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!