From Fans to Players: Lessons from Knicks Mania

Go New York, go!

Did you see the pictures? Hundreds of thousands packed the Canyon of Heroes for the Knicks' ticker-tape parade. Fans boarded trains at four in the morning. Grown adults wept. Complete strangers embraced.

For non-fans, it is irrational. For the good of society, it is essential.

Arthur Brooks noted that sports fandom is one of the last great sources of social capital in America. At a time when loneliness is rising and civic organizations are declining, rooting for a team creates a shared identity that transcends politics, race, religion, and socioeconomic status. For a few hours, people stop seeing one another as opponents and begin seeing themselves as teammates. In a fractured world, fandom creates community.

Judaism has always understood that human beings were not created to live as isolated individuals. We prefer prayer in shul because “b’rov am hadrat Melech - God is glorified in a crowd.” Chazal teach that a person should never separate himself from the tzibbur, the community. The Midrash likens Israel to a bundle of reeds. One reed can be broken easily, but together they become unbreakable. We are literally better together.

The Torah's vision has never been merely personal spirituality. It is covenantal community.

There might be an even deeper Jewish lesson in sports fandom. I found an article entitled “Five Halachot of Sports Fans” which identifies some important traits we can learn from fans that can be applied to a higher purpose.

1) Knowledge - Good fans know their teams. They know the player, the schedules, and all the stats. You can’t be an ignorant fan, and the more you know, the more intense the experience is. Judaism, likewise, begins – and grows – through knowledge. The more you know, the richer the experience, and the more likely it is to be passed to the next generation.

2) Passion - Real fans are interested, concerned, and invested. They care deeply. Some fans may take it a little too far (e.g. face-painting, tattoos), but even ordinary fans show a little excitement. The best Judaism is a vibrant, passionate Judaism. After all, one of our most popular slogans is “L’chaim!”

3) Be Present - Fans love attending games, but they also follow their teams even when they don’t. Showing up is not the only way to show support. Attending in person is an important part of many Jewish rituals. At the same time, never underestimate the power of presence through a kind word, a gesture, or making sure a person knows you care even when you can’t be there in person.

4) Identify - There’s a reason people wear sports gear. It is a proud sign of affiliation and demonstratable sense of connection. You can spot a fan a mile away. We need a similar level of Jewish pride by living openly and unapologetically as Jews.

5) Consistency: Fans are there through good times and bad, through wins and losses, and even through decades-long dry spells. Jews are the “ever-hopeful people.” Af al pi she’yitmamei’a - even though Moshiach may take a while, I await his coming every single day. 53 years is nothing! Judaism is most effective when built upon small, consistent acts, patience, and steadfast faith.

As powerful and positive as fandom is, Judaism places a premium on getting in the game!

The Talmud teaches “mitzvah bo yoteir mi’shlucho,” there is greater value in performing an act oneself than sending a representative. Delegation has its place, but Judaism values personal involvement. One who bakes the matzah, builds the sukkah, or prepares for Shabbat with his own hands experiences the mitzvah differently than one who merely observes from a distance. One can’t merely be a fan.

Yesterday was Gimmel Tammuz, the yahrzeit of the late Lubavitcher Rebbe. The Rebbe had a way of communicating profound lessons through seemingly ordinary interactions. It is this ability which has made him such an enduring and inspiring leader. I am reminded of a beautiful story in which the Rebbe talked sports but taught a deep message.

Shimshon Stock’s father was friendly with the Rebbe, and Stock himself knew the Rebbe from the time before he assumed the movement’s leadership. He recalled an incident around 1951 when Stock was walking with a man and his son, both devoted Brooklyn Dodgers fans, who were in route to a game at nearby Ebbets Field. Suddenly Stock saw the Rebbe walking toward them, and he introduced the men to him.

The Rebbe started to talk to the pair, particularly the son, about baseball. The boy, assuming that the Rebbe was quite uninformed about baseball, mentioned in passing that when the team that one favors is either winning or losing by a large margin, many spectators leave the game without bothering to wait for the end.

“Do the ball players leave?” asked the Rebbe.

“Of course not,” the young man said. “They are not allowed to leave. They stay to the end and keep trying to win.”

The Rebbe smiled at the young man. “This is like a lesson in Judaism I want to teach you. When you pray, you’re playing with the team. You’re not just a spectator; you’re in the game. You can be either a fan or a player. Be a player.”

It is wonderful to be a fan of Judaism, to admire Jewish history, to cheer for Israel, and to celebrate Jewish continuity. But Jews need to do more than fill the stands. God put each of us on the roster. Some of us start, while others ride the bench. Some teach Torah, and some support Torah. Some visit the sick, and others create community. Every player matters.

The excitement surrounding the Knicks championship demonstrates the extraordinary power of shared identity. Fandom is good for society because it reminds us that we belong to something larger than ourselves. Judaism goes one step further. Cheer loudly. Celebrate community. Wear the colors proudly. But when the game that truly matters begins, don't remain in the stands. Get in the game.

