Around The Shulchan, Tisch, or Table: Where Judaism Comes Alive

For thousands of years, people have gathered around the table.

The word itself comes from the Latin tabula, a simple plank. A functional surface. Nothing glamorous. And yet, that plank has quietly shaped families, cultures, and civilizations.

The dining room table, as we know it, is a fairly modern invention. Until the late 18^th century, there were no dining rooms at all. Families ate off small tables, often separately. Around the time of the American Revolution, wealthier homes began building rooms centered around large tables meant to host many people. By the early 20^th century, family dinner around the table had become an American institution. Many of us grew up with both a breakfast room and a dining room - each with its own role.

Then, slowly, things reversed. Kitchens grew larger. Television entered the home. TV dinners appeared. The dining room became reserved for special occasions. And today? Many families barely eat together at all. Meals are rushed, eaten on the go, or consumed alone. The table has become a drop zone for mail, laptops, and Amazon packages.

Yet research confirms what tradition has always known: Gather round the table! Anne Fishel, a professor at Harvard Medical School and co-founder of The Family Dinner Project, wrote an article entitled, “The most important thing you can do with your kids? Eat dinner with them.” Family meals improve learning, physical health, emotional resilience, and behavior. Around the table, minds open, bodies are nourished, and souls are shaped.

Judaism has always understood this intuitively. The table is not peripheral to Jewish life. It is central. Shabbat and holidays ensure that, no matter how busy life becomes, we come together. But the table is about far more than gathering. The table is where Judaism is lived. That is why, throughout Jewish history, when leaders sought to make Judaism more vibrant, relevant, and alive, they didn’t only build institutions, they gathered people around tables.

The rise of Chasidut offers a powerful example. In the 18^th century, Jews were learning, davening, and observing, but for many, Judaism felt distant and heavy. Enter the movement inspired by Baal Shem Tov, who emphasized warmth, presence, joy, and lived spirituality. One of the most enduring expressions of that vision was the tisch, literally, the table. Around a table, chasidim gathered with their Rebbe. There were niggunim, words of Torah, stories, l’chaim, shirayim (food), silence, and soul. Torah was no longer confined to the study hall; it was absorbed through experience, relationship, and shared humanity. The tisch transformed eating into elevation and conversation into connection. Judaism wasn’t just learned, it was felt. The table is not a substitute for Torah; it is one of Torah’s most powerful classrooms.

This idea echoes a teaching of Rabbi Meir Shapiro, the founder of the famed Yeshivat Chachmei Lublin in pre-war Poland. A verse was inscribed on the gates of the building: “Lechu banim, shim’u li - Go, my children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of God” (Tehillim 34:12). Why does the pasuk begin with lechu, go? Why not begin with a word that indicates learning? Rabbi Shapiro explained that Torah study, while essential, is incomplete unless it is carried into real life. Success inside the yeshiva is not the true test. The test is what happens when students go out into the world. Do they carry the lessons they learned with them? Does it shape how they eat, speak, and live?

In medieval France, Jews gave this idea a striking physical expression. Rabbeinu Bachya records a custom in which some people used the wood of their dining room table to construct their coffin. The message was profound: may the merit of what we do around our tables accompany us into Olam Habah, the World to Come.

The Mishkan’s Shulchan (Table) was made from atzei shittim, acacia wood. Rabbeinu Bachya cites a Midrash explaining that the letters of shittim represent the essential values of a Jewish table: 

- Shalom – peace and togetherness
- Tovah – gratitude and goodness
- Yeshuah – spiritual elevation and redemption
- Mechilah – forgiveness and repair

The symbolism of the Tabernacle and Temple vessels carries forward into our homes today. The Talmud (Chagigah 27a) teaches that our tables have taken on an important religious role in the absence of the Beit Hamikdash.

This connects to a penetrating insight from Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, who rejected the idea that Jewish life is centered solely in the synagogue. He taught, “The center of Jewish life is the home, the street, the shop, the nightclub, the beach, the highway…” The most important place in Judaism is wherever life unfolds. Shul is essential. Torah study is essential. But Judaism is meant to be lived consistently and authentically across all spaces. And, thus, the table is consequential.

