The Stanley Cup and the Torah

If I wasn’t a rabbi, I’d seriously consider having Phil Pritchard’s job.

Pritchard is the longtime guardian of hockey’s championship trophy, the Stanley Cup. Unlike other sports championships, there is only one Cup. The winning team celebrates with it for a season and then gives it back. Nobody owns it permanently.

The Cup has traveled the world, visited soldiers overseas, appeared at family celebrations, and famously been used to cradle newborn babies - sometimes only hours after birth. Yet despite all the joy surrounding it, the keepers of the Cup constantly remind players to treat it carefully. Because the Cup ultimately belongs to something larger than any one team or player. It belongs to the game itself. Each generation enjoys it but must also preserve it for those who come next.

In that way, I believe the Stanley Cup is a powerful parable for Torah.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik famously explained that the Torah is not merely a yerusha, an inheritance, but a morasha, a heritage. An inheritance becomes your possession. A heritage is entrusted to you. You are not its owner; you are its guardian.

The Torah does not belong to any one Jew or even any one generation. “Morasha kehillat Yaakov.” The Torah belongs to the entire Jewish people across time. Our task is not to remake Torah according to our preferences, but to preserve it, live it, and pass it forward.

And ultimately, Torah is all about the future and passing the tradition to the next generation.

Henryk was very young in 1945, when World War Two ended.  

He had spent what seemed to be most of his life with his nanny, who had hidden him away from the Nazis at his father's request and at great personal risk. She loved the boy but figured Henryk’s father did not survive the war. If he had survived the Vilna Ghetto, he surely was murdered in Auschwitz. She therefore decided to adopt the boy, baptized him, and had him taught Christianity by the local priest.

But the father, Joseph, returned.

It was Simchat Torah when Joseph came to retrieve his son. The heartbroken nanny had packed all his clothing and his small catechism book. She told Joseph that Henryk had become a good Catholic. The father took his son by the hand and led him directly to the Great Synagogue of Vilna. On the way, he told him that he was a Jew and that his name was really Avraham.

Along the way, they passed the church and the boy dutifully crossed himself, causing his father great anguish. Just then, a priest emerged, and the boy rushed over to kiss his hand. Joseph wanted to drag his son away from the priest and from the church, but he knew that this was not the way to do things. He nodded to the priest politely an continued walking. After all, these people had taken in and saved the child's life.

Joseph knew he had to show his son Judaism, living Judaism, and in this way all these foreign beliefs would be left behind and forgotten.

They entered what remained of the Great Synagogue of Vilna. There they found some Jewish survivors who had made their way back to Vilna and were now trying to rebuild their lives. Amid their suffering and terrible loss, they were singing and dancing to do their best to celebrate Simchat Torah.

Henryk stared wide-eyed around him and picked up an old, torn prayer book with curiosity and a touch of affection. Something deep inside of him responded to the atmosphere, and he was happy to be there with the father he hardly knew.

A Jewish man wearing a Soviet Army uniform stared intently at the boy, and he came over to the father. "Is this child...Jewish?" he asked, a touch of wonder in his voice.

The father answered that the boy was Jewish and introduced his son. As the soldier stared at Henryk, he fought back tears. "Over these four terrible years, I have traveled thousands of miles, and this is the first live Jewish child I have come across in all this time. Would you like to dance with me on my shoulders?" he asked the boy, who was staring back at him, fascinated.

The soldier raised the boy high onto his shoulders. With tears now running down his cheeks, the soldier jubilantly joined in the dancing. "This is my Torah scroll!" he cried.

Henryk-Avraham grew up to become, Abe Foxman, the national director of the Anti-Defamation League and Jewish communal leader, who passed away just over a week ago. He recounted this story as his first conscious feeling of a connection with Judaism and of being a Jew. The Russian soldier, Leo Goldman, became a rabbi in Detroit.

Two Jews who almost disappeared transported into the story of Jewish continuity.

That image of a child as a Torah scroll may capture the essence of Judaism more than anything else. The Torah is not only parchment resting inside an Ark. Torah lives in people, in children, and in the ability of the Jewish people to carry our story, our faith, and our covenant into the future.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks famously wrote we are all letters in the scroll. Every Jewish child is a living Sefer Torah entrusted to us. Like the Stanley Cup, Torah is not meant to sit untouched behind glass. It must live in our homes, at our Shabbat tables, in our conversations, values, and relationships. We hold it only briefly before handing it to the next generation. We are not the owners of Torah; we are its custodians.

Anyone who chooses to learn Torah, live it, protect it, or pass it forward becomes part of that sacred chain stretching back to the revelation at Mount Sinai and forward to generations we may never meet. On Shavuot, we celebrate not only that the Torah was given, but that it continues to be entrusted to us.