Ruach Acheret: From Calev to Congressman Dan Goldman

Ten experts agree. Two disagree.

If you were standing with the Jewish people on the threshold of the Land of Israel, whose report would you trust? Most of us would follow the overwhelming majority. After all, ten distinguished leaders surveyed the land and returned with the same conclusion: Don't go. They were united. They were persuasive. And they were wrong.

The story of the spies does not end well, but in many ways, it makes perfect sense. The leaders who scouted out the land should have known better. They had witnessed the Exodus, crossed the sea, and stood at Sinai. They knew God's promise. They understood that the destiny of the Jewish people was to enter the Land of Israel. Yet ten of the twelve returned with a report designed to discourage the nation from moving forward. The people listened. A 10-2 vote can be pretty decisive.

The Torah, however, reminds us that life is not always about numbers; it’s about spirit.

God singles out Calev with a remarkable description: “V’avdi Calev eikev hayta ruach acheret imo va’yemalei acharai - But My servant Calev possessed a different spirit and remained loyal to Me...” (Bamidbar 14:24)

The two words ruach acheret contain one of the Torah's most enduring lessons. The numbers were against Calev, his opinion was unpopular, and his perspective differed from all the other respected leaders. Yet he refused to surrender his convictions simply because everyone else disagreed. God had promised the Jews would enter the land. That was good enough for him. It didn’t matter that he was essentially a lone voice. Calev possessed, literally, a different spirit and a different mindset.

Judaism has never celebrated being different for the sake of being different. Judaism celebrates the courage to remain faithful to truth when truth becomes unpopular.

The remarkable thing is that all twelve spies saw exactly the same landscape. They walked the same hills, encountered the same giants, and entered the same fortified cities. The mission itself was always going to be about perspective. “U’reitem et ha-aretz ma hi – You shall see what the land is like.” (13:18) Seeing is never merely seeing. It is filtered through our assumptions, our fears, our hopes, and our faith. The majority saw obstacles. Calev saw opportunity. The majority saw giants. Calev saw God's promise.

It is no coincidence that the portion begins with seeing and ends with seeing. It opens with “You shall see the land.” It concludes with the mitzvah of tzitzit, and the verse: “You shall see it.” The challenge is not whether we see. The challenge is how we see.

Even the mitzvah of tzitzit asks us to distinguish the thread of techeilet, blue, from the white strands. White is straightforward. Blue is nuanced. It shifts with the light. It requires discernment. Life is often more blue than white. It is complex. One person's certainty may be another person's blind spot. The episode of the meraglim is a case study in the necessity of remaining open to a different perspective regardless of what everyone else sees or says.

The Piaseczno Rebbe asks why didn't Calev engage the spies in debate? Why not systematically dismantle their arguments? Because faith is not always built upon logic. The spies' observations were accurate. The cities were fortified. The inhabitants were powerful. Calev did not deny reality. He simply believed that God was greater than the reality before him. A Jew must trust in God not only when a natural path to salvation is visible, but especially when none can be seen. To insist on finding a rational solution in every circumstance may ultimately weaken faith. Sometimes one must simply say, “The obstacles are real, but God transcends obstacles. I’m moving forward.”

Ruach acheret is the courage to think, speak, and act differently because one believes differently.

That lesson is not confined to the wilderness. We live in an age of algorithms and echo chambers. Social media rewards conformity within one's tribe and punishes dissent, and the pressure to follow the crowd is immense. That is why it is critical to notice those who are willing to stand apart when conviction demands it – especially when doing so invites criticism from their own allies.

Congressman Dan Goldman is such a person. In his own way, he channels Calev and his ruach acheret.

Today, there are fewer liberal Democrats who are vocal in support of Israel and against antisemitism. Dan is both. He is a proud Jew (and member of the Jewish Center of Atlantic Beach). He refuses to take positions against Israel, Zionism, or the pro-Israel community in the face of his detractors - even when it might truly cost him his job. Whether one agrees with every aspect of his broader political record is not the point. The point is his willingness - even at moments of pressure - to act from conviction rather than convenience. That, in its own way, reflects something of ruach acheret, the courage to think and speak from principle rather than politics. We owe Dan our gratitude and respect.

The lesson of Calev is not that the minority is always right. The lesson is that truth cannot be outsourced to numbers, and faith cannot be reduced to consensus.

Each of us has opportunities to cultivate a ruach acheret. Perhaps it means embracing a mitzvah we have never taken seriously before or studying a section of Torah outside our comfort zone. Maybe it means introducing a new idea into our community, trying a different approach in our family, or reaching out to someone no one else notices. It may not be the popular path. It may not be the obvious path. But if it is the path animated by a sincere desire to serve God and make the world better, it carries within it the spirit of Calev.

The generation of the spies followed the majority and remained in the wilderness. Calev followed his ruach acheret and entered the Land. Every generation faces that same test. Will we be carried by the current of consensus, or will we summon the courage to see more deeply, think more honestly, and act more faithfully?

