.

Jewish peoplehood is not just a bond we share with Jews who think like us. It's a responsibility we bear even toward Jews who reject that bond. Sometimes, that means being willing to walk toward someone who refuses to walk toward us.

What the Akeidah Demands of Us

When God tells Avraham that He plans to destroy Sodom, Avraham protests. He challenges God, “Shall the Judge of all the earth not deal justly?”

When God commands Avraham to sacrifice his beloved son Yitzchak, Avraham says nothing. Why? Did Avraham care more about the people of Sodom than his own son? Did he learn his lesson from Sodom and decide not to challenge God again? One Chassidic Rebbe even suggests that God never speaks directly to Avraham again after the Akeidah precisely because Avraham failed to protest.

Akeidat Yitzchak, the Binding of Isaac, leaves us searching for answers. It happened, but what do we learn from it? Are we supposed to be willing to listen to God no matter what He tells us? Even to sacrifice our own children?

The Danish Christian philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, in his seminal work Fear and Trembling (1843), offers one explanation. In his view, Avraham's actions were morally wrong yet meritorious because of his absolute subservience to God. Kierkegaard calls this “the teleological suspension of the ethical.” Avraham pushes ethical considerations aside for the purpose of serving God.

Along these lines, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik sees the key lesson of the Akeidah as obedience. The Rav writes in Abraham's Journey:
 

“The basic idea of the Akedah is nurtured by the service awareness. Man is a servant of God. He belongs completely to God - body and soul… Hence, God from time to time calls upon man to return to Him whatever is His. He demands that man give not a part but the whole of himself…”

Rabbi Yehuda Amital suggests a very different lesson. God's ultimate message to Avraham was not about unquestioning obedience, but about the paramount importance of preserving life and human dignity. By refraining from sacrificing Yitzchak, Avraham learns that serving God must never come at the cost of sacrificing a human being.

Rabbi Shimon Gershon Rosenberg (Shagar) looks at things from Avraham's perspective. The primary challenge of the Akeidah was that it was impossible for him to know what God really wanted him to do.

I have always felt that Avraham knew from the beginning that he would not actually have to sacrifice Yitzchak. After all, he tells the lads accompanying him, “We will go worship God and then return to you.” When he said these words, he meant them wholeheartedly.

My namesake, Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk, expressed a similar idea. He writes:
 

“It seems we should explain that in truth Avraham and Yitzhak knew that God did not intend that he be slaughtered. And Avraham, whose attribute was ‘kindness’ went with confidence that the two of them would return.”

According to Rebbe Elimelech, the test was whether Avraham could summon the same passion for God as if he was really going to sacrifice his son, even though he knew it would not actually happen.

So which interpretation is correct? Obedience? The sanctity of life? Uncertainty? Faith? Religious passion?

The fact that there are so many interpretations is part of the lesson itself. Religious life is complicated and doesn't always provide simple answers.

When all is said and done, however, what does the Akeidah demand from us?

Rabbi Meir Simcha of Dvinsk, in his Meshech Chochmah, notes that after Avraham replaces Yitzchak with the ram, the angel calls out again and delivers two blessings: “Your descendants shall inherit the gate of their enemies” and “All the nations of the earth shall be blessed through your descendants.” (Bereishit 22:16–18)

These verses promise two very different things. Strength and conquest on one hand, blessing and kindness on the other. How do they belong together?

The Meshech Chochmah notes that conquest and victory can be cruel. Cruelty, he writes, is a corrupted trait, like a disease that clings to a person. The Talmud (Shabbat 105b) goes so far as to say that someone who smashes a vessel in anger is like an idol worshipper. Even cruelty that serves justice brings no blessing in its wake.

Avraham, however, was the great exception. He was prepared to do the most severe thing a father could do, but purely to fulfill the will of God. Since his actions were based only on the divine command, they did not negatively affect his character. As Rabbanit Shani Taragin put it, “The man who raised the knife remained the man who ran to greet strangers in the heat of the day.”

