Opera, Chazzanut, and the Jewish Need to Feel

Some people say they’re bored in shul.

The davening is too long. The chazzan is too slow. The melodies are outdated. (No complaints about the rabbi, though!) But here’s the uncomfortable truth: It’s not the music that changed; it’s us.

Actor Timothée Chalamet recently suggested that opera and ballet can feel boring to modern audiences. His comments caused quite a stir – especially with opera singers and ballet dancers. Yet he wasn’t so much dismissing high culture as he was diagnosing a deeper condition.

Perhaps the issue isn’t the art form; it’s our capacity to enter into it.

We are not bored. We are disconnected. And Judaism was never meant to be experienced from a distance. It demands participation, emotional engagement, and, ultimately, intimacy.

There was a time when chazzanut was not something you listened to. It was something you entered. The drawn-out notes and the rising and falling melodies weren’t merely aesthetic flourishes. They were pathways into the heart. A chazzan elongated a note or sand a falsetto, and people would close their eyes. Today, they check their watches.

We have become spectators of experiences we were meant to live. What once stirred the soul can now feel distant - not because it lost its power, but because we lost our fluency in the language it speaks.

In a world starving for feeling, how can we recapture a sense of closeness?

The Torah’s term for sacrifice - korban - comes from the root karov, to be close. A korban was not about giving something up; it was about drawing near. As Ramban explains, the purpose of korbanot was to awaken the heart of the person bringing them. Watching the offering, one was meant to feel this is very personal. It was a visceral, emotional encounter that stirred introspection, humility, and ultimately, connection to God. The sights, the sounds, the gravity of the moment were designed to awaken something within.

Judaism has never been satisfied with dry observance. It calls for the heart.

Few articulated this need more powerfully than Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira, the Piaseczno Rebbe of the Warsaw Ghetto. Writing in the shadow of unimaginable darkness, he taught that the human soul is wired for emotion:

“The human soul loves to feel. Not only in relation to joy, but it loves the emotional experience, even of sadness and crying. People love to see horrific sights and hear terrible stories to the point of tears just to feel emotional.”

The Rebbe went on to note that if we don’t find elevated ways to feel, we will seek diminished ones. The craving for emotional intensity doesn’t disappear; it gets redirected.

This insight feels uncannily contemporary. In a world of constant stimulation, people binge stories, chase outrage, and scroll endlessly - not always for information, but for feeling. We want to laugh, cry, and be stirred. The Piaseczno Rebbe is telling us that this emotional hunger is holy, but it must be guided.

Why does being in shul or davening sometimes fail to move us? Because too often, we approach it as spectators rather than participants. We evaluate the chazzan, critique the tune, or calculate time remaining. We stand outside the experience. But emotional connection cannot be outsourced. The Rebbe emphasizes that it is not any specific melody that unlocks the soul; it is the willingness to enter into the emotional state itself:

“Not only with a tune of broken heartedness, but also with a joyous song…sometimes a person cries during a happy tune…sometimes dances to the somber tune of Kol Nidrei…”

A genuine experience is not performance. It is found in immersion.

Perhaps Chalamet’s critique is less about opera and more about us. We have lost the patience - and perhaps the courage - to let ourselves be carried by something slow, unfamiliar, and emotionally demanding. But Judaism insists that is precisely where connection lies. To daven is not to endure a service; it is to offer oneself. To sing is not to produce sound; it is to reveal the soul.

The Piaseczno Rebbe even suggests a simple, radical practice. Sing quietly to yourself at home. Not for anyone else. Not even for beauty. Just to awaken the inner world that longs to be expressed.

We live in a time of profound distraction - and profound longing. People may say they are bored, but beneath that boredom is often a deeper ache: to feel something real. The right response is not to abandon depth for brevity, or tradition for trend. It is to rediscover how to engage.

If the problem is disconnection, the answer is not shorter davening or better performance. It is deeper participation. We need to stop observing and start participating. Don’t evaluate the davening. Enter it. Even for a moment.  Try singing a little more. Not so people can hear you, but because the soul needs expression. Slow down even for one moment of the prayers. Choose one beracha, let it land, and make it mean something personal. Create emotional space at home. Sing quietly. Sit with a pasuk. Just feel - without distraction, without pressure.

Whether you like opera or cantorial music or not, we must lean into our emotional and spiritual selves. To step into the davening instead of standing beside it. To sing not as a critic, but as a seeker. To allow the ancient rhythms of Jewish life to do what they were always meant to do. To bring us close. Karov.