So what do our tables say? What are we serving? Who is welcome? What tone fills the conversation? How do we speak about one another, our community, our leaders? Our tables can still be crafted from shittim - from peace, goodness, redemption, and forgiveness. That medieval custom now feels less strange. While we cannot take possessions with us, we can carry the spiritual imprint of how we lived. The wood of the table symbolically becomes part of our legacy.

If we treat our tables as sacred spaces, they will shape sacred lives. And perhaps the most powerful Judaism our children will ever absorb and that we can share with one another is what is experienced, week after week, around the Jewish table.

The Backflip on Ice and Finding Our Jewish Joy

One of the most electric moments in this Winter Olympics was figure skater Ilia Malinin’s backflip on the ice.

He backflips. On ice. With a pair of knives strapped to his feet, he sticks the landing. And he does it just because he can. 

As the Wall Street Journal noted, the move doesn’t earn the athlete any extra technical points. For nearly a half-century, the back flip on ice was banned. In 2024, the sport’s governing body finally yielded to pressure to approve the move. It was decided that skaters would no longer be penalized for a backflip, but they don’t receive any extra points in their final score either.

And yet, the crowd went wild. “First it makes them blink. Then it makes them shriek.”

Why? Because it was daring, joyful, and unexpected. It reminded everyone that they weren’t just watching a competition; they were experiencing something alive.

That reaction tells us something profound about human beings — and about religious life. We don’t just want meaning. We want to feel it.

Behavioral research shows that people are most engaged not by obligation or reward, but by intrinsic excitement - moments that surprise us, move us, and stir emotion.

Judaism has known this all along. The Torah doesn’t say simply serve God. It says: “Serve Hashem b’simchah, with joy.” (Tehillim 100:2) Simchah isn’t optional. It’s essential. In fact, the Torah warns that spiritual failure comes not only from neglecting mitzvot, but from performing them without joy (Devarim 28:47).

Rabbi Kalonymos Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczner Rebbe (Tzav v’Ziruz, Section 9) wrote, “The soul of a person loves to feel.” He goes on to note that people will seek out all sorts of experiences to get that rush of emotion. Anyone a rollercoaster junkie or horror-movie aficionado?  

“Emotion is the food of the soul; it is as much of a need of the soul as food is to the body…[Judaism] without emotion will leave a vacuum that will force the soul to search for emotion anywhere…Correct behavior matters. But presence and emotional engagement matter too.”

Malinin’s backflip didn’t help him win, but it reminded us why we watch. We long to feel.

What’s true emotionally is also true spiritually. There’s a tension. We daven, but do we mean it? We have to, but do we want to? Are we merely present, checking off a box, or are we alive in the moment?

The Talmud teaches: “The Divine Presence is present only when a person feels joy.” (Shabbat 30b) Joy. Passion. Feeling. Emotions open the heart and create receptivity. Without them, religious life can become technically correct but spiritually flat.

People disengage not because Judaism lacks depth, but because routine without resonance dulls the soul. When surprise, creativity, and emotional risk disappear, meaning becomes harder to access. That’s why the backflip is so exhilarating. It wasn’t required. It wasn’t optimized. It was expressive.

This leads to a powerful question: Where is the backflip in our religious lives?

We need to try and add small ways to bring excitement and passion back.

• Add one “unnecessary” Jewish act each week - something not required, just joyful like a melody, a verse, a moment of stillness.
• Upgrade one routine mitzvah by slowing it down and doing it with intention.
• Stop measuring spirituality only by output. Not everything meaningful needs to earn points.

The world cheered that backflip on ice because it reminded us why excellence matters in the first place - not for the score, but for the experience. Judaism asks the same of us - not perfection, but presence; not constant intensity, but moments of joy that reconnect us to meaning.

What is one small “backflip” we can add this week? Which act of Jewish life might earn no points, but might reawaken our joy? Attempting these maneuvers may not win us gold, but they will make each of us winners.

