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.

Pass or Take the Shot; See or Be Seen?

On January 6, 2007, a young basketball star named LeBron James scored in double digits.

Nothing unusual about that - except that he would go on to do it again. And again. And again. For the next 1,297 consecutive games, over the span of 18 years, LeBron James scored at least ten points in every single game he played. It became the longest double-digit scoring streak in NBA history - so massive that you would need to combine the next 11 active players just to catch him.

And then, last Thursday night, it ended. LeBron scored only eight points.

The Lakers were in a tight game against the Toronto Raptors. In the final possession, LeBron had the ball. He could have taken the shot, possibly extended the streak and maybe even winning the game himself. Instead, he found Rui Hachimura in the corner, who hit a three-pointer. Lakers win 123-120!

After the game, LeBron was asked for his thoughts about the streak ending. He answered with one word: “None.” Why? “We won.” He added that this was a career highlight and said, “I’m going to show my son this box score.”

"He's such an unselfish player," Lakers center Jake LaRavia said. "He had the opportunity, but because of the player he is and just who he is as a person, he made the unselfish play, passed it to Rui and we won the game."

LeBron had a streak that defined individual greatness. But in the defining moment, when the choice was “me” or to see the other, he chose to see.

We need to be looking for the “open man.” That’s how we win. We need to see.

Rabbi Kenneth Brander, the head of Ohr Torah Stone in Israel, discusses the Talmud (Shabbat 22a) connecting the laws of Chanukah lights with the story of Yosef in the pit.

Chanukah lights must be placed low enough to be seen because the mitzvah is about visibility. Immediately afterward, the Talmud recalls how Yosef’s brothers failed to see him. They ignored his cries, overlooked his danger, and allowed their own jealousy to blind them to his humanity. The juxtaposition teaches that the light of Chanukah can only illuminate the world if we first learn to truly “see” one another. Just as the menorah must be within our line of sight, the people around us - family, friends, and those who are struggling - must remain within our moral line of sight.

Spiritual light and ethical responsibility are intertwined. We cannot bring light to the public square if we are blind to the pain of those closest to us. Chanukah, therefore, calls us to correct the failure of Yosef’s brothers by cultivating empathy, responsibility, and genuine attentiveness to every human being who needs to be seen.

Every marriage deals with this tension. Every family confronts it, as does every community. A moment where we must decide: Do we take the shot for ourselves, or do we look for the open player? Are we focused on our own score, our own streak, our own accomplishments? Or are we ready to see others, help others, elevate others and serve the community and strengthen the whole? Are we only concerned with the Chanukah lights being seen and our own celebrations or are our eyes wide open to see the needs of those around us?

I love the pirsumei nisa aspect of Chanukah, our obligation to publicize the miracle. We share Chanukah candles and gifts with our Jewish neighbors (thanks Barry & Debra Frohlinger!), we host an outdoor menorah lighting, and we blast the holiday’s message of Jewish resilience to inspire the community. Chanukah deserves – and needs – to be seen so that it reminds us to see. We must keep our eyes wide open for what we can do to add light and hope to a world steeped in darkness.

When we choose to seek out – to see – the other, something profound happens: We may lose a personal streak, but we win the game that really matters. Sharing the light of Chanukah is not only about others seeing it but about us seeing others. Greatness is not only measured by how often we score for ourselves, but by how often we see, uplift, and create victories for all. 

Wrestling with Blessing

I admit it. I watched professional wrestling as a kid.

So when Parshat Vayishlach comes around, I can’t help thinking of the first real “main event” in history — and this one wasn’t choreographed.

The Torah gives us the play-by-play:

“And Yaakov was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn.
When he saw that he could not prevail, he struck the hollow of Yaakov’s thigh…
The man said, ‘Let me go, for the day breaks.’
Yaakov said, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.’
The opponent said, ‘What is your name?’
He said, ‘Yaakov.’
The man said, ‘Your name shall no longer be Yaakov but Yisrael, for you have struggled with God and with man - and prevailed.’” (Bereishit 32:25–29)

Most commentators debate the identity of the mysterious opponent. I want to look at something else: the nature of the struggle and the surprising truth that the struggle itself becomes the blessing.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik asks a simple question: Why did Yaakov fight at all? Yaakov was no fighter. He was yosheiv ohalim, the quiet student, the man of the tent. Eisav was the hunter, the warrior. What was Yaakov doing in a wrestling match he seemed destined to lose?

The Rav explains that Yaakov was not displaying koach - physical strength. He was displaying gevurah - spiritual heroism. Gevurah begins where logic ends. It’s what happens when a person believes in something so deeply that retreat is no longer an option. A hero in the Torah is not defined by the battles he wins but by the values he refuses to surrender. Heroism is passion, conviction, purpose - even when the odds are against you. That is why Yaakov fights.

