English Blog

 Sometimes in life G-d decides to let us see Him in the most tangible and vivid way. Most of the time, He remains hidden, but the Rebbe taught that right before the coming of Moshiach, we will begin to see open miracles, moments when He shows His face plainly for all the world to see.

We were privileged to experience one such moment this week, when every single person on the Flydubai flight to Tel Aviv walked off the plane alive after what, by every account, should have ended in catastrophe.

The whole world watched it unfold in real time and all anyone can say is: Wow!There must be a G-d in this world. There is simply no other explanation, no way to account for the way things unfolded.

Look at the chain of “coincidences”:

Although bleeding and badly hurt, the wounded pilot still managed to open the cockpit door, allowing passengers and crew to rush in and overpower the attacker.

There “happened” to be other, off-duty pilots on the flight, who could take control and land the plane safely.

The plane went into a free dive, dropping thousands of feet in a matter of seconds, and a simple Israeli plumber who had never flown a plane before managed to stabilize it.

The terrorist ripped off the steering wheel but still the crew kept that plane in the air.

The right wing was damaged and still they managed to land.

Seconds from tragedy, they averted disaster.

It's unreal. A miracle of biblical proportion! There is no rational way to account for this, which is exactly the point: open miracles like this one are the preparation for the greatest miracle of all, the coming of Moshiach.

Now, let me tell you something personal: Every single time I step onto an airplane, I'm terrified. In my car, I'm in control; my hands are on the wheel, I can brake, I can swerve, I can do something. But strapped into a metal tube 35,000 feet in the air, a tube I didn't build and can't fly, I've handed my life over completely.

And this week, the week of Sukkot, of all weeks, I watched my worst nightmare come true for a plane full of strangers. And then I watched Hashem reach in and catch them.

On Sukkot, we leave our solid, well-built homes and go sit in a flimsy little booth with a roof of branches, open to the elements—the wind, the rain, the bugs, the snow, the heat and humidity, depending where you live.

By every measure, it offers no real protection at all, but that’s entirely the point. We leave what feels safe to remind ourselves it’s never the walls that keep us safe, it’s Hashem.

And what is an airplane if not a sukkah at 35,000 feet? A fragile shell, no control, only the One Above deciding whether you come down gently or not at all.

Surely we cannot remain the same people after witnessing a miracle like this!

Sukkot is the one holiday where the Torah outright commands us to rejoice, so let’s redouble our rejoicing. Go out into the street today, find a Chabadnik on the corner, and shake the lulav with him. And this weekend, as we celebrate Simchat Torah, go to your local Chabad and dance like no other time in your life. Dance like you mean it, in preparation for the coming of Moshiach, and thank Hashem for the incredible miracle He did this week, and every single thing He does for us always.

This week, the whole world came to my city and used the opportunity to put my people—my brothers and sisters and friends and coworkers—on trial.

The streets were shut down, traffic was terrible, motorcades rolled past, and protesters filled the streets. And inside the UN headquarters, one world leader after another stepped up to the podium and pointed a finger at the same small country, my country, Israel.

Israel was brutally attacked and condemned by the entire world. The oldest, tiniest nation on earth, standing in a room full of the world’s most powerful individuals, being told once again that she is the problem. It makes my chest tighten. It’s like they’re living an entirely different reality. 

This isn't the first time the nations of the world have gathered to condemn us.

In fact, the very first United Nations is in the Torah.

There was a king named Balak who saw the power and holiness of the Jewish people and quaked in fear. So he hired the prophet Bilaam, paying him handsomely to do one thing: curse the Jews out of existence.

That too was an international summit, convened for a single purpose: to verbally eviscerate Israel. 

But when Bilaam stood on the mountain and opened his mouth to curse, a blessing emerged instead. "Behold, a people that dwells alone, and is not counted among the nations."

Yes, we dwell alone. Not because we’ve been rejected, but because we were never meant to measure our worth by a show of hands in a room full of strangers. A UN vote can’t touch three thousand years of history or cancel our everlasting covenant with G-d. We know our strength and our purpose as a nation, and a group of world leaders cannot possibly deter us. 

We are entering the holiday of Sukkot right now. And in the Beit Hamikdash, on Sukkot, our ancestors did something extraordinary! They brought seventy bull offerings on the altar — one for each of the seventy nations of the world — to pray for their welfare and protection.

