English Blog

I had just gotten home and was finally sitting down when my phone buzzed. A rabbi in New Jersey had forwarded me a picture of an Israeli passport with the text: "Found this passport on the streets of Manhattan. Does anybody know this person?"

I looked at the picture and almost fell off my chair. I knew exactly who it was! It was Dvir!

I immediately called the rabbi who had forwarded me the message. "I know this guy!" I said.

He laughed and replied, "I don't actually have the passport. I just forwarded it from another WhatsApp group."

The passport had already taken on a life of its own, bouncing from one WhatsApp group to another, hoping that eventually someone would recognize the owner.

I tried to call Dvir to let him know. No answer.

I called again. Still nothing.

Maybe he saw my name and thought, "Uh-oh ... the rabbi is fundraising again!" and decided to let it go to voicemail. Who knows.

But I knew that Dvir flies from Israel to New York for business every week, almost always returning home on Thursday evening. And it was now Thursday afternoon, which meant he was probably already on his way to the airport.

Since I couldn’t get hold of Dvir, I called Jack, the CFO of his company.

"Jack," I said, "I think I know where Dvir's passport is."

"What do you mean? His passport is missing?"

"He probably doesn't even know yet," I replied. "But trust me, you need to go and get it."

I gave Jack the phone number of the man who had found the passport. What happened next was pure and visible Divine Providence: The finder of the passport and Jack were just blocks away from each other in Manhattan!

Within minutes, they met, Jack grabbed the passport and raced to Dvir before he reached the airport, and handed it to him.

Dvir boarded his flight to Israel completely unaware of how close he had come to disaster, thank G-d and thanks to a highly networked group of rabbis on Whatsapp!

Whew!

Later, I realized that there’s a deeper lesson here.

For several hours, Dvir had a significant, life-disrupting problem. He would’ve been stuck, unable to get back to Israel.

And yet, he wasn't anxious. He didn’t panic.

Because he didn’t even know! While he calmly continued toward the airport, other people were already solving the problem for him.

And while we may not have lost our passports, the same goes for the rest of us. How much time do we spend overwhelmed by our worries? We worry about our health, our children, our finances, our future, the security situation in Israel, the state of the Jewish people worldwide, natural disasters … the list is unending.

But just because we don't see the solution doesn't mean there isn't one. Long before we become aware of the problem, Hashem has already begun arranging the solution.

Our job isn't to carry the weight of the entire world on our shoulders; it’s simply to do our best, say another prayer, take another step forward—and trust that Hashem is already holding the passport we think we've lost.

Last Shabbat, I got into a massive argument at the holiest site on earth — right at the foot of the Western Wall.

Because of a quirk in the Jewish calendar, Jews outside of Israel have been one Torah portion behind Israel for weeks. In Israel, Shavuot is celebrated for one day; outside of Israel, for two. But because Shavuot this year fell on Friday and Shabbat, that one extra day threw the Torah reading schedule out of sync for weeks.

The long-awaited "catch-up" Shabbat finally arrived. Outside of Israel, we would read a double portion, Chukat–Balak, while in Israel they would read only Balak. By the next week, we’d be back in sync.

There was just one problem: I was in Jerusalem that Shabbat, and halachically, I was still on “American time” and needed to hear Chukat–Balak.

My father was with me, visiting from South Africa. He had a yahrzeit and wanted to receive Maftir, so we walked down to the Kotel, where there are dozens of minyanim praying side by side at any given time.

We joined a minyan, and when it came time for the Torah reading, my father offered to read.

When I added, "I'd like to hear Chukat–Balak," everything changed.

The Israelis looked at me as if I had lost my mind. "We already read Chukat last week!"

"I know, but we Americans haven’t heard it yet," I countered. "I'll read it fast!"

"Why should everyone have to sit through it again? Tircha d'tzibbur!" they argued — the halachic principle that you don't unnecessarily burden a congregation. "Just read Balak. And make it quick."

"But those of us from outside Israel still need to hear Chukat!" I pleaded. "What does it bother you? Come on!"

And so, for several minutes, right there at the foot of the Western Wall — surrounded by soldiers, tourists, yeshiva students, families, and visitors from around the world — a passionate halachic battle raged over the burning question: Should we read one Torah portion or two?

Ultimately, I gave in and we read only Balak.

You might think I walked away upset, but actually I couldn't stop smiling.

Think about everything that's happening in the world right now. We have enemies threatening us from every direction. Iran could attack at any moment. Antisemitism is exploding across the globe. Politicians rise to power on platforms of hostility toward our people. The Jewish people have no shortage of real, existential things to fight about.

And what did a group of Jews choose to argue about, at the holiest place on earth, at one of the most turbulent moments in modern history?

Whether to read one parshah or two on Shabbat morning.

How beautiful is that?!

The world defines people by what consumes them. What occupies their conversations. What keeps them awake at night. And the Jewish people certainly care about the great issues of our generation. But underneath it all, after thousands of years, what still ignites our deepest passion is Torah.

We argue because we care. Our disagreements aren't signs of weakness. They're signs of love. You don't fight passionately over something you're indifferent to. A nation that argues about Torah is a nation that is still invested and in love.

And that gave me tremendous hope.

Because as long as Jews are still arguing about Torah, Torah is still shaping the Jews.

Empires have risen and fallen. Our enemies have come and gone. Babylon, Rome, and a hundred others who swore we wouldn't survive are footnotes in history books — while we're still standing at that Wall, debating the same Torah our grandparents debated, and their grandparents before them.

And that's the greatest miracle of all.

P.S. I still think we should have read Chukat!