Yaakov’s fight foreshadows three dimensions of the Jewish struggle. The Torah uses the word va’yeiaveik. It comes from three related ideas and together they outline the story of Jewish history.

1. Avak - dust. Like dust in the wind, we have been scattered again and again.
2. Avak - to wrestle. We have endured endless physical battles - threats, attacks, persecutions.
3. Va’yechabeik - to embrace. In modern times, our struggle is not only with enemies but with the seductive embrace of assimilation, the pull of a world that wants us to blend in until there is nothing distinct left to protect.

These are the fights of Yaakov. These are the fights of the Jewish people.

Yaakov wrestles the entire night. He emerges limping, injured, forever marked. So, did he win?

The Torah’s answer is yes because victory is not defined by walking away unscathed. Victory is defined by who you become through the struggle. Yaakov receives his new name, Yisrael - the one who struggles and prevails. His wound becomes part of our identity. We remember it every time we avoid the sciatic nerve. It may limit our access to a cut of kosher filet mignon, but the real reminder is not culinary; it’s spiritual.

Our wounds don’t diminish us. Our struggle doesn’t weaken us. Our struggle is part of our blessing.

Last night, I met Effi Eitam, an IDF brigadier general, former leader of the National Religious Party, and like so many others, a man with an October 7th story. When the attacks began, he put on his uniform, got in his car, and drove toward the danger. He found himself face-to-face with a Hamas terrorist and fought. He spoke with pain about two sons wounded in Gaza. He spoke with pride about his grandson in officer training. He spoke with humor about the young soldier — barely older than his grandson — who informed the 72-year-old general that he, the rookie, was now in command. And he spoke with absolute confidence that Am Yisrael will prevail.

Looking at that man, a Yom Kippur War hero who is still fighting, it is impossible not to think of Yaakov: fighting, unbroken, and blessed.

In 1964, Rabbi Soloveitchik wrote his landmark essay Confrontation. He argued that Jewish sacredness requires boundaries, that identity demands clarity, and that not every embrace is holy. Our uniqueness means we cannot dissolve ourselves into the identities or the theologies of others. Struggle does not endanger who we are. Struggle defines who we are.

Today, we face our own confrontation - enemies on the outside, confusion on the inside, a world that too often misunderstands or misrepresents us. Some shrink back. Some despair. And yet so many have stepped into the ring with courage, with conviction, with faith. We may never have the numbers of our enemies, but we have something far stronger: the truth of our story, the strength of our people, and the God Who promised us that struggle leads to blessing.

If we remain engaged in the struggle, we will prevail. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “If we know who we are, we need fear neither the hostility of the nations nor their friendship. For we are strong enough to fight for our safety and for our values.” That is the legacy of Yaakov. That is the name Yisrael. That is the message of our generation. We struggle, and we prevail. We are wounded, and we walk forward anyway. We enter the ring again and again because that is who we are.

Randy Fine’s Kippa & the Impact of Being Seen

It’s one of my favorite corny Jewish jokes.

How do we know that Jewish men cover their heads? The Torah says, “Vayeitzei Yaakov – Jacob went out.” Would our holy patriarch Yaakov dare go outside without his head covered?!?

I know, I know…it’s not funny, but I think that Jewish head coverings, impact, and the courage to be seen are important today. Jews must visibly make their presence felt.

Yaakov leaves home with nothing but his identity. No wealth. No family. No protector. Yet everywhere he goes — in Lavan’s home, in the fields, or among strangers, he makes an impact simply by being Yaakov. His presence is a statement. His identity is visible. His character leaves an imprint. Sometimes the most profound influence comes not from what we accomplish, but from who we are — and who we allow the world to see.

Last week at a NORPAC event, I met Congressman Randy Fine of Florida. Randy built a career as a successful entrepreneur and retired at 40. His wife wasn’t pleased with having him home so much and submitted the paperwork for him to run for the Florida House. He won and served in the Florida House and Senate for eight years, before being elected to Congress in April of 2025. His ironclad support for Israel and efforts combatting antisemitism have earned him the nickname “The Hebrew Hammer.”

Randy Fine is also the first Jewish member of Congress to wear his kippa in Congress. He is not fully observant and does not usually wear a kippa. So why does he wear it there?

Before a congressional hearing on campus antisemitism, Fine’s teenage son urged him to wear his kippa so Jewish students afraid to show their identity would know they had an advocate in the room. “The reaction was overwhelming,” Fine recalled. Jewish families across the country reached out in support. That night, his son told him: “You should keep wearing it until every Jewish student in America feels safe.” Fine acknowledged that could take years. “And that’s fine,” he said.