Our task is simple and sacred: to hold it tightly, live it passionately, and ensure that when our turn comes to pass it forward, the chain remains unbroken.

Jewish Camps Then and Now

Where did you go to camp?

We hear a lot these days about the importance of Jewish summer camp. Educators, rabbis, sociologists, parents, and kids all point to camps as one of the most powerful engines of Jewish identity, friendship, continuity, and communal belonging. For many Jews, Jewish camp is not merely recreation with Hebrew songs and color war. It is where Judaism becomes alive. It is where lifelong friendships are formed, confidence is built, leadership is cultivated, and Jewish memories become joyful rather than burdensome.

Perhaps the reason Jewish camps are so effective is because the Jewish people were forged in one. The original Jewish camp was the desert.

The Book of Bamidbar opens not with dramatic stories or stirring speeches, but with census numbers, tribal arrangements, and painstaking descriptions of where each tribe camped: “V’chanu bnei yisrael ish al machaneihu v’ish al diglo - The children of Israel camped, every man in his own camp and each man with his flag.” (Bamidbar 1:52)

What follows is an entire chapter detailing who camped where, who stood next to whom, and how the nation was arranged. At first glance, it feels excessive. Why do we need to know the geography of the encampments? Why does the Torah devote so much space to what appears to be logistical detail?

The camps were not incidental to Jewish development; they were Jewish development. The desert was not merely a place we passed through. It was the environment that formed us spiritually, communally, emotionally, and religiously.

The first lesson of the camps is seder, order. Life requires structure. We all dream lofty dreams. We aspire to holiness, meaning, inspiration, and transcendence. But dreams without systems rarely materialize. Inspiration without discipline evaporates quickly. The Torah teaches that even spirituality needs structure. We all want the ruach, moments of deep kavvanah, emotional uplift, and transcendent experiences. But Judaism insists that enduring holiness emerges through routines, rhythms, and carefully cultivated habits. The Mishkan had exact measurements. The camp had exact locations. Holiness was not chaos. It was organized purpose.

That is true in camp as well. The joy of camp - the singing, dancing, friendships, and laughter - only flourishes because there is a framework beneath it. Schedules matter. Cabins matter. Roles matter. Rituals matter. The magic emerges from structure. Bamidbar reminds us that building Jewish life requires more than passion. It requires order.

The camps of the desert offered something deeper as well: belonging. Rav Yehuda Amital explained that the phrase “every man in his own camp” reflects the human need to feel at home. A person thrives in an environment where he feels supported, safe, and understood. Even the most talented individual struggles in a place where he feels displaced or alien. The desert camps gave every tribe a place. Every person knew where they belonged. Equally important, every tribe had its own flag. Rav Amital notes that this symbolizes individuality within community. Every person must discover and develop his unique contribution while still remaining part of something larger than himself.

That may be one of the greatest gifts of Jewish camp today. Good camps create belonging without demanding sameness. They cultivate community while still allowing individuality to flourish. A child can discover talents, friendships, passions, and confidence while simultaneously feeling part of Am Yisrael. In a world increasingly defined by fragmentation and loneliness, that is no small thing.

Perhaps the most important lesson from the desert camp is we learn how to live next to other people. The Torah could have scattered the tribes randomly across the wilderness. Instead, it carefully positioned them side by side because proximity matters. Relationships matter. Shared experiences matter. Today we often imagine that changing minds requires louder arguments, sharper messaging, or better strategy. Yet increasingly, people are discovering that transformation rarely happens through slogans or social media posts. It happens through relationships.

As one writer recently observed: “The most effective tool for changing hearts and minds isn't a social media post, a well-crafted talking point or a compelling op-ed. It's a personal relationship built on genuine trust.” That kind of trust cannot be downloaded. It must be lived.

Today, many of our interactions are virtual, performative, or fleeting. We communicate constantly yet encounter one another rarely. We exist in ideological silos, digital tribes, and algorithmically curated realities. Camp disrupts that. Camp places people together. They eat together, sing together, argue together, laugh together, and grow together. They learn how to share space. How to tolerate differences. How to build friendships. How to become part of a collective story.

Recently, during King Charles III’s visit to Washington, political rivals from opposite ends of the spectrum found themselves waiting to meet the king grouped together in what was called a “pod.” One observer noted that simply standing together for twenty-five minutes created an unusual sense of shared humanity. Political rivals would have a shared experience that could be used to bridge future encounters and maybe even collaboration. It’s the power of proximity.

The Jewish people learned the power and impact of camp long before modern sociology discovered the magic formula. The camps of Bamidbar were not merely temporary sleeping arrangements. They were the training ground for nationhood. They taught order, belonging, individuality, responsibility, and relationships. In many ways, Jewish summer camps continue that sacred work today. Long after campers forget who won color war or who got the loudest cheers in the dining room, they carry with them something deeper: a sense that Judaism is joyful, that community matters, that they belong to a people, and that they are not alone.