Sinai Caused Antisemitism; Sinai Is the Cure

What’s your favorite part of the Super Bowl?

For many who will be watching on Sunday night, it’s not the game at all - it’s the commercials. For 30 seconds, advertisers are granted access to more than 100 million viewers, a rare and very expensive opportunity to tell a story, make a point, or shape a conversation.

This year, for New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft, the Super Bowl is about more than his team’s 12^th shot at a championship. It is a national platform for his effort to combat antisemitism. His organization, The Blue Square Alliance against Hate (formerly called the Foundation to Combat Antisemitism), will premiere a new ad entitled “Sticky Note.” It depicts a Jewish student being bullied in a school hallway, a note reading “dirty Jew” slapped onto his backpack. Students giggle and wonder whether they should tell him. One classmate purposefully steps in and quietly places a blue square over the hateful label. “Do not listen to that,” he says.

It’s a powerful image. And it reflects something very real: There is enormous attention being paid to antisemitism today. Dozens of organizations and initiatives. Tens of millions of dollars invested. Definitions, advocacy campaigns, educational mandates, awareness efforts. Many are quite sincere and well-meaning. And yet, antisemitism stubbornly persists.

The source of all this hatred is not new. It is ancient. Its name is Sinai.

The Talmud (Shabbat 89a) makes a startling claim: Mount Sinai was called Sinai because from there descended sinah, hatred, toward the Jewish people. In other words, the moment of Matan Torah and divine revelation was not only the birth of Judaism; it was also, in a sense, the birth of antisemitism.

Why?

Because at Sinai, the Jewish people accepted a mission no other nation stepped forward to claim: “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6). We have been tasked with moral responsibility, with covenantal discipline, and with the audacious belief that God cares deeply about how human beings treat one another. Sinai introduced into the world the aspirational ideals of purpose, meaning, and accountability.

History has never been kind to its conscience.

The nations did not begin to hate Jews because of our numbers, power, or wealth. They hate us because of our message. Judaism insists that there is a higher standard than convenience, force, or fashion. That life is sacred. That power has limits. That law applies equally to the strong and the weak. As historian Paul Johnson wrote, many of the moral ideas we now take for granted - human dignity, equality before the law, individual ethics - entered the world through the Jews. Without Jews, the world might have been a much emptier place.

Antisemitism, then, is not fueled primarily by Jews. It is fueled by Judaism.

This explains a painful paradox of Jewish history. Assimilation has never saved us. Twentieth-century German Jewry was among the most integrated, educated, and patriotic communities in Europe, and it did not protect them. It has been noted that Judaism provokes two extreme reactions: Judeophobia, resentment toward the moral voice Jews represent, and Judeophilia, admiration and a desire to learn from it. Either way, one thing history makes painfully clear: Judaism is a distinction Jews cannot hide from. When Jews abandon their mission, hatred does not disappear; the world simply loses its moral torchbearers.

One of my favorite quotes of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks is: “Non-Jews respect Jews who respect Judaism, and they are embarrassed by Jews who are embarrassed by Judaism.” This insight has taken on renewed urgency today as the Jewish community seems to focus more on the problem of antisemitism than the solution.

At a recent 92Y talk, Bret Stephens argued - provocatively and persuasively - that the Jewish community is spending enormous sums fighting antisemitism in ways that are not strengthening Jewish identity or continuity. Holocaust education, advocacy campaigns, and formal definitions matter. But they are not moving the needle. A generation whose Jewish identity consists mainly of having seen Schindler’s List or visited a Holocaust museum is not a generation rooted in Jewish meaning.

Stephens’ alternative response is deeply Sinaitic: the proper defense against Jew-hatred is not endless apology, nor defining ourselves by our enemies, but leaning into our Jewishness as far as each of us can - regardless of what anyone else thinks. Invest in Jewish schools. Jewish learning. Jewish pride. Jewish fluency.

Anne Frank understood this with heartbreaking insight. On April 11, 1944, she wrote in her diary:
 

Who has made us Jews different from all other people…It is God Who has made us as we are, but it will be God, too, who will raise us up again. Who knows – it might even be our religion from which the world and all peoples learn good, and for that reason and that reason alone do we now suffer. We can never become just Netherlanders, or just English, or representatives of any other country for that matter. We will always remain Jews.