Yes, the very same week the UN gathers to condemn us, we recall the bull offerings in our prayers and pray for the safety and wellbeing of all the nations of the world!

And then there's the sukkah. We leave our safe, solid homes and spend most of our days in a hut any strong wind could knock over. But we feel safe and happy. Because we know our safety doesn’t depend on walls and windows and bars and locks. Our security comes from one place: G-d.

So at the exact moment the world is working overtime to make us feel small and alone and afraid, we’re going out and making ourselves visible in sukkahs all over the city. The only answer to our enemies is to be louder and prouder and more Jewish. 

They gather to condemn, but we gather to bless.

And one day we'll all gather again, not in New York, but in Jerusalem, to celebrate the coming of Moshiach and the Final Redemption—may it happen very, very soon!

Whenever someone gets an aliyah on Rosh Hashanah in our shul, I ask them to make a commitment for the coming year. It can be financial. It can be a mitzvah. It can be something personal. There’s no checklist; it just needs to be something meaningful to that person.

One person - let's call him Yankel - has made a commitment every single year for at least the last 20 years that I’ve known him! When he came up for his aliyah this year, I asked him what commitment he was taking on. I knew he had been thinking about it for months and was curious what he’d come up with.

“I'm going to say Modeh Ani every morning,” he declared.

Amazing! Think about how conditioned we are to pick up our phones as soon as we wake up in the morning and check for anything that came in overnight - texts, emails, meetings, pictures. But here’s Yankel saying, “No, I’m going to pause every morning as soon as I open my eyes and say twelve simple but important words: “Modeh ani lefanecha melech chai v’kayam shehechezarta bi nishmati bechemla raba emunatecha. I thank You, living and enduring King, for You have graciously returned my soul within me. Great is Your faithfulness.”

Thank You, G-d, for giving me another day.

It's such a small thing. It takes less than 30 seconds. But it sets the tone for the entire day.

Then another guy - let's call him Jack - came up for an aliyah.

Now, I know Jack had a difficult year. I know how incredibly busy he is. And I know that for him, adding one more thing to an already overflowing life was not exactly going to be easy. So I thought, let me not ask for too much.

"Jack, I want you to make one commitment. Just one. And ideally, do it before Yom Kippur."

"What is it?"

"Put Tefillin one time. Just once! Any day between now and Yom Kippur."

And he agreed. A one-time, manageable commitment.

Two days later, Jack emailed me: "Rabbi, remember I made a commitment on Rosh Hashanah to put on tefillin? I did it! And I loved it so much that I'm going to do it every morning."

Wait. What?

I kept reading.

"And I'm also going to say Modeh Ani every morning."

A huge smile broke across my face.

The guy I asked to do one mitzvah once had just decided to do two every single morning! And so far, he's been doing it. Every morning.

So now I'm trying to push it one step further. "Jack, why don't you come to our daily minyan?"

He's thinking about it. Maybe he'll come. Maybe he won't. But he’s already come out a winner with two huge new mitzvahs.

It’s easy to think we have to completely change our lives to make meaningful change. And we avoid taking any steps, because it feels so huge and overwhelming.

The key is to just start. With one thing. Anything.

And that one small mitzvah opens the door to the next one, and the next. And suddenly, without even planning it, your whole morning -and then your whole day, and your whole week - looks different.

So, where to start?

There's something particularly powerful about the first moments of the day. Before the demands and chaos begin.

Take 30 seconds to thank G-d for the day. That’s all it takes. Say Modeh Ani. Remember who you are and Who gave you another day.

At the very least, it will set you up for a more intentional day.

But it may also lead to a spiritual climb you can’t even imagine!

I was getting ready for our family trip to South Africa earlier this summer, and while no one can claim that packing for a trip with eight children is relaxing, we are old hands at it by now.

But this time, I ran into a very specific problem: I couldn't find my Shabbat pants.

And I started having feelings of deja vu. I’d been here before.

A couple of years ago, I flew to Israel and somehow couldn't find my Shabbat pants. And it was a bigger problem than you might expect! You can’t just walk into a store in Israel on a Friday afternoon and ask, "Excuse me, do you happen to have a nice pair of Shabbat pants in exactly my size?" So you walk into an Israeli shul with a mismatched suit—weekday pants and a shabbat jacket— and they think, “these Americans sure are strange people!”

This time, I was determined not to make the same mistake.

I searched everywhere. Every drawer.

I asked my kids to help. I asked my wife.

