Who to Vote For...

Rabbi Yitzchak Yosef, the former Sephardi Chief Rabbi of Israel, had a simple message for his followers: Don't vote for Itamar Ben Gvir.

Rabbi Yosef said voting for the Otzma Yehudit party in the October 27 Israeli election is forbidden because Ben Gvir has ascended the Temple Mount and called for removing restrictions on Jewish prayer there. He wrote, “All of the great sages across generations, without exception, forbade this to the utmost extent.” He added that those who encourage ascending the Mount also run afoul of the prohibition, and therefore “it is forbidden according to Jewish law to support this party.”

Some rabbis are very explicit in instructing adherents who to vote for. Many emphasize the importance of voting while urging Jews to use Torah and Israel as values to guide their decisions. These days, I feel Jews need to support candidates who support our community and avoid candidates who refuse to distance themselves from those who are against us – even if they otherwise seem friendly to our priorities. We no longer have the luxury of “friends” who refuse to condemn our opponents.

Voting shouldn't only be about whom we oppose. It should also be about what we aspire to achieve. We need to view voting as holy. Politics is messy and divisive. Our approach to voting should come from a place of deep responsibility and mission.

Rabbi Moshe Alpert, an ultra-Orthodox rabbi who served several Jewish communities in Jerusalem during the Mandate, described in his diary his experience of voting in the first Israeli Knesset elections in 1949.

“At 5:35 am, we woke up…After we drank coffee, we put on Shabbat clothing in honor of this great and holy day…After 2000 or more years of exile…we have not merited to see a day like this, that we are holding elections in a Jewish state. Shehechiyanu…

 

We went to the voting station near Chabashim Street with our identity cards in hand. With great and mighty joy, we walked the short way there, and the entire way I walked as if it were Simchat Torah, circling with a Torah scroll, because I was holding the identity card of our new Jewish state in my hand. My happiness and joy knew no bounds!...

 

With a shaking hand, moved with holiness, I took one ballot marked ‘B’ for the Religious Union party and placed it inside the envelope I had received…Then the holiest moment of my life arrived. The moment that neither my father nor my grandfather had the privilege to experience in their lifetimes. Only I, in my time, in my lifetime, did I merit to experience such a holy and pure moment as this... What joy for me and my portion! At 6:28 am, we returned home and went to pray. What a great holiday!”

The holiest moment of his life was casting his vote in the State of Israel.

We may not treat Election Day as a holiday. At the same time, we should view voting as a sacred opportunity to make the world align just a little bit more with our values.

Last week, I attended a dinner with a group of Orthodox rabbis from around the New York area. There were rabbis from well-known shuls in Manhattan, Westchester, New Jersey, Great Neck, and the Five Towns. The purpose of the dinner was to discuss how to strengthen Zionism and love of Israel within the broader Jewish community. The guest speaker was Matti Friedman, a well-known author. While this was a very Zionist group, it was surprising how many of the rabbis around the table have children who made aliyah and are living in Israel. (I am proud to be one of them!)

One of the rabbis asked Matti who his daughter should vote for in her first Israeli elections. He answered, “Vote for a candidate who has an aspiring vision for making Israel the best it can be.” He didn't prescribe a specific candidate. He described a worldview we should bring to our voting – whether in Israel or here in the US.

We need to aspire. We should vote for individuals we feel will make our community, our society, our country, and our world better.

We learn about aspiration from Avraham Avinu.

As time goes by, Avraham begins to wonder how exactly God's blessings will continue forward if he doesn't have any offspring. God's response includes the promise of children along with the charge to look to the stars. “Go outside, look up to the heavens and count the stars…Koh yihyeh zar’ekha, so shall be your descendants” (Bereishit 15:5).

The promise seems purely quantitative: You will be many. Rabbi Daniel Feldman, however, notes that the stars carry a deeper message. Koh yihyeh zar’ekha is a charge to think bigger, strive bigger, and aspire bigger.

Like the billions of stars, the Jews are a diverse people with a multiplicity of talents, strengths, and, especially, opinions. We're messy, and that's OK.

God tells Avraham to count the stars, which is impossible. Yet Avraham starts counting anyway. Jews need that kind of audacity. Stars are beyond our grasp; they invite us to look up. Jews are not confined by the limitations of the present moment.

Koh yihyeh zar’ekha. God is giving us a mission to be “diverse and united, audacious and anchored, timeless and transcendent.”

There will always be winners and losers on Election Day. There will always be candidates we support and candidates we oppose. But our vote should represent more than what we're against. It should express what we believe in and what we hope to build.

We don't vote only to defeat what we fear. We vote to advance what we aspire to become.