The original Jewish camp gave us the roadmap, and camps today are still helping us find our way. One need not be a camper to appreciate – and internalize and share – the secret sauce of an ordered yet exciting, familiar, and interconnected communal Jewish life.

And, oh yeah, summer is coming…

Bikers, Betach, and the Blessing We All Need

The roar of motorcycles shattered the quiet desert air just before Shabbat.

A gang of burly Israeli bikers rolled into the parking lot of a small field school near Midreshet Sde Boker. Leather jackets, dusty boots, tough faces. Not exactly the crowd you expect to encounter at a peaceful Shabbat retreat. Later that night, they entered the communal dining room wearing jeans and t-shirts. One biker stood up, filled a cup with wine, and the others followed his lead. Then, almost in unison, they each took the folded pink dinner napkins from the table and carefully placed them on their heads as makeshift kippot.

And then they made Kiddush.

My friend leaned over to his wife and whispered, “I think that’s the holiest Kiddush I’ve ever heard.”

That scene captures something deeply Israeli and deeply Jewish: the difference between betach and keri, between confident Jewish identity and cold, disconnected Judaism.

Parshat Bechukotai presents these two radically different ways to live.

The first comes from the verses of blessing. “Vi’shavtem la’vetach b’artzechem - And you shall dwell securely in your land.” But the tochacha, the curses, later warns of a second possibility. If we walk with God with keri, that’s how God will treat us.  

Keri is a difficult word to translate. The Sages associate it with kar, coldness. Others connect it to mikreh, happenstance, coincidence, randomness. A Judaism of keri is hesitant and unrooted. It lacks warmth, confidence, and certainty. Jewish identity becomes something occasional rather than essential.

Betach is the opposite. Betach means secure, confident, rooted. Not simplistic or naïve, but clear about who we are and where we belong.

I think about this distinction when I remember my encounters with the late Aryeh Ben Yaakov, who was the gruff, no-nonsense spokesperson for Kibbutz Misgav Am. Perched directly on Israel’s northern border, Misgav Am is not a place for illusions. The dangers are visible to the naked eye, and sadly it has been in the news again in the recent fighting with Hizbollah.

Aryeh made aliyah from Cleveland in 1961 at age twenty-one. After serving as a paratrooper in the IDF, he built his life on the kibbutz and spent decades speaking passionately to visitors about Israel and the Jewish people. Aryeh never liked talking much about himself. But he spoke unapologetically about Israel. “Why do I live in Israel? I’m Jewish. This is home for the Jewish people. It’s a miracle. It’s wonderful. Israel is Jew Land. Whenever you come, we’ll be ready for you.”

No squishiness. No embarrassment. No apologetics. Betach.

That confidence does not come because Israel is easy. Israel is messy. Jewish life is messy. There are political divisions, religious tensions, moral complexities, and painful realities. But the Torah never promises neatness. It promises betach.

The Midrash explains the verse: “In your land you will dwell securely, but outside the land you will not dwell securely.” These words resonate deeply in the world around us. The diaspora doesn’t feel as secure as it used to. But is Israel all that secure? Safer than the diaspora?

Perhaps the Midrash means something deeper. Only in Israel does Judaism become fully natural. Outside Israel, Jewish life often requires resistance against the surrounding culture. We build extraordinary schools, shuls, camps, and communities, but it still takes effort to swim against the current. In Israel, Judaism saturates ordinary life. The calendar is Jewish. The language is Jewish. The streets are Jewish. Even secular Israelis often carry Judaism instinctively and organically.

That is why only in Israel can a gang of bikers stop everything Friday night to make Kiddush. Because somewhere deep inside, Judaism still feels natural. And maybe that is why one of the most common Israeli responses to almost any question is simply: “Betach!” Will the plumber come tomorrow? Betach! Will things somehow work out? Betach! Will Am Yisrael survive the latest challenges and threats? Betach! It is not always rational. Sometimes it is completely unrealistic. But it reflects a national posture of rooted Jewish confidence.

And that is precisely what our generation desperately needs.

We live in an age of Jewish keri, anxiety, cynicism, detachment, and coldness. Many Jews feel uncertain not only about Israel, but about Judaism itself. Everything feels tentative and conditional. People are afraid to speak clearly, believe deeply, or stand proudly. The Torah warns us what happens when Jewish life becomes cold and accidental, but it also offers another possibility: Betach.

We must strive to live as Jews with warmth instead of cynicism, with conviction instead of embarrassment, and with rootedness instead of drift. To believe that Torah matters, Israel matters, the Jewish people matter, and that humanity created in the image of God is still worth believing in. Not because life is easy. Not because every question has a simple answer. But because Judaism was never meant to be lived accidentally.