In 1962, before young Jewish leaders traveled to Auschwitz, they asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe what meaning could possibly be found in such horror. His answer was not only about memory, but about mission. Hitler, he said, sought not only to destroy Jewish bodies, but to annihilate Jewish spirit. The true defeat of Hitlerism is not only “never again,” but “again and again.” Jews continuing to live visibly, proudly, joyfully as Jews. Jewish homes. Jewish learning. Jewish commitment in public view.

“When you go to Auschwitz,” the Rebbe said, “you must profess there that Auschwitz cannot happen again. You assure it by becoming a living example of a living Jew.”

There is a great deal of talk today about antisemitism. Much of it is necessary, but Sinai teaches us something deeper. If sinah began at Sinai because the Jewish people accepted a moral mission, then the most authentic way to fight antisemitism is not by running from that mission but by doubling down on it.

Not only by covering hateful labels with blue squares, but by filling Jewish lives with Torah, mitzvot, meaning, and pride.

If Sinai was the source of the problem, living by Sinai is the solution.

Ran Gvili Is Home: The Long Shorter Road Continues

On Tuesday, January 27, after 844 days, Ran Gvili was brought home. For the first time in 4,208 days, since 2014, there are no Israeli hostages in Gaza.

This moment is a staggering achievement - even miraculous. It is worthy of deep gratitude to God and to all who refused to give up: soldiers, intelligence units, medical professionals, elected officials, and countless citizens who carried this cause in their hearts every day. A senior officer from the IDF Hostages and Missing Persons Unit, now disbanded because its mission has finally been fulfilled, said it plainly: “The scenario in which everyone returned is beyond all imagination; we did not assess that we would reach this situation.”

Ran’s return came through Operation Brave Heart (Lev Amitz), a final, heroic effort. The Alexandroni Brigade secured the area. The elite Yahalom engineering unit carefully examined each grave, fearing booby-trapped coffins. Dentists, doctors, and medical examiners worked alongside soldiers. For days they dug by hand in freezing cold, uncovering hundreds of bodies, finding nothing - until they did. Lt. Col. Eliasaf Verman described the moment, “I saw the doctor’s hands shaking over the instruments. As the examination went on, her eyes reddened and a tear fell. Then I saw a smile. For us, a very meaningful circle was closed.”

We feel relief. We feel pride. And we feel pain. Hostages were murdered in captivity. Soldiers were wounded and killed in action. Families were shattered. This moment demands that we hold competing truths at the same time. As Ran’s mother said, “Our pride is much, much stronger than our pain.”

This week’s parsha offers a haunting and powerful parallel. As the Israelites leave Egypt, the Torah pauses to tell us something that seems almost out of place: “And Moshe took the bones of Yosef with him.” At the dawn of redemption and with a nation being born, Moshe Rabbeinu carries bones.

Yosef had adjured his brothers to ensure that his remains would not stay in Egypt. Rabbi Zalman Sosortzkin, in his Oznayim LaTorah, notes a subtle difference between the initial request and the text telling how it happens. Yosef asked to be taken itchem - with you. Moshe takes the remains imo - together with him, as part of the nation’s very mission. This was not a private favor. It was a powerful statement: We do not leave our own behind. We honor those who gave their lives. We insist on dignity, even when it costs us dearly.

What was true then remains relevant today. Ran’s return is not only about closure for one family; it is a declaration of who we are.

And then there is the road itself. The most recent 843 days are but a continuation of the long and winding Jewish journey.

When the Jews leave Egypt, God deliberately does not take them along the shortest route. The Torah says, “Vayaseiv - God led them in a roundabout way.” Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik points to a Midrash that connects this word to heseibah, reclining at the Seder. Reclining represents freedom, but not freedom because life is easy. Freedom despite difficulty. Real freedom is forged on indirect paths.

