Kosher Duck Revolution | Weekly Columns

The MIT Mathematician Who Calculated Happiness

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on October 22, 2026.

John Urschel is a unicorn.

A professor at MIT, Urschel recently solved a mathematical problem that had puzzled researchers for more than three decades. His work involves concepts so complex that most of us would have trouble understanding the questions, much less the answers.

But perhaps the most fascinating thing about John Urschel isn't what he's accomplished in mathematics. It's what he walked away from to pursue it. Before becoming an MIT professor, Urschel had a successful career in an entirely different field -- one that gave him fame, fortune, and opportunities most can only dream about.

And he voluntarily gave it up.

What did John Urschel discover that was worth more than a career millions would envy?

✨3 Ideas

Dare to imagine your best life

What would your life look like if you could make it truly extraordinary?

Imagine, for example, a life filled with deeply loving relationships that enrich your days, rewarding work that enthralls you, or the satisfaction of making a meaningful difference in the lives of others.

The life we ultimately create may depend on the life we dare to imagine. Not a perfect life, but one that fulfills our soul’s deepest aspirations.

**Are you aiming high enough? **

Consider an archer whose arrow falls ten feet short of the target. What went wrong? **Perhaps he simply didn’t aim high enough. **

In our lives, we may pursue modest goals, yet never discover what we’re truly capable of because we haven’t set our sights high enough.

The danger isn’t always that we fail to reach our goals. Sometimes it’s that we succeed in reaching goals that were too small.

**Your best life begins today **

There’s a poster in a room for people seeking to overcome substance abuse: “The elevator is broken. Please take the 12 Steps.”

**An extraordinary life isn’t created in one extraordinary moment. It’s built through the choices we make, day after day. **

What would bring you one step closer to the life you’ve imagined? Perhaps reconnecting with an old friend, learning a new skill, or finding a way to make someone’s life better.

📜2 Quotes

“Whoever pursues righteousness and kindness will find life, righteousness, and honor.” — Proverbs 21:21

“There’s a difference in living and living well.” — _George Strait, song, ‘Living and Living Well’ _

❓1 Question

Is there an opportunity to make your life better that you haven’t yet decided to pursue?

And remember John Urschel, the brilliant mathematician? Before becoming an MIT professor, he was a 6-foot-3, 313-pound offensive lineman for the Baltimore Ravens in the National Football League!

But playing in the NFL -- something millions of young athletes dream about -- left Urschel unable to give his best to everything that mattered most to him. So, after three years of “living the dream,” Urschel retired to live HIS dream: earning a doctorate, becoming a mathematics professor, and nurturing a close relationship that would last a lifetime.

Reflecting on his decision, Urschel said: “I feel like I bet on myself in a big way. I’m living my best life right now.”

And perhaps that’s the most important calculation any of us can make -- not simply how to succeed at what we’re doing, but how to build a life truly worth living.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of taking steps toward your best life,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Have you ever said no to something good so you could say yes to something better? I’d love to hear your story!

The Souls They Made

Uriel ben Avraham — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I had a migraine last Shabbat and had to skip shul. So my husband and I stayed in and had a quiet one. It was restful. I'll take it.

The rest of the week was people. I had coffee with our shul's executive director in her office. The rabbi asked me to substitute teach in the religious school. And I've been learning about an organization here in town that has been doing community development work for forty years or so, and I had coffee with its two founders.

That's a lot of coffee for one week.

This Shabbat we read Lech Lecha. God tells Avram to go, and Avram goes. Before he leaves Haran, the Torah stops to list what he takes with him:

וַיִּקַּ֣ח אַבְרָם֩ אֶת־שָׂרַ֨י אִשְׁתּ֜וֹ וְאֶת־ל֣וֹט בֶּן־אָחִ֗יו וְאֶת־כׇּל־רְכוּשָׁם֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר רָכָ֔שׁוּ וְאֶת־הַנֶּ֖פֶשׁ אֲשֶׁר־עָשׂ֣וּ בְחָרָ֑ן וַיֵּצְא֗וּ לָלֶ֙כֶת֙ אַ֣רְצָה כְּנַ֔עַן וַיָּבֹ֖אוּ אַ֥רְצָה כְּנָֽעַן׃ Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother's son Lot, and all the wealth that they had amassed, and the persons that they had acquired in Haran; and they set out for the land of Canaan. When they arrived in the land of Canaan,

— Bereshit 12:5

His wife, his nephew, their things. And then "the persons that they had acquired in Haran."

The word JPS translates as "acquired" is asu. Its plain meaning is made. Ha-nefesh asher asu b'Charan, the souls they made in Haran.

Rashi is honest about it. He says the simple reading is the servants they'd bought, and he brings two other verses where the same verb means getting rich. But he leads with the midrash. These are the people Avram and Sarai brought in under the wings of the Shechinah. Avram converted the men and Sarai converted the women, and the Torah counts it as if they had made them.

So Sarai gets half the credit. The first two people in the Torah to bring anybody in did it together.

I have a personal stake in that reading. When you convert, you take Avraham as your father. That's the ben Avraham at the bottom of this column. In a small way I'm one of those souls, a few thousand years down the line.

Then Avram keeps moving, and nearly every time he stops, he builds an altar:

וַיַּעְתֵּ֨ק מִשָּׁ֜ם הָהָ֗רָה מִקֶּ֛דֶם לְבֵֽית־אֵ֖ל וַיֵּ֣ט אׇהֳלֹ֑ה בֵּֽית־אֵ֤ל מִיָּם֙ וְהָעַ֣י מִקֶּ֔דֶם וַיִּֽבֶן־שָׁ֤ם מִזְבֵּ֙חַ֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה וַיִּקְרָ֖א בְּשֵׁ֥ם יְהֹוָֽה׃ From there he moved on to the hill country east of Bethel and pitched his tent, with Bethel on the west and Ai on the east; and he built there an altar to GOD and invoked GOD by name.

— Bereshit 12:8

"Invoked GOD by name." Onkelos reads that as prayer. Ramban quotes him and then says the better reading is something else. Avram stood in front of that altar and called out God's name in a loud voice, telling people who God is. Then he adds something. Back in Ur, Avram had tried teaching, and nobody wanted to hear it. Here, in the new place, he got used to teaching.

In Ramban's reading, the first thing Avram does in the land, over and over, is teach.

Rambam takes it further, in the opening chapter of his laws on idolatry. He has Avraham going city to city, calling out to anyone who'd listen. When people gathered around and asked him questions, he would explain it to each one of them according to their understanding. Thousands came, and then tens of thousands. Rambam calls them the people of Avraham's house. Avraham wrote it down and taught Yitzchak. Yitzchak taught Yaakov. Yaakov taught all his sons.

"To each one according to their understanding." If you've ever been handed a room of kids at religious school, you know that's the whole job description. Same lesson, a dozen different kids, and every one of them hears it differently. Avraham worked that out a few thousand years before anyone wrote a curriculum.

Ramban has one more thing in the same comment. Avraham calls out God's name. So does Yitzchak, when he gets to Gerar. Yaakov never does. Ramban says Yaakov didn't need to. He had a lot of children, all of them serving God, and a big community the Torah calls the congregation of Israel. Through them, people came to know.

Yaakov didn't have to shout. He had a shul.

A shul runs because somebody keeps it running, and this week she had me in her office. A religious school runs because somebody shows up and explains it to each kid according to their understanding, and this week the rabbi asked whether that somebody could be me. And forty years of community development in one town is forty years of somebody showing up. I sat across from two of them.

Go back to that verse in Haran for a second. The Torah lists the wealth first and the people second. Rashi doesn't say a word about the wealth. His whole comment is about the people.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

A Very Narrow Bridge

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 20 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 20, 2026.

A very narrow bridge—Photo by Leonard von Bibra on Unsplash

Bereshit/Genesis 12:3

וַאֲבָֽרְכָה֙ מְבָ֣רְכֶ֔יךָ וּמְקַלֶּלְךָ֖ אָאֹ֑ר וְנִבְרְכ֣וּ בְךָ֔ כֹּ֖ל מִשְׁפְּחֹ֥ת הָאֲדָמָֽה׃

I will bless those who bless you And curse the one who curses you; And all the families of the earth Shall bless themselves by you.”

God says to Abraham, “I will bless those who bless you.” Ḥizkuni’s (bio) comment is absolute gold for today’s challenging times:

“I WILL BLESS THOSE WHO BLESS YOU.” You must never think that there are no people on earth who are emotionally close to you and are potential saviors of you, for I love those who love you and I hate the people who hate you.

There is no question that we are living through a storm of anti-Jewish hatred. Anybody who thinks otherwise is either ignorant or has simply not been paying attention. Some argue that we even have to think twice before identifying ourselves as Jews in a hospital. Many Jews have decided that now is the time to arm themselves, and I can’t say that they’re wrong.

Is it 1933 all over again? Is it finally time to make Aliyah? A lot of people whom I deeply respect say that the answer to both questions is an emphatic yes.

They may be right. For now, however, I think we should remember Ḥizkuni’s teaching on the parashah. Even during these dark times, there are millions and millions of non-Jews who not only support us but love us. We have to remember that.

One who hates Jews on account of ethnicity or religion is an antisemite. One who hates Jews because we dare to establish sovereignty in our homeland is an antizionist. Both are practicing different flavors of Jew-hatred. And that’s why we also must remember the end of Ḥizkuni’s teaching: “I (God) love those who love you and I hate those who hate you.”

We have nothing to fear, as Rebbe Naḥman of Breslov said: “The whole world is a very narrow bridge, but the main thing is not to be afraid at all.”

כָּל הָעוֹלָם כֻּלּוֹ גֶּשֶׁר צַר מְאֹד וְהָעִקָּר לֹא לְפַחֵד כְּלָל

Kol ha’olam kulo gesher tzar me’od v’ha-ikkar lo l’faḥed klal.

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•••

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Finding Your Ark in a Noisy World

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 16 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on October 16, 2026.

Self = Neshama

Trigger = Animal Soul

There is lots of noise in the world right now. Really more than our nervous systems can handle. There is the endless push of media, news, social and many other useful and useless media. Add in the negative spin of the media and its varying agendas. Throw in a little antisemitism and you are ripe for a full shut down.

(Suggestion: go on a media diet for a week. Just turn it off, take it off your phone, see how you feel in a week.)

Fret not, this is NOT a bug, this is not a drill, this is the real thing and a feature of the program.

In the daily study of Tanya this week the author, the Alter Rebbe tells us that the challenges we encounter, even those that say antagonistic and antisemitic things to us, is part of Hashem's program. It actually embodies Hashem in the act.

These are the triggers. They show up as outside forces, as well as inside voices that tell us we're not good enough, not worthy enough, will never amount to anything, that the other person is better, etc. etc.

Solution actually comes from this week's Torah portion. Get into the ARK! Take a break from the world so you can reconnect with Self with your true identity, your Neshama.

Ark in Hebrew is Tavya, tayve also translates as "words". Go into the Ark to avoid the flood waters, the deluge of information, the deluge of external or internal negativity.

When we get connected to Torah we get connected to "self". The self is really a manifestation of the Divine. So the equation is like this. Get in touch with self leads to recognizing the Divine within me, which leads to recognizing the Divine within the world, which allows me to settle my nervous system and not get worked up from the negativity around me and in me and then that allows me to find my purpose in the things I'm experiencing.

Bottom line; the Ark is your haven. Go into the Ark.

Check out all of our Ark productions at www.intownjewishacademy.org.

Join the new Kabbalah and Architecture of you to learn more about your TRUE SELF!

2 New Jewish Cookbooks You Need on Your Shelf

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 16 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 16, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: This week’s word is brought to us by Hebrew teacher and Substacker,, and it is a very important word. It’s the word for candy, mamtakim (ממתקם). 🍬

I received copies of these books from the publisher (thanks, HarperCollins!) in exchange for an honest review. These thoughts are my own.

Memories of a Good Meal by Alon Shaya and June Hersh

NOLA-based Israeli chef Alon Shaya (who you might recognize from Somebody Feed Phil for his restaurant, Shaya!) has just brought another book into this world, and it just became the most meaningful cookbook on my shelf.

In collaboration with food writer June Hersh (Iconic New York Jewish Food; Food, Hope & Resilience), this new cookbook is a collection of recipes and stories from lives impacted by World War II, including Holocaust survivors and partisans fighters. And not just lives impacted, but individuals who fought, endured, and clung to reminders of home through their favorite meals.

Years ago, the James Beard Award-winning chef teamed up with the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum for a project called Rescued Recipes, where Alon collected and cooked preserved recipes of Holocaust survivors, victims, and WWII veterans. He ended up raising over $1 million for the museum’s efforts to preserve and digitize historical documents, including survivor family recipes.

The continuation of his meaningful work comes in the form of his new book, which he was inspired to create in 2015 on a visit to Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum. It was there that he saw a piece of cloth cut from a Nazi flag on which female prisoners at the Ravensbrück concentration camp embroidered their names.

These women “cooked with words,” often reminiscing about their favorite foods like pear kugel, and writing down memorized recipes on scraps of paper they could find. Conversations around food became their form of resilience and survival while living in terrible conditions and suffering from starvation. Alon saw the importance of food as survival in this story, not just in eating, but in talking about it, which created community among survivors and instilled hope.

Just like Passover seder when we eat symbolic foods like horseradish and parsley dipped in salt water to taste the affliction and bitterness of our enslaved ancestors, the book’s recipes bring us to specific moments in history. Whether we’re eating Hawaiian butter mochi cake or creamy roasted chestnut soup, we’re tasting tradition that survived a Japanese internment camp, and we’re reminded of a French village that saved Jewish children. And yes, there’s recipes for a seder in here, too.

Yad Vashem Artifacts Collection

Memories of a Good Meal expands beyond Jewish survivors. There’s real universalism in its glossy 329 pages, a reminder that the war impacted communities of all kinds.

Take, for example, the amazing story of Master Sergeant Roddie Edmonds who, while held in a German POW camp, kept his fellow inmates’ spirits alive by dreaming up a restaurant called the Jolly Chef. Prisoners drew pictures of the restaurant’s floor plan and menus with dishes like Roddie’s Sunday spaghetti and hotcakes. The restaurant never came to be, but the story and the recipes that the prisoners dreamed up have a permanent home in the pages of Alon and June’s book.

Roddie is also famous for standing up to a German officer when he ordered only Jewish POWs to report the next morning so they could be separated from the other prisoners. Knowing the dangers that awaited the Jews if they did this, Roddie ordered all American POWs to assemble. When the commandant said they all couldn’t be Jews and this must be a joke, Roddie replied, “We are all Jews here.” Even after the German officer pressed his Luger against Roddie’s head, Roddie bravely stood his ground. The officer backed off and Roddie saved the lives of 200 Jewish soldiers. He’s one of only five Americans to be given Yad Vashem’s title of Righteous Among the Nations for his heroism and moral courage.

Master Sergeant Roddie Edmonds

There’s also the fascinating story of John Kinsel, one of the Navajo code talkers of the Marines who transmitted and decoded secret messages across the South Pacific. Alon and June visited John, who was 107 years old, on the Navajo Nation in Arizona, to hear his story and learn about his complicated relationship with the country he served. After all, he wasn’t granted the right to vote during the time of his service. And it was the Navajo who unearthed the uranium from their land that was used for the atomic bombs, many of whom suffered from lung cancer because of it.

John died just 23 days after Alon and June’s visit. His legacy is preserved in their book through Navajo inspired meals, like fry bread and sweet corn ice cream.

This week, I brought memory and meaning to my kitchen by making a recipe from the book!

One thing I love about Memories of a Good Meal is that it’s pretty accessible. So many cookbooks out there are either complicated or call for ingredients I’ve never heard of. Not this one!

I made grilled steak with blueberry vinaigrette to honor Holocaust survivor Celina Hecht. Celina (born Celina Friedmann) survived the Holocaust by living as a Polish catholic girl, even though she was Jewish.

A family took her and her twin sister, Fella, in on their farm, and the girls spent their days foraging in the nearby forest for mushrooms and blueberries. Both sisters survived. Their mother, who was living in a ghetto that was eventually liquidated, did not.

“I was hidden not in the sense that I was hiding, but I was not allowed to be myself. I had a false name, my identity was hidden, but I wasn’t.”

I love a good fruit-and-meat combo, and this particular sweet and savory dish tasted triumphant, like survival. And knowing that the tartness of the wild blueberries reminded Celina of sweet memories amid wartime made the meal all the more satisfying.

Find out how you can win a copy of this cookbook in an upcoming Drop! Stay tuned!

A Year of Jewish Joy by Rebekah Lowin

A different vibe… get ready to elevate your holiday meals!

The Jewish Martha Stewart,, has entered the chat. Only with less insider trading and more Jewish joy, with her first book, A Year of Jewish Joy!

Rebekah, who was an editor at Martha Stewart Living and is now an author and influencer, just came out with a cookbook that looks as homey and perfect as her Instagram, the kind that leaves you wondering, “How does a mother of two have time do that?”

From za’atar-parm and sun-dried tomato-basil schmear for break-fast, to baharat-spiced gruyère twists for Hanukkah (in honor of Judith who gave an Assyrian general salty cheese and wine and then cut off his head!), this book offers creative twists (see what I did there?) and activity ideas for all the holidays! Okay, except for Tisha B’Av…

The recipe that got me the most excited was olive oil martinis for Hanukkah. And the ombré apples and honey board is also a simple yet crowd-wowing idea for hosting a Rosh Hashanah meal.

In terms of accessibility, this book is accessible… if you have hours to wrap dozens of Rolos in aluminum foil, glue Hershey kisses to the tops of them, and dress them up in blue cloth to make them look like tiny Torahs. It’s a cute Simchat Torah treat idea, but really, when am I ever going to do this?

Shabbat Shalom! Go enjoy a pumpkin spice Challah or something,

P.S. There’s also this new joyful Jewish sweets cookbook that recently came out, but their publisher didn’t contact me, so who cares? ;)

💦 If you like recipes, check out these Drops:

The Miraculous Ark

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 16 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 16, 2026.

A cruise ship under construction. Photo by Ian Simmonds on Unsplash

Bereshit/Genesis 6:16

צֹ֣הַר ׀ תַּֽעֲשֶׂ֣ה לַתֵּבָ֗ה וְאֶל־אַמָּה֙ תְּכַלֶ֣נָּה מִלְמַ֔עְלָה וּפֶ֥תַח הַתֵּבָ֖ה בְּצִדָּ֣הּ תָּשִׂ֑ים תַּחְתִּיִּ֛ם שְׁנִיִּ֥ם וּשְׁלִשִׁ֖ים תַּֽעֲשֶֽׂהָ׃

Make an opening for daylight in the ark, and terminate it within a cubit of the top. Put the entrance to the ark in its side; make it with bottom, second, and third decks.

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Noah’s ark was an immense construction project. It was 450 feet long, about 12 full size school buses. It was about as wide as a six lane superhighway, and it rose to a height of three adult giraffes. God’s directions in the Torah included the construction of three decks. In the midrash, Rabbi Neḥemya taught that the ark had 900 animal stalls.

Despite all this complexity, the Torah only mentions Noah as its builder. It takes thousands of people to build a cruise ship, and they do so over the course of 2 to 3 years. A project of that magnitude requires skilled engineers, welders, electricians, and a dozen other specialities. And even though a midrash says Noah took 120 years to build the ark, the notion that Noah built this massive ark by himself lacks credibility.

Did other people help Noah? The Talmud (Sanhedrin 108b) says the other human beings made fun of Noah for building the ark and ridiculed the idea that the world would soon be destroyed.

So it seems unlikely that Noah hired builders. Even if his wife, three sons, and their respective spouses helped, the project still seems impossible. A midrashbased on our verse (Gen. 6:16) solves the problem by crediting a miracle:

You shall craft it [ta’aseha]” – it [the ark], too, assisted [in building] itself.

The midrash takes the verb תַּֽעֲשֶֽׂהָ (ta’aseha), which means make it, and reads it as תֵעֲשֶׂהָ (tei’aseha), which means it shall be made. The latter reading, in the niphal conjugation, suggests that the building was passive and happened on its own.

What do we learn from this midrash? I think we learn that, Noah notwithstanding, we should not expect miracles when building or creating anything. Trying to complete a gigantic project alone is a fool’s errand. Planning and strategizing are essential steps in making anything successful.

My dad (ע׳׳ה) used to express this idea by saying, “Don’t start vast projects with half-assed ideas.”

•••

Around the World on Foot -- in 28 Years!

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 15 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on October 15, 2026.

In November 1998, a 29-year-old British man named Karl Bushby set out on a walk -- around the world. Starting from the southern tip of South America, Bushby planned to travel all the way back to his native England -- without using any form of transportation.

What followed was an extraordinary adventure spanning 28 years, some 30,000 miles, and 29 countries. Along the way, he crossed dangerous jungles, traversed the frozen Bering Strait, and made a historic 184-mile swim across the Caspian Sea.

On October 5, 2026, Bushby finally set foot on British soil. Reflecting on his remarkable journey, he offered a simple observation about what he'd learned.

What did he say?

✨3 Ideas

**Ordinary people, extraordinary possibilities **

As a child, Wilma Rudolph contracted polio and wore a leg brace. Yet in 1960, she won three Olympic gold medals in track and field sprint events.

Her story reminds us that extraordinary accomplishments are possible for those who face formidable obstacles. Each of us possesses strengths, abilities, and possibilities that may be greater than we realize.

We may never know the full extent of what we’re capable of until we venture beyond what we’ve already done.

The extraordinary power of ordinary steps

As a teenager growing up in the Bronx, Colin Powell worked as a clerk and helper in a Jewish-owned store, where he learned a little Yiddish. Decades later, he became chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In 1991, he surprised Israeli Prime Minister Yitzchak Shamir by announcing, “Men kent reden Yiddish”— “We can speak Yiddish!”

**A small step today may become part of something extraordinary tomorrow. **

And the same principle applies closer to home. A deeper friendship, a new skill, or a more generous spirit can grow from seemingly modest actions, repeated over time.

**What will we do with our potential? **

We admire those who accomplish extraordinary things. But there’s an important difference between achieving something remarkable and doing something meaningful.

The measure of our potential isn’t simply what we can accomplish, but how much good we can bring into the world.

A parent patiently raising a child, a teacher inspiring a struggling student, or someone caring for an aging loved one may be accomplishing something every bit as extraordinary as the achievements that capture the world’s attention.

📜2 Quotes

“The purposes of a person’s heart are deep waters, but one who has insight draws them out.” — Proverbs 20:5

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.” — _William Shakespeare _

❓1 Question

What might you be capable of contributing to the lives of others that you’ve given only passing thought to?

So what did Karl Bushby say after spending 28 years walking around the world?

“All of us can accomplish more than we will ever imagine.”

There are great discoveries awaiting us. We are capable of accomplishing more than we imagine, including contributing more to the lives of others than we ever dreamed possible. Sometimes discovering that potential involves walking around the world. But perhaps more often, it begins by taking one small step toward someone who needs us.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of small steps, meaningful discoveries, and unexpected possibilities!

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Did you recently accomplish or contribute something that, looking back, surprises you?

P.P.S. What is love, and where does it come from? Here’s a short video reflection from my book, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader [Watch the video]

Bears and Lions

Uriel ben Avraham — Thu, 15 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Tuesday night we went to an October 7 concert at a theater here in town. It was more moving than I expected. Honestly, it was very hard to sit through, and it was still very much worth going.

About a hundred people came. For a town this size, on a weeknight, that's a lot. Several elected officials were there, Democrats among them, and with everything going on in that party lately, I was glad to see them. People from other faiths came too. Mormons, Christians, and others. Nobody made them come.

And then there was the security. I'm not going to describe it. It was crazy, for a concert, and it's the thing that annoyed me most all week.

This Shabbat we read Noach, and it turns out the ark had a security detail too.

When the last of the animals are on board, the Torah says:

וְהַבָּאִ֗ים זָכָ֨ר וּנְקֵבָ֤ה מִכׇּל־בָּשָׂר֙ בָּ֔אוּ כַּֽאֲשֶׁ֛ר צִוָּ֥ה אֹת֖וֹ אֱלֹהִ֑ים וַיִּסְגֹּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה בַּֽעֲדֽוֹ׃ Thus they that entered comprised male and female of all flesh, as God had commanded him. And GOD shut him in.

— Bereshit 7:16

Noah doesn't close his own door. God does it for him, and Noah stays shut in there for about a year.

Rashi gives two readings. The plain one is that God shut the door against the water. The other one he takes from the midrash. The people of that generation came to smash the ark open, so God surrounded it with bears and lions, and the bears and lions killed some of them.

So the first boat full of survivors in the Torah had bears and lions around it. I didn't see any lions on Tuesday. It wasn't far off.

Rashi adds a note about one word. The Hebrew for "him" in that verse is ba'ado. Rashi says that everywhere in Tanakh, ba'ad means in front of, or on behalf of, and he lists the verses to prove it. Iyov's "skin for skin." The people begging Shmuel to pray on their behalf. The psalm that says magen ba'adi, a shield in front of me. When God shuts Noah in, God is standing in front of him.

Then the water goes down, everyone comes off the boat, and God makes a promise. It's made with Noah and his sons, and it reaches a lot further than the family:

וְהָיְתָ֥ה הַקֶּ֖שֶׁת בֶּֽעָנָ֑ן וּרְאִיתִ֗יהָ לִזְכֹּר֙ בְּרִ֣ית עוֹלָ֔ם בֵּ֣ין אֱלֹהִ֔ים וּבֵין֙ כׇּל־נֶ֣פֶשׁ חַיָּ֔ה בְּכׇל־בָּשָׂ֖ר אֲשֶׁ֥ר עַל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃ When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures, all flesh that is on earth.

— Bereshit 9:16

All living creatures. All flesh. This is the one covenant in the Torah that's made with everybody. The rabbis call every person who isn't Jewish a ben Noach, a child of Noah, and they hang seven laws on this covenant. Don't murder. Don't steal. Set up courts. A few more. It's a short list, and it's what God asks of the whole world.

And look at who the rainbow is for. "I will see it and remember." God is the one being reminded. And God puts the reminder in the sky, where anyone can see it, whether or not they'll ever open a Torah.

The rainbow is a bow, by the way. The kind you shoot arrows with. God calls it kashti, my bow. Ramban passes along an explanation he found in other commentators: God didn't set it with its ends pointing up, because then it would look like somebody in heaven was shooting at the earth. The ends point down, the way soldiers turned their weapons around when they called out to the other side for peace. And there's no string on it.

Then Ramban does something you might not expect from a thirteenth-century rabbi. He says he has no choice but to believe the Greeks that a rainbow is just sunlight in wet air, since you can see one in a bowl of water standing in the sun. Fine, he says. It was there from the beginning, and from this day on it means something.

An October 7 concert is a room full of people who decided to remember. Most of the people in that room were Jews. Some weren't, and they came out on a Tuesday night to sit through something very hard, for us. I'd call that ba'ado too.

Friday night, and again on Shabbat morning, my husband and I stayed after services for kiddush and sat with whoever was at the table. Some of them were Russian Jews. The stories you hear, even here, are amazing. I'm not going to tell them. They're theirs, and nobody told me one for a column.

Noach ends at Babel. The whole world speaks one language, they build a tower, and God confounds the speech of the whole earth, and "from there GOD scattered them over the face of the whole earth" (Bereshit 11:9).

People have been scattered ever since. Some of them end up at a kiddush table in a shul that is itself four congregations folded into one. Babel ends with everyone going their separate ways. At kiddush, people who came from all over sit down at one table and talk. We did it twice in one weekend.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Can There Be Too Much Love?

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 14 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 14, 2026.

Photo by Oziel Gómez on Unsplash

Bereshit/Genesis 11:1

וַיְהִ֥י כׇל־הָאָ֖רֶץ שָׂפָ֣ה אֶחָ֑ת וּדְבָרִ֖ים אֲחָדִֽים׃

Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words.

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It is a well-known maxim that too much of a good thing is not good. For instance, the right amount of water is necessary for health, but an excess of water can damage the kidneys and lead to heart problems, as well.

There is, however, a well-known Mishnah, recited daily, that says there are some things that have no maximum amount:

These are the things that have no definite quantity: The corners [of the field]. First-fruits; [The offerings brought] on appearing [at the Temple on the three pilgrimage festivals]. The performance of righteous deeds; And the study of the Torah. The following are the things for which a man enjoys the fruits in this world while the principal remains for him in the world to come: Honoring one’s father and mother; The performance of righteous deeds; And the making of peace between a person and his friend; And the study of the torah is equal to them all.

I couldn’t help but notice that there is something conspicuously absent from the list: love. One would think that love would be on the list. After all, assuming we’re talking about mutual love, how could there be too much love? I learned an answer to this question from Avot deRabbi Natan:

LOVING MANKIND. What does this mean? It teaches that a man should love his fellow-creatures and not hate them; for so we find it among the men of the generation of the Dispersion. Since they loved one another, the Holy One, blessed be He, did not wish to destroy them, but dispersed them to the four corners of the earth. (Their love for one another is inferred from the statement that they had “the same language and the same words”—ed.)

Simply put, this interpretation is saying that love is wonderful, but if love prevents or stunts normal growth and development, then the lovers need to have some distance between them. In the case of the Tower of Babel, the people loved each other so much that they had no interest in settling the rest of the world as God commanded. They essentially wanted to stay home with their tower building hobby rather than going out and getting a job.

This teaching can be applied to couples and families, as well. In a healthy relationship, spouses maintain individual identities and don’t suffocate each other with their constant presence—absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Ideally, adult children should move out of their parents’ house and go make their way in the world. Economic realities, of course can delay this move for a long time. Having said that, we do no favors for our children when we shower them with so much love that they don’t want to move out.

•••

The Internet Is Our Tower of Babel

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 13 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 13, 2026.

Bereishit/Genesis 11:1

וַיְהִ֥י כׇל־הָאָ֖רֶץ שָׂפָ֣ה אֶחָ֑ת וּדְבָרִ֖ים אֲחָדִֽים׃

Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words.

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The Tower of Babel is one of my favorite stories in the Torah. It is a classic origin story that asks and answers this question: “How is it that human beings speak a wide variety of languages and live it cities all over the world?”

The story starts with a puzzling verse: “Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words.” What language did they speak? According to a midrash quoted in Rashi’s commentary, that language was none other than Hebrew.

Is this literally true? Of course not. There are 143 language families comprising over 7,000 languages. It is likely that there was no single first human language. The midrash’s purpose, however, is to teach truth, not facts. Although it is not factually true that Hebrew was the original human language, the teaching presents us with a moral truth nonetheless.

Rabbi Mordechai Leiner (bio), also known as the Ishbitzer Rebbe, wrote an encyclopedic compendium of Torah interpretations known as the Mei Hashiloaḥ. It is beloved, not only for its content but also because it has been completely translated into English. This is what he says about “Everyone…had the same language and the same words.”:

“And it was, that the whole earth was of one language and one speech.” (Bereshit, 11:1) The verse is formulated “one language” (“one lip,” sfat echad) and not “one tongue” (lashon echad). This is because the principal tongue is the holy tongue, the Hebrew of the Bible, emerging from that which is imprinted in the depths of the heart, where all the other languages are called stammering.

Thus is it written (Isaiah 33:19), “of a stammering tongue, of no understanding,” meaning that it has no root of life in its heart, for understanding is in the heart. With the generation of the division of mankind (builders of the tower of Babel), even though they spoke in the holy tongue, their language was not from the root of life, but rather lip service. Their speech was more like the chirping of birds and other animals.

R. Leiner is saying that what makes Hebrew a holy tongue is not the language itself but rather the sacred texts that are written in it. A trashy beach novel written in Hebrew is not sacred. By way of contrast, any book of the Bible is.

He says that the people who built the Tower of Babel spoke Hebrew, but the content of their speech was of such a low grade that it barely rose to the level of human communication. They had a glut of words but a dearth of actual meaning.

This is much the same problem that we have today. Our Tower of Babel is the internet. The amount of data online is currently 181 zettabytes. 1 zettabyte is 1 sextillion bytes, a 1 followed by 21 zeros. It is a mass of data that would take nearly 2 billion years to download at today’s speeds.

But how much quality meaning and truth is there in that data? I imagine that finding true meaning in that vast mountain of ones and zeros would be like finding a diamond in the desert.

The difference between the Tower of Babel and the internet is that the internet is partially good, whereas the Tower of Babel had to be abandoned. The challenge is to keep the good parts of the internet and distance the bad parts from our minds.

•••

A Call for Mercy

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Mon, 12 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 12, 2026.

Florida’s death chamber

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Note: This is the sermon I delivered this Shabbat at Temple Beth El of Somerset.

The classic Jewish joke about an execution is the one about Shlomo and Yitzchak who are dragged by antisemites before a firing squad.

The first one cries out: “Stop! Stop! You’re murdering an innocent man.”

“Quiet,” says the second. “Don’t make trouble!”

Jokes aside, this news story about Christa Pike, the woman who survived her botched lethal injection in Tennessee is very disturbing. It got me thinking, what does our tradition say about such a case? If a condemned person is executed but doesn’t die, does the executioner get a second chance?

I’ll answer that question at the end, but the important thing to know is that the answer is theoretical. Capital punishment is fundamentally un-Jewish and forbidden, certainly in our day and age.

Even in ancient times, the Sages placed so many conditions on capital punishment that it was unlikely to ever occur. Rabbi Tarphon and Rabbi Akiva say in the Mishnah that if they had been on the Sanhedrin, they would have never executed anybody.

As I see it, the death penalty is alien to Jewish values for the same reasons that it ought to be declared unconstitutional. It is applied neither consistently nor fairly. Many murderers who have committed more heinous crimes regularly get sentenced to prison rather than death. For example, serial murderer Jeffrey Dahmer in Wisconsin was sentenced to fifteen consecutive life terms in prison. Had he committed his crimes in the deep south, he would have been executed.

Now consider the case of Doyle Skillern in Texas. He was executed for the crime of being an accomplice to the murder of an undercover narcotics agent. In other words, he sat in the car while his partner in crime shot the man. He himself killed nobody.

And what really gave me pause was that the shooter in the case was sentenced to life in prison with parole, while Doyle was sentenced to death. These are just two examples demonstrating the capricious nature of the capital punishment in America.

Justice, mishpat, is a fundamental Jewish value. I don’t think the death penalty is justice because, as we’ve seen, it’s applied in a haphazard fashion. Usually, the people who get capital punishment are the ones who don’t have any capital.

Rather than being just, executing a criminal is nothing but revenge, about which God said in the Torah, “Li nakam v’shileim,” Vengeance is mine. The right to vengeance does not belong to human beings, in belongs to God.

Capital punishment is also un-Jewish because human beings are imperfect. We see this most clearly in this week’s Torah portion. Under absolutely ideal conditions with no possible excuses, human beings were still unable to follow even one simple rule, don’t eat the fruit from that tree.

There is no question that our system has executed innocent people. We know that our system is not just imperfect but not even close to perfect. The Innocence Project estimates that five percent of our 2 million prisoners are factually innocent. That means we have tens of thousands of innocent people behind bars.

Now supporters of the death penalty say, “Wait, since when do we demand perfection in anything we do? Even our aviation system isn’t perfect, and people die, so should we not have airplanes?” This is a classic strawman argument.

There is a world of difference between the 1 in 20 million chance of dying in a commercial airplane and the chance of executing an innocent person. In the case of the airplane, the death is accidental. In an execution, the death is not only not accidental, it is completely deliberate and carefully planned.

The act of executing a murderer is more morally offensive than many of the crimes that we are supposedly punishing. We execute people who commit murders typically as a result of mental illness, drug abuse, or just plain old bad decision making. But then we kill them in cold blood, completely sober and clearheaded with every detail scripted.

If you’re not sure how you feel about the death penalty, you only need to read the vicious comments on the news stories about Christa Pike. Pages and pages of people with pitchforks calling for her death because of something she did thirty-two years ago at the age of 18.

A great many of these comments invoke the name of Christa’s victim, Colleen Slemmer. What Christa Pike and her seventeen-year-old friend did to Colleen was horrible and disgusting, full stop. It was so revolting that I can’t repeat it.

But the whole point of having a system of courts is that the victim in a criminal case is the state or the country, not the individual who was harmed. That’s why court cases are called State of Tennessee vs. Christa Pike or People of the United States vs. Elizabeth Holmes.

The alternative to this setup is called blood vengeance, where the family of the victim exacts retribution for the violence done to their family. That is what was practiced in ancient times and even today in some places. It’s not civilized, which is why we have courts. In fact, having a court system is one of the Laws of Noah, the laws that are incumbent on all human beings, not just Jews.

There is plenty of mitigation in Christa’s case that was never presented to the jury. She was exposed to alcohol in the womb, she was neglected by her parents, and she was raped as a toddler and as a teenager. This was a broken woman by any definition.

Her seventeen-year old accomplice, her boyfriend at the time, got life with the possibility of parole, but Christa got death because she was eighteen rather than 17.

We know that nothing biological happens between the ages of 17 and 18 that suddenly makes people more responsible for their actions. Typical 17 and 18-year-old kids are equally stupid!

In the Torah portion this week, Cain kills his brother Abel and is sentenced to wander as a nomad rather than suffer death. Mercy was called for because God had not yet told anyone that murder was not allowed.

Likewise, maercy is certainly called for in this case. The State of Tennessee should commute her sentence to life so that everyone can just move on. She will get her punishment as a convicted murderer, and the state can avoid the spectacle of trying to execute her again.

And speaking of a spectacle, I think we should be horrified that the government now wants to livestream the firing squad execution of Hassan Nidal, who murdered 13 fellow soldiers in a terror attack.

I am against the death penalty under all circumstances, so I don’t think he should be executed. That’s exactly what he says he wants, to become a martyr for his religion. I won’t weep when he dies, but I don’t think it’s the right thing to do, either.

If they do kill Nidal, they certainly should not livestream it. What are we, North Korea? Is this China? ISIS? Ancient Rome? Public executions are even more barbaric than the execution itself.

Will the government have a comment log so that all the bloodthirsty viewers can have their say? Will there be a button to give tips and reactions like thumbs up and the laughing emoji? What is happening to us?

As for the original question about re-doing a failed execution, the Mishnah is clear on the matter. The method of most capital executions stoning, but they stoned people by throwing them off a raised platform, not by pelting them with rocks.

The Mishnah says that if the condemned does not die on impact, they throw a rock at his heart. If he still doesn’t die, then everyone pelts him with stones.

So yes, theoretically speaking, I suppose an executioner does get a second chance. My point, however, is that he shouldn’t get a first chance.

Capital punishment is an affront to humanity and human life, the very human life that was created in our Torah portion. Shabbat Shalom.

•••

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Don’t Let the Inspiration Go Stale

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on October 9, 2026.

Since October 7th, the Jewish People have changed forever. Israel has changed forever.

Many things have changed, one of the most obvious ones is that we no longer wait for our enemies to attack before we take action, we make the first move. We no longer worry what the world will think (they don't like us anyway), we're going to be proactive. It's about time! Whatever happened to self confidence?!

On the recent flight from Dubai to Tel Aviv Israeli's demonstrated this. AND saved a plane full of passengers.

This Shabbos is called Shabbos Bereishis. It is the first Parsha we read in the New Year. There is a Chasidic saying, "the way one sets themselves up on this Shabbos, so goes the entire year".

Coming off the High Holiday season, we are energized with a sense of connection, identity and enthusiasm. We have not been passive this past month. Shofar, Tashlich, apples and honey, new fruit, fasting, praying, sitting in the Sukkah, shaking Lulav and Etrog, dancing with the Torah, it has been a chock full month of action action action!

The question is what now? Are we going to revert or are we going to act?!

This Shabbos is the test. Don't let things get stale.

Join us for Shabbat 360 - if there are seats left :-).

Join us for Mysticism and muffins Shabbat morning at 9:00 AM

Join us for Torah study, Kabbalah and Coffee, the Conversation, Finding Calm, Kabbalah and the hidden architecture of you, New Moon Society and much more! www.intownjewishacademy.org.

Pick a class, study group or course and sustain your holiday actions. The YOU that you've gotten to know this past month is looking for nurture, don't let it go to sleep.

See you at a class or service soon!

L'chaim to a year of learning and growth!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

October 7th has made me a different Jew.

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 9, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Truthfully, I have been falling behind on my studies. But I heard the word for terrorist (mechabel / מחבל) quite a lot this week when I watched One Day in October on HBO Max. Tough to watch, but highly recommend.

October 7th has made me a different Jew.

One who pays more attention to security when walking into synagogue, and notices when there is none.

One who has gotten yelled at on the street for wearing a t-shirt that calls to bring home innocent people who have been held in captivity by terrorists.

One who, when walking down the street filming her weekly “Shabbat Shalom (hey!)” video for Instagram, looks over her shoulder in case anyone hears.

One who posts about Jewish joy, and gets comments either ranting about her DNA that supposedly says she’s a white European woman, or telling her to pick up a penny on the ground.

One who wants to bond over Eurovision with Europeans while on vacation, but doesn’t want to ruin the vibe like last time.

One who was told to not tell anyone I’m Jewish while traveling.

One who is generally uncomfortable when meeting new people now, because she never knows if they agree that Jews deserve safety and a right to self-determination like everyone else.1

One who, when making a non-Jewish friend, wonders, “Okay but when am I going to get all Jewish on them? And how much? How much is too much?”2

One who lost her best friend because the friend prioritized ideology over love.

One who is getting used to listening to a new artist, only to have her heart broken by their performative anger and double standards when it comes to morality.

One who meets a Jew and is never entirely sure if they’re going to get along or understand each other.

One who is saddened by the increasing divisiveness within the Jewish community.3

One who wonders what you mean by Free Palestine.

One who wonders if you know what you mean by Free Palestine.

One who can’t help but wonder what your watermelon earrings mean.

One who no longer cares for Susan Sarandon. That’s fine.

One who will never get used to seeing swastikas drawn in her neighborhood.

One who is now apprehensive of saying where she works for fear of pushback.

One who suddenly considers Jewish issues when voting in a way she never has before.

One who tenses up around progressives. And Gen Zs. And people with purple-dyed hair. Working on it!

One who just doesn’t feel comfortable in liberal spaces anymore, even though she’s a liberal at heart.

One who finally understands the warning signs of antisemitism on the left she’s heard so much about for a decade.

One who became aware of the propaganda she was fed in her Israel education, and also doesn’t feel quite at home in pro-Israel circles whose members don’t question anything.

One who wonders when the Jewish people will heal.

And yet…

At the same time, October 7th has made me a prouder Jew.

One who confidently walks into synagogue and thanks the security team.

One who sees that it’s imperative to keep wearing a Magen David despite conversations or questions that may arise from it.

One who is grateful for wearing it (and “Jewess” earrings!) because of all the words of encouragement and support from strangers.

One who films weekly “Shabbat Shalom (hey!)” videos and still sometimes looks around, only because she doesn’t want to seem like an annoying influencer.

One who posts about Jewish joy, and gets comments from Jews (and allies) all over the world sharing pictures of their homemade challah and stories of their adult b-mitzvahs.

One who has made online friends from Jewish Substack, and in-person friends from local Jewish communities.

One who watches Israel perform on the international stage and win 2nd place despite all the hate, propaganda, and pressure.

One who answered “yes” when asked if she’s Jewish while traveling, and made new friends in a Croatian cemetery because of it.

One who tries to strike up a conversation with every stranger, and sees any potential uncomfortable encounter as either an educational opportunity, or a chance to practice empathy and courage.

One who is inspired to learn as much as she can so that she can confidently educate.

One who has new celebrities, like Pink, to turn to for inspiration (even though she still doesn’t like her music).

One who knows how to properly report swastikas and doesn’t let a sighting ruin her day.

One who openly explains her work, and how it includes supporting Jewish educators in teaching all of Israel’s nuances and complexities.

One who values friends with whom she can respectfully disagree.

One who is more easily able to let go of relationships that no longer serve her.

One who votes for politicians who share her values, including Jewish safety.

One who is grateful for Western values.

One who recognizes the importance of learning from history more than ever before.

One who didn’t necessarily become an “October 8th Jew,” but rather a more nuanced Jew.

One who knows the Jewish people will one day heal.

Shabbat Shalom. Spend it with someone you love,

💦 If you care about 10/7, check out these Drops:

This one makes me sad the most because I’ve worked hard all my life to be myself at all times.

Just yesterday, my new friend invited me to some scavenger hunt the mayor is running on Sunday. It’s called Hunt the Zionists. Just kidding. Dark humor. Anyway, instead of replying with “No thanks, I’m not in the mood to support an engagement initiative of the mayor’s after he couldn’t even let Jews mourn on their most devastating day in recent years without including on libel, blame, and misinformation,” I just said it will be raining on Sunday, and I don’t want to run around in the rain.

Just this week, I attended a “We Will Dance Again” dance for healing from 10/7. There was drama on the Partiful when some people found out the DJ works with Palestinians in the West Bank. They no longer wanted to attend because they no longer felt safe, while others saw his activism as an act of compassion for Palestinians. Not the most extreme example of divisiveness I’ve seen, but it goes to show how Jews can’t heal together without there being sensitivities and different viewpoints. I guess that’s very Jewish though.

Immortality Is a Stupid Goal

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 9, 2026.

Liquid nitrogen tanks for the preservation of human bodies at Kriorus in Russia. (photo link)

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Shanah tovah, and g’mar Hatimah tovah, may we all be sealed for a joyful year.

A few months ago, there was a news story that made a bit of a splash in the 24 hour news cycle, but then it disappeared. China’s president, Xi Jinping, was having a chat with Russian president Vladimir Putin through their respective translators.

Someone didn’t realize that their microphones were still on, so we got to hear the two dictators having a pretty interesting conversation about the possibility of living much, much longer than is currently possible.

President Xi started off the conversation by saying, “In the past, it was rare for people to live past 70. These days, people say that at 70 you’re still a child.”

Putin answered, “As biotechnology develops, organs can be transplanted repeatedly. People could grow younger and younger, perhaps even become immortal.”

Xi then said, “Some predict that, in this century, people may live to 150.” Then their microphones were turned off.

The media quickly forgot about this hot-mike incident, but I didn’t. If you think about it, their dreams of living until 150 or even becoming immortal are totally on brand for two authoritarians.

Authoritarian leaders like Xi and Putin fancy themselves as the most powerful people in the world. It makes sense that they would want to take the next step and conquer death itself. I mean, why stop with Ukraine and Taiwan when you can have dominion over the one thing that we all have in common, which is our mortality?

They are hardly the only ones to think this way. In fact, those two buddies were just spitballing and having a chat. There are billionaire tech bros who are actually putting a gobsmacking amount of money into a war against death.

Seeing that we are about to recite Yizkor, when we remember the dead, it’s an appropriate time to talk about what a terrible idea this race for immortality is. Brains and money do not add up to wisdom, and the ideas under discussion are deeply unwise.

Take, for instance, Bryan Johnson. You’ve probably never heard of him, but you’ve certainly heard of his brainchild, a little payment program called Venmo.

Mr. Johnson says that he will make humans immortal by 2039, and that he just has to work out some bugs with his therapies that are accidentally causing cancer.

He follows an insane daily routine. If this is what it takes to be immortal, please, do not sign me up. He wakes up at 4:30 am each day and starts working out in a series of 35 exercises.

Every day, he takes 61 pills and eats three meals within 5 hours. He eats his last meal of the day at 11:00 am, and his bedtime is 8:30 pm. His diet consists of vegetables and nut pudding. He eats 70 pounds of vegetables per month. He took plasma from his 17 year old son, but later admitted it did nothing for him.

Mr. Johnson has designed an algorithm that makes all of his choices for him. He says, “My brain no longer decides anything. It observes.” Oh, and by the way, he was recently diagnosed with autoimmune gastritis, which means his body is giving him abdominal pain. Could it possibly be that eating all those vegetables is not good for you and that he should try an occasional donut?

If I may be so bold, what Bryan Johnson is doing is not living. Life has to be about more than living longer. What about helping other people? He says that he will help other people by making them immortal, but what about all the poor people who can’t afford his crazy lifestyle? Hobbies? I don’t think this man has hobbies, and I’m sorry, making money is not a hobby.

And then there’s Sam Altman, the CEO of OpenAI, the parent company of ChatGPT. He plans for his brain to be perfectly preserved somehow and then, when the technology exists, he will have a digital copy of his brain uploaded to the cloud. My question is what if everyone forgets where they put his password?

Another example from this Ripley’s Believe It Or Not of Insanity is Peter Thiel. Yes, that Peter Thiel, the former CEO of PayPal. His plan for immortality is to be cryogenically frozen in liquid nitrogen. When science has advanced to the point that whatever killed him can be cured, they’ll defrost him, restart his heart, and give him a new life.

This idea makes me shiver, and not just because it’s so cold. This is an attempt to press pause on a machine that has no pause button, and that machine is the universe. And let’s say that they unfreeze him in 200 years. He will awaken and instantly become the most out-of-touch person on the planet. The world will have passed him by.

There is a story in the Talmud (B. Taanit 23a) that illustrates this very point. You’ve certainly heard it if you’ve ever been to a Jewish National Fund event:

There was a miracle worker named Honi Hameagel, Honi the Circle Drawer. He once saw a man planting a carob tree and asked him, why do you plant a tree that won’t bear fruit for 70 years, you won’t be around to eat it.

The man said, “People planted carob trees for my generation, so I’m planting this one for my children and grandchildren.” Then Honi sits down in a rock alcove to eat a meal. Fatigued and very full, he falls into a deep sleep and nobody sees him because he’s hidden away in this rocky crag.

He wakes up 70 years later, and he sees a man gathering fruit from the carob tree that he saw planted. Honi asks the man if he is the one who planted the tree, and the man says, “No, that was my grandfather.”

Realizing that he’s been asleep for 70 years, he goes looking for his son, but his son already died. His grandchildren were running the Talmudic academy, but they had never met him. He explained who he was, but nobody believed him. Honi realized then that he was totally alone in the world. It’s at that point that Honi prayed for mercy and died. His last words were, “Give me either friendship or death,” או חברותא או מיתותא

The moral of the story is that we’re given a certain amount of time to do good things in this world, and there are no extensions beyond responsible living. When your time’s up, your time’s up.

There are many reasons why the search for it is a wrong-headed mistake. There are the practical reasons, such as overpopulation, or the need for dystopian laws that would ban bringing children into the world.

But the more basic issue is that death is what makes our lives meaningful. Nobody cares about something that is abundant. We have more corn than we know what to do with, and that’s why the Wall Street price for a bushel, about ten pounds of cobless kernels, is just five bucks.

If we had as much time as wanted, who would do anything? If there’s always a tomorrow, then there’s never a today. Urgency is what has driven our species for the past 300,000 years. Necessity is the mother of invention.

I learned another reason to oppose the effort to live forever from none other than Elon Musk. Unlike his fellow tech bros, Elon is highly skeptical of this effort. I know that he doesn’t exactly have a perfect record on good ideas, but he happens to be right on this one.

He says that we need death in order for new ideas to take shape. Each generation comes with its baggage and its set of preconceived ideas and truths. If there is no changing of the guard, then we would find ourselves stuck in a stagnant society.

Moreover, he points out, it’s good when really bad people die. In a world where the greatest scientists can live forever, the cruelest, most despotic tyrants can also look forward to never dying. Death is what releases the world from our terrible ideas.

The most serious reason why we must not chase after physical immortality is that living forever would destroy God’s special gift of memory. Memory is a precious thing that God gives us. Sometimes, our memories comfort us. Sometimes, they cause us pain. But either way, we learn from our memories of those who have passed on.

If we live forever, there is nobody to remember. There would be no past tense, no chance to mourn or reflect on what a loved on did for us.

Memory allows us not only to connect with departed loved ones but to connect with humanity itself. These immortality chasers seem to be all very lonely men who are disconnected from what it means to be a human being. And what is that meaning? We can learn it from a story told by Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev, one of the most beloved of all the Hasidic rebbeim.

He told a story about a rabbi who wanted to live forever. A pious Hasidic man was granted a rare and extraordinary reward by Heaven: he was told that whatever he asked for would be fulfilled. Without hesitation, the man requested physical immortality. He wanted to live forever so that he could study Torah and perform God’s commandments without the interruption of death. His request was granted, and the Angel of Death was forbidden from ever approaching him.

Centuries passed. The man watched his children, grandchildren, and entire generations of his family age and pass away. Entire empires crumbled, and the world changed around him. Because he could not die, he spent all his days sitting in the synagogue, deeply immersed in prayer and study.

Eventually, he realized a painful truth. While he was accumulating thousands of years of Torah study, he had become completely detached from the human experience. He felt no urgency, because he had infinite time. He felt no deep joy, because nothing was rare or fleeting. He was entirely alone.

He didn’t even feel a need for Shabbos. The Holy Shabbos is meant as a sacred pause in the lives of those who have limited time. It is meant to be a taste of the world to come. But for those who will never taste of it, it loses its meaning.

One day, he looked out the window of the study hall and saw a poor, ragged traveler collapse in the mud from hunger and exhaustion. No one was around to help the traveler. The immortal man looked at the scene, and for the first time in centuries, something stirred in his heart. He realized that if he did not go out to save this man’s life, the traveler would die.

The immortal man rushed outside, pulled the traveler from the mud, took him to his home, fed him, and nursed him back to health. As he watched the traveler revive and smile, the immortal man felt an overwhelming, ecstatic rush of holiness—a closeness to God that he hadn’t felt in hundreds of years of endless prayer.

In that moment, the man wept and lifted his eyes to Heaven. He prayed and asked God to revoke his immortality. The Angel of Death returned, and the man passed away with absolute peace, understanding that true eternity is achieved not by escaping death, but by infusing our limited time with acts of kindness.

It was the power of the man’s memories that saved the traveler. He was able to reconnect with a single memory that had survived his immortality.

Let us now recite the Yizkor out of gratitude that we have been given the gift of memory. In that sense, we all receive immortality so long as there are people to remember us.

•••

A Stranger's Lost Wedding Ring: How Far Would You Go to Find It?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on October 8, 2026.

Over Labor Day Weekend, Michael Hamtil and his 13-year-old son stood on a rocky cave ledge overlooking the Current River in Missouri's Ozarks. They counted to three and jumped into the cold, spring-fed water. Later that evening, Michael noticed something was missing: the wedding ring he'd worn for 18 years.

Michael returned the next day to search himself, but his prospects of finding the ring were slim. The underwater cave system beneath him plunges an estimated 140 feet.

Nevertheless, he posted online offering a $250 reward to anyone who could find it.

What were the chances that someone ... anyone ... would even try, under such circumstances, to find a stranger's lost wedding ring?

✨3 Ideas

**“…and more” **

We owe one another honesty, fairness, and basic consideration. These obligations make relationships and communities possible. But there is a dimension of kindness that begins where obligation ends.

The soul often reveals itself in what we choose to give beyond what is required.

The extra phone call, the unexpected gift, the few additional minutes we didn’t have to give become our “… and more.” Such acts often bring a warmth to human relationships that duty alone cannot provide.

**Beyond the comfort zone **

Exceptional kindness usually asks something more of us -- less convenience, more time, or sometimes greater courage. It begins when we could reasonably say, “I’ve done enough,” but choose to take another step.

Kindness gives. Exceptional kindness expands the boundaries of the heart.

Helping someone cross the street is an act of kindness; doing so in a pouring rain asks something more. What makes an act exceptional isn’t necessarily its size, but the distance we go beyond what is comfortable.

**More than we think **

We may imagine exceptional kindness as something practiced only by exceptional people. But perhaps we underestimate the capacity of the human soul to reach beyond the limits we place upon ourselves.

There is more within us than the boundaries of our comfort would have us believe.

Imagine choosing five people each day and calling each one just to ask how they’re doing. Twenty or thirty minutes a day for two weeks would touch the lives of 70 people. It’s ambitious. But it’s also something almost any of us could do if we truly decided to.

📜2 Quotes

“Love your neighbor/friend as yourself …” — Leviticus 19:18

“Always be a little kinder than necessary.” — _James M. Barrie, Scottish novelist _

❓1 Question

Can you think of a time when you did something kind for someone -- but looking back, realize you could have gone just a little further?

Jason Simpkins saw the post about the lost wedding ring. He enlisted his brother Tim, who, like Jason, was a certified mine diver. The brothers drove a couple of hours to the Current River, carried wetsuits and diving equipment along an unmarked trail, and entered the cold water to search with an underwater metal detector.

After searching for some time, Tim surfaced with a silver glint in his hand. Michael’s wedding ring had been buried four inches beneath the silt in only 7 or 8 feet of water.

The $250 reward barely covered their travel expenses. The brothers hauled diving equipment through difficult terrain and entered cold water, prepared for a search that might take them as far as 140 feet down -- all for someone they had never met.

But perhaps the most meaningful distance they traveled was the distance beyond what anyone could reasonably have expected.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of going a little farther than kindness requires,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Can you recall a time when someone went far beyond what you expected to help you? How did it make you feel? I’d love to hear that story.

Open in Front

Uriel ben Avraham — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

We had coffee this morning with the executive director of our new shul, at a place a block from our apartment and a block from the shul. The rabbi stopped by. We talked about plans for ourselves, plans for the shul, and plans for the community.

Two weeks ago the executive director was the person we sent our IDs to before we showed up the first time. Now it's coffee. That's a fast two weeks.

The shul is in the middle of a merger. The names of four congregations are already on its walls, and another one is set to fold in sometime after the holidays. Nobody merges two congregations because they have too many Jews. A merger is a contraction, and there's no point pretending otherwise.

And still, most of what we talked about this morning was growth.

On Simchat Torah my husband and I each "danced" with a Torah. I'll leave the quotation marks where they are. This Shabbat the reading starts over from the top with Bereshit, and the very first word of the Torah begins with the letter bet.

The rabbis wanted to know why. Twenty-two letters, and the Torah opens on the second one? Bereshit Rabbah collects a handful of answers. The first is Rabbi Yona's, in the name of Rabbi Levi. Look at the letter: ב. It's closed on three sides — above, behind, below — and open on one, the side facing forward into the text. So, the midrash says, you don't get to ask what's above or what's below, or what came before. You start from the day the world was made, and you go on from there.

The same passage has more. Bet has the number two, so there are two worlds, this one and the next. And bet is the first letter of beracha, blessing. Aleph, the first letter of the alphabet, would have opened arirah, a curse, and then the heretics would have asked how a world could possibly stand if it was made in the language of a curse. So God says: I'll make it in the language of blessing. Halevai ya'amod. And let's hope it stands.

I have a bet of my own now. A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that my husband, his brother, and I were going into houses together and still fighting over the name. In the second chapter Adam names every animal, one after another, and whatever he called each one, that was its name. It took the three of us a lot longer. The fight's over. It's Achim Batim — brothers, houses.

Our mark is a bet, because the letter's name means house. It's built out of three bricks, one for each of us. A lintel on top, a post at the back, a sill at the bottom. Open in front.

The first two houses we buy are the ones we'll live in, next year. The idea is to fix them properly and stay. They're houses that need work, so halevai ya'amod is about the right prayer.

Seven times in the first chapter of Bereshit, God looks at something and calls it good. Light. Dry land. Plants, the sun and moon, fish and birds, animals, and finally all of it together, very good. Then, in the second chapter, the first thing that isn't:

וַיֹּ֙אמֶר֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהִ֔ים לֹא־ט֛וֹב הֱי֥וֹת הָֽאָדָ֖ם לְבַדּ֑וֹ אֶֽעֱשֶׂה־לּ֥וֹ עֵ֖זֶר כְּנֶגְדּֽוֹ׃ The ETERNAL God said, "It is not good for the Human to be alone; I will make a fitting counterpart for him."

— Bereshit 2:18

Nothing in the world has gone wrong yet. No snake. No fruit. No flood. And the first thing God calls not good is a person on his own.

The Hebrew for that counterpart is ezer kenegdo. A help, standing opposite you, facing you. Rashi, borrowing from the Talmud, reads both halves. If he merits it, a help. If he doesn't, kenegdo — someone standing against him, ready to fight. Anyone who has gone into business with family knows that verse has fine print.

A congregation that folds into another one is choosing not to be alone, and it pays for that. Its name goes up on somebody else's wall, next to theirs. It's a contraction. It's also a room with more people in it than either one had on its own.

Above, behind, below — closed. The only open side of the bet faces the next letter.

Sunday is Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan, which is why this Shabbat's haftarah is the one where Jonathan warns David, "Tomorrow will be the new moon; and you will be missed when your seat remains vacant." That's the not-good-to-be-alone verse from the other side. An empty seat, and somebody noticing.

Tradition calls the new month Mar Cheshvan, bitter Cheshvan, because it's the one month with no festivals in it. Nothing to cook for, no sukkah to build.

Good. We've got plans.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Is AI Created in the Image of God?

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 7, 2026.

A man worships his AI Bot

Bereshit/Genesis 1:1

וַיִּבְרָ֨א אֱלֹהִ֤ים ׀ אֶת־הָֽאָדָם֙ בְּצַלְמ֔וֹ בְּצֶ֥לֶם אֱלֹהִ֖ים בָּרָ֣א אֹת֑וֹ זָכָ֥ר וּנְקֵבָ֖ה בָּרָ֥א אֹתָֽם׃

And God created man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.

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From a Jewish point of view, the one thing that differentiates human beings from other life forms is that we were created בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹקִים (b’tzelem Elo-him), which means “in the image of God.” But what does this curious phrase actually mean?

According to Rashi, a צֶלֶם (tselem) is like a mold into which coiners pour molten metal in order to create identical coins. This is probably an oblique reference to what the Mishnah says about coiners in M. Sanhedrin 4:5:

And this serves to tell of the greatness of the Holy One, Blessed be He, as when a person stamps several coins with one seal, they are all similar to each other. But the supreme King of kings, the Holy One, Blessed be He, stamped all people with the seal of Adam the first man, as all of them are his offspring, and not one of them is similar to another.

I prefer the interpretation of Rabbenu Baḥya (bio), who says that a צֶלֶם (tselem) refers to an inner essence of a person or thing. He bases this opinion on what Maimonides said about the word:

I do not agree with Rabbi David Kimchi who believed that the word צֶלֶם (tselem) is equivalent to the word דְמוּת (d’mut), “outward appearance, form.” Maimonides also agreed that there is a great difference between the two. At the beginning of his “Guide for the Perplexed,” he writes: “there are many people who understood the word צֶלֶם (tselem) in Hebrew to be a description of the outward appearance which one perceives. These people are in error. In fact their error is so great that it borders on heresy. It might lead them to believe that God is corporeal.

The fact is that the word צֶלֶם (tselem) and the word תֹּאַר (to’ar) refer to two totally different concepts. The תֹּאַר (to’ar) refers to the outward shape and form which we perceive with our five senses, whereas the word צֶלֶם (tselem) applies to the essential core of such a phenomenon…

Having made the point that צֶלֶם (tselem) cannot refer to physical appearance, Rabbenu Bahya continues with his summary of Maimonides’ explanation of the word:

Concerning the essential core of man’s spiritual makeup, the Torah wrote that he is בְּצַלְמוֹ (b’tzalmo), “like our own core,” meaning that the spiritual disembodied essence of man makes him similar to the disembodied phenomena in the world of the angels.

The Torah emphasized this when it wrote בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים בָּרָא אֹתוֹ ,”in God’s own image He created him.” We know that God is not physical, so the word could not refer to a physical appearance…Clearly, the Torah wanted to tell us by using the word בְּצַלְמֵנוּ (b’tzalmenu, in our image) that man and God have something in common which is of the essence, the abstract intellectual ability of his soul (emphasis mine). Maimonides elaborates further on this theme in hisספר מדע, fourth chapter.

With the teachings of Rabbenu Bahya and Maimonides under our belts, we are better equipped to answer the question, “Is AI created in the image of God?” In the tech world, there is a debate going on right now about the ability of an AI agent to be conscious.

On one side of the debate, proponents of AI consciousness (such as Anthropic) claim that AI bots may be able achieve self-awareness and, therefore, deserve the right to exist and not be unplugged.
On the other side of the issue, opponents (such as Microsoft) argue that an AI agent is at best sentient, that it can react to stimuli, and that it must remain subservient, and not equal, to human beings in the philosophical sense. (I may have some of the details wrong, but I am confident that I have properly communicated the gist of the debate.)

For Jews, AI’s supposed consciousness or sentience is irrelevant. The question is not whether AI is conscious or sentient. Many higher order animals are most probably conscious and even self-aware to one degree or another, and even insects are sentient. (Animals don’t talk, so we cannot know these things with absolute certainty.) The real question, which is the one Rabbenu Bahya and Maimonides asked, is “Does AI’s essence have anything in common with God’s essence?” In other words, is an AI agent’s fundamental essence divine as we believe ours to be?

In my opinion, the answer to that question is a resounding no. The essence of God is found in the divine attributes we sing on the festivals:

compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, extending kindness to the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin. (See Ex. 34:6-7)

The essence of an AI agent is not divine; the technology is not capable of actually being compassionate or kind. It merely creates an illusion that can mimic all of the divine attributes. I will concede that the illusion is convincing and uncannily accurate, but it is a mathematical illusion nonetheless. To say that an AI bot has the divine essence is like saying our reflection in the mirror is real.

In the final analysis, the question of AI is not really a new question at all. In ancient times, people thought that statues had consciousness, sentience, and immense power. Jews came along and said “Nah, I don’t think so.” If AI is used properly, it can be an amazing tool. But if we act as though it were created in the Divine Image, we are worshiping an idol. A really powerful, resource-hungry, and very cool idol, but an idol nonetheless. (Many thanks to John Podhoretz of Commentary Magazine for this line of thought.)

•••

October 7th and the First Murder

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on October 7, 2026.

Memorials at the site of the Nova Music Festival (CCA-SA 4.0)

Bereshit/Genesis 4:10

וַיֹּאמֶר מֶה עָשִׂיתָ קוֹל דְּמֵי אָחִיךָ צֹעֲקִים אֵלַי מִן־הָאֲדָמָה׃

Then [God] said, “What have you done? Hark, your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!

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On this third anniversary of October 7th, it is appropriate to look to the weekly Torah portion for succor or at least some wisdom. This week’s sedra contains not only the story of Creation but also the story of the human race’s first murder. Cain, the firstborn son of Adam and Eve, murders his brother Abel out of envy.

After the attack, God says to Cain, “What have you done? Hark, the blood of your brother cries out to Me from the ground!” The word for blood in the original Hebrew verse is in the plural, דְּמֵי אָחִיךָ (d’mei aḥiḥa, the “bloods” of your brother). Why is the word for blood in the plural when the singular, דַּם (dam), would do just as well? Here is the explanation given by Midrash Tanḥuma:

How did he kill him? He inflicted numerous bruises upon his body with a stone. He smote him over his entire body, from his hands and feet to his throat, for he had no way of knowing from where his soul would depart…The Holy One, blessed be He, replied immediately: What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood cries unto Me (Gen. 4:10). This verse indicates that he inflected numerous wounds upon Abel.

The midrash is teaching us that Cain flew into an envious, mindless rage. He wanted to kill Abel, but he didn’t know how to do it, so he made wounds all over his body. We are led to feel pity for Cain, not anger. God set him up to fail by favoring Abel’s sacrifice. Moreover, no one ever told Cain that murder is wrong. Rather than kill him, God mercifully sentences Cain to live a life of nomadic wandering.

At first, I was planning to compare Cain to the terrorists who slaughtered 1,200 innocent men, women, and children on October 7th three years ago. But then I realized that those terrorists have nothing in common with Cain.

Cain’s murder was committed in a haze of emotional anguish. He did not have a track record of hating Abel. He did not announce his desire to annihilate his brother, nor did he plan it. Afterward, he clearly feels ashamed of what he did.

That is certainly not the case with the Hamas terrorists and Palestinian civilians who stormed into Israel on October 7th. They had a track record of genocidal hatred against the Jewish people and continue to build it. They have announced their desire to eliminate each and every one of us more times than I care to count. They are not ashamed of what they did; to the contrary, they are extremely proud of it. (I’m especially thinking about the beast who called his parents and gleefully told them, ‘I killed two Jews with my bare hands!’”

And what of the innocent Palestinians who died in Israel’s counterattacks? Not a single one of those deaths was desired or planned. If the IDF were able to target only the culprits with no collateral damage, it would do so. But even an oncologist can’t do that. Killing cancer often requires the physician to kill healthy tissue, too.

Unfortunately, Hamas used the innocent Palestinians as human shields and did not allow them to take shelter in their labyrinth of tunnels and bunkers. As for pride, I can say confidently that virtually no Jew is proud that innocent civilians perished—we view war as sometimes necessary but never good.

In case I haven’t made myself crystal clear, I am a proud Zionist. The word means “one who wants the Jews to have sovereignty in their ancestral homeland.” There will be thousands of so-called “antizionist” demonstrations today, led by people who insist that there is a difference between antizionism and anti-Jewish hatred. There is not. It is neither possible nor psychologically normal to love the world’s Jews but hate the country that protects half of them.

October 7th, 2023 was the equivalent of 9/11 for the Jewish people. Actually, it was the proportional equivalent of sixteen 9/11 attacks. It was a wake up for all of us and reminded us that an astounding number of people hate Jews with a dangerous fervor. Anti-Jewish, genocidal murder did not disappear after the Holocaust; it merely found a deep tunnel in which to hide. It has crawled out of that tunnel.

In the years that followed that dark day, we found out who would hide us and who would not. We found out what institutions value our safety and which do not. We will neither forget nor forgive the terrorists, their civilian collaborators, or their cheerleaders. Nor will we forgive governments and parties who have sided against us. I’m looking at you, leaders of Ireland and Spain. I’m looking at you, Green Party of the United Kingdom.

The world has crossed the Rubicon, and every human must decide, “Am I on the side of Israel and the Jewish people, or am I on the side of bloodthirsty, soulless monsters?”

•••

The Case For Simchas Torah

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 02 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on October 2, 2026.

For starters, if you are going to do Jewish, Simchas Torah is definitely the holiday to celebrate. It has food, dancing (who doesn't like to dance and let loose), L'chaims, pretty short prayers, brisket, Jewish pride, and a little bit of holy spirituality too! All other Jewish holidays may have one or the other, but not all of them.

Secondly, the Torah is the basis of everything Jewish. In our post–October 7th world, Jewish leadership has caught on. Fighting antisemitism and antisemites through legislation, through interfaith dialogue, and by influencing political parties, while important and necessary, is far from the whole answer. See this recent article from the American Jewish Committee, THE Jewish advocacy group, which promotes Torah learning as a key part of fighting antisemitism! Also listen to the State of World Jewry addresses by Dan Senor and Bret Stephens, where both of them emphasize the need for investment in Jewish education.

Not to gloat, but the Rebbe said this a long time ago. See this article and this one. A proud Jew is a respected Jew!

There is no greater pride than dancing with the Torah, our source of life and the core of our identity as Jews.

If you want to be a proud Jew, celebrate Simchas Torah!

If you want your children to be proud Jews, celebrate Simchas Torah!

I think that is simple and straight enough.

Put your dancing shoes on and join us at Chabad Intown.

Friday evening, Shemini Atzeres (in the diaspora, and Simchas Torah in Israel), marks the 3rd anniversary of October 7th. Solidarity Hakafot!

Saturday evening — Simchas Torah festivities. Dancing, brisket and L'chaims, followed by YJP Hakafot and dancing until the last one drops or the shoes get torn up.

FINALLY...

Growing up and celebrating Simchas Torah with the Rebbe, Simchas Torah morning was the time not to be missed. After dancing with the Rebbe until 2 or 3 AM and then dancing some more in 770, we would gather again at 10:00 AM for services. When the Rebbe came in, the joy could not be contained. The Rebbe danced, and the roof came off!

Join us as we end the holiday season with daytime dancing, this year on Sunday: services at 10 AM, Kiddush at 11 and BeltLine dancing at noon. Then we complete the Torah and roll it back to the beginning.

Let your Jewish pride break out!

Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom!!!!!

Ps. See this video which was filmed during the intermediary days of the holiday. A little taste of the Rebbe's Joy!

Torah Takeaways From My Year of Learning Torah

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 02 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 2, 2026.

Word of the Week: In lieu of a Hebrew word this week, we’re learning an English word! And that’s mnemohistory, or the study of the past not as it actually happened, but as it is remembered, transmitted, and reinterpreted by societies over time.1

During Covid, my girlfriends and I ran a Torah book club (“Torah Talk”), where we met at the end of each of the Five Books, chumashim and masks in tow. We discussed questions related to the themes of the parshiyot, but couldn’t get past our questions about the plot, like:

How did Jacob not realize he accidentally married Leah instead of Rachel?
Why is G-d being so cruel to the Israelites?
What’s with the talking donkey?

It was only years later that I realized we were reading our most sacred text all wrong. We discussed it like a typical book club, gossiping about the characters and reacting to every plot twist, like, “Can you believe Moses couldn’t go into the Promised Land? I was really rooting for him!” sips Chardonnay

Also, in the spirit of honesty, I would often procrastinate and binge-read the night before, rushing through the chapters like they were the latest ACOTAR. Except instead of reading about romance in castles under starlit skies, I was falling asleep over pages and pages of laws.

Look, there’s no “wrong” way to do Judaism, but that’s not how you read Torah.

You take it slow, reading (mostly) a parsha, or chapter, a week. You preferably read it in community, or with a rabbi or teacher, dissecting lines and sometimes even words together. And if you love bonus content, you read Torah commentary by scholars who have interesting and sometimes varying opinions! It can be fun but daunting for someone like me who has never really studied Torah before, aside from my Bat Mitzvah and a few times at MJE.

But I’m proud to say that this was the first year I actually kept up with the weekly parsha!

Okay, okay, I didn’t read the entire parsha from its original source most weeks. So when I say my “year of learning Torah," I wasn’t in seminary hunched over books all day. But I kept up with what happened each week, and learned how to interpret it through classes, d’vrei Torah (words of Torah) at synagogue, Substack summaries, and books on the subject. That’s more than I’ve ever done. I’m finishing this Torah cycle with a bang!

Yes, welcome to the Simchat Torah Drop! The joyous holiday where we dance around with Torahs in the street starts tomorrow evening. In honor of ending the Five Books and returning to Bereshit, the beginning, here are some general takeaways from my year of learning Torah.

I could write a whole other Drop on some of my favorite niche interpretations I’ve learned (one of which I’ve shared here), but I wanted to keep this one more general for those who are also starting out like me! This Drop is for anyone looking for a more accessible way to read Torah.

I know some Drop readers are actual rabbis, or rabbis-to-be, or just so knowledgeable in this stuff they can study it in their sleep. So if you’d like to chime in on any of these points, please feel free in the comments!

Now let’s hit it. Or, rather, touch it then kiss it.

Real? Not real? Who cares!

I’ll never forget the time when, some years ago, I was learning the structure of the Tanakh2 with my Orthodox chevruta. When we arrived at Kings, I said, “Oh, so this is the real part.” She looked at me and said as a matter-of-factly, “All of it’s real.”

I’m not sure why I blurted this out. It’s not like I had ever previously doubted the existence of the Torah’s stories. And even if I had, who am I to insinuate to this woman that Kings has more worth just because there’s archaeological evidence for it? What’s real anyway?

Maybe at the time, I just wanted the Torah to also hold some historical accuracy so I could take it seriously as a source of truth and wisdom.

I mean, a staff turning into a snake? Hundreds of thousands of people walking through a parted sea? Come on!

Then again, my dad (and scholars) said the Hebrew Bible could have been based on actual events. For example, there could have possibly been a major flood that inspired the one that covered the entire earth from the story of Noah. The salty region of Mount Sodom could have inspired the story of Lot’s wife. Heck, whenever I visit the Dead Sea, I feel like a salt pillar!

Lest we forget the Merneptah Stele, an Egyptian inscription from ~1200 BCE that describes Pharaoh Merneptah’s military victories and mentions Israel as a people living in Canaan. It’s the first known mention of Israel outside the Bible. So at least there’s evidence the Israelites were there 3,200 years ago, thanks to the rigorous note taking of our enemies!

So, was the Hebrew Bible historically real? I’m not writing to investigate this. Nor do I judge those who believe it was all real. I’m writing about a perspective shift I had this year that helped me view Torah differently. Someone described the Torah to me as being Jewish mythology, which made me think about how and why we study it. In other cultures, mythology can be used as a tool for story telling, memory preserving, and lesson bestowing. It only makes sense that Judaism does the same thing.