That is why the two seemingly disparate blessings are joined together. Avraham's children will have the strength to take their enemies' gates, when necessary, but that severity must remain a vehicle for a commanded task. It must never become who we are.

We live in a world in which our Judaism can make us unpopular. Sometimes, we must take strong action against our enemies. Such behavior can take its toll on our compassion. We must remain within the limits of God's command without allowing those difficult circumstances to change our character.

The Akeidah is incomprehensible. We can study it, struggle with it, and offer different interpretations without ever fully resolving its difficulties. That complexity is part of religious life.

We live a life of commandedness. God demands of us things that are not always easy or comfortable. But obedience to God must never distract us from our ultimate mission: to be a light unto the nations and a source of blessing for all.

Avraham was commanded to raise the knife. He was also commanded to put it down. The challenge is to know when God demands strength, when He demands restraint, and to never lose our humanity in the process.

Who to Vote For...

Rabbi Yitzchak Yosef, the former Sephardi Chief Rabbi of Israel, had a simple message for his followers: Don't vote for Itamar Ben Gvir.

Rabbi Yosef said voting for the Otzma Yehudit party in the October 27 Israeli election is forbidden because Ben Gvir has ascended the Temple Mount and called for removing restrictions on Jewish prayer there. He wrote, “All of the great sages across generations, without exception, forbade this to the utmost extent.” He added that those who encourage ascending the Mount also run afoul of the prohibition, and therefore “it is forbidden according to Jewish law to support this party.”

Some rabbis are very explicit in instructing adherents who to vote for. Many emphasize the importance of voting while urging Jews to use Torah and Israel as values to guide their decisions. These days, I feel Jews need to support candidates who support our community and avoid candidates who refuse to distance themselves from those who are against us – even if they otherwise seem friendly to our priorities. We no longer have the luxury of “friends” who refuse to condemn our opponents.

Voting shouldn't only be about whom we oppose. It should also be about what we aspire to achieve. We need to view voting as holy. Politics is messy and divisive. Our approach to voting should come from a place of deep responsibility and mission.

Rabbi Moshe Alpert, an ultra-Orthodox rabbi who served several Jewish communities in Jerusalem during the Mandate, described in his diary his experience of voting in the first Israeli Knesset elections in 1949.

“At 5:35 am, we woke up…After we drank coffee, we put on Shabbat clothing in honor of this great and holy day…After 2000 or more years of exile…we have not merited to see a day like this, that we are holding elections in a Jewish state. Shehechiyanu…

 

We went to the voting station near Chabashim Street with our identity cards in hand. With great and mighty joy, we walked the short way there, and the entire way I walked as if it were Simchat Torah, circling with a Torah scroll, because I was holding the identity card of our new Jewish state in my hand. My happiness and joy knew no bounds!...

 

With a shaking hand, moved with holiness, I took one ballot marked ‘B’ for the Religious Union party and placed it inside the envelope I had received…Then the holiest moment of my life arrived. The moment that neither my father nor my grandfather had the privilege to experience in their lifetimes. Only I, in my time, in my lifetime, did I merit to experience such a holy and pure moment as this... What joy for me and my portion! At 6:28 am, we returned home and went to pray. What a great holiday!”

The holiest moment of his life was casting his vote in the State of Israel.

We may not treat Election Day as a holiday. At the same time, we should view voting as a sacred opportunity to make the world align just a little bit more with our values.

Last week, I attended a dinner with a group of Orthodox rabbis from around the New York area. There were rabbis from well-known shuls in Manhattan, Westchester, New Jersey, Great Neck, and the Five Towns. The purpose of the dinner was to discuss how to strengthen Zionism and love of Israel within the broader Jewish community. The guest speaker was Matti Friedman, a well-known author. While this was a very Zionist group, it was surprising how many of the rabbis around the table have children who made aliyah and are living in Israel. (I am proud to be one of them!)