Jewish history is not linear. We build, we lose, we rebuild. We achieve, we retreat, we begin again. Other nations may travel a straight line from rise to fall. Ours is a zig-zag journey, one that violates the rule that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Those detours, however, build the emunah, the faith, that allows us to keep waiting even when redemption tarries.

When Ran’s remains were finally recovered, the soldiers sang the haunting “Ani Ma’amin” song. It’s powerful refrain reverberating through the soul of all who watched the widespread recording: “V’af al pi she’yitmameiah im kol ze achake lo she’yavo - Though he may tarry, still I wait.”

The Talmud teaches (Eruvin 53b) that anything that truly matters cannot be attained easily. What appears short often becomes long; what seems unbearably long may be the shortest path of all. The Lubavitcher Rebbe framed it this way: faith, which is more emotional, is the “short path.” With faith, things fall into place. The alternate path is the intellect. It is more calculating and filled with second-guessing. It can still lead to truth, but it is longer and exacts a heavy toll.

Our journey forward as a nation continues along the long-shorter road.

We have experienced a rollercoaster of highs and lows, twists and turns. Exultation, despair, uncertainty and confidence can be experienced all in the same day. There are no shortcuts through grief or rebuilding, but this is our road that leads us forward.

This message of moving forward and looking ahead reverberates as we approach Tu B’Shvat - a holiday about planting trees whose fruits others will enjoy long after the planter is gone. It echoes in the words “V’achar kein” of the Al HaNisim prayer of Chanukah: after the victory comes the work. Winning the battle is only the beginning.

The return of Ran Gvili marks the end of one chapter - and the start of another. We move forward carrying bones, memories, faith, and responsibility. We move forward together and try to be better. The hostages and their families united us. What is our “v’acher kein?” What comes next?

We must stay engaged with the wounded, the bereaved, and those still rebuilding their lives.

We must continue to support institutions, initiatives, and learning dedicated to soldiers and victims, to speak their names and live their values.

We need to keep showing up for one another locally and globally. We can’t let ourselves be worn down with what seems like continued crisis.  

Like Tu B’Shvat trees, we invest in the future in education, Jewish identity, and leadership that will bear fruit long after this moment fades.

We should allow ourselves to experience joy and pain simultaneously and not let the complexity of the moment freeze us. Growth happens when we keep walking.

Ran is home. The journey is not over. And the long-shorter road faithfully traveled remains the most optimal way forward.

Those Lunar-tic Jews: A People of the Moon

“Jews own roughly ten percent of the moon.”

At least, that was the claim of a 2007 Jerusalem Post article reporting that some 10,000 Israelis had purchased small plots of lunar “real estate” through a company called Crazyshop. Each purchased 500 square meters for a modest 250 shekels. International law forbids nations from owning the moon, but private individuals is apparently another story. As the company’s spokesperson explained, some Israelis thought it an original gift and a clever investment, something their grandchildren might one day benefit from. One can easily imagine NASA, decades from now, negotiating landing rights with Israeli grandparents clutching yellowing deeds to moon dust.

Original? Certainly. Absurd? Possibly. And yet, somehow, unmistakably Jewish.

Jews have always been drawn to the moon. Long before lunar landings and space stations, the moon occupied a central place in Jewish consciousness - not as an object of conquest, but as a source of meaning. The moon teaches us who we are and how we are meant to live.

The Talmud tells a striking story. In the beginning, the world was created with symmetry: two great lights, the sun and the moon, equal in brilliance and stature. Then the moon turned to God and asked, “Is it possible for two kings to wear one crown?” Leadership, after all, implies distinction. God agreed - and instructed the moon to make itself smaller. It is a shocking move. Even more shocking is what follows. God then seeks to console the moon and, ultimately, asks for atonement for having diminished it.

The message is unmistakable: smallness is not failure; diminution is not insignificance. There is greatness in restraint, holiness in humility, power in not always needing to dominate.

Unlike the sun, which shines steadily and predictably, the moon waxes and wanes. It disappears and returns. It reflects rather than generates light. It understands darkness and renewal. And that is why Jewish time follows the moon. Our months begin in near darkness. Our holidays arrive only after growth and waiting. Jewish history itself mirrors the lunar cycle: rising and falling, eclipsed and renewed, never linear, never static.