This idea of Torah-as-Jewish-mythology helped me realize I don’t need something to have historically happened for it to have sacred meaning. Instead of believing G-d created the world, I explored questions like, “What does the order in which G-d created the world in Genesis tell us about the significance of man’s relationship with animals and nature? With creation? With resting?”

Maybe the fact that the Torah offers us so many questions like these, and in turn, so much wisdom and guidance, is what makes it “real” to Jews.

You don’t have to agree with or even like everything in the Torah

As we all know, one of the reasons why Judaism is great is because it welcomes disagreement. Not only that, but the idea of wrestling with G-d. It’s where the name Israel comes from (Genesis 32:28 to be exact).

One book that was my anchor for learning about Torah this year was It Takes Two to Torah by Abigail Pogrebin and Dov Linzer. An Orthodox Rabbi3 and Reform journalist discuss the Five Books, learning from each other and oftentimes not agreeing with each other. I previously mentioned the book in this Drop when I joined a Torah class that used it to study parsha, and highly recommend it to anyone dipping their toes into Torah.

The first time I ever picked up this book, I randomly opened to their dialogue on Parashat Bo. Abby and Dov were discussing how the tenth plague - the slaying of the firstborn - doesn’t sit right with them morally. It wasn’t justifiable to punish innocent babies to free the Israelites.

The pair debated whether or not it’s better to struggle with a good question (“How is it fair that the innocent were killed in this plague?”) than to accept a bad answer. Or is dipping your pinky in wine and symbolically dropping ten drops of wine on your plate on Passover enough to remember the loss of life?

While they couldn’t agree, the book reassured me that even an Orthodox rabbi can’t get behind everything G-d does in the Torah. Baruch Hashem!

Law for the times, wisdom for the ages

It’s easy to read Torah and immediately dismiss it as outdated and harsh. Prohibitions against sexual relations between men, stoning… there’s a lot in there I won’t defend.

But this year, I learned that some of these laws actually hold deeper meaning.

Take, for example, the law for when an Israelite soldier wants to capture a beautiful woman during wartime. We recently read in Parashat Ki Tetze that he must first keep her in his home for 30 days while she is left to mourn her mother and father. She must be made physically undesirable (ex. shaved head, cut nails) so that he does not want her. After the 30 days pass, the soldier may marry her. If he ultimately decides he no longer desires her, he must set her free.

How barbaric! Shouldn’t the law just prohibit soldiers from taking female captive in the first place?

As I learned in Rabbi Alan Lew’s book, This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared, the Torah acknowledges the wartime tradition of taking captives and treating them as property. Impulse is a part of human nature, after all. But the 30-day mandated period creates a ritual designed to let impulse pass by creating distance from rage, lust, and possession.

It’s like saying, “I bought this expensive dress, but I’m going to wait 30 days and see if I still want it, and if not, I’ll return it.” To take the analogy further, you purposefully make the dress ugly so you desire it less. You cut off the sleeves and remove the bejeweled collar. Good luck returning the dress now! Okay, that might not have been the perfect analogy…

With this law, the Torah does something unprecedented. While still acknowledging the common practices of the ancient world, it calls for the Israelites to do something countercultural: to recognize the human dignity of a captive by seeing her as an individual, rather than as an anonymous prisoner of war.

As you can see, in the past year I’ve developed a deeper relationship with Torah. There’s so much more to it than thinking it’s either perfect or completely outdated.

I’ve learned about humility and patience through Moses, leadership from Jethro, and the importance of opting into community through the construction of the tabernacle, just to name a few other examples.

From creation → revelation → redemption, this is our great story. And just like Abraham, who listened to “Lech lecha” and left everything he knew, and just like the Israelites, who left Egypt in pursuit of freedom, I choose to opt into that story, too. I want to see myself not just as someone who inherits this story, who had to learn a part of it at the age of 12 and never thought about it again, but as someone who chooses to be part of it. And through learning more Torah, and celebrating Torah in the streets of Brooklyn on a cool Autumn night, I feel like I am making that choice. And what joyous choice it is.

Bonus Torah recs!

I received Katia Bolotin’s Making It Relevant: Timeless Torah Wisdom for this year’s Torah cycle, and I can’t wait to deepen my parsha learning with it. Get the book so we can learn together! Virtual chevruta?!

I also received delicious Shabbat discussion cards from M2: The Institute for Experiental Jewish Learning to enhance my Friday night meals!

Shabbat Shalom! Lech lecha,

💦 If you like Torah, check out these Drops:

Coined by German historian Jan Assmann. Here’s a piece relating the term to Jewish history and memory.

TaNaKh is the entire Jewish Bible, and is an acronym for the Hebrew words of what it contains: the Torah (the Five Books, which is what this post is about), Nevi’im (Prophets), and Ketuvim (Writings).

Side note: Dov Linzer was at my friend’s wedding this year and I totally fangirled over him. Same for Abigail at a different event.

Walking Distance

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 02 Oct 2026 00:00:00 GMT

We walked to shul last Shabbat. Five minutes, most of it along the park. That is the whole commute now — out the door, past the park, there.

For most of my Jewish life, Shabbat morning started with a decision about a car. Now it starts with shoes.

We went Friday night last week, which was the first time Cooper was alone in the new place. He survived it. Tomorrow we are going Saturday morning instead, and I suspect we will end up doing both most weeks.

That is most of what this week held, honestly. We are still settling in.

The rabbi gave us a tour the first time we came. Reform, with Conservative practice mixed through it, and a sukkah up beside the parking lot. Everyone was kind to us in the specific way of people who have decided in advance to be kind to whoever walks in.

We also had to send our IDs to the executive director before we came. There was a police officer inside the door. He knows everyone there and he questioned us anyway — pre-approved, on a list, questioned.

None of that is unusual. It is roughly what it takes to walk into a shul now.

Something else about that building. The names on the wall inside do not belong to one congregation. They belong to four, folded into each other over the years until what was left was this one — which carries pieces of all their names in its own. And after the holidays another congregation is folding in too. The details are still being worked out.

A shul whose name is a record of other shuls.

Tomorrow is Shmini Atzeret. Seven days of Sukkot end, and the Torah adds one more:

בַּיּוֹם֙ הַשְּׁמִינִ֔י עֲצֶ֖רֶת תִּהְיֶ֣ה לָכֶ֑ם כׇּל־מְלֶ֥אכֶת עֲבֹדָ֖ה לֹ֥א תַעֲשֽׂוּ׃ On the eighth day you shall hold a solemn gathering; you shall not work at your occupations.

— Bamidbar 29:35

Atzeret. JPS footnotes that word: precise meaning uncertain. The root means to hold back, to stop, to detain. A day named for stopping, and nobody is entirely sure what we are being stopped for.

The midrash has an answer. Across the seven days of Sukkot the offerings count down — thirteen bulls, then twelve, then eleven — seventy in all, which the Talmud reads as one for each of the seventy nations of the world. A week of the Temple working on behalf of everybody. Then the eighth day comes and the number is one.

Sukkah 55b puts words in God's mouth for it: kashah alai preidatchem — your leaving is hard for me. Stay one more day. Make it a small meal, just us.

A week facing outward, and then a day that asks you to stay close and keep it small. Four congregations' names on a wall and a fifth on the way. I did not go looking for the rhyme.

I keep thinking about it this year because of what tomorrow also is.

The seventh of October, 2023, was 22 Tishrei 5784. It was Shmini Atzeret. Tomorrow is 22 Tishrei 5787 — the third yahrzeit on the Hebrew calendar, the calendar the day actually happened on, falling on the day itself.

So tomorrow morning we say Yizkor. And then, because it is Shmini Atzeret, we say Geshem, the prayer that turns the year's weather over and asks for rain. Memory and rain, in the same service, in the same hour.

I am holding both and not trying to resolve them. The yom tov is real. The anniversary is real. Neither is a frame for the other.

What I have mostly been thinking about is how much healing this community needs, on more levels than I can count. Not one wound. Many, in different directions, and some of them we gave each other.

Which brings me back to the walk.

Tomorrow's haftarah is the end of Solomon's dedication of the Temple — the largest building project in the nation's history, finished, the whole people assembled. It closes like this:

בַּיּ֤וֹם הַשְּׁמִינִי֙ שִׁלַּ֣ח אֶת־הָעָ֔ם וַֽיְבָרְכ֖וּ אֶת־הַמֶּ֑לֶךְ וַיֵּלְכ֣וּ לְאׇהֳלֵיהֶ֗ם שְׂמֵחִים֙ וְט֣וֹבֵי לֵ֔ב On the eighth day he let the people go. They bade the king good-bye and went to their homes, joyful and glad of heart.

— I Melachim 8:66

On the eighth day he sent them home. Not deeper into the Temple — home. To their own tents, on their own feet, glad.

That is the shape of it. The grand assembly is not where it lands. It lands when people walk back to their houses carrying something.

Healing on the scale this community needs will not arrive as an announcement. It will be a lot of people walking five minutes to a building where somebody knows their name, past the officer who knows them, week after week, for years. Four congregations becoming one and then one more.

Something of mine moved house this week too — a piece of work I built on my own went under a bigger roof, with other names beside mine. More on that another time. It was the right move, and it felt like exactly what this day is about: stop running the thing outward, and come sit at the smaller table.

On Wednesday, three years to the day on the other calendar, AIC is taking people across that ground. David Sussman is guiding a live virtual tour of the Nova festival site, 9:00 AM Eastern. It is recorded, so register even if you cannot make the hour.

Seventy bulls, and then one. The whole world, and then your own house.

Tomorrow we will walk to shul again, past the park. We will say Yizkor for people we never met and for a day that broke this holiday open three years ago. We will ask for rain. And then we will walk home.

Shabbat shalom. Chag sameach.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Readers Respond

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Wed, 30 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on September 30, 2026.

One of the pleasures of writing Spiritual Sparks is hearing from you. Sometimes a reader adds a new dimension to something I've written. Sometimes a personal experience brings an idea to life in a way I never could have anticipated. And sometimes a response simply makes me smile.

Today, I'd like to share a few of those responses with you.

I'll be your host, but the spotlight belongs to the readers!

The Eyes Have It!

In a recent issue, “What Color Were the Patient's Eyes?”, I shared a story about my late father-in-law, a physician who would ask medical residents whether they remembered the eye color of the patient they'd just examined.

One reader in the medical profession proudly reported:

“I am proud to say that I always got the eye color question right. Hair color-- not so much!”

Another reader shared a more poetic reflection:

“Eyes tell us a lot about a person. I do notice eye color first and [am] always curious what lies beyond and behind the eyes. Some eye colors seem cold to me. Some eye colors exude warmth. Sometimes the eyes sparkle -- that's the best kind.”

And one reader took the subject of awareness in an entirely different direction, sharing a deeply personal experience:

“One of my qualities is that I see things and people I have lost in my dreams very often. Are they trying to send me a message? Or is it because I miss them so much I'm dreaming of them?”

It's a question that touches on love, memory, loss, and mystery. Perhaps some of you have wondered about it, too.

A Superpower We Can All Develop

The same newsletter prompted another reader to share a lovely practice:

“My friends tell me that my super power is the occasional note I send them. I try to keep it brief, compliment a specific detail & let them know how grateful I am to have them in my life.”

What a wonderful superpower to possess -- and one that's available to all of us!

Sometimes the smallest gestures leave the most lasting impressions.

The Joy Is in the Journey

A few months ago, I wrote about the importance of enjoying the journey rather than becoming so focused on the destination that we overlook everything along the way.

One reader shared a remarkable personal reflection. A former professional athlete who went on to considerable success in business, he described how difficult it had been to find satisfaction even in his greatest achievements.

With his permission, I'm sharing an edited version of his response:

“For so many years, my goal was to be number one in all the company's businesses.

My problem was I didn't enjoy being number one when I received the award, the trophy, the plaque, and the accolades. Many times, as I was walking up to the stage to receive my first-place award with my wife, I was very unhappy.

In my mind, I wasn't thinking about this award, I was thinking about how I could be number one once again next year.

I think it all started with playing sports. Back then, it isn't like it is today where all the athletes talk to each other. Back then, no one talked to the other team. They were our enemies, and we were going to win at all odds.

Then, when I was released from a professional team, I couldn't get that competitive spirit out of my mind. So, I had to be number one. I needed to be number one. I just had to be number one.

My wife tried to help me by telling me to enjoy the journey, but all I was interested in was winning and getting to the finish line.

Somewhere along the way, I started hearing our clients saying, thank you so much for helping my parents. Thank you so much for helping me...

When I started listening to what was being said to me, that's when I started enjoying what I do.

Now, I'm still competitive. I still want to be number one.

But I am enjoying the journey.”

Closing

My thanks to these readers, and to all of you who take the time to share your thoughts, experiences, and questions.

You remind me that a conversation becomes richer when more voices are heard.

Wishing you a week of meaningful moments, thoughtful connections, and a soul that soars,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Have a thought, experience, or question you'd like to share? I'd love to hear from you. Your words might provide a spark for a future edition of Readers Respond!

You’re Forgiven. Now Dance.

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on September 25, 2026.

A great Rabbi (I believe Reb Simcha Bunim of Pshischa) once said that the sin we leave Yom Kippur with is not believing that G-d has forgiven us.

I don't think he meant that we don't believe G-d is capable of forgiving us. Rather, we believe that we are not really worthy of forgiveness, or that we weren't sincere in our desire to change. Maybe we tell ourselves that we are still holding on to old patterns and are not really ready to let go.

Our Sages say that even a passing thought of Teshuva renders one completely righteous. I find it hard to believe that any of us went through these High Holidays without an honest, even passing thought that we want to show up differently in the world, in our Judaism, and in our relationship with G-d.

How do we escape this?

Thank G-d for the Torah and the holiday cycle. The four days between Yom Kippur and Sukkos correspond to the four letters of Hashem's name. During these four days, all of the energies and transformations that began on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and the days in between begin to form the new life of the new year, like the early stages of conception.

Then we enter the holiday of Sukkos. We are hugged by the walls of the Sukkah. We internalize the energy of the Divine embrace that G-d gave us on Yom Kippur as we take the Four Kinds and bring them to our chest.

On top of all that, and perhaps most important, is the specific instruction to rejoice during this holiday.

Joy lifts us out of our self-doubt and insecurities and raises us up to the true reality of Hashem's love and commitment to us.

It is liberating to let go and lift your feet off the floor in a dance. It reminds us that the entirety of our being belongs to Hashem and is loved and hugged by Him.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, then it's really time to dance.

I hope you'll join me on the first night of Sukkot, from 8–10 PM, at the beautiful Chabad Intown Sukkah on the BeltLine for a blessing, a bit to eat (sushi), a l'chaim, and some real, solid joy to carry us into Hashem's embrace!

Good Shabbos and Chag Sameach!

Jewish Joy (and Ushpizin) Through Art

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 25, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Shopping mall is kanyon (קניון). So, is the Mall of America called the Grand Kanyon?

Dear friends,

Before we dive into Jewish joy today, I want to start out with some joy of my own:

The Drop has reached over 1,000 subscribers. 🎉 This has been a dream of mine since I started it four years ago!

Thank you to everyone for subscribing, reading even if only occasionally, and putting up with my puns, stories, and attempts at relating niche fandoms to Jewish ideas.

If you’re new here, I’m Miranda in the streets, Maayan in the synagogue seats. 👋 New Yorker, Hebrew learner, explorer of Jewish meaning, and an elder emo.

Despite that last point, I was recently dubbed “the happiest Jewess on Substack.” I’ll take it! But my Jewish joy wasn’t complete until I got the new book, The Art of Jewish Joy, by Amanda Kingloff and Suzy Ultman.

I received a copy of this book from the publisher (thanks, Chronicle Books!) in exchange for an honest review. The thoughts below are entirely my own.

And here’s the honest part: I’m not keen on crafting. Aside from collaging and the occasional watercolor painting (which was more of a Covid hobby anyway), I get lazy and I would much rather just buy something than make it. I know, it seems off-brand.

However, when I met Amanda at a day of camp for Jewish professionals handing out Jewish joy stickers to promote her upcoming book about joy and art, I needed to get my hands on this book.

I needed it on my Jewish bookshelf because A) I mean look at that colorful cover, B) it’s perfect for children and I collect books for my future children like the freak that I am, and C) I like seeing how educators creatively teach about Judaism!

Suzy Ultman (left) is an Ohio-based illustrator, author, and toy maker. Her shop is ridiculously cute, full of smiling heart-shaped stickers and children’s books, one of which (How Do You Jew?) I just realized is also in my future children’s book pile.

Amanda Kingloff (right) is the founder of Project Kid, which helps families build imaginative, beautiful lives through hands-on creativity.

🎙️Podcast alert: Suzy and Amanda were just interviewed on my work’s podcast I help produce, Adapting: The Future of Jewish Education! After reading this, listen to the episode, “We’re Serious About Jewish Joy” here.

But when this occasional dabbler in arts and crafts (that’s me) sat down to review The Art of Jewish Joy, I figured I needed to get the full experience and make some art myself!

Because, as Suzy and Amanda point out, Judaism is about doing. There’s a lot of physicality while connecting to the traditions, like baking challah and shaking the lulav and etrog (which is an activity in the book: making your own lulav and etrog!).

As I was flipping through the book’s 50 artsy activities, from creating Purim puppets to butterflies, inspired by the famous Holocaust poem, “The Butterfly”, which I reference in this Drop, I stopped at Sukkot. Why not make art for an upcoming holiday?

Paper flowers to decorate your sukkah seemed pretty easy. While I don’t have a sukkah (I live in Manhattan), I could make these flowers and bring them to my friend’s sukkah on Saturday!

But the activity, called Invitation to the Past, wasn’t just gluing construction-paper flora to green pipe cleaners (to see the final results, scroll to the end of this post). It was also a learning moment about the Sukkot tradition of Ushpizin.

Ushpizin is a Kabbalistic Sukkot tradition in which people symbolically invite biblical ancestors into the sukkah as honored guests. The word comes from Aramaic and means “guests” or “visitors.”

And I had never heard of it before!

In modern years, biblical matriarchs (Ushpizot) have been included in this tradition of hospitality as well. Each guest represents traditional values, inviting not only the person but what they represented as well.

Day 1: Love with Abraham and Sarah

Day 2: Strength with Isaac and Miriam

Day 3: Harmony with Jacob and Deborah

Day 4: Endurance with Moses and Hannah

Day 5: Humility with Aaron and Abigail

Day 6: Connection with Joseph and Huldah

Day 7: Leadership with David and Esther

In the Sukkot activity, after you make your flowers, you write the ushpizin/ot you’re inviting into your sukkah on the paper petals.

But hold up… who was Abigail?! And Huldah? And why were they included in this list of esteemed biblical figures, while Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah were passed over, to use another biblical reference?

I asked a couple of Jewish friends, and they didn’t know who Abigail and Huldah were either. Dear reader, do you know? Write in the comments - points to you if you already knew who they were!

This seemed like another learning moment, so here’s my quick research:

Abigail: One of King David’s wives. She was married to Nabal, and when he insulted David, Abigail intervened with gifts and diplomacy, preventing David from taking revenge. After Nabal’s death, she became David’s wife. She’s remembered for her wisdom and ability to prevent violence. She appears in the Books of Samuel. Read more about her here.

“David and Abigail,” by Frans Pourbus the Elder, c. 1570/80, oil on canvas, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria (Jewish Women’s Archive)

Huldah: A prophetess living in Jerusalem during the reign of King Josiah. When the priests discovered a scroll of the Torah in the Temple, Josiah’s officials consulted Huldah, who delivered a prophetic message about its significance and Judah’s future. She’s remembered for her religious authority and judgment. She appears in Kings and Chronicles. Read more about her here.

These women are included in Ushpizot because they were listed as important prophetesses in the Talmud.

I found this modern list of Ushpizot, including female leaders like Golda Meir and Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Another question for you: Whose spirit from the modern era would you invite into your sukkah?

And how did my flowers turn out, you may be wondering?

Well, the tacky glue I bought didn’t stick to the pipe cleaners AT ALL and I grew frustrated, but I had fun because I made Phil make them with me.

As you can see, I invited the spirit of Esther into my metaphorical sukkah for her bravery in standing up to hatred and injustice to save the Jewish people, even though I have a soft spot for Deborah. Fun fact: my last name comes from Deborah’s husband, Lapidoth! Phil chose King David for his leadership. If only I chose Abigail, we could have been a match made in Jewish heaven.

The Art of Jewish Joy is a fun way to learn and connect to the holidays! It’s perfect for parents, and even people who dislike arts and crafts.

Shabbat Shalom and chag sameach! May you have more strength than tacky glue,

💦 If you like biblical women, check out these Drops:

Why Do They Hate Us?

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 25 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Gimme Some Torah by Rabbi Eli Garfinkel on September 25, 2026.

The cover of Dara Horn’s latest book, the inspiration for my Yom Kippur Kol Nidre sermon

Devarim/Deuteronomy 16:1

שֹׁפְטִ֣ים וְשֹֽׁטְרִ֗ים תִּֽתֶּן־לְךָ֙ בְּכׇל־שְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ אֲשֶׁ֨ר יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֶ֛יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לְךָ֖ לִשְׁבָטֶ֑יךָ וְשָׁפְט֥וּ אֶת־הָעָ֖ם מִשְׁפַּט־צֶֽדֶק׃

You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the LORD your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice.

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Note: This is the sermon I delivered on Yom Kippur night after Kol Nidre.

Shanah tovah and g’mar ḥatimah tovah. May we all be inscribed and sealed for a happy and healthy life. One night, a guy named Shmuel notices his friend Avrum underneath a streetlight, searching for something on the ground.

“Avrum,” he says, “What are you doing?”

“I’ve lost my keys. Please help me look for them.”

So the two of them look all over the area underneath the glow of the streetlight. After about ten minutes, Shmuel says, “Avrum, where were you when you realized that you didn’t have your keys?”

Shmuel points to a place about 500 yards away. “I was over there in that alley.”

Shmuel was dumbfounded. “So why are we wasting our time looking here!?”

Avrum looked over at his friend: “Because the light is better here!”

This joke is funny because Avrum is trying very hard to solve his problem, but he’s not doing anything that will actually lead to a solution.

We have a very serious antisemitism problem in America, and we’re trying very hard to fix it. Unfortunately, like Avrum in the joke, what we’re doing is not helping at all.

Our schools, from kindergarten through graduate programs, are simply overrun with anti-Jewish hatred. Here is a notable example from a lawsuit involving a high school in Berkeley, California.

A so-called art teacher displayed an image of a fist punching through a Star of David. The same teacher then promoted a walkout during which students chanted, “F*** the Jews.”

When a Jewish student in the class complained, the administration’s response was not to punish the teacher but rather to make the student spend the class time in the library. That is just one incident from a long and sad list, a list that describes the florid, putrid rot in American society.

What is happening here? Why can we put a flying robot on Mars but we can’t seem to stop antisemitism? Why do they hate us so much?

Celebrated and prolific author Dara Horn has just published a new book, “The Final Solution to the Jewish Question: A Love Story for the Living.” You may be familiar with her bestseller, “People Love Dead Jews.”

Dr. Horn’s latest book offers a cogent answer to that question: Why do they hate us? I thought I knew the answer to that question, but I didn’t. I learned a lot from this book, and much of what I’m going to say today is based on my interpretation of her writing.

When it comes to possible explanations of antisemitism, Dr. Horn identifies the usual suspects. The first is the scapegoat theory. The idea of the scapegoat comes from the Torah. In fact, the scapegoat played a crucial role in the ancient Yom Kippur ritual that we’ll read about in the Torah tomorrow morning.

You probably know the basics. There were two goats. One was sacrificed to God, while the other, the scapegoat, was loaded with all of the sins of the Jewish people and escorted into the wilderness, where it met its demise. To this day, the word scapegoat means to blame people for something they did not do.

The scapegoat theory of antisemitism says that the Jews are persecuted because we’re an easy, helpless target. So some think that if we can convince the world that we are not to blame for whatever the accusation is, then we will be found not guilty and antisemitism will disappear or at least go back underground.

The problem with the scapegoat solution is that it never works. The reason it never works is that it’s based on rational thought. Antisemitism is an irrational thought pattern. Jew-haters don’t use the cerebral cortex when thinking about us, they use the amygdala, the part of the brain we have in common with lizards and snakes.

They accuse us of being lizard people even though they are the ones who are behaving more like reptiles than human beings. You can’t defeat irrationality with rational thought.

We could and have brought all kinds of evidence to show that we did not kill Jesus, that we did not poison the wells during the Black Death, that we didn’t run the transatlantic slave trade, that we neither desire world domination nor the extermination of the Palestinians. Our words are useless and our enemies will not listen to any of it. So it’s time to flush the scapegoat theory down the toilet.

The second usual suspect in explaining antisemitism is ignorance and a lack of education. The idea behind this answer is that if we could just give people the information they lack, they will realize the error of their ways and the hatred would stop.

Dr. Horn suggests that there are basically two ways of dispelling the ignorance. One is to focus on the Holocaust and our suffering, to shame people into looking at what the world has done and continues to do to us. This is the most popular strategy.

The other, less popular strategy is to focus on the great things that individual Jews have done, such as cure polio, win Nobel Prizes, etc.

Dr. Horn suggests that both of these educational strategies are very attractive and very wrong. They’re attractive because they’re so optimistic. Oh gee, if we would just teach enough people how much we have suffered at the hands of terrible, evil monsters, they would feel sorry for us and never participate in antisemitism. I could had a V8!

Alternatively, if we could just teach enough people that the internet does not get invented without Jews, that Jews have been at the forefront of virtually every field known to humanity, then people will think good thoughts about us and avoid anti-Jewish hatred.

And because educating the ignorant sounds so doable and cheerful, we throw hundreds of millions of dollars into the effort. Movies, television shows, school curricula, museums, lectures, the list of options goes on an on. We write checks to this non-profit and that non-profit and think that the education will eventually work.

Alas, there is simply no proof that any of this education does any good. Today, after all this Holocaust education, 11% of Generation Z blames the Shoah on the Jews themselves. In New York, which has had the most intense Holocaust education, that figure is 19%.

And trust me, nobody cares who invented what or who won what Nobel Prize. If anything, teaching about great individual Jewish achievements inspires envy, hatred, and conspiracy theories, not admiration.

The truth is that no amount of education will ever reduce antisemitism even one little bit. Ignorance is not the problem. In every generation, it is not the uneducated, simple people who pose the greatest threat to us. It’s the smarty-pants and the wanna-be smarty-pants who want to do us the most harm.

Remember, the leadership of the Nazi party was populated by professors, doctors, scientists, and even theologians. Likewise, the rageful hatred we have endured since October 7th, 2023 has emerged primarily from the universities and the arts community, not from normal, salt-of-the-earth kind of people.

A third usual suspect is the “We’re so different” explanation. We supposedly seem so strange to them that they fear us. So some say we should make people aware that we are just like them, that we should say, “Hey, we’re Jews, we’re just people with a different religion. You celebrate Christmas and we celebrate Hanukkah. It’s no big deal.”

The problem with the “We’re just like you” solution is that it’s a lie, a huge whopper. First of all, Jewish identity is only partially religious. A lot of Jews are totally secular. Most Jews get their Jewish identity not through Jewish law but through food, cultural traditions, family customs, Holocaust memory, and a love of Israel.

Secondly, as Dr. Horn argues, the notion that we’re just like everyone else is the polar opposite of Jewish history. We have spent the past 3,000 years telling and showing people that we are not just like everyone else.

After all, why would we want to be like everyone else? What’s so great about everyone else that we would want to be like them? Feh, I don’t want to be just like them.

Using any of these usual suspects to explain and combat antisemitism is like using an antibiotic to fight a virus. It might make you feel good that the doctor took you seriously and gave you a pill instead of just sending you to bed. But that pill will do nothing for you, and in the long run, it could even cause you harm.

So what is the answer? Dr. Horn’s basic idea is that antisemitism is not a problem to be solved but rather the natural consequence of being a Jew.

I’ll say that again because it’s the key. Antisemitism is not a problem to be solved but rather the natural consequence of being a Jew. This is who we are, and who we are makes powerful people very, very angry.

The real reason that antisemitism exists is because we Jews are the original anti-tyrants. Dr. Horn wrote, “This is the story of a tiny group of people whose groundbreaking ideas shaped world history. When the Jews said they do not bow to other gods, this also meant that they do not bow to tyrants. This was a radical idea in the ancient world. It is still radical now.”

Now that makes sense to me. That is why antisemitism existed and continues to exist. That’s why six million died in the Holocaust and that’s why Oct. 7th happened. We do not bow to tyrants. Certainly not to other gods, but also not to emperors, kings, popes, priests, emirs, sultans, and caliphs. And today, we do not bow to bots and algorithms, either.

We’ve been refusing to bow to the powers that be for thousands of years, and it is a sentiment that makes powerful people enraged. They think to themselves, “How dare these Jews with their strange, alien customs deny us our right to their obedience and destruction?”

Our insistence on not bowing to tyrants has cost us dearly. That is why there aren’t hundreds of millions or billions of Jews. As the Shulḥan Arukh recommends, I ask potential converts this question. “Today, you are a non-Jew. You have it easy and the world loves you. Why do you want to become a Jew and become the instant enemy of so many people?”

Strangely enough, nobody ever says, “You know what, Rabbi, you’re right. This isn’t for me.” The question doesn’t scare them because they know what the Jews gave the world. Our greatest gift to humanity is the concept of freedom itself.

Our story taught the human race that you don’t have to obey your ruler. Our saga told the world that you can tell any flesh and blood king or governor or president to gey kakken offen yam, you can tell your sovereign to go jump in a lake.

Our story also taught humanity that one ought to love life no matter what. Religions based on a love of life are good. Religions based on a love of death are dangerous.

I think Dara Horn is telling us that complaining about antisemitism is like complaining about night. We have night because our planet rotates on its axis, like all planets do. Therefore, we face the sun during the day and we face away from it at night.

Likewise, Jews experience antisemitism because that is what happens when a small group stands up for itself and refuses to prostrate itself before a ruling power. Sometimes, we face the light of God. Sometimes, we face the darkness of the human heart.

We have to stand up for ourselves. The antisemites are manipulating us with tired, worn-out, Soviet propaganda. Did you know that this whole “Antizionism is not antisemitism” nonsense was designed by the Kremlin in the 1960s and 1970s, like most of the Palestinian playbook? I learned that from Dr. Horn’s book.

Antisemites think they can fool us. They can’t. Antizionism is a form of anti-Jewish hatred. The words “Free Palestine” are a verbal swastika. We have to stop begging the nations of the world to love us.

The nations aren’t capable of loving us, and we don’t want their love in the first place. All we want is what we deserve, respect.

Notice that I say respect, not peace. Respect has to come before peace. Peace without respect is meaningless.

On this Yom Kippur, as on every Day of Atonement, we Jews have an individual responsibility to do teshuvah, to repent for the sins we have committed against God and our fellow human beings. But the Jewish people as a whole, Am Yisrael, only owes repentance to God, not to humanity.

To the contrary, humanity needs to apologize and repent for the way it has treated us. The human race needs to repent and apologize to us because the whole planet is teetering on the edge. If the world can fix its relationship with us, the Mashiach will come, either metaphorically or literally. Germany did teshuvah right, but Germany is just one country.

I wish that I could be like Jonah, whose story we’ll read tomorrow afternoon. Jonah went to the great city of Nineveh and shouted his demand that they repent, told them what would happen if they didn’t, and, lo and behold, they repented! Even their livestock wore sackcloth!

Obviously, I’m not Jonah. I’m neither a prophet nor the son of a prophet. I know that we’ll get the world’s apology on the same day that I win both the PowerBall and MegaMillions. But even so, I offer this prayer:

O Holy One, teach the nations of the world to repent before You and Your people. Purify their hearts so that we can live in peace and security. Help us be a light unto the nations, and prevent the nations from extinguishing Your light. May this be Your will, Amen.

•••

Built to Come Down

Uriel ben Avraham — Thu, 24 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The dog finished his antibiotics this week and the patch on his stomach has cleared up. That's the news from here.

He's about eleven and a half, a pit mix, and he has had bad skin his whole life. Allergies. The kind of dog who reacts to something and nobody ever establishes what. A couple of weeks ago the raw patch on his belly turned out to be a genuine infection, off a scratch he picked up somewhere on a walk, and he came home with antibiotics, probiotics, omega-3s, a medicated shampoo, and a conditioner spray. That is a lot of product for one stomach.

Getting the pills into him is its own operation. For years the reliable move was cat food — hide it in cat food and it goes down without comment. Then he got tired of cat food, so that one's gone. Peanut butter still works. Almond butter does not, and I couldn't tell you why. He is really persnickety.

We've had him since 2018, when the police took him off people who had thrown him off a second-storey balcony. He tolerates a bath. He is, as of this week, done with the course and fine.

This Shabbat is the fifteenth of Tishrei, so it's the first day of Sukkot and there's no weekly parsha. We read the festival calendar out of Vayikra instead — one chapter that runs the whole year end to end, Shabbat and Pesach and the Omer and Shavuot and the first of Tishrei and Yom Kippur, most of them handled in a few verses each. Then it gets to this one and slows right down.

בַּסֻּכֹּ֥ת תֵּשְׁב֖וּ שִׁבְעַ֣ת יָמִ֑ים כׇּל־הָֽאֶזְרָח֙ בְּיִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל יֵשְׁב֖וּ בַּסֻּכֹּֽת׃ You shall live in booths seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in booths,

— Vayikra 23:42

That one line does a surprising amount of work. Rava reads the whole instruction off it — for seven days, come out of the permanent home you live in all year round and go sit in a temporary one. Which is also where the height limit comes from: build the thing tall enough and sturdy enough to be a real building and it stops counting as a sukkah at all.

And it never says build one. The halacha takes that omission seriously. Rabbi Eliezer held that the sukkah has to be your own, reading prepare for yourself the festival of Sukkot the way it sounds. The Sages disagreed with him, and they did it off this same verse — kol ha'ezrach b'Yisrael, all the homeborn in Israel, which they take to mean the whole Jewish people are fit to sit in one sukkah. So a borrowed booth works. A stolen one doesn't. Everything between those two is fine.

There will be a sukkah this year and it will most likely be Chabad's, which is the exact case the Sages had in mind. I have spent no part of this week worrying about whether that counts and a fair part of it worrying about the dog.

Then the verse after it explains what the whole thing is for, and that's the part that turns around on you.

לְמַ֘עַן֮ יֵדְע֣וּ דֹרֹֽתֵיכֶם֒ כִּ֣י בַסֻּכּ֗וֹת הוֹשַׁ֙בְתִּי֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל בְּהוֹצִיאִ֥י אוֹתָ֖ם מֵאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃ in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt—I the ETERNAL your God.

— Vayikra 23:43

The commemoration points forward. You go and sit outside for a week so that people who have not been born yet will know something, which is a strange thing to be told to do with your evenings.

And there's an old argument underneath it about what those booths actually were. Rashi says clouds of glory — no huts involved at all, just something God held over them the whole way. In the Gemara it's a machloket: Rabbi Eliezer says clouds of glory, Rabbi Akiva says they made themselves real booths out in the wilderness, poles and covering, the way anybody would. Underneath that sits a question about whether the thing we commemorate was handed to them or put up by them with their own hands. Nobody settles it. What the halacha does is send you outside to build one either way.

That argument is going to read differently to me this time next year. At some point in the next year or so my husband, my brother-in-law and I are going into houses — building, renovating, one to start with, then two, then however many it turns into. We have got far enough along to be arguing about a name. Achim Batim or Tikkun Achim. Brothers and houses, or repair and brothers. Nobody has conceded.

So I have permanent structures on the brain, and this week's assignment is the one building job in the calendar that is supposed to come down. Seven days, and the poles go back wherever the poles live. Everything that makes a house good — solid, sealed, built to outlast you — would disqualify it.

Three verses earlier the chapter tells you to be glad in front of GOD for seven days, which is where the name comes from — zman simchateinu, the season of our joy. It arrives on the fifteenth of Tishrei. It doesn't inquire about your week first.

So: somebody else's sukkah, a company name nobody has agreed to, and an old dog off his antibiotics and back to refusing things on principle. Set against clouds of glory that isn't much. But the commandment doesn't ask what you're bringing. It fixes the date, tells you to be glad on it for seven days, and leaves you to turn up with whatever the week actually handed you.

Seven days of it, starting at candle-lighting. I'll take the week.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Why Were They Applauding in Maine?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on September 23, 2026.

Football fans will recognize the name Don Shula. The legendary Miami Dolphins coach led his team to two Super Bowl championships and the NFL’s only perfect season. He was also accustomed to being recognized wherever he went.

Shula once took his wife on vacation to a small town in Maine, hoping to find a quiet place where they could relax without attracting attention. When they entered a nearly empty movie theater, everyone inside suddenly began applauding.

Shula whispered to his wife, “I guess there isn’t any place I’m not known.”

Don Shula was one of the most recognizable names in American sports. But that wasn't the reason a theater of strangers in Maine applauded when he walked in.

✨3 Ideas

**Clear vision **

Seeing ourselves clearly is where humility begins. Our talents and abilities reflect, in part, our genetics and the influence of those who left their fingerprints upon us.

Humility doesn’t ask us to deny our gifts or accomplishments. It asks us to remember that we didn’t create them alone.

Making ourselves smaller isn’t humility -- it is seeing more clearly who we are. Classic wisdom teaches that humility is the mother of all good character traits -- the root from which spiritual and ethical refinement grows.

**When ego becomes centric **

The trouble begins when ego moves from being a supporting actor to demanding top billing. A healthy ego gives us self-esteem and a sense of our inherent worth. But when it insists on becoming the star, our perspective changes.

Ego puts the self at the center. Humility puts the self in perspective.

A distorted view of ourselves distorts our view of everything beyond ourselves. Other people, our communities, and even the voice of the soul itself are pushed aside when everything becomes about us.

Looking beyond and behind

Humility grows when we look beyond ourselves. A star-filled sky or an encounter with transcendent beauty reminds us that we are part of something far greater than ourselves. We can recognize our significance without imagining ourselves at the center.

**Perspective emerges in knowing our place in the larger picture. **

We can also look behind us. Parents, teachers, and circumstances have helped us become who we are. Recognizing what we have received awakens humility, one of the soul’s natural responses to seeing clearly.

📜2 Quotes

“When arrogance comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom” — Proverbs 11:2

“In the course of my life, I have often had to eat my words, and I must confess that I have always found it a wholesome diet.”
— _Winston Churchill _

❓1 Question

What is a sign of false humility you’ve noticed in others -- or perhaps, in yourself? ** **

And why were those people in the Maine theater applauding?

A man came over and shook hands with Shula and his wife. “I’m surprised you know me here,” said Shula. “Should I know you?” asked the man, puzzled. “We’re just glad to see you folks. The manager said he wouldn’t start the film until at least ten people came in.”

Perhaps the best part of the story is that Shula himself enjoyed telling it. He could laugh at the moment when, just for an instant, he mistook his place in the larger picture.

Wishing you a week of clear vision -- behind you, beyond you, and within -- and a soul that soars,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What have you noticed about the way a genuinely humble person speaks or behaves?

P.P.S. As promised, here’s an interview with my daughter-in-law Estrella. She asked me a few questions about family, faith, and life -- and somehow Spiritual Sparks: A Reader made its way into the conversation 😃 Watch our conversation here

You are Heavenly!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 18 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on September 18, 2026.

This season can feel heavy. The Yom Hagadol - the Big Day of Yom Kippur is upon us and it pulls deep into our soul.

This Shabbos we read the Haazinu song. It is Moshe's last blessing and instruction before his passing.

He begins with the words "pay heed heaven". There are many reasons our commentators tell us for this call upward.

A most practical teaching inspires a shift in energy for the great day of Yom Kippur.

Moshe is telling us that while we may have erred or not lived up to our fullest potential, and while we may be judged from Above, and sometimes even receive rebuke or instruction, we need to know that we are heavenly!

Our truest essence is that we are a part of Heaven, a literal part of Hashem.

Moshe is calling on us to focus more on the positive parts of who we are and less on the negative.

Take a minute right now and think about three things you can look back at 5786 and be proud of....that's the heaven in you.

Are you more inspired or less inspired now to do more good?

As we approach Yom Kippur let's see the heaven in each other, the heaven in ourselves and surely Hashem Himself will see the heaven in us too!

Gmar Chatima Tova and Good Shabbos!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

The Teshuvah of My Chemical Romance

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 18 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 18, 2026.

What was your favorite band when you were 13? Have you seen them live? What did it feel like? Do you still listen to them? And can you relate them to Yom Kippur?!

Last month, I experienced one of the greatest nights of my life when I saw My Chemical Romance for the third time at Citi Field. It was unlike any concert I’ve ever been to (yes, even Phish!).

80,000 fans screamed “I’m not okay” at the top of our lungs so all of Queens could hear us. The stadium was lit up by just as many glowing, swaying phone lights. There were theatrics. Fake blood. Probably real blood at some point. An actor running across the stage completely engulfed in flames.

My Chemical Romance is an emo pop-punk band that formed after its front man, Gerard Way, witnessed the Twin Towers going down on 9/11 from a ferry on the Hudson River.

With four successful albums and millions of fans around the globe, My Chemical Romance sings about revenge, death, vampires, and a post-apocalyptic world. They also prompt my adult self to wonder, “Why on earth did my mom let me listen to this violent, angry music as a young, impressionable teen?”

But for all their screamy angst and imagery around death, the band is pro-life. Not, like, abortion pro-life, but pro-living. Resilience. Surviving tough stuff and coming out stronger on the other side.

Which is probably why their lyrics, not to mention their boyish-looking, eyeliner-wearing singer, appealed to my lonely, shy teenage self.

The concert reminded me of who I am at my deepest core.

After all, we meet this time of year with teshuvah, or returning to G-d, but also returning to your soul, or your teruah-est self. Yes, that was a shofar pun.

My Chemical Romance, also known as MCR or My Chem, is imprinted on my soul, along with dancing skeletons in parade uniform, Mother War, and primal, cathartic screaming. Whenever I hear a ringing G note played on piano, I perk up, expecting to hear the rest of the notes that begin their most famous song “Welcome to the Black Parade.” So seeing them live felt like coming home, and nothing you can say can stop me going home. Yes, that’s an MCR lyric.

Now come one, come all to this tragic affair

There’s a deeper connection, though, between MCR and the Holy Days.

Yom Kippur, which begins Sunday evening, is the Jews’ Day of Atonement. We fast, pray, we ask G-d to forgive us for our sins, and we think about how we want to be better in the new year.

It’s also the day we imagine our own death. The Unetaneh Tokefprayer, the central liturgy of the holidays, asks, “Who will live and who will die?”, asking us to confront our own mortality as we reflect on how we’ve behaved in the past year.

It’s said G-d has three books open on this day: the Book of Life, the Book of the Death, and the Book of the In-Between. Those judged righteous are inscribed for another year of life. Those deemed wicked are inscribed for death. Those in the gray area are judged until Yom Kippur.

In memento mori fashion, the holiday urges us to reflect on who we’ve been and who we’d like to be. It asks us, “If these were your last days of life, would you really want to spend them gossiping, holding grudges, or putting off the things that matter most?”

To get in this mindset, Jews typically rehearse for their death on Yom Kippur by fasting, wearing white, and refraining from sexual intimacy and physical comforts like bathing and brushing their teeth (which, if you’ve smelled my breath in the morning, can smell like death itself). Being so conscious of death helps us contemplate life.

There’s also the Yizkor service to remember loved ones who have died.

So, death is a ubiquitous theme on Yom Kippur. It also plays a big role on My Chem’s 2006 album, The Black Parade.

The Black Parade’s march toward death

The conceptual rock opera follows a character named The Patient who is dying of cancer. As he confronts death, which comes to him as a parade from his childhood memories, he confronts his life, including his relationships, regrets, anger, and the fear of dying.

The album sequentially explores these themes, starting with “Dead!”, a darkly upbeat song with hard electric guitar riffs:

And if your heart stops beating I'll be here wondering Did you get what you deserve? The ending of your life

Kind of an Unetaneh Tokef prayer itself, no? Imagine dying, arriving to Jewish heaven, and G-d is just singing My Chemical Romance!

“Dead!” gives us a glimpse into The Patient’s personality pre-teshuvah: sarcastic, bitter, and making light of his situation. Possibly using humor to hide his fear and the responsibility he has to make things right before he dies: “If life ain’t just a joke, then why are we laughing?”

By the middle of the album, The Patient begins to accept that death is near. We see this in the album’s most famous song “Welcome to the Black Parade,” as he recalls a childhood memory of his father taking him into the city to see a marching band. The memory comforts him and gives his life meaning.

Watch on YouTube

Like Yom Kippur, death almost becomes a dramatic spectacle for our protagonist, one that looms too large to think about anything else. The theatrics of the procession easing him toward the end reflect on who he was and who he wants to be in the little time he has left.

The Patient makes meaning of this, and decides he’s going to be the “savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned, “ just like his father asked of him as a boy.

By the record’s end, The Patient has made peace with his sins, his broken relationships, and death. In “Famous Last Words,” he’s talking to his lover (or perhaps G-d?) and says:

I am not afraid to keep on living I am not afraid to walk this world alone Honey, if you stay, I'll be forgiven Nothing you can say can stop me going home

Up until this point, we’ve listened to The Patient recall his agony through his physical suffering (“Cancer”), alcoholism (“The Sharpest Lives”), sleepless nights (“Sleep”), life’s disappointments (“Disenchantment”), and broken relationships (“I Don’t Love You”).

But the tone shifts in “Famous Last Words” to something more positive. In this song, he’s saying, “I’ve meditated on death, and I choose to keep living for as long as I can, despite fear, pain, and uncertainty.” And hopefully he betters himself in the process. With his renewed commitment to life, I’m sure he will.

My colleague Jodie and me at the show!

Moses bonus!

We (and MCR) are not the only ones contemplating death. During this time of year, we read the parshiyot in the Torah when Moses is giving his final speech to the Israelites as he approaches the end of his life. He “remembers the days of old” as he recounts their exodus from Egypt, their covenant with G-d, the mitzvot, and the fact that they are about to enter the Promised Land and might forget where they came from.

Thus, Deuteronomy is Moses’s Black Parade, as he imparts wisdom to the people as if he were the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned. Or, more accurately, reminding them that G-d is the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned.

So, this Sunday/Monday, even if you’re not fasting, take some time to think about what you could change, repair, or pursue to give your life meaning. We only get one, after all.

I will end with one of the last verses in the Unetaneh Tokef prayer to keep us humble:

Man’s origin is dust and his end is unto dust. He earns his bread at the risk of his life. He is likened to a broken potsherd, to withering grass, to a fading flower, to a passing shadow, to a vanishing cloud, to a blowing wind, to dust that scatters and to a fleeting dream.

Shabbat Shalom. May you be inscribed in the Book of Life!

Awake and unafraid,

💦 If you like Yom Kippur, check out these Drops:

Transactions

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 18 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A fleeing Taliban terrorist, desperate for water, was lost in a desert when he saw something far off in the distance. Hoping to find water, he hurried towards ‘the object’ only to find a little old Jewish man at a small stand selling Zionist neckties embossed with an Israeli flag pattern. The terrorist asked, “Do…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

What Color Were the Patient's Eyes?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 17 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on September 17, 2026.

My late father-in-law, Dr. Irwin Siegel, was an accomplished physician and surgeon who also helped train young doctors. He once told me about an exercise he regularly used with the doctors he mentored.

The young doctors examined a “standardized patient” -- someone trained to present particular symptoms and concerns -- then reported their observations and possible diagnosis to Dr. Siegel. But before they could begin, he would ask one question:

“What color were the patient's eyes?”

Almost invariably, the young doctors couldn't answer. And they wondered why something as seemingly insignificant as eye color mattered at all. Why did Dr. Siegel think it did?

✨3 Ideas

Awareness wakens wonder

Stand at the rim of the Grand Canyon, and its vastness practically demands your attention. But much of life’s beauty makes no such demand -- stars filling the night sky, fireflies flashing on a summer evening, or the stillness of freshly fallen snow.

Awareness allows us to discover what was there all along.

The world doesn’t become more beautiful or wondrous because we’re paying attention; but when we do, we become more capable of receiving its beauty.

**Attentiveness opens the heart **

Seeing another person means noticing more than what they say or do. Their expression, a change in tone, or an unexpected silence can be revealing.

Attentiveness can reveal what another person may never put into words.

Kindness and compassion take on a deeper spiritual dimension when we’re proactive -- remembering a friend’s birthday or noticing someone left out of a conversation. Our inner essence delights when we notice, rather than need to be reminded.

Self-awareness opens a window

Careful observation also includes turning our attention inward. It can reveal not only habits that need changing, but strengths and talents we may have overlooked.

Our weaknesses tell us where we need to grow. Our strengths tell us where we are meant to give.

Classic wisdom teaches that someone unaware of their faults doesn’t know what needs correcting -- but someone unaware of their strengths faces an even greater loss. Seeing ourselves more clearly brings more of what is uniquely ours into the world.

📜2 Quotes

“The purpose in a man’s heart is like deep water, but a man of understanding will draw it out.” — Proverbs 20:5

“Hide not your talents, they for use were made, What’s a sun-dial in the shade?” — Benjamin Franklin

❓1 Question

What is something you’ve recently noticed about the world, other people, or yourself that you hadn’t previously paid attention to?

So why did Dr. Siegel ask the young doctors about the color of the patient’s eyes?

He explained that they weren’t merely examining bodies -- they were interacting with human beings. If they hadn’t looked closely enough at the patient to notice something as basic as their eye color, perhaps they hadn’t fully seen the person in front of them.

Dr. Siegel’s question carried a lesson far beyond the examining room. Much of what can enrich our lives is already before us, waiting to be noticed -- beauty, another person’s needs, and qualities within ourselves that can point us toward what we have to give.

The more carefully we learn to look, the more there is to see.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of seeing more of what matters,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What quality or talent would you describe as one of your “superpowers”? I’d love to hear -- please respond by ‘reply.’

P.P.S. My daughter-in-law recently sat me down for a conversation/interview that took some unexpected -- and amusing turns. I’ll share the video with you in next week’s Spiritual Sparks. Stay tuned!

Ask Someone Who Was There

Uriel ben Avraham — Thu, 17 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Written and posted early this week. We're on the road, the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are full, and there wasn't a good hour left in front of Shabbat.

We packed the car last night and we're driving east today, most of the way across the country, off the road well before candle-lighting. My husband runs the music, which lately means Hebrew and country in whatever order Spotify hands them over. I like the long drives more than I should. Somewhere in the third hour the conversation thins out and what's left is whatever you've been carrying around for a month without looking at it.

This month it's been one verse.

Ha'azinu is almost entirely song. Moshe has days left. Instead of a final speech he's given a poem — seventy-odd verses, and the instruction is to teach it to them so they'll have it by heart. Not for now. For later, when he's gone and the land is good and everybody has comfortably forgotten what it cost to get there. He's writing something to be carried by people he won't be around to correct. Then he tells them who to ask.

זְכֹר֙ יְמ֣וֹת עוֹלָ֔ם בִּ֖ינוּ שְׁנ֣וֹת דֹּר־וָדֹ֑ר שְׁאַ֤ל אָבִ֙יךָ֙ וְיַגֵּ֔דְךָ זְקֵנֶ֖יךָ וְיֹ֥אמְרוּ לָֽךְ׃ Remember the days of old, consider the years of ages past; ask your parent, who will inform you, your elders, who will tell you.

— Devarim 32:7

Ask your parent. Your elders will tell you.

I came up out of the mikveh as Uriel ben Avraham Avinu v'Sarah Imenu. The Uriel I chose. The rest of it is what every convert gets — no Jewish parents to name, so you're given Abraham and Sarah's. Nobody in my close line lit candles on a Friday. My mother was nominally Catholic and didn't practise it, and she died when I was twenty, years before I had a single one of these questions to ask her. My father is alive. This year has been hard on his health.

For a long time I read that verse as a door shut to me, and I was wrong about it in a way that took paperwork to notice.

When my husband and I started the aliyah application we had to trace his family back through the generations, so I ran mine down alongside it. My great-grandfather was a Jew. He married out, the thread dropped, and the family never said a word about him in three generations — but he'd named his daughter (my grandmother) Leah.

Then this past Pesach my father mentioned, in passing, that as a boy he ate matzah every spring and never knew why. Just something his mother did.

That's what I keep turning over, because Moshe knew it. He doesn't just hand them a legal code to memorize nor only a history lecture. He also hands them a song — and the difference is engineering. An argument needs somebody who can still explain it. A tune doesn't. A tune rides along inside people who have lost the reason, gets sung at the right time of year by somebody who couldn't tell you what it's for, and comes out the other end of a bad century intact.

You can hear the thing working this week. There are melodies that only come out for these weeks — the same words you say all year, set to something you won't hear in the other eleven months — and the tune tells you where you are in the year before you've processed a syllable of the Hebrew. Somebody who has lost the language entirely still knows, from about four bars, that this is not an ordinary Shabbat. The information is in the music. It was put there on purpose, by people who understood that words are the part that goes first.

Which cuts both ways, because a tune doesn't check what it's carrying. At some point I noticed that one of the melodies we sing is Itsy Bitsy Spider. I would like to report that I then un-noticed it. I did not. It's there every time now, it will be there this year, and it will be there when I am eighty. The mechanism that kept my grandmother's matzah on the table for three generations of people who couldn't have explained it is the same indiscriminate mechanism that put a nursery rhyme in my shul. It carries whatever you hand it.

And Leah's matzah was exactly that. No framework around it, no vocabulary, nothing anybody could have written down. A woman put unleavened bread on the table every spring, her son ate it and didn't ask, and it reached me anyway.

So I ask now, constantly, and I ask people who aren't my parents. I ask my rabbi things I'm slightly embarrassed to be asking a year and a bit in. People answer — enthusiastically, at length, occasionally for longer than I wanted. There's a particular delight Jews take in being asked. The verse gave them a job.

Over Rosh Hashanah I kept going back to Avraham walking Isaac up the mountain, and I suspect I was doing arithmetic most of the room wasn't. That man is my father. Not as a metaphor — by name, the one I was given at the mikveh, the one I'm called to the Torah by. Every convert is handed him. And the story the year opens on is him going up a hill with his son, the wood, and a knife, fully intending to go through with it.

He doesn't. That matters and it isn't the part that stayed with me. What stayed with me is that somebody born into this inherits Avraham the way you inherit a grandparent in a photograph, and he's been furniture since before you could read. I was given him on a specific afternoon, in front of three rabbis, as my father — and then went away and read about the worst morning of his life. Nobody warned me. Nobody had to. They'd had him a lot longer than I had.

This Shabbat is Shabbat Shuva, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and the word is teshuvah — usually translated repentance, though it's built on the root for return.

Which should sit badly with somebody like me. Return to what? But I'd rather not spend the drive on the beautiful version of that question, because there's a plainer one next to it and it has a clock on it. The verse says ask your parent. My father is the only one left to ask, he is not well, and almost everything he knows he doesn't know he knows. Nobody is going to hand me a list of what's in there. I have to think of the questions myself, I have to think of them now, and mostly I've been busy.

That's the accounting I'm bringing into next week. Not the large one about the year. The small one about whether I'm still asking, or whether a year and a bit in I've started nodding along like a man who already knows.

We'll get in before Shabbat, unpack a little, light the candles somewhere new. And tomorrow, before it starts, I'm going to call my father — not about any of this, he'd have no idea what I was on about. Just to call him.

Though I might ask what else she made.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Burnout

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 16 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Three young boys, David, Michael, and Moishe were walking on the sidewalk arguing over whose Daddy was suffering from the worst burnout.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Illuminate Your Path This Rosh Hashanah

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 11, 2026.

This Drop is in memory of all those who lost their lives on this day 25 years ago. May their memories be forever a blessing, and may we choose love and compassion over terror and hate.

Dear Jews and allies,

The time has come. Rosh Hashanah starts at sundown tonight!

Are you completely prepared? Did you buy your apples and honey? Did you think about how you want to better yourself for the new year?

In preparation, I’ve been involved in not one but two Elul workshops! I just can’t get enough. I’m addicted to self-improvement. And yet, I can’t seem to improve. Or I do, and then revert to my old ways.

Last week, someone commented that I seem “spiritually wealthy.”

At first, I was taken by this poetic turn of phrase.

Then, I thought, “Am I wealthy in spirit?”

Yes, I’ve been deepening my relationship with Hashem, journaling more, and using my phone less on Shabbat.

But last week, I went against my values and ate shellfish on Shabbat1. Then, to make up for it, I planned on going to a Selichot service, but then stayed home and streamed a bit of it until I fell asleep.

And those are just a couple of the things making me feel a bit scattered right now. When I’m not disappointing myself by my lack of discipline (not too much, I know to go easy on myself!), my mind is focused on returning to work and office life after a remote summer, learning as much as I can about Israeli elections, and trying to be my best self this holiday season.

One source of Jewish wisdom and grounding I’ve turned to is my new friend ’s Illuminated Paths deck.

Kind of like a Jewish oracle deck, this 52-card set uses Torah and color theory to bring wisdom to your everyday life!

Oracolor.com

Think tarot but each card contains a Jewish value with a corresponding illustration and Hebrew word. The guidebook provides insight following the PaRDeS method of Jewish learning: the direct (Pshat), symbolic (Remez), interpretive (Drash), and intuitive (Sod).

The cards also come with an Oracolor wheel, divided among pathways for the mind, body, and heart. Inspired by the Tree of Life, an ancient Jewish map of the soul, the wheel organizes different dimensions of human experience into a color-based circular system. The wheel moves from darker colors to lighter ones, representing a path from inner darkness to inner light. Dark cards or positions on the wheel are invitations to transform and grow.

Debbie came up with this color map in 2020 while lost in the woods during Elul. Her system helps people access the wisdom that is already within them through color which people intuitively understand. Plus, it’s beautiful!

A Rosh Hashanah spread for you

I pulled a “Climb the Mountain” spread to prepare you for chagim season! Like Moses ascending Mount Sinai to receive wisdom for the journey ahead, this spread provides guidance to address a question you may have.

I asked the cards a question for you: “What wisdom do I need to fully embrace Rosh Hashanah this year?”

This spread involves drawing five cards placed at the base, partway up, at the peak, partway down the other side, and at the base on the other side, representing foundation, energy needed, Torah wisdom, practical guidance, and outcome. Let’s look at your results:

Your foundation: Peace / שלום

This card represents the energy or effort that brought you here. This energy has served you, but it’s no longer your focus.

And what a great place to start! Just as all colors merge to form white light, embracing every part of yourself reveals your inherent wholeness. Perhaps you started your Rosh Hashanah preparation from a place of inner balance and harmony. Lucky you!

Your next step: Pain / רעים

This card represents the energy you need to move forward.

Boy, that took a turn. Just like in life! Pain, whether physical or emotional, is a messenger. When met with awareness, it becomes a guide back to alignment. May you honor what your body or mind reveals to you during this time.

Lesson being learned: Confidence / נצח

This card shows your “Your Torah,” the wisdom that answers your question. Reflect on how to apply this insight to your current situation.

Confidence is trusting in your abilities and playing to your strengths. Netzach, often translated as “endurance” or “perseverance,” is the energy that sustains us through challenges. Try keeping a Strengths Journal: after every win - big or small - write down what you did and how it felt. Revisit this journal whenever you need to remind yourself of your strengths.

Advice from higher self: Resilience / סבלנות

In the real world, you don’t live at the top of the mountain. This card reveals your soul’s insight for how to bring the lesson’s wisdom into daily life.

Similarly to the Confidence card, resilience is staying present through discomfort. This requires patience, or savlanut. The Piaseczner Rebbe taught, “The deepest secret of Torah is your own.” Reflect on where in your life you feel challenged, whether it’s a tough conversation with a friend or learning a new skill. Leaning into the discomfort reveals strengths you never knew you had. More for your Strengths Journal!

Outcome: Ritual / מעשה

This card reveals the outcome of your current question—not your whole journey. When you reach this point, new questions will arise and new mountains await.

Okay, I actually gasped when I pulled this card. To end on Ritual for a Rosh Hashanah reading? Magic! This card is all about making ordinary moments extraordinary, from waking up in the morning to greeting someone with love. The word for sacred act, ma’aseh, comes from the kabbalistic realm of action, Asiyah, where spirit becomes real. Even the smallest action, done with intention, brings spirit into form. Pick one simple action this week and turn it into a moment of meaning.

Analysis

I don’t know how this landed for you, but this spread got me thinking about playing to my Jewish strengths rather than beating myself up for slip ups.

The cards tell me: You don’t have to reinvent yourself to have confidence; you already have what you need. But don’t just breeze past the discomfort. If you’re feeling stuck in a place of pain or challenge, explore it. Learn from it. That’s your Torah.

Then, turn those insights into action. Even if you don’t know what to do about the uncomfortable feelings, light candles on time. Tonight at 6:53pm ET if you’re in New York. Send someone a nice note. Or even better, call them.

And if this analysis wasn’t satisfying, Debbie gives professional readings with the cards over Zoom! She gave me one and it was clarifying. And not just because my foundation card was Clarity.

Shabbat Shalom and l’shana tova umetukah! Keep chasing the colors,

💦 If you like Jewish cards, check out this Drop:

In the past year, I’ve mostly refrained from eating shellfish and pork, but couldn’t help myself with the fresh seafood on my recent trip to Croatia. I mean, come on, travel treyf is delicious! I told myself I’d go back to kosher style when I returned home, but alas. And I especially try to eat kosher style on Shabbat to keep the day holy. The good news is the seafood I ate here in NYC was so bad that I am committing to no treyf again, for real this time.

Where He Is

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 11 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

This post was written and scheduled before Rosh Hashanah began.

We took the red-eye out of Los Angeles on Tuesday night and landed in Atlanta on Wednesday morning. A kid behind me kicked the seat and coughed the whole way across the country. But, like, what can you do.

We're staying with friends. Their family calls the guest room "our room," which tells you how often we're in it. I haven't done much around town since we landed. My husband is making the challah rounds today — some with raisins, some without — for dinner tonight and for tomorrow. A twice-baked potato with artichokes is definitely on the menu. The rest of it we haven't figured out, and it's Friday.

What I've mostly been doing is getting ready for a week or so without work. I notice that thinking about it makes me a bit happy. We pray every day regardless. What the week adds is time around it — to read, to reflect, to sit with things that get pushed to the edges of a working week and give them the middle of the day for once.

Tomorrow morning we'll be at Beth Shalom. It's our first time back since our rabbi retired. I'm sure the new rabbi is lovely. It's still a change, and I'm a little apprehensive about walking in. He'll have a room full of people who knew the man before him, and we don't want to be the ones who make that harder.

This is my second Rosh Hashanah as a Jew. Last year everything was a first, and I counted it that way. This year I feel more Jewish than I did, which is honestly not a thing I expected to be able to measure.

So that's the state of things walking in. A new man at the front of the room, and me a year further along than last Rosh Hashanah. And the Torah reading that morning is about a boy in the desert.

On the first day of Rosh Hashanah the reading is the twenty-first chapter of Bereshit, in place of the week's parsha. The rabbis say Sarah was remembered on Rosh Hashanah, and the chapter opens with her son being born. Then most of it goes to Hagar and Yishmael, sent out into the wilderness of Be'er Sheva with bread and a skin of water. The water runs out. She puts the boy under a bush and sits down a bowshot away so she won't have to watch. Then this:

וַיִּשְׁמַ֣ע אֱלֹהִים֮ אֶת־ק֣וֹל הַנַּ֒עַר֒ וַיִּקְרָא֩ מַלְאַ֨ךְ אֱלֹהִ֤ים ׀ אֶל־הָגָר֙ מִן־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם וַיֹּ֥אמֶר לָ֖הּ מַה־לָּ֣ךְ הָגָ֑ר אַל־תִּ֣ירְאִ֔י כִּֽי־שָׁמַ֧ע אֱלֹהִ֛ים אֶל־ק֥וֹל הַנַּ֖עַר בַּאֲשֶׁ֥ר הוּא־שָֽׁם׃ God heard the cry of the boy, and an angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, "What troubles you, Hagar? Fear not, for God has heeded the cry of the boy where he is.

— Bereshit 21:17

Ba'asher hu sham. Where he is. Rashi, bringing the midrash, says the angels objected. This is the boy whose descendants will one day let Your children die of thirst — and You are going to find him water? And God asks what he is right now. Righteous or wicked? Right now, righteous. Then I judge him by right now.

His name is in the verse before the angel opens his mouth. Yishmael — God will hear. Vayishma Elohim — and God heard. An angel gave Hagar that name for him before he was born, the first time she ran off into the wilderness, and here in the desert it does exactly what it says.

The Gemara in Rosh Hashanah takes that verse and makes a rule out of it: a person is judged only by his deeds at that hour. Of all the verses about books opening and deeds being weighed, the one we hear read from the scroll on the day of judgment is God refusing to grade a child on his grandchildren.

I find that steadying, given where I'll be sitting. The question on the table tomorrow is what I am now. Where I am. A year further along than last Rosh Hashanah, however you count it, and that is what gets heard.

It's the new rabbi's first Rosh Hashanah in that room, too. The reading applies to him as much as to anybody in the pews.

Two verses on, the second thing happens.

וַיִּפְקַ֤ח אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־עֵינֶ֔יהָ וַתֵּ֖רֶא בְּאֵ֣ר מָ֑יִם וַתֵּ֜לֶךְ וַתְּמַלֵּ֤א אֶת־הַחֵ֙מֶת֙ מַ֔יִם וַתַּ֖שְׁקְ אֶת־הַנָּֽעַר׃ Then God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. She went and filled the skin with water, and let the boy drink.

— Bereshit 21:19

The well was already there. What changes in the verse is Hagar. Her eyes open and she sees what she has been sitting a bowshot away from.

That's the part I keep coming back to with a week of no work in front of me. Nobody is digging that time for me. It was there the whole year, a short walk from the desk, and I mostly sat with my back to it. What the week changes is where I'm looking.

Tomorrow the challah goes on the table, round, some with raisins and some without, and we drive over to a shul where the man at the front is new and the two of us are a year further in. The reading will say what it says about the boy. Then Hagar's eyes will open, and there will be water right where she was already sitting.

Shanah tovah.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

What Lens Are You Looking Through?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Wed, 09 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on September 9, 2026.

A wise old man sat just outside a city when a traveler approached him. “What kind of people live in this city?” the traveler asked. The wise man answered with a question of his own. “What were the people like in the town you just left?”

The traveler scowled. “They were terrible -- mean, lazy, and completely unhelpful. That’s why I left.” The wise man nodded. “I’m sorry to tell you, but you’ll find much the same kind of people here.” Disappointed, the traveler sighed and continued toward the city.

How could the wise man possibly know?

Before we continue: I'm trying something new this week. At the end of today's Spiritual Sparks, you'll find a brief video from me. If we've never had the opportunity to meet, this may be our first chance to do so!

✨3 Ideas

The gift of a borrowed lens

We see the world from where we stand. But one vantage point can’t show us everything. Classic wisdom teaches that just as people’s faces differ, so too do their opinions.

Another person may see something that is invisible from our own position. Borrowing another person’s lens doesn’t mean surrendering our own perspective or judgment.

Seeing through another person’s eyes doesn’t require closing our own. Even when another view doesn’t change our mind, learning to see beyond ourselves can expand our understanding -- and refine the soul.

**When the lens gets clouded **

Few of us look through perfectly neutral eyes. Our expectations, past experiences, and assumptions can quietly color what we see.

What needs changing isn’t what we’re looking at, but what we’re looking through.

An old story tells of a man who repeatedly complained that his neighbor’s laundry looked dirty. One morning, it suddenly appeared spotless. “I got up early and cleaned our windows,” his wife explained.

Polishing the inner lens

We carry a picture of who we are, often formed long ago. Sometimes others recognize qualities and possibilities in us that we can’t see. Their eyes may perceive courage, kindness, or strength obscured by an outdated image of who we think we are.

At times the person we most need to learn to see with new eyes is ourselves.

Polishing the inner lens is about seeing ourselves more truthfully -- and recognizing more clearly the beauty, potential, and grandeur of the soul within.

📜2 Quotes

“Uncover my eyes and I shall look at hidden things…” — Psalms 119:18

“The question is not what you look at, but what you see.” — _Henry David Thoreau _

❓1 Question

What quality might others see in you that you have difficulty seeing in yourself?

Later, another traveler asked the wise man the same question. But this traveler described the people he had left behind as kind, generous, and helpful. “You’ll find much the same kind of people here,” the wise man told him.

How could he know? **He understood that what we see is shaped, in part, by the lens we’re looking through. **

Sometimes a different perspective helps us see another person or the world more clearly. And sometimes, it allows us to discover something beautiful in our soul that was there all along.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of seeing the good in others -- and in yourself,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Has a friend or relative ever helped you see a strength or good quality in yourself that you hadn’t seen before? I’d love to hear that story if you care to share it.

P.P.S. As promised, here’s something new -- a brief video from me. I wrote Spiritual Sparks: A Reader for others, but also for myself. This is a 50-second thought about one of its lessons: forgiveness. Watch the video

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 04 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on September 4, 2026.

For this commandment which I command you this day, is not concealed from you, nor is it far away.

It is not in heaven, that you should say, "Who will go up to heaven for us and fetch it for us, to tell [it] to us, so that we can fulfill it?"

Nor is it beyond the sea, that you should say, "Who will cross to the other side of the sea for us and fetch it for us, to tell [it] to us, so that we can fulfill it?"

Rather, [this] thing is very close to you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can fulfill it.

The commandment that Moses speaks of in this verse on his last day is the commandment to do teshuvah, to return to G-d.

What does it mean that it is very close to you? Why indeed is it so close?

Bilaam, the non-Jewish prophet, says, "May my soul die the death of the upright and let my end be like his."

Why doesn't Bilam say, "May my soul live the life of the upright"?

A similar question could be asked about Elazar ben Dordaia, who, having been a sinner his entire life, we are taught, places his head between his knees and, in an act of return to God, surrenders his soul and his life. Why did he indeed die at this moment? Why didn't he complete his return and then continue living a righteous life?

Moshe's message addresses these two questions as well.

Oftentimes in life, we get stuck in the belief that the internal challenges and inner struggles we face cannot be overcome. So we imagine that in a moment of return, a moment of coming clean with ourselves, the only solution is death, because as long as we are alive, we will never be able to overcome these challenges.

To this end, Moshe tells us that it is not in heaven nor across the sea, but rather that the capacity to create this change in our lives is very close to us.

While it does indeed require an act of surrender, it also requires a belief in our ability to create change and realistic expectations of what that change might look like. Incremental change is a daily effort. Small changes over time create big change.

Bilam says, "Let my soul die," because he can't imagine living with the struggle. So at least he should die righteous, and perhaps the same can be said of Elazar ben Dordaia. In his moment of return to God, he surrenders his life because he can't imagine living successfully with the change. Moshe, however, tells us that change is possible. Not only can we die righteous; we can live righteous.

There is a Chabad tradition, as we near a new year, to adopt a small beautification of an existing mitzvah that we already do. It's interesting that the tradition is not necessarily to accept upon ourselves a mitzvah that we're not doing, but rather to beautify an existing one.

I think the message here is powerful and clear: if we wish to create real change, it requires small, incremental movements. It means letting go of the stories we have told ourselves about ourselves, and letting go of the gravitas that we lend to those stories. That does not mean discarding them, but it does mean not allowing them to dictate what we believe about ourselves or what we believe is possible.

As we approach a new year, I encourage you to find a mitzvah that you are already doing and find a way to do it a little better, a little more beautifully.

Best wishes for a Shanah Tovah, a happy and healthy year to you and all of your loved ones!

Welcome to Jewish Croatia

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 04 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 4, 2026.

Croatian Word of the Week: No Hebrew this week -we’re switching it up with the Croatian word for Jewish, which is Židovski, pronounced ZHEE-dohv-skee.

📅Shabbat Drop-In

Exciting announcement! I am co-leading the NYC chapter of Sword of Iron! So if you want to volunteer for Israel and meet like-minded people, message/email me and I’ll send you the form to fill out to join. We’ll be meeting once a month to do good together! ❤️

Zdravo!

Phil and I were just in Croatia for 10 days. Started out in Zagreb, then we drove over to the coast and went city and island hopping.

I didn’t expect this trip to be that Jewish, especially when I was making Shabbos plans in preparation for it. I was told by one synagogue that they only have services for the High Holidays, while another told me they’re closed for summer break. Off to a good start…

Then, during one of our meals on the trip, our appetizer was served, unbeknownst to us, plated on a makeshift communion wafer. “It’s to receive blessings!” the server said gleefully. I needed all the blessings I can get, so I still ate it, but felt weird about it. Plus, it was one of those tiny Michelin-star plates, so I didn’t have an ounce to waste.

Then there was this waiting for me at the top of a hike:

If you’re new here, don’t be scared. I’m like, really Jewish.

None of this was a surprise to me, given that there are only about 2,000 Jews in a predominantly Catholic country.

But what I didn’t expect was the magnificence of Croatia’s few Jewish sites, some of which we stumbled upon by accident, and the positive encounters we had with non-Jewish tourists there. Welcome to Jewish Croatia!

An overview of Croatian Jewish history

Jews were living in Salona (modern-day Solin, Croatia), the capital of the Roman province of Dalmatia, from roughly the 2nd to the 4th century C.E. It wasn’t until the 7th century, when Salona was destroyed by Avar and Slavic tribes, that Jews fled to Split and sought refuge in what was left of Diocletian’s Palace, which became the city center.

Oil lamps with a depiction of a menorah, and an amulet of yellowish glass and bronze found in Solin, now kept at the Archaeological Museum in Split (Jewish Community of Split)

There, Jews became merchants, traders, and doctors in two important coastal cities - Split and Dubrovnik - which we’ll read about shortly.

15th-century persecution brought Jews from Spain, Portugal, and Italy to Croatia, where they established communities with synagogues and cemeteries. Under Venetian rule (15th-18th centuries), the two Jewish groups were known as Ponentini, the westerners, and Levantini, those from the Ottoman east.

🏆Croatian Jew Award🏆

You never thought there was such an award, did you?! This award goes to Daniel Rodriguez (Danijel Rodrigo), a 16th-century Sephardic Jewish merchant.

He became an important figure in Split’s trade, and successfully advocated for Split to become a free port. This helped boost commerce and made Split a major trade hub among the Adriatic Sea, Venice, and the Ottoman Empire.

Then, of course, came the Holocaust. Okay, we may skipping some history here, but I’m touching on major events. In 1941, Axis powers invaded Yugoslavia, which soon collapsed. The fascist Ustaša movement established the Independent State of Croatia, backed by Germany and Italy.

Under this movement, Jews faced antisemitic laws, confiscation of their property, and eventually deportation and murder.

In Zagreb, we were surprised to come across a stumbling stone. We found the stone - my first stumbling stone sighting - walking back from an unsuccessful search for the synagogue. The brass plaque commemorated Lea Deutsch, a child actress known as Croatia’s Shirley Temple, who was taken from her home in May 1943 and died in transport to Auschwitz at the age of 16. Imagine all she could have accomplished with the rest of her life. May her memory be a blessing.

Italy occupied the coast, where Jews had a somewhat different and less severe experience. Italian authorities burned synagogues and all sacred objects inside them, but they generally pushed back against German demands to deport Jews from the territories they occupied. Some Jews actually fled to Italian-controlled areas for safety. After Italy surrendered in September 1943, Germany occupied those territories too, enforcing their stricter policies.

Ustaša (Croatian fascist) guards force a prisoner into a pit to be shot. Jasenovac concentration camp. Yugoslavia, 1942 (United States Holocaust Memorial Museum)

About 80% of Croatia’s Jews (around 30,000) perished in the Holocaust.

Today, there are about 2,000 Jews living in Croatia. While Croatia has rich Sephardic history, today’s Jews are predominantly Ashkenazi.

A Jewish tour of Split and Dubronvik

Split

I mentioned Jews took refuge in Diocletian’s Palace, which we visited. The museum said masons at the time carved their religious symbols into the stone, such as menorahs and crosses! Unfortunately, we didn’t spot any carvings in the light stone. It’s too bad our buddy, Shlomo the Freemason, wasn’t there - maybe he could have spotted a historical mason mark!