We need to create homes where Judaism feels joyful and natural; to bring warmth into our observance instead of robotic routine; and to say “yes” more often to Jewish opportunities. Most importantly, we must refuse to live Jewish lives of keri, cold, distant, and disconnected.

The future of the Jewish people has never been built by Jews who lived accidentally. It has always been built by Jews who lived betach. Betach in who we are. Betach in our mission. Betach in our future.

Betach always wins.

Did You Count Today? Did Today Count?

Are you still in it?

Today is 29 days, 4 weeks and one day, of the Omer.

Counting the Omer between Pesach and Shavuot might be the closest thing we have a to a mitzvah “marathon.” Some people get all psyched up for it with creative strategies of how to keep counting daily – move the watch o the other hand, online alert, posted notes everywhere. Others, knowing their limitations, give up before it gets started.

Obviously, I am a proponent of counting. We all should be in it to win it. At the same time, sefirat ha-omer presents a religious conundrum. We try our best, but we’re not perfect. Judaism believes in second chances – today is Pesach Sheini, the make-up date for those who missed the first Pesach.

Why all the Omer pressure? What really happens if you miss a day?

Halakhically, the answer is straightforward. If you forget to count at night, you can still count during the day without a beracha and then continue the next night with a beracha. But if you miss an entire day, you keep counting, just without the blessing.

Behind that practice lies a deceptively complex and fundamental dispute.

The Halakhot Gedolot focuses on the Torah’s phrase “sheva shabbatot temimot - seven complete weeks.” The period of the Omer is one integrated whole. Miss a day, and the structure is compromised. Like a Torah scroll missing a single letter, the entire effort is no longer complete.

R. Hai Gaon, however, sees each day differently. “Count fifty days” means fifty distinct mitzvot. Miss one day? You’ve lost that opportunity but nothing more. Tomorrow still stands, untouched and intact.

The halakhah preserves both views. If we miss a day, we continue counting (like R. Hai Gaon), but without a beracha (out of concern for the Halakhot Gedolot). This isn’t compromise. It’s a contradiction the halakha refuses to resolve because it’s describing the way a Jew is meant to live in time.

There are two ways to experience a life. You can live it as a whole, or you can live it as a series of moments. Judaism demands both at the same time.

The Halakhot Gedolot forces us to see the big picture. Our life is not a collection of disconnected days. It is a single unfolding mission. Every moment matters because it contributes to something larger than itself. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch taught that redemption is only a beginning, never an end. What matters is not the moment of inspiration, but what we build from it. A life only becomes meaningful when its pieces form something whole.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik describes Jewish existence as standing at the intersection of past and future. Counting creates continuity. It transforms time from a blur into a direction. This is why the Omer demands temimut, wholeness. Not perfection or flawlessness but continuity. A life that adds up.

And yet, R. Hai Gaon pushes back.

Don’t hide behind the big picture because the only place your life actually happens is today. Missed yesterday? That matters, but it doesn’t define you. Judaism is not all-or-nothing. It does not allow a single failure to collapse the entire structure of your life. Every day is its own arena. Every day is its own calling. The Omer is not just a long journey; it is 49 separate opportunities to stop drifting and start choosing.

That’s why this period became associated with inner work. There is a tradition of linking each day to Kabbalistic sefirot, the various ways God can be experienced in this world. It isn’t about mysticism for its own sake; it’s about discipline. Focus. Growth that is specific, not abstract. Rabbi Kalonymus Kalman Shapira taught that even without mastering Kabbalah, a person can approach each day with intention: refine a trait, repair a relationship, take one step forward. Not someday. Not in theory. Today.

And this is where the Omer becomes uncomfortable.

Because most of us don’t live this way. We wait for big moments. Big decisions. Big inspiration. A life, however, is not built in dramatic leaps; it’s built in ordinary days that we usually ignore. The Omer refuses to let us ignore them. It demands that we notice time. Name it. Count it. And once we count something, we can no longer pretend it doesn’t matter.

The Rav writes that a truly free person is one who can “weave every thread of time into a glorious fabric.” A slave survives the day. A free person uses it. Freedom is not about what we escape; it’s about what we build. What we build is determined by what we do with an ordinary Tuesday, a forgettable Wednesday, a night when no one is watching and nothing is demanded.

The halakhic tension now becomes clear. A missed day matters, but it doesn’t get the last word. Life must be held together as a whole, but it is lived one day at a time. We are accountable for continuity, and we are responsible for today.

So the question of the Omer is not technical. It’s existential. It is not Did you count? But Did this day count? It is not Did the day pass? But Did you use it?

Because if we string together enough days that don’t count, eventually, our life won’t either. And if we learn to count them - really count them - then slowly, almost imperceptibly, a life of purpose begins to take shape.

Keep counting!