At our core, we are not just looking to be entertained. We are looking to be moved. The question is not whether the music still works. The question is whether we are ready to listen - not just with our ears, but with our souls.

Dynamic Duos: The Power of Partnership

Batman and Robin.
Ruth and Gehrig.
Bert and Ernie.
Moshe and Aharon.
Simon and Garfunkel.

Who do you think of when you hear the term dynamic duo?

Some of the greatest achievements in history belong not to individuals but to pairs. Two personalities, two skill sets, working together to accomplish something larger than either could alone.

The Torah understood this long before comic books, baseball legends, and rock stars.

When God commands the construction of the Mishkan, the most sacred project of the desert, He does not appoint a single architect. Instead, the Torah introduces a partnership: Betzalel ben Uri and, alongside him, Oholiav ben Achisamach.

Betzalel is described as a once-in-a-generation talent, filled with divine wisdom, understanding, and knowledge in every form of craftsmanship. If anyone could have led the project alone, it was him. But the Torah insists otherwise. The Mishkan, the dwelling place of God among the Jewish people, would be built through partnership.

The contrast between the two leaders is striking. Betzalel comes from the prestigious tribe of Yehudah, the tribe of kings. Oholiav comes from Dan, a tribe descended from one of Yaakov’s handmaids and considered less prominent. Yet the Torah repeatedly pairs their names together, reminding us that sacred work is never meant to be accomplished alone.

This idea becomes the foundation of Jewish intellectual life.

Torah is rarely studied alone. Instead, it is learned in chavruta, two partners sitting across from one another, questioning, challenging, and refining each other’s thinking. Some of the most famous relationships in the Talmud are partnerships. The legendary debates between Rabbi Yochanan and Reish Lakish pushed each other to deeper insight. When Reish Lakish died, Rabbi Yochanan could no longer function as a scholar. The friction that once sharpened his thinking had disappeared. The same dynamic shaped the debates of Hillel and Shammai and later the discussions between Abaye and Rava.

Jewish wisdom grows through dialogue. Truth emerges when voices meet.

The power of partnership does not remain confined to the Beit Midrash. Sometimes it shapes the course of history itself. Today we are witnessing an extraordinary alliance between Israel and the United States as they confront the threat posed by Iran.

Recent coordinated military operations have involved shared intelligence, joint planning, and synchronized strikes between the two countries. Some Israeli officers have even referred to the current conflict as a “war in English,” reflecting the unprecedented level of operational coordination between the two militaries. In January, the Pentagon described Israel as a “model ally.” The Jewish State does not ask the United States to fight on its behalf. It demonstrates both the willingness and the ability to defend itself independently and is therefore deserving of unequivocal support.

Two nations. Different strengths. One mission. Just as Betzalel and Oholiav combined their talents to build the Mishkan, alliances today allow partners to accomplish what neither could achieve alone.

Partnerships like these do not appear magically. They require intention, attention, and effort. God commanded Betzalel and Oholiav to work together. Hillel and Shammai developed a connection despite disagreement. The US-Israel relationship wasn’t always complementary. It required effort on the part of communal leadership and individual initiative to bring our two countries together. The relationship may seem inevitable and indispensable, but strong partnerships are never automatic. They must be built deliberately.

Most of us will never command armies or construct a Mishkan, but each one of us can be part of a dynamic duo. If Betzalel and Oholiav teach us anything, it is that meaningful achievements rarely happen in isolation. We are also able to cultivate stronger partnerships in our own lives.

We can find a chavruta. Torah was designed to be studied through conversation and challenge.

We should seek people who think differently. Great partnerships are rarely made of identical personalities. The most productive collaborations often come from complementary strengths.

We need to try and elevate others. The Mishkan was not built by two people alone. Betzalel and Oholiav inspired an entire nation to participate.

We must stand together in difficult moments. Partnerships are tested not when things are easy, but when the stakes are high.

Thousands of years ago the Torah introduced a simple but powerful idea: sacred work is built through partnership. Betzalel and Oholiav built the Mishkan together. Chavruta partners build Torah together. Allies stand together in moments of global challenge. And each of us can build alliances that strengthen our lives, our communities, and our world.

Because sometimes the most powerful force in history is not a single hero. It is two people - or two nations - standing side by side.

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.