The Split synagogue was built in the 16th century directly into the western wall of Diocletian's Palace. It’s located in two medieval houses in Split’s former ghetto, which was one small passage called Židovski prolaz (Jewish Lane).

Just down the street from Jewish Lane is the Morpurgo Bookstore. Opened in 1860 by Vid Morpurgo, a prominent Jewish publisher and politician, it survived the Holocaust, when fascists were burning many books and buildings in the area.

Today, it remains one of the oldest operating bookstores in Europe. And I’m happy to report it sells romantasy books, not to mention Noa Tishby’s book on Israel (in Croatian, no less!).

Can you spot ACOTAR on the shelf?!

Phil and I then wandered into Marjan Forest Park for a lovely day of walking, when I noticed there was a Jewish cemetery on the map! The Old Jewish Cemetery, established in 1573, has about 700 tombstones overlooking the Adriatic from a sloping hill. It’s the most beautiful Jewish cemetery I’ve ever been to.

And probably the most memorable, for we had a positive interaction there!

As soon as we entered the cemetery, we saw a family - two parents and their son - place stones on two prominent tombstones near the entrance. I asked if they knew who was buried there.

They said no, and kindly explained it’s Jewish custom to place stones on graves to honor the dead. Phil and I politely smiled as this family explained Jewish custom to us.

Then, they asked if we were Jewish, and I proudly said yes. I felt safe to do so - surely someone who hates Jews wouldn’t spend a gorgeous day hanging out in a cemetery.

They explained they’re Evangelicals from France, and wanted to pay their respects because they know how important it is to never forget what happened to Jews during the Holocaust.

We ended up talking with them for quite some time about Holocaust education in France, antisemitism in both France and the U.S., and politics. Midway through the conversation, I noticed we were talking about these Jewish topics over the graves of Jews who died in 1900. After everything this local community had faced over the centuries, Jews were still here, and so were people who cared enough to honor their memories.

Speaking of honoring memories, we came across the gravesite of bookstore owner Vid Morpurgo (1838-1911), and paid our respects.

I found a translation of his gravestone inscription:

Exalted in mind, noble in spirit, all his life of intellectual work he dedicated to people’s liberation from spiritual and material slavery, and in awakening of people. Founder of the first bookstore, first bank, first factories, left unfillable emptiness when died.

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Dubrovnik

About 150 miles down the coastline from Split is Dubrovnik, a medieval, fortified city right on the water, known for its Game of Thrones filming locations.

But what’s even more impressive is its enduring Jewish presence, dating back to 1368, with documentation of Jewish merchants.

In 1538, the government allowed its 250 Jews to settle within the city walls (so generous of them). Then in 1546, dozens of Jews were confined to a ghetto, located on “Jewish Street” near the city center. The ghetto’s conditions weren’t nearly as bad as other European ghettos; Jews could come and go freely throughout the day, but the gates were locked at night.

We visited Jewish Street, which is today lined with restaurants serving all kinds of pork. Go figure.

Unlike the synagogue in Split, you can tour the Dubrovnik Synagogue on Jewish Street. Known as the Old Synagogue, as it was built in 1547, it is the oldest Sephardic synagogue still in use today in the world and the second oldest synagogue in Europe.

You can view the Baroque-styled sanctuary, restored after a 1667 earthquake, and used for High Holiday services. They also have a small museum, which features three Spanish and Italian Torah scrolls dating back to the 16th century which were buried during the Holocaust in a nearby village. I tried to take to take a picture but the lady scolded me :(

Later, while waiting for an Uber on a corner outside of the Old City, I turned around and was shocked at the Hebrew letters on a sign. Phil speculated that it was a cemetery. As usual, he was right.

Upon further research, this was the site of the Dubrovnik Old (everything is old) Jewish Cemetery, built in 1652. Today, it is a fire station, but 30 of the original tombstones remain. One tombstone, from 1745, is used for the floor of the fire station.

Conclusion

I didn’t come to this beautiful country for its Jewish history, nor to experience its local community, like I sometimes do on my travels. But of course, I couldn’t help myself in learning about it and seeking it out.

Croatia’s Jewish past echoes the tragic European history we know all too well. It even had its own famous case of blood libel I didn’t mention. But its community achieved successes, some of which can be seen today. Though its Jewish population is small and largely inactive, its preserved history is worth seeing, a testament to the enduring spirit of the Jews who once lived there. Just don’t come expecting Shabbat plans!

Bonus Story 👀

While drinking spritzes atop a 14th-century tower on Korčula, we became friendly with a man from former Yugoslavia, present-day Bosnia. He was telling us how his family fled to Germany when he was five years old.

After buying us rounds of shots, he started showing us his many tattoos, from "As-salamu alaykum" in Arabic to some countries he’s visited.

As he lifted his shorts to show us his inked travel history, my eyes immediately went to a familiar country outline.

“Ooh, boy, here we go,” I thought. My vacation-induced, lavender-spritz buzz began to fade as I prepared myself for defense mode. I didn’t want a repeat of my Iceland story, when someone told me they boycotted Eurovision because of Israel and I said nothing.

“And this is Israel!” he pointed to his tattoo proudly. “I lived in Tel Aviv for a time.”

Well, that was quite a surprise. He told us he worked for a company that made jet parts and was assisting Israel.

When we told him that outline could represent Palestine for some people, he rolled his eyes and was having none of it. A part of me wondered if he had this strong reaction because he had experienced the realities of war firsthand, instead of learning from news headlines. A different war, but still.

Phil told him stories of living in Israel during the Second Intifada. This interaction was a reminder of the importance of listening to firsthand perspectives, and that you can find allies in the most unexpected places.

“There’s a dove next to Israel for peace,” he said with hope. May it be so.

Shabbos!

💦 If you like Jewish travel, check out these Drops:

The Revealed Part

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 04 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Most of this week went on other people. Who needs what, and who has to move for any of it to happen. Some of it got settled. A good deal did not, and the parts still open are the ones carrying the most weight — the kind you can write down on a page and still have no idea how they finish. There are changes coming for us. That is genuinely as far as it has got.

Around all that, the ordinary work. Mitzpe does not pause while a family sorts itself out. And next week we go to Atlanta for the High Holidays, which is a second set of arrangements stacked on the first.

This Shabbat is Nitzavim-Vayeilech, the last one before Rosh Hashanah. Moshe is at the end of his life with the whole nation in front of him, running a version of the same arithmetic — what is settled, and which of the unsettled parts are actually his.

He answers it in one sentence near the end of Nitzavim, and it is one of the odder verses in the Torah.

הַנִּ֨סְתָּרֹ֔ת לַיהֹוָ֖ה אֱלֹהֵ֑ינוּ וְהַנִּגְלֹ֞ת לָ֤ׄנׄוּׄ וּׄלְׄבָׄנֵ֙ׄיׄנׄוּ֙ׄ עַׄד־עוֹלָ֔ם לַעֲשׂ֕וֹת אֶת־כׇּל־דִּבְרֵ֖י הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּֽאת׃ Concealed acts concern the ETERNAL our God; but with overt acts, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the provisions of this Teaching.

— Devarim 29:28

Rashi reads this as the answer to a complaint he puts in our mouths first. The chapter has just threatened the whole community over what one person does in private, and the obvious objection is that nobody can see inside anybody. So Moshe splits it. The hidden belongs to God, and God will deal with it. The open belongs to us, and if we let it sit there, the community pays.

Then there is the strange thing on the page. In a Torah scroll the words lanu ul'vaneinu — to us and to our children — carry dots above the letters, eleven of them, running across both words and onto the first letter of the word after. It is one of a handful of places in the whole text where a scribe marks something this way. The Gemara in Sanhedrin reads the dots as a date. Even for open sins, Israel was not held answerable for one another until they had crossed the Jordan and taken the oath between Gerizim and Eival. Mutual responsibility starts somewhere. Before that, every man answered for himself.

So the verse divides labor, and it lands on a verb. La'asot. To do. Everything in front of that word is bookkeeping about who owns which column, and the word itself is the job.

Two chapters on, Moshe comes back to the same verb, and this time he argues with you about it. The mitzvah is not too hard for you, he says, and not far off. Not up in heaven, so nobody has to go up and fetch it. Not over the sea either. Rashi refuses to let that land as relief — were it in heaven, he says, you would have to go up after it anyway. You would still owe the climb. What Moshe is doing here is telling you where the thing actually sits.

כִּֽי־קָר֥וֹב אֵלֶ֛יךָ הַדָּבָ֖ר מְאֹ֑ד בְּפִ֥יךָ וּבִֽלְבָבְךָ֖ לַעֲשֹׂתֽוֹ׃ No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.

— Devarim 30:14

La'asoto. To do it. The same verb a second time, now fastened to your mouth and your heart, which are the two things you brought into the room with you.

The rabbis took that line a good deal further than Moshe likely meant it. In Bava Metzia there is an argument about whether a particular oven can become impure, and Rabbi Eliezer, outvoted, calls up one miracle after another to prove he has it right — a carob tree moves, a stream runs backwards, the walls of the study hall start to lean in. Then a voice comes out of heaven and says he is right. Rabbi Yehoshua gets to his feet and quotes this verse straight back at it. Lo bashamayim hi. The Torah came out of heaven at Sinai and we have been holding it ever since, so a voice from above does not get a vote in a room where the rabbis are counting hands. Read that way the verse is a job description, which is what 29:28 said one chapter earlier, with the dots on it.

I have been circling that all week without meaning to. When a family has real decisions in front of it and none of them have landed yet, there is a hard pull toward treating the unresolved part as the work — turning it over, trying to get out ahead of an answer that is not available. It feels like the responsible thing to do. It mostly burns the week.

The unresolved part is God's this week, in the plainest sense the verse means it. What sits in front of me is smaller and entirely doable. Who needs what. What has to be booked, paid for, packed, and asked for. Whether everybody has a bed and a seat at shul. None of it asks me to know how the year goes.

There is a kindness in the timing that I did not arrange. Rosh Hashanah begins next Friday night, and the last thing the Torah hands us on the way in is a note about what belongs to God, plus a second note reminding us that our own half sits closer than we keep insisting. In your mouth. In your heart.

We will be in Atlanta for it. The arrangements are mostly made. The big things will still be open when the shofar goes, which is the ordinary condition of a person hearing it, and always was.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

You Never Know!

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 03 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on September 3, 2026.

Four decades ago, two baby girls were born in India and adopted by different families in the Netherlands. They grew up only hours apart, unaware of each other's existence.

Then, as teenagers, Meena and Minal happened to attend the same event for adoptees. Friends noticed their uncanny resemblance. The girls saw it, too -- the same eyes, the same nose -- and felt an immediate connection.

They exchanged contact information and kept in touch for a while, but eventually life intervened. They lost contact, started families, and nearly three decades passed. Then, separately, both women took DNA heritage tests.

What did the tests reveal?

✨3 Ideas

**Don’t confuse unlikely with impossible **

We’ve all experienced things that once seemed extraordinarily improbable. Then, an opportunity appears from nowhere. Badly needed support arrives unexpectedly. A chance encounter becomes one of the most important relationships in our lives.

They remind us that life contains possibilities beyond those we can presently see. The point isn’t that these things will happen. It’s that our soul knows that they can.

Recognizing that the future may hold more than we can presently imagine opens us to wonder, surprise, and possibility.

**We know less than we think **

We tend to make predictions based on what we see. Nothing has changed in years, so nothing will. There’s no apparent path forward, so we conclude there isn’t one.

But predictions have a way of hardening into certainties. “I don’t see how” isn’t the same thing as “It can’t happen.”

Classic wisdom reminds us that even when circumstances appear final, possibilities may remain hidden from view.

You never know what you’re capable of

We often make predictions about ourselves. I’m too old. I’ve never been good at that. That’s just not who I am. What sounds like facts may actually be predictions.

We underestimate not only what life can bring us. We underestimate what life can bring out of us.

Intelligent optimism means leaving room to discover what we may be capable of -- not insisting we can accomplish anything. The soul is always capable of growth.

📜2 Quotes

“The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all.” — Ecclesiastes 9:11

“Listen to the mustn’s, child. Listen to the…won’ts…then listen close to me…Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.” — _Shel Silverstein _

❓1 Question

Is there a relationship in your life you’ve accepted as it is, even though you wish it could be warmer or closer?

The DNA tests revealed something extraordinary: there was a 100% probability that Meena and Minal were sisters. The two women who had met by chance as teenagers, grown up only hours apart, and then lost touch for nearly three decades were full biological sisters.

And there was one more remarkable piece to the story. When they first met as teenagers, Meena and Minal had talked about how wonderful it would be if they were sisters.

Twenty-eight years later, they discovered they were. You never know!

Until next time, Wishing you a week of discovering -- and pursuing -- unexpected possibilities,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What have you accomplished in life that your 20-year-old self wouldn’t have believed was probable -- or even possible? I’d love to hear about it.

P.P.S. Have you read Spiritual Sparks: A Reader? I’d be grateful if you’d consider leaving a brief review on Amazon. Reviews help others discover the book -- and perhaps find a little more meaning, purpose, and joy in their lives. —> Amazon

Those Who Can Teach

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Thu, 03 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Moses tells the nation that he is now 120 years old and can no longer be active as their leader. (The literal translation is “I cannot go and come.”) Rashi gives us the standard rabbinic interpretations of this expression, namely that the Moses was not weak from old age or senility.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

The Creation of Repentance

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 02 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The Talmud (B. Nedarim 39b.)) says something interesting about the creation of תְּשׁוּבָה (teshuvah), which means repentance:

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Searching for Books

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 01 Sep 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Some people have eidetic or even photographic memory. Rabbi Shlomo Zalman, the father of the Vilna Gaon, was not one of them. Whenever he questioned his memory of a text, he would go straight to the bookshelves and look up the reference. That way, he could be confident that he was citing and attributing the…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Playing Hard To Get

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 28 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on August 28, 2026.

"Ani l'dodi v'dodi li." I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine. This is the verse from Song of Songs whose initial Hebrew letters spell out the Hebrew month of Elul, the month we are currently in.

In the book of Song of Songs, we read the poetic story of a young maiden and her beloved shepherd, and the fascinating progression of their courtship.

At times, the maiden searches for her beloved, only to find that he has disappeared. At another point, he comes knocking for her, but she hesitates to open the door. By the time she does, he is gone. The story continues with prose and poetic expression as each of them expresses yearning and longing for the other.

In truth, it seems quite dysfunctional. If you are looking for the relationship, then welcome it. Why continue to play hard to get? The question is for both the guy and the gal.

The maiden and the shepherd represent the Jewish people and our relationship with God. In fact, there are times when our own internal blockages create a dysfunction in our relationship with the Divine.

We all show up with a story and a narrative that shapes everything in life, including our perception of God and how we internalize—or don't internalize—our relationship with Him.

At one point, the maiden says, "I sleep, but my heart is awake. Hark! My beloved is knocking: Open for me, my sister, my beloved, my dove, my perfect one, for my head is full of dew, my locks with the drops of the night."

Our narratives and perceptions about life create much tension for us, but in this verse, we can hear God telling us that despite our stories, despite our flaws, despite our misperceptions of God Himself, He is knocking and asking us to open the door.

Find a moment, quiet your spirit, and open your heart to God's knocking. He is calling to you and to me, asking us to show up and be present in our relationship with Him. We don't have to begin with a commitment to transformative change. We can even show up in all of our messiness, and God is there to embrace us.

I hope you can open your heart and your soul to God's knocking this Elul and **reestablish—or strengthen—**your inherent relationship with God, now and in the new year.

Best wishes for a ksiva v'chasima tova, and for a sweet and good new year.

With all my love,

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

I thought I was an Av baby until...

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 28 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 28, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Bet you didn’t know this one: g’luyah (גלויה), meaning postcard. Many Hebrew speakers in my life, including Israelis, didn’t know this word. Probably because no oe writes postcards anymore.

Greetings from Croatia! That’s what my g’luyah to you would say.

We’re smack dab in the middle of Elul, the month of reflection, returning, repair, and retrograde (kidding about that last one, I just wanted another R word, but maybe it is? I don’t understand that stuff).

And on a personal note, Elul happens to be my birth month! I was actually 32 years old when I realized this, which feels like just yesterday, because, well, it was! That’s right - today is my English birthday.

I always assumed Av was my Hebrew birth month, since I was born in August. Especially in a recent class taught by the ever-so-chic Rabbi Arielle Stein of Congregation Rodeph Shalom (the class was at Central Synagogue), when she showed us a list of the Hebrew months and their corresponding mazalot (constellations, like zodiac signs but older!) and Jewish tribes.

My eyes immediately went to Av and its mazal. A lion. Hell yeah. Totally makes sense.

I’ve always drawn inspiration from the Lion of Judah, the Jewish symbol for strength. My experience in Israel last year during Operation Rising Lion only reinforced that feeling, and for years I’ve had this image of the Iron Dome saved on my desktop because I thought it was cool:

Shoutout to my brother for sending me this

Imagine my surprise when a couple of weeks ago, I looked up my Jewish birthday (thanks Chabad!) and realized my Hebrew birthday is, in fact, the 11th of Elul. Oops. Or maybe I forgot?

Which makes me quite relieved, because Av is an intense month to have a birthday. As we know, Av is the saddest month, leading up to the commemoration of the destruction of our Temple and other Jewish calamities.

Upon reflection (pun intended), it makes sense Elul is my birth month for a couple of reasons.

One: I’m always reflecting! I love to journal, and I set quarterly goals for myself and then review how I did. I also love a good Rosh Chodesh circle to reflect on the themes of the upcoming month.

Two: As I wrote in this previous Drop, the flower of the Elul is the rose. 🌹 This is fitting because every Shabbat, in Jewish camp fashion, I share my “rose of the week,” or my highlight of the week and make whoever I’m spending Shabbat with share theirs, too. While not my favorite flower, which is the ranunculus, the rose speaks to my reflective soul!

Three: The tribe associated with Elul is the tribe of Gad, representing fortune, military prowess, and being attacked but ultimately overcoming. Not to sound like an astrology girlie who always reads her horoscope and thinks, “Yes, yes, that’s so me - I DO face trials and tribulations and can overcome them!”, the traits of Gad remind me of how I reconnected with my Judaism in the first place: through the military might of (and my brother joining) the IDF. Also, I AM a warrior who is constantly attacked but nevertheless overcomes - I mean, have you seen the stupid, nasty comments I get on my social media?! They only make me stronger, and by that I mean prouder to be Jewish.

Don’t I look like a warrior?!

Four: The Hebrew letter associated with Elul is yud (י). In Kabbalah, this represents the foundation, the initial divine spark of wisdom in which something is created from nothing. And my Hebrew name, מעיין, has two yuds in it! Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to the idea of taking a small spark of Torah and turning it into a shareable, bite-sized Drop through writing: one divine spark for me, one for you. Double your divine spark, double your fun! ✨

The only Elul trait I don’t connect with is its mazal, the betulah, or virgin. Even though my sign is Virgo, that’s where the similarities end.

My birthday blessing to all of you:

May you find your divine inner spark that lights up your Jewish soul. May you be a warrior who overcomes. And may you find out your exact Hebrew birthday so you don’t make the same mistake I did.

Good Shabbos! Time to party,

💦 If you like Elul, check out these Drops:

What Does the Sound of the Shofar Mean?

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 28 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

In his commentary.) on the Koren Maḥzor for Rosh Hashanah, Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks (זצ׳׳ל) makes a salient point about the shofar, namely that the Torah does not clearly define the purpose of sounding a horn on Rosh Hashanah.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Seventy Languages and a Best Buy

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 28 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I spent too much time this week figuring out that my AirPods are not adequate as a microphone.

A podcast I recorded has to be recorded again. The argument was fine, I didn't lose my place, the host was great. The sound was just bad — thin, a little boxy, like I was talking to you through a door and with a few weird clicking artefacts. You could follow it if you were determined. But, really, nobody should have to be determined.

So: Amazon orders. Then Amazon returns. Then a trip to Best Buy. Somewhere in there I went bowling. We're in Orange County at the moment, I head east next week, and the High Holidays will be at our own shul, which is the part I'm actually counting down to.

Not much of a week. It is, though, exactly the errand this week's parsha hands out.

Ki Tavo opens with a farmer carrying a basket and ends with Moshe walking the people back through forty years. In between, before anybody reads out a single blessing or curse, he gives instructions for the day they cross the Jordan. Set up large stones. Coat them with plaster. Build an altar out of stones no iron has touched. And then:

וְכָתַבְתָּ֣ עַל־הָאֲבָנִ֗ים אֶֽת־כׇּל־דִּבְרֵ֛י הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את בַּאֵ֥ר הֵיטֵֽב׃ And on those stones you shall inscribe every word of this Teaching most distinctly.

— Devarim 27:8

Ba'er heitev. Most distinctly. Rashi spends two words on it: b'shivim lashon. In seventy languages.

That's really odd. The nation had been walking for forty years. It is about to cross a river into a war. One of the first things it is told to do on the far bank is solve a publishing problem. Not just write it down. Write it down so it can be read — by everyone standing there, including the people who were already living on that hill.

The rabbis spend a stretch of Sotah arguing about whether it actually worked. Rabbi Yehuda says they cut the words into the stone and plastered over the top. Rabbi Shimon asks: then how was anyone supposed to read it? Rabbi Yehuda's answer is that the nations sent their scribes, and the scribes peeled the plaster back and copied it out. Rabbi Shimon says it didn't happen that way at all — they plastered first and wrote on the plaster, out in the open, where anyone walking past could see.

Two sages going at each other over a coat of lime, and what they are arguing about is whether you could read it without too much effort. Surface or underneath. Handed to you, or excavated.

I know which side I was on this week, standing in a Best Buy holding two boxes.

Here's the part I keep turning over, though. All of it — the stones, the plaster, the altar, the writing — happens on Mount Ebal.

Ebal is the curse mountain. The text is not subtle about the arrangement: six tribes on Gerizim for the blessing, six on Ebal for the curse, and the levi'im down in the middle calling it out in a loud voice so both slopes hear it. So you would expect the altar on Gerizim. The good news gets the good hill. That is how anyone would stage it.

It isn't staged that way. The altar goes up on Ebal, the offerings are brought on Ebal, and the verse right before the writing instruction says this:

וְזָבַחְתָּ֥ שְׁלָמִ֖ים וְאָכַ֣לְתָּ שָּׁ֑ם וְשָׂ֣מַחְתָּ֔ לִפְנֵ֖י יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶֽיךָ׃ and you shall sacrifice there offerings of well-being and eat them, rejoicing before the ETERNAL your God.

— Devarim 27:7

V'samachta. And you will rejoice. On the mountain that just got handed the curses.

A few weeks ago I was up at Har Bracha, which sits on Gerizim. You look north from there, across the valley and past Shechem, and Ebal is right there in front of you. The two are close. Close enough that you understand the ceremony the moment you see the ground — it's an amphitheater, and somebody picked that spot because the sound carries. Which, as it happens, is the problem I've been having all week with considerably worse equipment.

I don't think the altar sits on Ebal to make some point about looking on the bright side. I think it sits there because that is where people are going to be standing when the hard words land, and the Torah declines to leave them there. You hear the curse. Then you build. Then you eat. And then — the verse doesn't hedge about it — you're glad. Not eventually. There, on that hill, that day.

Elul is halfway gone. Two weeks from now it's Tishrei and I'll be in our own seats for the first time in a while, which is its own kind of arriving. The season asks a lot of accounting from a person, and some of what comes back is not flattering. This parsha puts the joy on Ebal anyway, on the day the curses get read out.

And the other instruction, the one I've been working through with a credit card and a return label, is that when you finally have something worth saying, you owe the person on the other end a version they can actually hear. Carve it. Plaster it. Buy the microphone. Seventy languages, if you can manage it.

The re-record is still ahead of me.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Uriel ben Avraham writes the Israel Brief and is the author of Rooted in Judea. A book and speaking tour is booking stops now — write to speaking@mitzpe.org if you'd like one near you.

Cherish

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on August 27, 2026.

On April 15, 1912, as the Titanic was sinking, wealthy Canadian passenger Major Arthur Peuchen returned to his stateroom. Among his possessions were hundreds of thousands of dollars in stocks and bonds -- the equivalent of millions of dollars today.

Peuchen left the fortune behind.

But before making his way to a lifeboat, he chose something else from his stateroom to take with him. At a moment like that, what could possibly have been worth taking?

✨3 Ideas

Look at what shapes your days

We all have things that we say matter deeply to us -- family, friendship, learning, health, helping others. But there’s another way to discover what our soul truly values.

If you want to know what you truly cherish, look at what receives your time, attention, and energy.

What we do reveals our priorities. Our calendars and habits can reflect devotion that our words don’t. What receives the scarce currency of our lives is evidence of our soul’s deepest desires.

**Notice what you admire **

Consider what draws your praise. Maybe it’s a friend’s generosity, an athlete’s determination, a parent’s devotion, or someone’s courage in standing alone.

What we praise in others reveals the qualities we cherish ourselves.

The people who impress us hold up a mirror to our ideals. So do the achievements, choices, and character traits that make us say, “That’s admirable.” Recognizing the value of those qualities tells us something about what our soul longs to become.

**Who do you want to become? **

Imagine yourself five years from now. What would you most like to have accomplished, changed, learned, created, or become?

Who we aspire to become reflects what we cherish.

Our aspirations don’t merely tell us what we hope to accomplish. They reveal the direction in which we want our souls to ascend. Perhaps the deeper question isn’t what we hope someday to have or even what we hope to do, but who we hope to become.

📜2 Quotes

“The crucible is for silver, and the furnace for gold, but people by their words of praise.” — Proverbs 27:21

“Tell me who you admire, and I will tell you who you are.” — Charles-Augustin Sainte-Beuve, French literary critic

❓1 Question

What does the way you spend your free time illuminate about what you cherish?

As the Titanic was sinking, Peuchen took three oranges and a favorite tiepin from his stateroom. He left behind a fortune in stocks and bonds.

Why the oranges? Peuchen never explained. But as an experienced yachtsman, perhaps he understood what his fortune could no longer provide in a lifeboat in the freezing North Atlantic. Three oranges might save his life; stocks and bonds couldn’t.

And like Peuchen, our choices reveal what we truly cherish. What we choose to give our time and attention. What we choose to praise. And the person we aspire to become.

Until next time, Wishing you a week filled with what you cherish most,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What would someone who knows you well say are the three things in life you most cherish? I’d love to hear your answer -- just reply to this email.

Make It Louder!

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Because of the dramatic increase in antisemitism lately, many Jews—particularly young people—are reticent to identify publicly as Jews. Stars of David get tucked in or taken off, Israel-themed t-shirts are folded away, and kippot are covered with a baseball cap. Sometimes, this is a wise decision. I would not recommend identifying oneself as a Jew…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Don’t Waste the Discomfort - Preparing for Rosh Hashanah 5787

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on August 21, 2026.

I've never related to people who dislike the marking of their birthday. I find my birthday to be a joyous and positively uplifting day. Conversely, there are those who find rainy days to be uplifting and nourishing :-).

Anytime we experience a milestone day (anniversary, birthday, etc.), it brings up thoughts both positive and negative. A birthday can bring up gratitude for what we've accomplished thus far in our lives or in the prior year. It can also be a day that marks our shortcomings and how much we've missed out on.

Rosh Hashanah is a milestone day that can bring up conflicting emotions. Furthermore, our emotions are framed by the experiences of the prior year. Gratitude on this day can be multiplied and the introspection and reflection can be intensified.

As the month of preparation progresses, we are likely to experience a heighteing of these emotions. We live in challenging times and this year has been no different and even more so. Some have risen to the challenges and others have been crushed by them. Some have looked inward and others have looked outward.

I've been reflecting on this year and realize that I've invested so much energy in trying to figure out how to deal. Even though so much of it has been positive, personal growth, intensified relationships, reevaluating purpose and so much more, an opportunity has been passed over. That opportunity is to just be in the discomfort.

We are taught to eliminate pain (the drug industry), to find ways to express our frustrations and to talk it out. While that is all good, there is great value in the discomfort itself. Being in the discomfort allows for the benefits of the circumstances to take root.

Think of it like a seed rotting in the earth before the plant begins to grow. If we rush to the growth of the plant we miss out on the full nourishment the plant can nurture from the earth. That only happens when the seed is in its discomfort and allows itself to rot.

Take some time this month and be in your discomfort. Connect with G-d through prayer and study. Allow for the discomfort of this year to live inside of you for a little bit. And then, refreshed, embrace all the opportunities that the New Year will bring!

With blessings for a ksiva v'chasima tova, a healthy, sweet good year filled with amazing blessings for you and your loved ones!

Shabbat Shalom. Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

Nobody Admires a Railing

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I lost count somewhere around the beet salad. We'd been cooking for my husband's father's birthday — eight hours on Monday, then another two or three on Tuesday before anyone sat down. The birthday itself had gone by while we were still in Kiryat Shmona, a long way from Orange County, so this was the late version. By the time the table was set there were something like twenty dishes on it. That amount wasn't particularly planned — we bought too much and were attacked by all the options.

Hummus. Lemon-tchina sauce. Matbucha, gazer marokai, fried eggplant, baba ganoush. Red cabbage slaw, sweet corn salad, a creamy cauliflower thing, tabbouleh, cucumber and onion, Israeli salad, gazer charif, the beet salad I lost count at, hamutzim, mock-liver eggplant spread, salata turkit, schug. Two kinds of skewer off the grill. My husband made flatbreads.

Every single item on that table was, in addition to being kosher, garlic-free and gluten-free, because of dietary requirements.

If you've never cooked around celiac, it isn't a matter of skipping the bread. It's the flour in the spice blend, the soy sauce, the shared colander, the crumb on the board from something else you made an hour ago. Anyone who keeps kosher will recognize the shape of it immediately — separate surfaces, reading labels like a lawyer, a running map in your head of what has touched what. The tabbouleh got riced cauliflower instead of bulgur. The flatbread had to be worked out from scratch, because a gluten-free flatbread that's actually good is not something you can just buy in a store, unfortunately.

There's a line in this week's parsha that gets filed under home improvement.

כִּ֤י תִבְנֶה֙ בַּ֣יִת חָדָ֔שׁ וְעָשִׂ֥יתָ מַעֲקֶ֖ה לְגַגֶּ֑ךָ וְלֹֽא־תָשִׂ֤ים דָּמִים֙ בְּבֵיתֶ֔ךָ כִּֽי־יִפֹּ֥ל הַנֹּפֵ֖ל מִמֶּֽנּוּ׃ When you build a new house, you shall make a parapet for your roof, so that you do not bring bloodguilt on your house if anyone should fall from it.

— Devarim 22:8

Ki Teitzei is stuffed with this kind of law. Small, physical, unglamorous. Pay the worker before sundown. Keep honest weights in your pocket. Don't muzzle the ox while it's working. And build a railing, because people fall off roofs.

Rambam reads the railing past roofs, and he isn't being clever about it. A well or a cistern in your courtyard gets a wall around it or a cover on it. Anything in your house that could hurt someone who walks in has to be dealt with, and leaving it there breaks the commandment twice over — the positive one you skipped, and the negative one, don't put blood in your house. The roof was merely an example. The rule is that your house is a place other people come into, and you are responsible for what happens to them there.

So a kitchen that can put a guest in the hospital is a hazard in the house, and building it so that it can't is a ma'akeh. Not simply a metaphor for one.

Nobody at that table was eating around anything. There was no separate little plate off to the side, nobody being managed. My husband's mother sat down and ate everything, same as the rest of us, and the conversation was about his father's week and the drive and somebody's knee, and at no point was it about her celiac. Twenty-some dishes, and not one of them was a workaround.

A railing works that way too. Nobody admires it. You lean on it without looking, and it holds, and you go on with your evening. You only ever notice the missing one, once, at the worst possible moment.

When I sat down afterward to write out what we'd made, I couldn't get all of it. A few had already gone. Which is, as it happens, also in this parsha.

כִּ֣י תִקְצֹר֩ קְצִֽירְךָ֨ בְשָׂדֶ֜ךָ וְשָֽׁכַחְתָּ֧ עֹ֣מֶר בַּשָּׂדֶ֗ה לֹ֤א תָשׁוּב֙ לְקַחְתּ֔וֹ לַגֵּ֛ר לַיָּת֥וֹם וְלָאַלְמָנָ֖ה יִהְיֶ֑ה לְמַ֤עַן יְבָרֶכְךָ֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ בְּכֹ֖ל מַעֲשֵׂ֥ה יָדֶֽיךָ׃ When you reap the harvest in your field and overlook a sheaf in the field, do not turn back to get it; it shall go to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow—in order that the ETERNAL your God may bless you in all your undertakings.

— Devarim 24:19

Rashi, working from the Sifrei, stops on the strange part. The blessing shows up for the sheaf you forgot. You weren't being generous. You were tired, your arms were full, you walked past it and went home. And if that gets a blessing, he says, then consider a coin that falls out of your pocket and keeps a poor man fed for a day — you'll certainly be blessed for that one, and you'll never find out it happened.

Most of what a house actually does for the people inside it runs below the level anyone is tracking. The dish nobody remembers making. The board that got scrubbed twice. The hour of label-reading that never comes up at the table, because the whole point is that it shouldn't have to come up at the table — that everyone is fully welcome and able to participate, even if they're not a huge fan of the red cabbage slaw (like me, though my husband loves it).

It was mostly a work week otherwise. I was a guest on a podcast. The episode was about Judea and Samaria, which is an argument (though it shouldn't be) that it seems I spend quite a lot of my life having. I worked on polishing and editing my next book. I spent way too much time writing and replying to emails. And I spent time with the CEO in the sky (Davening). Then I spent the better part of two days chopping vegetables so one person could eat without doing arithmetic. The parsha legislates all of it, and it spends far more verses on the chopping.

This weekend we've got a friend's dog, so the house gets rearranged again for somebody who didn't ask and can't say thank you. It's Elul, the month for taking an accounting before the Days of Awe. Most of what I'd want counted this year happened at counter height, with a knife, in the ten or eleven hours before anyone sat down.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Sound of Silence

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on August 20, 2026.

Franklin Roosevelt complained that during White House receiving lines, no one really listened to what he said. To test his suspicion, he tried an experiment. As each guest shook his hand, F.D.R. murmured, “I murdered my grandmother.” Most people responded without missing a beat: “Wonderful!” “Keep up the good work.” “Bless you!”

Only at the very end of the line did someone actually hear him. The ambassador from Bolivia leaned in and whispered, “I’m sure she had it coming.”

Most of us could benefit from becoming better listeners. But listening is only one of the gifts silence has to offer. What other treasures can be found in silence?

✨3 Ideas

Silence is more than the absence of noise

Many people think of silence as empty space -- simply what remains when words disappear. However, wisdom isn’t measured only by what we say, but by what we choose not to say.

After spending a lifetime among thoughtful and accomplished people, one sage concluded that he had found nothing better for the body and soul than silence.

When angered by a political rival, Abraham Lincoln would write a blistering letter expressing his thoughts. Then he would place the letter in a drawer and never send it.

**Why silence is difficult **

Within each of us is an ongoing struggle between the voice of the ego and the voice of the soul. We often feel compelled to react immediately -- to defend ourselves, answer criticism, or have the last word.

**The voice of the soul invites us to listen, but the voice of the ego demands to be heard. **Careless words can strain a friendship or prevent us from hearing wisdom.

In a world filled with constant noise and endless commentary, the quiet voice within is easily drowned out.

**Silence creates space for growth **

Benjamin Disraeli once advised a newly elected parliamentarian to spend his first six months listening rather than speaking. His point: listening helps us learn.

Leonardo da Vinci possessed a similar gift. In the midst of his work, he would often pause to observe and marvel at the world around him. Silence isn’t empty. It is the space where insight appears.

When we embrace moments of silence, we create space for contemplation, self-awareness, inner calm, and spiritual growth.

📜2 Quotes

“There is a time for every matter under heaven …a time to be silent and a time to speak.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1,7

“All profound things and emotions of things are preceded and attended by silence.” — _Herman Melville _

❓1 Question

When was the last time you let a question hang in the air without rushing to fill the void?

Although Calvin Coolidge served as US President during the Roaring Twenties, he was hardly a man of a ‘roaring personality.’ A young woman sitting next to “Silent Cal” (as he was known) at a dinner party bet him she could get at least three words of conversation from him. Without looking at her he quietly responded, “You lose.”

Behind the humor of Coolidge’s reply lies a timeless truth. In a world that often rewards the loudest voice, silence remains one of life’s most overlooked treasures.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we have to say is nothing at all.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of making room for the quiet voice of the soul,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. How does a conversation change when people pause to listen before responding?

P.P.S. If this week’s _Spiritual Sparks _resonated with you, please consider forwarding it to a friend or family member who might also enjoy it.

The Donkey and Its Owner

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 19 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A donkey with a load on its back — Photo by Florian GIORGIO on Unsplash

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Murder Clothes

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

This model is wearing a jacket made of a linen-wool blend (link)

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Don't Be Asinine

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Mon, 17 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On the surface, the commandment to not plow with an ox and a donkey together seems irrelevant to our lives. Many commentators, such as Ibn Ezra, explain the mitzvah in terms of cruelty to animals. A typical ox is three times heavier than a typical donkey, so yoking them together would cause severe discomfort to…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

An Elul Love Story

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 14 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on August 14, 2026.

*It is spring in the Land of Israel. The rain has stopped, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping and the smell of spring wafts through the air. A young maiden goes out to the vineyards for some fresh air and encounters a handsome-looking shepherd. A conversation ensues, and he promises to meet her again. With a sparkle in her eye, she returns to the city with these words on her lips: "My beloved is for me, and I am for him” (2:16). He will come visit my home, and I will be his.

But day turns to night, and he doesn’t come. She is devastated, looking for him all over the city, “In the marketplaces and in the city squares. I will seek him whom my soul loves; I sought him, but I did not find him” (2:2). She asks the watchmen at the city gates, "Have you seen him whom my soul loves?" (2:3). She implores, “I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, what will you tell him? That I am lovesick” (5:8). But everyone mocks her innocent naiveté. “Your beloved isn’t coming; he forgot about you the minute you left.”

Night comes, and she goes to bed, terribly upset and offended. But suddenly, "My beloved is knocking!” (5:2) The shepherd suddenly remembered her. She hesitates; how can she let him in after what he’s done to her? But again he knocks, pleading, "Open for me, my sister, my wife, my dove, my perfect one” (ibid.) She calls back, Don’t you understand? “I have taken off my tunic; how can I put it on? I have bathed my feet; how can I soil them?” (5:3). I’m already in a different place, the relationship is over. We cannot be together. But the shepherd refuses to give up. He “stretches forth his hand from the hole,” he sticks his hand through a hole in the door, attempting to open it from within.

Finally, her emotions are awakened, and she gets up to open the door. But suddenly, he disappears again; she has lost him. But now she decides that instead of waiting for him to come to the city, she will go out to the fields. "I am for my beloved,” and only then, “my beloved is for me.” I must be the one to find him, and then he will follow me.

The well known acronym of the month of Elul and a love line that Jews the world over have used in many a wedding invitation is - Ani Lidodi Vidodi Li, I am for my beloved and my beloved is for me.* The young woman is us, you and I, the Jewish People. The Shepherd is G-d, Hashem.

It's a touching story. It's a story that brings me to tears, wakes up my insides and makes me want to stop fighting. To stop fighting with G-d. To stop fighting with myself. To accept that Hashem really loves me.

It's a story that pulls on my deep inner child and tells me to let go of all the stuff that I've adopted over the years that has soothed my inner child, that have become the shell of my identity, that has framed my interaction with the world.

It tells me to let go and let G-d, fall into the Divine embrace.

And not only because I need it, which I do, but because Hashem, the Shepherd also needs it and is asking for it.

In her podcast interview with Krista Tippett, Esther Perel talks about Erotic Intelligence. She explains that we each have a side of us that is fiercely independent and a side of us that desperately needs connection with our loved one(s).

Understanding this within ourselves, frees us from needing to always protect ourselves and ensure we play the tension game of being wanted and wanting. Being needed and needing. And then we can release the erotic side of us, which as she explains includes anything that makes us feel alive.

This my friend is Teshuva. It's coming back to G-d because we don't want to be seperated any longer.

It's a game changer for this season. It's not a dark or ominous time. It ought not be a time of fear. It ought to be a time of profound connection, an awakening of the deepest parts of ourselves a time of coming back together, transcending our pains and hurts, hurts received and hurts caused.

Let it go and fall into Hashem's embrace, He's waiting for us.

Good Shabbos and Shana Tova!

Celebrating a deeply abundant and juicy life

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 14 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 14, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: We got a twofer this week! I learned the word for an experience is chavaya (חוויה), but if you’re talking about work experience, you’d use nisayan (ניסיון). Personally, I’d rather not have the experience of remembering two words that mean the same thing!

As some of you know, my dad plays a pivotal role here on the Drop, from reminiscing about his Holocaust studies program, to sharing life advice and his favorite Jewish women. He always either makes us laugh or makes us think.

And guess what? His birthday is on Tuesday!

Every Friday before his birthday, I ask him to contribute wisdom here, even though he prefers half-sour pickles to full sour, which isn’t very Jewish nor wise.

Since he’s turning 97, I thought I’d give him a break and let us do the work by saying nice things about him. My mom is being sneaky and (hopefully) deleting this from his inbox before he opens it today, so we can surprise him with it on his actual birthday on Tuesday. Mum’s the word with him about this until then, please! (But I still wanted to send out the Drop, because, well… Friday).

Dad, here’s some of the many people who love you, including people you don’t even know, who wanted to wish you a happy birthday. There were so many messages that the email got too long! Open up the link to view the entire email! Thanks to all who contributed.

And before we begin, here’s a throwback Shabbos greeting from me and the man himself:

From Amy S.: I’d bet every friend Fred has believes he’s one of the most singular people they’ve ever known. Brilliant without ever being intimidating, endlessly curious about people and the world, Fred is both interested and interesting. That rare combination makes him someone you can happily talk to for hours about almost any subject — and I suspect we all have!

Our correspondence has ranged widely: the shortcomings of our 45th/47th president; Fred’s carefully curated list of 11 great sledding hills in New Jersey which he thought I’d make use of; multi-paragraph dissections of Hollywood award nominations; reflections on how the pandemic exposed the structural weaknesses in, well, everything; and his memorable description of a drive-through COVID test: “They take a chopstick stolen from a take-out place and jam it in my nostril to see if it can reach my ankle.” Medical accuracy was not his concern; narrative impact was. This fellow writer recognizes game.

Fred and I share a love of Shakespeare. When I asked his favorite character, Fred answered without hesitation: Falstaff. “Because he eats, drinks, and avoids getting hurt. What more could one want from life?” It’s a very Fred answer. Falstaff may be rejected by those he loves, but that’s where the comparison ends. Fred, in contrast, is loved by all.

And he’s a terrific dad — something anyone can see just by knowing his kids. When Maddy, Miranda, Becca, and I visit, we often invite Fred. His standard reply is something like, “Thanks, but no thanks … ladies need to talk lady stuff and I’d be a firewall. But I appreciate the invite. It gives me a chance alone to catch up on my secret sites I visit.”

Those “secret sites” may well have inspired his blog, Extra Good Shit, which Fred has spent years curating exactly what the title promises: fascinating, funny, and thought-provoking things the rest of us are better for having seen.

I happen to know that Fred loves cookies which I take great pleasure in sending him on his birthday. Eleven years ago, on his 86th, he was especially taken with the packaging: two cookies per packet. He wrote me: “They stick together and so rather than trying to take just one and save the other, I have to eat them both.” A man defeated not by temptation, but by packaging design.

On a recent email exchange when we once again lamented the state of our union, I suggested I could buy a huge house in Belgium where we could all live together. Fred countered: “Only if I can have Belgian waffles daily.” I can’t imagine anything sweeter than sharing Belgian waffles — and conversations — with Fred for eternity.

Happy 97th birthday, Fred! The world is infinitely more interesting because you’re in it.

Nick L.: Thanks Fred for being a confidant, someone who is never afraid to share a good story, or to provide a sound opinion. Your love of pizza, Jewish delicacies, and Connecticut is inspiring. Thanks for opening the eyes of the younger generations to what is possible as we age gracefully and to know the varying life paths exist out there in the world which can lead to contentment and happiness!

From Donna: The year was 1983 (maybe even earlier) when I first met Fred while dating Scott.

Fred and I were the only “outsiders” in the family which gave us a special bond which I still feel to this day. He always put me at ease at family gatherings with his off-kilter joking or silly quips that would ease my anxiety. I always looked forward to Fred being there.

Through the years, the bond has carried on. He continues to pass along his unique brand of humor, enlightening me with his wisdom and extensive knowledge, keeping me updated with impressive articles that he continues to send.

I have loved watching him as a dedicated husband, father, brother in law and friend.

I look up to him with such admiration and love. Happy 97, my cherished friend! ❤️❤️

From Scott: Fred, I’ve loved you from the 3rd time I met you. The first time you took me to a bar and I got in an argument with some psychopathic war veteran with bad PTSD. You identified him as a friend of yours. I wasn’t sure I liked your friends that day. The second time, I met you, you and Maddy were arguing and I started yelling like an idiot. I wasn’t sure I liked me that day.

The third time, I completely got it. This was going to be one of the greatest love stories ever written. Maddy loved you, you loved her. And I started to fall in love with you. And yes, in a sexual way.

But bad jokes aside, there are plenty of people walking around that remind you of other people, but there is only one Fred. An original that can never be duplicated, dare I say the love child of Groucho Marx and Jack Kerouac.

There’s one Prince, one Madonna, one Woody (not Harrelson, the “this land is our land“ Woody, and there is only one Fred. In fact, if I meet another person named Fred, I spit at them and say “you’ll never be him.”

Thank you so much for being in our lives. You are the centerpiece to this odd little loving family we have. You are adored by your children, your wife, friends, Donna, and me. Happy birthday.

From Morty: After a Shakespeare class in college there was only one other student interested in talking about the plays, their plots and characters. He was a vet from New Haven who was intelligent and insightful and we enjoyed a developing friendship. After graduation we were in the same circle of friends in the White Horse and Greenwich Village. We stayed in touch sporadically in the decades that followed, and in 1994, both retired, we began lunching weekly in New Haven, and he has enriched my life ever since.

Hang in there buddy.

From Jason: In recent years it has been my pleasure to bring my father to lunch with Fred every two weeks or so. I really enjoy hearing them reminisce, crack jokes, and tell stories about the time before the last ice age! The Kvetching is next level and can be hilarious at times.

Fred, I can’t believe you’re going to be 97! You don’t look a day over 96! Happy Birthday, Fred!

From Emily: A love letter to my friend on his birthday four score and seventeenth birthday:

So typically when we meet I am embraced as a cherished friend. You tell me some piece of trivia or share a joke. You may update me on a piece of news on the latest unbelievable presidential shenanigans or even the minutiae of Taylor Swift’s matrimonial plans. Then inevitably I ask you a question. You never give a direct answer to any inquiry small or large relevant or irreverent. First, you respond with a quick and witty quip. I in turn humor you and am willing to go wherever you want to go in this conversation. Then you shift to something that may or may not be collaterally related to my inquiry.

But next is the most fun part. Maddy, flittering around, leans into the question and is not having any part of your nonsense. She then leans into you for a real and honest answer. She nudges you gently, thinks she is giving you clarity about what was asked, gives you suggestions and shares her response to the question. It takes many volleys back and forth between the two of you for you to reveal a true and serious answer. Then Maddy and I sit back satisfied and satiated by your disclosure. FYI: Google (a source without inaccuracies) stated that a person, and even more so, a man that reaches their 97 birthday can be described as: Rare, Exceptional, and Elite. An apt description of you my friend.

From Hannah S.: How lucky am I to have an uncle like you? You’ve always made me laugh, asking me how my bitch of a mother was or singing back to the workers while buying Miranda and I ice cream at ColdStone, but you also have the biggest heart. Thanks for always accepting me as I am and always making me feel loved. And for teaching me extremely crude jokes (because that’s what uncles are for, after all!). Love you so much! And happy 97th to the best there is!

From Becca: Happy 97th birthday, Fred! 🎉 I don’t have nearly as many memories with you as I’d like, but a memorable one that stuck with me is walking in on you and your computer years ago and discovering that you had, let’s say, a very unique way of getting people interested in the many fascinating things you wrote about. 😉 It was an unforgettable moment for a naive college girl!

You are an interesting, smart, and wonderfully unique person. Maddy and Miranda are pretty amazing women, so you must be doing something right! ❤️

So many people are thinking of you on this special day and how much you mean to them. Lucky us to know you and be part of the Frediverse.

From Tricia: I honestly can’t remember exactly when I first met you, Fred. But I do know one thing for certain: if you loved my Maddy, you were already good with me.

Maddy and I met at work more than 25 years ago, but sometimes I think our friendship was meant to happen long before that. We went to the same university, we both graduated on the same day you married each other and we still didn’t know each other. The day I got married was the day she gave birth to your daughter—and still, we didn’t know each other. And finally our paths finally crossed, and Maddy became the sister from another mother. And with Maddy came the people she loves—including you.

Over the years, I’ve come to know what an extraordinary man you are. 97 years of life, history, learning, teaching and, I’m sure, more than a few strong opinions! An English professor, a lover of Shakespeare, politics, knowledge and conversation, and a member of a generation who earned the opportunity for a college education through the GI Bill—you are worth celebrating.

But of all the things I could say about you, what has always mattered most to me is very simple: you love my best friend. And anyone who loves Maddy has a special place in my heart.

Happy 97th Birthday, Fred. What an incredible milestone and an incredible life. I hope you know how many lives you have touched along the way—and how very loved you are.

From Kevin: Hey Fred. I know that if Tricia and Maddy weren’t good friends I most likely would’ve missed out on knowing you. I always felt that when we do get the opportunity to meet we can dive right into the world of things people don’t usually want to talk about at social gatherings. The good shit and the bad shit. You were like some of drinking buddies from my Harvard Square daze. You have been around longer than I but have always kept up with the times. Thanks for all the little music tidbit emails and the talks we’ve had.

Don’t you love this birthday stuff….. Peace☮️

From Sylvia: “Fred’s Happy Place”

From Paul: I’ve been Fred’s son since 1963. Fred is the son of a factory worker from New Haven, CT. After serving in the Korean War my father went to UCONN on the GI Bill and continued getting his PhD in English.

He spent time in San Francisco along the way, and I think his life’s experience and exposure set the tone for who he became, as it does for us humans. His belief in fairness for the working class perhaps came from his factory working background and or the time spent in San Francisco during a tumultuous and philosophical time. I would often hear much banter amongst his professor colleagues on some very deep topics.

Growing up in small town Trumbull, CT, some things remain clear as if it were yesterday. My father made sure we were exposed to a diverse world bigger than Trumbull. Two very important and sentimental homes away from home are NYC and Provincetown as my father brought us there since I was in a stroller (we even have a family stone at Pilgrims Landing in Ptown).

My father never curbed my overzealous enthusiasm for whatever infatuation and hobby I pursued. From collecting reptiles to martial arts to running, my father supported and even became a partner in my pursuit of these endeavors. My father let me get a snake and with that started a long road of learning and collecting. He would bring home snake “food” from the Bio lab at the University of Bridgeport where he was Chairman of English. He let me have a tank the size of the whole wall in my bedroom (at one time I had twelve snakes). He went to the toilet one night and saw one of my escaped snakes in there and we got it out alive.

Then came running as I joined track in middle school. We ran endless road races and met up with the Milford Road Runners, he took me everywhere to run. One of the fondest memories is us going in his Datsun B210 every weekend to the YMCA in Bridgeport and running with a big group of characters as we made our way down Park Ave and ran Seaside Park and back about six to seven miles.

My father went on to run the NYC Marathon, and I jumped in with him once he hit Central Park with less than three miles to go. We also ran the first annual New Haven Road Race where I got an autograph from running legend and hero Bill Rodgers. Years later we ran the whole 20k race together when my father was 70, I believe.

Sharing the simplest of things like running was underestimated by the young kid I was then but appreciated now more than ever as I am now older than he was then when much of this was taking place.

My father let me indulge in my passions and took part in many. Some of these are still near and dear to me and he is still taking part, often sending me a Bruce Lee article, a snake article, a new running record set.

As I continue to take part or simply observing in these and other things my father will always be there with me, every stride.

From Aaron: Fred! Happy Birthday to my favorite Uncle. Are you really turning 97? I don’t believe it. You don’t look a day over 96. Obviously, I’m kidding. You’re glowing.

Over the years, I’ve always loved sitting with you and listening to your many stories. Some of them totally inappropriate for how old I was, but that just made me love them more. My favorite of these stories is a tale about a fiddler and is wife which, if I’m remembering correctly, ended with her saying:

Too late my love, too late my love, He has me by the middle. I’m on my back, he’s up my crack, you’ve lost your f*cking fiddle.

I can’t wait to share this with my nephew someday. Have an amazing day because you’ve earned it. Love, Aaron

From Blair: Fred, Happy 97th birthday to you! You are a storyteller, a scholar, and an all around treasure. It’s an honor to call you my uncle-in-law and to know and love the Lapides family. Wishing you a wonderful birthday full of great food and even better company. Love you! <3 Blair

Also from Keith: Happy Birthday, Fred.

Birthdays are now, for me, more reflective—an exercise to remind me of this journey—one that has always included you for some 55 years and a lot of mileage indeed.

You have been more than just a close friend—a sage advisor, mentor, and personal confessor since I first met you in 1971. You have been with me through every phase of my life since the beginning at good old UB, and talked me off many of the ledges I found myself on (you always told me you would jump after I went first) or you kicked me in the ass when I needed it. Through a decade of running with you on the Bridgeport campus or prepping for your marathon in the 70s, and, in all the personal and professional challenges of the 80s, 90s, our conversations, phone calls, later email and all our visits to the present day, you have always been there for me and enriched my life and those that I loved (your own journey told me I would get it right one day and you and Maddy were with me when that finally happened). I can also say I have never met someone with your level of humor and quick wit, mixed with a deep humanitarian sense for the good in people. You are a great teacher and never cease to discover new things or reveal new issues for your friends to ponder. And as the world has proved, you will never run out of material to discover and call things in the special way that you see them.

L’chaim, y’didi hayakar — ad me’ah v’esrim, b’vriut u’v’simcha!

From Phil: I have several items from the Lapidese hanging over my desk at work: a poem written by Miranda, a drawing by Maddy, and a cutout of a random painting Fred gave me for my birthday. I don't know who the subject of the painting is but Fred says it made him think of me and now it makes me think of him, every day, along with the Library of America book on Breslin he gave me that sits right above my computer. Fred has given me some really good shit, especially his daughter. When you're in love, all shit is good shit. Love you, Fred.

From Russ and Carol: HAPPY BIRTHDAY FRED!

Carol and I wanted to send you our very best wishes for a HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I fondly remember our lunches with you at UB. You and the THREE WISE MEN (aka the Beards - John Nicholas, Dick Daigle and me- your favorite Dean).

You are the only man I have ever thrown a baby shower for. It was quite a celebration just before Mickey’s birth. All the ladies took Maddy out to dinner and left all the guys to figure out how to have a baby shower. It was quite a night. A lot of fun.

There have been so many wonderful memories and we cherish them all. So we send our love and best wishes to you on your big day. Enjoy the celebration and soak up all the love!

From Barbara G.: Fred Lapides is a very experienced 97-year-old man with an irreplaceable spark that often shows up in his eyes. He is also a nonconforming intellectual who has the knack of turning the serious into a comedy replete with tearful laughing. I met Fred and his wife Maddy in an exercise class for challenged, yet willing elders. Pausing, after a low impact session using weights, (also known as training camp for aging Yoga Warriors seeking Strength, Stamina and Stability), I walked over to visit Fred who was seated in a chair. While standing next to him talking, I reached over and touched his hand, feeling its soft warmth and Fred, for a moment, leaned in and folded his hand around mine. His eyes immediately caught my attention as they began to glimmer with the slow light of an awakening. An inkling was beginning to sparkle. Something was about to happen. Fred is playfully committed to rebellion and resistance, so I held my breath anticipating that a fascinating idea was coming to life, a familiar story might be taking shape or a potentially crude joke was about to be revealed. I braced for the punch line. I’m still braced for the punch line and I can’t keep holding my breath. Please Fred, since it’s your 97th birthday would you celebrate by sharing one or two fascinating ideas about academia, or tell a favorite story from your early childhood, or tell a provocatively salacious joke about the meaning of life?

Happy Birthday Dear Fred. May you continue to enjoy your deeply abundant and juicy life. Sending love and congratulations.

From Susan and Len: We first met you on Whatsapp with your daughter Miranda when we were in Israel and now we see some of her wonderful qualities have been passed down from you. We enjoyed celebrating Father’s Day with you, Miranda, Philip and Maddy and we are grateful to share in this chapter of your life. We wish you a blissful birthday and mazel tov on reaching the milestone. We look forward to seeing you again and spending more happy times with you!

From Henry: Fred! I can't believe you're turning 97. We haven't seen much of each other since I visited Miranda at home during the pandemic, but I always love seeing updates from you when Miranda shares them. I haven't told you, or perhaps even Miranda, this -- but I will consider it a great success if my life can turn out like yours. To be someone who's spent a lifetime developing intellectual passions, indulging a good sense of humor, and being excited to try new things is a wonderful thing. While we haven't spent a lot of time together, it is obvious to me (as I'm sure it is to you) the influence you have had on shaping Miranda's exceptional character -- and that of many other young people, I'm sure. I hope you spend your birthday surrounded by people that you love, and some good laughter.

From Hannah and Tzachi: Fred, happy birthday!! Wishing you a lot of laughs and nachas from your beautiful family. Thank you for sharing your wonderful daughter with us! With love, Hannah and Tzachi

From Shira: Happy birthday Fred! I’m a friend of Miranda’s and I met you on Zoom one afternoon while Miranda was visiting. You are quite an inspiration!!! Miranda has told me about the seeds you eat and how well you take care of yourself. I think your secret is being generous with your love. Miranda adores you and I admire your relationship. Wishing you a very happy birthday and thank you for being a wonderful role model.

From Netta: Hi Fred, happy birthday!! 🎉🎂 I feel so lucky to have been welcomed into your family and to have shared Thanksgivings and Oscars parties and Train Dreams with you. Looking forward to singing Waltzing Matilda with you soon. Wishing you a very happy birthday and another wonderful year ahead! 💕

And from your friends on Substack:

From Nabila: Wishing you the happiest of birthdays, Fred! While we have never met, I have quickly become a part of your fan club thanks to your comments on the Shabbat Drops! I was honored by your comment on the Shabbat Drop that featured the story of my community leaving Iran during the Iranian Revolution. Cheers to many more birthdays to come!

From Debbie: Wow! Happy 97th birthday, Fred. I hope it is one filled with love and joy. I am turning 60 this year and am the only one of my father’s four children to reach 60. I am therefore perhaps more acutely aware of the precious and often bittersweet gift of ageing. I wish more people understood what a gift it is. With warmth, Debbie 🌺

From Rina: Brachot of joy for you Fred as you celebrate turning 97! Fred, you must be a true mensch, as I have the pleasure of working with your daughter Miranda, and we all know that the apples don’t fall far from the tree. Mazel tov Fred! Happy birthday to you!

From Inbal: Mazal Tov! Happy Birthday from a fellow Rolling Stones Fan!

From David: Happy birthday! May your pastrami be spicy and you always get what you want!

From Epn: Happy Birthday, Fred! Hope you get a delicious, big deli sandwich (and pickle) to eat while your favorite Stone’s tune is playing!

From Alessandro: Happy birthday! Buon compleanno! A great hug 😄

From Yoni: What a legendary man! Mazal Tov Fred!!!

💦 If you want more Fred, check out these Drops:

Justice and Mercy

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 14 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Shabbat Shalom, this week’s Torah portion is Shoftim, and it includes the well-known verse, “Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that your God is giving you.” צֶ֥דֶק צֶ֖דֶק תִּרְדֹּ֑ף לְמַ֤עַן תִּֽחְיֶה֙ וְיָרַשְׁתָּ֣ אֶת־הָאָ֔רֶץ אֲשֶׁר־יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לָֽךְ׃

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Because the Way Is Long

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 14 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

There's a shower in the lounge by the Z gates. I used it a few minutes ago. And I can happily report that it gets you a good part of the way back to feeling human.

We're going back to the US. A family thing. The minor-ish sort that still makes you get on a plane. Once we're there we'll likely stay through the book tour. Which means the High Holidays happen in our own shul this year — which at least gives me something to look forward to.

Getting there is one of the very most annoying bits. Tel Aviv to Europe on one carrier (because you really can't trust the others), then a different one to the west coast. I could have flown more direct if I wanted to pay twenty thousand dollars rather than just 700.

This morning we went through passport control twice. On the way in. And passport control on the way out. Fingerprints both times. Same continent, same morning, a few hours between them. Nobody involved seemed to find this odd. Though the bundespolizei officer grabbing the phone while inspecting our passports gave me a small blood pressure spike. In the end, it doesn't matter, of course. Airports are full of tedium.

At the far end of this trek, there's my husband's family's house. And we land with just a few hours before Shabbat starts. A few hours is a real buffer. It isn't a restful one. And we woke up in Kiryat Shmona 28 hours ago, and this day is thousands of miles and many hours from done.

This week's parsha is Shoftim, and in the middle of it the Torah starts worrying about a road.

The subject is the cities of refuge. A man accidentally kills someone and the dead man's angry family may lawfully come after him. Though there are towns set aside to which he can run where they can't touch him. Moshe had already set aside three of them across the Jordan. Here he commands three more, and then he says something you would not expect a legal code to bother with.

תָּכִ֣ין לְךָ֮ הַדֶּ֒רֶךְ֒ וְשִׁלַּשְׁתָּ֙ אֶת־גְּב֣וּל אַרְצְךָ֔ אֲשֶׁ֥ר יַנְחִֽילְךָ֖ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֑יךָ וְהָיָ֕ה לָנ֥וּס שָׁ֖מָּה כׇּל־רֹצֵֽחַ׃ You shall survey the distances, and divide into three parts the territory of the country that the ETERNAL your God has allotted to you, so that any manslayer may have a place to flee to.

— Devarim 19:3

Prepare the road. Rashi, on those two words, passes on a detail from the Gemara in Makkot. At every junction there was a sign, and the sign had one word on it, written twice. Miklat, miklat. Refuge, refuge. We aren't running for refuge — though we will feel it with Shabbat — but it's easy to see the parallel it gives us for our own last minute journey.

A man running for his life did not also have to stand at a fork in the road working out which way to go. Two words on a board at a crossroads, and some one was always answerable for keeping them legible.

He also makes note of the spacing. From the border to the first city, the same distance as from the first to the second. Second to third the same again, and the same from the third city out to the far border. Measured, so that nobody in the country was appreciably further from a refuge than anybody else was.

Then the reason, a few verses on.

פֶּן־יִרְדֹּף֩ גֹּאֵ֨ל הַדָּ֜ם אַחֲרֵ֣י הָרֹצֵ֗חַ כִּי־יֵחַם֮ לְבָבוֹ֒ וְהִשִּׂיג֛וֹ כִּֽי־יִרְבֶּ֥ה הַדֶּ֖רֶךְ וְהִכָּ֣הוּ נָ֑פֶשׁ וְלוֹ֙ אֵ֣ין מִשְׁפַּט־מָ֔וֶת כִּ֠י לֹ֣א שֹׂנֵ֥א ה֛וּא ל֖וֹ מִתְּמ֥וֹל שִׁלְשֽׁוֹם׃ Otherwise, when the distance is great, the blood-avenger, pursuing the manslayer in hot anger, may overtake him and strike him down; yet he did not incur the death penalty, since he had never been the other's enemy.

— Devarim 19:6

Ki yirbeh haderech. Because the way is long.

The man has no death sentence coming. The Torah says so twice over — no capital case against him, and no history of hatred between the two of them. He is going to be found innocent, at least of a sort. And the worry here is that he won't get there in time, because the trip is too far and there's a furious man behind him.

So the commandment turns out to be road maintenance. The law was already on his side. What gets added is signage and mileage.

A code that spends chapters on judges and witnesses stops to specify that the roads be surveyed and the junctions marked. Because the difference between a just outcome and a reachable one is in that space. Halacha does this constantly. Somebody always goes on to ask how a person is actually supposed to get from here to there.

Today is the first of Elul. From this morning the shofar goes every weekday until Rosh Hashanah. A month of in-your-face reminders before the accounting starts. Elul is the prepared road. There's a sign up at the junction.

I've got another flight, more than a single continent, and a house full of my husband's family at the end of it. Then candles. See you next week.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Long Light of Distant Stars

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on August 13, 2026.

In 2024, Joël Lapointe was using Google Maps to plan a camping trip through a remote region of Quebec when something unusual caught his eye: a nearly perfect oval indentation in the landscape -- stretching some 15 miles across.

Lapointe wasn't a geologist, but the formation didn't look natural to him. Curious, he contacted scientists, who eventually undertook a journey into the rugged terrain to investigate the unusual formation.

What they discovered would reveal something extraordinary that had happened there hundreds of millions of years earlier.

Just what was that enormous indentation Joël Lapointe had spotted on Google Maps?

✨3 Ideas

**We all have influence **

It’s easy to wonder: What difference can an ordinary person like me really make?

Every day, we affect the people around us through what we say, how we listen, the encouragement we offer, and the example we set. Most of these interactions seem ordinary, yet each becomes part of another person’s experience.

We all leave marks on one another, often without ever realizing we’ve done so. Classic wisdom teaches a spiritual principle: Every tiny movement in the universe affects the entire universe.

**The power of tiny things **

Some migrating butterflies travel as far as 3,000 miles — an astonishing journey for something so small.

Classic wisdom teaches a second spiritual principle: Small actions can have large consequences. We see this in our relationships.

A shared smile can change the direction of a difficult day. Taking a moment to listen can remind someone that they matter. A word of support can restore someone’s confidence. We can’t measure the potential influence of an action by the size of the action itself.

**The influence never seen **

We rarely know where our influence ends. Classic wisdom offers a third spiritual principle: The reach of our actions extends far beyond our awareness of their impact.

Light leaves a star and travels through space. Years -- sometimes eons -- later, someone receives that light. So too with the people whose lives we illuminate. Values transmitted to children. The example of a grandparent. A teacher’s encouragement.

Like the light of a distant star, something of us continues onward in the lives we’ve touched. Decades later, others still carry something we gave them.

📜2 Quotes

“Cast your bread upon the surface of the water, for you will find it after many days.” — Ecclesiastes 11:1

“Sometimes when I consider what tremendous consequences come from little things, I am tempted to think there are no little things.” — _Bruce Barton, author _

❓1 Question

What’s one way you’ve influenced another person, a group, or your community?

Scientists concluded that the enormous indentation Joël Lapointe had spotted on Google Maps was the site of an enormous meteor impact, dating back hundreds of millions of years. The meteor disappeared long ago. The mark it left behind remains.

So it is with us.

Our influence upon others becomes part of the lives we touch — and sometimes, part of the lives we will never know. Like the light of distant stars, what we send into the world continues long after the moment has passed.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of sharing your light with others,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What’s one small way someone has influenced -- or continues to influence your life?

P.P.S. Enjoyed this week’s Spiritual Sparks? Spiritual Sparks: A Reader offers 16 more thought-provoking stories and reflections on living with greater meaning, purpose, and joy. Take a look on —> Amazon

A Murder Without Two Witnesses

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I wonder why the Sages allowed God to punish the killer. After all, the Mishnah (M. Sanhedrin 9:5.)) previously established that there was another option.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

The Jews Choose Hebrew

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 12 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A Samaritan Torah scroll written in their Ktav Ivri rather than our Ashurit (CCA-SA 3.0)

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Personnel Is More Than Policy

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Scott Faulkner, who worked in the Reagan administration, is credited with having coined the saying “personnel is policy.” When he said that, he apparently meant that a president needs to hire tough, ultra-loyal followers to execute his policy preferences. The saying, therefore, is controversial in that it advises chief executives to hire on the basis…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Don't Be Naive

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The moral of the story is that we have to take care to not be naive.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Standing on the Roots of Those Who Came Before Us

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on August 7, 2026.

Even though they’re dead, they are not gone — they continue to find a way to help others out postmortem. These fallen giants provide “generational facilitation” in the afterlife, they continue to offer safety, nurture, love and protection from outside unhealthy influences, thus nurturing and making way for the new generation.

You must think I'm getting sentimental as we enter into the month of Elul and a time of introspection before the start of the New Year. Well you aren't wrong but you aren't completely correct either.

I'm actually talking first about Nurse Logs. These fascinating trees that my family and I were fortunate to observe on a recent family trip.

Here is a ChatGPT abbreviated version: A fallen tree becomes a nurse log, slowly decomposing into a sponge-like bed rich in moisture and nutrients that provides the perfect place for moss, fungi, and young seedlings to grow. As the new trees mature, their roots extend down around the decaying log until they reach the forest floor, and when the original log finally disappears, the trees are left standing on dramatic stilt-like roots. This remarkable process is one of nature's greatest examples of renewal, where the death of one tree literally gives life to the next generation of the forest.

Spending time with family, a younger generation now raising their own children is a journey between recognizing that the nurse logs that came before us nurtured and continue to nurture us even as they've created space for us to create new life, learn a new path, make our own mistakes, and learn from them.

I'm filled with gratitude to those that came before us!

I have also learned or rather continue to learn, that while we are very much a living nurse log we also must make space to our former saplings, the next generation of mature trees to take from what they've learned and nurtured from us, and then watch with love as they nurture their own saplings.

What I found so fascinating about the nurse logs evolution is two things.

Nothing goes to waste - even in their afterlife.
The new trees often end up with stilt-like legs (the empty space beneath their legs, being the space of the nurse log after its decay).

As we enter into this month of Elul - blessed from this Shabbos, I am reminded that we have our ancestors all the way back to our patriarchs and matriarchs and the other greats that have come before us. We never go at it alone. There is profound compassion in this idea.

While it may feel we are standing on our own and alone at times, we are reminded that these legs were built on the foundation of those greats, we are never alone.

If we are all connected in this massive ecological system of Torah and Jewish History then we can enter into this month of Elul, regardless and perhaps because of the ups and downs of the year that has passed. We are empowered to embrace the New Year with a refreshed spirit and vigor.

To help get you into the upbeat spirit of the new month, please join me for the last of our summer series of 2nd Fridays, uplifting spirited Shabbat service followed by kiddush and delicious light refreshments.

Blessings of Shana Tova and Good Shabbos!

Joyful Jewish Moments are Having a Moment

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 7, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Someone taught me the term for peer pressure, which is lachatz chevrati (לַחַץ חֶבְרָתִי). Thanks, Ariella!

Hey friends,

Welcome to another joyful Jewish Friday!

It’s that time of year when the temperatures are higher, the days are slower, and I’m more likely to be found outside reading romantasy than writing indoors. So, August Drops may be a little shorter or more sporadic. Thanks for your patience!

This week’s Drop is simple. As some of you may know, I recently wrote a Substack note complaining about my too-depressing feed. It’s very Jewish, so it can be pretty negative, since there’s a lot of frustrating and scary stuff going on in the world. Like the fact that antisemitic assaults in the UK increased by 82% in the first half of 2026. Or just look at Michigan politics from this week.

While it’s important to make others aware of today’s climate of antisemitism, we can’t always be reactive or angry. We need to be the light in the world. It says so in the Tanakh!

"I, the Lord, have called you in righteousness... I will keep you and make you a covenant for the people and a light to the nations." -Isaiah 42:6

To me, light doesn’t only mean positivity and improving the world. It also means ~keeping things light~. I don’t know about you, but after Tisha B’Av, I could use more of that.

It’s been fun reading the 100+ responses I received! Some commenters, including Jewish personalities I admire, shared links to fellow ‘Jewstackers’. Some shared sweet personal stories. Some non-Jews shared their positive interactions with Jews (love it!!).

I even made connections with all sorts of joyful creators. I’m now featured on the Kosher Duck Revolution website (have I peaked?!), and I’m getting a Torah oracle reading next week!

Thanks to all who commented and contributed. Keep spreading more light. As the Kosher Duck Revolution website says: If hate can go viral, why can’t love?

Here’s the note and some responses. Read all of them here. Enjoy!

✍️ Shabbat Prompt

Now it’s your turn! What’s something that brings you Jewish joy? And why is it so important to embrace that Jewish joy? How do you sustain it?

Feel free to journal about it or write in the comments below (I started in the first comment to kick things off).

Shabbat Shalom. With love and challah,

💦 If you like joy, check out these Drops:

The Parable of the Fur Coat

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Moses tells the people that God has set before them the choice of blessing and curse. The blessing, he says, is granted through the observance of the commandments.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Three Units

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I lost the first three days of this week to a migraine. Tuesday's Israel Brief didn't go out. The monthly Vantage slid to Wednesday. I spent most of those days in a dark room feeling bad about both, which is really quite useless. But, what can you do?

So it was a slow week. Work, study, not much else.

Yesterday evening, I was standing across the street. Waiting for a pizza. Kosher pizza, in Kiryat Shmona. With onions, olives, and mushrooms. It was better than we expected. While we waited, we chatted with a haredi fellow who had come up for a few days with his wife and their kid. On vacation. Up here. He fell in love with the place when his Rabbi took them up with his Hesdar class. There has been smoke coming over the hill from Lebanon for days now, thick enough to see from (and sometimes somewhat choke) the main street. His boy hung off his arm asking about something he'd been promised. While his wife waited in the car — pregnant. So their trip to Miami will have to wait until next year.

My phone went off while we were talking. A friend, on WhatsApp. Her daughter is in hospital, and they had put three units of blood into her.

Three units. Somebody else's, three times over.

After Shabbat is over we're going to find somewhere to give blood. It seemed like the least we could do other than the Mi Shebeirach.

This week's parsha is Re'eh, and in the middle of it Moshe is working through what happens once the people are spread across a country and the sanctuary is a long walk away. You can slaughter at home, he tells them. Eat it in your own town. Anyone may eat it, pure or impure, the way you'd eat a deer or a gazelle. He finishes with the practical steps and says something striking. Something he repeats just a few verses later.

רַ֥ק הַדָּ֖ם לֹ֣א תֹאכֵ֑לוּ עַל־הָאָ֥רֶץ תִּשְׁפְּכֶ֖נּוּ כַּמָּֽיִם׃ But you must not partake of the blood; you shall pour it out on the ground like water.

— Devarim 12:16

The second time he attaches a reason, and he opens it with a verb you don't expect on a kitchen rule.

רַ֣ק חֲזַ֗ק לְבִלְתִּי֙ אֲכֹ֣ל הַדָּ֔ם כִּ֥י הַדָּ֖ם ה֣וּא הַנָּ֑פֶשׁ וְלֹא־תֹאכַ֥ל הַנֶּ֖פֶשׁ עִם־הַבָּשָֽׂר׃ But make sure that you do not partake of the blood; for the blood is the life, and you must not consume the life with the flesh.

— Devarim 12:23

Rak chazak. Only be strong. Rashi brings two readings of why that word is in the verse at all. Rabbi Yehuda says you only tell a man to be strong about something he wants, so the plain sense is that people craved it and had to be pulled off it. Ben Azzai takes it the other way — nobody actually longs for blood, and if the Torah thought even this one needed a "be strong," you can work out for yourself what the commandments that are genuinely hard are going to ask of you.

Either way, the reason Moshe gives has nothing to do with appetite. Ki hadam hu hanafesh. The blood is the nefesh — the life, whatever is present in a living creature and gone from a carcass. That is why it cannot go into you. It isn't yours to absorb. And when you are holding it and you cannot use it, you put it back into the ground the way you would pour out water.

There is exactly one arrangement anybody has ever built where the nefesh in blood is meant to travel out of one person and into another, and it runs on plastic bags, refrigerators, a folding chair and a cookie. Three units went into a woman this week. That means three people, on three unremarkable afternoons, sat in that chair and gave away the thing Devarim says you may not so much as eat. None of them will ever hear her name.

We will say the Mi Shebeirach for her tomorrow. We will mean it in earnest. But... I have no patience for the version of any religion that treats prayer as what you reach for once the useful options are gone or the full extent of your obligations.