Randy Fine is following in the footsteps of Yaakov. He wears his kippa to send a message of courage, pride, and solidarity: A Jew belongs everywhere — proudly and unapologetically.

Recently, Ben Shapiro called out Tucker Carlson, once a mainstream conservative voice, who has gradually embraced morally dangerous figures and ideas. On a special episode of his podcast, Shapiro played clips of Carlson and white nationalist Nick Fuentes and then called Carlson exactly what he was behaving like: an “intellectual coward” and an “ideological launderer.” As Rabbi Efrem Goldberg wrote, he demanded moral clarity and accountability - a clear line that too many have been afraid to draw. In a time of rampant moral equivocation, “we should be both proud and profoundly grateful that one of the most visible Jews in public life, a man whose yarmulke is as recognizable as his voice, is using his platform to articulate moral truth when so many others remain silent.”

Here in Nassau County, Bruce Blakeman, our member and regular worshipper, stands up for Israel, leads the safest county in America, and the first words of his recent re-election victory speech were, “Thank you, Hashem.”

Bruce Blakeman, Ben Shapiro, and Randy Fine come from different backgrounds, levels of observance, and political worlds, but they share one essential trait: They are Jews who are seen - and they use that visibility to elevate Jewish pride and ethical clarity.

We don’t need to be heroic. We just need to show we’re Jewish.

Decades ago, two Chabad students participated in the summer “Roving Rabbis” program visiting small towns in the south. Unfortunately, in one locale, they didn’t encounter any Jews and reported back to the Lubavitcher Rebbe that “nothing happened.” They felt they had wasted their time. The Rebbe replied that he had received a letter from an elderly woman in that very town. Her grandchildren had laughed when they saw “two strange-looking young men” pass by. From their description, she realized they must be Jewish students. She ran outside to ask them where she could find kosher food and how she could live more Jewishly—but she missed them. So, she wrote to the Rebbe instead. “You see,” the Rebbe wrote them, “You inspired someone just by being there.”

And that is the point: simply being visibly Jewish - our presence, our demeanor, our way of carrying ourselves - can touch hearts in ways we may never know. Every Jew, especially one who is identifiably Jewish, is always making an impression. Without saying a word, we can make a meaningful impact.

We owe a debt of gratitude to those who identifiably stand up publicly and loudly – and should follow their example. In a time when Jews face challenges that may lead us to shrink ourselves, we must choose to be seen. Wear a kippa in more places than usual (if not everywhere), display more Jewish signs and symbols, speak up for Israel and Jewish causes and against those who support our detractors.

Let’s take a page out of the parsha and the headlines. Like Yaakov, Ben Shapiro, Bruce Blakeman, Randy Fine, and so many others, let’s walk visibly, proudly, purposefully, and with the awareness that someone, somewhere, is strengthened simply by seeing a proud Jew.

And so are we.

Please Get Up: Yaakov, ChatGPT & the Importance of Being Polite

“Ha-kol kol Yaakov v’ha-yadayim yedei Eisav – The voice is the voice of Jacob, yet the hands are the hands of Esau.” (Bereishit 27:22)

Yitzchak’s dramatic declaration captures the complexity of the episode in which Yaakov swoops in to receive the blessing instead of his older brother, Eisav.

There are all sorts of questions, interpretations, justifications, and rationalizations. I have always felt that the most straightforward explanation is that if Yitzchak didn’t want Yaakov to receive the blessings, he could have simply changed his mind. It can be compared to a mistaken beracha over food. If I make the wrong blessing over a piece of fruit, I can correct course and say the right one. Nevertheless, exploration and analysis abound.

If we take the text at face value, Yaakov was trying to fool Yitzchak into thinking that he was Eisav. He wore Eisav’s clothes. He hunted and prepared food like Eisav. And he responded to Yitzchak’s questions as if he was Eisav. When all is said and done, Yitzchak still has his doubts due to the voice. This begs the question: Why didn’t Yaakov try to sound more like Eisav? Would it have been so hard?

The answer can be found in a very clear distinction between how Yaakov speaks and Eisav speaks.

When Yaakov enters Yitzchak’s tent disguised as Esav, he graciously invites his father to eat:
“Kum na, sheva ve’achla mi’tzaydi - Please get up, sit and eat of my food…” (Bereishit 27:19)

Later, when the real Esav arrives, the contrast between invitations is stark: 
“Yakum avi ve’yochal mi’tzayd b’no - Get up, my father, and eat the food” (27:31)

Yaakov says “na – please”. Esav does not.