One of the rabbis asked Matti who his daughter should vote for in her first Israeli elections. He answered, “Vote for a candidate who has an aspiring vision for making Israel the best it can be.” He didn't prescribe a specific candidate. He described a worldview we should bring to our voting – whether in Israel or here in the US.

We need to aspire. We should vote for individuals we feel will make our community, our society, our country, and our world better.

We learn about aspiration from Avraham Avinu.

As time goes by, Avraham begins to wonder how exactly God's blessings will continue forward if he doesn't have any offspring. God's response includes the promise of children along with the charge to look to the stars. “Go outside, look up to the heavens and count the stars…Koh yihyeh zar’ekha, so shall be your descendants” (Bereishit 15:5).

The promise seems purely quantitative: You will be many. Rabbi Daniel Feldman, however, notes that the stars carry a deeper message. Koh yihyeh zar’ekha is a charge to think bigger, strive bigger, and aspire bigger.

Like the billions of stars, the Jews are a diverse people with a multiplicity of talents, strengths, and, especially, opinions. We're messy, and that's OK.

God tells Avraham to count the stars, which is impossible. Yet Avraham starts counting anyway. Jews need that kind of audacity. Stars are beyond our grasp; they invite us to look up. Jews are not confined by the limitations of the present moment.

Koh yihyeh zar’ekha. God is giving us a mission to be “diverse and united, audacious and anchored, timeless and transcendent.”

There will always be winners and losers on Election Day. There will always be candidates we support and candidates we oppose. But our vote should represent more than what we're against. It should express what we believe in and what we hope to build.

We don't vote only to defeat what we fear. We vote to advance what we aspire to become.

That's the message of the stars. Don't just look around at the world as it is. Look up and imagine what it can be and then cast your vote to help make it happen.

Don't Let the Ravens Win!

The Nobel Peace Prize is supposed to celebrate those who make the world a better place. This year's selection has many wondering whether the world has lost its moral compass.

The 2026 prize was awarded to Navi Pillay, a South African jurist who chaired a United Nations commission that accused Israel of genocide in Gaza. The award comes amid a relentless campaign of hostility toward Israel and Jews, in which the atrocities of October 7 are minimized while Israel is increasingly portrayed as the world's greatest villain.

Has the whole world turned against us? How are we supposed to respond?

Natan Sharansky addressed the controversy in a powerful Tablet article entitled “Is the Whole World Wrong?” Sharansky recalls an 1892 essay by Ahad Ha'am about the blood libel, the accusation that Jews murdered Christian children for religious purposes. How could so many people believe something so obviously false? Ahad Ha'am's answer was simple. Widespread agreement doesn't establish truth. Entire societies can embrace terrible falsehoods. Sharansky knows this from personal experience. As a Soviet prisoner of conscience, he learned that truth isn't determined by the number of people repeating a lie or the power of the institutions promoting it.

Sharansky writes our response must be to stand firm in what we know to be true.

How do we keep our confidence and optimism when there is so much negativity all around us? The answer may be found in two birds.

After the flood, Noah faced a world that had been destroyed. The rain had stopped, but water still covered the earth. Noah needed to determine whether it was safe to leave the Ark and begin again. First, he sent out a raven. The raven flew back and forth but provided no useful information. Next, Noah sent out a dove. It found no resting place and returned to the Ark. Seven days later, Noah sent it out again. This time, it returned with a freshly plucked olive leaf. After another seven days, the dove went out and did not return. Dry land had emerged, and life could begin again.

Why two different birds?

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 108b) describes the raven as suspicious and argumentative. When Noah sent it from the Ark, the raven accused both God and Noah of hating it. Only two ravens had survived the flood, and now Noah was endangering the entire species by sending one away! The raven saw danger, hostility, and betrayal everywhere. The dove had a very different perspective and behaved differently. It went out, searched, returned when necessary, and eventually brought back evidence of new life.