The man outside the pizza place asked how things had been up here. I said it had been a slow week, which was true, and left out the migraine and the brief that didn't go out. Next to a hillside smoking since Sunday and a kid on a ward, it seemed inappropriate to complain. He said that they were enjoying their bungalow and time outside more than expected. Though he was anxious to get back to work.

In a few hours we will light the candles. Sunday, we will head to the nearest blood mobile and give what we can. The parsha says the blood is the life, and I have spent this week with a headache and all of mine, while a friend spent it next to a bed that needed three units of somebody else's.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Looking in Your Inner Mirror

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on August 6, 2026.

When John McCain commanded a squadron of naval aviators, he had to keep track of an astonishing number of details.

McCain had to monitor his aircraft's fuel supply, weather conditions, enemy defenses, the location of every plane in formation, and even the individual strengths and weaknesses of the pilots under his command. A momentary lapse in awareness could mean the difference between success and failure -- or even life and death.

Yet after years of flying combat missions, McCain concluded that among everything he had to keep track of, one form of awareness mattered more than all the others.

What was it?

✨3 Ideas

Self-awareness

Self-awareness is the habit of noticing what’s happening within us -- our thoughts, emotions, and deepest aspirations.

An impatient driver leaning on the horn doesn’t force us to become irritated. We can just as easily shrug our shoulders, say, “That’s life in the big city,” and be on our way. The difference isn’t what happened. It’s whether we noticed what happened within us.

Within each of us, the voice of the soul calls us toward patience, gratitude, and hope. Self-awareness helps us recognize the soul’s voice before we act.

Beyond the noise

The voice of the soul never stops speaking. Yet it isn’t always easy to hear. Like static interfering with a radio signal, other influences can drown out the soul’s voice.

The static isn’t the same for everyone.

For one person it may be anger. For another, pride. For someone else, fear, prejudice, or force of habit. Whatever form it takes, the effect is the same: the soul’s voice becomes harder to hear.

Walking the path

Self-awareness often begins by gradually removing what prevents us from hearing the soul’s voice clearly. We cultivate greater patience, honestly examine our biases, and place a greater focus on the virtues of others rather than their faults.

As the background noise begins to fade, we become better able to recognize the person we truly want to be. What we notice shapes who we become.

Each time we choose humility, understanding, and serenity, the soul’s voice becomes easier to hear — and our lives begin to reflect its wisdom.

📜2 Quotes

“Better a patient person than a warrior, and one who rules over his spirit is better than one who conquers a city.” — Proverbs 16:32

“You have power over your mind -- not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” — Marcus Aurelius

❓1 Question

What inner habit or emotion most often pulls you away from your highest value?

We began with a question: After years of flying combat missions, what form of awareness did John McCain conclude mattered more than all the others? His answer was simple: “The most important part of that equation is self-awareness.”

The same is true for each of us. We can’t always choose what happens around us. But we can choose how to respond to it. Every moment of greater self-awareness is an opportunity to become a little more like the person we are meant to be.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of seeing yourself more clearly in your inner mirror,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. When frustration, worry, or anger begins to take over, what helps you regain your perspective? I’d love to hear what works for you.

P.P.S. If this week’s newsletter mirrors your interest in spirituality, my new book Spiritual Sparks: A Reader reflects that theme. I hope you’ll take a look: Amazon

The Location of Jewish Life

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The Altneuschul in Prague. Built in 1270, it is Europe’s oldest active synagogue.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Regret Is Easy, Repentance is Hard

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 05 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Moses tells the nation that upon entering the land of Israel, they will no longer be able to do “every man as he pleases.” Although Moses said these words in the context of animal sacrifice, the concept itself is highly relevant to this time of year. Today is 22 Menaḥem Av, which means we are…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Blessings and Curses Can Mix

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The Torah portion begins with Moses posing a simple choice, blessing or curse. In previous years, I have used Deut. 11:26 to make the argument that there are somethings in life that are black and white with no middle ground. (Here’s an example.) Indeed, this is a traditional reading of the verse that is echoed…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

My Journey of Accepting Criticism

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on July 31, 2026.

Adam was created from the dust (Chava from Adam's side). It has been said that this is the reason that men are defensive and a bit ego focused. After all, when they look back to their origins, it is just a mound of earth - not a very auspicious pedigree.

I am one of those Adam's and I want to share with you my journey (ongoing) away from defensiveness and my journey towards acceptance.

I say acceptance because oftentimes we are very set and convinced that we are correct in our defensiveness. Nonetheless, that doesn't make the defensiveness any less ugly. So, it's really about acceptance. Acceptance that it's ok not to need to be right (when you think you're right). And it's ok to be wrong when you are wrong.

There are two internal movements depending on what your internal reaction is at the moment (and it varies).

Both of them require the opening word of this week's Parsha - Eikev - which means heel. One ought to look at themselves like a heel. Not in a bad way "oh, he's such a heel", but rather as an expression of humility.

Like Moses' attitude; the person who is offering the criticism has something that I don't have. In some way they are better than me. That sense puts things in perspective.

The two responses;

You are right. I'm sorry. Let me reflect on that. All of which are expressions of humility and allow for you to navigate towards reconciliation without ugliness.
Pause - G-d is in the pause. If your emotions are not allowing you to be humble, your two lips can remain shut for a while.

In that pause, you can evaluate whether you are being stubborn or ego driven. Or whether you are righteously justified in your feelings and nonetheless if it is worth giving expression to those feelings and possible ugliness that may ensure.

In either response, the heel attitude will allow for the story to have a happier ending and at the same time may actually help you grow in your humility.

Happy Humbling and Good Shabbos!

Coexistence Tastes Like Olive Oil

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 31, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: A slice (of pizza) is the same word for triangle: meshulash (משולש) 🍕

But we’re not talking about pizza today! We’re talking about olive oil, and not just any olive oil, but Sindyanna’s olive oil.

A few months ago, the Park Slope Food Coop (which bothers me that it’s not spelled “Co-op” - their first transgression!) in Brooklyn voted to stop selling a few Israeli products like Bamba (their loss), frozen herbs, tahini, bell peppers.

The vote passed with 67% participating members voting in favor, and took effect the next day.

This was part of the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) Movement, which uses economic pressure to protest the Israeli government’s actions and end oppression for Palestinians.

This all sounds morally compelling and impactful, and like it genuinely cares about peace and social justice, until you learn that the movement and its co-founder support replacing a Jewish-majority state with a Palestinian-majority state, instead of supporting a two-state solution.

Not to mention how easily BDS can cross into discrimination and antisemitism, alienating many Jews who buy Israeli products and making them feel unsafe, as we saw in 2024 Park Slope drama, and more recently here.

Never mind that the movement has had little actual impact. On their website, for example, they cite Israel’s current debt as proof of their impact, as if Israel’s economy wasn’t recently impacted by the tens of billions of dollars it spent on the Israel-Hamas war. Nice try.

But wait - there’s more! BDS’s actions usually backfire and negatively impact the very people it claims to serve by boycotting businesses that employ Palestinian workers.

Which brings us to Sindyanna of Galilee, whose olive oil is no longer sold at the Park Slope Food Co-op. Yep, I used the dash. My Substack, my rules.

I virtually sat down with Hadas Lahav, CEO of Sindyanna, to hear about how her organization brings Jewish and Arab women together to sell Fair Trade products from Arab producers and reinvests the profits into education for Arab women.

Our conversation was a reminder that real peace work is happening on the ground, making the world a better place by choosing compassion, unity, and hard work. I hope it inspires you as much as it inspired me, and that more people wake up to the hypocrisy of BDS.

So, what is Sindyanna, and why did you start it?

Sindyanna (سنديانة الجليل, named after the most common tree in the Galilee, the Palestine oak, renowned for its rootedness to the land, longevity, and endurance) is a nonprofit Fair Trade organization led by a team of Arab and Jewish women.

We established Sindyanna in 1996 as an official NGO. The idea didn’t come out of the blue. It was a culmination of longtime activities among the Arab population inside Israel. It is very important to understand that inside Israel, more than 20% of the citizens are of Palestinian origin.

What we noticed is that the weaker part of Arab society in Israel is the women, because of geographical and traditional factors. The majority of the Arab women at that time (about 80%) did not have any opportunity to work outside their homes. This means that they were dependent economically on the men in the family, and could not be independent.

We saw that if we want to build trust between Arab and Jewish citizens in Israel, which seemed to us at that time the most important thing for building a healthier and more just society, we have to find a way to empower the Arab women. There is a saying in Arabic that the women are the school of the children. The children grow under the supervision of the women because they are the ones who are responsible to educate and feed them. So if the women are stronger, the next generation will be stronger. And if we build trust between Arab and Jewish communities, we can build together what neither community can build separately.

Credit: ericsultan1@gmail.com

How has your work evolved over the years?

We started by collaborating with the Arab farmers in the Galilee to buy their olive oil and sell it in the Israeli market. And surprisingly enough, it was well received by the Israeli society. This was the ‘90s. Then, in 2000 during the Second Intifada, it became difficult to market a product from the Arabic community in the Israeli market. This was when we turned to exporting.

After some years, we grew enough to build a factory in Kafr Kanna. We’re still there and since then have added a visitors center, where we host groups of visitors - both young and old - from all over the world. We’ve organized workshops and seminars for Arab and Jewish women.

In 2003, we joined the World Fair Trade Organization, which is a huge network of Fair Trade organizations from all over the world. We started to export, and were well received by our global Fair Trade partners. Sindyanna grew mainly through connections with Fair Trade organizations, and through many friends around the world that believed in our mission.

I want to jump to 2019, because that year, we were invited by the Park Slope Food Co-op to present Sindyanna’s olive oil in their Brooklyn store. Their buyer invited us and said that his community would be interested to meet the women behind the olive oil. At that time, the co-op was proud of our partnership, and they were proud that they held olive oil from Israel that represented a collaboration between Arab and Jewish women.

From Sindyanna’s website

How did October 7th affect business?

Every year, the harvest begins around the middle of October. Everything in the process had already been arranged that year, and we built positive relationships with agricultural cooperatives in the West Bank.

After October 7, I was terrified. I kept wondering: What will happen? How will we get the olive oil? What would our Palestinian partners say? Would they continue with our collaboration? Or, now that Israel is attacking Gaza, would they not want any connection with the Israelis?

But what happened was the opposite. And this is something that the boycott movement doesn’t want people to know: For the Palestinians in the West Bank, there is no option for boycott. They don’t boycott Israel. They are happy when they have good connections with good people in Israel.

So, when I called the farmers, they said, “Don’t worry. You will receive your olive oil in time. We are happy with our collaboration. We will stick to it for as long as possible.”

Then, we faced a new challenge. Our annual olive harvest was in jeopardy. Many of our volunteers had been called up for reserve duty.

We reached out to a women’s organization called Building Alternatives (Bonot Alternativa) and asked if they could help. Just two weeks after the war began, more than 300 women came to our olive grove to harvest olives alongside Arab and Jewish women. It was powerful. Even in the darkest moments, people are willing to come together and build something better.

Wow. And where do the profits go?

This collaboration is not just a commercial collaboration. We are Fair Trade. For every kilo of olive oil we buy from the Palestinian farmers, we donate a Fair Trade premium for the cooperative to create social projects in the village every year.

For example, last year they used our donation to build a solar panel on the olive oil mill in the village, to renovate the play yards in two primary schools, and to buy new equipment for the members of the cooperative.

We not only promote relations between Palestinians and Israelis, but also empower the Palestinians, and help develop Palestinian society.

Let’s get into the Park Slope Food Co-op boycott.

What can I say about such a one-sided and wrong decision?

What was your first reaction when you learned that your product was going to be boycotted?

First of all, it was not very clear, because the olive oil is not sold by Sindyanna to the co-op. It is sold by our partner, a Fair Trade cooperative, and they import our olive oil and sell it with a private label. On the bottle, the label says “A project of Arab and Jewish women in Israel.” This doesn’t matter to them; complexity is a thing they cannot digest.

Since October 2023, we have been suffering from a kind of boycott, but it is an undeclared boycott. Nobody has said they cannot order our olive oil because we are Israeli. Some big customers stopped buying our products, but they didn’t say why. They just said they cannot sell it. It is too expensive, too small, too big. Many excuses. Nobody said it is because we are Israeli. The first time someone said, “No, we won’t sell your olive oil because you are Israeli” was the Park Slope Food Co-op boycott. This is why we decided to not stay silent anymore. Because you cannot keep silent when someone is trying to eliminate you.

Yoram Ron

If there was one thing that you could say to the people in favor of BDS, particularly at the co-op, what would it be?

I don’t argue with BDS. I think it is useless. If you don’t want me, that is your problem. Because what I’m doing helps the Palestinians much more than what any boycott can do.

Because here you are, on the ground, actually making the connections, and promoting peace through dialogue, collaboration, and education.

If I were an American, or Brit, or German, etc. and I looked at Israel, I would say, “Israel has a very bad government.” By the way, it is not the only country in the world that has bad government, and not even the worst government. But nevertheless, this is our problem. I would say, “Let’s give them the strength to change the situation in their country.” If you have a democratic system, everyone - Palestinians, Israelis, Jews, Arabs, Christians, Muslims - can benefit from it.

But people who support BDS do the opposite. They say, “Israel is bad, and everyone in Israel is bad. Until the last Israeli becomes anti-Zionist, we don’t want to recognize Israel.” I believe this is an unbalanced approach that does not help advance peace or justice. There is no instant peace. It is a process. You have to build it step by step.

Do you have a story that you would like to share about one of the women that inspires you?

We have one woman from Kafr Kanna, the village where our factory is located. When she came to Sindyanna, she was a housewife. She came because she heard we were opening a weaving center, where we teach women how to weave baskets from all kinds of natural material. She came and was a devoted student. She learned the skill of basket weaving very well, and then became a teacher leading basket weaving shops in our visitor center. She’s invited by local municipalities to organize basket weaving for other communities. Before she joined us, she didn’t speak Hebrew. Now she speaks Hebrew. She didn’t know how to use a computer. Now she can work on the computer. She’s a living example of the term “empowering women.” In the last 30 years, we’ve met thousands of women. Every one of them has a special story. Every one of them benefited from interacting with Sindyanna.

Photo credit: Oren Shalev

What gives you hope?

You. Solidarity. What can be better than to be able to talk about our message, our vision, and to have people listening? And not only you, but also the 10,000 people who pressed ‘like’ on our last post. And also the democratic forces inside Israel. We see new parties that are absorbing the activists of the democratic movement and gaining political power. Hopefully we will get many seats in the next election. This gives me a lot of optimism. I didn’t have this. If you asked me one month ago, I don’t know if I would have been so optimistic. But now I see that more than 100,000 new people registered as members in this new Democratic party. They’re going to turn Israel into something better. Come visit us, and you’ll get some optimism too.

Any Shabbat plans?

On Friday evening, I plan to visit my 97-year-old mother, who lives on a kibbutz near Lake Tiberias, where my three siblings and I were born. I’ll spend Shabbat with her, catching her up on the latest news, listening to her stories, and enjoying her famous homemade salty cheese cookies.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity. Read it in full at The Shabbat Drop.

You can buy Sindyanna’s products on their website.

Shabbat Shalom. Dreaming of those salty cheese cookies,

💧 If you like coexistence, check out this Drop:

💧 If you like Israeli politics, check out this Drop:

A Blessed People

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

An ADL chart showing the growth of antisemitism in the United States

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

The Best We Could Do

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Sunday we went down to Jerusalem to have coffee with a friend. The coffee ran about two hours, which was longer than expected but very Israeli. And partway through it somebody else the three of us knew walked into the same Aroma, saw us, and pulled up a chair for a while. Both of our friends (whom you likely, at least, know of) spend their time and energy, day in and day out, working to make Israel, and the Jewish People, better. They're very good at it. You come away from a morning like that raring to take on the world.

Afterward we went to the City of David and spent three hours touring it, most of that time underground.

A great deal of that tour is what people did regarding water. More than you'd think, to be honest. The spring sits at the bottom of the slope. They built fortifications around it as a defense measure, but when the neighbors turn hostile — and if you know anything of this region, that's inevitable — it is rather outside any wall you could reasonably build. So they cut through the hill to move where it collects. We walked through that tunnel — which took some half an hour or so. The tunnel is narrow enough that your shoulders touch both walls in places. It bends in ways that make no engineering sense until someone explains them to you, and there is water you have to walk through the whole way. Up to about 70 cm in some places. Half a kilometer of it, cut by hand with axes and picks, by two crews starting at opposite ends and working toward each other through solid rock until they met in the middle. Hezekiah's men finished it ahead of the Assyrian army's arrival, somewhere around 701 BCE. On the same slope there is older waterworks still, roughly a thousand years older.

You come up out of it into the light with a lot of respect for the eighth century BCE.

This week's parsha is Eikev, and Moshe is on the far side of the Jordan describing the country the people are about to walk into. He goes through the wheat and the barley, the vines and the figs, the iron in the stones. Then he gets to the water.

וְהָאָ֗רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֨ר אַתֶּ֜ם עֹבְרִ֥ים שָׁ֙מָּה֙ לְרִשְׁתָּ֔הּ אֶ֥רֶץ הָרִ֖ים וּבְקָעֹ֑ת לִמְטַ֥ר הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם תִּשְׁתֶּה־מָּֽיִם׃ but the land you are about to cross into and possess, a land of hills and valleys, soaks up its water from the rains of heaven.

— Devarim 11:11

Egypt they understood. Egypt was the Nile and a network of ditches. You'd get up in the morning and haul water and open the channels. The irrigation would bring up the crops due to your hard work. Rashi reads this and says in Egypt you had to rise from your sleep and toil, and in this land you may sleep in your bed while the Holy One waters the high ground and the low ground together. Moshe is describing a country where nobody controls the water, and he is rightly selling it as the better deal.

Standing in Hezekiah's tunnel with cold water in my shoes, I finally understood what he was selling. That tunnel is impressive. What it amounts to is moving one spring a few hundred meters sideways. It took a king, a national emergency, an entire kingdom's treasury, and two crews of men swinging picks in the dark for months. That was the best we could do. Every winter, with HaShem's command, the sky does the Galilee and the Shomron and the coastal plain, for free, without a committee.

The next paragraph is the second paragraph of the Shema, the one Jews say morning and evening. The Shema's opening paragraph speaks to one person — you shall love, with all your heart, with all your soul, singular the whole way down. Here it goes plural.

וְנָתַתִּ֧י מְטַֽר־אַרְצְכֶ֛ם בְּעִתּ֖וֹ יוֹרֶ֣ה וּמַלְק֑וֹשׁ I will grant the rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late.

— Devarim 11:14

Artzechem. Your land, all of you. Rain comes down on a whole valley at once, and the water standing on any one man's field is weather that belonged to everybody on the slope. He can keep his own ground in perfect order and still spend the winter in the dust if there is no blessing. There is no version of this where you farm alone. A tunnel one king can build. A rainy season takes a people.

Which is roughly what the rest of my week looked like. Wednesday we sat down to lunch with a friend and got up hours later. Yesterday we were at the opening of The Israel Guys' new facility, and ran into people we already knew. Truly it seems you cannot get through an afternoon in this country without someone from another part of your life walking into the room. I wrote Letters Across the Table to people like the ones in that room before I had properly heard of any of them. You write to a room you have never been in, and then one day you are standing in it, eating something off a folding table, shaking hands, having a glass of wine — wine, I might add, which was helped by the amazing people The Israel Guys bring here to volunteer for weeks on end toiling in the fields to bless the land and the people of Israel.

Not one of them can make it rain. Though, through irrigation and desalination, they can come close. But even that is through the blessing of HaShem. That is the point of the verse. What they can do is be the plural the promise is addressed to, and they are doing it, day after day, mostly without an audience.

This morning we have cleaned the house, done the laundry, made our trip to the butcher and the baker. (We already have candles, so no need to complete the nursery rhyme.) The only thing left is the cooking, which it is still much too early to start. Nothing has fallen out of the sky here since spring and nothing will until well after the chagim. The valley is brown. The ground has gone pale and started to crack. In a few hours the light will change, the candles go on the table, and the whole country will stop at once. In the meantime I am sitting here with a cup of coffee, in a land that cannot water itself, feeling unreasonably good about the company.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Joy Is in the Journey

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on July 30, 2026.

John John Florence is one of the world's greatest surfers. As a young man, he devoted himself to a single dream: becoming the best surfer in the world. In 2016, after years of relentless training, sacrifice, and perseverance, that dream became reality. He captured his first world championship, reaching the summit of his sport.

But the next morning, something unexpected happened.

Florence found himself asking, "Now what?" Reflecting on that experience, he admitted, "When I won my first world title, I was super down after. It was pretty depressing... You wake up the next day, and you're like, 'Oh. I'm back at ground zero again.'"

How could accomplishing the goal he had pursued for most of his life leave him feeling not simply disappointed, but empty?

✨3 Ideas

**The journey changes us **

The greatest value of any worthwhile journey isn’t reaching the destination. It’s the transformation taking place within us along the way.

Our daily habits, discipline, and every challenge we persevere through gradually shape the person we are becoming. **The process doesn’t simply produce the achievement. It produces the person who achieves it. **

Within each of us lies a soul with extraordinary possibilities. But those possibilities remain only potential until we make the choices that transform them into reality.

**Looking only at the finish line **

It’s easy to measure our success by whether we reach our goal. We tell ourselves, “I’ll be satisfied when …” -- when I earn the promotion, lose the weight, or write the book.

There’s much to admire about setting goals and working to achieve them. But when the destination becomes our only focus, we overlook who we’re becoming along the way.

The journey may begin to feel like an obstacle instead of a gift. We risk overlooking the growth taking place within us, and may lose the joy that comes from fully giving ourselves to today’s calling.

**Through a different prism **

Asking, “Who is today’s effort helping me become?” brings meaning to each day. Our measure of success becomes how our soul is shaped, and how much closer we come to the person we are meant to be.

When we begin to see the journey differently, we begin to live the journey differently.

We discover greater purpose and joy. We give ourselves more fully to each step, knowing that the entire process has value far beyond reaching our goal.

📜2 Quotes

“So I saw that there is nothing better for a person than to enjoy their deeds, because that is their lot …” — Ecclesiastes 3:22

“The journey itself is my home.” — Matsuo Bashō, Japanese poet

❓1 Question

Where are you so focused on reaching the finish line that you’re overlooking the gift of the journey?

We began with a question: How could winning the world surfing championship leave John John Florence feeling empty?

Florence eventually discovered that his deepest joy wasn’t waiting at the finish line -- it had been accompanying him throughout the journey. Looking back, he reflected, “I learned from that pretty quickly that I enjoyed the process. I enjoyed the process of going after that goal. I’ve been able to put that into other parts of my life.”

Goals give our lives direction. But the greatest gift of any journey isn’t simply reaching the destination. It’s the joy we experience and the person we become along the way.

Until next time, Wishing you joy and growth on the many journeys of your life,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What project, goal, or new habit are you pursuing that is bringing you joy or helping you grow? I’d love to hear from you -- just hit “Reply” -- I read every response.

P.P.S. If this week’s reflection resonated with you, my new book, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader, continues that journey with sixteen essays exploring purpose, relationships, gratitude, and our inner life. I hope you’ll take a look: Amazon

The Cantorial Candidate

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

In the first verse of Parashat Eikev, Moses tells the nation that if they “hear” (i.e. obey) the commandments, God will faithfully uphold the covenant with them. The Torah typically favors hearing over seeing. When you hear a teaching, you can pass it on from generation to generation. But something we see cannot be passed…

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Underestimating Arrogance

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A male peacock shows off its plume — Photo by Devon Metcalf on Unsplash

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

Thirteen Reasons to Eat Breakfast

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Moses tells the people that if they obey the commandments, God will protect their health and remove from them all of the dreadful diseases they had in Egypt. A millennium and a half later, our Sages were well aware that we can influence our health, positively or negatively, through our behavior.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

A Letter to Mayor Mamdani

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Mon, 27 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Shabbat Shalom. The following is an open letter to the honorable Mayor of New York City, Zohran Mamdani.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

When Darkness Touches the Soul

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 24 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on July 24, 2026.

The Talmud tells a story about Rabbi Akiva and his colleagues. They were traveling to Jerusalem and arrived at Mount Scopus. When they arrived, they all tore their clothing.

They then descended to the place of the destroyed Bais Hamikdash and the place of the Holy of Holies. There, they saw a fox walking through the ruins.

Rabbi Akiva's colleagues began to cry, and Rabbi Akiva, in response, began to laugh.

Rabbi Akiva asked his colleagues why they were crying. They replied that they were witnessing the fulfillment of the prophecy that the place of the Temple would become a plowed field. Rabbi Akiva said, "It is for that very reason that I laugh, because now I know that the other prophecy will also be fulfilled." That prophecy states: "There will yet be heard in the cities of Judah the voice of joy and gladness, the voice of the bride and the voice of the groom."

The story requires clarification. Why did Rabbi Akiva ask them why they were crying? It seems self-evident. Conversely, what problem does his response—and his laughter—resolve?

I recently heard a beautiful explanation of this passage. Rabbi Akiva was really asking, "What is it exactly that you are crying about? Are you simply crying over an external loss, or does this touch you deeply? Do you truly embody the tragedy of the destruction?"

They responded that they were seeing the fulfillment of the prophecy, and therefore the tragedy touched them in the deepest possible way. It wasn't something external to them. It was something they embodied.

Accordingly, Rabbi Akiva responded, "It is for that very reason that I laugh. The fact that you experience this in such an embodied way means that there is hope for the fulfillment of the other prophecy as well."

In life, we oftentimes experience things externally, even when they are deeply emotional. The question is: does an experience touch us so deeply that we experience it in an embodied way? If it does, then we have the capacity to create change.

We just commemorated Tisha B'Av, the darkest day on the Jewish calendar. These days, it can feel quite dark. The question we ought to be asking ourselves is: are we simply bothered by the events going on in the world because they affect us externally, or do they touch us deeply?

If they do touch us deeply, that means we are getting in touch with the Divine experience that is hidden within the darkness around us. (See last week's email.)

When we can do that—when the darkness truly touches us deeply—we can be confident that better times lie ahead, because we are not only experiencing the darkness externally; we are actually accessing the deepest light contained within it.

This is similar to what I wrote about last week. When we see the darkness as something outside of ourselves, it doesn't necessarily motivate change. However, when we see the challenge as something that reaches into the depths of who we are, it becomes a catalyst that elevates us to a higher place.

May this Shabbos usher in a deeper connection to the blessings, light, and salvation that await us.

Good Shabbos!

Baseless Hatred: Maybe the Rabbis Were Onto Something

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 24 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 24, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week:

I was delighted to find a recording of the Moomin theme song in Hebrew. From that translation, I learned the word for wonderful/marvelous, which is mufla (מופלא). How marvelous!

Weird transition: This week was Tisha B’Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar.

For those who have been here a while, you know how fickle my relationship with this holiday has been.

I’ve written about Tisha B’Av from multiple angles, from arguing we should be celebrating life instead of mourning our past (which I feel differently about today), to writing about how October 7th changed my view of TBA (which inspired someone to start observing it!).

And this year, I had a completely different idea for TBA content, until I had an interaction that’s been sitting with me. It was one of those moments I’ve written about that could have been educational had I spoken up.

The Destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem by Francesco Hayez, 1867

I was in a Jewish setting that was discussing Tisha B’Av and sinat chinam, which is a big theme of the holiday.

Sinat chinam: Baseless hatred.

The Rabbis taught that the Second Temple was destroyed by baseless hatred. This includes infighting between internal Jewish factions and senseless animosity that fractured the Jewish people, making them vulnerable to outside forces. Rabbinic tradition uses Tisha B'Av to teach that a community divided by baseless hatred is spiritually and physically fragile.

The rabbis who developed the Babylonian Talmud in the 6th century CE suggested this moral explanation for the fall of the Second Temple:

"However, considering that the people during the Second Temple period were engaged in Torah study, observance of mitzvot, and acts of kindness, and that they did not perform the sinful acts that were performed in the First Temple, why was the Second Temple destroyed? It was destroyed due to the fact that there was wanton hatred during that period. This comes to teach you that the sin of wanton hatred is equivalent to the three severe transgressions: Idol worship, forbidden sexual relations and bloodshed.” -Yoma 9b

Referring to the idea that sinat chinam brought about the destruction of our spiritual home, someone in the group discussion said, “It’s so full of Jewish guilt. The rabbis always do this! They did this with the Holocaust and now you’re telling me they did this for Tisha B’Av.”

Okay, I am the last person to defend the rabbis, but I immediately and silently took issue with this seemingly baseless dismissal of baseless hatred.

My mental wheels were turning as I laid it out in my head: Yes, a small number of Orthodox rabbis have made the ridiculous and disgusting claim that six million Jews died in the Holocaust because they weren’t observant. In their eyes, the Holocaust was divine punishment for being tempted by the Enlightenment, socialism, and Zionism.1

Pretty awful thing to say. But is that the same as the rabbis’ belief about sinat chinam? No.

One major difference between these two ideas is who was spreading them. The Holocaust-as-punishment claim was made by a few fringe rabbis, whereas the idea that sinat chinam (SC from here on out!) led to the destruction of the Temple became a part of the foundational texts of rabbinic Judaism.

But there’s an even more important difference: historical context. The idea of SC didn’t come out of thin air.

By the 1st century CE, Judea was deeply divided among several factions steeped in baseless hatred. Some of the major groups included:

Pharisees – prioritized tradition, emphasizing Torah study and Oral Law. Comes from the Hebrew word for “separatists,” since they separated themselves from those who didn’t strictly observe.
Sadducees – the priests who controlled the Temple and rejected the Oral Law. They were often rich and befriended the Romans.
Essenes – mystics (possibly connected to the Dead Sea Scrolls) who believed the Temple leadership was corrupt.
Zealots – nationalists committed to armed resistance against Rome who broke away from the Pharisees because they wanted to fight the Romans at all costs, while the Pharisees hesitated.
Sicarii – an extremist group against any form of government, known for assassinating Romans and fellow Jews they considered collaborators, often with small daggers (their name means “dagger-men”).2

Clearly, there was a lot of disagreement, extremism, and violence at this point in Jewish history.

But it wasn’t only the rabbis who noticed this. Historians saw it too.

Josephus, the famous Jewish historian from this time period, documented the infighting, and how the different factions burned each other’s food supplies.3

Historians also blame the Hasmonean Civil War circa 67 BCE for the demise of Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel. This involved two royal brothers - Jonathan Hyrcanus and Aristobulus - fighting over who would rule Judaea after their mother died.

Things got ugly and the brothers just haaad to bring the Roman general, Pompey the Great, into it to see which brother he’d side with. Instead, Pompey laid siege to Jerusalem, bringing the last sovereign Jewish kingdom under Roman rule.4

Returning to the rabbis, they were saying more than, “We’re doing hateful things to our fellow Jews.” They were pointing out that a fractured society is a danger to itself, making it more vulnerable. And sure, the Jews of Jerusalem had real disagreements that were not always baseless. But the rabbis argued that their disagreement became destructive hatred.

They even used the story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza to show how petty hatred can have catastrophic consequences.

Kamtza and Bar Kamtza in short: A man accidentally invited his enemy, Bar Kamtza, to a party, then publicly humiliated and expelled him while the city's rabbis did nothing. Seeking revenge, Bar Kamtza convinced the Romans that the Jews were rebelling, helping set the stage for Jerusalem's destruction.

The real lesson here is to keep your Partifuls private and double check your guest list!

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Hatred, division, polarization… we’ve seen this theme play out in recent history. Israel was still politically divided in 2023 because of the previous year’s judicial reform. Military analysts and political commentators believe Hamas took advantage of a fractured Israeli society, leading to the brutal attack on October 7th.

But Hamas is not the Roman Empire. And Jews, after 2,000 years of exile, have regained sovereignty in their ancestral land. But maybe the rabbis were onto something about baseless hatred being a cause of societal collapse and suffering.

And again - it’s not just the rabbis! The more I observe Tisha B’Av (this is my fourth year) and attend classes, the more I realize that part of our tradition is to look inward on this day. Not cast full blame on the enemies that persecuted us and drove us to exile throughout history, but to also ask ourselves what part we played in it this and how we can do better. It’s the lead-up to the High Holidays.

Rachel Goldberg-Polin said it best on the recent Tisha B’Av episode of “Call Me Back with Dan Senor”:

“Woven into our tradition is always: we have huge mirrors that we hold up and we say, ‘What part did we play in this?’ And that makes some people very uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong: No one’s giving anyone who does something terrible a pass. It’s just that part of the DNA of being part of the Jewish tradition is we also say, ‘What were we doing at the time?’ -Rachel Goldberg-Polin

So these were the thoughts bouncing around in my head during the group discussion after someone dismissed the rabbis. I was too busy recounting Jewish history with myself when the window for an educational moment passed.

Here’s said educational moment. And, not to sound like a hippie, but the only way forward is through ahavat chinam, baseless or unconditional love. The decision to choose love, generosity, and compassion for your fellow Jews, even when it’s hard. Or, at least, don't let your hatred be baseless. Make sure your hatred always has a reason! ;)

Thankfully, six days after the saddest day of the year comes Tu B’Av, the day of love. It gives us a chance to practice loving without a reason.

Shabbat Shalom! May your hatred have a base,

💦 If you like Jewish growth, check out these Drops:

It was hard to find one article that covered multiple rabbis who believe/d this (I only found separate articles focusing on individuals), so here’s one with the Rebbe’s response: https://www.jta.org/archive/lubavitcher-rebbe-rejects-assertion-that-holocaust-was-divine-punishment

https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/953558/jewish/The-Four-Factions.htm

Here’s a good beach read: https://penelope.uchicago.edu/josephus/war-6.html

Read about this history and its archaeological proof in Israel on Trial by Roy Altman!

A Jew, Full Stop

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 24 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Last Sunday we drove down to Zichron Ya'akov to see a friend. Her name is Tal Hartuv, and some of you will know her already, from the news or from the Atlanta Israel Coalition webinar last week. The news put her name in print for the hardest hours of her life. None of it prepares you for the thing that fills a room when she walks into it.

We had beers (the White Rabbit) and a long, easy conversation, her and us and a few new friends around the table. Afterward the two of us went for a walk with her, while everyone else drifted off to watch the World Cup. The movie, as we like to call it. She finds joy in ordinary things: a good beer on a Sunday afternoon, the company around the table, the light coming off the Carmel on the walk back. She has more reason than most to hold the world at arm's length, and she does the opposite. The joy has come up through everything she carries, and it is contagious. I drove home lighter than I came.

She was always Jewish. There was a particular event, though, and after it, the way she tells it, she stood up as a Jew. No longer Jew-ish. A Jew. Full stop. She says it like a period at the end of a sentence, and you feel the whole sentence land behind it.

Yesterday was Tisha B'Av. We fasted, we sat low to the ground, we read Eicha — the day the tradition sets aside for every catastrophe that ever came down on the Jewish people, folded into one. This morning the fast is behind us. This Shabbat is Shabbat Nachamu, the Shabbat of comfort, and the Torah reading is Vaetchanan. Near the start of it, Moshe reminds the people of a plain fact about who is standing in front of him.

וְאַתֶּם֙ הַדְּבֵקִ֔ים בַּיהֹוָ֖ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֑ם חַיִּ֥ים כֻּלְּכֶ֖ם הַיּֽוֹם׃ while you, who held fast to the ETERNAL your God, are all alive today.

— Devarim 4:4

Chayim kulchem hayom. Alive, all of you, today. The verse lands right after a hard one, about the people who followed Baal Peor and were gone. Moshe sets the two next to each other and stays with the living. That is where the Torah keeps its eyes, on the people still on their feet this morning, still holding fast.

This is the part of Jewish life that is hardest to hand across to someone standing outside it. A lot of people were taught a picture of the Jew bent under his law — rules stacked on rules, a long cold list of thou-shalt-nots, religion as a burden carried out of fear. Some of you reading this were handed that picture in a church basement, gently, by people who meant no harm. Here is what the law actually feels like from the inside, on an ordinary Friday.

It walks me out into my own town. Kashrut means I have a butcher, and the butcher knows me. Shabbat means that by Friday afternoon I have been to the baker and the wine merchant and the grocer, the apartment has been cleaned, and there is challah and wine and light waiting on the table. The law takes me straight into the ordinary world, into the shops and the neighbors and the smell of a kitchen before sundown, and lays a little holiness over the whole thing. An errand becomes a preparation. A Friday in Kiryat Shmona becomes the doorway into Shabbat. The joy is right there in the texture of it, in the shopping and the sweeping and the table set before dark.

Every one of those ordinary things comes with a blessing over it. A few words before the bread, before the wine, before the fruit — a small pause that says this moment is worth marking. That is the whole machinery of kedusha, of holiness. It bends down and lifts the world you already have, the meal and the morning and the errand, one notch toward the sacred. A Jew spends his day handing blessings to ordinary things. It is a strange and joyful way to live, and once you have lived it you do not really want to go back.

That is what Tal has, and it is what the fast points back toward. Whatever your affiliation, whatever your practice, or your lack of one, that same wholeness is waiting on a Shabbat table for anyone who reaches for it. You do not need Tal's story, or mine, to stand up inside your own life the way she stood up inside hers. A Jew, full stop. A people that keeps choosing the living. Tisha B'Av gathers every loss into a single day so the rest of the year is free to be exactly this: a butcher who knows your name, a friend whose joy fills a room, a table set before dark.

On Sunday, once the daily brief is put to bed, we are going down to the Old City of Jerusalem. I have been thinking about it all week — the stone, the crowds, the noise, the plain fact of standing in the middle of the sentence the whole tradition is still writing. Something to look forward to. The fast is behind us. The living have somewhere to be.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Playing to Win

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on July 22, 2026.

The recently concluded World Cup generated interest around the world. Among the stories that caught my attention was a surprising statistic. Professional soccer players convert about 90% of their penalty kicks. But researchers noticed something intriguing.

When a player takes a penalty kick that will immediately win the match if he scores, his success rate remains remarkably high. But when the identical kick must be made simply to keep his team from losing, the success rate drops dramatically.

Let's consider that for a moment.

The goal is the same size. The ball is in the same place. Even the goalkeeper is the same. Why should identical shots produce such different results?

✨3 Ideas

**The soul moves toward purpose **

Athletes often perform at their best when they’re focused on achieving success rather than avoiding failure. People often do their best when purpose becomes their primary motivation. We may not even work harder, but we work wiser.

Purpose widens our vision. We begin to see what could go right -- and what good we might accomplish -- instead of becoming preoccupied with what might go wrong.

The soul longs to build, to contribute, to love, and to grow. It is drawn toward what is good and meaningful, calling us to become more than we are today.

Fear narrows our vision

A parent motivated primarily by fear asks, “How do I avoid making mistakes?” A parent motivated by purpose asks, “How do I help my child become the person he or she was created to be?”

Fear narrows our vision. We become preoccupied with avoiding what might go wrong. We settle for safety when purpose calls us to something greater.

The soul never stops calling us toward growth. But fear can become so loud that we begin listening to it instead.

Choose purpose over fear

We regularly make decisions about our relationships, our work, and our spiritual lives. In each case, perhaps the better question is not, “What is the safest choice?” but “What is the most beneficial one?”

Purpose gives us the courage to move forward. Rather than asking, “How do I avoid failure?” we begin asking, “What good can I accomplish?”

When purpose becomes the compass of our lives, we also undergo a spiritual transformation -- becoming more loving, more courageous, and more fully ourselves.

📜2 Quotes

“Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might …” — _Ecclesiastes 9:10 _

“God didn’t put me here to have fun. God put me here to make a difference.” — Jay Paul “J” Robinson, Hall of Fame wrestling coach

❓1 Question

Where in your life are you playing not to lose, instead of playing to win?

The difference between the two penalty kicks wasn’t the distance to the goal or the skill of the player. It was the player’s focus. One athlete was focused on winning. The other was focused on trying not to lose.

Life presents us every day with similar moments. We can approach our decisions merely hoping to avoid mistakes, disappointment, or failure. Or we can answer the soul’s call to build, to contribute, to love, and to grow.

We don’t always control the outcome. But when we choose purpose over fear, we’re no longer simply trying not to lose.** We’re playing to win**.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of purpose, courage and joy,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What goal are you currently pursuing that excites you? Please share with me -- I’d love to hear about it.

P.P.S. If this week’s reflection resonated with you, my new book, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader, continues that journey with sixteen essays exploring purpose, relationships, gratitude, and our inner life. I hope you’ll take a look: Amazon

The Third Temple Is a Metaphor

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Wed, 22 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

A model of Jerusalem as it appeared in 66 CE Public Domain.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

A Jewish Child in a Roman Prison

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Tue, 21 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Eikhah/Lamentations 4:2 compares the precious children of Jerusalem to gold. A midrash on this verse tells a moving story with a hidden ending:

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

The Wisdom That Was Lost

Rabbi Eli Garfinkel — Mon, 20 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The first verse of Eikhah/Lamentations contains the word רַבָּתִי (rabbati, great) twice. In the first instance, the verse mentions Jerusalem’s large population (רַבָּתִי עָם, rabbati ‘am). The second instance (רַבָּתִי בַגּוֹיִם, rabbati bagoyim) says that Jerusalem was great among the nations of the world.

This one has moved behind the author’s paywall since we mirrored it. Read the rest on Gimme Some Torah.

The Hidden Light Within the Darkness

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on July 17, 2026.

These are dark days. I'm not referring to the state of the world. We definitely live in a challenging world, but I choose to look at the bright side of things.

I'm referring to the season of the Jewish calendar in which we now find ourselves.

This time of year is known as the Three Weeks, and beginning Tuesday evening we entered the period known as the Nine Days.

It was during this period that the Roman siege and invasion of Jerusalem reached its climax, culminating in the destruction of both Holy Temples, the First by the Babylonians and the Second by the Romans, on the Ninth of Av.

It is a time when, historically, many tragic events have befallen the Jewish people. Therefore, we commemorate this period by refraining from live music and, during the Nine Days, by avoiding meat and wine except on Shabbat.

The Ninth of Av itself is one of the most solemn fast days of the Jewish calendar. You can find information about our Tisha B'Av programs below, including two inspiring film presentations.

If you know Chabad and are familiar with the Rebbe's worldview, you know that the Rebbe sought to transform much of the negative and pessimistic thinking that can sometimes characterize Jewish history into a perspective of hope and empowerment.

It wasn't Pollyannaish optimism. Rather, it was an invitation to see reality through a different set of lenses.

Regarding the darkness of these days, the Rebbe taught that darkness can be a deeper expression of the hiddenness of the Divine. When light shines, it expresses its source. Generally, we think of darkness as simply the absence of light.

Chassidic philosophy offers a much deeper perspective. Light possesses a certain sense of self. It announces, "Look at me, I come from a source." Even when it faithfully conveys that source, there is still an awareness of itself.

Darkness represents something altogether different. It is not merely the absence of light. Rather, it reflects a Divine presence so overwhelming that everything else fades into insignificance. In that sense, darkness represents the absence, not of G-d, but of self.

That may sound abstract, so let's bring it down to earth.

When we think about darkness, we think about challenges, painful moments, disappointments, and struggle. Yet we also know that some of our greatest growth comes specifically through those very struggles. We emerge stronger, wiser, and more compassionate than before.

How could that be? How could darkness actually produce a better outcome?

Chassidic philosophy teaches that this is because the darkness itself can represent the deepest manifestation of the Divine Presence.

So how do we navigate challenge?

The way we navigate darkness is not by explaining it away, blaming ourselves, or blaming others. We navigate it by allowing ourselves to be fully present within it, even when it is deeply uncomfortable.

When we sit with that discomfort instead of resisting it, we acknowledge that G-d is present even in an experience we cannot yet understand.

The way through darkness is an act of surrender.

Surrender doesn't mean passivity. We still take every action we can to improve our circumstances. What changes is that we stop fighting the emotional reality of the moment through blame, denial, or avoidance.

Ironically, the moment we stop resisting the discomfort, it begins to lose its grip on us.

(Which then poses another challenge: perhaps we've become too comfortable with darkness. But that's a topic for another email.)

So if you are feeling the darkness these days, remember that even within that darkness, G-d is present, inviting you to surrender to Him while continuing to do everything in your power to bring more light into the world.

With blessings for a meaningful Shabbat and the hope that we merit the transformation of these days into days of joy,

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

P.S. Be sure to check out our Tisha B'Av schedule, including two thought-provoking film presentations: Hidden Light and Holy Smokes!

Jewish Outlander Pt. II: The Jewish Characters

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 17, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Say, what’s Outlander in Hebrew, anyway? It’s nokhria (נוכרייה), which translates to "female Stranger" or "foreigner." Which is what Claire becomes when she accidentally time travels to 1743 Scotland!

Last week’s Drop explored the Jewish themes of the hit romantic TV and book series, Outlander, a very non-Jewish franchise. We talked rebellion, preserving identity, and hunky Scottish men.

This week’s exploration has more of a direct Jewish connection, because we’re discussing the Jewish characters in Outlander! And not just the Jewish characters, but how they’re portrayed.

Even if you don’t care about Outlander, we’ll discuss very real 18th-century Jewish history. Plus, it’s interesting to see how Jewish characters are portrayed in literature, like Fagin in Oliver Twist, or Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.

The good news is that Outlander’s Jewish personalities are depicted as less villainous and more complex. And since the author, Diana Gabaldon, uses accurate research to recreate 18th-century Scotland, she considers not just their traits, but also the historical context in which these characters are perceived.

For a refresher on the basic plot of the show, read last week’s Drop!

This is personally one of my favorite Drops! So get comfy, pour yourself a dram of Scotch, and say sláinte! 🥃

Outlander’s Jewish characters

For those of you who watched the show, you’re probably thinking, “I don’t remember any Jewish characters.”

You’re right! There are five minor Jewish characters in the books only, four of them alive.

A Rothschild realization

Let’s start with Book 3. The year is 1766. Without giving too much away, Claire and Jamie obtain a mysterious chest of ancient coins, and are trying to figure out where it came from.

To find answers, they seek out a young coin dealer from Frankfort (the 18th-century spelling) who is an expert in ancient coins. The young man introduces himself as Mayer, and is described as such, in Claire’s voice:

“Since virtually no one in Le Havre other than a few seamen wore a beard, it hardly needed the small shiny black skullcap on the newcomer’s head to tell me he was a Jew.”

Mayer Amschel Rothschild, Wikipedia

Mayer is also described as appearing dusty and reserved, with an intensely curious expression. While Jamie compares the coins he has seen to the coins in Mayer’s collection, the Jewish merchant takes out his ledger of dealings, which are written in a “Hebraic writing, inked small and precise.”

After their dealings, Claire asks the man if Mayer is really his only name. He explains that the Jews of Frankfort are not allowed to use family names1. For the sake of convenience, their neighbors call their family after an old red shield that was painted on their house years ago.

Jamie then refers to him as “Mayer Red-Shield.” That’s when Claire realizes who Mayer is (remember, she’s a time traveler from the 1940s) - Mayer Amschel Rothschild - and the banking legacy his family will one day represent2. You can read it for yourself:

Voyager by Diana Gabaldon, Chapter 40

The real Mayer Rothschild, founder of the prominent Jewish banking family, established his business in 17693.

Author Diana Gabaldon uses incredibly accurate research to get every detail right in her 1,000+ page books. She’s even written books about her writing and research process, explained in fat books called The Outlandish Companions, of which there are two!

Throughout the series, there are a few famous historical figures Claire meets on her adventures. Meeting them, like Mayer Amschel Rothschild, is a literary delight for us modern readers.

Lawrence Stern, the helpful naturalist

Not long after meeting Mayer, a lot of exciting things happen that involve a ship and Claire and Jamie getting separated. Without major spoilers, Claire ends up on the island of Hispaniola (modern-day Haiti)4.

There, she meets a Jewish German naturalist named Lawrence Stern, whose appearance is described as weathered and burly, with “black hair that curled back from his brow, thick and ungrizzled.”

Lawrence offers Claire water, and brings her to his friend’s house (who happens to be a priest) to take shelter. There, the priest’s mother-in-law refers to Lawrence as a “Christ-killer.”

But the Jewish representation here proves to be positive. Over sangria, Lawrence tells Claire about the fauna and topography of the land, which foreshadows the book’s climax. He continues to help Claire, and even says “Oy!” at one point.

Unfortunately for us, that’s NOT Lawrence Stern with Claire. That’s the main character, Jamie, in Season 3.

Those who have seen the show will recognize this as the Father Fogden scene. Only… there’s no Jewish character in this scene at all. Just a disgraced priest, a disgruntled mother-in-law, and a coconut that doesn’t talk back.

I don’t think the TV adaptation omitted Mayer and Lawrence because they’re Jewish. The books are simply too detailed to include all the minor characters on screen. Having said that, it would have been meaningful to see Lawrence included, to depict a learned Jewish man helping Claire, while also highlighting the antisemitism he faces.

The corpse with the circumcision

Here’s where things get mysterious. And educational!

In Book 9, Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone, Claire and Jamie become involved in the investigation of an unknown dead man. When a local constable asks Jamie if he thinks the man was a Jew, Jamie says:

“How would I ken that? And why would ye think so? Oh—did ye look at his prick?”

Horrified, the constable asks why he would do such a thing. Jamie replies, “D’ye not ken Jews are circumcised, then?” as though the constable should know (Jamie’s character is not only known for his good looks, but is also educated and worldly). Jamie then explains the practice.

The constable replies, “Jesus Christ! What the devil do they do that for?” Jamie says with a shrug, “God told them to.”

It turns out the constable thinks the dead man was Jewish because his body was found with a paper inscribed in Hebrew.

But it was an interesting choice on Diana’s part to include this minor detail and educational moment.

This led me to search the non-Jewish perception of circumcisions in 18th-century. While most non-Jews knew of circumcision thanks to the Bible, they didn’t have much knowledge of the actual procedure, since the ritual was performed by Jews in insular communities.

There were also widespread misconceptions about the practice and of the sexuality of Jewish men in general due to antisemitism and societal fear of venereal disease.

In 1753 London, the Jewish Naturalization Act, known as the Jew Bill, passed to grant citizenship to foreign-born Jews. But many opposed the act due to a widespread fear of “universal circumcision.”

In classic antisemitic fashion, it was believed that Jewish men were both sexually deviant and impotent, and that their circumcisions protected them from venereal disease while also causing venereal disease.5

This false belief was sometimes depicted in satire that American colonists read, so the Penis Panic (I just came up with that) spread to the colonies. Oy!

Circumcision would not become familiar to Americans as a medical procedure until 1870, when Dr. Lewis Sayre, a prominent New York orthopedist, popularized it.6

All this is to say: some 18th-century Christians were weirded out by brit milah, and it was accurate to portray the constable as such.

I get it. I imagine it’s how I feel when I think about the opposite: uncut gems, so to speak.

Rebekah bat-Leah Hauberger, bandit informant

There are a ton of prequel novellas (the Outlander universe is huge and thankfully never ending).

In one titled Virgins, a story of young Jamie as a soldier in France, he meets Rebekah bat-Leah Hauberger, a young Jewish woman who’s involved with Jewish bandits, informing them on which wagons to rob.

Rebekah falls in love with a French nobleman who promises to convert to Judaism. However, her grandfather, a physician named Dr. Hasdi, doubts the man’s promise to convert, since he would lose his title and property if he did so. Dr. Hasdi hires Jamie to protect his granddaughter and a valuable Torah scroll in her care.

Yes, you read that right: our highland warrior Jamie who can recognize Hebrew and knows about circumcision ALSO protects a Torah scroll. Is he a secret Jew like AI Jamie says he is?!

Incoming spoiler: Later, it’s revealed that Rebekah’s only involved with the bandits so that she could make up for the wealth that her lover would lose when he converts to Judaism.

Jamie convinces her to return the Torah to her grandfather, forcing her to confront her love for the goy while confronting her faith.

Bet you didn’t see THAT one coming!

Historical context: I couldn’t find much on 18th-century Jewish crime in France. However, I found a translated excerpt from a Jewish journal7, saying that French Jewish crime was low compared to non-Jewish crime, and involved smuggling and robbery. This doesn’t surprise me since Jewish piracy was a thing in the 17th century. The crime in France was likely due to being marginalized and the police being suspicious of Jews.

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Diana Gabaldon’s Jewish connection

Why would the author depict these Jewish characters, anyway? What’s the point?

A Roman Catholic herself, Diana has shared on social media many times (always acknowledging the Jewish holidays!) that she believes her father’s ancestor was likely a Sephardic Jew who arrived to the New World through Mexico City.

Her curiosity and passion for research and religion leads her to weave these fascinating plotlines and minor characters into the Outlander universe, for which we Jewish fans are grateful!

Shabbat Shalom! Stay curious,

💦 If you like circumcision, check out these Drops:

Most European Jews didn’t use actual surnames until the late 18th & 19th centuries, and Ashkenazi Jews were the last to do so. Until then, they used what’s called patronymics (like “Isaac, son of Abraham”), where they lived, or their occupation. https://jewishjournal.com/culture/126045/

Along with the antisemitic conspiracy theories that come with the name!

As you can see on the official Rothschild site, he begins their timeline: https://www.rothschildandco.com/en/about-us/our-story/

Hispaniola actually comprised the French colony of Saint-Domingue on the west (today’s Haiti), and the Spanish colony of Santo Domingo on the east (today’s Dominican Republic). Outlander is more than romance - it teaches you so much!

I didn’t think I’d be writing this much about circumcision this week! https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC9985765/

https://www.cirp.org/library/history/

https://shs.cairn.info/revue-archives-juives1-2011-2-page-26?lang=fr

Turn North

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 17 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Thirty-two start-ups are back in the Galilee. More than a hundred worked up there before the war, so nobody should oversell this. But on Tuesday a room of Israeli and American business people in New York went through what it would take to bring the rest of them home — the hiring, the grants, the founders weighing whether to move a family back to a town that spent nearly three years under rocket fire. Fifty-odd jobs so far, and fifty-five thousand kids and teenagers in programs across twenty-seven communities up north.

Thirty-two out of a hundred.

The parsha this Shabbat, Devarim, opens the last book of the Torah with Moses on the far side of the Jordan doing something he has mostly avoided doing at length: talking. Forty years of walking are behind him. He has about five weeks to live. And he starts to retell the whole thing — where they went, what it cost them. It is the longest speech in the Torah and it works like a debrief.

Out of forty years of material, here is the first thing he quotes God saying.

יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֵ֛ינוּ דִּבֶּ֥ר אֵלֵ֖ינוּ בְּחֹרֵ֣ב לֵאמֹ֑ר רַב־לָכֶ֥ם שֶׁ֖בֶת בָּהָ֥ר הַזֶּֽה׃ The ETERNAL our God spoke to us at Horeb, saying: You have stayed long enough at this mountain.

— Devarim 1:6

Horeb is Sinai. Nobody here is being told to leave a bad place. This is the mountain — the fire and the voice, the most important address in Jewish history. They have been camped there about a year. They built the Mishkan there. They organized the whole camp there, tribe by tribe, and it works.

And God says: enough. Rav lachem shevet bahar hazeh. You have stayed long enough at this mountain.

The mountain was where they got equipped. The land was where they were going.

Then forty years pass. The spies. The funerals. Almost everyone who heard that first "enough" is dead by the time Moses gets to the next part, where God uses the same two words again.

רַב־לָכֶ֕ם סֹ֖ב אֶת־הָהָ֣ר הַזֶּ֑ה פְּנ֥וּ לָכֶ֖ם צָפֹֽנָה׃ You have been skirting this hill country long enough; now turn north.

— Devarim 2:3

Rav lachem again. But the verb moved. The first time it was shevet, sitting. This time it is sov, circling.

Sitting still at least looks like what it is. Circling looks like progress. You are covering ground. You are putting in the mileage. Your legs are tired at the end of the day and you can point to the distance you made. And, yet, you are precisely where you started, because you have been going around the same hill for a generation.

They are already moving. What God gives them is a bearing.

P'nu lachem tzafonah. Turn north.

It is the plainest sentence in the parsha. There is no metaphor in it. After all the retelling, all the grievance and the accounting of who failed where, the instruction comes down to a compass heading. Stop going around. Point yourselves at something.

I want to be careful here, because Moses is standing in Edomite hill country and his north is not the Galilee's north. It is not the same map. But Jews have been reading this sentence for three thousand years in places that had nothing to do with Moav, and the shape of the instruction survives the move.

Which brings me back to thirty-two.

Two-thirds of those companies have not come back. Roughly a third of Kiryat Shmona's people are still not home. And, looking around, I can tell. I write this to you while looking out over a plaza that faces the main street coming up through Kiryat Shmona.

There are plenty of people — and yet not enough — bustling around getting ready for Shabbat. You can see, most days, stores and restaurants bustling. People are happy and laughing and living life. Yet. You can see military vehicles around at nearly all hours. From caravans of flatbeds hauling tanks to jeeps with anti-drone netting strung up over them like they're in a soccer goal. And yet, the people live. Amazing. But there is still far, far to go. Anyway, I digress.

Plans get announced in rooms in New York, and a room in New York is a long way from a founder in Tel Aviv deciding whether to sign a lease in a town that took direct hits. Anyone who tells you the north is fixed is selling something.

But every one of those thirty-two is somebody who looked at a hill they had been circling and turned. They had every reason and every excuse to keep going around. There is no verse with their names in it, and nobody made them do it. They picked a direction.

That is where the simcha is hiding this week, which is a strange week to go looking for it. This Shabbat is Shabbat Chazon. The vision Isaiah opens with is not a kind one, and the fast comes next Thursday. Devarim always lands right here, on the doorstep of the worst day on our calendar — the debrief read out just before we sit on the floor and mourn, because a debrief is what you owe the dead.

And the debrief has rav lachem in it. Twice. The book that opens the Nine Days opens with God telling a people who had every reason to stay put that the staying was over, and then, forty years later, telling their children that the circling was over too. Moses puts those sentences in his closing speech as instructions. They assume a next step, and they assume somebody takes it.

Thirty-two so far.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Time in a Bottle

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Rabbi Smason's beehiiv on July 16, 2026.

Years ago, a professor shared with me a personal story. On a rainy afternoon, Mary***** was walking across campus when she noticed a penny lying on the wet sidewalk. She almost kept walking. The sidewalk was wet, and she wasn't sure it was worth bending down.

But Mary had made it a personal practice: whenever she found a stray penny, she gave it to the first person she met simply to brighten someone’s day.

Moments later, another professor, Ann, approached. Mary held up the penny. "I just found this," she said, smiling. "It's for good luck, and I'd like you to have it."

Mary had no way of knowing that those few seemingly ordinary seconds would become one of the most significant moments in another person's life. What could possibly have happened because of a single penny?

✨3 Ideas

**The hidden power of a moment **

The difference between winning gold and silver in the men’s 100-meter dash at the last Olympics was just five one-thousandths of a second. In sports, we readily appreciate that even the smallest fraction of time can determine the outcome.

Life is no different. Some of the most significant moments occupy only a few seconds. Often, only later do we realize that those seconds changed the course of a life.

The soul measures moments differently than the clock does. A clock asks: _How long did it last? _The soul asks: _What did it accomplish? _

**Overlooking the ordinary **

We assume that life’s defining moments will announce themselves -- dramatic occasions that we will recognize the instant they occur.

More often, they arrive unnoticed. We fail to recognize that a single moment may hold potential far beyond what we can imagine. Only in hindsight do we discover that what seemed ordinary at the time carried extraordinary significance.

The challenge is not that we’ve been given too little time, but that we often fail to recognize what’s already contained within the time we’ve been given.

**Every moment matters **

Every conversation, smile, or act of kindness may hold consequences far beyond what we can imagine. When we begin to see each moment as carrying hidden possibilities, we approach others with greater attentiveness, patience, and compassion.

Worlds can change in a single moment.

Every act of kindness also changes our own world. The soul measures moments by the two lives they touch: the life we help shape and the person we ourselves become.

📜2 Quotes

“Everything has an appointed season, and there is a time for every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1

“If I could save time in a bottle …“
— _“Time in a Bottle” written and sung by Jim Croce _

❓1 Question

When has a small act of yours had a significant impact on someone else’s life?

Mary later learned what had happened. A few weeks after giving Ann the penny, a fellow professor asked Mary if she had been the one who gave it to Ann. When Mary said yes, he explained that Ann had been planning to go home and take her own life after struggling with her mother’s death. Instead, after that brief encounter, she checked herself into a hospital and got the help she needed.

We’ll never know all the reasons that one simple gesture changed the course of Ann’s life. But we do know this: a single moment held far more than anyone could have imagined.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of meaningful moments,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

***** Names have been changed to protect privacy

P.S. Looking back, when did a small moment become a turning point in your life? I’d love to hear what happened.

Keep the Main Thing the Main Thing

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 10 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on July 10, 2026.

Life is hectic. Information comes at us faster than we can possibly process it. Podcasts to listen to. Books to read. Emails to answer. School forms. Family responsibilities. Date nights. Work. Errands. The list never seems to end.

So what is really important?

I often think back to the COVID years. When so much of life suddenly came to a halt, I was left with what mattered most: my marriage, my children, my extended family, my relationship with G-d, Torah, mitzvos, and my health.

Those priorities naturally rose to the surface because there wasn't much else competing for my attention. I was home with my family. I was deeply concerned about the well-being of those I loved. And when the future felt uncertain, I realized that the healthiest alternative to fear was strengthening my trust in G-d through prayer, Torah study, and mitzvos.

It wasn't an easy time, but it was a period of remarkable clarity. Life was stripped down to its essentials.

Then life resumed.

Schedules filled up again. Work accelerated. Commitments multiplied. The pace returned. Before long, the things that had become so clear were once again competing with everything else.

I don't want to lose the lessons of that period. At the same time, I don't want to pretend that life can or should remain in lockdown. The challenge is not to escape the busyness of life, but to live within it without losing sight of what matters most.

This week's double Torah portion, Matos-Masei, offers a beautiful insight.

Matos represents strength and firmness. Masei means journeys and movement.

At first glance, they seem to contradict one another. Are we meant to stand still or keep moving?

The answer is both.

We should be unwavering about our values and priorities while remaining flexible about everything else.

Life constantly changes. Plans change. Careers change. Schedules change. But our commitment to family, health, Torah, mitzvos, and our relationship with G-d should remain firmly planted.

Real balance isn't about giving everything equal attention. It's about keeping the main thing the main thing.

That's a lesson I continue to remind myself of in this post-COVID world.

I hope it resonates with you as well.

Have a wonderful Shabbos.

Revolts and Romance: Jewish Outlander Pt. I

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 10 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 10, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: I learned that wedding is chatunah (חתונה). My trick to remembering this: there is no greater marriage than between a cat and tuna.

Think of your favorite franchise, or whatever you’re a fan of that you’ve been following for a long time.

Now, imagine it ending.

The final episode of The Office. Derek Jeter’s last game. The Grateful Dead’s last show with Jerry Garcia. Your last meal at your favorite restaurant before it closes for good.

That dreadful, sorrowful feeling in your chest is what I felt in the spring, when my favorite series, Outlander, ended.

Outlander is a romance TV series based on a book series from the 90s by Diana Gabaldon. It’s not Jewish at all. Or is it?

This is what we do here on the Drop: we investigate, we learn, and we convince you to watch Outlander. Pour yourself a dram of Scotch and say sláinte!

The plot of Outlander follows Claire Randall, a British former World War II nurse who, while on her honeymoon in 1945, touches ancient standing stones and accidentally travels to 1743 Scotland! Though she tries to return to her previous life (and husband), she can’t help but fall in love with a Highland warrior named Jamie Fraser.

Before you roll your eyes, I like to tell people that Outlander (named after Claire’s status as an outsider in the Scottish Highlands) is so much more than romance (and “soft-core p@rn” as people like to tell me). Sure, there’s spicy scenes, but it also has:

adventure
history (I learned so much more Scottish and American history from the show than I ever did in school!)
philosophy
religion

9 seasons (technically 8, but season 7 is split in two) and 10 books (9 out right now, the last is in the works) that take you all over the world. Dozens of characters you fall in love with. Many tears. Now that the show is over after 12 years, let’s explore what’s so Jewish about a very Catholic show.

FYI this piece ended up being so long, I split it into two. Be on the lookout for Part II next week!

Parallels to Jewish history

There are many similar themes in Outlander that we see in Judaism: exile and yearning for home, assimilation, the importance of family, and debates around morality, to name a few. But there’s one that stands out to me I’d like to focus on.

Fighting to preserve one’s identity & culture

If Claire were to time travel to, say, the 2nd century BCE instead of the 18th century CE (I’d totally watch that show!), she might have empathized with the Jews.

That’s because she would see a people rise up against a powerful empire to preserve their customs, identity, and traditions on their ancestral land.

I’m referring to the Seleucid Empire’s rule over Judaea under King Antiochus IV, and the suppression of Jewish customs like circumcision, Shabbat, and Torah study, and desecrating the Temple with pagan worship.

These examples are known today as “Chanukah antisemitism” because the Seleucids weren’t trying to kill the Jews (until the Jews rose up and fought back, of course); they were trying to “kill Judaism” by banning Jewish customs. And it’s when the story of Chanukah takes place!

In Outlander, Claire travels to 1743, at a time when some Highland Scots did not recognize the authority of the British government and remained loyal to the House of Stuart, despite being a part of Great Britain.

This was a conflict dating back to 1688, when King James II (of the House of Stuart), the last Catholic monarch to reign over England, Scotland, and Ireland, was overthrown by Protestant William III & Mary II.

There had been a few Jacobite uprisings1, as King James’s followers were called, and this tension culminated in the famous Battle of Culloden against the British in 1746, depicted in Season 2.

If this image of a fierce hunky warrior doesn’t convince you to watch Outlander, what will?

After the Jacobite defeat (not a spoiler, this is history), the British government imposed restrictions on Highland culture, like banning weapons and Highland dress2 (goodbye, kilts), and weakening their clan system that they’ve had for centuries.

Though not a perfect analogy (the biggest difference was that the Maccabees fought for religious autonomy from the get-go, while the Jacobites didn’t lose many of their cultural and religious freedoms until after they lost the Battle of Culloden3), the ‘Bees and the ‘Bites both fought fiercely to preserve what they believed was worth fighting for.

Internal disagreements

Another noteworthy comparison is that not everyone in either group wanted to revolt. Some Jews, mostly upper class, embraced Hellenistic culture, like speaking Greek, hanging out nude at the bath houses and the gymnasium, and surgically reversing their circumcisions4.

Not all Scottish Highlanders were Jacobites5. In fact, most weren’t. In Season 1, we see tension between Jamie’s uncles, Colum and Dougal MacKenzie. Dougal is passionate about restoring the Stuart throne through military victory, while Colum, laird of the MacKenzie clan, understands the dangers of rebellion and prefers diplomacy.

This plot line is reminiscent of the many disagreements within the Jewish community that have led to division and fracturing. Reminds me of an upcoming holiday.

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Preserving identity in the diaspora

This theme of preserving identity carries into the diaspora experience of both peoples as well. In Season 4 of Outlander (incoming spoiler!), Claire and Jamie rebuild their life in America, bringing Scottish settlers with them (an actual example of settler colonialism, but you don’t see anyone calling that out).

In the show, the Scottish community abroad maintains their traditions like lighting the fiery cross6 before a battle, and speaking Scottish Gaelic (pronounced gal-ic, not gay-lic). They also frequent trips back to their ancestral homeland.

Meanwhile, the Jewish diaspora maintains a connection to its roots through language, ritual, and memory. By speaking the Hebrew language, reciting prayers that long for Zion (where Jews come from), and praying in a way that resembles the ancient rituals of the Temple, Jewish communities all over the world have maintained a connection to Israel by preserving these traditions.

Sure, Outlander has love, gorgeous gowns, and lots of drama, but maybe this franchise has resonated with me so deeply for another reason: that its themes of memory, resilience, and preserving identity across generations remind me of themes Jews have known for thousands of years.

Next week, we get even more Jewish, as we discuss the Jewish characters of Outlander, and compare them to real 18th-century Jews!

Shabbat Shalom!

Further Reading: When Scotland Was Jewish

This book argues that much of Scotland's history and culture from 1100 CE forward is Jewish. The authors provide research and evidence using census records, archaeology, castle carvings, cemetery inscriptions, and more to prove that many of Scotland’s national heroes, rulers, nobles, traders, merchants, bishops, and more were of Jewish descent, their ancestors originating in France and Spain.

💦 If you like Outlander or AI, check out this Drop:

Read about them here: https://www.visitscotland.com/things-to-do/attractions/historic/jacobites

This came to pass in the 1746 Dress Act. https://www.scotclans.com/pages/1746-highland-dress-proscription-act

Another major difference is that the Maccabees were resisting foreign imperial rule while the Jacobites were fighting their own government, seeking to restore the Stuart monarchy rather than gain independence from an occupying empire. See, I told you Outlander teaches you so much!

Yeah, you read that right. https://www.cirp.org/library/restoration/hall1/

Only about 1-2% of the entire Highland population (or 5-9% of eligible fighting Highland men). Sympathizers from other parts of the UK like the Lowlands and England joined the Jacobite cause as well. https://www.clan-forbes.org/post/jacobite-uprising-1745

The Fiery Cross is the name of the fifth book (and, IMO, the most boring). https://scottishtales.substack.com/p/the-fiery-cross

The Signs Are in French Now

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 10 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On Monday morning a flight from Paris landed at Ben Gurion, and 128 people walked off it as new citizens of Israel. France sent a little over a thousand Jews home in 2023. The next year the number doubled. The year after that it passed three thousand. More than six thousand French Jews have made the move since the morning of October 7, and this summer's flights have only started.

The parsha this Shabbat, Matot-Masei, closes the Book of Numbers with the whole people camped on the plains of Moav, across the river from everything they have been walking toward for forty years. Moses spends these last chapters handing them instructions for the land they are about to enter. Some of it is borders. Some of it is inheritance. And then, before the book ends, he gives them a map with six points on it.

וְהִקְרִיתֶ֤ם לָכֶם֙ עָרִ֔ים עָרֵ֥י מִקְלָ֖ט תִּהְיֶ֣ינָה לָכֶ֑ם וְנָ֥ס שָׁ֙מָּה֙ רֹצֵ֔חַ מַכֵּה־נֶ֖פֶשׁ בִּשְׁגָגָֽה׃ you shall provide yourselves with places to serve you as cities of refuge to which a manslayer who has slain a person unintentionally may flee.

— Bamidbar 35:11

Arei miklat. Cities of refuge. The Torah is describing one specific person: someone who killed by accident. The axe-head that flew off the handle. The load that shifted and crushed the man working below. Under the old order a relative of the dead man could hunt the killer down, so the Torah carved out six cities across the country where he could flee and stay alive until a court heard his case.

The first civic institution the people are told to build in their new home is sanctuary. Before a palace, before a courthouse, six cities whose whole job is to take in the person running for his life and keep him alive long enough to be judged fairly.

The instinct those cities answer is ancient — blood answered with blood.

Israel's first law for the land drops a wall between that instinct and the frightened man on the road, and it stations a court on the far side of the wall to do what the avenger never could, which is ask what actually happened.

The rabbis noticed the care buried in the details.

The Talmud, in tractate Makkot, describes the roads to these cities kept wide and kept in repair, with a sign posted at every crossroads. One word on each sign, pointing the way. Miklat. Refuge. A person running in panic, not thinking straight, should never have to stop and wonder which road went where. The society was obligated to offer the refuge and to keep the road to it marked.

And the refuge was never only for the ones born inside it.

לִבְנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל וְלַגֵּ֤ר וְלַתּוֹשָׁב֙ בְּתוֹכָ֔ם תִּהְיֶ֛ינָה שֵׁשׁ־הֶעָרִ֥ים הָאֵ֖לֶּה לְמִקְלָ֑ט לָנ֣וּס שָׁ֔מָּה כׇּל־מַכֵּה־נֶ֖פֶשׁ בִּשְׁגָגָֽה׃ These six cities shall serve the Israelites and the resident aliens among them for refuge, so that anyone who kills a person unintentionally may flee there.

— Bamidbar 35:15

The ger and the toshav — the stranger and the settler living among them — are written into the same six cities, the same protection.

The families who came off that plane on Monday were not running from an axe-head. They were running from something slower and far more sinister.

French Jews have been leaving in rising numbers because the ordinary business of being visibly Jewish in France has grown increasingly more precarious every week since October 7.

The guard outside the school. The second thought about the necklace. Worrying about a kippah or a ball cap. The sense that the room has changed. What matters for this week is the direction they ran. They ran toward a place, and that place, by its own founding law, was built to take them in.

The numbers read like something with a pulse. A thousand, then two, then three. The road stays marked. The Jewish Agency runs the flights, the absorption ministry does the paperwork, and this year the government added a five-year tax exemption for anyone who comes.

Say what you want about the machinery of an Israeli ministry. (I certainly have some thoughts.) Its work this summer is keeping the road home wide and clear and signposted. Which is truly a very old job for Israel.

We read Matot-Masei inside the Three Weeks, the stretch of the calendar that mourns the walls of Jerusalem breached and the Temple burned, the season set aside to sit with the land lost and the people scattered to every corner of the earth.

And in the middle of that same season, on an otherwise ordinary Monday, a plane lands and a hundred and twenty-eight of the scattered come home.

The Torah could have opened the life of the land with a conquest or a coronation. It opened with refuge. Six cities, the roads kept clear, a single word posted at the crossroads so no one arriving in fear would lose the way. Three thousand years on, the signs are in French now.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Finding a Sense of Where You Are

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 09 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on July 9, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Bill Bradley is one of the rare individuals to have reached the highest levels in two very different worlds. After a Hall of Fame basketball career with the New York Knicks, he went on to become a three-term U.S. Senator and a serious candidate for President.

Bradley possessed one especially unusual basketball skill. Standing with his back to the basket and without looking, he could toss the ball over his shoulder, sending it through the hoop with remarkable consistency.

How was Bradley able to make such a seemingly impossible shot?

✨3 Ideas

**Knowing where you are **

We know whether we're in St. Louis, Seattle or Singapore. But where are we spiritually? Are our thoughts, words, and actions aligned with the deepest aspirations of our soul? Are we moving toward the person we were created to become?

If someone asked for directions to Miami, you'd respond, "Where are you starting from?" The same is true in life. Before we can journey toward meaning, purpose and fulfillment, we first need an honest awareness of where we are today.

A meaningful journey begins with an accurate assessment of our present location.

**Losing our bearings **

A plane flying from San Francisco to Boston that is just one degree off course will miss its destination by almost 50 miles. Spiritually, the same is true. Small departures from our values, left uncorrected, can eventually carry us far from the life our soul longs to live.

People seldom lose their way all at once. They lose it one unnoticed step at a time.

Rarely do people lose their way through one dramatic decision. More often, they drift. Not taking the time to look inward leads to a loss of bearings over time.

**Returning to our true course **

Our soul never loses its desire for what is good, meaningful, and true. Beneath the noise of everyday life, it continues to call us toward purpose, compassion, and goodness. The challenge is not creating that voice, but learning to hear it.

The surest way to stay on course is to keep listening to the direction of your soul.

Reflecting upon our strengths and weaknesses and clarifying our priorities gradually realign our lives with our deepest values.

📜2 Quotes

"More than all that you guard, guard your heart, for it is the source of life." — Proverbs 4:23

"And I'm looking for space. And to find out who I am. And I'm looking to know and understand … " — Looking for Space, sung by John Denver

❓1 Question

If someone asked, "Where are you spiritually right now?" how would you answer?

So how was Bill Bradley able to stand with his back to the basket, never look at the hoop, and still make the shot?

His explanation was surprisingly simple: "On the court, you have to have a sense of where you are."

That wisdom extends far beyond basketball. Life rarely allows us to see the road ahead. But when we remain aware of where we stand today -- grounded in our values, attentive to our soul, and willing to make small course corrections -- we're far more likely to arrive where we truly hope to go.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of meaningful direction,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What's your superpower -- the unique gift you bring to the world around you? I'd love to hear it.

P.P.S. If this week's reflection resonated with you, my new book, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader, continues that journey with sixteen essays exploring purpose, relationships, gratitude, and our inner life. I hope you'll take a look: Amazon

Happy 250th America!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 03 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on July 3, 2026.

Happy 250th America!

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe that for the first time since the days of King Solomon, Jews truly have it good. We have much to be grateful for, especially for the freedoms and opportunities this country has provided.