We are not the sun. We are the moon.

That identity is embedded in the very first mitzvah given to the Jewish people. Before laws of belief or behavior, before entering the land, we are commanded to look heavenward and sanctify time: “Ha-chodesh ha-zeh lachem rosh chadashim - This month shall be for you the first of months.” (Shemot 12:2) Judaism begins not with territory, but with time, time measured by the moon.

In ancient times, witnesses scanned the skies and testified before the court to the moon’s appearance. The calendar, and with it the holidays themselves, depended on human eyes and human voices. Even today, with a fixed calendar, Jewish life continues to orbit the moon through the molad (announcing the first appearance of the moon each month), Birkat HaChodesh, and Kiddush Levana. God deliberately entrusted something as sacred as time to finite, fallible human beings.

The Midrash pushes this idea even further. When the angels ask God when the festivals will be set, God replies that He Himself will follow the determination of the Jewish court. “In the past it was in My hands,” God says. “From now on, it is in yours.” Even God abides by our calendar. Even our mistakes, the Talmud insists, do not invalidate the sanctification. Perfection is not a prerequisite for partnership.

This is gadlut ha-adam, the greatness of the human role. Judaism does not happen without us. We are not passive recipients of holiness; we are mekadshim, active sanctifiers. Like the moon, we matter not because we are flawless or constant, but because we show up repeatedly to renew.

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch highlights that the word mo’ed, which is used as another name for festivals, means a meeting. Not a royal summons, but a chosen encounter. God could have fixed the calendar astronomically, eliminating all subjectivity. Instead, God invites relationship. Commanded, yes, but also animated by willingness. Judaism flourishes not only through obedience, but through consent.

The moon also carries the mandate of chiddush, renewal. Jewish life is cyclical, but never stagnant. Ein beit midrash b’lo chiddush - there is no house of learning without new insight. Each generation must rediscover how eternal Torah speaks in contemporary language.  B’chol yom yihyu b’einecha k’chadashim - every day, Judaism must feel new.

Each month, each time we bless the new month, each time we recite Kiddush Levana, or each time we look up at the moon, we declare that Israel is destined to renew itself like the moon. Not to burn brightly and briefly, but to endure, to constantly recreate, and to reflect Divine light even in dark skies.

When Moshe and Aharon first looked up at the moon in Egypt, they were shown more than a celestial body. They were shown a future: freedom coupled with responsibility, holiness shaped by human hands, time sanctified through partnership. Humanity has since walked on the moon, and some have dreams of returning or maybe even settling. Jews, meanwhile, continue to look up - not to own it, but to learn from it and to live proud, passionate Jewish lives by its light.

Long after humanity leaves footprints on the moon, the moon will continue leaving its imprint on the Jewish soul.

Moshe’s Matteh, Magic Wands, and the Power We Forget We Have

It was one remarkable piece of wood.

A staff that turned into a snake - and then swallowed other snakes. A staff that unleashed plagues, split the sea, and drew water from a rock.

Moshe’s matteh accompanies him at the most pivotal moments of Jewish history. The Sages teach that it did not begin or end with Moshe. The staff was created on the sixth day of creation, used by Adam, passed to future leaders. King David is said to have wielded it. It was stored in the First Temple, and then it disappeared.

We may not be able to hold the original matteh, but its deeper power is one we each carry.

Moshe is a reluctant redeemer. At the burning bush he resists the mission, insisting he is unworthy, unprepared, and incapable. Eventually, he accepts his role and prepares to return to Egypt. Before leaving Midian, he takes leave of his father-in-law, and the Torah tells us that he brings the matteh with him, exactly as God instructed. This staff, God had said, would be the catalyst for the miracles in Egypt.

And then something curious happens. As Moshe sets out, God reiterates the mission but conspicuously omits any mention of the staff: “When you return to Egypt, see that you perform before Pharaoh all the wonders that I have placed in your hands.” Placed in your hands.

