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.

Shanah Tovah! A Jewish Take on January 1

The streets beyond the shtetl were loud with music blaring and drunken laughter echoing into the frozen night. Fireworks shattered the darkness. It was a night of noise and escape, of people losing themselves in revelry.

Inside the Beit Midrash, the chasidim of the Ohev Yisrael of Apta sat hunched over their books, trying to shut out the chaos beyond the frost-covered windows. But the noise pressed inward until suddenly the tzaddik himself entered. Without a word, the Ohev Yisrael walked to the window and opened it slightly, allowing the commotion of the street to rush in. The chasidim were startled. Why invite the impurity of the outside world into their sanctuary? The Rebbe stood still, eyes half-closed, smiling, as if listening for something beneath the chaos. After a long pause, he gently closed the window and turned to his students.

“Do you hear how they celebrate? This is how the nations begin their year – with noise, confusion, intoxication, escape. And look at us. When a Jew begins the year, he trembles. He prepares for a full month with selichot, with the wake-up call of the shofar. He pours himself into teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah. With awe, he crowns the King and steps into the Yamim Nora’im.”

Then he added, “When you hear their shouting, let it remind you of who you are.”

Our calendar, our rhythm, our spiritual reset is on Rosh Hashanah. Judaism does not need January 1 to define renewal. And yet, our tradition refuses to waste a moment. We can identify a Jewish soul within January 1.

There are several rabbinic personalities who acknowledged that the secular New Year has a spiritual side. The chasidic rabbi, the Ba’al Ha-Yeshuot, would bless people with a good year even on the civil New Year, noting with gentle humor that when God contrasts the way the nations mark their year with the way Jews approach Rosh Hashanah, it brings us added merit. Likewise, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, once wished a follower “Happy New Year” on January 1. He said this was the practice of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, who explained, “When it comes to blessing, every time is appropriate.”

Rabbi Nissan Mindel, the personal secretary of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, was present in the Rebbe’s room on the night of December 31. When midnight arrived, the Rebbe glanced at his watch and wished him, “Happy New Year.” Upon seeing Rabbi Mindel’s expression of surprise, the Rebbe responded simply by quoting Tehillim (87:6): “Hashem shall take notice based on the recording of the nations.” God, too, takes note of how the broader world marks time.

The Rebbe shared this idea on another occasion. On December 31, 1989, while distributing his famous dollars, he told one of the recipients in English, “This will give you a happy year.”

There is wisdom about the infinite power of blessings, but also boundaries for how a Jew engages with the outside world.

Rabbi Norman Lamm was once asked about attending a New Year’s Eve dance. His response was classic and precise:

1. It is not technically prohibited.
2. Not everything permissible is advisable.
3. A better use of funds might be to donate the cost of the ticket towards organizing an evening of Torah study instead.

That is the Jewish approach in a nutshell: discernment without disengagement. Take note of the outside world and channel it towards a higher purpose. The world is excited as we turn the calendar; we should be excited as well.

January 1 is not ours, but it is there. And Judaism has always known how to take what exists in the world and redirect it toward purpose.

My understanding of the Jewish take on January 1 is not that it becomes sacred, but that it becomes usable. It has come to represent movement - forward motion, momentum, and the human desire to turn a page. And there is nothing more Jewish than refusing to let that impulse go to waste.

At a time when our community and our people face so many challenges, we need every legitimate opportunity to recommit to our values, our responsibilities, and our mission. While the world resets resolutions that often fade by February, we can double down on what already defines us, infusing it with new vitality, energy, passion, and enthusiasm.

So, yes, remember to write “2026” on your checks (for those who still write checks). But more importantly, let us take advantage of this moment when the world pauses and starts again. Not because January 1 is Jewish - but because Jews know how to move forward.

And for that opportunity, we can sincerely wish one another: Shanah Tovah!

Trusting Pilots & Having Skin in the Game

We do something curious when boarding an airplane.

Most of us have no idea who the pilot is. We don’t ask how many hours they’ve flown, where they trained, or whether they passed their last simulator test. We glance at the uniform, hear a calm voice over the intercom, buckle up - and entrust our lives to a total stranger.

