The Road to Victory is Paved with Patience

Many of us have done it in the last few days.

Refreshing news sites every few minutes, scrolling through social media feeds, checking multiple sources hoping that this outlet will have the inside information that all the others somehow missed.

In times of crisis, particularly during war, our need to know what’s next becomes almost compulsive. How many missiles remain? What’s the end game? When will there be a ceasefire? We are all invested in what is going on. We love Israel! We have friends and relatives in Israel. We have Pesach plans. Maybe we have weddings there this summer…

The headlines and soundbites come fast and furious. We hear voices insist that the effort against Iran is doomed to fail. Others claim there is no strategy. Commentators speak with great confidence about outcomes that nobody truly knows. The reality, however, is far more complex. The fight against evil - especially an entrenched and dangerous regime - is rarely quick or simple. It requires resolve, courage, and something our modern culture often lacks: Patience.

Patience is not merely a personality trait. It is a Jewish virtue.
“A person should always be patient like Hillel and not impatient like Shammai.” (Shabbat 30b)

The Gemara illustrates this through a remarkable story about Hillel the Elder. A man once wagered that he could provoke Hillel into anger. He repeatedly knocked on the door and interrupted Hillel on a busy Friday afternoon with insulting and absurd questions. Each time, Hillel calmly wrapped himself in his robe, greeted the man respectfully, and patiently answered. After several attempts, the provocateur finally exploded in frustration: “Are you Hillel, the Nasi of Israel? If so, may there not be many like you!” “Why?” asked Hillel gently. “Because I lost four hundred zuz betting I could make you angry!” Hillel replied calmly that it was better the man lose his money than that Hillel lose his patience.

It is easy to be patient in theory. It is much harder when the pressure is real.

The Hebrew word for patience is savlanut. Interestingly, it shares a root with sevel, suffering, and sivlot, burdens. Patience is not pleasant. It is not passive relaxation. It is often difficult emotional work. It means enduring uncertainty. It means tolerating discomfort. Sometimes it means carrying a burden we would much rather set down. But that is precisely why patience is a virtue.

Patience – or the lack of patience – may also explain the oddity known as Jewish time.

An old Jewish joke asks: Why are Jews always late? It all began when they were waiting for Moshe to come down from Har Sinai. They kept checking their watches to see if the forty days were finished. Their anxiety grew, and their impatience led to panic and eventually to the sin of the Golden Calf. Part of atoning for that mistake, the joke suggests, is that Jews stopped looking at their watches ever since. Hence, Jewish time was born…

It’s humorous, but it contains a profound truth. Impatience can lead to terrible decisions.

Modern culture thrives on immediacy. Everything is instant: news updates, social media reactions, political judgments. But Jewish history unfolds on a different clock. Rabbi Yehuda Amital, the founding Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Har Etzion, used to note how many movements use the word “Now.” Peace Now. Moshiach Now. He understood the longing behind those slogans, but he would gently urge perspective. After all, he had survived the Holocaust and later fought in Israel’s War of Independence. During the Shoah, he could never have imagined that he would one day fight in the army of a sovereign Jewish state.

History can turn, but it rarely turns overnight.

Jewish tradition teaches this perspective clearly. “Do not be contemptuous of any person and do not dismiss any thing, for every person has his moment and everything has its place.” (Pirkei Avot 4:2) “Everything has its time.” (Kohelet 3:1)

The defeat of evil rarely happens instantly. The story of Megillat Esther unfolded over years of hidden developments before the sudden reversal that we celebrated on Purim. From the inside of history, events often appear chaotic and confusing. Only later do we see the pattern.

When Moshe asked God to reveal His ways, God responded that a human being cannot see the divine plan while it is unfolding. Only “achorai,” from behind, looking backward, can we begin to understand. This does not mean we stop caring about what is happening. Far from it. But it does mean shifting our focus. Instead of obsessively refreshing news sites trying to predict the future, we can focus on what is within our control. We can pray for the safety of our brothers and sisters in Israel, the IDF, and the American armed forces. We can support efforts to assist those impacted by these hostilities. We can increase our Torah study and mitzvah observance. We can strengthen and comfort those who are anxious or afraid.

Moshe Rabbeinu led the Jewish people through the wilderness without knowing how every event would unfold. He acted with faith, courage, and commitment to his mission even without having all the answers. Our role is similar. We may not know exactly how the current struggle will end, but we know how we are supposed to respond.

Am ha-netzach lo mefacheid mi’derech aruka - The eternal people do not fear a long road.

We have been around for thousands of years, and we are not afraid to play the long game. We have lived through a long period of exile, experiencing the worst of atrocities, yet we continue to build, waiting patiently for the ultimate redemption. There are steps forward and setbacks, but we know we will be victorious.

Patience does not mean passivity. It means cultivating the ability to work steadily over time. To remain committed even when the results are not immediate. With the twin engines of time and effort, we discover deeper faith, stronger communities, and a richer relationship with God. The fight against evil - whether in ancient Persia, twentieth-century Europe, or the Middle East today - is never easy and never instantaneous. But Jewish history teaches us something remarkable: Patience, faith, and perseverance have carried our people through challenges far greater than any single moment in the news cycle. And with God’s help, they will carry us through this one as well.

Purimfest 1946 and Beyond: Villains, Heroes and Revealing the Courage Within

Nazis on trial in Nuremberg 1946 & freed Israeli hostage Alon Ohel as a 6-year-old

Purim is neither simple nor superficial. 