Gratitude is one of Judaism's most fundamental values. In fact, each morning, before we even get out of bed, we begin our day by expressing thanks:

Modeh Ani Lefanecha—"I give thanks before You, living and eternal King, for restoring my soul within me. Great is Your faithfulness."

That mindset should shape the way we look at America today.

I'm not suggesting that these times are without challenges. They certainly are. But many of the challenges we face are reflections of America's broader struggle for its soul rather than challenges directed specifically at the Jewish people.

Let me explain.

This country was envisioned by the Pilgrims and the Founding Fathers as a nation deeply inspired by the teachings of the Torah and the Bible. We explored this extensively in our recent JLI course, Sinai and Civics.

America was built upon ideals such as freedom, equality, personal responsibility, and the belief that every individual has the opportunity to pursue the American Dream. If you want to live according to your faith, build a meaningful life, work hard, and contribute to society, this country has historically made that possible.

Many great civilizations have risen and fallen throughout history. America was built on a unique foundation. If we lose our soul, we will eventually lose our strength.

The question is not whether America has lost its soul. The real question is whether we are prepared to roll up our sleeves and help preserve it.

How do we do that?

First, learn about the foundations of this country. Study its history and understand the values upon which it was built.

Second, live those values. As Jews in 2026, we have a responsibility to live our Judaism proudly. We do this not only out of commitment to Hashem and the Torah, but also as an expression of gratitude to a country that, unlike almost any other in Jewish exile, protects our right to do so.

Third, be a voice of pride and reason within your circle of influence. As Hillel taught, "If I am not for myself, who will be for me?"

Fourth, remain humble. Recognize your blessings and express gratitude to Hashem and to those around you by investing in your community. In Hillel's words, "If I am only for myself, what am I?"

Fifth, remember that America's greatness was not built by government alone. It was built by individuals who stepped forward, accepted responsibility, created institutions, strengthened communities, and served others. Again, Hillel reminds us, "If not now, when?"

If we lose our soul, we lose our body. It is up to each of us to care for our families, our communities, our livelihoods, and our country.

May Hashem bless this remarkable nation and all those who work to preserve it. On this historic 250th birthday, may we recommit ourselves to the values upon which America was founded, strengthen our own commitment to Torah and faith, and help build a future filled with peace, prosperity, and blessing.

With all my blessings and love,

Shabbat Shalom, and Happy 250th Birthday, America!

A Frustrated Rabbi - READ BONUS BLOG POST HERE

Stars (of David) and Stripes

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 03 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 3, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Fireworks are zikukim (זיקוקים). And I hope you get to see some tomorrow!

📅 Shabbat Drop-In

Thank you to everyone who has been attending Picking Up Stones, a one-woman play about multiple perspectives on the Israel-Palestine conflict. At the Sunday post-show hang, we discussed antizionism, the delusion of hope, Scott Weiner, and how good those margaritas were.

The play is still running tonight and tomorrow, with talkbacks to debrief and discuss. Get your tickets here!

Visiting North America’s First Congregation

Last month, my colleagues and I toured Manhattan’s Congregation Shearith Israel, also known as the Spanish & Portuguese Synagogue!

This Upper West Side Orthodox shul is is the oldest continuous Jewish congregation in the U.S., as opposed to Touro Synagogue in Newport, Rhode Island, whose building is the oldest standing synagogue in the country. I like to clear up that confusion!

Shearith Israel was founded in 1654 by 23 Sephardic Jews who arrived in New Amsterdam from Brazil. For more than 170 years, it was the only Jewish congregation in New York City. It has stunning architecture and preserves Sephardic traditions, like specific Torah reading order and pronunciations.

👉 Read about its famous congregants, like Supreme Court Justice Benjamin Cardozo and poet Emma Lazarus. Just be sure to come back here for a d’var Torah!

Parashat Pinchas: Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Land

We're nearing the end of the Israelites' 40 years in the wilderness. Moses learns he can’t enter the Promised Land. Instead of challenging G-d, he works with G-d to appoint a successor.

There’s lots of wisdom in this Torah portion, but I want to focus on something specific that happens with Zelophehad's daughters.

Zelophehad (winner of the best biblical baby name award) was an Israelite from the tribe of Manasseh who died during the Israelites' journey.

He had five daughters: Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, which are other great names - I would call Milcah “Milky”! Zelo bore no sons.

When their father dies, the daughters challenge the existing inheritance law, which would deny them their father’s allotted land in Israel simply because they’re not men. Instead, the land would pass to his sons, and if there’s no sons, to another male relative, like his brother or nephew. Only… Zelo didn’t have another close male relative, so his land would effectively disappear from their lineage.

"Let not our father's name be lost to his clan because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father's kinsmen." -Numbers 27:4

G-d hears their plea, and the law changes.

Pretty extraordinary when you think about it: five women point out an injustice, Moses brings their case before G-d, who agrees to amend the law around land inheritance. Yes, I’ll repeat that for the people who say Judaism oppresses women, or that Judaism is just about obeying G-d blindly.

Before the Israelites even arrive to their destination, the people challenge leadership, and end up shaping the society that they want. Sure, after one’s father dies, sons still get first dibs to the land, but the daughters made progress in a patriarchal society.

Much like Americans right after the Declaration of Independence was signed, the Jewish people didn't arrive in the Promised Land and immediately have a perfect society. They had to build it together, deciding what kind of nation they wanted to become, what values would shape it, and who would be impacted by imperfect laws. In order to do this, they needed to call out injustice wherever they saw it.

This is what I’m reflecting on this Independence Day, among other things: the transition from escaping oppression to building a society. What comes next after the parting of the Red Sea and the wandering, or after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The importance of fighting for freedom and democratic values. How to continue the work long after the founding leaders are gone.

The work is never done. And it all starts with people saying, “Hey, this isn’t fair.”

This week, Zelophehad’s daughters teach us that.

Good Shabbos and enjoy your fireworks and BBQ,

💦 If you like badass Jewish women and/or history, check out these Drops:

At Its Set Time

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 03 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The bakery three-ish blocks from our new, albeit temporary apartment announces itself from down the sidewalk aways. We followed the smell in this morning and left with challah for tonight (amongst other things, who are we kidding). We have spent the hours since getting the keys yesterday thinking schlepping a lot into this apartment [fortunately it was already furnished] — dishes, towels, bedding, enough vegetables to feed a kibbutz. We bought wine, we made sure we had candles, we cleaned. Yet, the thing that made Shabbat feel imminent was a smell.

Some context. My husband and I are in Kiryat Shmona, at the very top of Israel, on what's called a pilot trip — the reconnaissance run a family makes before aliyah, before moving to the Land for good. The aliyah itself, God willing, comes later this year.

Making it a kitchen where two observant Jews can cook was its own project. We kashered it — the scrub-everything, boil-the-water, etc. processes that readies a kitchen for keeping kosher. And we made a decision that will hopefully make it easier: the whole kitchen is a dairy-free zone. Keeping meat and dairy separate normally means two of everything — two sets of dishes, two sponges, two drawers that must never meet. In a rental with one short counter, we picked a side. Meat won. (We already drink coffee black and I'm lactose-intolerant, so it's not a huge loss.)

And then this afternoon, while we were on yet another run to the same discount store down the block, the city filled with motorcycles.

Hundreds of them, a convoy up from the center of the country, flags out, engines wide open, and all of it for one purpose: to spend a Friday in Kiryat Shmona. To eat in its restaurants, buy in its shops, and make sure the city heard them arrive. And yes, we definitely all heard the welcome ruckus. This city sits close enough to Lebanon that the border is part of the view, and it spent years under rocket fire — evacuated, battered, slowly coming home. So this is one of the things Israelis do about that. They get on motorcycles, ride north, and buy lunch. Everyone — whether participant or bystander — was having a wonderful time, including, audibly, the engines.

This Shabbat we read Pinchas, a portion famous for its drama. It opens with a zealot and a covenant of peace, counts the whole nation in a census, seats five remarkable sisters at the inheritance table, and puts Moses on a mountaintop to hand his work to Joshua. Any of those could carry a column.

The ending of it, though is a menu. A long one. Two full chapters of it. After the spear and the census and the succession, the Torah settles down and lists what should be cooked, and when: lambs, fine flour, olive oil, wine. The daily offering — the tamid, "the regular one" — every morning and every twilight, war or no war. Then Shabbat's addition. Then the new moons and the holidays, each with their portions. The ETERNAL introduces the whole calendar like this:

צַ֚ו אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ אֲלֵהֶ֑ם אֶת־קׇרְבָּנִ֨י לַחְמִ֜י לְאִשַּׁ֗י רֵ֚יחַ נִֽיחֹחִ֔י תִּשְׁמְר֕וּ לְהַקְרִ֥יב לִ֖י בְּמוֹעֲדֽוֹ׃ Command the Israelite people and say to them: Be punctilious in presenting to Me at stated times the offerings of food due Me, as offerings by fire of pleasing odor to Me.

— Bamidbar 28:2

"My food." God does not eat, yet the vocabulary is a kitchen's anyway. Food, fire, and the detail I keep snagging on: the smell. Re'ach nichochi — "My pleasing aroma." Of all the senses the text could assign to heaven's satisfaction, it picks the one that stopped us on a Kiryat Shmona sidewalk this morning. Whatever else a korban (an offering) was, the Torah insists it worked the way a bakery works. It filled the air at a set time. B'moado, the verse says. At its appointed moment.

And Shabbat, in this menu, gets its own line, stacked on the daily one:

עֹלַ֥ת שַׁבַּ֖ת בְּשַׁבַּתּ֑וֹ עַל־עֹלַ֥ת הַתָּמִ֖יד וְנִסְכָּֽהּ׃ a burnt offering for every sabbath, in addition to the regular burnt offering and its libation.

— Bamidbar 28:10

In addition to. Shabbat's offering rode in on top of the morning lamb, the pause stacked on the routine. You get the seventh day by doing the other six. You get a Shabbat table by kashering a kitchen on a Thursday night and carrying vegetables in Friday morning.

One more thing about the timing, because this week it is almost too much. Yesterday was the seventeenth of Tammuz, a fast day. The Mishnah keeps a short, terrible list of what happened on that date, and one entry reads: the tamid ceased.

During the siege of Jerusalem the lambs ran out, and the offering that had been brought every single morning and every single twilight — through wars, through everything — stopped. The three saddest weeks of the Jewish year begin there. And right here, the Torah commands the daily offering. Every year the reading and the fast sit side by side on the calendar: the thing we lost, and the instructions for it, kept warm.

So here is where I found the joy this week. A bakery fired its ovens before dawn in a town that has known too much of the other kind of fire. Hundreds of strangers rode three hours so that town could sell them lunch. And two newcomers with one key and a kitchen that finally works are going to light candles at the appointed time.

The cooking is next. Then the pause — stacked on top of everything we scrubbed and assembled and carried, just as it has arrived each week since Sinai.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Why Chocolate Can Be Spiritual

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 02 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on July 2, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Why would one of the wealthiest men in the world give away almost his entire fortune? The answer begins with an extraordinary mistake.

In 1888, Alfred Nobel's brother died. But when a newspaper accidentally published Alfred Nobel's obituary instead, the inventor of dynamite was given a glimpse of how the world would remember him. The headline read: "The Merchant of Death is Dead."

The obituary continued: "The man who became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before, died yesterday." Nobel was stunned. Reading those words forced him to confront a sobering question: Is this the legacy I want to leave behind?

What prompted such a profound realization? What kind of pleasure could possibly surpass wealth, fame, and success?

✨3 Ideas

We are here for pleasure

Our soul seeks pleasure. Pleasure is a force that moves our lives forward, not a distraction from it.

If offered the choice between being happy or wealthy, most of us would choose happiness. Deep down, we know that money is one of the many means by which we hope to experience a happier, more fulfilling life -- not a goal in itself.

Our soul is drawn toward the deepest pleasures life has to offer.

**Settling for appetizers **

If our soul naturally seeks pleasure, why do so many people feel unfulfilled? Perhaps because we mistake the first course for the entire meal.

Chocolate, a beautiful sunset, and music brighten our lives. Yet they don’t fully satisfy our deepest longings. Imagine visiting a fine restaurant and filling up on bread before the meal arrives. The bread is delicious -- but we’ve missed the banquet that awaits.

Life offers us a whole menu of pleasures. The mistake isn’t enjoying the appetizers. It’s forgetting there’s so much more to choose from.

Choosing from life’s full menu

Imagine two people with the same free afternoon. One spends it watching television.

The other enjoys some television, takes a walk in nature, reads a few pages of an inspiring book, helps a child with homework, spends a few moments in meditative reflection, and engages in a meaningful conversation with a friend, partner, or spouse.

Both enjoyed themselves, but one experienced a richer variety of pleasures. Life offers us a rich menu of pleasures. All are here for the soul to take delight in.

📜2 Quotes

“Build houses and live in them. Plant gardens and eat their fruit.” — Jeremiah 29:5

“I see trees of green. Red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you. And I think to myself, ‘What a wonderful world.’” — _What a Wonderful World, sung by Louis Armstrong _

❓1 Question

Which of life’s pleasures have you been overlooking?

Alfred Nobel never forgot the obituary that described him as the “Merchant of Death.” Determined to leave a different legacy, he used much of his immense fortune to establish the Nobel Prizes, honoring achievements that benefit humanity.

Nobel realized that the joy of contributing something meaningful to the world reaches a deeper part of the soul than any possession ever can.

Every day invites us to enjoy life’s many pleasures -- from the taste of chocolate to the sublime delights of the soul. A life well lived is one that learns to savor life’s full menu.

Until next time, Wishing you a week full of life’s pleasures,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What’s one pleasure that never seems to grow old for you? I’d be pleased to read your response.

P.P.S. Spiritual Sparks: A Reader is now available on Amazon. If you’ve been enjoying these weekly reflections, I hope you’ll find the book to be a meaningful companion on your own spiritual journey. You can learn more or order a copy here: Amazon

A Frustrated Rabbi

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Thu, 02 Jul 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on July 2, 2026.

The Rebbe often instructed his Chasidim to avoid politics. Not because we lack backbone, for who greater than the Rebbe stood up for the Jewish People, faced the fears that many post war Jews carried and moved the Jewish People forward.

Our mission is the Jewish People. Our mission is connection. Our mission is the Torah. Our mission is the Mitzvah.

Anything that compromises that mission is a compromise of our mission.

When it comes to Israel, the sensitivities are heightened. There is so much political chatter around Israel. And yet so much of what our brothers and sisters in Israel face is NOT politics but life and death. In fact making a political issue of it is part of the cause that it is so life and death.

So what is a Rabbi to do, when the fine line between Torah, Jewish People, Mitzvot can be intentionally or unintentionally misconstrued as political.

I hope whoever you are reading this, regardless of your political leanings, can read this for its' Torah message.

This week's Torah portion and last week's Torah portion, the Jewish People are counted. Specifically in this week's Torah portion the Levites are counted. Monday and Tuesday of this week we commemorated the Revelation at Sinai when each and every Jew needed to be present in order for us to become a People.

Nothing has changed since that day 3338 years ago when we were charged with the mission of carrying the Torah's message to the world. Nothing has changed since each and every Jew was counted. We remain counted and charged with that responsibility in 2026.

Jewish lives are at stake. The world unfortunately has shown us that while a lot has changed, much has not changed. We don't need to wait until we are told that we have no place here or there for us to remember that we are family.

Our brothers and sisters in Israel need to know that they can count on us to be there for them in love and support.

They need to know that we are carrying the torch of Judaism, of Torah, Mitzvot, that we are proud Jews living in the diaspora giving them strength to face the challenges they are experiencing.

When we unequivocally support our brothers and sisters and their obligation to defend themselves we can proudly carry the banner of being an upright and moral People. When we pander to slogans and public opinion we have lost focus of our Sinai mandate.

I hope you'll pray with me for true peace in Israel. A peace that is built in truth, strength and rational thinking and not slogans of pandering.

Please join me in embracing our 3338 year old mandate that we were charged with again this week by increasing our identity and pride as Jews by increasing our Torah study, Mitzvah observance and connection with our brothers and sisters.

Good Shabbos!

Delayed, Not Diminished

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on June 26, 2026.

This Monday I had the honor to travel to NY, post the Rebbe's Yurzeit on 3 Tammuz to visit the Ohel.

We finished early and since I'm very smart I decided to change my flight from 8:30 to leave a little earlier to the 6 PM flight.

On my way to the airport it starts.

6:00 became 7:30

7:30 became 8:34

8:34 became 9:10

9:10 became 10:14

10:14 became 10:47

10:47 became 11:34

11:34 became 12:46

12:46 became canceled flight!

I realized it would be a long night. I called Delta to see if I can be rescheduled to a morning flight. I'd go back to Crown Heights, get a decent night's sleep and arrive in Atlanta in time for my JLI class. Delta tells me that the first available flight would be 2 PM the next day. No go.

As I'm sitting in the terminal, the pilot from an earlier flight that had been delayed for 6 hours gets off the plane and asks for the microphone. He says the following; dear friends thank you for your patience. On account of the weather our flight was rerouted from LGA to Philadelphia. We'll do our best to get you out of here quickly. The powerful weather is a reminder of how small we are.

The Baal Shem Tov teaches that one needs to learn a lesson in the service of Hashem. The pilot's words didn't land well with me as a thought from Hayom Yom came into my mind; "Chassidus is Divine intelligence, an understanding which shows man how small he is, and how great he can become."

The Rebbe told us that we are not small, we are great! Coming from the Rebbe's yurzeit this was a reminder.

As I've written recently, we live in a time where we need to get in touch with our Neshama and the superpower that it is.

The Torah portion of this week as an antidote to the hate that we are experiencing in the world. Bilaam the non Jewish Prophet wants to curse the Jews, but G-d says don't curse them. So he says let me bless them, G-d says, they don't need your blessings, they are already blessed.

Wow! We are loved by Hashem, we are embraced by Hashem, we are GREAT in Hashem's eyes. What else do we need? We are empowered to live proud and Jewish!

My flight was cancelled at 11:00, suddenly there was space on the 7 AM flight.

I returned to Crown Heights to catch a few hours of sleep and returned bright and early to the airport to arrive in Atlanta in time to teach my JLI class and a little more humble and empowered about my place in the world!

Good Shabbos!

How I'm Staying Connected to Israel Right Now

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 26, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: I asked ChatGPT to give me a Hebrew word of the day. It gave me hitlabtut (תלבטות), which means indecision or being torn between two options. Apparently Chat knows me too well.

Hi friends,

I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately.

As I said in a recent Drop, one year ago I was in Tel Aviv during the 12-Day War.

Actually, my journey looked more like: Tel Aviv ➡️ an army base in the Negev ➡️ Tel Aviv (when the war started) ➡️ Ariel ➡️ back to Tel Aviv ➡️ a kibbutz in the Negev ➡️ Tel Aviv ➡️ Athens ➡️ Home!

Why do I feel nostalgic for a time when I was running to bomb shelters and schlepping all over the country?

Because I miss what it represents.

I miss volunteering on an IDF base just before the war started. I miss the friends I made there, and sipping cocktails on the beach with them waiting for Iran to retaliate.

Me and my friend I volunteered with, Jean, a sweet man from the south of France. Miss you, Jean!

I miss practicing Hebrew in an environment where everyone speaks it.

While I don’t miss getting up 3-4 times in the middle of the night to go to bomb shelters, I miss practicing resilience. And being surrounded by people who just get it. The “it” being the fight Israel’s up against and what’s at stake if it loses.

One year later, I miss my friends I met there (though I’m working on a friend’s play about 10/7 that starts in NYC TONIGHT! Get tickets here.)

I yearn to be back. I got accepted to a trip for content creators, but it fell through.

When friends tell me they’re going there for the summer, my soul cracks with envy.

All of this is to say I am missing Israel. Until I can go again, here are some things I've been doing to stay connected, and to bring a little bit of Israel into my everyday life.

Learning About Israeli Politics

The next Israeli election is October 27th (the same day the next A Court of Thorns and Roses book comes out… big day!).

Israeli elections in brief: Citizens vote for political parties rather than individual candidates, and each party receives a number of seats in the Knesset, Israel’s parliament, based on its share of the national vote. There are 120 seats. The leader of the party that wins the most seats is typically granted the first chance to form a governing coalition. This means Israeli governments are typically made up of multiple parties that must negotiate and compromise to pass laws and stay in power.

My colleague held a lunch and learn to teach Israeli politics through campaign videos.

So you could imagine how petty and entertaining they were, or just downright odd, like this 2019 video from the New Right featuring Ayelet Shaked responding to criticism of her policies being fascist in a perfume ad. Tongue-in-cheek or anti-feminist? You decide.

Anything but Bibi

So far, for this upcoming election, there’s a couple of videos out. One is Likud’s, Netanyahu’s party.

It’s a bizarre video of a family sitting around their Shabbat table, and the son “comes out” as a Bibi supporter, or a Bibist. Chaos ensues.

The father: “How is that possible? You work in hi-tech!”

The mother nosedives into her cake. You should just see the meshugas for yourself:

The point of the video is to deflect and play victim, to send a message to the real Bibists: “We know you face discrimination for your political beliefs. We see you. We hear you.” (I’m not supporting him in any way by sharing this video, by the way.)

Likud seems confident they’ll win if this is what their election video focuses on. Not on issues or policies, but on identity politics.

Yashar 2026

The other 2026 election video came as a stark response to Likud’s, and it’s by the relatively new Yashar party, led by former IDF Chief of Staff Gadi Eisenkot.

This video also features a family sitting around the Shabbat table, having the exact same conversation. The only difference? You can’t see the actors; you can only hear their voices as they speak in a kitchen riddled with bullet holes and destroyed property.

The end text reads: Search on Google. October 7th.

The underlying message: Bibi is to blame for security failure on October 7th.

It’s short and powerful. They have my vote! Not that it counts for anything.

Learning about Yaacov Agam

This week, I read the news that a renowned Israeli artist died.

Yaacov Agam was born in Rishon Lezion in 1928 and became one of the founders of the kinetic art movement, which experiments with movement and light.

I learned he created the colorful, modern fountain sculpture in Dizengoff Square!

In 2026, he received the Israel Prize for Visual Arts. Read more about his life here.

Watching Israeli Film

Another way I’m getting my Israel culture fix is by watching Israeli movies!

I saw two films at the Israel Film Center Festival at the JCC. I liked one much more than other so I’ll just talk about that.

It was called The Big League, starring Israel Attias, who plays Meir in my favorite Israeli show, Shababnikim!

This movie is like the Israeli Ted Lasso, and by that I mean it features a guy who is forced to coach a ragtag soccer team full of misfit teens.

Watch on YouTube

It’s cute, it’s laugh-out-loud funny, and its cast and crew are made up of both Israelis and Palestinians. Despite this, the film was boycotted from showing in European film festivals.

If a charming soccer movie can’t bring about peace, what will?

Learning Hebrew through Israeli videos

I’ve been watching videos on the YouTube channel, Piece of Hebrew, by a cute Israeli couple named Doron & Elsa!

They make videos on everything from Elsa’s morning routine and exploring the Golan, to an Israeli celebrity guessing game between the two of them.

Watch on YouTube

Living the Jewish Calendar

I attended my first Rosh Chodesh circle in YEARS to welcome Tammuz with some girlfriends.

There was fresh pasta salad, homemade chocolate challah, and a guided meditation on our personal sieges. Which brings me to a Shabbat prompt for YOU:

✍️ Shabbat Prompt

What are you protecting right now?

In addition, I’ve been eating at a lot of Israeli restaurants (just dined at Malka for the first time, wow that schnitzel). I’ve also been hearing about friends’ recent trips there. I’ll be back someday.

Fund My Next Trip to Israel

Shabbat Shalom. Stay passionate,

💦 If you like feeling connected, check out these Drops:

What Balaam Saw

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

We've been in Orange County for two weeks. We came for the memorial service for Modi's grandfather — about two weeks ago — and we're staying through his cousin's wedding this weekend. A death and a celebration, the same trip, the same family, a handful of days apart. Our dog and the cat came with us. They're staying here with family when we leave, while we sort out the logistics of getting them across an ocean and settled in.

Every morning I've been davening shacharit — morning prayers — in our bedroom before the rest of the house wakes up. The siddur I packed. The same words I say whether I'm home or not. This week I got to Ma tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael — How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel — and stopped. Not because the words were unfamiliar, but because I'd said them enough times that for a moment they went transparent. And I thought about who actually said them first — which was definitely fitting for this week.

Balaam wrote it. Or rather — Balaam couldn't stop himself from saying it.

Parashat Chukat-Balak covers a lot of ground.

There's the red heifer: the ultimate chok — divine law without a given reason — a ritual that purifies the impure and makes the pure impure in the process, a paradox the Torah does not bother to untangle for us.

The deaths of Miriam and Aaron, two of the three great leaders of the wilderness generation, gone within the same short stretch of text.

Moses striking the rock at Mei Merivah, the single act that will cost him the land.

The bronze serpent raised on a pole in the wilderness — look at it and live — a strange and counterintuitive medicine for a people dying of snakebite. Israel singing over a well in the desert.

The armies of Sihon and Og falling.

A full parsha and a half, dense with drama and death and improbable grace.

And then it ends with a man on a hill who cannot say what he was hired to say.

Balak, king of Moab, is watching Israel approach. He has seen what they did to the Amorites. He is not planning to fight them directly — he has done that calculation and does not like the answer.

His response was to find a prophet with a reputation, hire him, get the curse delivered, and let the supernatural do the work.

He sends for Balaam. The offer is explicit.

Come curse these people. I will pay you well.

Balaam travels. Stands on the hill above the camp. Opens his mouth.

What comes out is a blessing.

Balak moves him to a different hill. Same thing. A third hill. Same thing again.

Three attempts, three locations, three blessings.

The king's exasperation, after each failed oracle, is almost comic: What have you done to me? I brought you to curse my enemies and you have blessed them instead.

And Balaam's answer, each time, is the same: I cannot say anything the ETERNAL does not put in my mouth.

Just before the words we say every morning, the text gives us one precise detail. Balaam lifted his eyes and saw Israel encamped tribe by tribe, and the spirit of GOD came upon him.

The text doesn't tell us he saw a threat, or a formation, or an obstacle. He saw a camp. An encampment by tribe. A people arranged in their ordinary lives.

מַה־טֹּ֥בוּ אֹהָלֶ֖יךָ יַעֲקֹ֑ב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶ֖יךָ יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ How fair are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!

— Bamidbar 24:5

What Balaam saw was the tents. The dwellings. The arrangements people make when they intend to go on living.

He saw it because he was outside.

Balak hired him for his ability to see past surfaces, to perceive what ordinary eyes miss. And what Balaam perceives, standing on that hill with every incentive to find danger, is the camp arrayed below him.

The word the Torah uses, tov, means something closer to good — the same word from the first chapter of Bereshit, Genesis, when GOD surveys creation and calls it good. Fitting. Right.

The convert perspective enters my life in odd moments, and this is one of them.

Before I converted, I walked into Jewish spaces the way Balaam walked onto that hill — from outside, seeing things that prolonged familiarity erases. A Shabbat table set on Friday afternoon. A community singing a melody I didn't know. The warmth in a room of people greeting each other at kiddush.

I saw these things with a clarity that fades once you're inside them, once the furniture of your own house becomes invisible because you see it every day.

Two weeks in someone else's house gives a flicker of that back. The rhythm of who wakes up when. The way their kitchen smells in the morning. The dog settling into a new routine, the cat finding his corner. I'm a guest here — not inside it the way family is inside it — and some mornings, davening at early light, the outside clarity returns. Briefly. Sideways.

I was Balaam on the hill, in a sense — arriving without the familiarity that erases things, and finding what I found. What I found was: this is good. These people have arranged something good.

What Balaam could not do, in the end, was keep the words to himself. He opened his mouth and out came the blessing, three times, and on the third attempt he gave us the one that opens our morning prayers three thousand years later.

Whatever Balak was trying to accomplish, it failed so completely that its failure became liturgy. The words outlasted Balaam. They outlasted Balak.

The community Balaam looked down at from the hill is still gathering, still arranging its tents, still living in a way that apparently looks, from outside, like something worth noticing.

This Shabbat — two weeks into a trip that started at a funeral and ends at a wedding, in the middle of a parsha full of harder things, death and failure and the cost of a single wrong act in the wilderness — there is also a man on a hill who saw what was there to see.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Who Are You When No One's Looking?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 25 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on June 25, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Behavioral economist Dan Ariely relates a story told by one of his students, Peter. One day, Peter locked himself out of his house. A locksmith arrived and, to Peter's amazement, opened the lock in about a minute.

Surprised at how quickly it had been done, Peter remarked that the lock hadn't offered much protection. "That's because locks aren't really for criminals," the locksmith replied. "They're for honest people." He explained that about 98 percent of people are basically honest. A locked door helps keep them that way.

Then the locksmith added something even more striking. "There are another two percent." Who are those people?

✨3 Ideas

**Do honesty and integrity differ? **

Most people value honesty. But integrity calls us to something deeper. Honesty concerns what we do; integrity concerns who we are.

Integrity comes from a Latin root meaning “whole” or “complete.” **A person of integrity is integrated -- their values and actions are in harmony. **

Integrity reflects the wholeness of the soul itself. Drawn to truth and repelled by falsehood, our deepest self longs for a life in which our principles, beliefs, and behavior are aligned.

**Settling for honesty **

Most people aren’t hardened criminals, but neither are they righteous. Compromises are easily justified, and we often allow ourselves a “passing grade” in matters of honesty.

We want to see ourselves as good people, yet often settle for the minimum standard. In doing so, we may ignore -- or simply be unaware of -- a higher standard to aspire to.

The soul, however, declares, “Good enough isn’t good enough.” Integrity is rare because it calls us to rise above convenience, rationalization, and self-interest.

Choosing integrity

People of integrity are shaped through countless small choices, especially when no one is watching and there is little to gain -- or even much to lose.

Integrity may be expressed by returning money one isn’t entitled to, volunteering information when silence would raise no suspicions, or arriving early to honor another person’s time. Such people do not adjust their honesty to fit the circumstances.

People of integrity ask “Who do I want to be?”, not, “Can I get away with this?”

📜2 Quotes

“He who walks uprightly and works righteousness, and speaks truth in his heart … he who does these things shall never falter.” — Psalms 15:2, 5

“Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest.” — Mark Twain

❓1 Question

Where in your life are you being invited to move beyond “good enough”?

The locksmith eventually explained what he meant.

One percent of people will always try to break in. Locks won’t stop them for long. But there is another one percent -- people of such integrity that they would never take what isn’t theirs, even if the door was left wide open and no one would ever know.

Integrity calls us to something greater than honesty. It asks us to become the kind of people whose principles don’t depend on locks, rules, or the fear of being caught.

May we strive to become not simply people of honesty, but people of integrity.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of wholeness and integrity

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Have you ever witnessed an act of integrity that left a lasting impression on you? I’d love to hear the story.

P.P.S. It has been about a month since my book, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader, went live. Many of you have already brought it into your homes! If a specific passage or tool has brought you a sense of clarity or peace, would you take 60 seconds to leave an honest review on Amazon.

As an independent author, reviews are the only way Amazon knows to show these tools to other seeking readers who might need them right now. And for those interested, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader is available on Amazon. Thank you to those who have supported this project, and for the encouraging feedback from so many who have read the book.

Argue More. Resent Less.

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on June 19, 2026.

We live in a culture that treats conflict as a disease. If people disagree, someone must be wrong. If there is tension, we assume something has gone terribly awry.

But Judaism sees it differently.

This week's Torah portion tells the story of Korach's rebellion against Moses. Korach claims that Moses has accumulated too much authority and engaged in nepotism by appointing his brother Aaron as High Priest and favoring other relatives for positions of leadership.

At first glance, Korach appears to be standing up for fairness and accountability. Yet our Sages reveal his true flaw. It wasn't that he disagreed with Moses. It was that he became attached to the conflict itself.

Moses repeatedly attempted reconciliation. Korach refused.

The Mishnah teaches that Korach's dispute was not "for the sake of Heaven." In contrast, the disagreements of Hillel and Shammai are held up as the model of a healthy argument. They disagreed passionately on matters of Jewish law, yet they respected one another, learned from one another, and even married into one another's families.

The difference wasn't the presence of conflict. It was the purpose of the conflict.

Our Sages do not teach us to avoid disagreement. In fact, the Talmud is built upon disagreement. Rather, they teach us not to hold on to conflict.

The Talmud says, "Just as their faces are not alike, so too their minds are not alike."

Conflict, then, is built into the human condition. We see the world differently because we are different. The goal is not to eliminate disagreement. The goal is to navigate it with humility.

People who work on themselves recognize that just as they have a perspective, so does the other person. They can argue vigorously, defend their position passionately, and still leave room for reconciliation.

Conflict can be noble. Resentment rarely is.

The real danger is not disagreement. The real danger is when our ego becomes more important than the relationship, when being right becomes more important than finding common ground.

So perhaps the question this week is not, "Who am I arguing with?"

The question is, "Who am I still holding on to?"

Who is there in your life with whom a conversation, an apology, a gesture, or simply a willingness to listen could move things toward reconciliation?

Shabbat Shalom, Good Shabbos!

Get in Jewish professionals, we’re going to camp!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 19, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: The other day, I was speaking in Hebrew and realized I didn’t know how to say Judaism. Woopsie. It’s yahadut (יַהֲדוּת). The more you yoda’at (know).

If you’re new here, or haven’t read my Great Jewish Journey (which I just updated for the first time in four years), you might not know that I’m a Jewish professional. Been in the game for eight years and what a whirlwind it’s been, especially the last three.

There’s a lot to discuss about working in the Jewish nonprofit sector: the culture that greatly varies by organization, salary, philanthropic allocation, the saturation of nonprofits and the overlap in their work, learning and travel opportunities, um… all the holidays we get off?!

But this piece isn’t about working. It’s about not working.

A few weeks ago, I attended a day of camp for Jewish professionals run by Trybal Gatherings!

220 Jewish professionals representing 40 organizations learned and played together at Camp Ramah Nyack, and it was the embodiment of Jewish joy (who else is excited Substack now has colored text?!).

The goal was to provide a space for adults to laugh, play, and recharge after working tirelessly to make the world a more joyous, safe, and educated one for Jews.

… okay, and to see who can make the longest snake out of toilet paper in the shortest amount of time. 🧻🐍

Instead of meetings, we had electives. Instead of an office or a conference center, our backdrop was the lush rolling hills of the Hudson Valley.

The day served as a reminder that this field is so steeped in play and creativity. I don’t even need the current state of global antisemitism to tell me this is where I belong.

Here’s what I experienced!

My colleague, RIvkah, and I (blue pants) meeting new Jewish professionals

Blessings in Nature

There were all sorts of electives to choose from: pickleball, Mahjong, yoga, Shrinky Drinks bracelet making (a 90s flashback!), Moroccan lemon preserves, Torah in the Tarot, and more.

My first elective was nature bathing led by Adamah, a Jewish environmental organization (to read about their retreat I went on, read this Drop!).

No, this session wasn’t sun bathing. It was a meditative stroll in nature while learning about different brachot, blessings, related to nature.

There are many brachot for wondrous sights you may come across in nature, like thunder, lightning, and a rainbow.

Fun fact: The blessing for seeing a rainbow refers to G-d keeping the covenant and keeping a promise, because it’s a throwback to Genesis 9:12-17, when a rainbow appears after the flood, and G-d promises to never again destroy the world with water.

BLESSING UPON HEARING THUNDER

Blessing: “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam, shekocho u-gvurato malei olam.”

Translation: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, whose power and might fill the world.”

One blessing I enjoyed learning about on this nature walk was the blessing you say upon seeing an unusual and beautiful creature, like an elephant, peacock, or an ostrich.

BLESSING UPON SEEING AN UNUSUAL AND BEAUTIFUL CREATURE

Blessing: “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melekh ha-olam, shekocha lo b’olamo.”

Translation: “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, that such [beauty] exists in His world.”

It sparked an interesting conversation on what makes a creature strange as well as beautiful. We came to the conclusion that beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.

It reminded me of the time I was hiking in Alaska and a porcupine crossed my path. I was dumbfounded. If only I had this blessing to recite!

👉 See a full list of Jewish nature blessings here.

Try this blessing out next time you see a red panda!

Judaism: The Game We’re All Playing

Next, I attended a workshop on ice breakers.

Ah, the ever-polarizing ice breaker. Some love ‘em, some dread ‘em.

I love them when they’re creative and engaging. I think it’s a fun way to get to know people, especially at a Shabbat meal where not everyone knows each other.

Our group went around and answered the following ice breaker: “Go around, introduce yourself, and say the answer to your favorite ice breaker.”

Ex. “Hi, my name is Carol. Potato chips.” “I’m Josh. Purple dragon.”

I said, “Miranda. Last week when I was feeling bad about something.” My favorite ice breaker is: “When was the last time you cried and why?” I like to get personal.

What’s your favorite ice breaker? Let me know in the comments!

This discussion, led by Foundation for Jewish Camp, also touched on games in Jewish education, and games you can play with your team at work.

From a card game about Jewish values

One of the participants made an astute observation, which was that Judaism is like a game: Everyone has the same set of rules, and how we choose to play within those rules is up to us.

Which prompted the question: What does it look like to win in Judaism?

No one really answered it (it was more rhetorical), but it got me thinking of all the different ways how winning in Judaism might look:

Keeping up with the weekly Parsha
Keeping up with the Jewish calendar
Following the Ten Commandments (ahem, not stealing)
Keeping Shabbat, even just lighting weekly candles

For me, it’s that I am constantly learning, growing, and having fun. After this day of adult camp, I think I nailed it.

The rest of the day involved Japanese tie-dyeing, color war, and deliciously fluffy cookies. Thank you so much to Trybal for a day of play. After Shabbos, it’s back to work.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Juneteenth,

💦 Like Jewish camp? Check out this Drop:

He Ran Into the Crowd

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The phrase the Board of Deputies of British Jews chose for Jewish Culture Month was "Less Oy, More Joy." Which, seems to me should be one of the slogans for this Kosher Duck Revolution project. I can certainly get behind more joy. Four weeks, 150 events across the United Kingdom — exhibitions, concerts, talks at the British Museum, the Bodleian Library in Oxford, theaters in Bath, the National Holocaust Museum in Nottinghamshire. The Board said it plainly: they did not want the British public to know Jewish life only through Jewish death and Jewish pain.

One of the events was a talk at the British Museum titled "Ancient Israel and Judah in the British Museum." Before the talk happened, the museum discovered that up to half the registered attendees were anti-Israel activists who had signed up intending to disrupt it. The event was canceled. Then rescheduled. The rescheduled talk, which took place June 11, became the best-attended of the entire series — roughly four thousand people joined in person and online.

Something in that reversal stuck with me all week. The people who showed up to disrupt the event wanted it gone. It came back with four thousand people.

The parasha for this Shabbat is Korach, and it is a parasha about a community cracking apart.

Korach — a Levite, a man of standing — gathers 250 respected leaders and challenges Moses and Aaron directly. All the community is holy, he says. Who gave you the right to lead? What follows is catastrophic: the earth opens, fire descends. The community absorbs the shock, then begins to grumble again, and a plague breaks out, moving through the camp.

Most readings of Korach land on the rebellion and, a few chapters later, on Aaron's staff — which blooms overnight in the Tent of Meeting, a dead stick producing almonds in the dark. There's an earlier moment, in the middle of the plague, that I keep coming back to.

Moses turns to Aaron and gives him a short set of instructions.

Take fire. Put on incense. Go.

And then Aaron does something the Torah records in a single breath:

וַיִּקַּ֨ח אַהֲרֹ֜ן כַּאֲשֶׁ֣ר דִּבֶּ֣ר מֹשֶׁ֗ה וַיָּ֙רׇץ֙ אֶל־תּ֣וֹךְ הַקָּהָ֔ל וְהִנֵּ֛ה הֵחֵ֥ל הַנֶּ֖גֶף בָּעָ֑ם וַיִּתֵּ֥ן אֶת־הַקְּטֹ֖רֶת וַיְכַפֵּ֥ר עַל־הָעָֽם׃ וַיַּעֲמֹ֥ד בֵּין־הַמֵּתִ֖ים וּבֵ֣ין הַחַיִּ֑ים וַתֵּעָצַ֖ר הַמַּגֵּפָֽה׃ Aaron took it, as Moses had ordered, and ran to the midst of the congregation, where the plague had begun among the people. He put on the incense and made expiation for the people; he stood between the dead and the living until the plague was checked.

— Bamidbar 17:12–13

He ran into the congregation. Where the plague had already started.

Aaron doesn't calculate the odds or wait for conditions to improve. Moses says go, and he goes — into the middle of a dying crowd, with a censer of burning incense. He plants himself in the gap between the dead and the living, and the plague stops.

The rabbis describe Aaron throughout the Torah as ohev shalom v'rodef shalom — a lover of peace and pursuer of peace. That phrase usually refers to his role as a mediator, settling disputes before they become rifts. This moment is something more physical than that. Aaron goes into a crowd where people are dying, on either side of him, with the one tool in his hands — a metal bowl of sacred fire and ground spice — and stands.

My husband and I have been talking about the British Museum story all week. The instinct, when someone tries to disrupt your event, is to shrink. To hold the thing in a smaller room, with less exposure, with more protection and lower expectations. To wait for a better moment.

The Board of Deputies didn't do that. They rescheduled. Four thousand people showed up.

"Less Oy, More Joy" is not a claim that there's nothing to be upset about. There is. A talk about ancient Israel and Judah at a major museum shouldn't require advance intelligence work about which registered attendees are planning to cause trouble. That's the oy, and it's real.

But the joy has to keep running too.

What Aaron picks up is a fire pan. Sacred fire and ground spice — the instruments of his work, the things he knows how to use. He goes with what he has. The British Museum event that got disrupted, rescheduled, and came back stronger was a talk about what ancient Israel built. About what it left behind. Come and look.

The parasha ends many chapters later with Aaron's staff preserved as a permanent sign. I keep coming back to the earlier moment.

He took the fire pan. He ran.

The plague was already moving through the camp, and he went into the middle of it with a censer of incense, and he stood there, and eventually the dying stopped. The death count when it was over was 14,700 — on top of those who died with Korach. The toll is real. He stood inside it, and the dying stopped.

What the moment asks — to keep going into the hard place, with what you have, without waiting for a better moment — shows up in smaller ways than plague. In Atlanta, it looks like keeping your Hebrew school carpool even in weeks when you're exhausted, because the alternative is a smaller room. It looks like showing up at shul on the Shabbat when the news is hard. It looks like a talk at the British Museum getting rescheduled instead of canceled.

That gap — between the dead and the living — is always somewhere. Aaron ran toward it.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Beginning Again

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 18 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on June 18, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

More than two decades ago, four days before my wife's birthday and one day after mine, we were blessed with the greatest birthday gift we could have hoped for: the birth of a beautiful baby girl.

This coming Sunday, our "birthday gift" will stand beneath a wedding canopy as she and the man of her dreams become husband and wife.

Weddings inspire thoughts about love and commitment. But they also remind us of something broader: Life continually presents us with opportunities for new beginnings.

Whether we are twenty-five or eighty-five, one of life's greatest blessings is that we can always begin again.

✨3 Ideas

Recognizing our inherent worth

Human beings consist of both body and soul. The soul is the deepest layer of our identity -- the "you" behind everything else. But more than simply having a soul, we are a soul.

From the moment we enter this world, we possess inherent worth and dignity. The foundation of our choices is how we view ourselves.

Recognizing our worth means becoming aware of the goodness already present within us and identifying with our highest aspirations.

Breaking free from yesterday

We often tell ourselves, "I've always been this way," or "I missed my chance." Perhaps the greatest obstacle to renewal is not our circumstances, but our assumptions.

Yesterday may influence us, but it does not imprison us.

The soul remains untouched by the outside world. If we choose to define ourselves by our deepest identity rather than by external circumstances, we discover a freedom that nothing can take away.

Beginning again starts with commitment

Daily commitments have the power to transform our lives. When we wholeheartedly commit ourselves to our goals and values, motivation often follows.

Commitment transforms possibility into reality.

We can choose to be grateful for our blessings, to act with kindness and compassion, or simply to begin again whenever we stumble. The soul flourishes when we faithfully live the values we cherish.

📜2 Quotes

" … renew a firmly anchored spirit within me." — Psalms 51:12

"Take a deep breath, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again." — Frank Sinatra, "Pick Yourself Up"

❓1 Question

What part of your life is inviting you to begin again?

A 94 year-old woman was described by friends as charming, delightful, and always positive. When asked the secret of her outlook on life, she smiled and replied, "It's my enthusiasm for life. Because I think positive, I am positive."

After pausing for a moment, she added, "Even at 94, I have four boyfriends. I begin each day with Will Power. Then I go for a walk with Arthur Ritis. I usually return home with Charlie Horse, and spend the evening with Ben Gay."

Whether we're 24, 44, 74, or 94, life continually places blank pages before us.

The question is not whether we can begin again. The question is where we choose to begin. The choice is ours.

Until next time, Wishing you fresh beginnings, and the joy of writing beautiful new chapters,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Have you ever embarked on a new venture or begun a new chapter in life? I'd love to hear about your experience.

P.P.S. New beginnings are among the themes explored in my new book, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader. If these reflections resonate with you, I hope you'll take a look.

View the book on Amazon

The Rebbe's Answer to an Age of Uncertainty

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 12 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on June 12, 2026.

Are you unsettled inside? Anxiety, discontent, discomfort?

Who isn't?

Today's therapeutic brain science tells us that in early childhood our sense of self is formed. If our parents were connected to us, then we know we are and our worthiness. Even if our parents did it all right (and we know they only did their best) other factors could have affected how we show up in the world. Things like the environment, our friends, our teachers and other people and circumstances that may have shaped our sense of self.

But where does true worthiness come from? If my parents didn't do a good job of connection or if I was affected by the other aforementioned things, is there hope for me?

(To be fair, all of us have this struggle at some level. Not only because all parents are human and we've all been affected by other factors, but because we are human beings. We live in a perpetual tension between body and soul. The soul doesn't want to be in the body and so we struggle with identity; am I a body who is interested in self, or am I a soul who only wants to live higher.)

The answer is of course, YES! We need to recognize that our true worthiness comes from a place that transcends all of life's circumstances. It comes from Hashem via the Neshama - the Soul.

In other eras, when we were more cloistered and Jewish practice and life was more all absorbing it may have been easier to navigate this. But in our modern world, filled with blessed abundance, our identity rooted in the soul struggles greatly.

Enter the Rebbe.

This Shabbos blesses the anniversary of passing, 3 Tammuz of the Rebbe.

The Rebbe, a Rebbe, is in touch with his soul and by extension the true identity of everything in this universe. The Rebbe in particular dedicated his life to bringing this consciousness into the Jewish People.

Today more than ever, when our Jewish identity is being challenged, the Rebbe's message is more relevant than ever.

As we struggle in our times for Jewish identity and in honor of the Rebbe and this special day on the calendar, I encourage you to take a few moments and study one of the Rebbe's teachings. www.therebbe.org. Read it, reflect on it and see how any of his teachings can serve to strengthen your own Jewish Identity to become more connected with your own soul and the soul of all of existence.

Then, please check out the page for 3 Tammuz and consider practicing some of the observances. It is a holy day with unique powers.

https://www.chabad.org/therebbe/article_cdo/aid/6497204/jewish/3-Tammuz-Customs-and-Resources.htm

With blessings to be connected to our soul, to the Rebbe and to our purpose on this earth.

Good Shabbos!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

2 Books by Award-Winning Israeli Author Yishay Ishi Ron

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 12 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 12, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Last week, I mixed up two verbs (shoutout to Shai who let me know!). Mechapes is, in fact, looking for, and mesachek is playing. So, to make up for my oopsie, here’s some Israeli slang: fadicha (פאדיחה), which is an embarrassing mistake.

📅 Shabbat Drop-In

My friend, Sandra Laub, is bringing her powerful one-woman play, Picking Up Stones: An American Jew Wakes Up to a Nightmare, to NYC late June/early July. Come see itwith us at the American Theatre for Actors as part of the Midtown International Theatre Festival.

After the performance, we’ll gather to discuss the play’s themes of grief, identity, and the fragile possibility of peace after October 7th. It’s running multiple dates, but we’re seeing it together on 6/28! Get your tickets here!

I received copies of these books from the publisher (thank you, Soncata Press!) in exchange for an honest review. The thoughts below are entirely my own.

Dog, a portrayal of wartime trauma

In between romantasy and literary nonfiction, I’ve been reading more Jewish/Israeli books than ever! One recent read that has stuck with me is Dog by Yishay Ishi Ron.

I first saw Dog floating around on the Jewish literary scene last year when it came out. I assumed the story was about a soldier’s experience in the elite Oketz unit of the Israel Defense Forces, which made me excited because that’s the unit my brother served in.

When I finally started recently reading it, however, I was surprised to find it was inspired by the author’s true story of wartime trauma in a different unit.

The story centers on a former Golani brigade soldier known as “Geller” (named after magician Uri Geller, whose mental spoon-bending tricks he becomes obsessed with, and is used as a metaphor for hope and a sense of control) as he struggles with heroin addiction after his military service in an elite combat unit. To the diasporic ear, the term “elite combat unit” elicits awe, pride, and, dare I say, a bit of sexiness. But in this story, it carries the weight of pain, trauma, and the messiness and moral complexity of war.

This isn’t the Israel many American Jews know, and that’s why it’s such an important read. In between heroin highs and begging for change outside his local coffee shop on the streets of Tel Aviv, he mentally slips back into warn-torn Gaza, using such vivid language I had to pause and re-read lines at times.

Take this descriptive paragraph from one of his flashbacks, for example. Content warning: death, violence, war, grief.

“Yehoram’s brain began to leak out through the cracks like red shakshuka with specks of egg white, and he fell right on top of me and I picked him up and his eyes looked at mine and in spite of the darkness I could see what one can only see in the wide-open eyes of someone who has taken a bullet to the head—a great, black, endless astonishment. So I picked him up and the radio got tangled between my legs and the bullets started whistling and I carried Yehoram’s body like a bucket with a hole in it through which life was draining out. I carried him just like I’m carrying Dog now, and the whole time I thought about his mother and how she had no idea that her life was over, she was probably still sleeping, enjoying the last good night she’d ever have. In a few hours, the casualty notification officers would show up, and she’d scream and Yehoram’s father would say nothing and would never speak again, because all of his words were connected to his eldest son’s heartbeat, and Yehoram’s brothers and sisters would lament their brother who died in Gaza, but no one would really pay much attention to their pain.”

Kudos to translator Yardenne Greenspan.

Every sentence of Ron’s seems like it was crafted with intention, and has commentary on everything from addicts never being able to return to their former selves, to how the IDF shoots dogs in Gaza. Throughout the war, people shared posts of soldiers rescuing dogs, but you never read about soldiers shooting dogs. Until now.

The personal narrative feels so real, because it’s based on Ron’s own PTSD, which he battled for two decades after serving in Lebanon. You can feel the rawness of his own personal journey throughout his book.

yishayishiron.com

There’s also a tender plot involving a stray dog and the kindness of a stranger, reminding the reader that even in the midst of suffering, one can find compassion and humanity, and everyone is deserving of it.

Dog received this year’s Jewish Book Council Book Club Award, and now I understand why. It doesn’t stray (pun intended) from tough subjects, one that is so prevalent in Israeli society today. There are more than 30,000 cases filed of Israeli soldiers suffering from PTSD.

The novel is short - 180 pages - and makes for meaningful reading over Shabbos.

The Girl Who Rode the White Lion, a Holocaust mystery

Yishay Ishi Ron’s second novel is coming out next Tuesday, and this story revolves around yet another animal!

The Girl Who Rode the White Lion follows Sarah Frank, a young Jewish girl in 1939 Germany as she escapes Nazi Germany with the help of a traveling circus.

Nearly twenty years later, the discovery of an SS officer’s ring inside the body of an elderly lion at NYC’s Central Park Zoo kicks off a transatlantic investigation that uncovers Sarah’s hidden past. The fast-paced novel blends mystery and action with themes of survival, loss, courage, and love.

In full transparency, I didn’t love the novel. There was something offto me about framing an exciting mystery against the backdrop of the Holocaust, like repackaging real suffering as shiny entertainment. I also felt that the writing and scene transitions were rushed. However, I made some startling discoveries of my own while reading it that made me appreciate it more.

First, in the latest issue of Hadassah Magazine, I was tickled to read about a white lion kept at a zoo in Be’ersheva. The article was written by Miriam Green, an olah (immigrant) who found solace in volunteering at Midbarium during the war with Iran.

She writes about zoo life untouched by geopolitics, the preparation of rats for carnivorous animals, and examples from the Torah that emphasize compassion for animals.

Left: Author Miriam Green, Right: one of the majestic white lions! (Hadassah Magazine)

What jumped out at me in the piece, though, was the pair of white lion siblings at the zoo! They have a rare genetic condition called leucism, which is like albinism, where their bodies can’t produce pigmentation, but their eyes remain their natural color (whereas in albinism the eyes are usually red). They couldn’t survive in the wild at night due to their light color, so Midbarium rescued them.

In The Girl Who Rode the White Lion, this rare beautiful creature represents resilience and confronting your past.

Both Ron’s book and Miriam’s article made it seem like white lions are extremely rare, and I’m sure they are, but it’s like they’re en vogue or something!

The more captivating discovery: throughout the book, I kept thinking, “This story is ridiculous. There’s no way it’s true.”

While an SS officer’s ring didn’t actually end up in the stomach of a lion, imagine my surprise when I researched the story and found out that some Jews actually did flee Nazi Germany with the circus.

Adolf Althoff’s family owned a German circus dating back to the 17th century. He and his wife, Maria, hid another circus family full of Jews, created false papers for them, and helped them escape. Ron’s second book was inspired by this remarkable story.

In 1995, the Althoffs were recognized by Yad Vashem as Righteous Among the Nations.

“We circus people see no difference between races or religions,” said Althoff when he received the honor.

While the plot of The Girl Who Rode the White Lion may sound over the top, just know that real history took place under the big top. 🎪

Good Shabbos! Go read something,

💦 If you like Jewish books, check out these Drops:

The Grasshopper Complex

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 12 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

This week's parsha is Sh'lach. Forgive me, in advance, for running a bit of a continuation of last week's theme with this week's framing.

Moses sends twelve scouts into Canaan. Each of them is a leader of his tribe — people of standing, not prone to losing their nerve. They spend forty days in the land and return with a physical sample: a cluster of grapes so large that two men carry it between them on a pole. Then they give their report.

Ten of the twelve say it cannot be done. The cities are fortified and enormous. The people are giants. "We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves," they tell Moses, "and so we must have looked to them." Numbers 13:33 — and those two clauses have lasted three thousand years because they describe something durable. The scouts are not wrong about the giants. Their intelligence is accurate. They read the data and reached a verdict: too small, stay put.

Caleb disagrees.

וַיַּ֧הַס כָּלֵ֛ב אֶת־הָעָ֖ם אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיֹּ֗אמֶר עָלֹ֤ה נַעֲלֶה֙ וְיָרַ֣שְׁנוּ אֹתָ֔הּ כִּי־יָכ֥וֹל נוּכַ֖ל לָֽהּ׃ Caleb hushed the people before Moses and said, "Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it."

— Bamidbar 13:30

The first word is "וַיַּהַס" — he hushed them. Before he said a word about the land, he stilled the crowd. The grammar puts the silencing first. The panic had to stop before anything else could be heard.

Caleb worked with the same field intelligence the other scouts brought back — the giants, the fortifications, forty days of accurate observation. He reached a different conclusion anyway: "we shall surely overcome it." The Hebrew doubles the verb — יָכוֹל נוּכַל — the way biblical Hebrew presses emphasis when the speaker is not hedging. Definitely, absolutely, thoroughly able. Ten scouts read identical evidence and concluded the opposite.

Ten scouts. Two who said to go up. The vote was not close.

What I keep coming back to, reading this parsha, is that Caleb and Joshua had been in the same land, walked the same hills, looked at the same people. Same evidence, different place. The grasshopper complex lives alongside accurate information — that is what makes it difficult to argue against. The scouts could point to the giants. They were right about the giants. Accurate intelligence and a verdict of defeat coexist in the same report. Caleb read the same accurate intelligence and arrived somewhere else.

The families we talked about last week, in New Jersey and Toronto, have done the research and are still participating in the summer's aliyah wave. They know the housing market, the school enrollment process, the language question, the security situation. Their picture of Israel is not a soft-focus one that omits the difficult parts. They showed up to the pre-aliyah events and booked their flights because, for some people, a clear-eyed accounting of what is hard does not become a verdict to stay put.

We, though we started the process last year, are on their path with them. Our aliyah file has picked up steam and is moving again. We have hopes to make the move this summer — perhaps in the next few weeks. It's a logistical burden, but the spiritual and emotional benefits are huge [even if the tax benefits are overrated].

The parsha leaves something open. The Torah locates the punishment with precision. The scouts gave accurate intelligence. The covenant broke on what came next: the people wept through the night and concluded they would have been better off dying in Egypt. The community collapsed the data into a verdict of return. Caleb hushed his end of the crowd before that collapse could happen.

We are all, in our own ways, learning which of our concerns are the Caleb kind, drawn from the same accurate data as everyone else and arriving somewhere different, and which are the ten-scouts kind that look at the same accurate data and reach for Egypt.

The summer aliyah season is the busiest of the year because the school calendar cooperates, because families want to be settled before the High Holidays, because the logistics line up. The Calebs take preparation seriously. They read the same data everyone else reads and reach a different verdict.

The cluster of grapes is still so large it takes two people to carry it. The land is still what it is. And every year, people show up to the pre-aliyah events, quiet their own crowd, and say: we are definitely, absolutely able.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Taking the High Road

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 11 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on June 11, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Fiorello LaGuardia, mayor of New York City during the 1930s, occasionally presided over night court. One evening, a woman was brought before him, accused of stealing a loaf of bread. The facts were not in dispute.

LaGuardia listened to her story. Her daughter was ill, her grandchildren were hungry, and she had no money for food. She had taken the bread, and the law required a penalty.

The courtroom waited to hear what the judge would do. Would he show mercy, or strictly enforce the law?

✨3 Ideas

**Beyond what is required **

The high road is choosing what is best when something less would have been sufficient. Honesty is good; integrity is better. Fairness is good; generosity is better. Civility is good; kindness is better.

The soul is drawn to what is noble, not merely what is permissible. It seeks excellence, greatness, and the expression of our finest values.

The high road is loftier than refusing to retaliate or choosing not to get even. It asks not, “What must I do?” but ”What is the best thing I can do?”

**Why the high road is difficult **

The soul asks, “What is the best thing I can do?” The ego insists, “I deserve recognition.”

Once we begin focusing on what we deserve, it becomes easy to keep score. We replay old hurts, remember overlooked sacrifices, and calculate who owes us what.

The high road begins where obligation ends. It invites us to rise above resentment, entitlement, and pride, and to act according to our highest values rather than our strongest impulses.

**Choosing greatness **

The high road can be found in everyday choices: showing more patience than a situation requires, returning money that could have been kept, or offering kindness when simple courtesy would have been enough.

Such choices reflect a deep connection to the soul’s desire for excellence. They express a commitment to doing what is right and good, not merely what is expected.

Every high road choice shapes the person we are capable of becoming. In choosing what transcends mere obligation, we outwardly express the greatness within us.

📜2 Quotes

“Righteousness guards the one whose way is blameless …” — Proverbs 13:6

“Take the high road; it’s far less crowded.” — _Warren Buffett _

❓1 Question

What is one way of interacting with others that you can elevate from ‘good’ to ‘great’?

What did LaGuardia do? He upheld the law.

The woman was guilty, and he imposed the required ten-dollar fine. But then he did something extraordinary. He paid the fine himself and fined everyone in the courtroom fifty cents for living in a city where a grandmother had to steal bread to feed her hungry grandchildren. LaGuardia then took the extra money and gave it to the grandmother.

LaGuardia understood that justice alone was not enough. The law required a penalty. The high road called for something more.

We encounter similar situations daily. The question is whether we are willing to do what is best, not simply what is required. The high road begins where obligation ends.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of expressing the greatness that already exists within you,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Has anyone recently showed you kindness beyond what you expected? If so, I’d love to hear the story.

P.P.S. Last week marked the release of Spiritual Sparks: A Reader on Amazon. Thank you to all who have helped bring this project to life through your encouragement, support and friendship.

Independent Times

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 05 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on June 5, 2026.

Perhaps more than any other time in history we live in the era of the individual. Old norms, old structures are being replaced without revolutions. Regular folk making decisions on how they can disrupt industries are succeeding and the world is changing with it.

If you are an old folk, you may want to get with the program so you aren't left behind.

If you are a young folk, while it is certainly commendable the changes you are making it's important to plug in and anchor the changes in some of the old traditions. The really good ones give support and serve as a foundation for sustainable success.

This idea is alluded to in the beginning of this week's Torah portion. Speak to Aaron and say to him: "When you light the lamps, the seven lamps shall cast their light toward the face of the menorah."

In Hebrew the word used to light the lamps here is Behaalosecha (the name of this week's Portion). It actually translates as when you bring up (the candles).

The idea is that while each generation has a responsibility to the next to ignite and inspire, the real goal is to empower. The objective is to give the next generation wings so they can fly on their own.

While the older generation may have wisdom and the ability to elevate the new generation to great heights, the new generation has the ability to plant seeds that will grow and change the world over time.

We don't have to look far to see how this has happened in our lifetime. Look at your cell phone, your social media, AI and Waymo!!

This idea is powerfully reflected in the Hayom Yom from the Rebbe.

There must be avoda (Divine service) by one's own efforts. Superior heights are attained when one is taken by the hand and led; it is more precious though, when it is by one's own strength.

With blessings for a wonderful Shabbos!

Sound the Trumpet for Your Simcha

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 05 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Six hundred and fifty people showed up.

They gathered at a hotel in New Jersey on Monday and again in Toronto on Tuesday — an aliyah expo, organized by Nefesh B'Nefesh alongside Israel's Ministry of Aliyah and Integration and the Jewish Agency. Families came with checklists and questions and children who probably knew more about the whole plan than anyone admitted. Representatives from government ministries were there. Lawyers explained the bureaucratic maze. The rooms filled fast.

By the end of summer, more than 2,300 people will be boarding planes to move to Israel. Forty-seven group flights. Four hundred and seventy-eight families — one of the largest North American aliyah summers in recent memory, and it hasn't started yet.

The parsha this week is Beha'alotcha. This is the right week for that story.

The parsha opens with Aaron and the menorah. God instructs Moses: tell Aaron that when he raises up the lamps — beha'alotcha et hanerot — they should give light toward the front of the lampstand. Seven lamps. Aaron does exactly as commanded, and the text moves quickly to the consecration of the Levites, a clarification of the Passover rules, and then something I want to look at carefully: two silver trumpets.

God tells Moses to have them made from hammered silver, to be used for calling the assembly and for setting the camp in motion. The Hebrew word for them is chatzotzrot — a distinct instrument from the shofar, the ram's horn. The shofar is found; the chatzotzrot are made. Crafted to a purpose. They'll sound different signals for different needs — long blasts to gather the whole community, shorter calls to move the tribes, alarm calls when enemies approach. A people on the move needs a way to communicate. All of that is practical and makes sense.

Then comes verse 10.

וּבְי֣וֹם שִׂמְחַתְכֶ֗ם וּבְמ֣וֹעֲדֵיכֶ֘ם וּבְרָאשֵׁ֣י חָדְשֵׁיכֶ֚ם וּתְקַעְתֶּ֣ם בַּחֲצֹצְרֹ֗ת עַ֚ל עֹלֹ֣תֵיכֶ֔ם וְעַ֖ל זִבְחֵ֣י שַׁלְמֵיכֶ֑ם וְהָי֤וּ לָכֶם֙ לְזִכָּרֹ֔ון לִפְנֵ֖י אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֑ם אֲנִ֖י יְהוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃ And on your joyful occasions—your fixed festivals and new moon days—you shall sound the trumpets over your burnt offerings and your sacrifices of well-being. They shall be a reminder of you before your God: I the ETERNAL am your God.

— Bamidbar 10:10

The opening phrase in Hebrew is יוֹם שִׂמְחַתְכֶם — the day of your simcha. Your joy. The same instrument commanded to signal battle and set the camp in motion is also commanded to sound on the joyful occasions. This is explicit instruction. Mark the good days. Make noise.

We have built the rituals for the hard days with extraordinary care. The kaddish, the shiva, the fast. The liturgy for grief and mourning goes back a thousand years and holds — you can be in any shul, any city, any century, and the words are there. We know how to be present in difficulty.

But the silver trumpets for simcha?

The Torah is not leaving the good days to chance. It requires them to be marked. Sound the trumpet on your joyful occasions. Your fixed festivals. Your new moon days. Do not let the good days pass unmarked.

Beha'alotcha is also a parsha about movement. Not long after the silver trumpet instructions, the cloud that had been resting over the Tabernacle lifts, and the Israelites finally set out from Sinai — after more than a year at the mountain. The Torah is specific about how it worked: they camped when the cloud settled, they moved when it lifted. Sometimes the cloud rested for a day. Sometimes for months. The people didn't choose the timing. They watched, they waited, and when it was time, they went.

I think about the families in that New Jersey hotel ballroom. And the ones, like us, who are going through the process without the expos.

For some, October 7 moved the cloud. For others it came more slowly — a feeling building over years, a conversation that finally landed, a sense that the time was now. For some it was something quieter still: a child who started asking why they lived here and not there, and the question that didn't go away.

You can't always name the moment the idea stops being theoretical. Something shifts and you go.

What strikes me is that showing up to the expo is itself a kind of trumpet sound. Before the plane ticket, before the packing, before any of the practical work of moving a life — you drive to a hotel, you sit in a room where the decision becomes real, and the room fills with 650 people doing the same thing at the same moment. Marking the joyful occasion before it has fully arrived. Sounding the trumpet while the simcha is still on its way.

The Torah's instruction at Bamidbar 10:10 is not to sound the trumpet after the sacrifice is complete. It is to sound the trumpet at the moment itself — in it, while it is happening. The instrument doesn't have to be silver. It has to sound.

Those families sounded it this week. I found my simcha there.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 04 Jun 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on June 4, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

The CEO of Charles Schwab once shared the most important lesson of his career.

Surprisingly, it began with failure. As a college senior, he had maintained a perfect 4.0 average and was determined to graduate with straight A's. In one business course, he studied intensely for the final exam, expecting pages of calculations and case studies.

Instead, the professor handed out a single sheet of paper. Both sides were blank. Then the students were told to turn the page over and answer the one question written there.

It was the only college exam he ever failed. Why?

✨3 Ideas

**Respect begins with recognition **

Rushed and distracted, we move through life barely noticing the people around us: the cashier, the janitor, the waiter. Yet one of our deepest human needs is to feel seen and acknowledged.

Every human being possesses inherent value. Beneath our appearance, accomplishments, and status lies a spiritual essence worthy of dignity.

Giving another person our full attention affirms their humanity. Respect begins with the simple recognition that every person has innate value.

**Ego makes other people disappear **

Walter Cronkite once waved enthusiastically to boaters he thought were saying, "Hello, Walter!" His wife quietly corrected him: "They were actually yelling, 'Low water.'"

Ego has a way of seeing everything as being about us. Consumed with our own ambitions, concerns, and schedules, we often fail to notice the people around us.

Recognizing the worth of others requires stepping outside our private world. Respect begins to grow when we notice those standing right in front of us.

**Respect honors the dignity within others **

Dignity is revealed through acts of respect: learning someone's name, listening attentively, and thanking those who are often overlooked.

A person's dignity depends not on achievement, intelligence, or status, but on the spiritual essence they possess. Respect does not create dignity: it recognizes the dignity already present.

When memory fades or disagreement exists, the human soul is still deserving of respect. Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is help another person feel seen.

📜2 Quotes

"You have made [human beings] a little lower than the angels and crowned them with glory and honor." — Psalms 8:4

"I'm not concerned with your liking me or disliking me … All I ask is that you respect me as a human being." — Jackie Robinson

❓1 Question

Is there someone in your life with whom you are at odds, yet whom you could treat with deeper respect?

It was the only college exam the CEO ever failed. Why?

Because after all his hours of studying formulas and business strategies, he couldn't answer the single question, "_What's the name of the lady who cleans this building?" _ Her name was Dottie.

The CEO later said that the experience left a lifelong impression upon him. He had seen Dottie countless times, but had never taken the time to learn her name. Since then, he has tried to know every "Dottie" in his life.

One of the greatest gifts we can give another person is simply to notice them.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of recognizing the humanity within every person you meet,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Has someone ever made you feel truly valued and respected? How did they do it? I'd love to hear that story if you'd like to share.

P.P.S. If this message resonated with you, please feel free to forward to a friend.

Shameless Rabbi's

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 29 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on May 29, 2026.

Seven Rabbis were summoned late at night for an early morning exclusive session to determine if the year should be interlocated (fancy word for adding a month - a Jewish Leap Year) as is proscribed. Eight Rabbi's showed up. This is not the beginning of a joke. True story Talmud Sanhedrin.

The organizing Rabbi questioned who showed up uninvited. Shmuel raised his hand. When asked why he came, he said to observe and learn the procedures. The organizing Rabbi (R' Gamliel) praised his dedication.

The Talmud tells us that Shmuel wanted to prevent the shame from the actual culprit who showed up uninvited.

This leads to a question: what is shame? Did Shmuel not have shame for now being seen as the culprit? Did he not care? Does he not have shame?

When we hear of a shameless person, usually we think about this as a negative. We think of a person with low moral character who doesn't care what others may think of them. They'll do anything, they are shameless.

But on a positive note, there is another type of person who is shameless and that is a person who doesn't define their self evaluation by the opinions of others because they get their sense of worth from their essence, their soul!

If you know who you are in truth, you stand proudly regardless of your shortcomings, deficiencies and are able to keep focused on moving forward.

The Torah portion this week lists the individual gifts of the leaders of the Tribes and their gifts to the Mishkan. When the donations were given for the construction of the portable Temple they stood back and said "we'll give whatever is not donated". The Torah tells us that more than enough was given and so the leaders the Nesiim's gifts were superflous. They didn't carry their shame but moved forward with being the first to give the donations at the inauguration of the Mishkan. They didn't carry their shame, they moved forward.

Who were these leaders that had this inner sense of worth? Our Sages tell us these were the Jewish People who were assigned as the Taskmasters over their brothers during the time of the Egyptian slavery. They chose to take the beatings themselves rather than oppress their brothers. Their sense of self and their dedication to the Jewish People earned them the role of Leaders of the Tribes. These are the very same people who know how to move forward.

A leader is not one who doesn't make a mistake, it is one who doesn't get stuck in the shame of it and knows who they are and move forward with inner strength!

Good Shabbos!

Shavuot Programs are the New Passover Programs

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 29 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 29, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Here’s an important one for this time of year: mazgan (מַזְגַן), or air conditioner.

Shabbat Drop-In

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Shavuot is my favorite Jewish holiday. I’ll shout it to the mountaintops if I have to. ;)

I love learning something I otherwise wouldn’t have learned anywhere else while enjoying a dairy meal. There’s something magical about the all-night chaos: the several sessions happening every hour, the rush of racing to a room before the class fills up, and hanging out in the lobby over coffee and a catch-up with a Jew you haven’t seen in a while.

But this year, I did something a little different. Our friends Adina and Avi organized a Shavuot getaway at a camp in West Milford, New Jersey. 60 of us - and some children - relived our camp days, along with late-night learning and cheesecake.

Our tikkun leil (a “night of spiritual repair,” or a night of learning) was divided into 10-minute segments. Here are some highlights:

A rowdy 1:00am rendition of “Vos Vet Zayn Az Meshiakh Vet Kumen,” a cumulative Yiddish song of questions and answers about the Great Feast in Heaven after the coming of the Messiah. Spoiler alert: it involves Moses teaching, David playing music, and Miriam dancing. Sounds like the cool kids’ table at lunchtime! I want in.
A closer look at the most famous line in the Book of Ruth, which we read each year on this holiday: “Where you go, I will go; and where you stay, I will stay; your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” Moabite Ruth says this to her Jewish mother-in-law, Naomi, after Naomi urges her to return to her own land and start anew now that her husband is dead. But Ruth remains steadfast to the Jewish people, choosing loyalty and love over safety and certainty. In the quote, “people” comes before G-d, emphasizing that peoplehood and chosen belonging comes before covenant and faith.
Speaking of chosenness, Phil taught two classes, one of which I wrote about last year. First, he spoke about how Jews have always struggled with how to explain chosenness in non-Jewish contexts, and in a separate talk, who gets (or doesn’t get) a portion in the world to come.
I gave a 10-minute talk on The Torah in the Tarot by Stav Appel, which deserves at least a full hour. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, read this! I also gave Tarot readings and maybe turned a few skeptics.
Fellow Substacker gave an inspiring talk about the Jews’ stiff-neckedness, which originates in Exodus 32:9: “And the Lord said to Moses: I have seen this people, and behold, it is a stiff-necked people.” Throughout history, our stubbornness has caused us to question, argue, hold on too tightly, and refuse to let go of what we believe matters. Empires rose and fell trying to crush us, convince us, erase us, and somehow we are still here in 5786, still singing the same songs, still telling the same stories, still choosing Jewish life.

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Then, Kabbalat Shabbat overflowed with spirit in the best communal, homemade kind of way.

All 60 of us gathered on the porch of the main dining hall, and friends led us to another plane of existence with their guitars and voices.

Halfway through the service, prayers transitioned to jumping, dancing, holding hands, and forming a conga line. It felt like a collective exhale through Hebrew song. We had so much spirit, we were afraid the porch was going to give out from underneath us!

Even my friend who is normally insecure and shy about dancing felt moved to let loose during Lecha Dodi like something shifted in him. Afterwards he said it felt like “angels were smiling down on us.”

The celebratory weekend culminated in a post-chag/Shabbat silent disco, which is my favorite activity ever. What made this one special was that this was my first silent disco where one of the channels played Israeli music! So you bet everyone switched to the green channel once Ofra Haza came on.

Here’s the playlist from the Israeli station, created by one of the participants. It’s a mix of spiritual niggunim and bangers:

Listen on Spotify

Throughout the weekend, my mind kept drifting back to Yoni’s talk about our stiff necks, and the fact that we were all there celebrating a Jewish holiday because our ancestors refused to give up their tradition. They refused to be like anyone else.

What will happen when the Messiah comes? Maybe it will look like this: holding hands and dancing until the wooden slats of the porch give out. Children laughing on a sunny patch of grass. Fists pounding in rhythm on tables full of challah, wine, and delicious food. Silently swishing your hips to Akon’s “I Wanna **** You.”

Alright, maybe not that last one, but I would pay to see a room full of rabbis do that.

Mazel tov to Adina and Avi for creating a holy space for learning, joy, and connection, and to everyone who shared their wisdom with us.

✍️ Shabbat Prompt

What’s something you learned this Shavuot, or recently? Please share in the comments!

Shabbat Shalom (hey!),

💦 Like Shavuot? Check out these Drops:

The Words That Kept Us

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 29 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

New York State passed a buffer zone law on Tuesday. Fifty feet of protected space around the entrances to synagogues, houses of worship, schools, community centers. A misdemeanor if you knowingly use that space to block someone's access or put them in fear for their safety. The UJA-Federation thanked Governor Hochul and the bill sponsors for "strong leadership." Jewish organizations that had been pushing for the law since a string of anti-Israel protests outside New York synagogues started crossing from political demonstration into something else said the law was overdue.

I'll take the win.

What I kept thinking about, reading the story on Tuesday evening, was something in this week's parasha. In Nasso, Moses receives a three-verse text to teach Aaron's sons — the words the kohanim are to say over the people after the offerings. No setup, no explanation. God gives it to Moses, Moses gives it to Aaron and his sons, and the next verse says that is how the priests shall put God's name on the children of Israel, and God will bless them.