Yet when it comes to choosing a doctor, we behave very differently. We research credentials, read reviews, ask around, want second and third opinions. We want to know everything.

Why the difference?

It isn’t because flying is less dangerous than medicine. It’s because the pilot is on the plane with us. The pilot has skin in the game.

If something goes wrong, the pilot doesn’t walk away. They go down with us. That shared fate generates a deep, instinctive trust. The doctor, no matter how skilled or compassionate, does not share that same immediate risk. If a procedure fails, the patient bears the consequences - not the physician. And so, we are more wary.

The Torah understood this long before behavioral economics gave it a name.

When Yosef demands that Binyamin be brought down to Egypt, Yaakov is paralyzed with fear. He has already lost Yosef. Losing Binyamin would be unbearable. Reuven steps forward with an offer that sounds dramatic and sincere: “You may kill my two sons if I do not bring him back to you.” (Bereishit 42:37)

At first glance, Reuven seems heroic. He is willing to pay the ultimate price. Yet, Yaakov rejects him outright. Why?  Because Reuven’s offer is not only ineffective but foolish. What comfort would it bring Yaakov to lose Binyamin and two grandsons? How does multiplying tragedy inspire trust?

Reuven’s pledge, though emotional, costs Yaakov everything and costs Reuven very little in the moment. It is a symbolic sacrifice, not a personal one.

Then Yehuda steps forward: “I will personally guarantee him. From my hand you may demand him. If I do not bring him back…I will bear the blame forever.” (Bereishit 43:9)

No theatrics. No collateral damage. Just responsibility. Yehuda does not offer someone else’s life. He offers himself - his future, his standing, his identity. He puts his own life, reputation, and destiny on the line.

And Yaakov immediately accepts. Because Yehuda has skin in the game.

The Netziv explains that Yehuda’s defining strength is achrayut, personal responsibility. Leadership is not about grand gestures or eloquent promises. It is about standing in the blast radius when things go wrong. Reuven’s offer says: “If I fail, others will suffer.” Yehuda’s guarantee says: “If I fail, I will suffer.”

That difference changes everything.

It is no accident that Yehuda becomes the progenitor of Jewish leadership and kingship. A king does not rule from safety. A leader does not outsource risk. True leadership requires shared fate.

It is interesting to note that Yehuda is also the first person to admit his mistake. When confronted by Tamar after accusing her of committing adultery and deserving of death, she did not blame others. She simply proclaimed that the father of her child was the owner of the “signet, and the cord, and the staff.” Yehuda immediately realized the situation – and he acknowledged the truth. “Tzadka mimeni – She is more righteous than me.” (Bereishit 38:26)

Yosef is known as the tzaddik, righteous one, for all he accomplishes, but the descendants of Yehuda earn the kingship for owning up and taking responsibility.

This principle matters far beyond the pages of Bereishit. If we want to influence a community, an institution, or even a family, we cannot stand on the sidelines issuing critiques and suggestions. People instinctively ask - often without realizing it: What does this cost you? What are you risking? What do you lose if this fails?

Ideas without investment rarely move people. Passion without personal stake rings hollow. If we want to change a culture, improve a school, strengthen a shul, or heal a relationship, we must show that we are not merely offering opinions - we are sharing consequences. That is when trust is born. That is when leadership emerges. That is when people listen.

Yaakov trusted Yehuda for the same reason we trust a pilot: because when someone is willing to go down with the plane, we believe they will do everything in their power to keep it in the air.

And that, the Torah teaches us, is what it means to matter.

The Chanukah Light Can Dispel Any Darkness

Banu chosech l’gareish, beyadeinu ohr va'esh
Kol echad hu ohr katan, v'chulanu ohr eitan
Surah choshech hal’ah sh'chor. Surah mipnei haor!

We come to chase away the darkness.In our hands are light and fire.
Each individual light is small, but together – our light is invincible.
Fight the darkness, chase away the blackness! Victory will be achieved because of the light!