That was the “tell,” the clue, to Yitzchak that something wasn’t right. If Yaakov wanted to deceive his father, logic suggests he should have copied Esav precisely - tone, mannerisms, and yes, even speaking style. Yet Chazal note that Yaakov simply could not bring himself to speak brusquely. Despite the pressure, despite the mission, despite his mother’s urging, he could not omit the word “please.”

It is not merely a stylistic difference; it is a window into their souls – and ourselves.

The Midrash highlights that the word “na” is one of the Torah’s markers of derech eretz — polite, gentle, respectful behavior. Yaakov’s character was so deeply embedded with menschlichkeit that even deception could not override it. Esav, for all his genuine love for his father, did not have the same instinct. He honored Yitzchak but politeness was not part of his inner language.

This small linguistic difference helped Yitzchak sense something was off. The voice may have been disguised, the clothing altered, but the word “please” gave Yaakov away. Because how we speak is who we are. Language reveals identity; polite language reveals values.

This ancient contrast has found surprising new relevance in a modern debate: Should people say “please” and “thank you” to Artificial Intelligence (AI) systems like ChatGPT?

A recent survey found that around 70% of AI users are polite to AI systems. The majority do it simply because "it's the right thing to do." They insist that politeness is intrinsic to good communication and expresses a form of human dignity. Others argue that polite phrasing can sometimes slow down responses or cause AI systems to expend more computational resources and is a waste of energy. They claim we should be direct, efficient, and economical.

While Judaism’s view on being polite with AI has yet to develop, we know that derech eretz and menschlichkeit are part of our religious DNA.

Israelis may be known for their gruff disposition, but Jewish law presents several examples of obligatory polite behavior. It is forbidden to ignore the greetings of another and not respond to another person telling you hello, good morning, or “Shalom Aleichem.” One who ignores another person’s greetings is called a “gazlan,” and it is viewed as if one stole. Not responding to a greeting can cause enmity to spread between the two parties. It is for this reason that the Sages require one to proactively greet others, to increase love and peace and avoid potential machloket.

Please is more than a nice word. Yaakov didn’t say “please” because Yitzchak required it. Yaakov said “please” because that’s who Yaakov was. Politeness is not about the recipient. It is about the speaker. We say “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me” not to manipulate responses, not to optimize processing time, not to conserve computational power but because polite speech shapes our character. It refines our souls. It reminds us that words matter.

ChatGPT does not need politeness, but we do. If we train ourselves to be curt and transactional with machines, we risk importing that tone into our interactions with humans. Speech patterns become habits; habits become character. And character - as the Torah repeatedly emphasizes - is destiny.

Yaakov teaches that derech eretz does not get suspended for convenience. Even at a moment of crisis, his speech remained infused with grace. That’s who he was. That’s who we need to try to be. Polite speech is not a luxury or an extra flourish; it is the foundation of being a mensch. The louder, more automated, and the more confrontational our world becomes, the more vital it is that we preserve that foundation.

“Nafshi yatza b’dabro – A person’s soul is revealed when they speak.” (Shir HaShirim 5:6) Say “please.” Say “thank you.” Say “good morning.”  Not because someone – or something – else needs it. But because we do.

Hope and Holiness in Burying Our Fallen

This week, a long, painful chapter came to a close.

IDF reservists, members of Lt. Hadar Goldin’s company when he was killed and abducted by Hamas in 2014, traveled to the Gaza Strip to escort his remains back to Israel.

I was in Israel in 2014 and vividly remember watching the news reports about Hadar Goldin’s situation. Shortly after a 72-hour ceasefire began, Hamas gunmen emerged from a tunnel in the Rafah area and attacked Goldin's unit. At first, there was uncertainty whether Hadar had been kidnapped or killed. Ultimately, it became clear he was killed in action, and the campaign to bring his remains home began – rallies, press conferences with foreign leaders, appearances at the UN. Hadar’s family heroically kept his cause alive all these years.

Israel has witnessed 25 cases of such painful closure since the ceasefire began. These are but the most recent examples of the powerful experience of remains returning home for Jewish burial. Back in May, the Mossad and IDF recovered the remains of Sgt. First Class Zvi Feldman, who went missing in the First Lebanon War’s battle of Sultan Yacoub in 1982. This took place six years after Feldman’s comrade, Sgt. First Class Zachary Baumel’s remains were recovered and returned to Israel. The remains of a third solder, Sgt. First Class Yehuda Katz, have yet to be recovered.

Jewish burial is a powerful precept. We go to extraordinary lengths to ensure proper burial in the ground. We ignore the wishes of someone who desires cremation. We call it a “meit mitzvah” when resources or action is needed to facilitate proper burial.

Why is burial such a big deal?