The raven and dove represent two ways of looking at the world. The raven sees darkness. The dove searches for light. The raven is consumed by suspicion. The dove gets the job done. The raven sees a world beyond repair. The dove finds an olive leaf. There is a place for the raven's severity and judgment. Evil must be confronted. We need strength and discipline, but those qualities cannot become our entire worldview. If all we see is darkness, we may never notice that the waters have begun to recede.

There are plenty of ravens in the world today. Voices that see nothing positive in Israel and refuse to acknowledge the extraordinary achievements of the Jewish people. There's another danger from so many ravens. We can become so preoccupied with the ravens that we begin to sound like them. We can become so focused on those who hate us that we forget to celebrate all we have. We can become so preoccupied with fighting antisemitism that we neglect to teach the beauty of Judaism. We need to confront lies and defend ourselves, but Jewish identity cannot be built exclusively around those who oppose us.

We need to be more like the dove. The dove doesn't pretend the flood never happened. It doesn't ignore the destruction. It flies over the same devastated world as the raven, but it keeps searching and, eventually, it finds an olive leaf.

The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 33:6) presents one view that the dove’s olive leaf came from the Land of Israel, which, according to that view, was spared the full devastation of the flood. Israel is the source of our strength, optimism, and hope. Despite all the hate, there are countless olive leaves to be found today in Israel and amongst the Jewish people. None of this erases the pain or resolves the difficult questions, but negativity is not the whole story.

After the dove failed to return, Noah remained in the Ark until God commanded him, "Tzei min hateivah - Go out from the Ark" (8:16). He seemed reluctant to leave. Why did Noah need to be explicitly told to leave? Perhaps after witnessing so much destruction, the safety of the Ark was more appealing than the uncertainty outside. The flood had ended, but beginning again was frightening. We can understand that feeling. It is tempting to retreat into our own Ark, surrounded by people who think like us, convinced that the world outside is too hostile. Judaism, though, has never been about remaining in the Ark.

The raven reminds us of what we're up against; the dove reminds us of what we're living for. Natan Sharansky reminds us that we don't need the world's approval; we just need to be confident in who we are.

The ravens may be louder. They may dominate the headlines, the protests, and even the Nobel Peace Prize, but they don't get the last word. The dove returned with an olive leaf. The dove found dry land. The dove showed Noah that there was a future beyond the flood. We will confront the hatred, but we will not be consumed by it. We will defend Israel, but we will also celebrate it. We will fight antisemitism, but we will devote even more energy to building a vibrant Jewish future.

The ravens make the noise. The doves make the future.

In the end, the doves win.

In the Beginning God Created Zionism and Anti-Zionism

It seems like the Torah begins exactly where it should.

“Bereishit bara Elokim et ha-shamayim v’et ha-aretz – In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” (Bereishit 1:1)

Where else would you begin the story?

Yet Rashi, in his very first comment on the Torah, notes that there is something at the beginning more fundamental than creation. Why does the Torah begin with creation at all? The Torah is a book of commandments. Shouldn't it begin with the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, the command to establish the Jewish calendar in Parashat Bo?

Rashi explains that the Torah begins with creation because a time will come when the nations of the world will accuse the Jewish people, “You are thieves! You stole the Land of Israel!” The Jewish people will respond that the entire world belongs to God. He created it. He gave the land to whomever He chose, and He chose to give it to us.

Pretty prescient, no?

The Torah begins with the creation of the entire world because it anticipates a dispute over one small piece of it, the Land of Israel. From the onset, we know that a major challenge Jews will face will be between those who can live with the Jews and those who reject them. In the very first verse of the Torah, we encounter both Zionism and anti-Zionism.