יְבָרֶכְךָ֥ יְהוָ֖ה וְיִשְׁמְרֶֽךָ׃ יָאֵ֨ר יְהוָ֧ה ׀ פָּנָ֛יו אֵלֶ֖יךָ וִֽיחֻנֶּֽךָּ׃ יִשָּׂ֨א יְהוָ֤ה ׀ פָּנָיו֙ אֵלֶ֔יךָ וְיָשֵׂ֥ם לְךָ֖ שָׁלֽוֹם׃ May the ETERNAL bless you and protect you! May the ETERNAL deal kindly and graciously with you! May the ETERNAL bestow divine favor upon you and grant you peace!

— Bamidbar 6:24–26

The structure of the Hebrew is worth sitting with. The first verse has three words. The second has five. The third has seven. Three, five, seven — the blessing expands with each line, and the last word, shalom, sits at the end of the longest. The first verse asks for protection. The second asks for grace — God's face turned toward you, lit as if you are worth being seen. The third asks for peace, which in Hebrew carries everything the other two were building toward: wholeness, completeness, the absence of what should not be there.

In 1979, Gabriel Barkay was excavating burial caves at Ketef Hinnom in Jerusalem — a hillside cemetery used from around 650 BCE. In one of the caves, among jewelry and arrowheads, a student on the dig found two tiny silver scrolls, each about the size of a cigarette filter. When conservators finally unrolled them — a process that took years — they found the text of Numbers 6:24–26. Both scrolls. The same verses, twice over, in Hebrew script from the late First Temple period. These are the oldest known physical specimens of biblical text we have. They predate the Dead Sea Scrolls by four centuries. They predate the destruction of the First Temple. They were almost certainly amulets — carried by people who believed the words inside would keep them safe.

We don't know whose they were. We know someone wanted these words with them.

The Talmud notices something peculiar about the blessing's grammar. The kohen stands before an entire congregation, but the Hebrew uses second-person singular throughout. Not you-all. Not you-the-community. Just you. May He bless you. May He protect you. The rabbis conclude this is deliberate — the blessing is addressed to everyone present in the exact same way, each person receiving it as if they alone are being blessed. The singular is not a grammatical error. It is the theological point.

You. May His face turn toward you. May you have peace.

In many Ashkenazi communities the kohanim recite the blessing on holidays with the congregation covered by tallitot, so as not to look at the hands of the priests forming the letter shin. In other communities the gabbai reads the words aloud and the congregation repeats them. The Amidah carries the blessing as a standing daily prayer. And every Friday night, before kiddush, parents put their hands on their children's heads and say these three verses — or something very close to them. My husband learned this from his parents. I learned it from watching him, then from practice, and now the words are in my hands the way they're supposed to be.

The New York buffer zone is a different kind of protection. Civic, enforced by police, punishable by misdemeanor. It does not turn God's face toward anyone. But I don't think the two kinds of protection are in competition with each other. The buffer zone says: the fifty feet around this door belong to the people coming to pray inside it. The Birkat Kohanim says: the whole field of your life belongs to God's attention. One of these was signed by a governor on a Tuesday in Albany. The other has been said aloud over silver amulets since before the Babylonian exile.

Both are trying to protect the same thing.

The scrolls from Ketef Hinnom are in the Israel Museum now. Unrolled under glass, next to photographs of the excavation and technical notes on how conservators opened them without destroying what was inside. The text is not completely preserved — the silver corroded over two and a half millennia — but enough survived to confirm what was written. Yivarechecha YHWH v'yishmerecha. May He bless you and keep you.

Those words will be said again in synagogues this Shabbat. Said over children in living rooms before the Friday night meal. Said in Israel, in New York, in Atlanta. The silver survived. The words survived. And this week, fifty feet of air around the door where they're spoken did too.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The New Sensation Hiding in Your Laundry Basket

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 28 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on May 28, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Every family has certain household jobs that nobody really wants to do. In our house, one of them was matching socks. And with a large family, this wasn't a small undertaking.

We had a few hundred socks floating around the house: black, white, colored, tiny, enormous … and somehow, many had mysteriously lost their partners along the way.

Not many people would raise their hands to spend hours matching socks. Truthfully, I wouldn't have volunteered either. But at a certain point, I decided to take ownership of the task myself. The challenge was this:

How do you make something so repetitive and mundane feel even remotely enjoyable?

✨3 Ideas

**Engagement transforms experience **

Give a child a cardboard box, a blanket, and a flashlight, and suddenly the living room becomes a castle, a spaceship, or secret hideout.

The soul longs to experience life deeply by discovering hidden possibilities in ordinary moments through attention and imagination. Even repetitive work can feel different when we stop merely enduring it and begin participating in it.

The goal is to remain awake to the wonder hidden within ordinary life.

**Familiarity can dull appreciation **

The things that once excited us can slowly lose their freshness and become routine: our homes, our work, our relationships, even life itself.

Habits help give structure and stability to life. But habituation, when life becomes overly mechanical, can leave the soul feeling undernourished.

A small shift in perspective can awaken us. Instead of saying, "I have to," we can say, "I get to." We get to go to work, cook dinner for our family, and wake up to another day of life. Appreciation renews what familiarity hides.

**A meaningful life grows through intentional engagement **

The soul awakens when we actively participate in life. We can approach ordinary moments differently: turn chores into challenges, or look at familiar things with fresh eyes.

Children naturally imagine, explore, and discover. **Part of spiritual growth is reclaiming our innate openness, curiosity, and creativity. **

Life becomes deeper when we bring greater attention, imagination, and presence to the life already in front of us.

📜2 Quotes

"Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might." — Ecclesiastes 9:10

"We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake." — _Henry David Thoreau _

❓1 Question

What activity do you think of as being boring — or drives you crazy with boredom?

So what happened with the socks? I created a motto: "No sock will be left behind."

The black and white socks were put in different areas, and the colored socks were grouped together with their "friends." Unmatched socks waited patiently in mesh bags until their missing partners reappeared.

Soon, the task began to change. Finding a missing match felt like a small victory. At times I'd even think to myself, "I know exactly where your sole-mate -- or soul mate -- is." The socks never changed. What changed was the way I approached them.

Life often works the same way. When we bring greater attention, creativity and presence to ordinary moments, even familiar routines can begin to feel alive again.

Until next time, Wishing you a week of meaning, creativity, and fresh perspective,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What never bores you -- and why? Please feel free to share your thoughts.

P.P.S. If this message spoke to you, perhaps it will resonate with someone else as well. Please feel free to share it.

Readers Respond — Hidden Seasons, Hidden Strength

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 21 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on May 21, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Over the past months, many readers have shared reflections that were thoughtful, moving, humorous, and deeply human. Some stayed with me long after I read them.

With identifying details changed to preserve privacy, I wanted to share a few excerpts. Often, the conversation after a message can be just as meaningful as the message itself.

• • •

From: The Circle Game — The seasons return, but we do not remain the same

Q: Is there a particular season of the year that feels spiritually meaningful or renewing to you?

“And perhaps there is so much meaning on a deeper level in the Fall of our lives, some sadness with leaves falling, and my parents passing in the Fall. And the deep meaning of the holidays of contemplation, when we review our lives and hope we see life with a new awareness.”

“Winter. Most view winter as cold but I see warmth. A time to cozy up close with family and friends, to feel love and learn from each other as we stay warm together.”

“I’m going through the Winter season. It has made me more sensitive to other people’s needs.”

• • •

From: Walk a Mile in My Shoes — Before judging, there’s often more to the story

Motto: He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

“This was a big one for me! I read it through tears and heartfelt understanding because of a family situation that has just come to light. A close relative was recently diagnosed with a condition that has rendered him nearly incapacitated. He can no longer engage in one activity that he particularly loved, and he is totally broken.

There are many issues to address and I will work hard to face these challenges. This Spiritual Spark came at just the right time with just the right amount of wisdom and direction I needed today. I will think about your words and your insight as I figure out the path ahead.

The Boys Town motto, ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother,’ couldn’t have been more perfect.”

Another reader wrote:

“Your point about being present reminded me of a funny but true quip: ‘Job could endure everything except the consolation of his friends.’ His buddies did pretty good when they just sat quietly with him for a week. It was when they opened their mouths that they got in trouble.

It’s so hard to just sit with someone who is grieving, but often that is what is really needed.”

• • •

From: Are You a Good Listener?

“I know that I’m truly listening when I ask for clarification or an expansion of the thought just shared. I know I’ve been heard when someone asks a follow-up question or asks for more information about the topic I’ve expressed. Conversation is meaningful when I listen and when I feel heard.”

“Listening is a true art and must be practiced with intention.”

• • •

From: Can Sugar Look Like Salt?

Q: Have you ever realized you were seeing someone’s costume — and not who they really were?

“I see that every day in the trauma work I do. I love to see when they finish doing the inner work that they finally feel safe taking off their costume.”

• • •

From: Living With Fascination

“The most fascinating person I have met, oddly, is my grandfather. Not because his life was full of some wild or extravagant stories, but simply because I have known him for 33 years, and discovered more about him in the past two years than I have ever known.

He is a very reserved man, and growing up, he never told us much about his past. Anything, really. He is now remarried, and it’s actually his wife who seems to have unlocked him. When we occasionally meet for breakfast, I discover more and more about his past every time.

He was a runaway?! He was actually born in the South?! He never knew his father?! What!?

It’s most fascinating to me because I had a made-up past created in my young mind, and am now being surprised by the tales of a very quiet 90-year-old man.”

• • •

From: Running on Empty

“You ask what keeps a person going even when life is difficult. Personally, I feel like a dung beetle, pushing that ball of dung along. It’s sort of like being hard wired to keep moving on, maybe not always forward, maybe rolling one step forward and two steps back, but with the knowledge that life’s travails always pass.

As they say, this too shall pass. Fortunately for me, it always does ;-)”

Wishing you a week of hidden strength, meaningful conversation, and people who truly listen,

Rabbi Ze’ev Smason

Buff Humility

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Thu, 21 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on May 21, 2026.

Neither the bent over suffering depictions of Jews by anti-semitic cartoonists, nor the image of the modern Jew the buff warrior are the authentic depictions of either the Torah's value nor the true meaning of greatness.

Greatness is a reflection of authentic humility. The combination of the two becomes a potent force that the greatest warrior will be hard pressed to be victorious over.

Shavous which is celebrated this Friday and Shabbos commemorates the revelation at Sinai. The Midrash tells us the story of Mt. Sinai, a basic staple in every Preschool and Sunday School.

When G-d approaches the mountains to choose which mountain to give the Torah upon, the mountains begin to boast. Each mountain puts forth its greatness and mountainous qualities, putting forth the reason the Torah should be given on it.

"I'm bigger", "I'm greener", "I'm stronger". Only little Mt. Sinai is quiet. "I'm not tall, I'm not beautiful, the Torah will never be given on me." Hashem appreciates Mt. Sinai's humility and chooses to give the Torah on it.

The depiction, while imaginatively pleasing for the little child, fails to convey the real message of humility and the relevance to us of the Torah being given on this humble mountain.

When Abraham argues on behalf of the people of Sodom and Gomorrah, he says, "please let me speak, as I am but dust and ashes."

This statement begs for explanation. If you are dust and ashes then why are you speaking? And if you are speaking to G-d you must not be dust and ashes?!

At an earlier time, Abraham had been thrown into a furnace for refusing to bow to Nimrod's gods. Miraculously G-d saved Abraham and he came out of the fire unscathed.

This is the meaning of the words of Abraham "I am but dust and ashes" and the true definition of humility and greatness.

Abraham realizes that indeed he is but dust and ashes, he ought to have been consumed in the fire. The fact that he wasn't is only because Hashem had saved him.

As such his true existence is only Hashem Himself. I am but dust and ashes, I am non existent, Abraham says, but for the fact that You want me to exist.

If G-d wants him to exist then he has purpose. And that recognition gives Abraham the strength to press forward and argue with G-d for the wicked people of Sodom and Gomorrah.

In a similar manner Mt. Sinai is not quiet because he is not pretty or worthwhile. Mt. Sinai says, G-d you created me, that is my worthiness. Mt. Sinai is silent because he doesn't need to put forward his value. It speaks for itself. And that is enough for G-d to choose it.

Humility is a recognition that what we have comes from Above. The more we recognize that, the more empowered we are to be the greatest warriors in the causes that Hashem puts before us.

May you receive the Torah this Shavous with joy and inwardness.

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

Westward Ho! How Jews Came Through Galveston, Texas

Miranda Lapides — Thu, 21 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 21, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Yesh li chalooom, shir lashir. 🎵 Anyone an ABBA fan?! This week’s word is chalom (חלום), which means dream. As in, “I have a dream, a song to sing.”

When you think of Jewish immigrants arriving to America, what do you see?

If you pictured a crowded ship pulling into New York Harbor, the towering Statue of Liberty evoking The Brutalist, and families clutching their luggage at Ellis Island, you’re right. Between 1880 and 1914, over two million Jews from Eastern Europe made that exact journey. That’s the story we know, and one that many of us can trace through our own family histories.

But after I wrote my Jewish Unpacked piece on Jews of the Wild West and talked to people about this topic, I learned that most Jews aren’t familiar with the lesser-known American immigration story of Galveston, Texas.

That’s right! About 10,000 Jewish immigrants came through a different port of entry a liiitle more west. In honor of Jewish American Heritage Month, here’s a Drop I’ve been wanting to write about for quite some time, just ahead of Shavuot. Saddle up!

Photo: visitgalveston.com

Why Galveston?

As Jewish immigrants poured into Manhattan’s Lower East Side, German-Jewish banker Jacob Schiff was nervous about the overcrowding of Jewish communities in northeastern cities. He felt they would fuel anger and lead to federal immigration restrictions.

So in 1907, he committed $500,000 of his own money (about $13 million today) to set up the Jewish Immigrants’ Information Bureau (JIIB). The goal was to redirect immigrants away from the East Coast and distribute them across the rest of the country, where they would hopefully find work as merchants or cattle ranchers (jobs they held in Europe before emigrating), and blend into communities rather than cluster in urban ghettos.

Russian Jewish immigrants’ arrival at the North German Lloyd Wharf in Galveston, 1907 (UTSA Libraries Special Collections)

To do so, they needed a port. They evaluated three options: Charleston, New Orleans, and Galveston.

Charleston was out immediately; local officials made it clear they only wanted Anglo-Saxon immigrants. New Orleans had recurring yellow fever outbreaks and was too densely populated. Galveston had direct shipping routes from Bremen, Germany (the main departure point for Eastern European Jews), and rail lines heading straight into the Midwest! Galveston it was.

The Rabbi of the Ellis Island of the West

At the heart of the operation was a man named Rabbi Henry Cohen of Galveston’s Congregation B’nai Israel.

Rabbi Cohen personally met almost every arriving ship. He rode his bicycle to the docks, greeted immigrants in Yiddish, assessed their skills, and coordinated their placement with the JIIB. He had been serving Galveston’s Jewish community since 1888.

Just imagine Rabbi Cohen riding a bicycle! Photo: Rice University

Cohen served B'nai Israel for 64 years, becoming an influential civic reformer in Texas. He lobbied the state legislature to raise the age of consent for girls from 12 to 18, rescued sex workers from local brothels, and helped organize the Central Relief Committee after the 1900 hurricane. In 1930, Stephen Wise included Cohen on a list in the New York Times of the ten most prominent religious leaders in the U.S. And that was the last time that paper said anything nice about Jews. Kidding, kidding.

Everything’s bigger (and more difficult) in Texas

About 92% of arriving immigrants moved west of the Mississippi. Families spread out across Texas, in cities like Tyler, Palestine, Marshall, San Antonio, and into Missouri, Iowa, and Minnesota.

But over time, most of them drifted back east. This was actually something I did not know until researching this topic this week!

88-90% of adult men eventually relocated to Chicago or New York, drawn by things the JIIB hadn’t fully accounted for: community, kosher food, Yiddish newspapers, synagogues, family. Employers in smaller towns often refused to accommodate Shabbat observance.

Still, the families who stayed planted roots that are still visible today. Jewish congregations, businesses, and civic institutions across Texas and the Southwest trace their origins back to those 10,000 people who got off a boat in Galveston instead of New York.

The movement officially ended in 1914 when World War I shut down transatlantic travel entirely.

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A personal connection

My colleague’s family immigrated through Galveston! Here’s what Tova told me about it:

“My great-great grandfather, Philip Rich (born Pinchos Ratschkovsky), came to the U.S. from Russia in 1904 when he was 13 years old. He came through Ellis Island, but continued by boat to Galveston. He continued by train to Richmond to stay with his uncle.

Pinchos was so excited to see his family after the long trip, that he left his straw suitcase on the train. As the train pulled out, he started yelling in Yiddish, and the whole crowd yelled so the train backed up and the conductor threw the straw case out to him.

As an adult, he lived in Houston, Texas, and started the Phil Rich Fan Manufacturing Company. The company was managed for decades by his son, Hershel. The iconic mid-century brand operated until it was sold to Sunbeam in 1981. Today, Phil Rich Windmaker fans are highly sought-after collector's items in the vintage and industrial design markets, renowned for their heavy-duty metal construction and massive airflow.”

So there you have it: a look into a lesser-known immigration story that kicked off the era Jewish cowboys. Read my article to learn about that fascinating part of history!

Sources and Further Reading/Watching

✨ Jewish Joy of the Week

I mean, it doesn’t get more joyous than me posting on Facebook asking if I know anyone whose family immigrated through Galveston and receiving a few replies!

Chag sameach and happy learning,

On the List

Uriel ben Avraham — Thu, 21 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

This post was written and scheduled before Shavuot began.

The cheesecake came out of the oven an hour ago and is cooling on the counter, which is more presence than cheesecake usually has in this house. Erev Shavuot in Atlanta. The flowers came this morning — three bunches of white and green, scattered on the table where the chumashim are already stacked for tonight. The chag starts a few hours from now. The house has the half-quiet of last-minute preparation.

I went to the grocery store after lunch. The dairy aisle was thinned out — most of the cream cheese, half the butter — and the cashier said something like "must be a Jewish holiday" without realizing she was right. In Atlanta you can run an entire chag without anyone asking which one. The signs of it are visible if you know what they mean.

This Shabbat is the second day of Shavuot — Sivan 7, in the diaspora — and the Torah reading is the last chapter of Moshe's farewell speech: Devarim 14 through 16, the festival calendar in concentrated form. Tithes, shemittah, firstborn animals, Pesach, Shavuot, Sukkot. The Shavuot passage is fourteen verses long, in the middle of the chapter. It tells you to count off seven weeks from the start of the grain harvest, to bring a freewill offering, to make a festival to the ETERNAL. And then it tells you to rejoice.

וְשָׂמַחְתָּ֞ לִפְנֵ֣י ׀ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֗יךָ אַתָּ֨ה וּבִנְךָ֣ וּבִתֶּ֘ךָ֮ וְעַבְדְּךָ֣ וַאֲמָתֶ֒ךָ֒ וְהַלֵּוִי֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר בִּשְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ וְהַגֵּ֛ר וְהַיָּת֥וֹם וְהָאַלְמָנָ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֣ר בְּקִרְבֶּ֑ךָ בַּמָּק֗וֹם אֲשֶׁ֤ר יִבְחַר֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ לְשַׁכֵּ֥ן שְׁמ֖וֹ שָֽׁם׃ You shall rejoice before the ETERNAL your God with your son and daughter, your male and female slave, the Levite in your communities, and the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow in your midst, at the place where the ETERNAL your God will choose to establish the divine name.

— Devarim 16:11

Vesamachta. And you shall rejoice. The command is in the singular — the verse speaks to you, the reader. And it does not stop at you. It names a list.

You. Your son. Your daughter. Your male slave. Your female slave. The Levite in your gates. The stranger. The orphan. The widow.

The list does the work of the verse. Nine categories in one breath. The Hebrew piles them up with vavs, the word for "and": atah uvincha uvitecha v'avdecha va'amatecha v'halevi v'hager v'hayatom v'ha'almanah. Each vav folds another person into the rejoicing. Three are your immediate family. Two are your household labor. Four are people without a clan of their own to do the rejoicing with. The Levite has no tribal land. The ger, the convert, has joined the people but has no ancestral inheritance. The orphan and the widow have lost the people who would otherwise bring them.

This is the first place in the Torah where the rejoicing command — vesamachta — is attached to a specific chag. There is no vesamachta at Pesach in this passage. There is no vesamachta at the firstborn-animal offering. Shavuot gets the command, and the command names a guest list before it names a menu.

The Rambam reads the verse exactingly. In the Mishneh Torah he writes that if you sit down for the chag with your own family behind a closed gate and the Levite and the convert and the orphan and the widow are eating alone somewhere else in your town, what you are doing is not the joy of the mitzvah. He calls it the joy of the belly. The verse, on the Rambam's reading, is structural. The four people without inheritance have to be at the table or the simcha in the verse is not happening.

That is the joy on offer. Joy with the four people who would otherwise be eating alone.

There is a midrash that comes up at Shavuot the same way it comes up at the Pesach seder: every convert who converts was standing at Sinai. The receiving of the Torah is something Jews understand as ongoing. The convert who walked into the mikveh has been there the whole time. The list in Devarim 16:11 makes the claim concrete. The ger is named — by category, in the founding text, in the verse that lays out the chag — before the ger arrives.

Tonight, when the chag starts and we sit down for the dairy meal, my husband will say the same blessings he always says. Then we will sit at the table where the chumashim are already open, because the night of Shavuot is the night you stay up to learn. We have done this once before. Last year I was in Israel, three weeks into being a Jew, and the Jerusalem streets were closed to traffic for the chag. This year the chag is in our living room, with cheesecake from the same recipe my husband's mother used.

There is a Hebrew word that doesn't translate cleanly into English: vatik. It means a seasoned member of the community. A regular. Someone who has been at this for a while. I am not vatik. I have been a Jew for one year and one week. Vatik is not in the Devarim 16:11 list, and that is its own kind of relief — the verse asks whether you are at the table.

The list is closed. Nine categories. Family, household, the four without inheritance. The Levite has no land. The ger has no ancestors who marched out of Egypt. The orphan has lost his father. The widow has lost her husband. And every one of them gets named before the chag, by category, in the verse that says: rejoice.

Vesamachta. And you shall rejoice. The verse is in the singular, the imperative, the second person. The command is to me. The list is everyone I bring with me.

The cheesecake is cool now. The flowers are on the table. The chumashim are stacked. The first night of Shavuot starts soon.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Receiving The Torah In Your Body

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 15 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on May 15, 2026.

I love when that happens! That was my uncle Schwartzie’s favorite line and the name of his book. He meant this in the context of recognizing the hand of Hashem when seeing the dots connect in interactions and events transpiring around him/us.

“I love when that happens” for me, is when I connect some new understanding of the human journey with a teaching of Torah. Seeing the Torah teaching in a new light often exposes a depth to the teaching that I wasn’t aware of.

I believe this is part of the ultimate journey of making the world a home for the Divine. When the Divine shows up in areas of life like the sciences and new brain understanding it reveals that the world really does belong to Hashem.

This showed up for me this week, in a very profound way.

I’ve been invested in Somatic Healing in the recent months. Both understanding what it is and engaged in somatic healing for myself. What it is in a nut shell is accessing healing that is not available on an intellectual level or even emotional dimension. It accesses the parts of us that are felt but not necessarily accessible through emotion or intellect. We all have stuff stuck there and when we can bring healing to that space, we release something that may have held us back to living fully in the present.

At the end of the Megillah it says; “and these days should be remembered and reenacted”. The Torah teaching around this is that when we remember it, we reenact it.

I always understood this on a spiritual level. That is, that when we remember the stories of our history and the miracles that occurred then on a spiritual level, the energies that were manifest the first time these occurred are reenacted and revealed again.

While there is truth to that, it is abstract and has no relevant application to the actual human experience. So, as I’ve accepted this truth, I also accepted that the spiritual energies are left to the spirit.

In better understanding somatic healing, my eyes were opened up.

The remembering of those days is not an abstract reading of the Megillah or the Ten Commandments (as we will on Friday commemorating Shavous and the revelation at Sinai). It is intended to be a full body feeling experience.

When hearing the Torah reading, we close our eyes, we move ourselves into the experience of Sinai. We listen to the Torah’s words of the thunder and lightning, the smoke on Mt Sinai, the Divine voice speaking, the trembling of the earth, the pause of all creatures to listen and experience this amazing moment of revelation.

Can you feel it? Can you bring yourself into that experience? Can you smell the mountain air, taste the dryness of the dessert, touch the earth of Mt. Sinai or the sand at your feet, can you hear the booming VOICE I AM THE LORD YOUR G-D (or hear the lightening), can you see the smoke coming up the mountain (or the thunder).

If we can focus deeply while letting go, we can really remember the experience. And when we can remember the experience, we can reenact the energy of the moment not only in the spiritual but in our very bodies!

I love when that happens! Are you feeling it?

It helps to study about the story of the Revelation at Sinai. You can join us on Shavout eve (Thursday night) at Chabad Intown for dinner and study.

Finally, come and feel the moment in real time on Friday at 11:00 and at 6:00 PM at Chabad Intown as we relive, remember and reenact the events of Sinai for the 3338th time!

Good Shabbos and good Yom Tov and in the Chabad traditional blessing, may you receive the Torah an internal and joyous manner!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

Soft Power? More Like Hard Pride

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 15 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 15, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: I’ve been watching kids’ television shows in Hebrew. In one show, a boy called his hamster a zalan (זַלְלָן) katan, or a little glutton.

The Eurovision Grand Final is tomorrow at 3pm ET (you can stream it for free on this page!).

Why am I writing about this on a Jewish blog? Israel has been involved in Eurovision for the past 53 years, give or take. If you want a refresher on Israel’s history in Eurovision, read this ol’ Drop.

Which brings us to 2026, with 28-year-old Noam Bettan representing the Jewish State on the international stage in Vienna, aglow with flashy lights and flames (Eurovision is known not only for its catchy songs, but also for its over-the-top staging).

Watch on YouTube

Noam’s set doesn’t include flames, but instead features a giant spinning diamond that he comes out of as he sings about a toxic love in French, Hebrew, and English. His song, “Michelle,” was co-written by last year’s Israeli participant, Yuval Raphael.

The song is an earworm, especially with the post-chorus “aye-aye-aye-aye-aye-aye oh-oh, oh-oh.” It’s such a bop, even the haters can’t help but dance along to it. Despite the shiny diamond, I find his performance to be lackluster compared to other acts. But you can really see he gives it his all, and I’m delighted he made it to the final.

Whatever you think of Israel’s performance, it’s always cool to see Jewish pride on international television. However, not everyone agrees. This year, five countries pulled out of the singing contest because Israel was participating. The automatic losers are Ireland, Iceland, the Netherlands, Slovenia, and Spain. So much for being united by music, which is Eurovision’s tagline!

Boy George, who represented San Marino this year and didn’t make it to the final, believes music should unite rather than divide. Not Jewish himself, he has been outspoken on behalf of the Jewish community, and said: “It’s very trendy to hate Israel but I have always said ‘fashion for the fragile, style for the brave.’”

Obviously, he knows about style, just look at him……..

Image: replicaonline.ro

Another group contributing to the hate were our friends at the NY Times, who made a Very Big Serious Investigation (she said facetiously) into how “Israel turns Eurovision’s stage into a soft power tool.” No really. That was the headline. The article/”investigation”, however, revealed that Israel’s government - gasp - placed ads to encourage people in the diaspora to vote, as if any other country wouldn’t do that.

Participating countries make it to the final by getting the most votes. Last year, Israel received the most public votes, and in 2024, received the second most public votes. In recent years, I’m sure more Jews have voted for Israel just to show support and get Israel to the final. But how is that different from a Moldovan living in the U.S. voting for Moldova (which you all should, because Moldova’s song is amazing this year)? Like said on his Substack about the article, “When the Times accuses Israel of using Eurovision as a soft-power tool, it is accusing Israel of participating in Eurovision.”

All of this vote tallying and count obsession reminds me of this week’s parsha, Bamidbar, the first parsha in the book of Numbers. It turns out the Jewish people are just as obsessed with numbers and paying attention to who belongs.

The Israelites are preparing to leave Sinai and head toward the Promised Land, but not before Moses conducts a census of all the families who dwell alongside the Tabernacle, per G-d’s instructions. He counts men over the age of 20 in every tribe except for the Levites, who have their own special tasks in maintaining and carrying out the sacred Mishkan. Everyone counted is eligible for military service, and has the responsibility to defend and protect the group along their journey.

The census in Bamidbar recognizes who is present and willing to do their part in sustaining something sacred. Every person counted has a role in helping carry the community forward.

This is what Eurovision is to me: several countries, much like tribes, putting their differences aside and coming together to share a stage of sequins and song. The stage only works if people agree, even for a few hours, to enter into something larger than themselves, like how the Israelites put aside their complaining for once to enter into a holy transitional phase.

United by music sounds cheesy until you recognize the power of temporary dwelling. Whether that’s on stage or in the desert, community like that takes work.

May we all be united by music, and may “Michelle” finally get out of my head.

✨ Jewish Joy of the Week

I attended a class called “Torah After Dark,” taught by Rabbi Arielle Stein at Central Synagogue. It was a class on how Judaism views sex, pleasure, and longing, filled with a lot of Song of Songs and hiding under the bed. IYKYK.

Good Shabbos and good luck to Noam,

💦 If you like Eurovision or Jewish pride, check out these Drops:

Lift Up Their Heads

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 15 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On Tuesday night in Vienna, before Noam Bettan walked onstage at the Wiener Stadthalle to represent Israel in the Eurovision Song Contest, he wrapped tefillin around his arm in the green room backstage. The small black box pressed to the skin, leather straps wound from elbow to wrist — the ancient weekday morning ritual of Jewish men, performed in a building where "Stop the genocide" chanting would be audible through the walls before he reached the microphone. He finished wrapping. He went out.

He sang "Michelle" in French, Hebrew, and English over the noise. He advanced to the grand final. Afterward, he described what carried him through: "I searched with my eyes for the Israeli flags in the crowd. That strengthened me."

This week's parsha is Bamidbar — "in the wilderness." The Book of Numbers takes its English name from what the book opens with: a census. The ETERNAL speaks to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, two years after the exodus from Egypt, and gives a command.

שְׂא֗וּ אֶת-רֹ֛אשׁ כָּל-עֲדַ֥ת בְּנֵֽי-יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל לְמִשְׁפְּחֹתָ֑ם לְבֵ֣ית אֲבֹתָ֗ם בְּמִסְפַּ֤ר שֵׁמוֹת֙ כָּל-זָכָ֔ר לְגֻלְגְּלֹתָֽם׃ Take a census of the whole Israelite community by the clans of their ancestral houses, listing the names, every male, head by head.

— Numbers 1:2

English gets the meaning right but loses the texture. The Hebrew phrase is "se'u et rosh" — lift up the heads. A census is an elevation. To be numbered here is to have your head raised, your name spoken, your tribe named, your place in the camp marked. Every person worth the accounting.

The wilderness is a place without paper trails, without property records, without guild registries. You exist in the desert and the only thing that says so is the community's willingness to name you. The census confirms what the covenant already claimed: you belong here. The counting is a promise.

The Torah uses a specific word for "head by head" in that verse — "l'gulglotam," which means literally their skulls. The count is by skull. Virtue, achievement, standing in the community — irrelevant to the accounting. The brute, bare fact of existing: a person is here, present, alive, worth the naming. That is enough.

The Levites are not in this census. They have their own accounting, for a separate task. While the twelve tribes arrange themselves around the Tent of Meeting — three tribes at each compass point, each under their own standard — the Levites tend the sanctuary at the center. The parsha makes room for more than one kind of counting. Some are numbered as fighting men; some are numbered as sanctuary keepers. The point is that nobody goes unnumbered. Nobody falls through the cracks in the wilderness.

Tefillin are a binding. The Hebrew root connects prayer to attachment — binding the prayer to the body, close to the heart and the mind. The straps connect the one who prays to everyone who prayed before them, in every language and country, across every century this ritual has been performed. When Bettan wrapped tefillin backstage in Vienna, he was doing what Jewish men have done for thousands of years in every country they were told they did not belong to. He was binding himself to the count.

He went out and sang into the noise. His eyes found the flags his people were carrying. He advanced.

There is a question the rabbis ask about Bamidbar: why did the ETERNAL choose to count Israel in the wilderness, of all places? One answer lives in the logic of the place itself. The wilderness is where you find out who is still standing with you. The census cannot happen in Egypt, where the Israelites are not free to be counted on their own terms. The census cannot happen yet in the Land, where they will eventually have walls and harvests and deeds to make their presence legible. The census happens in between — in the trackless, contingent space where the only thing that names your existence is the community's willingness to name it. In the wilderness, the counting is everything. So the counting happens.

Bettan's parents came to Israel from France. He said the mission of representing Israel at Eurovision would bring pride to parents "who came from abroad, from France, and chose to come here." That choice — the aliyah, the decision to join this particular people in this particular land — and then, a generation later, the son wrapping ancient leather straps in a backstage green room in Vienna, carrying the choice forward into a room full of noise.

He found the flags. He let them strengthen him.

There is something I find reassuring about Bamidbar every year — how early in the book it insists on structure. The parsha is the organizational logic of a people still living in the wilderness. The camp is arranged, the tribes know their positions, the Levites know their role, and all of this happens in the desert because the desert is the condition, and the condition is where you live. The community knows how to be itself before the destination announces itself. Joy lives in that coherence — in the capacity to arrange yourself for where you are.

The flags in the crowd were the flags. The leather straps on the arm were the straps. The count is continuous, stretching from Sinai to the Wiener Stadthalle, from skull to skull to skull, every head lifted.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Circle Game

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 14 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on May 14, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

In 1985, four legendary musicians, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson recorded a haunting song called Highwayman. The song tells the story of a single soul moving through different lives across different generations: a highway robber, a sailor, a dam builder, and finally, a starship captain "across the universe divide."

Each man dies. Yet somehow, each man is "living still."

There's something captivating about the song. It touches a question many quietly wrestle with: Are we simply going in circles? The seasons return. We find ourselves facing old challenges once again. At times, it can seem as though life is one long circle game.

Perhaps time is more like a spiral: returning us to familiar places, yet never in quite the same way. Each time we come back around, we carry new wisdom, deeper understanding, and a new opportunity to grow.

✨3 Ideas

**Life moves in spirals, not circles **

Some view time as circular. But life is more than a circle; life is a spiral. The seasons return, yet we may have become different.

A spiral presents the potential for transcendence if we choose to build upon the wisdom and spiritual growth gained from the last time we journeyed through this season of life.

The soul revisits familiar moments, relationships and opportunities, with each return carrying the possibility of greater purpose and deeper meaning.

Time passes; growth is optional

Too often, people drift into what one modern thinker calls "accidental living" -- moving through life without reflecting on how those experiences are shaping the soul.

Someone once proudly told a wise teacher, "I've gone through a great work of wisdom." The teacher responded, "That's fine, but how much of it has gone through you?"

The same question can be asked about time itself. We all pass through the spiral of the seasons of life, but we must choose to grow within them.

**Every season offers a new opportunity to rise **

Some seasons call upon us to begin again, while others invite us to deepen qualities such as gratitude, compassion, resilience, wisdom, or hope.

Lasting transformation rarely comes through dramatic breakthroughs; more often, it emerges through small, consistent choices that gradually shape the soul.

One imperfect step forward becomes another building block of spiritual growth. As we move through the spiral of time with greater awareness and intention, life becomes deeper, richer, and more meaningful.

📜2 Quotes

"Teach us to number our days, that we may acquire a heart of wisdom." — Psalms 90:12

"There'll be new dreams maybe better dreams aplenty / Before the last revolving year is through / And the seasons they go round and round / And the painted ponies go up and down / We're captive on the carousel of time." — _The Circle Game, Joni Mitchell _

❓1 Question

What season of life are you moving through right now, and how is it inviting you to grow?

We return to the haunting message of Highwayman. Each man dies, yet somehow each man is "living still." At first glance, the song seems to describe an endless cycle of repetition. But perhaps it points to something deeper. We are not simply repeating our lives; we carry the wisdom of our past experiences into each new season of life.

Time is not a circle that returns us to the exact same place. It is a spiral that invites us to rise higher with every return. And perhaps that is why the song ends with the promise that "he will remain" and "be back again." Every ending contains within it the possibility of a new beginning, and every season offers the soul another opportunity to grow.

Until next time, Wishing you the awareness to grow through life's seasons, and to rise higher with each return,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Is there a particular season of the year that feels spiritually meaningful or renewing to you? I'd love to hear.

P.P.S. If this message resonated with you, perhaps share it with someone journeying through an important season of life.

Standing Tall with Humility

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 08 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on May 8, 2026.

The orders of the Torah portions are intentional. In preparation for the holiday of Shavous we have the rebuke in this week’s Parsha, similar how it is two weeks before Rosh Hashanah.

The rebuke is a preparation for us to recognize the power of these days (Shavous and Rosh Hashanah) but with a Shabbat in between to soften the intensity. We call this “balance”!

I want to focus on a blessing that precedes the rebukes. There are a handful of blessings “if we listen to Hashems’ voice”.

The last of the blessings is that “I will bring you upright into the land”. The commentaries say with an upright posture.

An upright posture is an expression of confidence. I suspect the blessing is that which follows all the other blessings that precede it. When we have all of our material needs met, when neighboring countries are afraid to fight with us and even to pass through our Land with a sword, we have a sense of confidence that Hashem has our back.

It’s not an arrogant posture, it’s a confident one. In fact, it’s one of humility – the best kind of confidence, knowing you are in alignment with Hashem.

While it is a blessing it’s also something we must literally posture ourselves into to gain the confidence that we are all that.

When we stand straight, literally and figuratively, the world around us respects us even if they don’t love us.

This Shabbos is my grandfather R’ Mordechai Schusterman’s 31st anniversary of passing. The years align with Dena and my wedding years as my grandfather passed away after our engagement and only five weeks before our wedding.

He was the Rebbe’s Torah reader for 39 years. A printer, a hard worker and beloved by all who knew him.

He left a will allocating his meager early possessions and then some spiritual guidance instruction. "The one request I have of my children and grandchildren is that they should not be haughty." (In Yiddish: ניט בלאזן פון זיך don't blow hot air about yourself).

His request embodied his own life. He was confident, sincere and authentic but also humble. These are two truths that he asked his children and grandchildren to hold side by side.

It is also the call of our time. Confident Jews, sincere and authentic, but also humble with the responsibility that has been put on us.

Chazak Chazak Vinischazek! Be strong be strong and be strengthened, these are the words we close out the Parsha and the third book of the Torah this week.

It is a fitting blessing and wish for us in our time!

Have a great Shabbos!

Ps. I wonder if that is why my grandfather’s name was Mordechai. He resembled the Mordechai from the Purim Story, strength and humility.

A Story About Stealing

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 08 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 8, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Shame in Hebrew is busha (בּוּשָׁה). You hear this one at anti-Bibi protests often!

One time when I was hosting Shabbat dinner, I had everyone go around the table and name something they’ve stolen (yeah, I have fun ice breakers). Someone said parking meter spots. Another person said wine glasses from fancy restaurants (okay, that was me). Somebody even said clothes from TJ Maxx. Everyone has stolen something, whether they want to admit it or not. If you’re feeling brave, comment on this post with something you’ve stolen!

This week’s Drop is kind of a follow-up to last week’s, when I mentioned I lived out some Jewish values in April, like praying, learning, and giving tzedakah more.

What I didn’t mention in that piece was my attempt to also observe negative commandments, like refraining from lashon hara (gossip) or murder. I’m happy to report I survived April without murdering anyone.

Out of the 613 commandments in the Torah, there are 248 positive commandments ("do's")and 365 negative commandments ("don'ts").1 Rabbinic tradition teaches that there are 248 “do’s” for each of your limbs and organs. This is because mitzvot engage your whole being. There are 365 “don’ts” just like there are 365 days in a year, since avoiding wrongdoing is a daily practice. These prohibitions provide restraint and encourage a moral life.

One big “don’t” in Judaism — so big that it’s one of the Ten Commandments — is stealing. I don’t steal often, only wine glasses, and before you judge me, judging is another prohibition! Plus, I used to know someone who stole cutlery from The Cheesecake Factory, sooo… but who am I to judge?

During my month of Jewish values, I technically stole something. I was heading uptown from the Upper West Side for a Shabbat service, and I hopped on the back of a bus without swiping my OMNY card to pay the $3 fare.

Our mayor says the buses will be free, but until they officially are, I usually pay. I just chose not to pay this time, and was judged for it by two older men sitting in the back.

“That little girl snuck onto the back of the bus,” one of them said to the other while looking right at me. The other one stared at me and mumbled something inaudible.

Little girl! I was so enraged. First of all, I’m a woman, not a little girl. (I actually wasn’t mad at this comment; it’s good to know my Korean skincare keeps me looking youthful.) I was more annoyed about his judgment. Some people can’t afford to pay for the bus. In less affluent neighborhoods, fare evasion is all too common. While I could afford the fare, he doesn’t know that about me or my financial situation.

I then looked down and remembered I was wearing my new Shabbat Drop t-shirt. It says Shabbat Shalom (hey!) on it, referencing the campy Shabbat song I sing on my Instagram stories every Friday to spark joy.

Interested in buying one? LMK!

I was suddenly full of shame. Here I was, hitching a free ride (technically stealing) that wasn’t mine to take, with my Judaism on full display. I may as well have worn a shirt that said, “Here’s a Jew stealing.” (On the back: “And she’s late to shul.”) Busha!

It made me think of chillul Hashem, or desecrating G-d’s name, which was what I was doing by publicly committing a sin. Actions like stealing, embarrassing someone, or delaying a worker’s wages, for instance, make Jews look bad. And making Jews look bad makes G-d look bad. As representatives of G-d’s moral code, Jews should instead sanctify G-d’s name (kiddush Hashem) to bring honor and respect to the Jewish people, and therefore G-d.

Sponsor My Bus Rides

At first, it sounds ridiculous. We should refrain from doing bad things simply because they’re bad, and do good deeds simply because they’re good. We shouldn’t care what people think about us. But maybe by living a life based on values, we can inspire others to live a more ethical life. We can set a good example.

Perhaps by telling you my story, it will encourage you to lead by example. May we all sanctify G-d’s name when we’re out and about in this world!

Want to hear something chilling?

That night, I was flipping through the latest issue of Hadassah Magazine. I always enjoy learning from Joseph Lowin’s “About Hebrew” column on the last page, which explores a different Hebrew root and its related words, usually connected by a theme. This issue’s theme was about, well, stealing. 👀

Good Shabbos. Off to catch a bus,

✨ Jewish Joy of the Week

My colleague made Bamba Rice Krispies Treats from Adeena Sussman’s new cookbook, Zariz, full of quick and easy Israeli recipes. They were dangerously delicious!

Roughly 369 commandments are considered applicable in the modern era, consisting of about 126 positive and 243 negative commandments. This is because many of the mitzvot had to do with the Temple. https://www.yeshiva.co/ask/9029

For All Its Inhabitants

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 08 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The parsha this Shabbat is Behar-Bechukotai — a combined reading, two portions joined together when the calendar needs to compress. Behar opens on Mount Sinai, which is unusual; the rest of Vayikra is set in the desert or the Tabernacle. Rashi notices the same thing and asks: why does the Torah specify Sinai here, for these particular agricultural laws? What does the mountain have to do with shemitah?

The question stays open. The rabbis never fully resolve it, which is itself something to sit with.

Behar is largely an economic code: what to plant and when, what to harvest and what to leave, how debts work, how labor works. And in the middle of chapter 25, the jubilee:

וְקִדַּשְׁתֶּ֗ם אֵ֣ת שְׁנַ֤ת הַחֲמִשִּׁים֙ שָׁנָ֔ה וּקְרָאתֶ֥ם דְּר֛וֹר בָּאָ֖רֶץ לְכׇל־יֹשְׁבֶ֑יהָ יוֹבֵ֥ל הִוא֙ תִּהְיֶ֣ה לָכֶ֔ם וְשַׁבְתֶּ֗ם אִ֚ישׁ אֶל־אֲחֻזָּת֔וֹ וְאִ֥ישׁ אֶל־מִשְׁפַּחְתּ֖וֹ תָּשֻֽׁבוּ׃ You shall sanctify the fiftieth year. You shall proclaim release throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you; each of you shall return to your holding and each of you shall return to your family.

— Vayikra 25:10

Most Americans have already read this verse without knowing where it comes from. It is inscribed on the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia.

The Liberty Bell's rim reads: "Proclaim Liberty Throughout All the Land Unto All the Inhabitants Thereof." That is a 17th-century English rendering — "liberty" for deror, which the modern JPS translates as "release." The Pennsylvania Provincial Assembly commissioned the bell in 1751 to mark the 50th anniversary of William Penn's Charter of Privileges. Fifty years. A jubilee.

The bell rang for 25 years and then cracked. They kept it, put it on display, and forty million people have lined up to see it. Most of them read the verse on the rim while thinking about American independence, about 1776, about freedom as an American founding idea. They are standing in front of Vayikra without knowing it [a common enough thing in the West].

The jubilee mechanism is specific. Every fiftieth year — after seven cycles of seven — the following happens: land that was sold reverts to its original family. Debts cancel. People who sold their labor to service those debts go free. They return to their clans, their holdings, their families.

The Torah does not frame this in terms of fairness or justice for the poor. At least not directly. There is no verse in Behar that says "because concentrated wealth corrupts" or "because the gap between rich and poor is dangerous." What the Torah says instead is: the land is Mine. You are on it as strangers and residents. And every fiftieth year — you return.

The deror is not mercy extended to the unfortunate. It is structure built into the covenant. The permanent is not available for purchase. You can accumulate, you can hold, you can build — but the system was designed so that no situation could harden into forever. The reset is architectural.

Bechukotai, the second half of this week's combined reading, runs the conditional out in both directions. If you walk in the statutes, the land yields, the rains come, peace holds. If you abandon them — the tochecha, the passage of rebuke, is long and difficult, and synagogues traditionally read it quickly, in a low voice. The curses are detailed. But the tochecha does not end with the curses. It ends with this: even in the land of your enemies, I will not reject you or spurn you so as to destroy you. The covenant survives the breaking. The reset outlasts even the failure to observe it.

Yovel hi tihyeh lachem — it shall be a jubilee for you.

The word yovel appears in a few places in the Torah. Its root suggests a ram's horn, a shofar blast. The jubilee year begins on Yom Kippur with the blast of a shofar throughout the land. You hear it and you know: debts are released, slaves are freed, the land returns. The sound carries the announcement before any legal mechanism takes hold.

I've been thinking about what it means that someone in 1751 chose this verse. They had access to all of Scripture. They chose the one that said: no situation is permanent; every fifty years, everyone goes home.

The bell cracked. They kept it anyway — now in a glass pavilion off Market Street, where it hasn't rung since the 19th century. You can stand in front of it on basically any afternoon and read the verse on the rim. Most people who do are thinking about 1776.

That's still Vayikra.

Shabbat shalom.

Walk a Mile in My Shoes —

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 07 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on May 7, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

A young man sat on a train with his father, gazing out the window. "Dad, look—the trees are running past us!" he said with excitement. A few moments later, he exclaimed again, "Look—the clouds are moving with us!"

A couple sitting nearby exchanged glances. The young man's behavior struck them as unusual—childlike, even unsettling. Finally, they turned to the father and said, "Why don't you take your son to a doctor?"

It seemed like a fair question. Based on what they saw, it was the only conclusion that made sense … or was it?

✨3 Ideas

**Seeing beyond the surface **

We often form conclusions about people based on what we see in a single moment -- a comment, a reaction, a decision we don't understand. But a moment is not a person.

Every individual carries a history, a set of experiences, and inner struggles that remain hidden from view_. _We see fragments, not fullness.

Walking a mile in someone's shoes means resisting the urge to define a person by a single moment. We are not meant to live on the surface; our inner essence desires to look deeper, to see more, and to respond with generosity of spirit.

**Why we rush to judgment **

Our minds instinctively seek certainty, filling in gaps with assumptions shaped by our own experiences, expectations, and biases.

A husband once came home to find the house in chaos -- ice cream smeared on the couch, children running wild. "What happened?" he said to his wife. She smiled and said, "You know how you often ask what I do all day? Today, I didn't do it."

When we jump to conclusions, we trade understanding for certainty. Our souls are drawn to see the good, even if we don't always pause long enough to find it.

**Rise above first impressions **

Allow for the possibility that you don't yet see the whole person. A simple shift -- "I don't know" -- can open the door to patience, curiosity, and understanding.

Consider that sometimes there is another side to the story; we got the time wrong, misunderstood what was said, or misread what we saw.

In doing so, we reconnect with who we're meant to be, responding with openness and compassion.

📜2 Quotes

"As water reflects a face, so a man's heart reflects the other person." — Proverbs 27:19

"We don't see things as they are; we see them as we are." — Anaïs Nin, writer.

❓1 Question

Have you ever been certain someone did something wrong, only to discover you were mistaken?

On that train, a young man spoke with childlike excitement that seemed out of place. A couple nearby, puzzled, asked the father, "Why don't you take your son to the doctor?"

The father replied quietly, "We just came from the hospital. My son was blind from birth. Today is the first day he can see."

In an instant, everything changed -- not the facts, but the understanding. What looked obvious wasn't the whole story. And sometimes, the most meaningful step we can take is to simply walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

Until next time, Wishing you the wisdom to look beyond the surface and the generosity to see the good in others,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Has there been a time when you felt misunderstood and wished someone had given you the benefit of the doubt? I'd love to hear that story.

P.P.S. Spiritual Sparks: A Reader is nearing completion. To those who have partnered in bringing it to life -- thank you. I look forward to sharing it with you very soon.

The Inner Work

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 01 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on May 1, 2026.

This week I had a difficult discussion with a colleague. I walked away from the conversation sad for my colleague and also not feeling great with how I showed up for that individual (perhaps the two are tied together).

I realized that for me the question is how can I shine in my interactions, with family, with friends, with anyone for that matter?

Here is what I came up with; I can succeed in any conversation if I show up and communicate as if I had all the inner confidence and was completely secure with myself and my self worth AND fully compassionate and empathetic towards the other.

The reality is that no one has 100% appreciation of their self worth nor can someone show up 100% compassionate. Nonetheless, as long as we are growing in that direction we're going to show up pretty darn good in our interactions.

The opening of this week's Parsha goes as follows;

“Speak to the kohanim, the sons of Aaron,” says G‑d to Moses in the Parshah of Emor, “and say to them . . .”

“Speak” and “say”—enjoin the elders regarding the youngsters.

In Hebrew the word for "enjoin" (which means to instruct or urge someone) is Lihazhir which also translates as "to shine".

In simple English, if we want to influence the youngsters we need to shine. Lovingly and with self confidence.

The Torah is talking to me; keep shining, keep working at the inner self worth (on account of my soul's inherent value) and keep showing up with a big heart.

Good Shabbos!

I practiced these Jewish values for one month. Here’s how it went.

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 01 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 1, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: This week, I attended a debate, or a vikuach (וִיכּוּחַ), at the Streicker Center between New York Times columnist Bret Stephens and J Street founder and president Jeremy Ben-Ami.

“Happiness is the ability to say: I lived for certain values and acted on them.” -Rabbi Jonathan Sacks

Throughout April, I did an experiment on myself. Let me explain.

In the months leading up to this experiment, I have been wondering if I really live my life Jewishly.

I obviously live a Jewish life: I am a Jewish professional, I write a Jewish blog, and I attend Jewish classes and Shabbat dinners weekly.

But do I live Jewish values? Do I not only talk the talk (well, yes, I’m learning Hebrew חחח), but do I walk the walk? And I don’t mean to shul on Shabbos!

So, I chose an upcoming month (which was April, though I now realize should have been a Hebrew month; I’ve failed already!), and selected Jewish values by which to live. There are many more values I could have chosen, but I selected my list based on what felt most important to me as a Jew and on the areas I’m most interested in. I was also was curious to see if this “experiment” would make me any happier/more fulfilled, or more connected to my Judaism. You have to read through to the end to find out!

We’re in the process of counting the Omer, the days leading up to Shavuot and the moment when the Jews received the Torah. This is a period of personal reflection and character development. Any time is an ideal time for growth, but the Omer period feels especially intentional, as we move toward receiving the Torah and trying to become more aligned with its teachings. I hope my experiment of sorts inspires you to tap into one or more Jewish values!

🎁Before we dive in, mazel tov to the winner of the latest giveaway, a signed copy of Out of the Sky by Matti Friedman, Yael from Atlanta!

Prayer

“… to love the Lord your God and to serve him with all your heart and with all your soul…” -Deuteronomy 11:13

Before experiment: Ever since my transformative stay in Israel during the 12-Day War, I started reading some morning prayers, but I don’t recite them every day. I typically only pray on Shabbat in synagogue. I also have occasional off-the-cuff chats with G-d.

During experiment: During April, I tried to stay consistent in reciting the morning prayers. On days I didn’t have enough time, I recited Modeh Ani, the gratitude prayer. I also got bored reciting the same prayers over and over. I don’t know how people who pray every day don’t get bored! At times, it was challenging to connect to the repetitive theme of how G-d is all powerful. I wanted to recite something that felt more personal.

So, midway through the month, I switched from my traditional ArtScroll siddur to one that my cousin, Jay, got me called the Siddur Eitz Ratzon. This siddur describes itself as “a traditional prayerbook designed for those who seek spirituality and meaning beyond what they have found in conventional prayerbooks.”

And it really feels that way! For example, instead of the traditionally different lines recited by men (“Blessed are you… for not having made me a woman”) and women (“Blessed are you… for having made me according to His will”), the Siddur Eitz Ratzon reads, “Blessed are you… You have made me a Jew with an enriching heritage.”). I also like the line a few verses later, “You guide my steps, helping me walk on my intended path.” Poetry! What a way to begin your morning!

My new siddur! And by new, I mean it’s been sitting on my shelf for years and I finally cracked it open. Thanks, Jay! I needed it when the time was right.

This experiment also introduced me to the bedtime prayers, which I never read until now. They brought me comfort, especially one particular night when I was upset about something and mentally spiraling.

I was listening to the new episode of my now former favorite podcast. The guest speaker being interviewed was an economist, but within the first ten minutes, it sounded like he was using this platform to spew antizionist and antisemitic hate and misinformation to millions of listeners without receiving pushback from the host.

As I paced around my room huffing and puffing, and sending minutes-long voice notes to my friends to complain, my eyes fell on my ArtScroll siddur (back to traditiooon!). I read the first few verses of the bedtime Shema in it and immediately felt calmer:

“Master of the Universe, I hereby forgive anyone who angered or antagonized me or who sinned against me — whether against my body, my property, my honor or against anything of mine; whether he did so accidentally, willfully, carelessly, or purposely; whether through speech, deed, thought, or notion…”

The Bedtime Shema offers an emotional and spiritual reset before shuteye. While I never finished reciting the whole prayer, I knew I could sleep easy, not thinking about an economist pretending to be a war expert. I guess I forgive him… for now.

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Kashrut (Kosher law)

“So you shall set apart the pure animal from the impure… You shall be holy to Me, for I G-d am holy, and I have set you apart from other peoples to be Mine.” -Leviticus 20:25-26

Before experiment: I’ve never been one interested in a kosher lifestyle, but I finally understand its purpose: to infuse Judaism and holiness into the mundane, even while eating. And ever since last year’s Israel trip (I told you it was transformative!), I stopped eating non-kosher animals for the most part. I try to keep kosher style on Shabbat to mark the day differently. To me, this means eating kosher meat and not mixing meat and dairy.

During experiment: One day in April, I took myself out for a burger. I was craving cheese, so I ordered a plant-based burger with cheese and all the fixin’s. When I took my first bite, I heavily regretted it. It was awful! I decided if I had to choose, I’d go meat patty sans cheese. The plant patty was just not worth it.

On a different night, I made spaghetti and meatballs (made of real beef). It was a rare time for me having spaghetti and meatballs without parmesan. I learned I didn’t miss the parm. I even posted about it on Instagram and received many messages of support and suggestions, which I will save for a later Drop on kashrut!

As I reflect on the month, I just realized I took a few bites out of my friend’s chicken melt the other night without thinking. I was hungry, okay?

Karshut aside, parm just makes everything prettier!

Tzedakah (Justice)

“You shall not harden your heart nor shut your hand against your needy brother.” -Deuteronomy 15:7

Before experiment: I donate once or twice a year.

During experiment: Living in NYC, I come across several people a week begging for money. If I have a spare dollar on me, I sometimes give, but I rarely carry cash. In the Mishne Torah, Maimonides lays out the rules for giving charity. He says that you are not required to give beyond your means, and you are not required to give to everyone who asks. But you should always respond to an ask with compassion or an effort to help if you can, treating every beggar with dignity. While I didn’t give to everyone who asked, I was more aware of it and treated each interaction with compassion. Instead, I gave to a friend who just happened to ask me at the right time! He was raising money for his NYC marathon campaign to support Blue Card, an organization that financially supports Holocaust survivors in need.

Chesed (Loving-kindess)

“Acts of kindness never die. They linger in the memory, giving life to other acts in return.” - Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, From Optimism to Hope

Before experiment: Not to talk myself up, but acts of kindness come naturally to me. I was always taught to just be nice to people! But it’s hard to go above and beyond, especially when you don’t want to. Chesed reminds us that we are obligated to perform acts of deeds that benefit others. Many Jews do this through volunteering, which I have done only once this year. 🫣

During experiment: … until this week, when I volunteered with Met Council, America’s largest Jewish nonprofit that serves New Yorkers in need (which includes non-Jews). Together, we packed thousands of toiletry kits for families in the Bronx. I met new people and had fun!

Learning

“Do not say ‘When I am free I will study,’ for perhaps you will not become free.” -Pirkei Avot 2:6

Before experiment: If you know me, you know I love learning. Let’s just say this value was easier keep than the kosher one!

During experiment: I attended two Torah classes: one on lashon hara (evil speech) by Rabbi Arielle Stein at Central Synagogue, and one on bikur cholim (visiting the sick) by Rabbi Ben Varon (yes, our favorite chaplain!) at AltShul. No notes on the experiment here - I just want to share with you a taste of what I learned:

3 Types of Gossip (All bad, don’t do them)

Motzi Shem Ra: spreading false, negative information; slander
Lashon Hara: speaking negatively about someone even if the information is true
Rechilut: tale-bearing; telling a person what someone else has said about them

Reflection

I obviously live a pretty, pretty, prettaaayy Jewish life already. But carving out time to focus on core values has made me think about them more: why they matter so much in our tradition, how to incorporate them into my life, and what other values I can practice with intention.

Now that April is over, do I feel happier? More fulfilled? While I don’t feel all that different, I can say with resounding confidence that I had fun along the way. Sure, I struggled through plant-based burgers on my kashrut journey. I felt stingy when I only gave tzedakah once, and it wasn’t even that much. But I made friends while doing something meaningful for my community. I enjoyed pausing to pray in my busy mornings or evenings, even if not every day and even if I stopped midway and gave up. I learned to give myself grace, and I am all the better for it.

Now that it’s May, it’s time to return to my shrimp-and-gossip-filled life. Just kidding ;)

✨ Jewish Joy of the Week

In another edition of Jewish geography, my work recently hosted a third-generation Holocaust survivor to share her grandparents’ experiences in Hungarian concentration camps. She recounted their journeys of survival, which included moving to a Philadelphia suburb and her grandfather becoming a Hebrew school teacher. While sitting in the audience and hearing this story, my colleague made the connection that this speaker’s grandfather was her very own bat mitzvah tutor many years ago! With tears, they embraced. It was a beautiful moment of Jewish connection.

Shabbat Shalom!

💦 If you like self-development, check out this Drop:

Count for Yourselves

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 01 May 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Thursday night, about ten minutes before bed, I grab the Omer count scratch card. The blessing first — baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu al sefirat ha'omer — and then the declaration:

"Today is twenty-nine days, which is four weeks and one day of the Omer."

Thirty seconds. I scratch the circle. I go to bed.

Most nights that's all there is to it. I almost forgot twice this week — once on Sunday because we were out late, once on Tuesday for no reason I can name. Both times I caught myself. Wednesday I remembered on my own, which felt, in a way I recognize as disproportionate, like a minor victory.

The parsha this Shabbat is Emor — Leviticus 21 through 24, one of the denser sections of Vayikra. Laws of priestly holiness. The entire festival calendar in chapter 23. The menorah and the showbread. The blasphemer. And, placed between Pesach and Shavuot, an instruction so quietly specific it almost disappears into the surrounding material:

וּסְפַרְתֶּ֤ם לָכֶם֙ מִמָּחֳרַ֣ת הַשַּׁבָּ֔ת מִיּ֛וֹם הֲבִיאֲכֶ֥ם אֶת־עֹ֖מֶר הַתְּנוּפָ֑ה שֶׁ֥בַע שַׁבָּת֖וֹת תְּמִימֹ֥ת תִּהְיֶֽינָה׃ עַ֣ד מִמָּחֳרַ֤ת הַשַּׁבָּת֙ הַשְּׁבִיעִ֔ת תִּסְפְּר֖וּ חֲמִשִּׁ֣ים י֑וֹם וְהִקְרַבְתֶּ֛ם מִנְחָ֥ה חֲדָשָׁ֖ה לַֽיהֹוָֽה׃

And from the day on which you bring the sheaf of elevation offering—the day after the sabbath—you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete: you must count until the day after the seventh week—fifty days; then you shall bring an offering of new grain to the ETERNAL.

— Vayikra 23:15-16

The obligation arrives in the second person plural and the pronoun makes it possessive. Priests keep the festival calendar. The Temple system manages the offerings. You count. For yourself.

The weeks must be temimot — complete, whole. The word shares a root with tamim, the word for unblemished, undivided. The Passover lamb must be tamim. Noach walked with God and was tamim in his generation. The weeks of the Omer must be temimot because partial weeks don't count — if you miss a day, you can keep counting, but the unbroken chain is broken. The Talmud debates whether you may still recite the blessing after a missed day. Most authorities say: count, but quietly, without the blessing. The integrity was interrupted.

That ruling is a kind of structural mercy. You're still in the count. You just can't pretend the gap didn't happen. The Torah doesn't erase missed days. It notes them and goes on.

What the ruling also reveals is what the counting actually is: not an accounting, not a countdown, not a scheduling mechanism. It's a practice of consecutive presence. You arrive at each night intact or you don't. The gap is real whether you acknowledge it or not. Temimot asks that you be honest about it either way.

What I notice in the second year of counting: the act doesn't accumulate gravity. It's the same act as the first year. Twenty seconds of Hebrew, then the declaration of the day. The novelty is gone, and what's left is the practice itself — the same practice done the same way for the fortieth or fiftieth or twenty-eighth consecutive time. Nothing visible has changed.

Day 29 is not a milestone. The halfway point is around day 25. Lag B'Omer — day 33, starting next Monday night — gets the bonfires and the parties. Day 50 gets Sinai. Day 29 gets you saying the blessing before bed on a Thursday night..

The distance the Omer bridges is the distance between Pesach and Shavuot — between the night of the exodus and the morning of the covenant. You could cover that distance mathematically. Fifty days is fifty days whether you count them or not. The command doesn't exist to inform God that fifty days have passed. It exists to make you present for each of them.

Usfartem lachem. Count for yourselves. The people who left Egypt on day one needed to become — through desert time, through forty-nine ordinary days — the people who could receive Torah on day fifty. The count is what makes the becoming possible. You can't skip from liberation to covenant. You have to walk.

I've been counting days through a year when days have been heavier than usual. Nights when I said the blessing and the words felt thin against the news. Nights when the ritual felt less like a choice and more like a habit I hadn't yet thought to break.

That's probably what it's supposed to feel like. Temimot doesn't mean the weeks feel whole. It means you counted each day in them anyway.

The Omer ends on the forty-ninth night. Day fifty — Shavuot — the Torah arrives. The command points past the destination to the person you are on day 29: the one who wouldn't have been there without days one through twenty-eight. The counting builds the counter.

That's enough.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on April 30, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

There's a place called Boys Town, founded over a century ago in Nebraska as an orphanage for boys. A boy named Howard had polio and wore heavy leg braces. Walking was difficult for him, especially on the stairs.

Soon, several of the older boys were carrying him up and down. One day, the director asked one of them, Reuben, if it was hard. His answer became a motto…one that would come to define not just Boys Town, but something deeply human.

We'll come back to that motto, because within those words is an important insight into what it really means to care for another person.

✨3 Ideas

Where caring begins

Empathy means feeling what another person feels. It's sensing their pain, entering their emotional world. But even that can leave a distance. A person can be empathized with and still feel alone.

It is not enough to say, "I feel your pain."

The soul longs for something deeper than being understood. It seeks connection, reassurance that someone else is willing to share what it's carrying. Caring begins when we don't just feel with someone…but begin to carry something with them.

The presence that carries

When someone is hurting, our instinct is to fix it. To offer advice, perspective, or reassurance. But some of life's heaviest moments don't have solutions. Illness. Loss. They can't be solved. They can only be carried.

What the soul feels most in those moments is not the absence of answers, but whether someone else is there.

Often, just knowing that another person stands beside them can bring a bit of light into even the darkest of times. Not to fix things, but to help carry what can't be lifted alone.

What it means to carry

To carry someone's burden means doing something specific. It's checking in again and again. It's doing something small but meaningful: bringing a meal, running an errand, taking care of something they don't have the strength to handle.

These acts don't remove the weight. But they transform the experience of it, because the soul no longer carries it alone.

And in that moment, something deeper begins to happen: we move from being separate individuals to being truly connected.

📜2 Quotes

"Two are better than one…for if they fall, one will lift up his friend." — Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

"So on we go. His welfare is my concern. No burden is he to bear." — The Hollies, He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

❓1 Question

Who has helped carry you through something you couldn't carry alone, and how?

That motto from Boys Town? A boy was carrying a friend who couldn't walk. When asked if the weight was too heavy, he answered simply:

"He ain't heavy…he's my brother."

At some point in life, each of us is carried. And at some point, we're given the chance to carry someone else. Not to remove the burden. But to make sure they don't carry it alone.

Until next time, Wishing you a life where every burden becomes a bond,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S What's one way you've supported someone recently? I'd love to hear.

P.P.S. If someone came to mind as you were reading this, you might consider sharing this with them. https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

What's In Your Ear(pods) or You Are What You Consume

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on April 24, 2026.

Do you ever find yourself agitated or angsty for no reason? And then you remember that you saw a disturbing news piece, read a bothersome email, or someone said something that set you off?

We are what we consume. Not just the food we eat but the content that enters our consciousness as well.

We live in a time where there is so much information being thrown at us that sometimes it is difficult to decipher what our inner world is digesting.

In this week's Torah portion we read about the High Priest, the Kohen Gadol entering into the Holy of Holies. He is accompanied by a cloud generated by the incense offering.

In this act of the cloud he is creating an environment around himself. In his case the environment is one that touches on the highest of our senses, the sense of smell. The fact that the smell is coming from a holy source allows for the Kohen to enter with a sense of awe and humility allowing him to engage in his prayers and service for the Jewish People with full presence, inside and out.

How do we create a better environment for ourselves?

I have found for myself that if I choose to consume holy content, podcasts that teach Torah, insights into the deeper meaning of the weekly portions and our purpose on this earth it far outweighs the negative content that the environment puts out. I also like to listen to podcasts that support the work I'm engaged in in my inner world.

It also helps to consume less of the stuff that creates anxiety and stress.

Think about what gets under your skin most and stay away from that content.

At the same time find meaningful podcasts that generate good energy and positivity.

How do you imagine your day to day peace of mind will change?

Good Shabbos.

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

Some of my favorite podcasts.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/finding-you-with-dr-brad-reedy/id1157223571

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/all-classes/id1092920184

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/soulwords-full-library/id1450892501

What's in a name? That which we call a holiday

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 24, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: This week’s word is grapefruit, or eshkolit (אשכולית), because I’m having a hard time remembering it… much like the word for “to forget”!

This was a heavy week, as we first observed Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day, before transitioning to the celebratory Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israel’s independence.

Israelis began marking Yom HaZikaron in 1951 to honor their fallen soldiers. For the first two year’s of Israel’s independence, the commemoration was held on the same day as Independence Day, but a decision was made to designate a national day of mourning. The day was enacted into law in 1963. In 1980, the day expanded to include pre-state fallen soldiers and security force members. More Jews in the diaspora began observing the holiday as well.

In the early 2000s during the Second Intifada, the holiday again widened its scope to include victims of terror, changing its name to Yom HaZikaron l’Chalalei Ma’arachot Yisrael u’LeNifga’ei Pe’ulot HaEiva (Remembrance Day for the Fallen Soldiers of the Wars of Israel and Victims of Actions of Terrorism).

Then in 2023, the scope expanded again to include non-Israeli Jewish victims of antisemitic terror attacks outside of Israel, per Israel’s Ministry of Diaspora Affairs and Combating Antisemitism. Don’t worry - this addition didn’t get tacked onto the holiday’s name this time. This decision to include victims of terror and antisemitism on a day memorializing soldiers reminds us that victims of hate are also soldiers; they are victims of the same fight. Plus, how many more sad days can we tack onto the Jewish calendar?

Something similar happened with Yom HaShoah, Israel’s Holocaust Remembrance Day, which we observed last week. In 1959, the Knesset, Israel’s Parliament, changed its name to Yom HaZikaron laShoah ve-laG'vurah, or Holocaust and Heroism Remembrance Day to institute an annual "commemoration of the disaster which the Nazis and their collaborators brought upon the Jewish people and the acts of heroism and revolt performed."

This nominal addition dispels a misconception of the Holocaust, that every Jew went like lambs to the slaughter toward their death. It honors the Jewish heroes of the Holocaust: those who hid in the freezing forest, who blew up Nazi train cars, who protected sacred Jewish texts, who successfully and unsuccessfully rescued Jews.

These name changes are a powerful reminder that our history contains chapters of both heroism and tragedy, of suffering and courage. They teach us that the Jewish story continues to have hardship, but it contains acts of heroism and resilience as well.

Which brings me to one of the best Jewish books I’ve read this year so far! Out of the Sky by journalist and author Matti Friedman explores real heroism during the Holocaust through the lives of four parachutists. Their mission was to return to Nazi-occupied Europe after having already escaped to Palestine to rescue as many Jews and allies as they could, and kill Nazis along the way.

I loved this book because it asks the question: What makes a hero? The parachutists’ mission failed. Only one returned to Palestine alive. Yet, they each became legends in their own way for their courageous attempt to restore justice. They posthumously had streets, schools, and ships carrying immigrants to Palestine named after them. The most famous parachutist, Hannah Senesh, wrote the poem “Eli, Eli” which became a song every Israeli child grows up learning. Just last week, I heard it sung by a children’s choir at a Yom HaShoah event.

Through letters, firsthand accounts, and private reports, we get a glimpse into the hearts and minds of Hannah, Enzo Sereni, Haviva Reik, and Haim Hermesh. My favorite character was Slovakian-born Haviva, the brains of the operation once they were on the ground, but dismissed for being a young woman. She also slept around, sometimes with other women’s husbands on her kibbutz. I have a soft spot for imperfect heroes, what can I say? It’s why I love the Torah so much!

Haviva Reik

None of the story’s main characters were perfect. Even some resistance fighters thought Hannah Senesh too brash, a young woman too headstrong for her own good.

But they all had one thing in common: a Zionist yearning to help their fellow brethren and bring them to safety, no matter the cost. And they didn’t see this as a heroic act, but what was needed to be done. In fact, they didn’t want to be remembered as heroes. Oops.

Out of the Sky is proof that storytelling and memory matter almost as much as wartime success, even more so. These four parachutists may not have literally saved Jewish lives, but they gave living Jews strength. They became symbols of what a new nation needed to carry on.

As I mentioned earlier, Yom HaZikaron fades into Yom Ha’atzmaut in a single sunset. In 24 hours, we go from mourning the dead to celebrating independence, however that feels for you this year.

One lingering question I had after I finished the book was if these parachutists were so devoted to Zionism, wouldn’t it have been a more redemptive ending to the war to just stay in Palestine and live as free Jews? Perhaps survivor’s guilt led them to pursue their lofty goal, the fact that they fled while their families remained stuck in Europe. But then they never would have become the notable figures they are today, and we wouldn’t have this thought-provoking book.

Today, we thankfully have the choice to carry out their dream of living freely as Jews. We can be activists, like Enzo in his youth movement. We can tell our story, like Haim did when he returned from the war. We can study Hebrew like Hannah, or sleep with other women’s husbands like Haviva. Just kidding about that last part. She did so much more than that!

As Matti Friedman writes: the Zionist response is action. If Yom HaShoah reminds us what happens when there’s no Jewish state, and Yom HaZikaron reminds us that having a Jewish state comes with a price, Yom Ha’atzmaut reminds us of the power of having a Jewish state and of the responsibility that comes with it to take action. What that action looks like, I leave that for you to decide.

🎁 GIVEAWAY

Thanks for making it this far! I’m giving away a signed copy of Out of the Sky to one lucky winner!

To enter, all you have to do is like and share this post or any past post somewhere, either by restacking on Substack, sharing on social media, or in that WhatsApp group chat you usually mute (send screenshot pls!). The eligible winner must live in the U.S. and must subscribe to The Shabbat Drop. I’ll post the winner next week.

✨ Jewish Joy of the Week

I went on a friend’s Polish food tour in Greenpoint. The pastries were delicious and the company was great. My favorite part, though, was when I found out my friend’s brother-in-law is someone I used to work with, one of the three Melbourne Jews I know. Small Jewish world!

Shabbat Shalom,

💦 If you care about Jewish resistance, check out this Drop:

What Victory Looks Like

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The yahrzeit candle was lit in our study, on a desk we use nearly every day. Modi lit it Monday night at sundown. By Tuesday morning we had been around it for hours — now having coffee, and it still looked like a candle. That is what it's supposed to look like. A candle.

We stopped once that day, stood next to it, said a few words of prayer, and took a moment of silence for the fallen. The Israeli music Spotify has long since decided is our entire personality played quietly through the whole day.

That was Yom HaZikaron. On Wednesday came Yom Ha'Atzmaut. Seventy-eight years.

The parsha this Shabbat is Acharei Mot-Kedoshim. The names tell the story on their own. Acharei Mot — "after the death." Kedoshim — "holy ones." The Torah doesn't narrate the move between them. There is no interlude. Chapter eighteen ends, and chapter nineteen begins:

דַּבֵּ֞ר אֶל־כׇּל־עֲדַ֧ת בְּנֵי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֛ל וְאָמַרְתָּ֥ אֲלֵהֶ֖ם קְדֹשִׁ֣ים תִּהְי֑וּ כִּ֣י קָד֔וֹשׁ אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃ Speak to the whole Israelite community and say to them: You shall be holy, for I, the ETERNAL your God, am holy.

— Vayikra 19:2

After death: be holy. No throat-clearing, no step-down cadence. Characteristic of what the Hebrew calendar does. Yom HaZikaron ends, and Yom Ha'Atzmaut begins. The siren says stop. The next breath says sing.

What gets me about Kedoshim is what it means by holy. The parsha has just finished telling us about the Kohen Gadol entering the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur — one man, one day, wearing white linen, immersing in the mikveh five times. That is the version of holy we expect Torah to be talking about.

Then comes chapter nineteen, and the list is: don't steal, don't lie, don't swear falsely. Pay the day-laborer before sundown. Don't curse the deaf. Don't put a stumbling block before the blind. Leave the corners of your field for the poor and the stranger. Rise before the elderly. Use honest weights. Don't take revenge. Don't bear a grudge. Love your fellow as yourself.

That's it. That is what holiness is.

The Kohen Gadol's holiness is once a year. The other kind, Kedoshim's, is Tuesday morning in your study, near a candle that is there because you remembered to light it.

On Tuesday night in Jerusalem they lit twelve torches at Mount Herzl. This year it almost didn't happen. Organizers filmed the dress rehearsal in advance in case renewed fighting with Iran made a live public event impossible. But it happened.

Thousands of Israelis sat under the stars, and the Knesset Speaker, Amir Ohana, opened the ceremony by naming what victory looks like. Twenty thousand Jews had made aliyah during a year of war. A hundred and seventy-seven thousand babies had been born in Israel. That, he said, is what victory looks like.

This is precisely the Kedoshim claim. A baby being born is the cardinal mitzvah. A family arriving at Ben Gurion with their suitcases is the cardinal mitzvah. A people still choosing to exist is Tuesday holiness, and it is the kind the Torah asks us for.