That's the message of the stars. Don't just look around at the world as it is. Look up and imagine what it can be and then cast your vote to help make it happen.

Don't Let the Ravens Win!

The Nobel Peace Prize is supposed to celebrate those who make the world a better place. This year's selection has many wondering whether the world has lost its moral compass.

The 2026 prize was awarded to Navi Pillay, a South African jurist who chaired a United Nations commission that accused Israel of genocide in Gaza. The award comes amid a relentless campaign of hostility toward Israel and Jews, in which the atrocities of October 7 are minimized while Israel is increasingly portrayed as the world's greatest villain.

Has the whole world turned against us? How are we supposed to respond?

Natan Sharansky addressed the controversy in a powerful Tablet article entitled “Is the Whole World Wrong?” Sharansky recalls an 1892 essay by Ahad Ha'am about the blood libel, the accusation that Jews murdered Christian children for religious purposes. How could so many people believe something so obviously false? Ahad Ha'am's answer was simple. Widespread agreement doesn't establish truth. Entire societies can embrace terrible falsehoods. Sharansky knows this from personal experience. As a Soviet prisoner of conscience, he learned that truth isn't determined by the number of people repeating a lie or the power of the institutions promoting it.

Sharansky writes our response must be to stand firm in what we know to be true.

How do we keep our confidence and optimism when there is so much negativity all around us? The answer may be found in two birds.

After the flood, Noah faced a world that had been destroyed. The rain had stopped, but water still covered the earth. Noah needed to determine whether it was safe to leave the Ark and begin again. First, he sent out a raven. The raven flew back and forth but provided no useful information. Next, Noah sent out a dove. It found no resting place and returned to the Ark. Seven days later, Noah sent it out again. This time, it returned with a freshly plucked olive leaf. After another seven days, the dove went out and did not return. Dry land had emerged, and life could begin again.

Why two different birds?

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 108b) describes the raven as suspicious and argumentative. When Noah sent it from the Ark, the raven accused both God and Noah of hating it. Only two ravens had survived the flood, and now Noah was endangering the entire species by sending one away! The raven saw danger, hostility, and betrayal everywhere. The dove had a very different perspective and behaved differently. It went out, searched, returned when necessary, and eventually brought back evidence of new life.

The raven and dove represent two ways of looking at the world. The raven sees darkness. The dove searches for light. The raven is consumed by suspicion. The dove gets the job done. The raven sees a world beyond repair. The dove finds an olive leaf. There is a place for the raven's severity and judgment. Evil must be confronted. We need strength and discipline, but those qualities cannot become our entire worldview. If all we see is darkness, we may never notice that the waters have begun to recede.

There are plenty of ravens in the world today. Voices that see nothing positive in Israel and refuse to acknowledge the extraordinary achievements of the Jewish people. There's another danger from so many ravens. We can become so preoccupied with the ravens that we begin to sound like them. We can become so focused on those who hate us that we forget to celebrate all we have. We can become so preoccupied with fighting antisemitism that we neglect to teach the beauty of Judaism. We need to confront lies and defend ourselves, but Jewish identity cannot be built exclusively around those who oppose us.

We need to be more like the dove. The dove doesn't pretend the flood never happened. It doesn't ignore the destruction. It flies over the same devastated world as the raven, but it keeps searching and, eventually, it finds an olive leaf.

The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 33:6) presents one view that the dove’s olive leaf came from the Land of Israel, which, according to that view, was spared the full devastation of the flood. Israel is the source of our strength, optimism, and hope. Despite all the hate, there are countless olive leaves to be found today in Israel and amongst the Jewish people. None of this erases the pain or resolves the difficult questions, but negativity is not the whole story.

After the dove failed to return, Noah remained in the Ark until God commanded him, "Tzei min hateivah - Go out from the Ark" (8:16). He seemed reluctant to leave. Why did Noah need to be explicitly told to leave? Perhaps after witnessing so much destruction, the safety of the Ark was more appealing than the uncertainty outside. The flood had ended, but beginning again was frightening. We can understand that feeling. It is tempting to retreat into our own Ark, surrounded by people who think like us, convinced that the world outside is too hostile. Judaism, though, has never been about remaining in the Ark.

The raven reminds us of what we're up against; the dove reminds us of what we're living for. Natan Sharansky reminds us that we don't need the world's approval; we just need to be confident in who we are.

The ravens may be louder. They may dominate the headlines, the protests, and even the Nobel Peace Prize, but they don't get the last word. The dove returned with an olive leaf. The dove found dry land. The dove showed Noah that there was a future beyond the flood. We will confront the hatred, but we will not be consumed by it. We will defend Israel, but we will also celebrate it. We will fight antisemitism, but we will devote even more energy to building a vibrant Jewish future.