Rabbi Don Isaac Abarbanel is struck by the omission. Why the sudden shift? Why remove the matteh from the conversation entirely? Abarbanel explains that Moshe was afraid - and understandably so. He was returning as a fugitive to confront Pharaoh, the most powerful ruler on earth. The matteh gave him comfort. It felt like a guarantee, a security blanket, a visible sign that God was with him, something concrete to hold on to. So, God gently but firmly reminds him: the staff has no intrinsic power. It is only a tool. Samti b’yadecha - the power is already in your hands. The miracles will not come from the wood you carry, but from the courage and responsibility you embrace as My agent. Don’t let the staff become a crutch. You already have what you need.

The matteh helped Moshe take the first step. It was never meant to define him.

There is a time for training wheels, and a time to ride without them. A moment when support is necessary, and a moment when growth demands confidence. Moshe had reached that moment. This idea echoes in Jewish law as well. The Shulchan Aruch rules that one may not lean on a lectern or support while reciting the Shemoneh Esrei, barring physical necessity. When we stand before God in our most intimate moment of prayer, we stand on our own two feet. It is a quiet but powerful message: when it matters most, we do not lean; we stand.

This message could not be more relevant today.

We are living in a moment that feels like both the best of times and the worst of times. There is so much to be grateful for - blessing, opportunity, prosperity, community, Jewish life flourishing in ways previous generations could only dream of, Israel’s successes since October 7 despite the pain. And yet, there is no shortage of worry or anxiety. Israel faces existential threats. Iran looms large in the headlines. The world feels unstable. Politics are angry and polarized. Partisanship seeps into every conversation, dividing families, communities, and friendships. In moments like these, it is tempting to retreat. To disengage. To rely on crutches and to assume others will handle it. Is it easier to wait for institutions to fix things or to scroll past instead of showing up. It can feel safer to lean than to stand.

That is precisely when the Torah insists: samti b’yadecha. The power is already in your hands.  Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm captured this moment beautifully: “We spend our time in search of magic wands, when there is magic in our hands.” It is a time for moral courage, responsibility, and confident engagement.

That truth resonates deeply in our Jewish lives.

We invest enormously in Jewish education - and rightly so. Schools, teachers, rabbis, and programs are invaluable. But Torah cannot be outsourced entirely. Torah is b’yadeinu. Jewish life must be lived and modeled in our homes: singing zemirot at the Shabbat table, pausing for Birkat HaMazon, having Jewish conversations that matter. These are not supplemental gestures; they are formative acts of leadership. When we own Jewish life with confidence, our children and all those around us learn that Judaism is not something you attend; it’s something you live.

The same is true of our support for Israel. We are rightly proud to be a pro-Israel community, but pride alone can become its own matteh, something we lean on rather than actively sustain. American support for Israel does not maintain itself. It requires engagement: financial support, political involvement, showing up, speaking out, and making our voices heard. Assuming that support will always be there without action is leaning on the staff. Keeping America pro-Israel remains b’yadeinu.

Moshe needed his matteh, and so do we. Support systems matter. Help is legitimate. Leaning, at times, is human. Growth, however, begins when God whispers to us what He whispered to Moshe: the power is already in your hands. In uncertain times, faith is not passivity. Confidence is not arrogance. Engagement is not extremism. It is responsibility. Moshe learned when to hold the staff - and when to let it go. May we have the wisdom to do the same, and may we discover that we can go farther and higher than we ever imagined.

I Will Be: A Phone Call from Gaza & Faith in the Future

When Moshe stands before the burning bush, he asks a question that sounds almost administrative, yet is anything but:

“Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is His name?’ What shall I tell them?” (Shemot 3:13)

At first glance, Moshe seems to be asking for information. In truth, he is asking for reassurance. What kind of God am I being sent to represent? What kind of faith am I asking the people to summon? God’s answer is one of the most enigmatic - and revolutionary - lines in all of Tanakh: Ehyeh asher Ehyeh.