A mother, Talik Gvili, lit one of the twelve torches in memory of her son, Staff Sergeant Ran Gvili, z"l, whose remains were returned from Gaza. Standing on Mount Herzl, she told the crowd that they remain, and will remain, there forever.

Ari Shpitz, who lost both legs and an arm in Gaza, lit a torch for the wounded.

A Druze IDF officer lit one for the covenant between his community and ours.

The Argentine president, Javier Milei, who flew in for the ceremony, delivered his remarks in Spanish and closed in Hebrew: Am Yisrael chai — the people of Israel lives.

The two minutes of silence are not passive. They are a mitzvah from the middle of Kedoshim: lo ta'amod al dam re'echa — do not stand by the blood of your fellow. Holiness is refusing to stand aside while a people holds its dead.

Then Wednesday came. Thursday. Now Friday. Tonight I will again count the Omer — day twenty-three, three weeks and two days. Discipline inside endurance. Augmented by a Rabbinical Assembly scratch off card. Modi and I will light candles. We will eat a meal. We will have arrived at another Shabbat.

After death [and before], be holy.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Are You a Good Listener?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 23 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on April 23, 2026.

Most aren't as good listeners as we think

Two friends were walking down a busy street one evening when one suddenly stopped. "Listen to those crickets," he said. "What crickets?" his friend replied. "I don't hear them."

Without a word, the first man reached into his pocket, took out a handful of coins, and tossed them onto the sidewalk. Instantly, people turned. A car slowed. A door opened. He smiled. "It all depends on what you're listening for."

We hear what we expect to hear. When it comes to other people… are we really listening?

✨ 3 Ideas

1. What listening really is

Listening is more than hearing words. It is the act of entering another person's world without rushing to respond, correct, or redirect.

It means listening not only with our ears, but with our attention, even with our heart. To notice not just what is said, but what is meant; to hear what lies beneath the words.

At our deepest level, we are drawn to connect. Listening is the way we tell another person, "You matter." When we truly listen, we give someone something rare: the experience of being understood.

2. Why we struggle to listen

Most of us would like to think we're good listeners. But if we're honest, we often listen just long enough to say what we want to say.

When someone else is speaking, we're checking our phone or simply waiting for our turn. As Stephen Covey famously observed, "Most of us don't listen with the intent to understand. We listen with the intent to reply."

At our core, the soul longs to connect, but we're often pulled inward. When people feel truly heard, they feel understood. That's where real connection begins.

3. Listening as something deeper

When we truly listen, we set aside the need to respond or be heard, and make space for another person. Not just their words, but the world within them.

It's not enough to simply hear words. True listening requires setting aside our own inner noise so we can fully receive another person.

Listening, done well, becomes an act of empathy. We begin to see the world through another person's eyes. It deepens when we become more interested in understanding than in being understood.

📜 2 Quotes

"The purposes of a person's heart are deep waters, but one who has insight draws them out." — Proverbs 20:5

"Wisdom is the reward you get for a lifetime of listening when you'd have preferred to talk." — Doug Larson

❓ 1 Question

What's one small thing you could do today to become a better listener?

A friend of a journalist once traveled to Japan for the first time. Unfamiliar with the language, he was given a simple tip: carry something with the name of your hotel written in Japanese. So he picked up a box of matches from the hotel and went out sightseeing.

Later, he got into a taxi, showed the driver the matchbox, and after a few confused moments, the driver nodded and drove off. Thirty minutes later, the taxi came to a stop. The driver turned, smiled proudly, and pointed outside.

They had arrived…at a match factory.

To truly listen — to understand, not just to respond — is a rare gift. And it may be one of the most meaningful gifts we can give another human being.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of meaningful conversations and deeper listening,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

A number of readers wrote to me after my recent note about the upcoming Spiritual Sparks book — thank you. If you're even curious about being part of bringing it into the world, I'd be glad to send a brief overview. Just reply and I'll forward it along.

P.S. Think of someone who truly listens to you. What do they do that makes you feel heard? I'd love to hear.

P.P.S. If you're new here, you're always welcome to subscribe: https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

Sometimes a prayer can look like this,

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 17 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 17, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week: Keys are maftechot (מַפְתְּחוֹת), because I thought I lost my keys this week (I didn’t, I just left them at home), and then my app randomly taught me the word for keys. 🔑

This Drop is for anyone spiritual, struggling with spirituality, or into yoga and/or poetry! Or if you’re like me, struggling with all of the above.

I’ve been trying to pray more. For months, I’ve been reciting the Modeh Ani (okay, more like I mumble it to myself) as soon as I wake up. Lately, I’ve been reciting more morning prayers and have been studying Shabbat service prayers with my chevruta, or learning partner.

However, it’s hard to pray when you don’t know the purpose or origin of the prayer, you don’t have time, or the words just aren’t speaking to you. Sometimes I start off strong with my morning prayers, energized and focused, and then cut it short because I have to get started with my day, like today. Or I breeze through a prayer because I can’t connect to it when I don’t understand why Jews recite it.

I could write a whole Drop on this, but wanted to share, because I connected with another Jewish Substacker who wrote a creative poem on this topic.

Corie Feiner is a Jewish yogi and poet, who is on a mission to write 108 poems, each corresponding to a different yoga pose! She’s at 107 now, so clearly she doesn’t struggle. Or does she? Her poem, “High Lunge Prayer Twist,” (below) depicts prayer as a messy endeavor, an experience of resistance between your body and heart.

I am continuously inspired by the myriad ways people connect to their Jewish practice, and I hope Corie’s poems and journey touch your soul in some way.

The following is from Corie:

I started writing my yoga poems during a profoundly moving yoga practice where at the end I sat up, picked up my journal, and wrote my first poem for Hero Pose.

What does it mean to be a hero?

To kneel on any piece of floor you can find, your knees pressed together, your feet apart, your big toes reaching towards each other in stillness and longing?

A few days later, I wrote a poem for Warrior I.

…I raise my arms above my head as if I were reaching to grab swords from the sky like a mythic hero born of my wild hair hoping

that if I killed everything around me I would no longer feel any pain.

After the third and fourth poems came, I realized that each pose was inspiring me to write poems the way that dance inspired Degas to paint. Each movement is rich with Hindu tradition and mythology, yogic philosophy, physical challenges, spiritual potential, and the somatic release of old stories held in my body. Yoga also has Jewish connections, like the many stories we carry, honoring our bodies, and the breath.

Although I was new to yoga as a practice, I was not new to writing. I had been writing poems since I was nine years old when my then best friend gave me a velvety black writing journal for my birthday. This small gesture led to me writing regularly and served as a safe space for a very sensitive soul navigating the rawness of 1980s New York. I spent my lunch breaks writing with my high school’s poetry group, Poets House, reading, writing, and feeling at peace between the shelves of hundreds of poetry books.

I decided to dedicate myself to somehow making poetry my life and my living. After I studied poetry at the University of Pittsburgh and pursued my MFA at NYU, I spent many years as a full-time poet-in-the-schools, workshop facilitator, performer, and adjunct college professor. As a lover of spoken word poetry, I was part of the vibrant NYC slam scene and started a bunch of poetry reading series. I was also active in the thriving Jewish arts scene and was a cast member of Storahtelling as well as an artist in residence at the 92nd Street Y/MAKOR, back when it was a thing.

After I got married to my soulmate, we moved to a small historic town by the Delaware River in Pennsylvania, where I became the Poet Laureate of Bucks County, but mostly dedicated my time to becoming a home birthing, homeschooling, cook-from-scratch sort of mom to my two boys.

My current project, A Poem for Every Pose, integrates my love of yoga with poetry.

Currently, I have 107 yoga poems out of 108 and will soon be ready to publish this collection. My vision for these poems is for them to be read before, during, or after yoga practices to help us align our minds, bodies, and souls and bring us to a place of self-love, presence, and healing.

You know how Miriam played the tambourine in the desert as we fled Egypt? That is the purpose of these poems—to be the songs that keep us going as we move through these tumultuous and possibly transformative times.

The two poems I am sharing with you here are “Reverse Tabletop,” and “High Lunge Prayer Twist.” Each one, in its own way, has its own deeply Jewish DNA with subtle and not-so-subtle references to prayer.

Wherever you are at in your Jewish or spiritual journeys, I hope these poems serve you well and help you feel something deeper. And if you are called to subscribe to my Substack, I would love to have you as part of my community where we talk about yoga, poetry, and the body in a down-to-earth sort of way. We’ve also been doing Rosh Chodesh yoga for the new moon on Substack live!

Sara Pam Neufeld of The Overwhelmed Yogi practicing Reverse Tabletop.

“Reverse Tabletop”

This poem was inspired by the Shehechiyanu prayer, which is what we say when we experience something for the first time, to realize the miracle of the present moment.

To the lift, to the knees, to the back to the throat, to the head, to the neck, to the hard wood, to the clang of glass, to the knock of knives, to the water, to the wine and strength it takes to hold all my weight like this.

To the hips, to the core, to the nicks, to the scrapes, to the stretch, to the aches, to the meals, to the grace, to the long spine, to the answered prayers, to the shoulder’s shake, to lifting the goblet of my heart into the air and to toasting that I have made it to this very moment, this very breath, this very day.

Sanskrit Name: Ardha Purvottanasana

“High Lunge Prayer Twist”

To know high lunge twist is to know that sometimes a prayer can look like this, your whole body quivering quietly,

your gaze not quite towards heaven, but sideways, backwards towards the ache of your past and the small triumph

of just being here, right now. Sometimes your palms will not be able to rest against your beating heart, but that does not mean

that your prayers will not be heard, the soles of your feet holding themselves in place, your hips hugging the bowl

of your belly filled with breath, your elbows like the edges of pointed stars telling you what it is like to hold so many wishes,

to create your own light and to know that you will never truly fall.

Sanskrit Name: Parivrtta Ashta Chandrasana

Shabbat Shalom and happy writing, praying, or posing (or all three!),

💦 Like prayer or poetry? Check out these Drops:

Outside the camp

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 17 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Tuesday night there was a candle on our counter. Yellow wax topped by a six-pointed star — the same shade of yellow as the star Jews were forced to sew onto their clothing in the ghettos of Europe.

It is a yahrzeit candle. The yellow candle exists because there are six million souls for whom nobody is left to light one. So once a year the candles go out to anyone who will light them, and each flame is a stranger saying kaddish for a stranger.

Tuesday was Yom HaShoah. The memorial siren sounded at ten in the morning and the country stopped for two minutes — one siren in a country that has been awash in sirens for two and a half years.

I spent part of the day with a book I had received as a birthday gift: Edwin Black's IBM and the Holocaust. The thesis is far from subtle and the evidence is overwhelming. IBM did not stumble into the Holocaust. IBM pursued it. Custom-designed punch cards for each stage of the genocide. Hollerith code 6 meant Jewish. Hollerith code 8 meant gas chamber. They built the tool to specification, kept it running, optimized it.

My mother worked at IBM. My father worked at IBM. I learned to golf as a kid at the IBM country club. The connection is distant. But the counter held a lit yellow candle, and I was reading about how a Hollerith number on a punch card became a tattoo on a forearm, and I did not know what to do with any of it.

This week's parsha is Tazria-Metzora — a double portion in Vayikra. Biblical dermatology. A priest is summoned, inspects the affliction, and issues a ruling. Tamei or tahor.

When the ruling is tamei, the Torah is blunt:

כׇּל־יְמֵ֞י אֲשֶׁ֨ר הַנֶּ֥גַע בּ֛וֹ יִטְמָ֖א טָמֵ֣א ה֑וּא בָּדָ֣ד יֵשֵׁ֔ב מִח֥וּץ לַֽמַּחֲנֶ֖ה מוֹשָׁבֽוֹ׃ They shall be impure as long as the disease is present. Being impure, they shall dwell apart—in a dwelling outside the camp.

— Vayikra 13:46

Badad yeshev — alone he shall dwell.

That would be a rough place to end the story, so Metzora picks up where Tazria left off:

זֹ֤את תִּֽהְיֶה֙ תּוֹרַ֣ת הַמְּצֹרָ֔ע בְּי֖וֹם טׇהֳרָת֑וֹ וְהוּבָ֖א אֶל־הַכֹּהֵֽן׃ וְיָצָא֙ הַכֹּהֵ֔ן אֶל־מִח֖וּץ לַֽמַּחֲנֶ֑ה This shall be the ritual for a leper at the time of being purified. When it has been reported to the priest, the priest shall go outside the camp.

— Vayikra 14:2-3

The priest goes out. The metzora could not come back in on his own. Somebody had to walk out and get him. The structure of return is built into the law.

The rabbis associate tzara'at specifically with lashon hara — evil speech, the kind of speech that puts other people outside the camp. The Torah talks you out in response. The priest walks out to bring you back.

On Tuesday, while our yellow candle was still burning, a freed Israeli hostage named Agam Berger stood on a stage in Birkenau holding a 130-year-old violin. The violin had belonged to a Polish Jewish orchestra musician who was murdered in the Holocaust. Berger had been a surveillance soldier at Nahal Oz on October 7 and was held in Gaza until last January.

At the central ceremony of the March of the Living, on Yom HaShoah, she played "Undzer Shtetl Brent" — Our town is burning. Mordechai Gebirtig wrote it in 1938 as a warning. The Nazis invaded Poland the next year. Gebirtig was murdered in the Kraków ghetto in 1942.

A violin that was put outside the camp. A young woman who was put outside the camp. Both came back. One plays the other.

That is not a metaphor, exactly. It is closer to what the parsha is describing, in the plain sense. Someone goes outside the camp, and someone walks out to bring them back.

This morning the yellow candle is long cold. Modi will bake challah this afternoon. In a few hours we'll light Shabbat candles — ordinary wax, not the yellow of the ghetto armband. And we read, of all things, about the priest going outside the camp.

Outside, and back.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Can Sugar Look Like Salt?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on April 16, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

The hidden side of what you see

Margaret Hamilton became famous for playing one of the most terrifying characters in film history -- the Wicked Witch of the West. For generations of children, she was fear itself: the green face, the cackle, the menace.

But was that truly her? Was that image a reflection of who she was in real life…or only a costume that concealed something very different?

It's a question worth asking -- not only about a character on a screen, but about the way we see people and the way we interpret life itself.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Get the full story

What we often see is only a snapshot -- a moment, an expression, a single detail -- and we assume full clarity. Yet certainty often comes faster than truth.

A woman once sat in an airport lounge, reading a book and eating from a bag of cookies. To her irritation, a man beside her began taking cookies from the same bag. Only later, on the plane, did she discover her own unopened bag in her purse -- the man had been sharing his with her.

How often are we just as certain…and just as mistaken?

2. We often see only a costume

We see through the lens of our assumptions, expectations, and past experiences. Two people can look at the same situation and walk away with vastly different conclusions.

We tend to notice what confirms what we believe and overlook what doesn't. We're not responding to reality -- we're responding to what we believe we're seeing.

Yet beneath our reactions, there is something deeper within us that resists that way of seeing. The soul is not threatened by uncertainty, nor does it rush to judgment; it seeks connection with others, to find what is good, and to understand.

3. Choose to see more deeply

Our inner essence recognizes that most people want to be good. By giving others the benefit of the doubt, we allow for the possibility of another side of the story.

And just as we can misjudge people, difficulties may contain something you don't yet see. What feels like a setback in the moment can later reveal itself as a turning point.

To see more deeply is to align with something within us that already knows there is more beneath the surface.

📜 2 Quotes

"Do not look at the vessel, but at what is inside it. A new vessel may hold old wine, and an old vessel may hold nothing at all."

— Ethics of the Fathers, 4:27

"You can't judge an apple by looking at the tree / You can't judge honey by looking at the bee / You can't judge a daughter by looking at the mother / You can't judge a book by looking at the cover."

— Bo Diddley, from the song You Can't Judge a Book by the Cover

❓ 1 Question

Have you ever realized you were seeing someone's costume -- and not who they really were?

In real life, Margaret Hamilton was nothing like the character that made her famous. She was a kindergarten and Sunday school teacher, devoted to children's education.

Knowing how easily appearances can mislead, she went out of her way to reassure children, many of whom were frightened by her on screen. She even appeared in interviews out of costume to show them the Wicked Witch was only a role.

The face they feared was not the person she was. And how often is that true in our own lives? What we see is real -- but it is rarely the whole story.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of seeing the sugar, not the salt -- and noticing the goodness not always visible at first glance,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Have you recently wished someone had given you the benefit of the doubt? I'd love to hear from you.

P.P.S. I'm putting the finishing touches on my book, Spiritual Sparks: A Reader, and beginning to prepare the dedication pages. If you might be interested in being part of bringing this book to light, I'll be sharing more in the coming days. If this already speaks to you, please feel free to reach out.

Carrying Pesach Forward

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on April 10, 2026.

Although Pesach is over, the aura of the holiday and the spiritual effects of the Matzah and Wine remain inside of us having become part of who we are.

The Haggadah tells us that "in each Generation they rise up to annihilate us and Hashem saves us from their hands". These words ring true for us in these times.

How do we fight anti-semtism? Entire organizations have made it their mission to accomplish this through varying methods.

We live in a time where we have a better understanding of what it takes to be a successful human being. In a word it's a sense of "self". Knowing that we are worthwhile just because we are a creation of Hashem.

Jewish leaders today more than ever are recognizing this idea as a collective for the Jewish People. If we want to be successful we have to stop worrying about what the world thinks about us and start living as proud Jews. This includes being an educated Jew. Knowing what it means to be Jewish in our own practice and vis a vis the world.

As we enter spring, the air is crisp, the skies are bright, perhaps you'll consider your own Jewish education and journey.

I invite you to join me on a journey of understanding the role the Torah says that Jews have in the world.

In a four part course (CLE approved) "For all Humankind" we will explore this very idea. What is Torah's message for the world? What is the role the Jew plays in G-d's Masterplan?

I hope you'll join me beginning on April 21. https://www.intownjewishacademy.org/study/p/spring26

Other learning opportunities including Kabbalah and Coffee, Torah studies and more are available here www.intownjewishacademy.org.

Also, upcoming Shabbaton with Herb Keinon a wonderful opportunity to learn more about latest events in Israel and Chabad Intown's Women only New Moon monthly gathering.

Looking forward to growing together.

Good Shabbos!

Tragedy Tonight, Stories Forever

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 10, 2026.

Hebrew Word of the Week Egoz (אגוז) is “nut.” This Hebrew word comes from the old Persian word for nut, “gowz,” along with several other Hebrew loanwords that come from Persian. Thanks, Brad from Albany, for this interesting information!

Interestingly, walnut in Hebrew is egoz melech, or the king’s nut, due to royal connotations (the Greeks called the walnut "basilicon", meaning "royal nut.”)

Just before Pesach, I was lucky enough to attend Jewish Book Council’s 75th National Jewish Book Awards, held at Temple Emanu-El. Surrounded by brilliant writers, scholars, translators, and publishers, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude celebrating those who contribute to the greater Jewish story.

Jewish Book Council (JBC) is a nonprofit dedicated to educating, enriching, and strengthening the community through Jewish literature. This year was packed with award winners from 21 categories, ranging from Sephardic Culture (Golden Threads by Ariella Aïsha Azoulay, illustrated by Haitham Haddad and Hagar Ophir) to Children’s Picture Book (The Remembering Candle by Alison Goldberg, illustrated by Selina Alko). The highest honor, Jewish Book of the Year, was awarded to Eli Sharabi for Hostage, his memoir detailing his 491-day captivity in Gaza.

Ethan Segal / Jewish Book Council

If you think this year’s most celebrated Jewish books sound depressing (the children’s picture book is about lighting a yahrzeit candle and talking to kids about the death of a loved one), you’re in good company. The evening emcee, entertainer and podcaster Jonah Platt, kicked off the evening with a song he wrote called “Tragedy Tonight” to highlight this point:

🎵 “Something familiar, Something peculiar, Something that Jews enjoy It’s tragedy tonight

Something distressing, Something depressing, What keeps the Jews employed But tragedy tonight

Nothing with jokes or lively discussions Only the Nazis, Gaza, and Russians … You want to smile, get a new hobby Make sure you don’t read Eli Sharabi” 🎵

Platt’s song set the tone for the evening: a celebration of these works and a window into who we are, what we dream up, what we’ve survived, and what we refuse to forget. Something distressing, indeed, but something essential.

I was surprised to learn that only a few of the 21 winners were on my radar/shelves. Of course, I had read Hostage and Sarah Hurwitz’s As a Jew. Hurwitz’s second book,, which won the award for Contemporary Jewish Life and Practice, explores sources of internalized Jewish shame, stemming from antisemitism and anti-Zionism, and how she overcomes them and evolves into the proud, outspoken Jew she is today.

The moment Sarah Hurwitz told Rabbi Angela Buchdahl I write an “amazing Substack” was the best day of my Jewish life, more so than my bat mitzvah!

I also heard of Book Club Award winner Dog (Yishay Ishi Ron), a novella of Israeli wartime trauma, and American Jewish Studies winner Antisemitism, An American Tradition by Pamela S. Nadell, that dispels the notion that the U.S. has always been a safe haven for Jews, something we are questioning today. Her book traces ugly history, from General Grant’s Order #11 during the Civil War and the lynching of Leo Frank, to more recent examples like the 2019 Poway shooting.

All the other award-winning books were new to me - clearly, have much reading to do! Some standouts to add to my TBR list:

📚 People Without History Are Dust: Queer Desire in the Holocaust by Anna Hájková - winner of Holocaust literature - grapples with the complex dynamics of sexuality in the camps.

📚 The Anatomy of Exile by Zeeva Bukai - winner of Debut Fiction - follows an Israeli family fractured by grief, displacement, and a forbidden love between a Mizrahi Jewish woman and a Palestinian man. In this book, history repeats itself within the family, and the characters learn that empathy trumps all.

📚 Fagin the Thief by Allison Epstein - winner of Fiction - is a twist on Oliver Twist that reimagines Dickens’s notorious villain, giving Fagin a rich backstory and humanity. Please, sir, I want some more!

The variety and depth of the winning book topics presented on stage were striking. There are so many ways to connect to Jewish identity, from Soviet Jewry to Moroccan ancestry, and books are just one path of exploration.

Something else that stood out to me throughout the evening was how prevalent Zionism was across genres. At a moment when some voices are trying to separate Israel from Judaism, it was clear Zionism had a seat at the table on the night of the Oscars of Jewish literature. Whether grappling with the war in Gaza through poetry like in Aharon Shabtai’s Requiem, exposing how cruel Hamas captors can be, pushing back on anti-Zionist arguments while remaining critical of the Israeli government, or exploring Israeli-Palestinian relationships through fiction, these works reflected just how deeply Israel remains embedded in the contemporary Jewish story. Nuance had a seat at the table, too! We were in good company.

“At a time when thoughtful storytelling and visibility matter more than ever, Jewish books have the power to strengthen community, spark meaningful dialogue, and affirm who we are,” said Naomi Firestone-Teeter, CEO of Jewish Book Council.

As guests left the gala, we helped ourselves to the table centerpieces: piles of books by Jewish authors. I picked up a timely book called The Persian, by former CIA analyst David McCloskey, about Mossad espionage in Tehran. It says it’s a novel… or is it?

Okay, I picked up more than one book…

Depressing topics aside, the night proved there’s still so many stories to tell, and we’re still here sharing them. As Jonah Platt’s song ends, “The People of the Book will be all right! Tragedy tomorrow, let’s celebrate tonight.” Amen.

See the full list of winners here.

I asked attendees what Jewish book they’re excited about right now. Here’s what they said! Let me know what you’re reading or excited about in the comments.

“My friend’s book, Honoria (Janice Shapiro), which is a winner tonight. It’s about young girls and their friendship in 1920s Paris, but really any age can read it.”

“People Without History are Dust(Anna Hájková), which won the Holocaust book award. My husband was a Holocaust survivor and our family funds this award.”

“Sharon Brous’s book, The Amen Effect, even though it made me feel sad and powerless. It made me ask myself, ‘What can I bring to the world right now?’”

“Porcupines (Fran Fabriczki).”

“I just picked up 10/7:100 Human Stories (Lee Yaron), but I’m going to give it to a non-Jew to read.”

“The Talmud.”

“Rabbi Angela Buchdahl’s book, Heart of a Stranger. We just read it in my book club.”

“Honoria. I’m into graphic novels.”

“Chutzpah Girls (Julie Silverstein & Tami Schlossberg Pruwer). It’s about strong Israeli women.”

“Amos Oz’s A Tale of Love and Darkness. It’s the greatest post-war Jewish book ever written.”

“Eli Sharabi’s Hostage. I love what he said from Man’s Search for Meaning, that if you have a why, you can get through any how. He kept living even though his ‘why’ was gone.”

“I’m completely fascinated by Nicholas Lemann’s Returning. Out of the Skyby Matti Friedman is an incredible read. And adored Porcupines by Fran Fabriczki.”

“Obsessed with Laurie Frankel’s upcoming book Enormous Wings!!”

“When the Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb!”

Shabbat Shalom! Happy reading,

💦 If you like Jewish books, check out these Drops:

The Eighth Day

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

This post was written and scheduled before Pesach began.

Pesach ended last night. The swap is underway — regular dishes coming back out, Pesach dishes going into storage. By this afternoon, my husband will be making challah. The kitchen will smell like a Friday kitchen again.

There is a feeling to the morning after a festival ends. Not sadness. Closer to what happens when you exhale after holding something carefully for a long time.

This Shabbat, we return to the regular parsha cycle. Parashat Shemini. The name means "eighth."

The parsha opens with a count:

וַֽיְהִי֙ בַּיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁמִינִ֔י קָרָ֣א מֹשֶׁ֔ה לְאַהֲרֹ֖ן וּלְבָנָ֑יו וּלְזִקְנֵ֖י יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ On the eighth day Moses called Aaron and his sons, and the elders of Israel.

— Vayikra 9:1

Seven days of preparation — the Tabernacle built, the priests consecrated. And then the hinge. The day it stops being rehearsal and becomes real.

Everything the Israelites built toward — a dwelling place for God's presence — culminates in a single verse:

וַתֵּ֤צֵא אֵשׁ֙ מִלִּפְנֵ֣י יְהֹוָ֔ה וַתֹּ֙אכַל֙ עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֔חַ אֶת־הָעֹלָ֖ה וְאֶת־הַחֲלָבִ֑ים וַיַּ֤רְא כׇּל־הָעָם֙ וַיָּרֹ֔נּוּ וַֽיִּפְּל֖וּ עַל־פְּנֵיהֶֽם׃ Fire came forth from before GOD and consumed the burnt offering and the fat parts on the altar. And all the people saw, and shouted, and fell on their faces.

— Vayikra 9:24

Vayaronu — they shouted. The word carries celebration in it, the same root as rina. Fire descends from heaven, the offering is consumed, the people erupt. It worked. God showed up.

And then — next verse, no pause, no section break — Nadav and Avihu, Aaron's two eldest sons, take their fire pans and offer eish zara, alien fire, something God had not commanded. Fire comes forth from God a second time. Same phrase — vatetzei eish. This time it takes them.

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֜ה אֶֽל־אַהֲרֹ֗ן הוּא֩ אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֨ר יְהֹוָ֤ה ׀ לֵאמֹר֙ בִּקְרֹבַ֣י אֶקָּדֵ֔שׁ וְעַל־פְּנֵ֥י כׇל־הָעָ֖ם אֶכָּבֵ֑ד וַיִּדֹּ֖ם אַהֲרֹֽן׃ Then Moses said to Aaron, "This is what GOD meant by saying: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, And gain glory before all the people." And Aaron was silent.

— Vayikra 10:3

And Aaron was silent. Vayidom. The verb is damam — to be stilled. Not "he chose not to speak." Vayidom is something that happens to you. The silence before composure arrives. The moment when there is nothing adequate and you know it.

Rashi says Aaron received a reward for this silence. God spoke to him directly afterward — not through Moses. Silence wasn't absence. It was a response God honored with intimacy.

Joy and grief in the same chapter. The same day. The same fire.

The 2026 World Happiness Report, released a few weeks ago, ranked Israel eighth in the world for the second consecutive year. The parsha is called "Eighth." The country is at war on multiple fronts — missile sirens, school closures. Israelis under 25, most serving in the IDF, ranked third happiest in their age group globally.

In the United States, the same demographic sits around sixtieth. The Bar-Ilan researcher pointed to family ties, community, faith, a sense of belonging. The report also found measures of worry, sadness, and anger have risen sharply. Israeli society is happy and Israeli society is hurting, and neither fact cancels the other.

That is Shemini in a data set. The shout of celebration and the silence of a father.

The parsha doesn't end with Aaron's silence. The second half of Shemini is kashrut — the dietary laws. Split hooves and chewed cud. No grand theology offered. Just the practice. This and not that. Every meal, every day.

We keep kosher, and the part that catches people off guard is how ordinary it becomes. It's reading labels at Whole Foods. The quiet architecture of a life organized around choices so habitual they barely register.

The kashrut laws arrive in this parsha right after the fire and the grief. After the highest drama, the Torah turns to what you eat for dinner. The daily practice is what carries you through.

Seven is completion. Eight is what happens when the thing you built meets ordinary time. The eighth day isn't about whether joy arrives. It's about whether the structure holds when joy and grief show up together.

Tonight is the first regular Shabbat after Pesach. We will also count day eight of the Omer. Day eight. On the Shabbat called "Eighth." The count doesn't care whether you feel ready for the next day. It just arrives, and you name it, and you keep going.

Tomorrow morning we'll take our usual place in the sanctuary, hear the regular parsha chanted for the first time in two weeks. Somewhere in Israel, a twenty-three-year-old who ranks among the happiest people on earth will do the same — in a country simultaneously at war and at home. The table will hold.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

You Will See Where I Have Been

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 03 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

This post was written and scheduled before Pesach began.

Wednesday night, somewhere between the third and fourth cups, I noticed the wine. Not the taste — the fact of it. Four cups is a lot. The seder's four cups correspond to one of four promises God made to the Israelites before the Exodus, four verbs in a single passage: I will free you, I will deliver you, I will redeem you, I will take you as My people.

The Talmud says it plainly: ein simcha ela b'yayin — there is no joy without wine. That doesn't mean joy requires intoxication. It means joy in Jewish life has a physical medium.

The wine we brought to our rabbi's table for first night came from the Judean hills — a Jerusalem Vineyard Cabernet, from a vineyard in the ground we are trying to make home. It is a small thing, choosing a wine from a place you haven't arrived at yet. Pouring it at a seder table in Atlanta while the aliyah file sits in a bureaucratic queue. Drinking the land before you live on it.

But that, too, is an old arrangement. Because there is a fifth promise. After the four verbs of liberation, God adds one more: v'heiveiti — "I will bring you into the land."

Four promises got four cups. The fifth got a cup that sits on the table and is never drunk. We call it the cup of Eliyahu — poured for the prophet who hasn't arrived, held open for a promise not yet fulfilled.

This Shabbat falls during Chol HaMoed Pesach, and the Torah reading isn't the usual weekly parsha. We read from Shemot 33 and 34, set in the aftermath of the golden calf. And in the middle of all that wreckage, Moses makes the most audacious request in the Torah:

וַיֹּאמַ֑ר הַרְאֵ֥נִי נָ֖א אֶת־כְּבֹדֶֽךָ׃ He said, "Oh, let me behold Your Presence!"

— Shemot 33:18

Show me who You are. Not the commandments, not the cloud, not the fire — You. And God's answer:

וַהֲסִרֹתִי֙ אֶת־כַּפִּ֔י וְרָאִ֖יתָ אֶת־אֲחֹרָ֑י וּפָנַ֖י לֹ֥א יֵרָאֽוּ׃ Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen."

— Shemot 33:23

You can see where I've been. You cannot see where I'm going. The plain sense is immediate: understanding follows the event. You don't see God's face in the moment. You see God's trace afterward, once the moment has passed and you're still standing.

The Israelites leaving Egypt didn't know they were performing the foundational story of Jewish civilization. They were scared, carrying unleavened dough that didn't have time to rise. The narrative we recited at the seder was written from the other side of the sea. That's what achorai means.

The same week we were cleaning our kitchens, twenty-five olim from North America landed at Ben Gurion Airport, with another fifteen finalizing their citizenship the same day. Forty new Israelis in a single day, in the middle of a war with Iran.

One — a thirty-year-old lawyer from Minneapolis — told reporters the war strengthened his decision. Another, a woman from Baltimore, admitted she was nervous. She came anyway. Since Operation Roaring Lion began, more than 830 aliyah files have been opened by North American Jews. They can't see God's face. They're walking in the direction of the knot.

The haftarah for this Shabbat is Ezekiel 37 — the valley of dry bones:

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֵלַ֔י בֶּן־אָדָ֕ם הֲתִֽחְיֶ֖ינָה הָעֲצָמ֣וֹת הָאֵ֑לֶּה וָאֹמַ֕ר אֲדֹנָ֥י יֱהֹוִ֖ה אַתָּ֥ה יָדָֽעְתָּ׃ I was asked, "O mortal, can these bones live again?" I replied, "O my Sovereign GOD, only You know."

— Yechezkel 37:3

Only You know. Ezekiel doesn't say yes. He doesn't say no. He says: I can't see that far. And then:

וְהִנַּבֵּ֖אתִי כַּאֲשֶׁ֣ר צִוָּ֑נִי וַתָּבוֹא֩ בָהֶ֨ם הָר֜וּחַ וַיִּֽחְי֗וּ וַיַּֽעַמְדוּ֙ עַל־רַגְלֵיהֶ֔ם חַ֖יִל גָּד֥וֹל מְאֹד־מְאֹֽד׃ I prophesied as I was commanded. The breath entered them, and they came to life and stood up on their feet, a vast multitude.

— Yechezkel 37:10

The Exodus and the dry bones belong together — both are stories about a people who looked finished and weren't. The bones didn't know they were about to stand. The Israelites at the sea didn't know the water would part.

Faith isn't certainty. It's movement before comprehension. You open a door into the dark and pour wine for someone who hasn't come. You board a plane to a country under fire. You bring a Cabernet from the Judean hills to a seder table in Atlanta and drink the fifth promise before it's fulfilled.

The seder table is cleared by now. The cup of Eliyahu was poured, the door was opened, the street was quiet. The wine in that cup came from hills I've walked. I know the land. I just don't live there yet.

Shabbat shalom, and chag sameach.

— Uriel ben Avraham

FREEDOM!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on April 1, 2026.

The idea of imagining slavery or being kept hostage is not a foreign idea. These past two + years we have lived with the plight of the hostages, their suffering, their release and now their stories.

On the eve of the Seder we will quote the Mishna that states in each generation we are commanded to see ourselves as if we ourselves were freed from Egypt.

What does it really mean to be free? In a beautiful letter from the Rebbe, he writes that freedom is the knowledge that 100% of every aspect of who we are is capable of change.

Imagine if 23 hours of a day you were free to do what you want, but from 12-1 each day you were at the mercy of your overlord or captor. The enslavement doesn't just apply to that one hour of the day, but the other 23 hours are not really free either.

If 23 parts of who we are can change but there is one part of us that restricts us from living fully, or if there is one part of who we are that we are enslaved to, then we are not truly free.

This is the first step to freedom; the awareness that we are not bound by anything! This awareness is not wishful thinking, it is anchored in our infinite connection to Hashem. When we are connected Above, we become limitless.

As we sit down this evening at the Seder, let us recall the love of Hashem for us when He took us from Egypt and made us His People and gave us the ability to rise above the limitations.

Join me in prayer for our brothers and sisters in Israel for safety and peace. For good people everywhere, may this Pesach usher in a new era of true freedom, from all the things inside each of us that limit our ability to be connected in a limitless manner.

Chag Kasher Visameach - a Happy and Kosher Pesach!

The First Seder Was a Wartime Meal

Uriel ben Avraham — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Four armed guards and a police officer stood outside a synagogue in Dunwoody on Sunday night. Inside, an Iranian-American comedian was killing — Tehran Von Ghasri, the son of an Iranian Jewish father and an African American mother. A Haitian-American hip-hop producer who found his way to Judaism performed music that split the difference between gritty and sacred. A Persian Jewish vocalist sang in languages most of the audience didn't speak. A Holocaust survivor — 90-something, still sharp — told his story with the economy of someone who has told it many times.

The event was called Bridges of Hope, organized by the Atlanta Israel Coalition. Due to security considerations, we could only publicize it through certain channels. People came anyway.

I keep thinking about those guards at the door. The guards stood watch so the joy could happen. That's an old arrangement.

The Torah describes the very first Pesach meal — the one eaten in Egypt, the night before everything changed — with a detail that lands differently this year:

וְכָ֘כָה֮ תֹּאכְל֣וּ אֹתוֹ֒ מׇתְנֵיכֶ֣ם חֲגֻרִ֔ים נַֽעֲלֵיכֶם֙ בְּרַגְלֵיכֶ֔ם וּמַקֶּלְכֶ֖ם בְּיֶדְכֶ֑ם וַאֲכַלְתֶּ֤ם אֹתוֹ֙ בְּחִפָּז֔וֹן פֶּ֥סַח ה֖וּא לַיהֹוָֽה׃ This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it hurriedly: it is a passover offering to GOD.

— Shemot 12:11

Sandals on. Staff in hand. Ready to move. The first seder was not a relaxed evening. It was a meal eaten in danger, by people who did not yet know if the promise would hold.

Freedom didn't begin in safety. It began in a room where the threat was real and the table was set anyway.

A few verses later, the Torah names the night:

לֵ֣יל שִׁמֻּרִ֥ים הוּא֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה לְהוֹצִיאָ֖ם מֵאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרָ֑יִם הֽוּא־הַלַּ֤יְלָה הַזֶּה֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה שִׁמֻּרִ֛ים לְכׇל־בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל לְדֹרֹתָֽם׃ That was for GOD a night of vigil to bring them out of the land of Egypt; that same night is GOD's, one of vigil for all the children of Israel throughout the ages.

— Shemot 12:42

Leil shimurim. A night of watching. Same root as shomer, the word for a guard. The watching was mutual: the Israelites watched for the signal to leave, and God watched over them while they waited.

Tonight, Jews will search their homes for chametz, and some — the ones in Israel — will do it between missile sirens. Families in the north are planning seders around which bomb shelter can fit the most chairs. A website called IsraelForPesach.com launched this week to match stranded tourists with Israeli families willing to open their doors.

And on Sunday, a group of young survivors of the Nova music festival massacre gathered around long tables to bake matzot, led by Kesher Yehudi. They mixed flour and water and watched the clock — eighteen minutes, not a second more. One survivor, Shaked, told Israel National News: the matzot they baked with their own hands gave the mitzvah a meaning it hadn't carried before. She called it "the real victory."

The real victory. Not a military victory. Hands in dough, eighteen minutes on the clock, scars visible, and the matzah comes out kosher.

The Haggadah famously says b'chol dor vador — in every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as though they personally went out of Egypt. Most years, that line requires imagination. This year, it requires less.

The matzah — lechem oni, the bread of affliction, but also the bread of faith — is the food you make when you don't have time to wait for the dough to rise. It is the bread of people in a hurry to be free.

Tomorrow evening, Modi and I will sit down to our rabbi's seder table. Second night, we'll be at Cheryl's. Somewhere in Israel, a family will host a stranger they met through a website three days ago. Somewhere in the south, Nova survivors will break their own hand-baked matzot over a seder plate. Somewhere in the north, a family will eat in a bomb shelter and call it the table.

The guards are at the door. The table is set. The night of watching has begun.

Chag Pesach sameach.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Every Generation, Every Day

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on March 27, 2026.

One of the most familiar passages of the Haggadah, a quote from a Mishna reads, "in every generation one is required to see themselves as if they left Egypt".

Its most literal understanding is that our obligation to recognize that being a Jewish People today is a result of the miracle of the Exodus. As such the Exodus is an ongoing event and we are obligated to see it as such.

On a bit of a deeper level, Egypt is not just a physical land and a country that we were enslaved to. Egypt - in Hebrew Mitzrayim - difficult spaces, is something we encounter within the world around us and within ourselves. Egypt lives on and we are required to see ourselves empowered to leave it in every generation. Utilizing the teachings of the Torah, letting Hashem's embrace envelop us, we become empowered not to be enslaved to any one or any thing.

Let's go one step deeper. In the book of Tanya, "the written Torah" of Chabad philosophy, the Alter Rebbe, quotes the above Mishna and adds "in every generation, and every single day...". What is added by emphasizing the focus on every single day?

I'd like to suggest that there is a deep message of comfort and empowerment for those on the journey of liberating themselves from the deepest Egypt we may encounter within and without.

To leave Egypt one needs to recognize that they are in Egypt. You can't free yourself from something if you don't know you are trapped by it. We call this self awareness.

As we grow in life, we have those aha moments where the lights go on and something about our circumstances becomes clear. This doesn't (usually) happen in a vacuum. It's not a generational thing (although it is influenced by the generation), it's a daily thing.

If we don't get overwhelmed and frustrated by the journey and don't get off the train, and in the positive if we work each day just a little to get a bit closer to Hashem, a little bit more understanding of the self, we will discover the portal of liberation.

This is not easy, but it is comforting to know. If you've been on this journey, you know that those aha moments are powerful and encouraging.

This Pesach when you sit down to your Seder, recognize the liberations you've experienced this past year. Take a moment to see the where you have grown, and resolve to lean in to Hashem's embrace and journey forward.

May we merit total liberation from all things that exile us from within and without.

With blessings for a Happy and Kosher Pesach!

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman

Meet Brother Shlomo, a Jewish Freemason

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 27, 2026.

SEEKING: Your Passover Symbols! Every year, I assign homework at my Seder: bring anything - a piece of art, music, a quote/article - that resembles any theme from the Exodus story, from freedom to frogs.

This year, I’m not inviting you to my Seder (sorry), but I’m inviting you to contribute! Send your “exodus object” to miranda.lapides@gmail.com before Passover, and I’ll share my favorites in the next Drop. I will give a prize to my favorite response!

For inspiration, read this old Drop or this one.

A few weeks ago, I gave a d’var Torah for Parashat Tetzaveh, which describes the dress of the kohen gadol, or the High Priest. The High Priest’s robes of fine linen and a breastplate adorned with 12 stones representing each of the tribes distinguishes him from the regular priests of the Mishkan. As I posed here, does this mean his garments were a symbol of superiority, or of responsibility?

Fit of the Day! Or every day… the kohen gadol vs. a kohen

As you ponder that question, allow me to introduce Shlomo Bar-Ayal, a Freemason and an Orthodox Jew! I incorporated him into my d’var when I spoke about how we dress for the important roles we play, which you can read at the bottom of this post. I never published it because the war with Iran broke out, so I thought this week’s parsha would be perfect to bring it back! Especially since the priests are mentioned again (the priests that keep on giving… sacrifices).

Before we hear from Shlomo, what are the Freemasons? No, they’re not a secret society hiding treasure maps on the back of the Declaration of Independence.

Created in 16th-17th century London, Freemasonry is a predominantly fraternal organization that focuses on moral development, mutual support, and shared ethical values. Originally consisting of stonemasons, its teachings often use symbols from the trade, like a compass and a square (to remind members to act ‘squarely’ and with self-restraint), and the eye in the pyramid on the one-dollar bill (a reminder that G-d is always watching).

The members, known as brothers, gather in local lodges, with hundreds of thousands of lodges around the world. Some chapters accept women. There are about six million active members today. You could throw a stone anywhere and you’d likely hit a Freemason.

Shlomo is the 32nd Degree Master Mason of the Grand Lodge of the State of New York (which is a beautiful building!). But more relevantly, he’s an Orthodox Jew, which doesn’t conflict with his Masonic affiliation. In fact, his cultural and religious tradition enhances it.

He writes a blog (here’s a great Passover post about the Four Questions) and has a podcast called The Jewish Freemason, where he explores the connection between Jewish thought and Freemasonry. Here’s Shlomo, our local treasure!

What made you want to become a Freemason?

My favorite uncle was a Freemason so it was something that I knew about and he was one of the best men that I knew growing up. The fact that he was accepted even though he was openly Jewish in Saginaw, Michigan said a lot about it. I also had the chance to meet other Masons along the way and was impressed by their dedication to the moral principles of the fraternity.

Freemasonry emphasizes moral development, brotherhood, and service. How do these values resonate with Jewish teachings and reinforce each other in your daily life?

Freemasonry is very close to Judaism vis a vis moral development, brotherhood, and service. When we read the Torah it is no accident that these are emphasized. Right now, for instance, we are reading the Book of Vayikra. In the middle of it we suddenly come across Parashat Kidoshim, which is concerned with our moral behavior. It says, in essence, that if you truly want to be holy then you have to follow these moral principles.

The concept of caring for your neighbor is emphasized throughout the Torah. There are a lot of laws concerning how we should live together.

Masons are required to believe in God, but we do not ask them how they do so. Like in Freemasonry, Judaism focuses more on morals and ethics. Abraham, for example, questions God’s judgment in the classic case of Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham debates with God about destroying the city, because there might be 10 righteous people there. God takes on the debate, because God was not looking for somebody who was a believer, but somebody who was morally righteous. This tells us it’s the action that matters. What you do is more important than what you believe. This is a very Jewish and Masonic concept.

The Torah does not seem to command us to believe in God. The Ten Commandments start out with God making the statement “I am the Lord, your God who took you out of Egypt.” Note that this is a statement of fact, not a commandment per se. This fits in well with the concept in Freemasonry that all Masons are required to believe in God, but how they do so is left to the individual.

How do your fellow brothers see or perceive you as a Jew (if at all)?

Everyone knows that I am a religious Jew, and I have been accepted by the Brethren as such. I proudly wear my kippah and have taken to wearing my tzitzit out. They have given me the utmost respect in religious issues. When it comes to eating, kosher meals are always supplied to those who keep kosher.

We have traveled the world and have met Masons in many countries. They have all greeted my as a brother and treated both me and my wife with utmost respect. They also assigned brothers to be our guides in these countries.

What’s the biggest misconception you’d like to clear up?

The biggest misconception is that we are involved in politics. We stay away from politics as much as possible. I know quite a few active political men who are Masons. While in lodge they do not speak about any politics. I should point out that no lodge will endorse a political campaign. We do say the Pledge of Allegiance when opening the lodge in the US. In other countries they have similar customs.

That said, we do take moral stands. The Grand Lodge of New York has sent support to the Grand Lodge of Israel during the Gaza war. Not for political reasons, but for moral reasons.

Freemason emblem in Tel Aviv (Photo: Leonid Radashkovsky | Dreamstime.com

The biggest misconception is that we are trying to take over the world. If you look up conspiracy theories, you will find that there are as many about Freemasons as there are about Jews.

👉Here’s some history published by Yad Vashem on antisemitism against the Freemasons for accepting Jews.

We are not a religion nor a substitute for a religion. There are many Jews who are afraid that Freemasonry is a form of idolatry. We are not. My wife and I were on a tour of Freemason’s Hall in London. Someone noticed that there were pictures representing different religious ideas but there was not a picture of Jesus. The guide pointed out that that would be violation of Masonic principles. We do our best to stay away of a particular religion.

From user “cshotton” on Reddit: “I had the chance to visit the lodge in Haifa 5 years ago. Just happened onto it while on a walk and it just happened to be holding a Fellowcraft degree. The WM was Jewish, the SW was Christian, and candidate was Muslim. I chatted with the tiler for an hour until the degree was over, toured the lodge, and was genuinely amazed by the example they were setting for the rest of the country. Freemasons in Israel seem to really raise the bar for tolerance in the rest of the region.” Are Freemasons the path to world peace?

Any comment on National Treasure?

I loved National Treasure. Totally untrue but a lot of fun.

Lastly, what are your Shabbat and Pesach plans?

This Shabbat we are going to our shul, Congregation Ohab Zedek, on the Upper West Side for a Shabbat Hagadol for a Friday night seudah.

Then on Sunday we will be flying to Rome to spend Pesach on the Amalfi coast in a Pesach program. I will be speaking about the effect of the Bayit HaRishon on Western Civilization. Then I will give another lecture on the effects of Jews on the US Constitution and the effect of the US Constitution on the Jews.

Here’s Shlomo’s gracious contribution to my d’var from a few weeks ago on Parashat Tetzaveh:

“In Freemasonry it is usually required to be in a suit and tie at all meetings. When we have a special event then we are to be in tuxedos. When Grand Line officers attend a very special event then they will be in morning coats.

The reason for this is simple: Our goal is to make good men better. Men behave better when they are dressed better. Also, it makes a statement to us and the world that we are not just a bunch of guys getting together.

A Masonic apron… hmm, blue and white? An eye? It’s giving Israel! (Photo: Etsy)

Now how does this fit into the parsha?

Let’s realize that there are certain fundamental reasons for the Kohanim to be dressed as the Torah mentions. First, they have to approach their duties with respect. They have to display that respect to the people since in a certain sense they are representing the common, i.e., non kohen, Jew to God. They are also representing God to the common Jew. In Masonry we are to be considered leaders of our communities. Thus we need to dress appropriately.

Another reason is that this ‘uniform’ takes individuality out of the equation. One cannot show off with a special garment. All are equal in service to God. In Masonry we wear aprons. This is a throw back to the days when we were actual stonemasons. While many of us have special aprons depending on our status within Masonry, the most important apron that we have is the plain white apron that we each received upon our initiation. That is the apron that we will be placed on our casket when we leave this world. It underlines a basic fact. We might rise to a higher station with the Craft but in the final analysis we are still equal.”

Good Shabbos and Chag Pesach sameach,

The Fire That Stays

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

It's Thursday morning, and I'm sitting in my office as I write this. And I have just signed a power of attorney authorizing my rabbi to sell my bread.

This is one of the stranger things you do as a Jew in the week before Pesach. You sign a document granting your rabbi the authority to sell all the chametz in your home to a non-Jew for the duration of the holiday. Rabbi Zimmerman at Beth Shalom handles it for me. I filled out the form, signed it, and made a donation. In a few minutes I'll log on to his parsha class.

Across the room there's a case of kosher wine that arrived this week — a 2018 reserve cabernet sauvignon from the Judean Hills, non-mevushal, kosher for Pesach. Some of it is for Shabbat. Most of it is for the seders.

I haven't yet started the deep cleaning. The pantry is still full. But the wheels are turning. This is the infrastructure of Jewish life. Not just the seder itself but the thousand small acts of preparation that make the seder possible.

Parashat Tzav, which we read this Shabbat, is also about infrastructure.

Last week, Vayikra was the invitation. Tzav is the operations manual. The word means "command," and Rashi notes it implies urgency — ziruz — a diligence binding on future generations.

And the very first task the priest performs each morning, before anything else, is this:

וְלָבַ֨שׁ הַכֹּהֵ֜ן מִדּ֣וֹ בַ֗ד וּמִֽכְנְסֵי־בַד֮ יִלְבַּ֣שׁ עַל־בְּשָׂרוֹ֒ וְהֵרִ֣ים אֶת־הַדֶּ֗שֶׁן אֲשֶׁ֨ר תֹּאכַ֥ל הָאֵ֛שׁ אֶת־הָעֹלָ֖ה עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֑חַ וְשָׂמ֕וֹ אֵ֖צֶל הַמִּזְבֵּֽחַ׃ The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.

— Vayikra 6:3

He removes the ashes. That is the job. Before anything dramatic happens — the priest puts on his linen, walks to the altar, and clears away what yesterday's fire left behind. The Hebrew term is terumat hadeshen, the lifting of the ashes. The least glamorous act in the entire sacrificial system. Without it, the altar chokes and the fire dies.

Then comes the verse that carries the whole parsha:

אֵ֗שׁ תָּמִ֛יד תּוּקַ֥ד עַל־הַמִּזְבֵּ֖חַ לֹ֥א תִכְבֶּֽה׃ A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar, not to go out.

— Vayikra 6:6

Eish tamid. Lo tikhbeh. Read it again. The fire is perpetual, but it is not self-sustaining. One verse earlier, the text specifies: every morning the priest feeds wood to it. The fire did not survive because it was miraculous. It survived because someone tended it.

Missiles struck Dimona and Arad this past Saturday night — nearly two hundred people injured. Cluster munitions hit Bnei Brak. On Monday, a Hezbollah rocket killed Nuriel Dubin, z"l, a twenty-seven-year-old from Margaliot in the Upper Galilee. She was engaged.

Soroka Medical Center moved patients underground and treated the wounded through the night.

Eish tamid. The fire does not go out. But it doesn't tend itself. The doctors who went back to work. The paramedics. The parents who held their children in sealed rooms and then, the next morning, made breakfast. These are the people clearing the ashes and laying the wood.

This week, JNS reported on the five hundredth anniversary of the Prague Haggadah — the first complete illustrated Haggadah ever printed by Jews, created by Gershom Cohen in 1526. One copy traveled from Europe to Charleston, South Carolina, carried by an immigrant named Edward Lewith. His family recorded births and deaths in its margins for three generations before donating it to Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim. Five hundred years. Same text. New names written in the margins each generation.

That is what eish tamid looks like on paper. Someone prints it. Someone carries it across an ocean. Someone passes it forward.

Pesach begins Wednesday night. We will sit at tables in Atlanta and Jerusalem and Prague and Buenos Aires and read the same story we have read for longer than any Haggadah has been in print. We have done this before — under Roman siege, in Spanish cellars, in displaced persons camps, in bomb shelters in Be'er Sheva.

Sunday night, the Atlanta Israel Coalition is putting on an event called Bridges of Hope — a Persian Jewish vocalist, a Black soul musician, a Moroccan interfaith activist, an Iranian-American comedian, a Haitian hip-hop artist who became Orthodox. None of them had to be there. Every one of them chose it.

Every Jewish practice that survived survived because someone found a way to carry it forward. The fire moved from the altar to the page.

Lo tikhbeh. It shall not go out.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

You're an Original — Why Compare?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 26 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on March 26, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

You're worth more than you think

In 1989, a man in Philadelphia bought a painting at a flea market for four dollars. He wasn't interested in the artwork. He just liked the frame. When he took the painting apart to fix a tear, he discovered something unexpected hidden behind it: a folded document.

It turned out to be an original copy of the Declaration of Independence, later sold for over two million dollars.

Something of extraordinary value had been there all along, concealed behind something ordinary, even disposable. We often do something similar in our own lives.

We spend time polishing the "frame," how we appear, how we are perceived, how well we fit expectations, while the most valuable part of who we are remains hidden, sometimes even from ourselves.

Note: Spiritual Sparks will take a brief two-week pause for the holidays. I look forward to reconnecting with you afterward.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Authenticity is alignment

Authenticity is when the life we live on the outside reflects who we truly are on the inside. This alignment is not just about how we feel in a given moment, but something deeper: a sense that our lives are in sync with who we truly are.

Authenticity is uncovering what is true within you, not becoming someone else.

When there is a gap between our inner world and our outer life, we feel it. When those two come into harmony, we experience clarity, wholeness, and peace. Authenticity begins when we stop living from the "frame" and return to the original self.

2. The drift away from ourselves

If authenticity is so natural, why is it so difficult to live it? We live in a world that constantly pulls at us. Expectations and pressure to fit in begin to shape how we present ourselves.

We adjust, adapt, and refine our image, sometimes so gradually that a gap forms between our inner life and how we live.

Over time we may no longer be sure what is ours and what has been shaped by others. The result is disconnection from who we really are.

3. Returning to the original you

The path back to authenticity starts with a simple question: What do I truly want? Not what is expected or admired, but what is deeply and honestly mine. It might be a longing to create, to live with greater simplicity, or to pursue work that feels meaningful.

Beneath the surface of our lives lies a core desire that, when we listen to it, begins to shape our choices and our actions.

Slowly, our lives begin to realign with what matters most, bringing them into harmony with what is true within. Even the decision to begin is a step toward returning to the original you.

📜 2 Quotes

"He who walks in integrity, acts with righteousness, and speaks truth in his heart"

— Psalms 15:2

"I've Gotta Be Me"

— Sammy Davis Jr., song title

❓ 1 Question

Where in your life do you feel a gap between who you are inside and how you are living?

During an interview for a prestigious position, a candidate was asked a difficult question. Rather than deflect or guess, he simply said, "I don't know." He left the interview convinced that he had failed. Who gets hired after admitting they don't know something?

But he did get the job.

When he later asked why, he was told, "We are looking for someone who tells the truth. If a person can say, 'I don't know,' in an interview, that's who we want as our Director."

In a world that often rewards polish and performance, it can feel risky to live this way, to let go of the "frame" and speak from who we truly are. But in the end, it is the original that is always worth more.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of clarity, courage, and the freedom to be who you truly are,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What's one area of your life where you feel you're truly being yourself? I'd be pleased if you share your answer.

P.P.S. If you're new here, you're always welcome to subscribe: https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

It's All Up To Your Insides

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 20 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on March 20, 2026.

When was the last time you brought an animal sacrifice?

In the opening of the third book of the Torah we are introduced to the Mitzvah of sacrifices. We know the Torah is eternal and its application is at all times.

The opening verse of the Torah portion is "when a person will sacrifice himself". It should have read, when a person among you will sacrifice. Our Sages teach that the sacrifice needs to come from "themselves'. We have to offer "of the animal" - ourselves as the sacrifice.

In common Chasidic philosophy, this is understood that we need to offer up "of" the animal within ourselves, our desires and temptations, to Hashem. While in simple terms that would mean not to give in to our desires and temptations, there is something deeper here.

If offering up the animal is through not engaging in our unhealthy desires and temptations the animal is not part of the sacrifice, it is left out of the sacrifice. And while that is truly a major sacrifice it is not "of the animal" but in spite of the animal.

I would like to propose that "of the animal" means that we actually need to bring the animal along with us in our sacrifice - we need to offer up the animal inside of us.

The way we do that in 2026 is very clear. We need to have compassion on the animal within us. To recognize that the temptations, anxiety, frustrations, triggers and all of the other difficult emotions are part of the Divine plan.

When we can comfortably do that, (not that we are giving ourselves a pass) we actually are able to calm the body and nervous system and bring it along with us as part of the offering.

An analogy that comes to mind is a child who throws a temper in the supermarket when you tell them they can't have their 14th candy. In the olden days, we'd yank the child by the hand and say something like "how dare you behave this way in public", or threaten them with no more candy, ever in their lives. Much good that did! The child just cried more. The reason is that we weren't really talking to the child or their brain. It was all offline.

What we need to do in the moment is recognize that the animal within - the nervous system and animal soul is completely activated. It needs love, compassion and soothing. We don't have to give in to the child to calm the child. The child actually doesn't really want us to give in. The child wants our care and to be seen.

When we give the child the care, he/she are ready to come along with us to wherever that needs to be.

Can we do that for ourselves in our moments of activation? Can we do that when we are triggered? Can we do that when we have heightened emotions?

If we can, we are in a position to truly offer that part of us in our journey of life.

We can even speak to the animal and help it understand that serving G-d is in its interest. Our nervous system can understand that reacting to the inner emotions ultimately doesn't serve us well.

This is a true level of mastery but one that our abundance and ease of materialism combined with our current understanding of the brain and neuro plasticity has never allowed for us to do before.

It truly is messianic.

Happy Sacrificing!

Good Shabbos!

The Animated Short Film That Should Have Won an Oscar

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 20 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 20, 2026.

Jewish Word of the Week: This week we’re learning Yiddish. Someone recently taught me the male counterpart to “shiksa” (a non-Jewish woman), which is sheygetz, meaning a non-Jewish man. Why did this come up? Because when I told them my partner’s last name is Getz, they suggested we name our future son “Shey.” 🤪

I am a big fan of the Oscars! Not so much the pomp and glam of it all, nor the performative display of politics, but for the genuine love and appreciation of film. Okay, and maaaybe to beat my mom in our annual contest for predicting the most winners for each category (I won this year, in case you were wondering).

This is not a Drop about the Jewishness of the 98th ceremony, like which Jewish celebrity wore what, nor about the Jewishness of Marty Supreme (for an article on that, read this!). It’s also not about the nominated short documentary Children No More: Were and Are Gone, which follows anti-war Israelis raising awareness of children killed in Gaza (haven’t seen it but my thoughts: right message, wrong place; surprised it didn’t win; I’m expecting a nominated doc about how the world turned a blind eye to the Bibas boys and all other children murdered on October 7th).

This is also not about how adorable my parents are. I mean, just look at their costumes!

Not pictured: nominee-named foods like “Lo Mein Dreams” and “It Was Crust an Accident” pie.

This Drop is about Butterfly, a 15-minute animated short film directed by Florence Miailhe, a French-Jewish animator. The film tells the true story of Alfred Nakache, a Jewish Olympic swimmer who survived Auschwitz.

Not to snub the actual winner that I didn’t even see, The Girl Who Cried Pearl, but there are several reasons to applaud Butterfly. First, its visuals are stunning. The production used 65,000 paintings on glass and canvas, over 4,000 liters of oil paint, and 125 artists to create its fluid motion. The bold strokes of turquoise and splashes of the Algerian coast are mesmerizing and relaxing to watch.

The story, though, is not a relaxing one.

Watch on YouTube

We follow Nakache as he grows up in French Algiers, and is afraid to dive into the water at first. After overcoming his fear of water, he trains as a professional swimmer, moves to France, falls in love and has a child, and eventually competes in the 1936 Berlin Olympics, where he receives taunts of “Dirty Jew!” Only, in this scene there are multiple swimmers of different skin tones in the frame. You don’t know who’s the Jew. And that’s the whole point.

I had never heard of Nakache, whose family came to Algeria from Iraq in the 19th century. After the film, I looked him up and was surprised to see his skin tone was seemingly fair in black and white photos, and olive in colored photos. Butterfly intentionally depicts him with a darker complexion.

Alfred Nakache in 1946, after winning a French national title just one year after surviving the death camps. (Le Parisien)

The reason Miailhe took creative license and chose to paint Nakache, one of the hundreds of Mizrachi Jews (of Middle Eastern descent) in France persecuted by the Nazis, with darker skin than he really had was to depict Jewish diversity.

At a time when Jewish identity is often misunderstood and you have 15 minutes to educate somebody (if you’re lucky), Miailhe took the liberty of painting Nakache as a Black Jew from North Africa. Although I consider myself knowledgeable about Jewish diversity, I wasn’t sure who was being called a dirty Jew in the Olympics scene (I went into this film not knowing anything about it). Though I knew who our protagonist was, I admittedly thought the victim was the white swimmer.

I found it jarring to see Nakache marching in a sea of light-skinned prisoners in the camp. It wasn’t an image from my Holocaust education. It left me with more questions than answers. It made me curious, like any good film should.

Miailhe, whose father knew Alfred and who learned to swim with his brother growing up, said in an interview: “I hope people will be moved by Alfred Nakache’s story and rediscover it, because it’s not well known in France. Also, we are living in some very troubled times in a world where racism and antisemitism are back.”

Was Miailhe right in exaggerating a historical figure’s skin tone to make a point? I’ll leave that for you to decide.

We watch, through vivid brushstrokes and bubbles, as Nakache falls in love and has a child, only for the three of them to be taken to Auschwitz and separated. There, the Nazis make “the swimmer of Auschwitz” dive into a freezing basin as punishment and humiliation.

He eventually is liberated in 1945, but his wife and child do not survive. Throughout his life, Nakache never stops swimming. He’s one of the first swimmers to perform the butterfly stroke, and returns to France to continue swimming, teaching children and reflecting on his life and lost family.

Nakache is the only competing Olympian before and after surviving the Holocaust (he competed in the London Olympics in ‘46), and one of the fewathletes tocompete in the Olympics after surviving the Holocaust (others include Polish weightlifter Ben Helfgott and Hungarian gymnast Ágnes Keleti).

Butterfly is a heartbreaking and inspiring work of art that portrays a lesser-known part of Holocaust history. It depicts diversity, a lifetime of courage, loss, and resilience in just 15 minutes, making it a short film you absolutely must see.

In keeping with the symbolism, I’m sharing the famous Holocaust poem “The Butterfly” by Pavel Friedmann, which he wrote at the Theresienstadt concentration camp in 1942. In 1944, he was deported to Auschwitz where he was murdered.

✨ Jewish Joy of the Week

This Facebook memory from the beginning of Covid, six years ago:

Shabbat Shalom! Here’s to in-person Shabbat meals,

💧If you’re interested in film, check out this Drop:

The Smallest Offering

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 20 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On Wednesday afternoon I went to the grocery store for a few things — Pesach is two weeks away — and walked into a wall of ham. Spiral-cut, honey-glazed, brown-sugar-crusted, shrink-wrapped and stacked like munitions. Refrigerated munitions. Easter is coming, and the grocery stores of the American South want you to know about it.

I understand that Christians do not consider themselves bound by the dietary laws. But there is something quietly absurd about standing in a grocery store holding your Kedem kosher grape juice while the store celebrates a holiday rooted in your scriptures by promoting the one animal Leviticus specifically, repeatedly, by name, disqualifies. The book that begins this Shabbat. I'm not angry. I'm just a guy in the grocery store, noticing.

This week we begin Vayikra — Leviticus — the third book of the Torah. It opens mid-sentence, mid-action, mid-relationship:

וַיִּקְרָ֖א אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיְדַבֵּ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ אֵלָ֔יו מֵאֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵ֖ד לֵאמֹֽר׃ [GOD] called to Moses and spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting, saying:

— Vayikra 1:1

Vayikra. And He called. Not "He spoke" or "He commanded" — He called. A call implies someone listening. Someone present. Someone who showed up before the conversation started.

What follows is a book of korbanot — offerings. The word is usually translated as "sacrifice," which is unfortunate. The Hebrew root is k-r-b: to draw near. A korban is not something you give up. It is something you bring forward in order to close the distance between yourself and God.

And buried in the second chapter, one verse does something remarkable:

וְנֶ֗פֶשׁ כִּֽי־תַקְרִ֞יב קׇרְבַּ֤ן מִנְחָה֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה סֹ֖לֶת יִהְיֶ֣ה קׇרְבָּנ֑וֹ וְיָצַ֤ק עָלֶ֙יהָ֙ שֶׁ֔מֶן וְנָתַ֥ן עָלֶ֖יהָ לְבֹנָֽה׃ When a person presents an offering of grain to GOD: The offering shall be of choice flour; [the offerer] shall pour oil upon it, lay frankincense on it,

— Vayikra 2:1

The Hebrew for "a person" here is nefesh — soul. Not adam, not ish. Nefesh. Rashi catches it: nowhere else in the Torah does the word nefesh appear in connection with a voluntary offering.

Why here? Because the mincha — the grain offering — is what a poor person brings. They cannot afford a bull. They cannot afford a sheep. They bring flour, oil, and frankincense. And God says: I regard it as if they have offered their very soul.

The smallest offering. The most personal.

My Hebrew birthday was earlier this week. The day after was my mother's yahrzeit. Those two things landing back to back is a particular kind of weight I am still don't really know how to carry — a day that says you are here, followed by a day that says she is not. I lit the candle. I said prayers. I gave tzedakah.

Pesach is close. The war continues. I am bringing what I have. There is still joy.

Last week, a story came out of Berlin that stopped me. Rabbi Gesa Ederberg was installed as the new president of the Rabbinical Assembly — the international body of Conservative and Masorti rabbis, more than sixteen hundred of them worldwide. She is the first European to hold the position. She is also, as far as the organization is aware, the first Jew by choice.

Ederberg grew up Lutheran in a German university town. She came to Judaism through the texts — fell in love with them, couldn't stop reading. She converted. She was ordained. She became the first woman to lead a Jewish congregation in Berlin since Regina Jonas, a rabbi ordained in 1935 and murdered by the Nazis. Now she leads the rabbis.

She did not start by leading. She started by showing up. Flour, oil, frankincense.

The offering of a person who brings what she has.

Vayikra. And He called. The call doesn't come to people who have everything in order.

It comes to people who showed up.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Running on Empty? Think Again

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 19 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on March 19, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Resilience: You're not as depleted as you feel

A young shorebird known as a Bar-tailed Godwit astonished scientists by completing the longest nonstop flight ever recorded by a bird.

Weighing little more than half a pound, the four-month-old bird left Alaska and flew more than 8,400 miles across the Pacific Ocean before landing in Australia eleven days later. It never stopped for food, water, or rest.

Before beginning the journey, the Godwit transformed its body into a flying fuel tank, storing enormous reserves of energy. Guided only by an internal navigation system, it crossed a vast ocean on its very first migration.

Nature sometimes reminds us of a profound truth: living creatures often carry far greater reserves than expected. We are no different. Within us lies the capacity to endure difficulty, adapt to change, and continue forward: a quality we call resilience.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Resilience comes from within

Resilience is the strength that enables us to continue when life becomes difficult. Elizabeth Edwards described it as "the ability to adjust to the new reality we face."

From a spiritual perspective, resilience is not merely a psychological skill. It draws upon the inner strength within us, a deeper dimension of our being.

Even when circumstances shake us, that deeper essence remains intact, allowing us to adapt, recover, and move forward.

2. Hope strengthens resilience

In a remarkable discovery, a violin built by a Jewish prisoner in the Dachau concentration camp was opened for repairs nearly 80 years later. Inside was a hidden note explaining the instrument's origin. The violin later came to be known as the "Violin of Hope."

The name captures an important truth. When people hold onto hope, they find the strength to endure circumstances that might otherwise feel unbearable.

Hope reminds us that the present moment is not the final chapter. It speaks to the core of the human spirit and gives resilience the courage to keep going.

3. Resilience grows through our daily choices

It's been said: If you get tired, learn to rest, not to quit. Perseverance reminds us that resilience is not one long race but many short races, each requiring the courage to continue step by step.

We rarely develop resilience alone. The support of friends, family, and community often provides the encouragement to persevere.

Through these choices, the resilience within us gradually emerges, helping us face life's challenges with growing resolve and confidence.

✨ 2 Quotes

"If you weaken in a day of adversity, your strength is limited."

— Proverbs 24:10

"Champions aren't made in the gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them: a desire, a dream, a vision..."

— Muhammad Ali

❓ 1 Question

Where in your life would resilience make the greatest difference right now?

A magazine company once installed a computer to send renewal notices to subscribers whose subscriptions had expired. Something malfunctioned, and before the error was discovered a rancher in Colorado received 9,374 lapsed-subscription notices.

Eventually the company received a letter from him containing a check for one year's renewal and a brief handwritten note: "I give up! Send me the magazine."

Persistence eventually won the day. Resilience often begins with the same simple choice: to keep going.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of steady resilience and renewed hope for the journey ahead,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. When life becomes difficult, what helps you keep moving forward? I'd be pleased if you share your answer.

P.P.S. If you're new here, you're always welcome to subscribe: https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

A War Time Reminder

Rabbi Eliyahu Schusterman — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on Chabad Intown on March 13, 2026.

This week we end the second book of the Torah - Shemos. As is the tradition we announce and call up on strength three times - Chazak Chazak Vinischazek - be strong, be strong and be strengthened. In Jewish teachings, three creates a permanence and enforces.

We call on strength to strengthen as we conclude a book and begin a book, drawing strength to continue in our Torah study.

Nothing is by chance however, and announcing these words in the middle of a war must have direction for us in the present circumstances.

There are many spiritual activities that we can engage in to strengthen the war effort. The Rebbe Highlighted a few of them and I'd like to call on this moment of strength to remind you and me of them.

Tefillin - The Prophet says, that the nations of the world will see the name of Hashem upon you and will be frightened. Our sages say this is a reference to the Tefillin.

Shabbat Candles - did you know that Nerot Shabbat Kodesh - which means the candles of the holy Shabbat spells the word Neshek - which in modern Hebrew means munitions? The light of the Shabbat candles offers a powerful energy into the world that bursts through the atmosphere to eliminate the desires of the enemy and strengthen those on the front lines. It is of course a spiritual energy, but its potency is greater than any physical weapon.

Tzedakah - There is nothing a parent loves more than seeing his/her children get along with each other. Giving Tzedakah to others, giving of your hard earned money to those in need, is one of the greatest acts that demonstrate to Hashem our care for each other.

Let's strengthen ourselves in these areas. If I can help you put on Tefillin or if you would like to purchase your own Tefillin let me know, we'll make it happen!

If you light Shabbat candles already, enhance the mitzvah by giving Tzedakah right before you light. Have a tzedakah box nearby. Let me know if we can help - we have small Tzedakah boxes available. Candle lighting this week is at 7:25. Ps. It is better not to light at all, then to light after sunset.

May Hashem see our efforts and truly give us and all those needing strength to win this war and eliminate not only those that wish Israel, the US harm and its allies harm, but also usher in an end to war, the coming of peace and the era of Moshaich now!

Good Shabbos and Chazak Chazak Vinischazek!

Jewish Women Who Understood the Assignment

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 13, 2026.

Starting a new tradition here on the Drop where I begin by sharing a Hebrew (or any Jewish language) word I learned this week, since I am aggressively learning Hebrew and want to share my journey with all of you!

This week’s word is metoraf / מטורף (fem. metorefet מטורפת), which means “crazy” to describe something unbelievable. I saw some Israelis write it on social media this week to describe the damage inflicted on buildings by Iranian missiles and hadn’t recognized the word. Now I will, and you will too!

This week was International Women’s Day! Lately, we’ve been inspired by strong women, from brave Iranians risking their lives to protest the regime in the streets and the 30 female Israeli pilots partaking in the strikes on regime sites, to Queen Esther’s leadership which we celebrated on Purim.

These women understood the assignment, as Gen Z would say. Specifically, in Jewish history, there’s women who have accomplished amazing things while fully and proudly embracing their Judaism, unlike women in history who are amazing and just happen to be Jewish. Good for them, but they’re not the focus of this Drop.

I learned about dozens of these women in a new-ish book: Bedtime Stories for Strong Jewish Girls: Tales of 50 Jewish Heroines Who Changed the World by Melanie Goldberg Silver, illustrated by Jess Goldsmith.

This collection contains 50 snapshots of trailblazing women throughout history, each paired with a colorful illustrated portrait. The featured women range from ice skaters and chess players to Talmud scholars and resistance fighters.

And this beautiful hardcover book is not just for children! Out of the 50 women, I was surprised to find I had only heard of three: prophetess Devorah, Hadassah founder and pioneer Henrietta Szold, and singer Ofra Haza. I enjoy flipping through this book and choosing a leading lady to learn about in under five minutes, someone who was brave, or smart, or dedicated enough to live forever in these pages. It’s really the perfect gift for a special gal in your life (my dear niece, I’m thinking of you even though you can’t read this yet!).

Author Melanie with her book!

Here’s a word from the author, Melanie:

“I wrote this book when I had my first daughter and couldn’t find a book to inspire her about the legacy of strong Jewish women she was joining. I then realized that I too knew less about this history than I would’ve liked. So I started researching and got to work.

The most fun part about the book was narrowing down the list. If I only had time to write about 50 women, who would I want to inspire my children? I decided that the 50 I would choose had to meet the following parameters: (1) they had to be of diverse cultures and eras (Sephardic and Ashkenazi, biblical to the 20th century), (2) their stories had to be complete (meaning they had to be deceased), (3) they had to have a diversity of professions (from race car driver to physician, queen to Olympian), (4) their Judaism needed to be central to their lives and not a mere anecdote, and (5) they had to be more than their profession: a doting mother, a caring wife, a central part of their local community to build something greater than themselves.

These would be the women to inspire the youngest of readers. And, instead of reading like magazine interviews or Wikipedia pages (which similar books that popped up during the five years it took to complete my book did), I would make sure to write their stories to read like those of the imaginary princesses girls seemed to love so much.”

I turned our heroines from earlier into Disney princesses and now I’m obsessed

So, to share some of these legacies with you, here are three stories from the book - click to enlarge each photo!

Glückel of Hameln, Memoirist Matriarch (1645-1724)

Eta Wrobel, Partisan Hero (1916-2008)

Éva Székely, Unapologetically Jewish Fish (1927-2020)

Get Bedtime Stories for Strong Jewish Girls for all the girls in your life here!

✨ Jewish Joy of the Week (yes, another new section!) I dined at Motek, the Miami-based Israeli restaurant. Not only were the dishes like the crispy schnitzel sandwich on challah and juicy beef-and-lamb arayes delicious, but it was joyful to see servers walking around the crowded restaurant with Hebrew letters on their shirts and bags of Bamba lining the bar.

Tell me your Jewish joy of the week in the comments!