Parshat Chayei Sarah opens with Avraham mourning Sarah’s death and then devotes an entire chapter to his negotiations for the Me’arat HaMachpelah, the Cave of the Patriarchs in Chevron. It is more than a personal act of devotion. Avraham’s purchase of a burial place set an eternal precedent — that the Jewish people honor life even in death, and that providing a resting place for the deceased is not only an act of compassion, but an expression of faith.

Rabbi David Stav, chairman of the Tzohar Rabbinical Organization, observed, “The day on which the bodies of fallen individuals are brought for burial is one of terrible pain, but also of closure and the hope of comfort.”

This idea originated nearly two thousand years ago.

After the Bar Kochba revolt, the Romans massacred the Jews of Beitar and forbade their burial. For years, their bodies lay exposed until the decree was lifted and they were finally laid to rest. The Talmud (Berachot 48b) records that when this happened, the sages of Yavneh established a new blessing: “HaTov VeHaMeitiv - God is good and continues to do good.” Even amid destruction, our people found a way to thank God and to recognize that divine goodness can coexist with human pain and suffering.

Rav Kook sees in Beitar a symbol of eternal hope. From the fact that the slain of Beitar were ultimately properly buried, we learn that destruction and exile cannot quash the inner essence of Israel and Jewish independence. From their burial, we see a sign and promise that they will rise again at the end of days — a symbol of the fulfillment of all prophetic promises of resurrection and redemption.

The burial of the fallen was not just an act of mercy and closure; it was a sign of enduring life — that the people of Israel, though crushed, could never decay.

Jewish burial – even after a painful period of months, years, or decades – teaches us that even in loss, we affirm life and have a way forward.

One Hebrew word for a gravesite is tziyun. (The more common term is matzeivah, which refers to the gravestone or monument.) The term literally means a marker to know definitely where the remains of the deceased are buried. The word, spelled צ-י-ו-ן, shares a root with the Hebrew words for excellence – metzuyan – and Zion – Tziyon. Rabbi Asher Pollak (1900-1989) writes that a tombstone is called a tziyun because it is like a road marker, guiding those who see it where they are going and what is expected of them.

Burial – a Jewish grave – is a roadmap, leading us towards excellence, purpose, and hopefully, redemption.

Avraham’s purchase of the Cave of Machpelah proclaimed that death is not the end of belonging. The blessing of HaTov VeHaMeitiv declared that gratitude is possible even amid grief. And Israel’s commitment to bring every soldier home proclaims that every life — and every body — matters infinitely. Each act of burial, each moment of closure, carries within it a spark of redemption. It reminds us that God’s presence accompanies us not only in triumph but also in tragedy.

When we bury our dead with dignity — when we insist, as Avraham did, as Beitar did, as Israel does — that no one is left behind, we affirm that hope lives on, that holiness abides, and that the promise of resurrection and redemption still shines ahead.

Making the Minyan

 

I asked the man, I saw how many Jews in this town
He said to me there used to be a Minyan around,
But one of us passed away and we’ve been feeling down
Yet now it seems as though another Jew has been found,
Won’t you stay with us for Shabbos, Minyan Man.

If you are of a certain age, background, or have kids who attended Jewish days schools, you recognize the lyrics from “Minyan Man.” The song was composed and written by Victor Shine in 1982 and recorded on a 1987 Schlock Rock album by Lenny Solomon and Gershon Veroba. It is a soulful tale of a Birmingham, Alabama synagogue, its struggle to get a minyan, and the joy of the tenth man. Shlock Rock considers the song, which became a Shabbat oneg, campfire, and kumsitz favorite, one of their top five all-time hits.

“Minyan Man” resonates deeply because it is true: There is great significance in making the minyan and completing the community, and all it takes is one person.

When God informs Avraham of His plans to destroy Sodom, he famously protests and demands that God relent if there are enough righteous individuals in their midst. He begins by hoping there are fifty tzaddikim - ten righteous men for each of the five localities concerned could reverse God’s verdict of destruction. We all know what comes next. Avraham continually requests smaller numbers, hoping to save some of the cities, until he finally asks God to spare Sodom if there are just ten. Alas, there are not even 10 tzaddikim.

We learn from this episode the importance and power of a minyan. Sodom couldn’t muster a minyan, so it was doomed to destruction. Similarly, without a minyan, Jews lack the ability to form an impactful, holy community.

While ten men comprise a minyan, there is also something very powerful of going from nine to ten.

When Avraham is told there aren’t 50 righteous in the region, he asks God to spare the five cities if there are 45 tzaddikim. What’s the significance of 45?  The Midrash notes that Avraham’s logic is that, even if there aren’t 10 righteous individuals in each city, maybe there would be nine “and You, the All-Righteous One of the Universe, can be counted with them to get to ten!”