For centuries, this phrase was flattened into abstraction. Translated into Greek as ego eimi ho on and into Latin as ego sum qui sum - “I am who I am,” it became the foundation for a philosophical God: timeless, changeless, Being-itself. Augustine saw here the God who cannot change. Aquinas read it as the ultimate metaphysical claim: God as eternal, immutable essence.

But, as Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught so powerfully, this is not the God of the Torah. This is Aristotle’s God, not Avraham’s. Not the God who hears cries, enters history, and redeems slaves. What those translations missed is the future tense.

Ehyeh does not mean “I am.” It means “I will be.” It means, “I will be what I will be. I will be where I will be. I will be how I will be.”

God is not defining His essence. He is declaring His mode of relationship with the world. This is not ontology. This is destiny. God is telling Moshe: You cannot fully know Me in advance. You will know Me through what unfolds. I am about to act in history, but I am not giving you guarantees, schedules, or certainty. I am giving you a mission.

In other words, God is saying: I am in charge, but that does not relieve you of responsibility. It creates it.

“I will be what I will be” means the story is not over. It also means that faith is not fixed, firm, or static. Faith is fluid. It rises and falls. It stretches and strains. Sometimes it is strong; sometimes it barely holds. That is not a flaw in faith. That is faith.

Biblical faith is not confidence in outcomes. It is trust in direction. Trust that God is still guiding history - even when we cannot yet see how, and especially when we cannot feel it.

God tells Moshe the destination in broad strokes. The people will be free, and they will eventually enter a land flowing with milk and honey. But God refuses to provide an exact roadmap. The plagues, the sea, the wilderness, the rebellions, the failures, the setbacks - none of them is disclosed in advance. Why? Because faith that knows the ending is not fully faith. God is teaching Moshe - and us - that faith is not the absence of doubt; it is the willingness to move forward despite it.

Faith is never passive. Human action is always future-oriented. We act to bring about what does not yet exist. Science can analyze the past and explain the present, but it cannot fully account for hope, moral courage, or sacrifice because those live in the future tense. And that is precisely where God lives in the Torah.

When God says Ehyeh asher Ehyeh, He is not only revealing something about Himself. He is revealing something about us. If God believes in the future, then so must we. If God acts in history, then we must act as well. If God does not give up on the world - even when it seems to be careening out of control, then neither may we. Faith, at its core, says: God is in charge, and therefore my choices matter.

This truth was lived - not theorized - by Julie Kuperstein, the mother of Bar Kuperstein, who was kidnapped from the Nova Music Festival on October 7, 2023. In January 2025, Julie received a phone call. A man speaking Hebrew with a Persian accent claimed to be a member of Hamas. “Bar is in our hands,” he said. He went on to threaten her. He told her she was not doing what they wanted her to do. If she wanted to see her son again, she should go to The Hague and testify against Israel. She should take to the streets and protest the Israeli government. The cruelty was deliberate. The goal was fear, helplessness, and paralysis.

Julie put the phone on speaker and replied calmly, “I’m not afraid of you. Bar isn’t in your hands. He’s in the hands of Hashem. Even in Gaza. And you yourself are also in the hands of Hashem.”

There was silence. Then the terrorist said, before hanging up: “Kol hakavod, giveret - Nicely put, ma’am.”

This was not denial. This was not passivity. This was Ehyeh asher Ehyeh lived in real time. Julie did not say, “God will take care of everything, so I will do nothing.” She said the opposite: “Because God is ultimately in charge, I have the strength to stand, to speak, and to continue.” Faith did not end the struggle. It made endurance possible.

These are heady days. Israel feels heavy. Jewish life feels heavy. Faith itself can feel heavy. Exactly. Redemption is not weightless. Responsibility never is.

Ehyeh asher Ehyeh does not promise ease. It promises partnership. God does what God does - and demands that we do what we can to the best of our ability, even when outcomes are uncertain. Faith does not mean the load disappears. It means we are given the strength to carry it. And when we stumble, we are lifted. When we despair, we are reminded that the story is still unfolding.

God does not say, “I was.” God does not even say, “I am.” God says, “I will be.” And because of that, so must we.