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.

We Can Learn a Lot from An Etrog

Everyone has their favorite.

Some people are very particular and open up all the boxes in pursuit of the perfect etrog. They are willing to pay exorbitant prices in their quest for fulfilling the mitzvah the best way they feel they can.

Other people just grab and go.

The word “etrog” never appears in the Torah. In describing the arba minim, the four species, the term “pri eitz hadar” is used. This means a beautiful fruit. The oral tradition teaches that this fruit is the etrog, citron, and not some other citrus like a lemon or orange. The word “hadar” is also connected to the word “hiddur,” which means beautiful. In addition, it has a connection to the Hebrew word for pursue or seek. Choosing an etrog can become a pursuit of perfection.

Pursuing perfection is more than how an etrog looks.

One Erev Sukkot, Reb Aryeh Levin entered Rubenstein’s Judaica store in Jerusalem to purchase an etrog. He picked up the first box he saw, peeked inside, closed it up, paid, and went on his way. A young boy who had watched this ran after the rabbi and caught up with him at the #11 bus stop. He asked why the rabbi hadn’t checked the etrog for a longer time like everyone else does, examining every nook and bump? Reb Aryeh answered:

“There are two mitzvot that require Hiddur. Etrog, which is called “pri eitz hadar,” and showing respect to elders, commanded with the words, “v’hadarta pnei zakein.”  For these two, you must go above and beyond. I am now running to the nursing home to bring dentures for an old man there whose teeth have completely deteriorated. He needs to eat dinner like a normal human being, and if I don’t make it in time he will once again be forced to eat bread dipped in milk. This hiddur mitzvah is even more important than spending time choosing a nice etrog.”

What we look for in an etrog is an important part of the mitzvah. That quest for perfection should motivate us to be and do better in other areas of our religious and personal lives.

Rabbi Shalom Eisen was a renowned expert in examining etrogim. In Meah Shearim, it is quite common for people to select an etrog and then take it to a rabbi to examine and issue an opinion if it is kosher or mehudar, extra special. One year, a kollel student brought him a magnificent etrog. Rav Eisen examined it carefully and said, “This esrog is not for you.”

The young man was stunned. “Is something wrong with it?”
Rav Eisen asked, “What do you do?”
“I learn in kollel.”
“How much is your monthly stipend?”
The young man told him.
“And how much does this etrog cost?”
The answer was nearly 70% of his monthly stipend.
Rav Eisen nodded. “Just as I thought. The etrog is mehudar but buy a less expensive one. With the money you save, buy something nice for your wife for yom tov.”

The most beautiful mitzvot are those that require us to give of ourselves for another.

Sometimes, one can have a beautiful etrog without even having one at all.

Rabbi Mordechai of Neshchiz saved his pennies all year around to have enough money to buy a beautiful etrog. One year, on his way to buy his etrog, he encountered a man who was weeping bitterly. His inquiry revealed that this man had made his meager living as a porter, hauling things by horse and wagon. That day his horse had died, and he was now without a means of livelihood.

Reb Mordechai promptly gave the man the entire of sum of money he had saved throughout the year so he might buy another horse. The man rushed off overjoyed, and Rabbi Mordechai turned his eyes to heaven and said, “Dear God, all other Jews will fulfill the mitzvah of the four species with an etrog, but I will do so with a horse.”

We have plenty of opportunities to perform extraordinary mitzvot that may seem pretty plain but are truly uplifting and inspiring.

I like to say that the most beautiful etrog is one blemished from being passed around for others to use. So please be sure to offer your lulav and etrog to family, friends, coworkers, or neighbors who don’t have their own or don’t generally fulfill the mitzvah altogether.

It is easy to get lost in the pursuit of beauty – even for a mitzvah. Especially on Sukkot, there are lots of “things” we use, and we want them to be attractive. The etrog provides a perfect opportunity to internalize that the most beautiful mitzvot are those that uplift others.