While God does not accept the argument, we can appreciate the power of “nine plus one,” of needing that one extra force, person, or soul to complete the congregation.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 39a) teaches, “Upon every group of ten, the Divine Presence dwells.” When ten Jews gather – men or women, adults or children, we create community.

Abba Kovner was one of the leaders of the Vilna Ghetto and the Polish resistance. After the Holocaust, he made aliyah and became a writer and poet. He describes Abba Kovner a visit he made to the Kotel. He approached the wall but stopped one step away from the stones - the place had no meaning for him. He felt rooted in a different experience and wasn’t ready to approach the Kotel.

Then, someone tugged on his sleeve and asked him to join a minyan.

So, Abba Kovner, a Holocaust resistance hero who wasn’t particularly religious, put on a hat and joined the prayers. Suddenly, he belonged. He concluded the story by noting that the nine need the one and the one needs the nine.

Avraham did not save Sodom, but his protest introduced us to the power of the Minyan and the critical role each of us can play to make the Minyan. It is not only the technical prayer quorum. Each of us can “make the minyan” of doing good, encouraging good, and tipping the balance of the community in the right direction. We should not think that someone else will “make the minyan.”

The Chofetz Chaim once spoke at a major rabbinic gathering. He stressed that it was incumbent upon every individual to be involved in strengthening the community. One who can teach children should teach children; one who can give generously to support the community should give generously; one who can assist the sick or elderly should assist the sick or elderly. Everyone should do what they could according to their ability.

Several hours later, the Chofetz Chaim surprisingly asked to speak again. He explained that after his first speech, he heard that some people were saying, “The Chofetz Chaim is only speaking about rabbis and leaders; the message was not for the average people like me.”

“Absolutely not!” the rabbi concluded. “If there’s a fire raging, you don’t wait for someone else to the save the city. You put it out. Every person must view themself as the only person who can help. Do everything you can to benefit others.”

We each have the power to be the tenth, make the minyan, improve the community, or even save the city.  

Avraham understood the power of the Minyan, of the ten, of the nine plus one. Whether it be in Mobile, Alabama, Manhattan, or Atlantic Beach, we need each other. That’s how we have survived, and that’s how we thrive. The nine need the one, and the one needs the nine. 

Let’s all make the minyan!

The Road of the Ivri

There is a story told of a man who was captured behind enemy lines during war. To his horror, he was sentenced to death by firing squad. However, the captain gave the man another option. He told him, "You can go to the firing squad tomorrow morning at 6:00 am, or you can choose to walk through this door."

Feeling hopeful, the man asked, "What's on the other side of that door?" The captain answered, "No one knows. All I can tell you is that there is some unknown power behind that door." The man thought it over, and the next morning, when it came time to choose his fate, he selected the firing squad.

After the shots rang out, the captain's secretary asked him, "You've offered so many people the other option, and every time they choose the firing squad. What's beyond that door?" With a look of dismay on his face, the captain answered, "Freedom! But people would rather face a known death than journey into the unknown."

Avraham chose the unknown. He demonstrated for us that it is OK to take a different path or the road less traveled. 

וַיָּבֹא הַפָּלִיט וַיַּגֵּד לְאַבְרָם הָעִבְרִי...

“A fugitive brought the news to Abram the Ivri… (Bereishit 14:13)

This is the one time that Avraham is called “ivri.” What is an ivri?

The Midrash cites three views. Rabbi Nehemiah says ivri refers to the fact that Avraham was a descendant of Ever. In a sense, Ivri is his last name. The Sages understand that ivri refers to the fact that Avraham was “mei’ever ha’nahar – from the other side of the Jordan River.”  He was a foreigner, and he spoke a different language than the locals. Rabbi Yehudah concurs that ivri highlights Avraham being different, but his uniqueness was more than familial or geographic. “Mei’ever echad v’hu mei’ever echad - The whole world was on one side, and Avraham was on another side.” Avraham was an ivri; he had the courage to be different.

Think about just how courageously different Avraham was. He left his home and birthplace and ventured into the unknown. He did all this due to his faith in God – that nobody else seemed to believe in. He shared this belief with others in the face of mockery and opposition. He kept this courage despite sojourning in hostile territory. There was his difficulty having children. Let’s not forget circumcising himself at age 99 before, oh yes, being commanded to sacrifice his son after preaching morality for all those years. And he stood up for the wicked guys in Sodom, too. Ivri to the max!

If ivri means having courage to be different, it makes sense that we embrace the term “ivri” to describe Jews. We find Yosef called ivri when he rises from slavery and prison to be viceroy of Egypt. The midwives Shifra and Puah are referenced as ivri when they stand up to Pharaoh and let the male babies live. And when looking for an answer when the boat is threatened in the stormy sea, Jonah stands up and says, “Ivri anochi – I am a Jew” and takes responsibility.