Beyond the noise of the groggers and behind the masks of celebration lies a profound Jewish struggle: How do we make sense of Jewish history marked by suffering, resilience, and improbable survival? 

The answer lies not in easy explanations or metaphysical certainties, but in Megillat Esther itself. It is more than a Biblical book; it Is a scroll that reveals how meaning is found in the most hidden places. The very name Megillat Esther captures this experience. Megillah - a scroll that also means to reveal. Esther - a name with the root hester, concealment. God’s name is absent from the narrative, yet divine presence peeks through in human courage and timing. The Purim story does not give us a doctrine of history.

Megillat Esther teaches us how to read history as a story of revelation amidst concealment.

One of the most striking “Megillah” encounters between ancient and modern history occurred right after the Holocaust. As Julius Streicher, a principal architect of Nazi antisemitic propaganda, marched to the gallows at Nuremberg on October 16, 1946, he cried out, “Purimfest 1946!” That phrase struck a chord with Jewish memory because it suggests that even the villains of history sense the power of the Purim narrative. Streicher had pored over books about Purim, marked passages about Haman, and twisted the ancient story into propaganda. At his death, his cry revealed not triumph, but the haunting recognition that Jewish history would not be extinguished.

“Purimfest 1946” invites us to read Jewish history like a Megillah. We see villains in every generation: Haman in Shushan, Nazis in Europe, Hamas today. They are the enemies we dread, the forces that seek to end Jewish life and memory. Yet, like Haman, their downfall becomes part of our story, a painful but undeniable pattern of survival.

Rabbinical commentators found coded allusions to future judgment and justice in the Megillah. The small letters taf, shin, and zayin are written in the scroll within the names of Haman’s ten sons being hung. These letters have the numerical value corresponding to the year Streicher was executed – 5707/1946. A coincidence or a connection between the Haman’s ten sons and ten Nazis hanged two millennia later.

Certainly, we are justified in drawing parallels. But Purim does not reduce history to symbols or secret codes. The real lesson of Megillat Esther is that patterns in history do not replace human responsibility; they invite us to find meaning while resisting simplification.

The Purim story is not only about villains. It is equally about heroes whose courage and moral clarity reveal something hidden in history.

U.S. Army Master Sergeant Roddie Edmonds will be awarded the Medal of Honor this coming Monday, Purim Eve, for protecting Jewish soldiers in a German POW camp during World War II. When commanded by a Nazi officer to separate the Jewish prisoners from the others, Edmonds refused, declaring, “We are all Jews here.” He stood between evil and the vulnerable, saving countless lives at great personal risk. Edmonds is a Purim hero, a modern-day Mordecai. He did not seek honor; he acted with steadfast righteousness.

Roddie Edmonds’ courage reveals something essential. Heroes in the Jewish story often emerge not from extraordinary power, but from ordinary people who choose moral courage over cowardice. Our age, too, produces its own Purim heroes - not only on battlefields but ordinary people facing down extraordinary situations. 

Last year, musician John Ondrasik, best known as Five for Fighting, released a new version of his hit song "Superman" dedicated to the Israeli hostages who were then still being held in Gaza. He wanted to bring more global attention to their ordeal. Ondrasik said the inspiration for the project came from the parallels between the October 7 Hamas attacks in Israel and the trauma Americans experienced on 9/11. "It became very clear that ‘Superman’ should be the song," he said. "With the history of 9/11, and the fact that, for Israel, October 7 is their 9/11."

When reworking the song, Ondrasik said one image stood out: a childhood photo of hostage Alon Ohel wearing Superman pajamas. "Seeing the picture of him in his Superman jammies as a toddler made it very clear," Ondrasik said. The hostage families’ strength and perseverance over months of unimaginable torment and devastation, often seems superhuman. 

"One does not have to be Jewish to support Idit, her family, Israel. One merely needs to be human, have a heart, have a soul." Ondrasik says he dreamed of being able to play the song with Alon at his side. This Monday, he got his chance. At AIPAC’s Congressional Summit in Washington, Alon accompanied John on the piano to sing “Superman” in front of thousands of incredibly moved pro-Israel activists. 

Ordinary people doing extraordinary things. It’s a modern Purimfest anthem: not a celebration of might, but of human heart, resilience, and solidarity.

The Superman of comic lore is a figure of power, but the Jewish heroes of our day - like Roddie Edmonds or the men and women who risk everything for others - are symbols of power rooted in compassion and in choosing to move forward through the fear. That is the true spirit of Purim: not merely victory, but meaningful victory shaped by courage and covenant.

Purim does not offer a neat theology of history; it invites us into a lifelong pursuit of interpretation, purpose, and action. We celebrate a God Who remains hidden, yet Whose presence is discernible in the courage of the righteous and the survival of the Jewish people against all odds.

Enemies will rise. Villains will plot. History will hurt. But courageous acts - acts of kindness, defiance, and moral clarity - reveal glimpses of divine purpose. That is the hidden meaning we seek in the Megillah. That is why we celebrate Purim not simply as a story of ancient reversal, but as a living tradition that teaches us to read history as a narrative of concealment and revelation, to recognize both the villains and the heroes, and to find in every generation its own Purimfest of ora, v'simcha, v'sasone, vi'yekar  - light, joy, jubilation, and courage. Kein tihye lanu - So may it be for all of us!

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.