This classic Israeli Chanukah song written in 1960 by Sara Levi-Tanai captures the essence of Chanukah: Jewish light dispels any darkness.

Over the past week, we were reminded of just how thick darkness can feel. On Sunday, the joy of Chanukah was shattered by the murderous attack in Australia. This horrific event amplified the darkness Jews have been feeling and heightened attention to vandalism of menorahs around the world, Jews attacked on subways and on the streets, and murders in Brookline, MA and Brown University.

At the same time, the light of Chanukah cannot be stopped.

Last Thursday, the IDF released video of hostages celebrating Chanukah in Hamas tunnels on the first night of Chanukah, December 8, 2023. Ori Danino is seen lighting a makeshift menorah with fellow captives Eden Yerushalmi, Almog Sarusi, Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Carmel Gat, and Alex Lobanov looking on. The group, who were later called “The Beautiful Six,” were executed in August 2024 as Israeli troops approached, and their bodies were discovered just two days later.

The group is heard reciting the Shehechiyanu, thanking God for “granting us life.” Later in the clip, one of the hostages is heard joking, “Where are the sufganiyot?” Hersh responded, “We’re waiting for Roladin in Israel,” referring to the bakery known for making all sorts of fancy donuts during the Chanukah season.

The hostages’ voices can be heard as they sing Chanukah songs and discuss religious differences in their upbringings and lives. While singing “Maoz Tzur,” Ori and Hersh sing the additional, lesser known five stanzas. Someone in the background asks, “Why so many verses?” “It’s describing all of the enemies who tried killing us over history,” replies Hersh. “Well, now we have to add another verse,” retorts Eden.

In the tunnels of Gaza…

Nothing stops the light. The hostages even discussed this.

In the footage, Hersh says lighting in the tunnels reminds him of the famous photo of the lit Chanukah candles in Nazi Germany. That picture was taken by the Posner family in Kiel, Germany in 1931. It shows their menorah on their windowsill, with a Nazi flag in the background on the building across the street. On the back of that old photo, Rachel Posner wrote a short poem:

‘Death to Judah,’ so the flag says. ‘Judah will live forever,’ so the light answers.

The hostages reciting Shehechiyanu recalls a story in Dr. Yaffa Eliach’s Hasidic Tales of the Holocaust. On the first night of Chanukah in Bergen Belsen, inmates crowded to watch the Bluzhever Rebbe kindle the makeshift lights. After reciting the first two berachot, he paused for a long moment, looked around, and only then recited Shehechiyanu.

A secular Bundist Jew who was present chided the rabbi, “How can you say Shehechiyanu here? How can you thank God for allowing us to live HERE?!?” The Rebbe responded:

“You are a hundred percent right. When I reached the third blessing, I also hesitated and asked myself, what should I do with this blessing? I turned my head to ask the Rabbi of Zaner and other distinguished rabbis who were standing near me, if indeed I should recite Shehechiyanu. But as I turned my head, I noticed that behind me stood a large crowd of living Jews, their faces expressing faith and devotion…I said to myself, if God has such a nation that at times like these stand and listen to the Chanukah blessings, if, indeed, I was blessed to see such a people with so much faith and fervor, then I am under a special obligation to recite the third blessing of Shehechiyanu.”

God has such a nation. Jews lighting in Bergen Belsen. Jews lighting in Hamas tunnels. Jews lighting to counter the darkness of terror, murder, and hate.

"Gvald, Yidn! Zayt zikh nit m’yayish! Jews don't give in to despair!" These words were the rallying cry of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in 1943. We never despair because we know the light will win.

Despite the darkness of Hamas in Gaza or Nazis in Germany or Islamist terrorists in Australia, Jewish light shines on. Jews celebrate Chanukah. Jews persevere. Jews thrive. Jews fight back. Our obstacles are setbacks, not defeats. Even when there is death, there will be life. Even when there is darkness, there will be light.

Banu chosech l’gareish. We are here to chase away the darkness armed with the light that, with God’s help, ensures our victory.