The ravens make the noise. The doves make the future.

In the end, the doves win.

In the Beginning God Created Zionism and Anti-Zionism

It seems like the Torah begins exactly where it should.

“Bereishit bara Elokim et ha-shamayim v’et ha-aretz – In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” (Bereishit 1:1)

Where else would you begin the story?

Yet Rashi, in his very first comment on the Torah, notes that there is something at the beginning more fundamental than creation. Why does the Torah begin with creation at all? The Torah is a book of commandments. Shouldn't it begin with the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, the command to establish the Jewish calendar in Parashat Bo?

Rashi explains that the Torah begins with creation because a time will come when the nations of the world will accuse the Jewish people, “You are thieves! You stole the Land of Israel!” The Jewish people will respond that the entire world belongs to God. He created it. He gave the land to whomever He chose, and He chose to give it to us.

Pretty prescient, no?

The Torah begins with the creation of the entire world because it anticipates a dispute over one small piece of it, the Land of Israel. From the onset, we know that a major challenge Jews will face will be between those who can live with the Jews and those who reject them. In the very first verse of the Torah, we encounter both Zionism and anti-Zionism.

Our connection to Israel is not an appendix to Judaism; it is an essential element of the Jewish story itself. Rabbi Dr. Yaacov Herzog, the distinguished Israeli diplomat, regarded Rashi's opening teaching as especially powerful in explaining Israel's place among the nations. The Jewish claim to Israel is not merely a matter of security, politics, or historical attachment. It is rooted in the Torah's understanding of Jewish destiny. There is no Judaism without Zion, Israel.

Today, Zionism has become one of the most frequently used – and misunderstood – words in public discourse. There are religious Zionists and secular Zionists, political Zionists, cultural Zionists, and labor Zionists. Some emphasize the fulfillment of biblical promises. Others emphasize Jewish self-determination, refuge from persecution, or the revival of Hebrew language and culture. Zionists don't all agree on theology, politics, or what Israel should look like. Zionists do agree that the Jewish people have the right to national self-determination in their ancestral homeland.

Zionism does not require supporting every decision of the Israeli government. It does not mean ignoring the rights or suffering of others. Israelis themselves argue about these matters every day. That's part of living in a democracy. As the saying goes, two Jews, three opinions. In Israel, it's probably closer to five.

Zionism means recognizing that the Jews are not merely a religious community. We are a people with a history, a homeland, and a right to determine our own future. Denying this means denying the very essence of Judaism. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks warned that anti-Zionism has become a new expression of antisemitism. Criticizing Israel is not inherently antisemitic, but singling out the Jewish state as uniquely illegitimate, or insisting that Jews alone have no right to national sovereignty, is anti-Jewish plain and simple.

The irony of our current moment is that even people who are deeply critical of Israel can be attacked for not being sufficiently anti-Israel. At an October 7 “coexistence event” this week, anti-Zionist protesters denounced Zohran Mamdani, despite his explicit anti-Jewish anti-Zionism, for participating in a gathering associated with coexistence. Apparently, for some, even Mamdani is a Zionist.

We cannot allow those who hate Israel to define what Zionism means. Nor can we spend all our energy responding to their accusations. Zionism must be more than a response to our enemies or what we stand against. Zionism must be about what we stand for, the ideals we believe in, and the future we aspire to build.

Theodor Herzl famously declared, "Im tirtzu, ein zo aggadah - If you will it, it is no dream." Herzl understood that Jewish national renewal required more than remembering the past or hoping for a better future. Zionism requires action. That remains true today. We have to want it. We have to will it into existence.

We need to live Zionism by making Israel part of our Jewish identity, visiting, learning its history, and strengthening our connections with the people who live there.

We need to defend Zionism by standing up to antisemitism, challenging lies, and refusing to allow intimidation to silence Jewish pride.

We need to build up Zionism by supporting the people and institutions who stand with Israel. At the same time, we must cut ourselves off from the haters and those who refuse to condemn them.

Bereishit anticipates that the Jewish connection to Israel will be challenged. Rashi doesn't promise that the world will accept our claim, but he reminds us why we believe in it. We may not convince everyone. We certainly won't convince those who refuse to listen. But we don't need their permission to embrace our history, our heritage, or our future.

The Torah begins by defending our right to the Land of Israel. The rest of the Torah teaches us how to become a people worthy of that land.

Im tirtzu, ein zo aggadah. If we will it, it is no dream. Live it. Defend it. Build it.

Between the Clouds and the Cockpit

Sometimes you only realize the miracle when you imagine the alternative.