At one point, I'm fairly sure the entire family was more invested in finding my pants than in packing their own clothes.

But nothing turned up. They seemed to have evaporated into thin air.

Eventually, I made peace with my fate: We would land in Cape Town on Thursday night, without much time to shop and limited options. Maybe I'll find a store, maybe I won't. And if I don't? I'll wear regular pants on Shabbat. What can you do?

So we stopped the search and sent everyone back to packing their own belongings.

We flew. We landed. We got to the Airbnb. And I started unpacking.

When I opened my suitcase, they were right there. My long-searched-for Shabbat pants, sitting right in my suitcase, exactly where they needed to be.

I just stared at them, incredulous, and then I started laughing as it hit me all at once: I’d been so determined to avoid a repeat of what happened in Israel, that I’d packed them in advance, only to forget and end up turning the entire house upside down.

We all had a good laugh and I enjoyed feeling properly dressed for Shabbat. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized there’s a great lesson here as we prepare for Rosh Hashanah.

So many of us are searching. For answers, meaning, happiness, fulfillment … whatever we feel is missing.

And we’ll go to great lengths to find the answers. “Who can help me?” we wonder. So we run to all kinds of professionals - rabbis, therapists, specialists, teachers. We call our friends. We ask our spouse. We even ask our kids.

But there is one place that is so easy to overlook - a place where no one else can go: Inside yourself.

We all have a neshama, a soul, a piece of Hashem, which knows exactly what we need to do. It knows who you really are and what you're capable of.

Instead of running around looking for answers, sometimes we need to turn inwards and ask ourselves: Who am I? What am I here for? What kind of person do I want to become? What is my neshama actually asking of me? What have I been avoiding?

So as we approach Rosh Hashanah, maybe we could all do a little less searching outside ourselves, and a little more searching within.

If you just trust yourself, you’ll discover that the strength you're looking for is already inside you.

May Hashem grant each and every one of us a year of health, happiness, nachas, success, and revealed blessings.

And may we all have the courage to look in the right place.

Shana tova!

 It was late in Cape Town and my wife was almost asleep, when, for no discernable reason, she reached over and turned her phone back on for one last look.

At that exact moment, thousands of miles away, our son Mendel was standing at a gate in Ben Gurion Airport in Israel, about to board Ethiopian Airlines and fly to South Africa to join us for Shabbos.

But when the airline clerk looked at Mendel's passport, she found a problem.

“You're not 18.”

Mendel looked at her. “Yes, I am.”

“No. You're not.”

Apparently, Ethiopian Airlines has a rule that someone under 18 cannot fly alone to prevent child trafficking and kidnappings. I have to admit, I’ve never heard of this rule before. My kids have been flying by themselves since they were very young, and we've never had a problem. Suddenly, on this particular day, on this particular flight, with a teenager just three days away from his 18th birthday, it was an issue.

His birthday is August 9, and it was August 6. According to the secular calendar, he was still 17, but according to the Hebrew calendar, his 18th birthday had already arrived and been celebrated.

So Mendel tried to explain this to the clerk. “I'm actually 18. According to the Jewish calendar, I'm already 18.”

She wasn’t impressed. Her screen showed only one calendar, and according to that calendar he was 17. She told him that the only way he could fly was with written parental consent.

Meanwhile, we had no idea this was going on, but that’s exactly when something internal prompted my wife to turn her phone back on just as she was drifting off to sleep.

Mendel called, she answered, and immediately went into action, finding the exact language required and drafting the authorization within minutes. Problem solved.

Or not quite.

Mendel doesn't carry a smartphone, so he had no way to open the email and show the airline employee the authorization. But he found a kind woman in the terminal who was willing to help him.

The airline said no. She couldn't be his guardian. She was a stranger.

“Can you speak to my mother on the phone?” Mendel tried. But they refused that too.

Then they needed a credit card. His didn't work. In desperation, and this is probably my favorite part of the whole story, he actually asked the airline employee if he could use her credit card and give her cash!

But no. The answer was still no.

So he watched the plane to South Africa leave without him, and turned around and went back to Israel alone. The Shabbos we had planned was not to be.

At that moment, it was very frustrating. But also a pivotal lesson in Hashgacha Pratis, Divine Providence.

Hashem isn’t only involved in the big things, but in all the minutia of our lives. And everything He does is for a reason. I don't know why Mendel missed his flight. But I believe with absolute certainty that there was a reason.