Becoming Who We Really Are

Kol Nidrei is the most famous service in Judaism.

Jews who rarely attend synagogue make every effort to be there. There’s electricity in the air. The Torah scrolls are removed, and then the chazzan begins that haunting melody.

Kol Nidrei, however, isn’t found in the Talmud. Rambam doesn’t mention it. Kol Nidrei, literally “all my vows,” is a legal formula to release us from promises we made but cannot keep, and a controversial one at that. Authorities questioned whether the formula works altogether. Over the generations, attempts to correct the language of Kol Nidrei ran into opposition from the cantors. They refused any edits since the proposed revisions did not fit with the traditional melody. The words may not be accurate, but the tune abides.

While we have evidence that Kol Nidrei has been recited for well over a thousand years, some of the Geonim opposed its recitation entirely. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch went so far as to eliminate Kol Nidrei from his synagogue in 1839. It lasted one year. The following Yom Kippur, he restored it.

You don't mess with Kol Nidrei.

Eventually, the Aruch HaShulchan wrote that Kol Nidrei had essentially become a tefillah, a prayer like other prayers. It might work to annul vows; it might not work. It’s a prayer, and we say it.

Why do we feel so connected to Kol Nidrei?

Kol Nidrei expresses what Yom Kippur is all about. We want to be released. Not released from our responsibilities or promises that we can keep. Released from the mistakes and baggage that have accumulated over the past year. Released from the things we have done that don't reflect who we really are.

We usually translate teshuva as repentance, but the word literally means return. What are we returning to? We try to return to God. We attempt to return our relationships to a better place. We are also returning to ourselves.

The Torah describes Yom Kippur as “achat ba-shanah - once a year.” Once a year, the Kohen Gadol entered the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies. No one else could enter that space, and even the Kohen Gadol could enter only on Yom Kippur.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe explained that our Yom Kippur experience parallels that of the Kohen Gadol. Each of us has an inner Kodesh HaKodashim, a place deep within the soul that remains pure and connected to Hashem. Most of the year, it can be difficult to access. Once a year, on Yom Kippur, we are given special access to the deepest part of ourselves. Once a year, we can be who we really want to be.

The Rambam famously discusses a man who is obligated by Jewish law to give his wife a get but refuses. The court can pressure him until he says, “Rotzeh ani - I want to.” Is this truly his own free will after being forced? The Rambam explains that deep down, a Jew wants to do the right thing. There are other impulses that get in the way. Sometimes our true will is buried beneath anger, ego, or stubbornness, but these external factors don't create a new will.

Rotzeh ani. This is what I really want. This is who I really am.

Rabbi Baruch Oberlander relates that a Jew once confided to the Lubavitcher Rebbe that he felt like a hypocrite going to shul on Yom Kippur when he didn't attend during the rest of the year. The Rebbe turned the question around. The most natural place for a Jew on Yom Kippur is in shul. “You're not a hypocrite when you go to shul on Yom Kippur,” he told him. “You're a hypocrite, perhaps, when you don't go to shul the rest of the year!”

Which version is the real you? The person standing in shul on Yom Kippur asking Hashem for forgiveness or the person who sometimes acts in ways that contradict everything he believes? Yom Kippur says: Don't underestimate the person standing in shul.

That may be why Kol Nidrei has such a hold on the Jewish communal consciousness. We may not know what the words mean. Even if we read the translation, we may not understand the laws of vows. Reciting Kol Nidrei may not even technically work! But we hear the melody, take in the experience, and understand what it feels like to want to start again.

Kol Nidrei gives voice to the deepest desire of Yom Kippur: Release me from what I have allowed myself to become. Let me get past the promises I didn't keep and the mistakes I made. Let me get back to the person I know I can be.

Achat ba-shanah. Once a year, we have an opportunity to go lifnai v'lifnim, more deeply inside ourselves and our souls. We encounter the person we really are and the person we still want to become. Rotzeh ani. This is who I really want to be.