We look to Avraham for inspiration and reinforcement for us to follow in his footsteps.

Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein explains:

“This is Avraham's essence…The father of the nation teaches us that it is within a person's power, if he but wills it, to beat his own path, to clear himself a way, to create his own current. This character represents an enormous challenge, and presents a great demand of us. At the same time, it also serves as a source of comfort.  When a person is overcome with despair at the rushing, tumultuous streams facing him, he can take comfort in the knowledge that he can prevail - if only he wishes to act against them.  Perhaps he will not give rise to a new nation…but he will find the strength needed for his struggle.”

Throughout history, Jews have confronted challenges large and small. We draw strength from Avraham modeling for us the way forward: the way of ivri.

Rom Braslavski was one of the remaining 20 living hostages freed on October 20. He shared that the terrorists offered to convert him to Islam, promising him more food and better conditions if he agreed. But he kept telling them: “I am a strong Jew!” Rom shared this message from Sheba Medical Center.

“The only thing that gave me strength was knowing that everyone around me wasn’t Jewish, and that the reason I was there was simply because I’m a Jew…They kept telling me, ‘We are Muslims,’ ‘We are Arabs,’ ‘We are the true religion,’ ‘We are Muhammad,’ I believe we need to go back to being a united people. People should start keeping mitzvot and understand what it means to be Jewish. Look at what happened to me, what they did to me, just because I’m a Jew. That means a Jew should understand he is in a higher place, different from someone who isn’t Jewish. We need to strengthen Judaism, and I hope the people of Israel remain united.”

Judaism – and the Jewish future – require us to be more like Avraham the ivri, to cross over and take the road less traveled.

Several bar-mitzvah age boys had stopped attending their local Hebrew school. Their concerned parents took them to visit the Lubavitcher Rebbe, hoping he would convince them to continue with their Jewish education. “Tell me,” the Rebbe asked the first boy, “why have you decided to stop attending Hebrew school?”

“All the other boys on my street have stopped going to Hebrew school, so I want to stop as well,” he answered. “And what about you?” the Rebbe asked the second boy. “Same reason,” the boy explained. “The kids on my street don’t go, so why should I?”

“Tell me,” the Rebbe asked the boys, “who were your favorite Jewish heroes that you learned about?” One boy responded that he deeply admired Noah, and the other, Avraham.

“Do you know,” the Rebbe told the first boy, “that if Noah would have followed all the other kids on his street, we would have no world? And if Avraham would have followed all the kids on his street,” the Rebbe told the second boy, “we would have no Jewish people.”

We don’t follow. We blaze our own path with confidence.

Each of us must lean into being more ivri – more certain in our commitment to what makes us Jewish. It can be more ritual observance, more chesed, more visible expressions of Jewish pride and support for Israel. If being ivri can survive more than 730 days in Hamas tunnels, we can certainly embrace our special status as Jews in the freedom of America regardless of whatever challenges we might face.

The Light Through Noah’s Window

What kind of lights were on Noah’s Ark?
Floodlights!

Corny, I know. But the Torah itself asks a real question about the Ark’s light. When God instructs Noah to build the Ark, He adds one curious detail: 

צֹהַר תַּעֲשֶׂה לַתֵּבָה

Make a tzohar for the Ark. (Bereishit 6:16)

What exactly is a tzohar?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash, offers two possibilities:

“Some say it was a window; others say it was a precious stone that shone and provided light.”

A window brings in light from the outside. It connects us to the world beyond—the rising sun, the promise of renewal. Even as the floodwaters raged, Noah needed to believe that light still existed beyond the Ark’s walls. Yet a window also exposes us: it lets in the storm, and it lets the world look in.

A precious stone, by contrast, filters the light. It glows softly, refracting brightness from within. It protects from the outside while still illuminating the inside. It’s a kind of spiritual “frosted glass.” With such a tzohar, Noah could shield himself from the chaos around him while preserving the light within.

So, which did Noah have—a window or a gem?

Chizkuni suggests both.

There were moments when Noah needed to face the full glare of reality through a window, and moments when he needed the protection of the gem’s filtered glow.

Like Noah, we need both.

At times, we must filter what enters our lives - shielding ourselves from the noise, cynicism, or negativity that can cloud our vision. We create boundaries through community, tradition, and values. This kind of tzohar protects our inner light.

But too much filtering becomes its own darkness. Living entirely behind frosted glass can turn faith into an echo chamber. We risk mistaking insulation for illumination. To truly grow, we need to open the window—to see beyond ourselves, to encounter new ideas and perspectives, to let in the full light of the world.