We believe that a leaf doesn't move on the ground without Hashem. If that's true, then surely a 17-year-old boy doesn't randomly miss a flight because his birthday happens to be three days away.

Maybe there was something Hashem was protecting him from. Maybe there was something He was leading him toward. Maybe something was supposed to happen in Israel that Shabbos. Maybe something was supposed to happen in Johannesburg that didn't happen because Mendel wasn't there. I don't know.

It’s easy to say “hashgacha pratis” when we end up seeing the reason. The real challenge—and the real blessing—is to maintain that belief even when nothing we see backs it up.

I wish Mendel had been able to join us, but what an important reminder for him, and for us, about what really matters and Who’s really in charge.

A few weeks before my trip to South Africa, my brother-in-law called to ask me a favor. He was ordering a new credit card and asked if I would trouble myself to bring it with me when I came. “Of course,” I said. He thanked me and urged me to keep it safe.

Where is the safest place I can keep it? I asked myself. And I decided to keep it with my own credit card. That way it is guaranteed safe.

And I did. As soon as the envelope arrived, I tore it open and slid his card in right beside mine. What could go wrong with something kept as close as I keep my own.

Then came the chaos of a 15-hour flight with 8 children! Oy gevalt.

We landed in Cape Town already late for the bar mitzvah. We ran to pick up our rental and the woman at the counter said, “License and credit card, please.” I reached for them … and they were gone. No card. No license. Not in my wallet, not in my pocket, not in any of our bags.

I had a photo of my license but she couldn’t accept it. So we put the van under my wife’s name and I drove. (We will not dwell on the fine print of that arrangement) Thank G-d, we made it to the bar mitzvah in one piece.

The next day, my brother-in-law called: someone was using his card in Cape Town. And that’s when it clicked. I hadn't misplaced anything; I had been robbed. Somewhere over those 15 dark hours on the airplane, someone had quietly lifted my cards and my license, and my brother-in-law's precious card right along with them, and was now enjoying a shopping spree across the city.

I'll spare you my first instinct, which was to note that the thief was spending rather more modestly than my own family does, and to briefly wonder whether we should simply let him keep it. That's a joke. (Mostly.) I cancelled everything, of course, and my brother-in-law also ordered a new card (and, I'm fairly sure, found a more reliable courier than me to carry it).

 But the more I thought about it, the more I realized what a powerful lesson I’d just been shown.

I tried hard to keep the credit card safe. I gave it thought and put it in the safest place I could think of—right alongside my own card, where I would protect it as I do my own. And still, it was stolen.

Because what really protects us is not our own actions, but Hashem. He is in control and He decides if my credit card will stay in my pocket or be stolen on the other side of the world.

Sometimes Hashem allows something small to be taken from us to teach us something much bigger about what we should really be holding onto.

The credit card was replaceable. The license was replaceable. The money was replaceable. But the lesson? That is something only He could teach me.

During our trip to South Africa, we took the kids to Cape Point about two hours outside of Cape Town, at the very tip of the Cape Peninsula—the most south-east corner of the country. 

It’s scenic and mountainous, and unique to South Africa’s rugged beauty. The hike up the cliffs is absolutely worth the effort, and the views from the lighthouse are truly breathtaking.

When we were ready to leave, I took one of my sons to the restroom, while the rest of the kids went ahead to wait in the car with my wife.

We were gone for all of three minutes, but when we returned, an entirely new scene greeted us: a whole troop of wild baboons! They had descended on the area and were ransacking the garbage cans like they'd been waiting all day! One large male had claimed a pile of trash as his own and was baring his teeth at any of the other baboons who dared come close.

Then I noticed a woman standing nearby with her back to the scene. She had no idea what was going on! One of the baboons crept up behind her and grabbed her handbag (fortunately, he didn’t try too hard, and she was able to hold onto it!)  

We walked towards our car and that’s when I saw it—a wild baboon had made itself quite comfortable atop our vehicle. 

So there I am, my wife is inside, my children are inside, and I’m standing about twenty feet away, doing the only truly heroic thing a father can do in a moment like this: filming it.

The doors and windows were closed and locked, so everyone was safe. But the baboon was climbing onto the hood, peering through the windows, as if deciding which tasty snack to go for first.

Inside, some of the kids were losing it. One of my daughters in particular was terrified. She couldn’t stop shaking. 

But I loved every second of it.

I grew up with these baboons. And here were my own children getting to experience the exact thing I lived as a boy.