On Yom Kippur, we meet the most genuine version of ourselves. The rest of the year is our chance to become that person.

A Code for the Year Ahead

Who remembers the 1980s TV commercial for Prego spaghetti sauce?

An Italian grandmother questions whether Prego can really replace homemade sauce. As she lists the essential ingredients, the answer is always the same, “It’s in there!” Eventually, she tastes it and agrees, “It’s in there!”

For those familiar with the commercial, the phrase stuck.

“It’s in there!” applies to Parshat Ha’azinu.

Ha’azinu is one of the most poetic and mysterious passages in the Torah. In just 52 pesukim, Moshe presents a sweeping vision of Jewish history past, present, and future. Some would say literally everything is in there.

Rabbi Yechiel Heilprin, in Seder HaDorot, recounts the story of Ramban and his student Avner, who became an apostate and rose to power. Avner had abandoned Judaism, in part, because he once heard Ramban say that all of existence and all the mitzvot could be found within Ha’azinu. He dismissed the claim as impossible. Ramban insisted it was true.

Avner challenged the rabbi, “Show me where my name is mentioned there!”
Ramban prayed and then pointed to the verse: “I said that I would make an end of them; I will eradicate their remembrance from mankind.” (Devarim 32:26) The third letter of each word spells out Rabbi Avner.

Avner was shaken. He asked his teacher, “Is there a cure for my sickness?”
Ramban responded, “You have heard the words of the verse itself.”
Avner boarded a ship, went wherever the wind took him, and was never heard from again.

The belief that Torah contains hidden truths has fascinated Jews throughout the centuries. Rabbeinu Bahya spoke of God’s Names concealed in letter patterns. Kabbalists explored acronyms and gematria. In our time, Rabbi Eliyahu Rips used computers to search the Torah for hidden codes, claiming to find names, dates, and events embedded within its letters. His work generated enormous interest and controversy.

Professor Robert J. (Yisrael) Aumann, the American-born Israeli Nobel Prize-winning mathematician, was involved in examining the claims. He concluded, “Research conducted under my own supervision failed to confirm the existence of the codes - though it also did not establish their non-existence.”

While Aumann remained skeptical of the “Torah codes,” he is the perfect person to comment on what is “in” the Torah.

He was born into an Orthodox Jewish family in Germany in 1930. His family escaped to the United States in 1938. He earned his PhD from MIT, did postdoctoral work at Princeton, and made aliyah in 1956. (In 1982, his first-born son, Shlomo, was killed while serving in the Israeli army during a battle with Syrian tanks.) Aumann is a connoisseur of everything and connects everything to its Divine source. He famously recited the blessing of HaTov V’HaMeitiv, God is good and does good, in front of 1,400 guests while delivering his toast at the royal banquet following the Nobel awards ceremony.

Aumann once said, “To understand the Torah, you have to understand it as one whole, not separate pieces.” This recalls Ben Bag Bag’s teaching Pirkei Avot: “Hafoch bah va’hafoch bah d’kola bah - Turn it and turn it again, for everything is in it.” Whether or not we believe in Torah codes, Ha’azinu teaches us that the Torah is not just a record of the past; it is an all-inclusive guide to live by now and take us into the future.

I heard of a rabbi who was once questioned by the IRS for including the theatrical trade paper Variety in his tax deductions. The rabbi responded, “Do you know how many good sermons I have gotten out of that paper?!” I’m not sure how much the tax man appreciated that, but the point is that Torah is everywhere.

The Torah is God’s ongoing communication to us, and every generation, every individual, can discover their story in its words.

The question is not whether we can find our names spelled out in Ha’azinu or in computer grids. The question is whether we can find Torah spelled out in us. Is Torah evident in the way we speak? In the way we treat our families? In the way we spend our time and respond to other people? The Torah offers a code; we have to live by it.