After the Flood, the Torah tells us: “Vayiftach Noach et chalon ha-teivah - Noah opened the window of the Ark.”

Perhaps the message is that protection alone is not enough. Faith demands engagement. We must learn when to filter and when to face the world head-on.

The tzohar teaches us not to choose between a window or a gem but to balance both - to live with clarity and courage, light and limits.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks captured this beautifully:

“The challenge for our time is to open a series of windows so that the world can illuminate our understanding of Torah, and so that the Torah may guide us as we seek to make our way through the world.”

When a door closes, a window opens. That window lets light in - and lets light out.

Our task is to absorb the best of what enters, elevate it, and let it shine forth as Torah light to the world. In this way, what glows within us can illuminate far beyond us.

A Plug for Shemot as We Begin Bereishit

If we’re reading the portion of Bereishit, why is the rabbi mentioning Shemot? Good question.

It’s actually not Shemot – the book or the parsha. It is Shemot the acronym for Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum, which in Hebrew is spelled שמות.

“What is this?” you ask. It may be one of the most fundamental aspects of Jewish literacy, identity, and continuity we ignore at our peril.

The Talmud (Berachot 8) states:

“Rav Huna bar Yehuda said that Rabbi Ami said: A person should always complete his Torah portions with the congregation. One is required to read the Torah text of the weekly portion twice and the translation once. One who completes this cycle of reading Torah portions with the congregation each year is rewarded that his days and years are extended.”

There is an obligation to read the text of each parsha twice (shnayim mikra) and the translation of Onkelos of the text (v’eachad targum) once. And there is a great reward in store for those who do this. This halakhah is codified in Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 285:1), and rabbis in every generation have highlighted the importance of this weekly activity.

Now, it may seem a little repetitive, technical, or irrelevant. Why read the text twice? Why read Onkelos if I don’t understand Aramaic? Do I have to read the text twice if I listen to the Torah reading in shul? Why not study a commentary inside? Why not a different Dvar Torah on the weekly parsha each year? These are all great questions – and all addressed in detail by various authorities over the centuries.

The common denominator is that ALL rabbis highlight the absolute obligation of Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum each week. It is strange that so many great rabbis placed such importance on a Biblical study initiative considering how much emphasis is placed on studying Gemara and Jewish law. Nevertheless, the Vilna Gaon, Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, and many others – all known for not wasting a second of their time – all participated in Shemot even as it took time away from Talmud.

Why the emphasis on reading text and potentially unfamiliar commentary? Shanayim mikra takes on an outsize role in Torah study because it inculcates a familiarity and love for textual study.

Rabbi Moshe Besdin, the late legendary instructor in YU’s James Striar School of Jewish Studies, introduced thousands of students with limited Jewish educational backgrounds to learning Torah. He had a simple but meaningful slogan highlighting the importance of textual study: “We teach ‘IT’ not about ‘IT.”’

That’s the power of Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum. It’s not about checking off a religious obligation; it’s about creating a rhythm of Torah in our lives. Each week, we personally encounter the words that shape our identity. The practice transforms the parsha from something we hear in shul to something we carry with us.

A group of college students once asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe why people ask his advice on matters that have nothing to do with Judaism. They understood that, as a rabbi, he can answer religious questions but why ask him about areas outside of his expertise. Does he, for example, know more medicine than a doctor?

The Rebbe smiled and compared the situation to that of a construction project. The architect draws up the blueprint and gives them to contractor to implement. The contractor then tells the various trades what they need to do. The contractor is not an expert in plumbing or masonry or electrical wiring. He is the one most familiar with the blueprint. “The Torah is God’s blueprint for the world, and He gave it to us to study. As someone who studies Torah, people see me as a contractor, so they ask all sorts of questions.”

When we study parsha week after week, year after year, it becomes part of us. In a world of constant distraction, this weekly encounter with Torah provides focus and stability. It reminds us that Jewish continuity isn’t sustained by slogans or sentiment but by learning - by returning again and again to our foundational text. Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum democratizes Torah study: everyone can do it, every week, and in doing so we strengthen our collective connection to God’s word.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks described the parsha as a “weekly encounter between the moment and eternity which frames Jewish consciousness and gives us the unique sense of living out a narrative.” He wrote, “In Judaism we not only learn to live; we live to learn. In study, we make Torah real in the mind so that we can make it actual in the world.”

As we begin anew with Bereishit, we should try to take on Shemot. (See HERE for a great resource to help stay on track.) Jewish identity begins with the study – and internalization – of the words of Torah. Through the steady rhythm of Shnayim Mikra V’echad Targum, we keep those words alive - and ensure they continue to shape our people, our homes, and our hearts.