As much as I wanted to stay and watch them, soaking in the nostalgia, as soon as the baboon climbed off the car, I jumped in and drove off to try and calm my daughter. 

I wondered why she was so afraid. The baboon didn’t do anything to her. It couldn't. They were separated by glass and steel. 

But the baboon looked dangerous, and so that’s how she perceived it. That perception was powerful enough to make her scream, and powerful enough to make us drive away.

And she’s not alone. Much of what scares us isn’t actually dangerous, it just looks that way. And that perception is strong enough to keep us shut away, missing the very experiences that could have been the best day of our lives.

But the baboon was never going to hurt my daughter, and the thing you're afraid of isn’t going to hurt you either.  

Afraid to start keeping Shabbat? That makes sense! It looks like giving something up. But if you let go and dive in, you’ll discover that it adds so much more to your life than it takes away. 

Scared to start keeping kosher? It looks complicated and restrictive. And it definitely is a big step! But once you take the first step, and then the next, it will become a lot less overwhelming.

Anxious about walking into the daily minyan for the first time? Makes sense! It’s intimidating walking into any unfamiliar space. But if you let go and take the plunge, you’ll soon wonder what you were ever afraid of. 

We're standing at the doorway of a brand-new year, the perfect time to stop trusting the perception and start taking the leap. 

It’s not as scary as it seems!

P.S. I still have the video. My daughter has since watched it roughly forty times — from the safety of our living room couch, where no baboon has ever once appeared. Funny how brave we all get once there's an ocean between us and the thing we were afraid of! Give her a few years and she'll be telling her own kids that this was the greatest day of her life. 

I spent two nights in Pilanesberg Game Reserve this week, with my brother, my nephew, and all our kids. We traveled in three separate cars, but did everything together.

Monday was absolutely spectacular. Everything we dreamed of. We saw elephants, lions, buffalo, zebras, giraffes, hippos, and more. 

The next day it rained and the rocky dirt roads started to turn to mud. Jokingly, I turned to my family and asked: "You know, these roads are really rough. What would happen if we got a flat tire out here?"

Twenty minutes later, we found out.

My nephew spotted it first from his car. "You have a flat tire." My brother double-checked. He was right.

We were in the middle of the African bush. We had no phone service, no internet, no WhatsApp, and no Google Maps. And because of the rain, we hadn't passed another car in ages. 

The first rule they drill into you when you enter the reserve is: stay in your vehicle no matter what! You’re surrounded by wild animals, predators who move quickly and quietly. You’re in their home, on their turf, where they live and hunt, and as soon as you’re out of the vehicle, you’re easy prey. 

But now, we had no choice. We now had to get out of the car.

The kids started getting nervous. "What if lions come?" I tried to reassure them but I was worried too. I just had the good sense not to say it out loud this time, having already learned my lesson about making predictions!

I got out and started hunting for the spare. I knew there had to be a jack and a tire somewhere. But I searched the entire car and came up empty-handed. 

My brother and nephew set off in their cars to look for help. We moved my four younger children into their vehicles, two in each, and then we did the only thing left to do: wait and pray.

About ten minutes later, a Jeep appeared on the horizon. Inside was an Afrikaans couple who introduced themselves as Mecayla and Divan and pulled over to see if we needed help. 

We explained what had happened, and without hesitation, Divan climbed underneath the vehicle, into the mud and pouring rain, to show me that the spare lives underneath the car on this particular model. For the next hour, two complete strangers worked to change the tire of a family they had never met, in the middle of a game reserve, while our children kept watch out the windows for lions, rhinos, and buffalo.

Then another couple stopped and introduced themselves. It turned out they were Jewish and my mother had taught the woman in school years earlier. Then a third couple pulled over. And then a man named Anthony.

All these strangers willing to put themselves in danger to help other strangers. I was blown away!

When I asked, Anthony told me it had been a very long time since he last put on tefillin. Before I could say another word, my son hopped out of the car, walked over, climbed into Anthony's car, and right there, in the middle of Pilanesberg Game Reserve, surrounded by lions and rain, my son helped another Jew put on tefillin for the first time in years.

You might think I was irritable or frustrated, stuck on the side of a muddy road for an hour and a half. But actually, I couldn't stop smiling.

Usually, when something goes wrong, we ask, "Why is this happening to me?" But the better question is, "What is this happening for?"