Our connection to Israel is not an appendix to Judaism; it is an essential element of the Jewish story itself. Rabbi Dr. Yaacov Herzog, the distinguished Israeli diplomat, regarded Rashi's opening teaching as especially powerful in explaining Israel's place among the nations. The Jewish claim to Israel is not merely a matter of security, politics, or historical attachment. It is rooted in the Torah's understanding of Jewish destiny. There is no Judaism without Zion, Israel.

Today, Zionism has become one of the most frequently used – and misunderstood – words in public discourse. There are religious Zionists and secular Zionists, political Zionists, cultural Zionists, and labor Zionists. Some emphasize the fulfillment of biblical promises. Others emphasize Jewish self-determination, refuge from persecution, or the revival of Hebrew language and culture. Zionists don't all agree on theology, politics, or what Israel should look like. Zionists do agree that the Jewish people have the right to national self-determination in their ancestral homeland.

Zionism does not require supporting every decision of the Israeli government. It does not mean ignoring the rights or suffering of others. Israelis themselves argue about these matters every day. That's part of living in a democracy. As the saying goes, two Jews, three opinions. In Israel, it's probably closer to five.

Zionism means recognizing that the Jews are not merely a religious community. We are a people with a history, a homeland, and a right to determine our own future. Denying this means denying the very essence of Judaism. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks warned that anti-Zionism has become a new expression of antisemitism. Criticizing Israel is not inherently antisemitic, but singling out the Jewish state as uniquely illegitimate, or insisting that Jews alone have no right to national sovereignty, is anti-Jewish plain and simple.

The irony of our current moment is that even people who are deeply critical of Israel can be attacked for not being sufficiently anti-Israel. At an October 7 “coexistence event” this week, anti-Zionist protesters denounced Zohran Mamdani, despite his explicit anti-Jewish anti-Zionism, for participating in a gathering associated with coexistence. Apparently, for some, even Mamdani is a Zionist.

We cannot allow those who hate Israel to define what Zionism means. Nor can we spend all our energy responding to their accusations. Zionism must be more than a response to our enemies or what we stand against. Zionism must be about what we stand for, the ideals we believe in, and the future we aspire to build.

Theodor Herzl famously declared, "Im tirtzu, ein zo aggadah - If you will it, it is no dream." Herzl understood that Jewish national renewal required more than remembering the past or hoping for a better future. Zionism requires action. That remains true today. We have to want it. We have to will it into existence.

We need to live Zionism by making Israel part of our Jewish identity, visiting, learning its history, and strengthening our connections with the people who live there.

We need to defend Zionism by standing up to antisemitism, challenging lies, and refusing to allow intimidation to silence Jewish pride.

We need to build up Zionism by supporting the people and institutions who stand with Israel. At the same time, we must cut ourselves off from the haters and those who refuse to condemn them.

Bereishit anticipates that the Jewish connection to Israel will be challenged. Rashi doesn't promise that the world will accept our claim, but he reminds us why we believe in it. We may not convince everyone. We certainly won't convince those who refuse to listen. But we don't need their permission to embrace our history, our heritage, or our future.

The Torah begins by defending our right to the Land of Israel. The rest of the Torah teaches us how to become a people worthy of that land.

Im tirtzu, ein zo aggadah. If we will it, it is no dream. Live it. Defend it. Build it.

Between the Clouds and the Cockpit

Sometimes you only realize the miracle when you imagine the alternative.

On Wednesday, flydubai Flight FZ1073 was traveling from Dubai to Tel Aviv with 174 passengers aboard when the copilot attacked and seriously wounded Captain Smit Machchhar, and the plane went into a terrifying dive. Despite his wounds, Machchhar managed to unlock the cockpit door.

Israeli passengers Yaniv Hayun, Tzvika Manes, and Asaf Rajuan rushed in and subdued the attacker. Hayun, a plumber with no flight training, grabbed the controls and pulled the plane out of its dive, knowledge he picked up from watching Mayday, a television show about air disasters. Two off-duty pilots happened to be aboard and were able to take over and safely land the damaged plane in Saudi Arabia. Dr. Shota Musayev, an Israeli dentist, treated the badly wounded captain.