On Wednesday, flydubai Flight FZ1073 was traveling from Dubai to Tel Aviv with 174 passengers aboard when the copilot attacked and seriously wounded Captain Smit Machchhar, and the plane went into a terrifying dive. Despite his wounds, Machchhar managed to unlock the cockpit door.

Israeli passengers Yaniv Hayun, Tzvika Manes, and Asaf Rajuan rushed in and subdued the attacker. Hayun, a plumber with no flight training, grabbed the controls and pulled the plane out of its dive, knowledge he picked up from watching Mayday, a television show about air disasters. Two off-duty pilots happened to be aboard and were able to take over and safely land the damaged plane in Saudi Arabia. Dr. Shota Musayev, an Israeli dentist, treated the badly wounded captain.

It is an almost unbelievable chain of events. In fact, it’s miraculous.

Amit Segal put it powerfully. Imagine the world in which Captain Machchhar did not manage to open that cockpit door. Imagine Hayun, Manes, and Rajuan arriving a few seconds later. Imagine the plumber had never watched that television show. Imagine there weren't two other pilots aboard. In that world, instead of celebrating Sukkot, families would be mourning 174 people, including 27 children. Segal writes, “Thankfully, we woke up in the other world.” The attacker failed, the festival goes on, and ordinary people displayed extraordinary courage.

Miraculous divine protection or human effort?

The Talmud records two opinions as to what the Torah means when it says that God caused the Jewish people to dwell in sukkot when we left Egypt. Rabbi Eliezer says these were the Ananei HaKavod, the miraculous Clouds of Glory that surrounded and protected us. Rabbi Akiva says Sukkot mamash, they were actual booths the Jews built themselves.

Our Sukkot experience – and our lives - needs both.

There are moments when we look back and recognize the Ananei HaKavod. We were protected, and things lined up in ways we could never have arranged ourselves. The right person was in the right place. The door opened at exactly the right moment.

There are sometimes situations of Sukkot Mamash, when human beings take action to build the sukkah. Captain Machchhar had to summon the last of his strength to open the door. Three passengers had to run toward danger rather than away from it. A plumber had to grab the controls. A dentist had to become an emergency medic. Two pilots had to step forward and land the plane.

Was it a miracle or was it human courage?

Yes.

That is the Jewish understanding of how miracles often work. Hashem protects us, and we still have to build the sukkah. We pray for the Ananei HaKavod, and then ordinary people have to do extraordinary things.

We are approaching the end of Sukkot and Simchat Torah, when the entire long holiday season reaches its climax with something surprisingly simple: Joy. Not another sermon. (OK, maybe one more) Not another fast or another confession. We dance.

Tzvi Freeman notes that, in a certain sense, Simchat Torah should be viewed as significantly as Kol Nidrei or Neilah. Those are moments when everyone knows to be reverent. The masses flock to shul, and there is a palpable sense of kedushah, holiness. Judaism asks us to take joy just as seriously. On Simchat Torah, we use some of the same melodies as the High Holidays. A tune that a few weeks ago accompanied the solemnity of Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur suddenly accompanies dancing.

We aren’t mocking the sacred melody. We’re elevating the dancing. We are saying that Jewish joy can be sacred. It is an especially important message now. We have learned over these last years that we cannot wait for life to become easy before we celebrate being Jewish. If Jewish joy depends on everything going right, we may be waiting a very long time.

Judaism is lived in good times and challenging times. We dance when life feels secure, and sometimes we dance precisely because it doesn't. This week, 174 people were supposed to land at Ben Gurion Airport. For a terrifying stretch of time, that outcome was anything but certain. Yet they landed safely. They said Baruch Hashem and sang Od Yoteir Tov, celebrating the fact that God blesses us with better and better. A festival that might have been transformed into a time of national mourning remained Zman Simchateinu, the season of our joy.

Soon the holidays will end. We will finish the Torah and immediately begin again. Our sukkahs will come down, but what they represent should remain with us. Look for the Ananei HaKavod, the moments of protection and providence we don't always see. Simultaneously, be ready to build sukkot mamash. When something needs to be done, step forward. Grab the controls. Do whatever we can with whatever skills Hashem has given us.

And then keep dancing. Because we have the Torah. Because we are still here.

Jewish life isn't only something to defend; it is something to celebrate.

There were many ways that flydubai flight could have ended. Thank God, we woke up in this world, the one in which the door opened, ordinary people did extraordinary things, 174 people came home, and the festival remained Zman Simchateinu.

Between the clouds and the cockpit, there was a miracle. Sometimes the proper response to a miracle is simply to dance.