Why did we get a flat tire? Why twenty minutes after I said the words out loud? Why in the one spot with no phone service? Why did Mecayla and Divan drive by exactly ten minutes later? Why a Jewish couple who happened to know my mother? Why Anthony? Why did it even occur to me to ask him about tefillin?

We spend so much of our lives certain we've been stranded. Things don’t go to plan. A deal falls through, plans collapse, things go wrong. We feel like we've been abandoned in the middle of nowhere.

But really, we're exactly where we're supposed to be. It’s not always as obvious as my encounter, when it’s clear I got a flat tire because Anthony needed to put on tefillin, and Hashem needed a flat tire to arrange the meeting. But everything that happens in our lives is Divinely orchestrated and ordained. There’s always a purpose. We’re never stranded or abandoned. It might not be where we want to be, but it’s exactly where we’re meant to be. 

We changed the tire and made it back to the gate. The next morning, I saw we actually had three(!) flat tires, not just one. The others were slowly leaking air, so they didn’t flatten completely, allowing us to drive out of the park. One was enough to get us to stop and meet Anthony. The others held up enough to get us home safely!

Everything worked out, thank G-d. I gave Mecayla and Divan my Instagram because I never want to lose touch with the two strangers who became angels in the rain.

We thought a flat tire had ruined our afternoon, but it turns out the flat tire was the afternoon! How blessed we are!

P.S. My family has now officially banned me from wondering out loud about anything on our trips. Apparently, I'm a little too good at it.

Last week, I flew from Newark to Cape Town, South Africa, with two of my brothers and their families to celebrate two simchas: a wedding and a bar mitzvah.

Long flights always come with their challenges, and this one would be 15 hours(!), but we were well prepared and looked forward to a peaceful trip.

On a flight this long, it’s inevitable that we’ll have to do some of the daily prayers aboard. We’re always mindful that we are guests on the aircraft and try to be as unobtrusive as possible. We wait until meal service has ended, remain out of the crew's way as much as possible, and return to our seats quickly. We certainly never want to inconvenience anyone. 

We’ve done this on countless flights over many years without incident. This time, it was entirely different.

As soon as we started the evening prayers, one flight attendant (I’ll call him S) began shouting at us aggressively. “Move! Get out of the aisle!” He did this repeatedly, frightening our children and shocking us all.

Later that evening, my brother fell asleep and his legs drifted slightly in the aisle—something we’ve all done! But instead of waking him with a polite request, S. slapped his legs to wake him. 

A short time later, my 12-year-old niece was returning to her seat after using the restroom. As S. passed, he physically shoved her aside. Her mother witnessed the entire incident and was left stunned.

We lodged formal complaints with other members of the crew but nothing changed. 

The following morning, the same pattern repeated itself. Once again, S. shouted at members of our family as we prayed quietly. He then repeatedly ordered my nephew, who was standing quietly at his own seat in the middle of the Amidah, the most important prayer, to sit down.

At that point, I had had enough and asked him to stop yelling. Instead, he became even more agitated and aggressive, so I took out my phone and began recording the interaction, which only further angered him.

Thank G-d, we arrived in Cape Town safely and celebrated our family's joyous occasions together. And I sincerely hope we do not encounter S on our flight home!

But in mulling over this story, I wondered what it is that makes us so determined to gather in prayer even in places that aren’t welcoming or conducive. After all, we are fortunate to have shuls—dedicated prayer spaces—in so many places. Couldn’t we just pray before we left and again upon arrival? 

But in Judaism, prayer is not exclusively tied to a physical space. G-d is accessible and waiting to hear from us wherever we go—whether that’s a shul, an amusement park, a boat, or an airplane. 

Yes, we should pray quietly, respectfully, and without seeking special treatment. But simply skipping prayers is never an option. So next time you’re traveling, or out for the day without access to a shul, don’t be intimidated or embarrassed to stop and pray wherever you are. And it is my hope that the airline will adequately convey that to S, so the next group of Jews on his flight aren’t subjected to the same treatment we were. 

Oh and I really hope S. is not our flight attendant on our way back!

So much of the work we do caring for wounded soldiers at Belev Echad is only possible thanks to our many generous donors. Every contribution counts, no matter the size.

Recently, we reached out to a donor who sent us $100 after the October 7th massacre. We shared some of the work we’ve done and some of our current needs, and asked if she’d be willing to donate again. 

When she didn’t respond, we sent a follow-up email.