It is an almost unbelievable chain of events. In fact, it’s miraculous.

Amit Segal put it powerfully. Imagine the world in which Captain Machchhar did not manage to open that cockpit door. Imagine Hayun, Manes, and Rajuan arriving a few seconds later. Imagine the plumber had never watched that television show. Imagine there weren't two other pilots aboard. In that world, instead of celebrating Sukkot, families would be mourning 174 people, including 27 children. Segal writes, “Thankfully, we woke up in the other world.” The attacker failed, the festival goes on, and ordinary people displayed extraordinary courage.

Miraculous divine protection or human effort?

The Talmud records two opinions as to what the Torah means when it says that God caused the Jewish people to dwell in sukkot when we left Egypt. Rabbi Eliezer says these were the Ananei HaKavod, the miraculous Clouds of Glory that surrounded and protected us. Rabbi Akiva says Sukkot mamash, they were actual booths the Jews built themselves.

Our Sukkot experience – and our lives - needs both.

There are moments when we look back and recognize the Ananei HaKavod. We were protected, and things lined up in ways we could never have arranged ourselves. The right person was in the right place. The door opened at exactly the right moment.

There are sometimes situations of Sukkot Mamash, when human beings take action to build the sukkah. Captain Machchhar had to summon the last of his strength to open the door. Three passengers had to run toward danger rather than away from it. A plumber had to grab the controls. A dentist had to become an emergency medic. Two pilots had to step forward and land the plane.

Was it a miracle or was it human courage?

Yes.

That is the Jewish understanding of how miracles often work. Hashem protects us, and we still have to build the sukkah. We pray for the Ananei HaKavod, and then ordinary people have to do extraordinary things.

We are approaching the end of Sukkot and Simchat Torah, when the entire long holiday season reaches its climax with something surprisingly simple: Joy. Not another sermon. (OK, maybe one more) Not another fast or another confession. We dance.

Tzvi Freeman notes that, in a certain sense, Simchat Torah should be viewed as significantly as Kol Nidrei or Neilah. Those are moments when everyone knows to be reverent. The masses flock to shul, and there is a palpable sense of kedushah, holiness. Judaism asks us to take joy just as seriously. On Simchat Torah, we use some of the same melodies as the High Holidays. A tune that a few weeks ago accompanied the solemnity of Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur suddenly accompanies dancing.

We aren’t mocking the sacred melody. We’re elevating the dancing. We are saying that Jewish joy can be sacred. It is an especially important message now. We have learned over these last years that we cannot wait for life to become easy before we celebrate being Jewish. If Jewish joy depends on everything going right, we may be waiting a very long time.

Judaism is lived in good times and challenging times. We dance when life feels secure, and sometimes we dance precisely because it doesn't. This week, 174 people were supposed to land at Ben Gurion Airport. For a terrifying stretch of time, that outcome was anything but certain. Yet they landed safely. They said Baruch Hashem and sang Od Yoteir Tov, celebrating the fact that God blesses us with better and better. A festival that might have been transformed into a time of national mourning remained Zman Simchateinu, the season of our joy.

Soon the holidays will end. We will finish the Torah and immediately begin again. Our sukkahs will come down, but what they represent should remain with us. Look for the Ananei HaKavod, the moments of protection and providence we don't always see. Simultaneously, be ready to build sukkot mamash. When something needs to be done, step forward. Grab the controls. Do whatever we can with whatever skills Hashem has given us.

And then keep dancing. Because we have the Torah. Because we are still here.

Jewish life isn't only something to defend; it is something to celebrate.

There were many ways that flydubai flight could have ended. Thank God, we woke up in this world, the one in which the door opened, ordinary people did extraordinary things, 174 people came home, and the festival remained Zman Simchateinu.

Between the clouds and the cockpit, there was a miracle. Sometimes the proper response to a miracle is simply to dance.