We read Ha’azinu now so that we take the energy and passion of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and apply it forward to the new year. The next stops are Sukkot and Simchat Torah. Sukkah is an all-encompassing mitzvah. We don’t just perform the mitzvah. We enter it and live in it. Simchat Torah represents joyous Jewish living. We don’t just learn Torah; we dance with it. We then take all of that religious experience and that try to channel the energy into the following months of ordinary Jewish living without holidays.

As 5787 begins, our challenge is to crack the code. It doesn’t have to be overly complicated. Take one Torah idea from these High Holidays and live it. Learn a little more Torah. Take one mitzvah more seriously. Attend minyan more often. Reach out to one Jew who could use more connection. Do one more act of kindness. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It just has to be real.

If we listen to the Torah’s song and translate its wisdom into action, then our deeds become the letters, words, and chapters of the Jewish future.

And everything we need? It’s in there!

Why We Tashlich & Shanah Tovah from the Weinstocks!

People love Tashlich.

There is something special about gathering together on Rosh Hashanah afternoon, walking to the water, saying a few prayers, and casting away our sins. Many people throw bread into the water to concretize the act of throwing away transgressions. Of course, bread isn’t necessary, and some rabbis explicitly forbid bringing food to throw to the fish on Yom Tov.

Tashlich is not a necessary Rosh Hashanah requirement. The name comes from the words of the prophet Micha (7:19): “V’tashlich bimtzulot yam kol chatotam - You will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea.” We go to the water and symbolically cast away what we don’t want to carry with us into the new year.

Tashlich is a custom whose precise origins are unclear. Some connect the practice with the Akeidah, which we read on Rosh Hashanah, and the Midrashic tradition that Avraham encountered a river blocking his path as he journeyed with Yitzchak. Visiting the water is meant to encourage us to overcome any obstacles that stand in our way. The Rema notes that standing beside the water reminds us of creation itself, most appropriate for Rosh Hashanah, the birthday of the world. Others note that there was ancient practice to coronate kings near water. We visit water on Rosh Hashanah when we coronate God as our King.

There is also something very “Rosh Hashanah” about water.

Water moves. We stand at the water and remind ourselves that we can move, too. We don’t have to remain stuck within the mistakes, disappointments, and negativity of the past year. We can cast some of that away and move forward.

Even if Tashlich doesn’t have to be performed on Rosh Hashanah, it certainly fits the spirit of the day. Rosh Hashanah is filled with behaviors designed to set a tone. We eat apples and honey and other sweet foods because we want a sweet year. We offer positive prayers for ourselves and others without emphasizing our mistakes or confessing. We hear the shofar telling us to wake up. We come together as families and as a community. We begin the year trying to act the way we hope the year will unfold.

Maybe one reason people love Tashlich so much is the togetherness we feel when a community gathers for Tashlich. (Like at the beach!) We stand together, pray together, and then, like the water in front of us, we move forward together.

Rosh Hashanah asks us not only what kind of year we want, but what kind of people we are prepared to be to create that year. Eat something sweet. Say something positive. Wake up. Come together. Cast away some of the negativity. Keep moving forward.

In the Weinstock family, it’s been a busy year of moving forward.

Thank God, everyone is thriving! Our oldest daughter, Meira, got married to Max Serfaty, and they are now living in Ra’anana. Yona is in his final year at Yeshiva University with a job lined up already for after graduation. Aviva is in her second year at Stern College, majoring in Early Childhood Education while also devoting time to Chasidic and artistic pursuits. Yakira is studying in Israel for her gap year, and the pool is active as to whether she returns to America or stays in Israel. With a quieter house, Naama and I are adjusting to the “empty nester” stage. 😊

Naama, Meira and Max, Yona, Aviva, Yakira, and I wish you, your family, the entire Jewish people, and the entire world a happy, healthy, prosperous, sweet, and peaceful New Year in 5787! May Israel and the IDF be safe and strong, may those wounded and bereaved find healing and comfort, and may Jews in America and around the world be secure to move forward to ever greater heights.

May the best of this past year be the worst of the year ahead!