This time, she replied quickly. “Please take me off your list. Do not contact me again. I cannot in good conscience continue to donate with the way the situation has deteriorated over there. The Netanyahu govt and IDF leadership is completely incongruent with my Judaism.”

We explained that Belev Echad helps all wounded soldiers. We never ask if they are left-wing or right-wing. We even help Druze and Arab soldiers. We avoid politics and focus on healing.

Nevertheless, she remained firm in her position, insisting that she cannot support soldiers acting at the behest of the current Israeli government, which is sending them to commit acts of treason.

I wondered, then, why she had donated after October 7th.

“That was different,” she explained. “When Israel is fighting a truly noble war, and stops the wanton harassment and sanctioning of Palestinian living in the West Bank, then I will donate again. I donated just after 10/7 for that reason. However, what’s going on now is not about security it is genocide and ethnic cleansing and I cannot support soldiers who have taken part in this.”

With that in mind, we gave it one last-ditch effort. “Would you consider supporting a soldier who was injured on October 7th, who needs a laptop for her studies?”

And she agreed! “If you can assure me that no portion of the money will go elsewhere, then yes!” 

Voila! Success! 

I kept thinking about this interaction long after it was over. First of all We never ever give up! But what actually happened here? How did we go from “Take me off your list and never email me again” to “Yes, I’ll contribute towards a laptop”?!

And I realized it’s all about meeting people where they’re at. At first, it seemed like we were at complete odds with no common ground. But after going back and forth a few times, it became clear that we actually share a lot: a deep concern for the individual soldiers. And with that mutual care and brotherly love, we can work together to improve lives. 

Our world is more divided than ever. Politics, religion, business disagreements, etc. And it’s so easy—and tempting—to completely dismiss someone with whom we disagree. Unfortunately, cutting off relationships over small differences has become all too common. 

But what if we pushed ourselves to engage further until we find that common ground? We may always disagree on certain things, but in almost all cases, there is a lot more connectedness and agreement than those few sticking points. 

The same goes for Torah and mitzvot. If someone isn’t ready to keep Shabbat fully, we don’t write them off—we encourage them to observe for a few hours and then add more as they feel ready. If they can’t commit to keeping kosher at all times in all places, we encourage them to start with what does feel doable and build up from there.

It’s all about meeting people where they’re at. It’s one of the most powerful tools we have in our arsenal.

Let's continue loving each other because at the end of the day we are all brothers!

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!

On Wednesday morning, I opened the door to get out of my Uber and immediately closed it because a car was driving by. Annoyed, the other driver rolled down his window, and screamed: "Only the Jews act this way!"

For a moment, I felt the sting of an age-old hatred that has followed our people for thousands of years.

Then my mind returned to the night before, Tuesday night, in Israel, at our Belev Echad House.

Ambulances pulled up outside. Shuttles arrived from the hospital. Soldiers were helped out of wheelchairs, some needing help just to walk through the door.

Within an hour, close to one hundred wounded IDF soldiers filled the room, all injured fighting in Lebanon these past months.

Some had lost arms. Some had lost legs. Some had lost their eyesight. Some carried brain injuries no one could see.

This is what Jew hatred does. 

And yet the room wasn't heavy with grief. It was full of life.

Music. Laughter. Raffles. Friends teasing each other like nothing had ever happened to them. Smiles that had clearly fought through unbearable pain just to reach the surface.

There, with each other, for a few hours, they weren't patients or casualties. They were family.

No one stared. No one pitied. No one needed to explain anything,  because everyone in that room already understood.

Watching them, I understood something too: we have every reason to break. And somehow, we keep choosing to build. To smile. To take care of one another.

The man who screamed at me yesterday? Maybe he had a bad day. Or maybe he truly hates Jews. Who knows?

But I wish he could have seen what I saw the night before: a room full of young people who gave everything so that others could live in safety. Young men and women who do not think of themselves, but fight for freedom, for Israel, for Jews everywhere, and for all humanity! 

We have never been defined by those who hate us. And our answer to darkness has never been revenge. It has always been the Torah and its mitzvot!

Despite the pain, we dance. Despite the wounds, we laugh. Despite the hatred, we love.

We have just entered three weeks of mourning for the destruction of the Holy Temple. This period commemorates many tragedies in our history and many times others sought to destroy us. But we are still here, doing mitzvot and studying Torah. 

Despite every attempt to break us — the Jewish people will prevail. Am Yisrael Chai!