The Jewish future has never depended on those who simply counted votes. It has always depended on those who were willing to stand with a ruach acheret.

Seven Are the Books of the Torah

Who knows five? I know five! Five are the books of the…Torah.

We all know the song, but what if it’s inaccurate?

We grow up believing that the Torah consists of five books: Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, Bamidbar, and Devarim. Yet hidden in the middle of Parashat Beha'alotecha is a remarkable rabbinic tradition that challenges that familiar assumption.

The Jews seem to be on a roll. The Mishkan is complete, the camp is organized, everyone knows their unique role. Moshe literally says, “Nos’im anacnu - We’re traveling now.” Yet, just before a series of tragic episodes unfolds in the wilderness, the Torah inserts two brief verses (Bamidbar 10:35-36):

Vayehi binsoa ha-aron vayomer Moshe: Kuma Hashem v'yafutzu oyvecha v’yanusu mesan’echa mipanecha. Uv'nucho yomar: Shuvah Hashem rivevot alfei Yisrael.
 

When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say: “Advance, Lord. May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You!” And when it halted, he would say: “Return, Lord, to dwell among Israel’s myriads and thousands!”

These verses are set apart by two inverted Hebrew letters, nun’s, one before and one after. They are visually isolated from the surrounding text as though the Torah itself wishes to call attention to them.

The Talmud (Shabbat 116) records a startling teaching: These verses constitute a separate book unto themselves. As a result, Bamidbar is not one book but three: the section before these verses, the verses themselves, and the section that follows. The Torah therefore contains not five books but seven.

Why? What is so significant about these two verses that they merit their own book?

Many commentators explain that these verses describe the ideal state of the Jewish people. The Ark leads the camp. God guides the journey. Enemies scatter. The Divine Presence rests among Israel. These two verses portray a nation moving confidently toward its destiny under the direct guidance of Torah and the presence of God.

The irony is that immediately afterward everything begins to unravel.

The section following the inverted nuns contains a seemingly endless series of crises: complaints, dissatisfaction, the craving for meat, challenges to leadership, the episode of the spies, Korach's rebellion, and much more. The ideal quickly gives way to the real.

Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel teaches that these verses do not actually belong here. They were inserted into this location to separate one tragedy from another. They function as a pause, a buffer, and a reminder of what might have been.

But perhaps these two verses and the seven books they create serve an even deeper purpose. Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson explains that the distinction between five books and seven books reflects two different ways of understanding Torah itself.

According to Kabbalah, the number five represents Torah as God's wisdom and holiness, the blueprint for personal refinement and spiritual growth. The number seven includes two additional dimensions that bring inner spirituality outward into the world. Seven represents not merely becoming holy but bringing holiness into places where holiness is not immediately apparent.

The Rebbe’s distinction helps explain the structure of the “Sven Books of the Torah.” The first four - Bereishit, Shemot, Vayikra, and the opening portion of Bamidbar - describe the formation of a holy nation. They are about revelation, covenant, law, worship, and preparation. Then comes the fifth book, the two brief verses describing the Ark moving forward and clearing the path. Only afterward do we encounter the sixth and seventh books containing the failures, rebellions, disappointments, struggles, and rebukes that occupy the remainder of Bamidbar and Devarim.

If the Torah were merely a guide to spiritual perfection, perhaps it would have ended with the idealized vision represented by the two verses set off by nuns. But Torah is not only interested in creating holy people. The Torah is interested in transforming an unholy world. The Torah therefore follows the Jewish people into the wilderness of human experience. It accompanies them through confusion, failure, conflict, and disappointment. It teaches not only how to stand at Sinai but how to live afterward.

How does one move from the ideal world represented by the first four books into the imperfect world represented by the final two? The answer is the fifth book, and the Ark goes first. The two verses enclosed by the inverted nuns describe the Ark leading the camp and overcoming the forces that stand in its way. The message is that before confronting the complexities of life, Torah and truth must be at the center. Before entering a flawed world, one must carry the Ark.

This idea feels especially relevant today. We live in a world that has lost its moral compass and ability to distinguish between right and wrong, truth and lies, good and evil. The Torah's answer is very clear. At the precise center of the seven-book Torah, the real world, stands not a philosophical treatise, not a legal code, and not a narrative of triumph. At the center stands the Ark. The center must be moral. The center must be sacred. The center must be guided by Torah.

Perhaps this is why these verses are recited every time the Torah is removed from the Ark. We are not merely recalling a moment from the desert thousands of years ago. We are reenacting a critical strategy for a thriving Judaism: Before we leave the sanctuary and enter the complexities of life, the Ark goes forth. Before we engage the world, Torah leads the way.

At the very center of Torah stands two short verses surrounded by two inverted letters, reminding us that before confronting the wilderness, the Ark must move forward. And when the Ark leads the way, even the wilderness can become holy.