Shabbat Shalom,

💧If you’re interested in strong Jewish women, check out this Drop:

Show Up With What You Have

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I got an email from our shul president yesterday. Our executive director is retiring at the end of June. That makes — let me count — the chef (gone last month), the assistant rabbi (contract not renewed last year), the rabbi (retiring in June), the director of lifelong learning, the school director, and now the executive director. One of the three finalists in our rabbi search backed out.

We're running through staff the way the desert ran through sandals.

None of this is a crisis, exactly. Institutions turn over. But I sat with that email longer than expected, doing the quiet arithmetic that happens when you realize the version of a place you know is temporary.

My mother's yahrzeit is this coming week. Between the shul news, the yahrzeit, and Iran firing missiles at Israel while our community feels under attack from within and without, this has not been a week that hands you joy on a plate. You have to go looking for it.

Meanwhile, in Miami on Tuesday night, Team Israel beat the Netherlands 6-2 to close out the World Baseball Classic. They finished 2-2 in what everyone called the "Death Pool" — grouped with Venezuela and the Dominican Republic. Most of these players are American Jews who chose to wear "Israel" across their jerseys. Harrison Cohen, a Yankees prospect, pitched two perfect innings. Matt Mervis drove in two runs with a double. After the game, his father told him that at the exact moment the ball left the bat, fans in Tel Aviv were running for shelters as Iranian missiles struck the city.

They played "Hava Nagila." Thirteen thousand people in Miami, some holding Israeli flags, while the country on the jersey was under fire.

This is the week of Vayakhel-Pekudei, the double portion that closes the book of Shemot.

Vayakhel means "he assembled." After the Golden Calf — after the worst breach of trust in the young history of the Jewish people — Moshe does something that sounds almost too simple. He gathers everyone together.

וַיַּקְהֵ֣ל מֹשֶׁ֗ה אֶֽת־כׇּל־עֲדַ֛ת בְּנֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֲלֵהֶ֑ם אֵ֚לֶּה הַדְּבָרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּ֥ה יְהֹוָ֖ה לַעֲשֹׂ֥ת אֹתָֽם׃ Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them: These are the things that GOD has commanded you to do:

— Shemot 35:1

The first thing he tells them is to keep Shabbat. Then he asks them to bring whatever they can.

קְח֨וּ מֵֽאִתְּכֶ֤ם תְּרוּמָה֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה כֹּ֚ל נְדִ֣יב לִבּ֔וֹ יְבִיאֶ֕הָ אֵ֖ת תְּרוּמַ֣ת יְהֹוָ֑ה זָהָ֥ב וָכֶ֖סֶף וּנְחֹֽשֶׁת׃ Take from among you gifts to GOD; everyone whose heart is so moved shall bring them—gifts for GOD: gold, silver, and copper;

— Shemot 35:5

Kol nediv libo — everyone whose heart moves them.

The Mishkan got built because people showed up with whatever they had. They brought so much that Moshe had to tell them to stop. The only fundraising campaign in recorded history where the organizer had to shut it down for excess generosity.

The word vayakhel is worth sitting with. It doesn't mean "he built" or "he commanded" or "he inspired." It means he gathered. He brought people into the same space at the same time.

After a catastrophic failure of communal trust, the repair starts with physical proximity. You don't fix a fractured community by sending a memo. You get everyone in the room.

Pekudei, the second half, is the accounting — the inventory of every material used. It's the last Torah portion in the book of Shemot, and it ends with this:

וַיְכַ֥ס הֶעָנָ֖ן אֶת־אֹ֣הֶל מוֹעֵ֑ד וּכְב֣וֹד יְהֹוָ֔ה מָלֵ֖א אֶת־הַמִּשְׁכָּֽן׃ the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of GOD filled the Tabernacle.

— Shemot 40:34

The people showed up. They brought what they had. They built something together. And the Presence showed up, too.

That's the whole thing. Vayakhel to Pekudei. Gather, contribute, build — and then notice that something larger than the sum of the parts has moved in. Not because the organization was flawless or nobody was leaving. Because people came.

A stadium full of Jews in Miami singing "Hava Nagila" while missiles fall on Tel Aviv. A shul in Atlanta where half the staff is walking out the door and people will still fill their seats on Saturday morning. A portable sanctuary in the desert, built by a community that had just shattered every promise.

Bring what you have.

I'll be in my seat. I'll say kaddish for my mother. That's the offering I've got this week, and it's enough.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Cure for Hurry Sickness

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 12 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on March 12, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Patience: How we behave while we wait

We can learn something about patience from an unlikely teacher: the lobster.

A lobster is a soft creature that lives inside a rigid shell. As it grows, the shell tightens and becomes uncomfortable. When the pressure becomes too great, the lobster sheds its shell and forms a larger one. Over time, the process repeats as the lobster grows.

The very discomfort that presses on the lobster is what makes its growth possible. Human beings experience something similar. The frustrations and delays that test our patience may actually be invitations to develop it.

One of our greatest opportunities for spiritual growth is learning patience.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Patience begins with how we frame life

It emerges from a shift in perspective. Some things lie beyond our control -- delayed flights, other people's opinions, or how quickly life unfolds.

What we can choose is our attitude toward what happens. We choose the framework through which we interpret events.

When we focus on shaping that inner response, frustration begins to loosen its grip. Calm replaces agitation, and we begin acting from our deeper self rather than our anxious impulses.

2. Hurry unsettles the soul

Psychologists describe a modern condition called "hurry sickness." In a culture of instant communication and overnight delivery, waiting feels almost unbearable. Research shows frustration begins after about 25 seconds at a traffic light, 16 seconds for a webpage to load, or even a few moments searching for a pen.

But busyness is not the real problem.

Being busy fills our schedule; being hurried unsettles the soul. When life becomes a race against the clock, we drift away from the calm, patient rhythm our inner life seeks.

3. Patience changes our lives -- and we can relearn it

Patience strengthens us. Relationships grow deeper when we offer understanding. Decisions become wiser when we pause. Even our inner life becomes steadier.

At its deepest level, patience is an expression of the soul's natural state. Impatience, by contrast, is a learned habit in a hurried world. But habits can be unlearned.

A delay becomes an opportunity -- to pause before reacting, give others the benefit of the doubt, and keep small frustrations in perspective.

📜 2 Quotes

"One who is slow to anger is better than a mighty warrior, and one who rules his spirit than one who captures a city."

— Proverbs 16:32

"The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not smashing it."

— Arnold H. Glasow

❓ 1 Question

What situations, people, or tasks most test your patience?

A medieval ruler once threatened to expel an entire community unless someone could teach his dog to talk. Most people began preparing to leave. But one elderly man stepped forward and volunteered for the impossible task.

"How long will it take?" the ruler asked. "Two years," the man replied. When his friends asked what he would do after two years when the dog still couldn't talk, the man shrugged and smiled.

"In two years," he said, "perhaps the dog will die. Perhaps the ruler will die. Perhaps something else might happen. In the meantime, we have two years."

Patience does something remarkable: it opens doors impatience would close.

A brief note: The Spiritual Sparks book has entered the layout stage, one of the final steps before publication. In the coming weeks, I'll share more about the book's release, along with a few meaningful ways readers who feel connected to Spiritual Sparks can help bring it into the world.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of calm moments and a patient heart,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What is worth waiting for?

P.P.S. If you're new here, you're always welcome to subscribe: https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

"We Are Two People Intertwined."

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 06 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 6, 2026.

Happy Friday!

I hope you had a joyous and fun Purim. To my friends in Israel, I hope you stayed safe and continue to have a safe and quiet Shabbat.

Personally, my Purim was nice, but I wanted more relevance to what’s happening today, like a simple acknowledgement of the parallels. We’re living through history right now, one that hopefully has a good ending. That’s why this Purim, a holiday about Jews overcoming a tyrant in ancient Persia, felt chillingly relevant and surreal as Israel and the U.S. killed a modern-day tyrant who wanted to wipe Jews off the map. Let’s party to that!

Instead, at the Purim celebration I attended, there was no mention of today’s Haman. We rushed through the megillah and handed out feathered masks because people couldn’t bother to dress up. The food was good though.

Meanwhile in Israel this week, people dressed up and partied despite being in bomb shelters. Some couples got married while in shelter. The ingenious people of the Start-up Nation even made a website to show the best times to shower so you don’t get caught running to safety in a towel, for crying out loud!! Or should I say for drying out loud? (lol sorry)

My thoughts are with Israelis and Iranians this week. Every week, really, until the Islamic regime is taken down. Because this isn’t just about a safer Israel or Middle East. This is about a safer world. And no, that doesn’t make me “pro-Trump” or “pro-war.”

My thoughts are especially with my Jewish Iranian friends who hold both identities and are members of both communities. This must be an incredibly difficult time for them, as both countries they feel deeply connected to are at war, and some still have family in Iran.

That’s why I’ll stop rambling, and let them speak for themselves. Thank you to those who shared their honest and personal thoughts.

“When my family left everything behind in Iran 47 years ago to escape this evil regime of terror and dictatorship, they never thought they would see a day in their lifetime when they might have an opportunity to visit the streets where they grew up and made so many memories. We pray for the freedom of all the innocent Iranians who have been pleading for almost 50 years to other nations of the world to come to their rescue. We thank the United States of America and Israel for standing up and coming to face to face with the root of all evil. While it is terrible that there will be much loss of life and destruction to achieve the goal of liberating the Iranian people, we are confident that the hour of freedom for our people is near. Perhaps someday I can walk the streets of the places where my parents and grandparents lived and I can visit the graves of my great-grandparents who have not been visited since the Revolution of 1979.” -Nabila (read her Drop here!)

“Haman being killed was a major healing for our hearts. We are so grateful to Israel and Israelis. May we continue to hear good news ‘til Iran is free.” -anonymous

“The people of Iran have waited for this moment for almost 50 years. Listen to anti-regime Iranians and uplift their voices, or don’t bother speaking at all.” -Michael Valdes (@hotjewishenergy)

Purim costumes in Tehran, 1964 (David Nissan)

“There’s a mix of immense joy and hope, and a lot of worry and sadness. The joy/hope is that intervention finally happened and an awful being is no longer here. The hope is that America and Israel will follow through and topple the regime, its leaders, and especially the IRGC, and provide the people the opportunity to takeover control of the country. A transitional government toward democracy (whatever form that may be—republic or constitutional monarchy) is the goal.

The sadness is seeing coworkers and non-Iranian friends suddenly care about the Islamic Republic and take on the anti-war mantle. It’s like watching the pro-Palestine crew reassemble, only I receive messages stating how sorry they are of this tragedy befalling Iran. They are always shocked when I tell them we feel the opposite. It’s usually a mixture of ignorance and semi-legitimate worry based on past interventionism.

Those who are ignorant (or just didn’t pay attention in history class) and have dabbled in the pro-Pali movement post Oct. 7 get a kind of look on their face, like they’ve smelled the piles of garbage Mamdani hasn’t picked up, when I tell them 2,500 years ago, King Cyrus the Great of Persia liberated the Jews from Babylon and permitted them to return to Jerusalem. My family decided it was better to stay in Persia. Today, 2,500 years later, the nation of Israel (Bani Isra’il) is returning the favor and liberating the Persian nation—we are two people intertwined and have given so much to humanity.

The other type is worried this is another Iraq. Most times they think Iran is Iraq. I literally have to tell them we gave Iraq its name, and we are not Arab. The mentality is different. The way of protesting is different—have they noticed we don’t vandalize or destroy property during our protests?

Nevertheless, I stress how thankful we are for our American service men and women, and we appreciate the sacrifice. I then find myself needing to tell them how it is that my family ended up fleeing the Islamic Republic, losing everything. My father was accused of being a spy (guess for who) and overnight they had to disappear. He went from being a person with wealth to having nothing. The regime took all his assets as punishment, and all of my grandfather’s as well, and prohibited him from leaving Iran unless he converted, which he did in 1998 just to get out and pass away a year or two later.

So, joy and hope still motivate us and we hope that liberation comes soon!” -Daniel

Thank you, friends. Let us pray for peace. If prayer isn’t your thing, here’s some music:

Listen on Spotify

Shabbat Shalom! Next year in Tehran,

💧If you’re interested in Iran, check out this Drop:

Carve New Ones

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 06 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On Wednesday morning in Jerusalem, air raid sirens sounded at dawn. Missiles from Iran — the country that used to be called Persia, the country where the Megillah is set — were inbound. It was Shushan Purim, the day Jerusalem celebrates the holiday one day later than the rest of the world.

The Home Front Command had banned public gatherings. People came anyway. They read the Megillah in shelters and in shuls and in living rooms. They dressed their kids in costumes. One boy in Beit Yisrael posed for a photo in an IDF soldier costume. Yiddish techno echoed through the stone alleys of Mea Shearim.

This is a week after the "supreme leader" of Iran was killed. The man who funded Hamas, who armed Hezbollah, who bankrolled a forty-plus-year campaign to wipe the Jewish state off the map.

The Megillah opens with a Persian court drunk on its own power. It ends with that power turned against itself. You'd have to work hard not to notice.

And then, the next Shabbat — this Shabbat — we read Ki Tisa.

Ki Tisa is the parsha where everything breaks. It contains the golden calf — the single worst moment in the Israelites' history as a people. Moses has been on Sinai for forty days. The people panic. They build an idol. The same people who heard God's voice are now dancing around a statue.

Moses comes down the mountain carrying two stone tablets — the ones God carved — and sees what they've done.

וַֽיְהִ֗י כַּאֲשֶׁ֤ר קָרַב֙ אֶל־הַֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה וַיַּ֥רְא אֶת־הָעֵ֖גֶל וּמְחֹלֹ֑ת וַיִּֽחַר־אַ֣ף מֹשֶׁ֗ה וַיַּשְׁלֵ֤ךְ מִיָּדָו֙ אֶת־הַלֻּחֹ֔ת וַיְשַׁבֵּ֥ר אֹתָ֖ם תַּ֥חַת הָהָֽר׃ As soon as Moses came near the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, he became enraged; and he hurled the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain.

— Shemot 32:19

He shatters them. The holiest objects in existence, broken at the foot of the mountain where they were given.

And here is where the parsha does something that would be easy to miss: it keeps going. Moses pleads with God. God relents. And then God says — to the man who just shattered the tablets:

וַיֹּ֤אמֶר יְהֹוָה֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה פְּסׇל־לְךָ֛ שְׁנֵֽי־לֻחֹ֥ת אֲבָנִ֖ים כָּרִאשֹׁנִ֑ים וְכָתַבְתִּי֙ עַל־הַלֻּחֹ֔ת אֶ֨ת־הַדְּבָרִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר הָי֛וּ עַל־הַלֻּחֹ֥ת הָרִאשֹׁנִ֖ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר שִׁבַּֽרְתָּ׃ GOD said to Moses: "Carve two tablets of stone like the first, and I will inscribe upon the tablets the words that were on the first tablets, which you shattered.

— Shemot 34:1

Carve new ones. The same words. A new set of stone. God doesn't pretend the first set wasn't broken. The verse says it plainly — asher shibarta, which you shattered.

There's a teaching that both sets of tablets — the whole ones and the broken ones — were placed together in the Ark of the Covenant. The shattered fragments traveled with the people through the wilderness alongside the intact replacement.

The broken pieces, kept. Not repaired. Not glued back together. Not hidden — carried forward, in the same sacred container as the ones that replaced them.

This is also Shabbat Parah, one of the four special Shabbatot before Pesach. The additional Torah reading describes the parah adumah, the red heifer — the ritual of purification. Purification doesn't arrive clean. The process costs something.

On a coffee shop on Jaffa Street in Jerusalem this Wednesday, three women — Amber, Maya, and Vicky — kept their family business open through the sirens. They've run You Need Coffee at that spot since 2011, through every war.

That's a woman making espresso under missile fire because the people who come through her door every morning still need a place to sit. That's carrying the broken tablets and the whole ones in the same ark.

Ki Tisa is not a comfortable parsha. The golden calf is a betrayal. The shattering is a catastrophe. But the parsha doesn't end there. It ends with Moses coming down a second time, carrying the second set of tablets, his face glowing — karan or panav — and he doesn't even know it.

The parsha which contains the worst failure also contains the deepest repair.

A few days ago, the Jews of Jerusalem read the Megillah under sirens from Iran. They dressed their children in costumes. They gave matanot la'evyonim. They celebrated the downfall of a Persian tyrant while the spiritual successor to that tyrant was being buried.

The light rail ran. The coffee was hot. The techno was loud.

They carried the broken tablets and the whole ones in the same ark, and they danced.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Coincidence — More Than Meets the Eye?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 05 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on March 5, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Some moments feel random. Others don't.

In 1973, actor Anthony Hopkins was preparing for a film role and wanted to read the novel it was based on, The Girl from Petrovka. He searched bookshops across London. No one had a copy.

Frustrated, he sat down on a bench and noticed a book someone had left behind. It was The Girl from Petrovka. He took it home and began to read. The margins were filled with handwritten notes, detailed annotations from a previous reader.

Months later, Hopkins met George Feifer, the novel's author. Feifer mentioned that years earlier, he had lent his personal copy, filled with his handwritten notes, to a friend in London. It had been lost, and he had never seen it again.

Hopkins handed him the book. It was his. In a city of millions, the author's lost copy was on the bench where he happened to sit. Perhaps some things do align.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Coincidence: more than chance?

Most of us have experienced moments of uncanny timing, unexpectedly crossing paths with someone from our past, receiving help at just the right moment, or hearing from an old friend after many years. We usually dismiss these moments as coincidence.

Yet unforeseen experiences like these can leave us wondering.

They invite us to pause and reflect, to consider the possibility that life may be unfolding with more meaning than we recognize.

2. Misfortune … or hidden direction?

On occasion, the ground quietly shifts beneath us: a relationship ends, a job disappears, or plans suddenly dissolve. In those moments, it can feel like nothing more than bad luck.

Yet, as time passes, what once felt like loss is sometimes seen as redirection. What first appeared to be misfortune is later understood in a different light.

When one path is suddenly blocked, another may open in its place, leading somewhere we would never have chosen, yet may have needed to go.

3. Seeing beyond the surface

Everyone interprets the events of their lives differently. Those who tend toward optimism are likely to see disruptive events in a positive light, while others see the same events as loss or misfortune.

The difference lies not in what happens, but in how it is seen. Some see only what has been taken away, while others see what might still be given.

Classic wisdom has long suggested that there may be more woven into the pattern of our lives than we are ready to perceive.

📜 2 Quotes

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven."

— Ecclesiastes 3:1

"God does not play dice with the universe."

— Albert Einstein

❓ 1 Question

What unexpected moment in your life later revealed a meaning you could not see at the time?

There were two identical twins separated as infants and raised in different homes, unaware of each other's existence. Both were named James by their adoptive families.

As they grew up, each had a dog named Toy. Both pursued careers in law enforcement. Each married a woman named Linda, and both later remarried women named Betty. Each named his first son James Allan, with slightly different spellings.

When they were finally reunited at age thirty-nine, their lives had unfolded along paths astonishingly similar. Moments like this invite us to consider that when something appears to be coincidence, there may be more than meets the eye.

A brief note: Spiritual Sparks began as weekly reflections and is now in its final stages of preparation as a book, a collection designed to be read, revisited, and shared. In the weeks ahead, I'll be sharing more about its release, along with a few meaningful ways for those who feel connected to Spiritual Sparks to bring it into the world.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of meaningful moments, and the vision to notice them,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What's the one moment in your life that you felt like it could only happen in a movie? Please share, I'd love to hear your experience.

P.P.S. If you're new here, Spiritual Sparks is a short weekly reflection on living with meaning and intention. You're always welcome to subscribe here: https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

How I'm Finding Joy This Adar

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 27 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 27, 2026.

Dear friends,

It never seems like the Jewish calendar lines up right with the secular year. During the happiest, most care-free time (August), we’re supposed to be sad (the Three Weeks and Tisha B’Av). During the coldest, dreariest time of year (now, depending on where you live), we’re supposed to be joyful. Which brings us to Adar.

Purim starts Monday evening. For a refresher, read this ol’ Drop.

Purim is during the Hebrew month of Adar, the most auspicious time in the Jewish calendar. Haman tried to have us killed, but our fate was reversed. Now, everything is upside down (but not in a creepy Stranger Things way), we’re drunk as skunks, eating delicious hamantaschen, and we’re giving gifts! Yay!

Only… I don’t feel this way. I don’t know about you, but this time of year is not my favorite. We’re getting blizzards here in NYC, where the fresh white snow lasts for a couple of hours until the plows mix it into a blackened, sooty slush. And personally, I have a lot going on. A lot of questions that need answers, things I’m working on, and attempts to plan a vacation in a warm place. Spring can’t come soon enough!

I’ve been seeing social media posts about Adar, of superficial ways to increase joy, like by treating yourself and adding more whimsy to your life.

I completely support these ideas, but they don’t seem substantial enough for my Jewish soul. So, I’ve been chasing the highs of Jewish joy, choosing joyous opportunities - some intentional, and some just because that’s how I live my life. Here are some of the ways I’ve been doing that. Got any? Drop ‘em in the comments.

1. Making Time for Torah Study

One of my Jewish communities here in NYC has a regular parsha study on Zoom every Tuesday at noon. However, I can’t usually make it because my team at work typically has our weekly meeting during this time. I never get the chance to study Torah with my community.

However, this week’s blizzard kept me working from home on Tuesday, and my team meeting happened to be canceled. I jumped on the chance to join, especially since I started reading the book the class reads: It Takes Two to Torah by Abigail Pogrebin and Dov Linzer.

45 minutes of Torah study in lieu of a lunch break was time well spent! We studied Parashat Tetzaveh, and learned about the distinctive “uniform” of the High Priest versus the plain clothing of all the regular ol’ priests. We discussed whether or not the High Priest’s requirements of fine linen and the stone-studded breastplate were a symbol of superiority, or responsibility (my vote is the latter).

We also discussed what it means to carry our inheritance visibly, be it your grandmother’s Star of David necklace or your father’s kippah. We agreed that it expresses outward Jewish pride, while also symbolizing the responsibility you take on as the wearer in representing the Jewish people to the world. Meaning, don’t go around “hitting grandmas” while wearing a kippah, as the teacher said. You should take off your kippah before hitting grandmas! Just kidding, don’t do that either. A more practical example would be to not litter while being outwardly Jewish. You shouldn’t litter anyway, but wearing Judaica gives you more responsibility to not do so, since caring about the land is a Jewish value.

2. Choosing Positivity Over Negativity

Maybe it’s because of what Bret Stephens said at the State of World Jewry address about living 10% Jewier, but I’m trying to redirect my Jewish life toward more positive experiences rather than focusing on antisemitism or antizionism. I feel bad writing this because there are some great and important events out there (like my friend’s necessary talk he hosted with Adam Louis Klein of the Movement Against Antizionism), and I don’t mean to snub them in any way. This is just the journey I’m on right now.

On Tuesday night, I had to make a choice: join my Zionist book club, or attend UJA’s event of Jewish celebrities reading letters written about Israel across centuries at Carnegie Hall. I actually was torn, because I liked this month’s book, As a Jew by Sarah Hurwitz. And we all know how much I love her! But I also enjoy an Israel celebration, especially when Amy Schumer is involved, and especially when the tickets are free.

A glimpse at "Letters Light and Love” at Carnegie Hall, where celebrities read historical documents as a love letter to Israel and to Jewry

As I wrote in this bookish Drop, As a Jew focuses on how antisemitism has shaped the author’s “apologetic” Jewish identity. I loved the second half of the book that tears into antizionism, and it does take a more positive turn when she reclaims her sense of identity and Zionism, but the book’s tone feels negative throughout. As it should; it’s a response to something negative.

Which is fine, just not what I’m in the mood for right now. I’m desperate for joy and knowledge!! Focusing on antisemitism isn’t going to scratch that itch. Though being in community does, and I look forward to the next Jewish book club meeting (love you, ladies!).

Also… the event I attended was the best Jewish event I’ve ever been to, and I’ve been to many Jewish events. It was truly a love letter to Israel, in words read from the 1st century BCE to October 7th. No politics, just love, and a reminder of why the Jewish people need a homeland. Our homeland.

Just watch this video of a packed Carnegie Hall singing Hatikvah together:

3. Listening to Jewish or Israeli music

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a showcase of six Israeli musicians. Yes, now I’m just bragging about all the cool Jewish events there are in NYC.

Of course, this event wasn’t advertised as Israeli, but as “international.” Fortunately, my friend’s friend organized the night, so I knew the truth!

Here’s electronic soul from Masok (which means helicopter in Hebrew). The singer was funky, bouncing around the stage, clutching her pregnant belly in an oversized jacket and pleated miniskirt that showed off her heavily tattooed legs, while her fiancé tapped away at his synth.

Listen on Spotify

The star of the show (or hofa’a in Hebrew for show/performance as I learned this week) was Gal de Paz, singer/songwriter, pianist, and the lead singer of two bands, The Paz Band and Lucille Crew. She completely captured the room’s attention as she sat at a piano in fuzzy knee-high heeled boots and belted out heartfelt lyrics. Her voice has gentle huskiness to it, like a subtle rawness. You’d guess she was from the American south, like Alabama, instead of Israel. Her band, Lucille Crew, later joined her on stage. They were more hip hop and funk. If you do anything today, please check out this song:

Listen on Spotify

4. Hosting a Shabbat Meal

I love hosting, and I haven’t done it in a year. My tiny apartment isn’t going to deter me from doing what I love!

Tonight, I’m hosting a Jewish friend and his wife, both of whom I introduced to Shabbat about a year ago. That was a special dinner: they hosted and cooked, invited a bunch of Jews and non-Jews, and I led the group in the traditions. I should make a side business out of this! If anyone is looking for this kind of service, email me! ;) One requirement: you must be a good cook, like my friends.

I told them that Shabbos at my home will basically be the same, but with less space. And matbucha pasta!

5. Scheduling Jewish Coffee Dates

Now that I’m over the flu and it’s more than 9 degrees outside, I’ve been making time to have conversations with people about Judaism: what we’re looking for in community, what we want to learn, and what projects we’re working on. I’ve been reconnecting with people from earlier in my life, and with fellow creators on Instagram.

They’re the kind of deep and uplifting conversations I craved in my 20s as part of the Great Jewish Journey. Keep ‘em comin’!

🥳 Shab Shalom and Purim sameach. Keep choosing joy,

💦 If you like Jewish joy, check out this Drop:

Crushed and Lit

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 27 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The olive oil had to be beaten. That's the detail I keep coming back to — not pressed, not filtered, but כָּתִית, katit, crushed by hand until it ran clear.

The first instruction in this week's parsha, Tetzaveh, before the priestly garments, before the consecration, before any of the ceremony, is about olive oil:

וְאַתָּ֞ה תְּצַוֶּ֣ה ׀ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל וְיִקְח֨וּ אֵלֶ֜יךָ שֶׁ֣מֶן זַ֥יִת זָ֛ךְ כָּתִ֖ית לַמָּא֑וֹר לְהַעֲלֹ֥ת נֵ֖ר תָּמִֽיד׃ You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.

— Shemot 27:20

Ner tamid — the eternal light. Every synagogue has one. The Torah's version isn't electric. Aaron and his sons tended it every evening and every morning, a light that burned from dusk to dawn. The oil had to come from olives that were crushed.

There's a midrash that compares Israel to an olive. Other fruits give their best when they're fresh. The olive gives its best when it's pressed.

This past weekend was the last of Darom BaLev — "South at Heart" — the flower festival in the communities along the Gaza border. For almost twenty years it was called Darom Adom, "Red South," after the scarlet anemones that carpet the Negev every February. The name was a play on the red alert sirens that punctuated life in the region.

After October 7, the name carried too much. They changed it.

But the flowers came back. They always do. Fields around Kibbutz Be'eri and Re'im and Shokeda Forest bloomed red again this year, and people came from across the country to walk through them.

Yaki Sagi, a baker from Be'eri, packed picnic baskets with vegetable pies and chocolate babka, the way he has for years, and said something that stays with me: the hostages are home, people are happier, and it's time to lift your head and look ahead.

Tetzaveh means "you shall command," but the root tzav carries a second meaning. Connection. The choshen, the breastplate worn over the heart, held twelve stones engraved with the names of the twelve tribes:

וְנָשָׂ֣א אַ֠הֲרֹ֠ן אֶת־שְׁמ֨וֹת בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֜ל בְּחֹ֧שֶׁן הַמִּשְׁפָּ֛ט עַל־לִבּ֖וֹ בְּבֹא֣וֹ אֶל־הַקֹּ֑דֶשׁ לְזִכָּרֹ֥ן לִפְנֵֽי־יְהֹוָ֖ה תָּמִֽיד׃ Aaron shall carry the names of the sons of Israel on the breastpiece of decision over his heart, when he enters the sanctuary, for remembrance before GOD at all times.

— Shemot 28:29

L'zikaron — for remembrance. The same root as zachor. Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat before Purim, when we read the command to remember what Amalek did. Two kinds of remembrance in the same week: the names on the heart, and the evil you must not forget.

Aaron didn't carry those names as a memorial. He carried them as a living register — every tribe present when he stood before God.

I think about the baker from Be'eri packing chocolate babka into a picnic basket, knowing exactly whose hands won't be reaching for it this year. That's a kind of priestly service. The act of showing up to tend something beautiful in a place that has been crushed.

This is also the only parsha in the Torah — after Moses first appears — where his name is absent. The rabbis connect this to his plea after the Golden Calf: "Erase me from your book." In this one portion, about preparing others for service, Moses steps back. The spotlight falls entirely on Aaron and his sons.

The ner tamid doesn't burn once in a dramatic blaze. It burns every night and is rekindled every morning. The anemones don't bloom to prove anything. They bloom because that's what anemones do in February in the Negev.

Crushed olives make the clearest oil. The flowers bloom where the worst happened. And the light, if you tend it, does not go out.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Creativity: The Soul's Outward Breath

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 26 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on February 26, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

A creative spark lives within us, waiting to be expressed

A clergy member once struggled with a persistent problem. Despite repeated requests, people kept parking in his reserved space. He put up a sign: No Parking. It didn't help. He tried again: No Parking, Please. Still, the space was taken. Appealing to higher authority, he posted: Thou Shalt Not Park Here. The command was clear, but the result was the same.

Finally, he tried something entirely different. His new sign read: Whoever parks here will be responsible for delivering this weekend's sermon.

The space remained empty.

Nothing about the parking spot had changed. Only his creative response. Creativity is not reserved for artists or inventors. A creative spark lives within each of us, waiting for the moment we choose to see differently.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Creativity: The Radiance Within

Creativity is one of life's deepest pleasures, engaging the soul. We were created to create, to bring something new into existence and give expression to what we carry inside.

Creativity brings certain images to mind: a painter before a blank canvas, a writer filling an empty page, an inventor transforming an idea into something real in the world.

But creativity also takes the form of a musician shaping sound, a dancer expressing movement, or a skier carving a path down a mountain. In each case, something inner finds its way into visible form.

2. Creativity: Nurturing and Trusting the Light Within

Creativity emerges naturally. Every child builds, draws and explores without hesitation or fear. As we grow, we begin to measure our creations against others, and the joy of making gives way to the anxiety of being judged.

The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul. Self-doubt acts as a silent saboteur, disrupting the natural flow of creativity.

But our capacity for creativity does not disappear. It waits patiently, ready to emerge when we nurture it and trust it once again.

3. Creativity: The Pinnacle

The highest expression of creativity is found in crafting a human life. Parents bring children into existence and begin nurturing their character, values, and sense of purpose. Teachers and mentors help students become more than they were before.

Through our choices and our willingness to grow, we participate in fashioning the person we become. We are creators of our lives, not merely observers of them.

This may be the most important work we ever do. It is a lifelong act of bringing our inner potential into reality.

📜 2 Quotes

"A woman of valor … works willingly with her hands … she creates beautiful bedspreads, and garments of fine linen and purple wool."

— Proverbs 31:10,13, 22

"Practice any art … no matter how well or badly … to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow."

— Kurt Vonnegut

❓ 1 Question

Where in your life is your creativity waiting to be expressed?

Years ago, one of Ripley's famous "Believe it or Not" cartoons pictured a plain bar of iron worth $5 and pointed out that if you forged the iron into horseshoes, it would then be worth $10.50. If you used the iron for making needles, it would then be worth $3,285. And if you turned the iron into watch springs, the value would soar to $250,000. There's a big difference between $5 and $250,000. The difference is applied creativity.

The same is true within each of us.

A brief note: Bringing Spiritual Sparks into book form has been a deeply meaningful journey. What began as weekly reflections is now becoming something more lasting, a collection designed to be read, revisited, and shared. I look forward to telling you more soon.

Until next time,

May you bring your inner light into the world,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. I'd love to hear from you: What's something you've created, large or small, that brought you joy?

P.P.S. If you're new here, Spiritual Sparks is a short weekly reflection to help you live intentionally. You can subscribe here: https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

💌✡️ SHABBAT NOTES ✡️💌

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 20 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 20, 2026.

Before we begin, our friends at Lehrhaus (Jewish tavern and house of learning - read my Drop about it here!) had a pipe burst, causing water damage. Let’s be 10% Jewier (last Drop reference and a tzedakah deep cut) by either donating or buying a gift card!

Please excuse last week’s silence - flu season got the best of me!

A few weeks ago, I invited readers to write in. Here were some of your burning questions, and some of my abridged but hopefully helpful answers.

💌 “I know 18 is an important number in Judaism, I believe it means life. I recently learned that 26 is also an important number, and the secular year being 2026 made me wonder what significance does 26 represent. Is it because 13 x 2 =26 and 13 seems like an important one as well. So I guess this is really two questions: what is the significance of the numbers 26 and 13? Which leads to a third question: what is the magic behind numbers in Hebrew and how they relate to letters?” -Maddy

Ah, that’s a neat system called gematria, which assigns a numerical value to each letter of the Hebrew alphabet. When you add up the letters of a word, you give that word (and its total) special meaning. It’s a spiritual tool used to draw connections between words and numbers, and it’s the closest I ever willingly get to doing math.

Here’s a chart showing each letter and their numerical value:

If it sounds Kabbalistic and mystical, it is, but it actually predates classic Kabbalah. This method of Hebrew numerology was likely inspired by the Greeks, who had their own numerology system.

The term “gematria” likely comes from the Greek word “geometria,” which means “geometry.” This connection means that math is all around and we can’t escape it, no matter how hard we try.

Yes, the Hebrew word for life (חי) totals 18! 8+10=18, so 18 means life.

26 is the total (10+5+6+5) of the special letters that make up the four-letter Tetragrammaton, the most sacred name for G-d: י–ה–ו–ה

Jews don’t care about secular years (we have our own calendar!), so 2026 is just a coincidence… or is it? 👀

13is significant in Judaism because that’s when a child becomes a b-mitzvah. In gematria, two words that add up to 13 is the Hebrew word for love (אהבה) (1+5+2+5) and the word for one (אחד) (1+8+4). Mysticism points out that love and oneness share the same numerical value, interpreted to mean that love creates unity, or one being. Awww.

A modern example that gives me chills about the last hostage, Ran Gvili, whose body was just returned to Israel last month:

I recommend the book Letters of Light by Rabbi Aaron L. Raskin to learn about each letter and what they represent!

💌 “I would love an edition to focus on what it was like being a Jew during the Middle Ages.” -Nick

This is a dense topic (Many years! Many places!) and I would be happy to write a separate Drop on this someday, but in brief:

After the destruction of the Second Temple in Israel in 70 CE, Jews were even more scattered all over the Middle East, North Africa, and Europe.
Under Muslim Rule: Since the 7th century, Jews in lands under Islamic rule lived under the Pact of Umar, which treated Jews (and Christians) as second class citizens called dhimmis. Jews were allowed to practice Judaism but were seen as inferior, often forced to walk on the opposite side of the street as Muslims, pay a special tax, wear embarrassing outfits including tall, conical caps and a yellow band around their waist, and were not permitted to build synagogues. There were different rules in different areas. This status lasted about 1,200 years.
The Golden Age of Spain: It wasn’t all bad! The 10th-12th centuries saw a cultural flourishing in Jewish communities, particularly in Spain. Still under dhimmi status, some Jews prospered as craftsmen and traders, while great thinkers like Moses Maimonides and Judah Halevi contributed to philosophy, poetry, Torah, and more.
The Rishonim: More Jewish intellectual life flourishing! For the biggest stars and their contributions, check out this link.

Rav Yitzchak Alfasi, a Talmud scholar from North Africa (1013-1103) (Judaicapedia)

The Crusades: It was bad again. Starting in the 11th century, Christian mobs attacked Jews and Muslims, from Germany to the Holy Land, in an effort to capture Jerusalem from the Muslims. Each crusade involved forced conversion or death for the Jews (the first few months saw 12,000 Jews killed). This ended in the late 13th century, and destroyed three centers of Ashkenazi Jewry: Cologne, Mainz, and Worms.
Christian Antisemitism: Jews under Christian rule generally had it worse than living under Muslim rule. Seen as Christ killers or nonbelievers, they were often confined to ghettos, forced to convert, killed, or expelled. This period of history gave us the first documented case of blood libel. Jews were blamed for the torture and murder of 12-year-old William of Norwich, whose real murderer was never found. Soon, it was common to accuse Jews of ritual murder of children in Europe, which often led to persecution and the murder of Jews in their local communities. The 14th century brought scapegoating during the Black Death, when Jews were blamed for spreading the illness that would end up killing 1/3 of Europe. In Strasbourg alone, 1,000 Jews were burned to death after mass hysteria spread that Jews had poisoned the wells. In Mainz, Germany, 6,000 Jews were also killed in one day for the same reason. A rumor spread that Jews were able to survive the Plague because of their cleanliness and hand washing habits, a theory later debunked when it became known that the Plague was spread by fleas hitching free rides on rats (those flealoaders!). Also, Jews died from the Plague as well. It wasn’t as though Jews were magically immune.

Map of anti-Jewish persecutions in Europe around the time of the Black Death (Jewish Encyclopedia)

Expulsion from Spain: In the 15th century, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain enforced mass conversion to Catholicism. During this period called the Inquisition, their favorite pastime was torturing and killing thousands of conversos they suspected of secretly practicing Judaism. In 1492, all Jews were expelled from Spain, forcing many to flee to North Africa, the Ottoman Empire, and other parts of Europe.

So there you have it: Jewish Middle Ages in a nutshell. It includes some sad and ugly history, and some rich history that has forever changed how we interpret our sacred texts and deal with erectile dysfunction.

💌 “According to the Book of Genesis, Abraham and Hagar have a son, Ishmael. Abraham also has a son with Sarah, Isaac. Ishmael (Arabs/Muslims) and Isaac (Israelites/Jews) are brothers. Half brothers sure, but half brothers are brothers. They are blood.

Here’s my question: Why don’t more Jews and Muslims feel shame about how they treat, talk about, view their fellow brothers? It is incredibly sad that far too many people, on both sides, have killed their fellow brothers and continue to do so. Curious to hear your thoughts.” -Jordan

Oof, I think if I had the answer to this I could solve world peace! But let me try.

Some Muslims are antisemitic. Some Jews are Islamophobic. I can only speak for Jews, and I’m not defending this belief, but I think it comes from a sense of fear and survival. When Jews cherry pick examples of unfavorable depictions of Jews in the Quran and the Sahih Muslim hadith and say, “See? They want to kill us!” they’re putting up a psychological shield that makes it easier to justify hostility toward the other side. That’s not to say there aren’t real threats in the world, but it’s possible to acknowledge them without speaking out against Muslims. (That linked hadith is pretty violent though; it’s included in the 1988 Hamas charter. Still, it’s important to remember that it’s only used by extremists.)

My dad has three favorite words for explaining human behavior: “People are tribal.” Evolutionarily, we survived by protecting our group and confronting perceived threats. That protection can include harmful words if not literal violence.

So to answer your question, they feel like they’re doing the right thing and protecting their own.

The good news is there are efforts to combat this energy. JAMAAT, Jews and Muslims and Allies Acting Together, is a DC-based grassroots organization that promotes social action, advocacy, and interfaith dialogue. It’s Jews and Muslims focused on a “third thing,” like fighting climate change and ICE. All they need is better marketing!

During the war, there were dialogue groups like Standing Together that invited Jews and Arabs to share their trauma and pain. They could use less marketing (kidding, kidding, I just didn’t agree with their messaging during the war).

Our relationship with our Muslim siblings starts with us. It starts with dialogue and maybe even a little breaking bread together. Hey, maybe I’ll start an organization called Breaking Bread Together. Or Breaking Bad Together, where Jews and Muslims sit around and watch Breaking Bad. Everyone loves that show!

If you’ve learned anything, please consider donating here, or sharing this page! I will do this again sometime - I had fun and learned a thing or two, and I hope you did as well.

1078 (gematria for “Shabbat Shalom”),

What You've Got

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 20 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Everyone keeps lists. Grocery lists, packing lists, the running mental catalog of things you meant to say before a conversation ended. I keep one on my phone: Hebrew words I mispronounce at shul. It's longer than I'd like.

God, it turns out, also keeps lists.

Parashat Terumah opens with one of the most specific inventories in the Torah:

דַּבֵּר֙ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וְיִקְחוּ־לִ֖י תְּרוּמָ֑ה מֵאֵ֤ת כׇּל־אִישׁ֙ אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִדְּבֶ֣נּוּ לִבּ֔וֹ תִּקְח֖וּ אֶת־תְּרוּמָתִֽי׃ Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved.

— Shemot 25:2

Thirteen materials. Gold, silver, copper. Blue, purple, and crimson yarns. Fine linen and goats' hair. Tanned ram skins and something called tachash — nobody agrees what this animal is. Acacia wood. Oil for lighting. Spices for anointing. Gemstones for the priestly garments.

This is not "bring whatever you can." This is a procurement list. Specific. Itemized. Down to the dye colors.

And yet. Right there in the second verse, embedded in the inventory, is the clause that reframes the whole enterprise: kol ish asher yidvenu libo — every person whose heart is so moved.

The project is communal in scope and voluntary in spirit. No quotas. No assessments. Bring what your heart moves you to bring.

The rest of the parsha reads like architectural blueprints. The dimensions of the Ark. The menorah hammered from a single piece of gold weighing one talent — roughly seventy-five pounds of solid metal, beaten into shape without seams. The cherubim, the table for the showbread, the curtains. And tucked into the middle of these specifications, one verse:

וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם׃ And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.

— Shemot 25:8

B'tokham. Among them. Not "in it." The Alshich — a sixteenth-century commentator in Tzfat — catches what most readers miss: God doesn't say "I will dwell in the sanctuary." God says "I will dwell among the people."

The building is made of acacia wood and gold thread. The dwelling happens somewhere else entirely.

I think about this on Shabbat mornings in Atlanta, when I'm still stumbling through Musaf and the man a couple rows back has been davening since before his bar mitzvah. My Hebrew is a construction project.

But the text says kol ish asher yidvenu libo — everyone whose heart moves them. The requirement isn't fluency. It isn't expertise. It's the willingness to show up carrying whatever you've got.

This past Monday, at the Winter Olympics in Cortina d'Ampezzo, Israel's two-man bobsled team completed its final heat in twenty-sixth place out of twenty-six. Dead last. AJ Edelman jumped out of the sled and celebrated. The Israeli bobsled program didn't have world-class bobsledders. It had Edelman, a skeleton athlete from Boston who spent eight years building the team from nothing. His brakeman, Menachem Chen, was a discus thrower. The four-man squad includes a pole vaulter, a sprinter, and the first Druze athlete in Olympic history. They had no full-time coach. They brought what they had and they slid.

That's terumah. The discus thrower who learned to push a bobsled. The skeleton athlete who wouldn't let the program die.

The Mishkan wasn't built by artisans imported from Egypt's professional guilds. It was built by a community of recently freed slaves in the middle of a desert, working with whatever they carried out of bondage. The text says they brought so much that Moses eventually had to tell them to stop — the only fundraising campaign in the entirety of Jewish history that had to be shut down for excess generosity.

Terumah means "offering," but the root carries a sense of elevation — something lifted up, set apart. The materials were ordinary before they were offered.

Gold is just a metal until someone takes it off their ear and places it in a collection. Goat hair is just goat hair until it becomes the wall of a place where the divine presence rests.

The elevation isn't in the material. It's in the giving.

The sanctuary gets built from whatever people bring. That's the whole design.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Laser Vision

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 19 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on February 19, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Focus shapes the life you experience

In our home, we have a small night light that barely gives off enough light to see across a dark room. It's helpful, gentle -- just enough to find your way without stumbling.

Now imagine that same dim light focused into a laser. Instead of softly illuminating a space, that laser can burn matches, pop balloons, and cut through materials far stronger than paper. The energy hasn't changed. The light hasn't changed. Only one thing has changed: focus.

Our lives are similar. Most of us carry far more potential than we ever fully use. The difference between simply having potential and actually shaping a meaningful life often comes down to where we direct our attention.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Attention is the doorway to focus

Meaning tends to grow where we place our attention. We can't focus on what we don't first notice. Attention pulls something out of the background noise and places it in front of us, allowing us to see what truly matters.

Think about learning a skill. Some people spend hours going through motions without improving much. Others spend less time but pay attention to details. The difference is rarely time alone. It's attention.

Attention notices what matters; focus nurtures it.

2. Why focus is so hard

Focus is difficult not because we lack discipline, but because we are pulled in too many directions. Modern life constantly competes for our attention: too many things to do and too little time. Everything feels urgent.

The biggest obstacle isn't avoiding distraction. It's deciding what truly deserves our attention in the first place. A focused life is built as much by what we ignore as by what we pursue.

Focus doesn't require a permanent no. But it does require a "not right now."

3. What focus gives us

Focus is attention plus full effort. When we live with focus, our work becomes meaningful. Our energy is directed and concentrated. We can now begin building.

Our relationships deepen when people feel they have our attention. Being fully present with a person -- listening, noticing, caring -- is one of the greatest gifts we can give.

Spiritually, focus helps us aim our lives toward what we truly value. It helps us live by what matters most -- the deeper yearnings of the soul.

A focused life doesn't just get more done. It helps us live closer to who we want to be.

📜 2 Quotes

Make your ears attentive to wisdom and incline your heart to understanding.

— Proverbs 2:2

Focus is how you knit the hours of the day together. With focus, the day becomes a beautiful tapestry. Without focus, you end up holding a bundle of loose string.

— James Clear, author

❓ 1 Question

When or where do you feel most fully present and undistracted?

A martial arts student approached his instructor with a question. "I'd like to improve my knowledge of the martial arts. In addition to learning from you, I'd like to study with another teacher to learn another style. What do you think of this idea?"

The master answered, "The hunter who chases two rabbits catches neither one."

Living with focus is not about doing more. It's about choosing what truly deserves our time, our energy, and our presence.

A brief note: The Spiritual Sparks Reader is now with the proofreader, and the cover and spine designs are complete. Seeing it take its final form has been deeply meaningful. I'm grateful to have you here and look forward to sharing more soon.

Until next time,

May you focus on what you truly value,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Where would your life benefit most from deeper focus? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

P.P.S. If you're new here, Spiritual Sparks is a short weekly pause to reconnect with what really matters. You can subscribe here: https://spiritualsparks.beehiiv.com/subscribe

Last Place

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 13 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

There is a man in Cortina d'Ampezzo, Italy, right now — a Jewish attorney from South Florida named Jared Firestone — hurtling face-first down an ice track on a sled the size of a cafeteria tray. He is representing Israel in skeleton at the Winter Olympics. He finished twenty-second out of twenty-four competitors. He is thrilled.

Last week, at the opening ceremony in Milan, Firestone carried the Israeli flag while wearing a kippah embroidered with the names of the eleven Israeli athletes murdered at the 1972 Munich Games. The crowd booed when Israel's delegation was announced. Firestone walked out anyway, flag held high, six-pointed star on his helmet, grinning.

This is Parashat Mishpatim — the Torah portion where, after all the thunder and lightning and revelation at Sinai, God says: now here are the rules about oxen.

Seriously. The most dramatic moment in Jewish history just happened — and the very next thing we read is a civil code. Liability for property damage. What happens if someone's animal falls into an uncovered pit. How to treat a hired worker. Fifty-three laws, one after another, in careful, mundane detail.

וְאֵ֙לֶּה֙ הַמִּשְׁפָּטִ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר תָּשִׂ֖ים לִפְנֵיהֶֽם׃ These are the rules that you shall set before them:

— Shemot 21:1

The Talmud has a famous teaching about what happened next. When the Israelites said naaseh v'nishma — we will do and we will understand — a heavenly voice asked: who revealed this secret to My children? But look at the context. Naaseh v'nishma comes here, in Mishpatim, after Moses has read them the civil code:

וַיִּקַּח֙ סֵ֣פֶר הַבְּרִ֔ית וַיִּקְרָ֖א בְּאׇזְנֵ֣י הָעָ֑ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֥ר יְהֹוָ֖ה נַעֲשֶׂ֥ה וְנִשְׁמָֽע׃ Then he took the record of the covenant and read it aloud to the people. And they said, "All that GOD has spoken we will faithfully do!"

— Shemot 24:7

We will do and we will understand. We're in. We'll figure out the rest as we go.

That is what Jared Firestone is doing on an ice track in Italy. He tore his bicep in 2022. Then October 7 happened, and two days later he was back in the gym. "What's my unique contribution that only I can do to support Israel?" he told the Times of Israel. "That was to do skeleton."

Israel sent nine athletes to these Games — the country's largest Winter Olympics delegation ever. Five of them are on the bobsled team, which the press has been calling Shul Runnings. The pilot, AJ Edelman, is believed to be the first Orthodox Jew to compete in a Winter Olympics. The team includes a Druze athlete, Ward Fawarseh.

Before the Games, someone broke into their training apartment in Prague and stole their passports and equipment. A Swiss television commentator spent an entire run questioning whether the Israeli team should even be allowed to compete. They showed up anyway.

This Shabbat is also Shabbat Shekalim — the special reading about the half-shekel tax:

זֶ֣ה ׀ יִתְּנ֗וּ כׇּל־הָעֹבֵר֙ עַל־הַפְּקֻדִ֔ים מַחֲצִ֥ית הַשֶּׁ֖קֶל בְּשֶׁ֣קֶל הַקֹּ֑דֶשׁ This is what everyone who is entered in the records shall pay: a half-shekel by the sanctuary weight—a half-shekel as an offering to GOD.

— Shemot 30:13

Everyone gives the same amount. Rich and poor, strong and weak. Not a whole shekel — a half. Because no individual contribution is complete on its own. You bring your half. Someone else brings theirs.

A twenty-second-place skeleton finish and a gold medal count the same in the machatzit hashekel. You showed up. You were counted.

Mishpatim says something twice — which in Torah means pay attention — about the stranger:

וְגֵ֥ר לֹא־תוֹנֶ֖ה וְלֹ֣א תִלְחָצֶ֑נּוּ כִּֽי־גֵרִ֥ים הֱיִיתֶ֖ם בְּאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם׃ You shall not wrong or oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.

— Shemot 22:20

Choosing Judaism meant choosing, among other things, to show up for the boring parts — to care about the civil code, to learn the details, to say naaseh v'nishma about a tradition I had not been born into.

The thunder was never the point. The thunder is what gets your attention. The oxen are where you live. Judaism is not a peak experience. It is a random Tuesday-night obligation to return your neighbor's lost property. To sanctify the ordinary.

In Cortina right now, a Jewish attorney from Florida is celebrating the fact that he showed up. In a bobsled nicknamed Shul Runnings, an Orthodox pilot and a Druze alternate slid down a track in last place and called themselves victors.

They brought theirs.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Living With Fascination

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 12 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on February 12, 2026.

Reclaim your energy and let fascination lead you forward

If you ever watched Star Trek, you may remember Mr. Spock — the calm, logical science officer who would raise one eyebrow and say one word: "Fascinating." Here's a fascinating question: Wouldn't it be fascinating to know how many times Spock actually said "fascinating"?

That word meant more than "interesting" to Mr. Spock. It meant something had captured his full attention — intellectually, deeply, completely. Even if you've never seen Star Trek, you know the feeling.

Curiosity asks questions.

Fascination makes us lean forward and stay with the answer.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Curiosity opens the door

We are born curious. Young children may ask three hundred questions a day. Adults average closer to twenty-five, and many are practical rather than exploratory.

Somewhere along the way, curiosity falls by the wayside. We "unlearn" how to be curious. Curiosity opens closed doors. A recipe for a vibrant inner life includes one essential ingredient: curiosity.

Curiosity is how we step toward the unknown. Fascination makes us want to stay there.

2. Fascination makes life come alive

We've all felt fascination -- moments of captivation where time seems to stretch.

It might be watching the Northern Lights ripple across the sky. Or standing at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, where history and spiritual longing feel close enough to touch. Or experiencing a moment of deep emotional connection with another person.

Fascination happens when something enthralls the heart and soul. In those moments, life stops feeling routine and starts feeling fully alive.

3. Fascination with people and wisdom

Fifty people can stand watching a polar bear play with a ball. But the people watching are infinitely more fascinating than the polar bear. Genuine interest in people nurtures a desire to know -- and therefore connect -- to others.

And when we become fascinated with wisdom, something inside us expands. Growth and meaning follow in its wake. We find ourselves drawn toward learning. It becomes part of who we are.

📜 2 Quotes

"Make your ear attentive to wisdom … seek it like silver, and search for it like hidden treasure."

— Proverbs 2:2, 4

"If you want to teach someone to sail, you don't train them how to build a boat. You compel them to long for the open seas."

— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, French author and aviator

❓ 1 Question

What are the top three most fascinating things in your life?

Physicist and Nobel laureate Isidor Rabi once explained why he became a scientist. Growing up in Brooklyn, most parents would ask their children after school: "Did you learn anything today?" But his mother asked a different question: "Izzy, did you ask a good question today?" That simple difference shaped his life.

The questions we ask shape what we notice. What we notice shapes what fascinates us. And what fascinates us often shapes who we become.

A brief note: The Spiritual Sparks Reader is now in its final production stages. The manuscript is in its final professional proofing review. I'm deeply grateful to have you here as it moves toward becoming a finished book.

Until next time,

May your life be filled with fascination, because a fascinated life is one fully lived,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Who is the most fascinating person you have ever met? Why? I'd be fascinated to hear your answer.

Enjoy this email? Please consider forwarding it to a curious friend or send them a quick email.

Let's Be 10% Jewier

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 06 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 6, 2026.

This week, I listened to 92NY’s annual State of World Jewry address, given this year by New York Times columnist Bret Stephens.

I almost didn’t listen. Every year, I think, “I already know the state of world Jewry. Antisemitism. Israel. Polarity.”

But I regularly read Bret Stephens’ journal, SAPIR, to stay up to date with Jewish ideas, and to see if their managing editor misses any typos (so far, none). So I figured, why not? Now that the war is over, maybe there’s perspectives out there I’m not aware of.

And I’m so glad I did! For the first time in a while, I felt energized about the Jewish future. Yes, it helps that all the hostages are home and “it’s finally October 8th.” But some of the points Bret (switching to a first-name basis here) made validated my sense of Jewish peoplehood, inspired me to continue my learning, and made me excited and curious for what’s to come in Jewish communal life.

Here are some takeaways and my reactions:

1. Antisemitism = resentment marinated in envy

You know the joke where anti-Israel protestors chant a short, catchy rhyme, and the pro-Israel protestors say, “Well actually, in 1948…”? If only it were a joke! And if only we reframed our approach to antisemitism.

Bret, in Monday night’s address, framed antisemitism not as a result of inaccurate information or lack of knowledge, but as a response to Jewish distinctiveness. He reminded the audience that Judaism is a countercultural nation, believing in one G-d (in a world of many gods); valuing life and freedom (when some cultures value martyrdom and control); believing the Messiah has not yet come (when the majority of the world believes it has); and insisting questions are just as important as answers (in a world that loves certainty).

Therefore, it enrages people when we reject others’ beliefs and remain steadfast to our own, even when people want to kill or convert us for having them.

And when we’re successful (often because of these values), it makes them envious. So maybe it’s not a good idea to remind people who say we shouldn’t have a homeland that we have 20% of Nobel Peace Prizes, or we invented the polio vaccine, that the Jewish country is the only democracy in the Middle East where people can live openly as gay, or Israel has offered the Palestinians peace, only to be rejected many, many times.

How we think antisemites will react: “Wow, you’re right. Thank you so much for everything! Let me know when you’re hosting your next Shabbos meal, I’d love to come over and experience Jewish culture with you! I’ll bring a bottle of Israeli wine!””

How they actually react: “ASDHFKJIL!!! Genocide!”

Bret said, “They do not hate us because of our faults and failures. They hate us because of our virtues and successes.” He continued: Antisemitism doesn’t come from ignorance; antisemitism is a neurosis (for which he was heckled and handled it spectacularly).

Because of this, he thinks that…

2. Fighting antisemitism is a wasted effort.

Since October 7th, Jewish organizations have spent tens of millions of dollars a year fighting antisemitism. These efforts include monitoring online hate, ensuring Holocaust education is part of every private school curriculum, and creating Superbowl ads.

This is well intentioned, but no matter how much people learn about Jews, they still think we killed Christ or caused a genocide or the recent snow storm. Bret cited that 1 in 5 millennials and Gen Zs believe Jews caused the Holocaust. He even went so far as to say that if he were head of the ADL, he would dismantle it.

In addition to money, Bret said we’re wasting our energy as well. We only have so much of it; should we spend it on fighting our enemies, or on uplifting ourselves, particularly in a Jewish way?

“But I fear that this money that we’re spending, it’s like those scenes of people in the ‘Wolf of Wall Street,’ just tossing a hundred-dollar bills into garbage cans. That’s not how Jewish money should be spent. That’s not helping raise a generation of young Jews who are conscious of their Jewishness as something other than the fact that they saw Schindler’s List and they visited the Holocaust Museum.” -Bret Stephens

My two cents: Ihalf agree with Bret on this point. While some forms of fighting antisemitism are fruitless endeavors (did I mention Superbowl ads?), I think some, like monitoring antisemitic incidents and providing non-Jews with the tools to better understand the Jewish people, are important.

I think education is a powerful combatant against antisemitism. Unlike Bret, I do believe some people are antisemitic or antizionist because they are completely ignorant, either of our history, Israeli history, basic definitions, or all of the above.

And I believe there’s a non-extremist majority that just doesn’t know enough, whose mindset can shift through education. I’ve seen it! Whether it’s explaining Mayor Mamdani’s (and his wife’s) public support for individuals aligned with Hamas, or clarifying why Birthright isn’t a white supremacist program, I’ve received responses like, “Wow, I had no idea. Thank you for letting me know.”

Another example: Just last week, someone I know explained the concept of Jewish peoplehood to his self-proclaimed antizionist friends, and pointed out demographic shifts in the Middle East since 1948. And guess what? The conversation was productive! It’s amazing what people don’t know, or don’t stop to consider.

Now, these people didn’t start wearing “Hummus not Hamas” t-shirts right away, or request to go to shul with me like these lovely friends. But sometimes, all it takes is planting one seed to grow into a tree of knowledge. (This was my one Tu BiShvat reference).

In my work at The Jewish Education Project, I’ve seen a powerful example of an educator spending most of the school year teaching Judaism to their non-Jewish students. The results were striking: the majority of students claimed to gain a more nuanced understanding of Jewish culture and clearer awareness of antisemitism as a real and pressing societal issue.

So, I don’t think indifference and disengagement is the path forward, especially if someone approaches you with a genuine curiosity to learn. And in terms of money, I don’t want to abandon the fight altogether. I’m more concerned with how the money used in the fight is allocated. For a good read on this topic, check out this article.

I do agree with Bret on his final point: where our focus should be. Instead of throwing our bills into trash cans fighting antisemitism, he recommended we…

3. Lean into our Jewishness.

Redirect funding toward opening more affordable Jewish day schools and other Jewish institutions that strengthen our Jewish identity! Direct our dollars toward positive Jewish life!

In a Whatsapp chat in response to this speech, my friend Zachary Thacher of The Thacher Report said, “Many secular or Reform Jews go regularly to Chabad houses because they’re free and welcoming. Now imagine if they could send their kids to good quality cheap Jewish schools. It would change American Jewry in 20 years. Hebrew literacy alone would be a game changer.”

Yes, I’ve never understood why so many Jewish philanthropists worry about the Jewish future when day school tuition remains a burden for many families. You have the resources. Now put them to work. Here’s another great piece on this - you can tell I loved the latest issue of SAPIR!

Bret went on to say that when he coined the term “Oct. 8th Jew” in a NY Timesop-ed a month after 10/7, he was wrong in that an Oct. 8th Jew is not just realizing who your enemies really are; it’s wondering who YOU are.

And it’s so true! I always say antizionist Jews base their identity around what they are not. Why should it be the same for Jews in general, who would rather respond to an antisemitic comment than learn from our sacred text?

“The proper defense against Jew hatred is not to prove the haters wrong by outdoing ourselves in feats of altruism, benevolence, and achievement. It is to lean into our Jewishness as far as each of us can, irrespective of what anyone else thinks of it.” -Bret Stephens

Bret then referenced a book I like, Dan Harris’s memoir, 10% Happier, about a news anchor who has a panic attack on national television and then develops a meditation practice. Dan Harris posits than meditating regularly can make you 10% happier.

Every year, Bret suggested, we should become 10% Jewier. Investing our time in gaining more knowledge, therefore gaining a deeper sense of identity: that’s how we fight antisemitism.

He said that we didn’t come to America to become victims. In fact, most of us aren’t victims, and we shouldn’t want to compete for the oppression Olympics. Israel also wasn’t created to be seen as a victim.

So let’s stop reading the comments section (though I can’t wait to read this one and see what you all think!), crack open a Jewish book, get coffee with a Jew and discuss Jewish ideas, and go to a Shabbat meal.

Yalla! Shabbat Shalom,

💦 If you’re interested in fighting antisemitism, check out this Drop:

The One Who Heard

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 06 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The parsha that contains the Ten Commandments — the foundational moment of Jewish civilization, the voice of God at Sinai, thunder and lightning and a mountain on fire — is named for a Midianite priest.

Not Moses. Not Aaron. Not God. Yitro. The father-in-law. The outsider. The one who heard what had happened and came anyway.

וַיִּשְׁמַ֞ע יִתְר֨וֹ כֹהֵ֤ן מִדְיָן֙ חֹתֵ֣ן מֹשֶׁ֔ה אֵת֩ כׇּל־אֲשֶׁ֨ר עָשָׂ֤ה אֱלֹהִים֙ לְמֹשֶׁ֔ה וּלְיִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל עַמּ֑וֹ Jethro priest of Midian, Moses' father-in-law, heard all that God had done for Moses and for Israel—God's people: how the ETERNAL had brought Israel out from Egypt.

— Shemot 18:1

He heard. Vayishma. Rashi cites the splitting of the sea and the war with Amalek as what Yitro heard. Others add the giving of the Torah itself. The point is the same: a lot of people heard. Yitro moved.

I think about that distinction more than I should. Wednesday morning I was at a coffee shop in Dunwoody — and the barista, making conversation, asked what I was reading. I had a Chumash open on the table. I said it was the Torah. She said, "Oh, are you studying to be a rabbi?" I said no, I'm just Jewish. She paused. "You just... read it? Like, on a Wednesday?" I said yes. She said that was cool. And that was it.

It was a nothing interaction. Ten seconds. But it caught the strangeness of what Yitro did and what anyone does when they hear something and actually go toward it.

Parashat Yitro covers a lot of ground: Yitro's arrival and his advice to Moses about delegating judgment, the Israelites' arrival at Sinai, and then the main event — the aseret hadibrot, the Ten Utterances.

But before the thunder, before the commandments, there is a verse that carries more weight than its handful of Hebrew words suggest:

וַיִּסְע֣וּ מֵרְפִידִ֗ים וַיָּבֹ֙אוּ֙ מִדְבַּ֣ר סִינַ֔י וַֽיַּחֲנ֖וּ בַּמִּדְבָּ֑ר וַיִּֽחַן־שָׁ֥ם יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל נֶ֥גֶד הָהָֽר׃ Having journeyed from Rephidim, they entered the wilderness of Sinai and encamped in the wilderness. Israel encamped there in front of the mountain,

— Shemot 19:2

The verse uses two different verb forms for "encamped." The first — vayachanu — is plural. The second — vayichan — is singular. Rashi catches it: k'ish echad b'lev echad. As one person with one heart. Every other encampment in the desert was marked by murmuring and dissension. This one was different.

The Ten Utterances begin with a sentence that is not, technically, a commandment:

אָֽנֹכִ֖י֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֑֔יךָ אֲשֶׁ֧ר הוֹצֵאתִ֛יךָ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם מִבֵּ֣֥ית עֲבָדִ֑͏ֽים׃ I the ETERNAL am your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage:

— Shemot 20:2

No instruction. No prohibition. Just identification. I am. I brought you out. The relationship is established before the rules arrive.

I drove to shul last Shabbat. Sat in the car for a minute or ten waiting for the doors to be unlocked. There is a moment I have almost every Saturday morning — small, not dramatic — where I notice that this is my week now. Not because it feels unfamiliar. Because it still feels chosen. Every single week, it still feels chosen.

There is a midrash that says when God spoke at Sinai, every soul that would ever be Jewish was present — the ones already born, the ones not yet born, and the ones who would one day choose it.

The parsha is named for the outsider who heard and came. The people arrived at the mountain and for once — for the only time in the wilderness — stood as one. The first words spoken were not a rule but a declaration: I am your God. I brought you out.

The joy in Yitro is the quiet kind. A lot of people hear. Some of them move. The ones who move find out the mountain was waiting.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

A Good Laugh

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 05 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on February 5, 2026.

Read on beehiiv

Laughter can lift, connect, and give us hope

Legendary comedian Shecky Greene once drove his car into the fountain at Caesars Palace. As water surrounded the vehicle, he calmly switched on the windshield wipers and waited for the police to arrive. When they rushed to the scene and asked what he was doing, Greene reportedly rolled down the window and said, "No wax, please."

In a moment that might have embarrassed anyone else, he chose laughter instead. Behind every genuine laugh lies something deeper -- a shift in perspective, a loosening of the heart, a reminder to the soul that life is larger than this moment.

This week's message explores the spiritual power of laughter -- how it restores perspective, strengthens connection, and awakens hope within us.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Laughter restores perspective

We laugh because something is funny or because we feel happy. Yet often laughter rises when reality collides with our expectations. We brace for a frustrating commute -- and instead find the road open and the drive effortless.

The laughter comes not from joy alone, but because our inner essence recognizes that what felt certain has changed.

Distress eases, and something unexpectedly lighter takes its place. We step outside our previous narrow frame. A new and refreshing reality comes into view.

2. Laughter connects

Laughter creates closeness between people. We are far more likely to laugh with others than alone, because shared presence magnifies the effect of humor.

When we laugh together, we signal understanding and belonging. We say without words: I see you. You're not alone.

Laughter binds our souls and softens tension between us. Especially when life feels heavy, shared laughter makes connection possible.

3. The deepest laughter is rooted in trust

A deeper form of laughter emerges from faith. It is the laughter of someone who faces life's challenges, yet remains anchored in hope.

This laughter flows from a wider perspective, knowing that the present moment is not the whole story.

It does not deny reality. Instead, it loosens pain's grip and changes how we carry it. Faith allows a last laugh to rise from an inner wellspring of trust, knowing that this chapter, however hard, is not the end.

📜 2 Quotes

"Strength and dignity are her clothing; and she laughs on the last day."

— Proverbs 31:25

"There ain't much fun in medicine, but there's a heck of a lot of medicine in fun."

— Josh Billings, American humorist

❓ 1 Question

What kind of laughter has shown up in your life recently?

Everyone loves to laugh. Sometimes it comes from a good joke, a funny show, or sheer silliness. At other times, it rises from something unexpected, being present with others, or from a foundation of trust that all is well, even if we cannot yet see it.

A brief note: I'm continuing the quiet work of preparing a reader drawn from Spiritual Sparks -- refining the pages and the feel of the book itself. I'm grateful to have you here, and I'll have more as it takes its final shape.

Until next time,

Wishing you a lighter heart, shared joy, and a wider view of life,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What makes you laugh? I'd enjoy hearing what lightens your life.

P.P.S. I'd be delighted if you would forward this to a friend or pass along an invitation to join our Spiritual Sparks community.

“It’s Here. I’m Here. They Were All Here.”

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 30, 2026.

Tuesday was International Holocaust Remembrance Day. I hope you found a moment to commemorate the six million Jews who were murdered. Remembrance is an action we owe the victims.

But if you missed it, it’s not too late (it never is). My man, Phil, recently returned from a heritage trip to Poland. Since he went on an organized Jewish trip, his experience was very different from mine. He was willing to be interviewed about his personal experience, and I thank him for his honesty, vulnerability, and reflections.

Friends: This is one of the most profound Drops I’ve ever published, and I’m not just saying that. Phil’s insights on history and Judaism will surely make you stop and think about our past, as well as our future. It’s difficult to read at times due to its content, but if you care about the Jewish story, and our collective safety, this is a must read. Thank you.

Tell us about the kind of trip you went on, and why you went.

It was a trip run by Pardes, an institution with which I have no affiliation but the rabbi of my synagogue does, and invited people from the shul to join. Frankly, I’ve wanted to go to Poland for a long time. My family is from there, and I’ve always felt connected to that. Ever since I learned about how my great-grandfather came to the United States from Poland growing up, I’ve always wanted to go.

Beyond the family connection, I always felt it was important to see the history of Jewish life there, and to see the camps, to bear witness to what was at one time home to several of the main centers of Jewish life on earth, and where a lot of the version of Judaism that I have received in practice was solidified.

Some comedic relief before really getting into it

Could you explain further about that, your form of Judaism?

Well, I grew up in a very Ashkenazi environment and the yeshivas I attended were modeled off of the ones that had been formed in Poland and Lithuania. Many of the modern rabbinic figures whose work I studied either came from Poland or Lithuania, or the method that they employed was of Polish or Lithuanian origin.

For instance, we went to the remarkable Jewish cemetery in Warsaw, which I think houses something like 250,000 graves. Two of the graves that are side by side are that of the Netziv, R’ Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin, who was the head of the Volozhin Yeshiva, and R’ Chaim Soloveitchik, who taught in that yeshiva and whose work I studied a lot. I didn’t even know that I was going to see their graves, so it was a powerful and meaningful surprise.

Did you learn anything about Polish Jewish life before the Holocaust?

So much. First of all, it’s so varied and grand that it would be difficult to really cover it all. Suffice it to say, Jews lived in Poland for 1,000 years before the Holocaust. There was a rich, vibrant, diverse, and complex history—within the Jewish community, including differences in how various Jewish groups related to one another, and in how Jews interacted with other communities in Poland, including non-Jewish and Christian communities, as well as with the nobility and the peasantry.

The history really illuminates a lot about the role that Jews played in the structure of Polish society at different times, which transformed my perception of Jewish life in America. I grew up with the view of American Jewish life being exceptional, which, in a certain way it is, and always has been. But I suspect a lot of Jews living in Poland at various times probably thought of their lives very much the same way. If they had any sense of history and other parts of the Jewish world, they would have regarded their situation as distinctive if not unique. It makes the story of their end all the more mind-boggling.

The debates we see playing out in the American Jewish community—between religious and secular, liberal and Orthodox, socialists and nationalists, Zionists and assimilationists—were just as active in prewar Poland as they are today. There’s nothing new under the sun.

Where did you learn about this?

We had an excellent tour guide named David Bernstein, a real fountain of knowledge who’s been traveling to Poland since the fall of communism. We packed a lot of notable sites into the short itinerary, staying in Warsaw, Lublin, Lancut, and Krakow, and there was so much to learn everywhere we went it was really just scratching the surface.

I also spent a lot of time at the POLIN Museum in Warsaw, which I have to say is one of the most historically sophisticated museums I’ve ever been to, not just in terms of Jewish museums, but probably of all the museums I’ve ever been to. I highly recommend blocking off a lot of time to spend there. I went three times and still couldn’t get through everything.

Graffiti seen in Krakow, Yiddish for “Where are the Jews?”

I agree. I spent four hours there and needed more time! Let’s shift gears, because I know you visited some camps as well. Can you tell us the ones you went to and describe what that was like?

We went to Majdanek and Auschwitz. Majdanek had been set up primarily as a concentration camp and was later turned into a death camp. It’s in a residential area. There are homes and it’s along a highway, so it really is not in any kind of secluded place. You can see people walking by, and the highway was the same road that German troops used when they invaded Russia in Operation Barbarossa.

Originally conceived as a camp for Russian prisoners of war, there was something strategic about its placement. When Germany invaded Poland, there was a certain antipathy some Poles had for Germans, but certainly for Russians as well. So there was something strategic about the fact that they put a camp for Russian prisoners of war in a neighborhood on the road back from Russia, because it was less likely that any Russian who escaped would find a friendly house to hide in, and it was a way of ensuring that the camp would be secure. The Germans were very clever in a lot of ways, and this is just one example.

We also went to the gas chambers there, and read a story by a woman who was a little girl at the time she was taken to Majdanek. She and her mother were taken into different barracks. It was so crazy seeing how close the gas chambers were to the drop-off points. They could not have been alive for long after they arrived there. So in the story, the girl is looking for her mother. She looks up and sees her older sister-in-law alone. She asks where her mother is, and her sister-in-law says, “She’s not here. I’m your mother now. Do you understand?” It’s impossible to understand the gravity of that sentence.

When we were going into the camps, our tour guide was talking about how the Germans kept the death camps and the gas chambers a secret from everyone. But first and foremost, they wanted to keep the secret from the Jews so that they wouldn’t resist. It’s kind of amazing how capably they engineered that deception even while they were deporting them. Jews were told they were going to be resettled in the east, and they must’ve believed it on some level, or wanted to.

The day we went to Auschwitz it was very foggy, wintry, with snow on the ground. All the stories I had heard about it growing up from survivors were coursing through my mind, particularly the first story I had ever heard about it from my elementary school librarian Mrs. Bodenheim. Right after the tour, I went into the bookstore with the rabbi and bought Rudolf Höess’ autobiography, the camp Commandant, and several other books. It was as though I didn’t know what else to do than buy these books. And the second we walked out of the store I just broke down crying with an abandon I have rarely ever felt. You learn so much about this place, and being there has this indescribable realistic surrealness. It’s here, I’m here, they were all here.

I read some of the autobiography, which he had been forced to write during his imprisonment after the war, when I got home. There are parts where he acknowledges the graveness of what he was involved in. I know a number of people dislike Hannah Arendt for observing what she called “the banality of evil” at the Eichmann trial, but there was something very functionary about some of the people who created and committed the genocide of European Jewry. And reading Höess’ words, you can really see it. He recalls a day when some of the high-ranking Nazis came to see what he was doing, and said that they didn’t envy the brutality of his job. He phrases it as though he was forced to stomach it, as though he experienced it as some kind of burden, as though he didn’t want to do it but had to as a matter of civic duty. But the fact is nobody had to do any of this. It makes you wonder what really made these men different from anyone else, or maybe not so different at all. Terrifying to imagine that any of us, any person, can get caught up in something so depraved if they think it’s justified. I’m not sure there was anything special or different about the Germans or their accomplices across Europe than anyone else in that sense, to be honest. There were people who went along with it, and there were people who didn’t. I think it would be the same everywhere.

And what was also interesting was that I’m quite sure that in the entirety of the trip, Hitler’s name was not mentioned once. It just goes to show how the whole murder machine was operated by so many people. We identify Hitler with the Holocaust but the fact of the matter is, the Holocaust could have happened without him. In a way, it kind of did, because there still is no signed document by Hitler ordering the murder of European Jewry, although we are all quite certain he did order it but avoided a paper trail.

You learn so much about this place, and being there has this indescribable realistic surrealness. It’s here, I’m here, they were all here.

Do you worry about the time when it won’t feel real because it will become distant history?

Oh yeah, I think it’s going to be very difficult to maintain the sense of reality around the Holocaust. It was denied while it was happening and ever since. There has never been a time in history since the Holocaust began that it was not denied by a significant number of people. And that number will probably increase the further away we get from it.

How did being in Poland change the way you think about your own Jewish identity and Jewish life in general today?

As I mentioned before, it sobered my view of American Jewish exceptionalism, and even Israeli Jewish exceptionalism. I love both of those countries tremendously, but these are all experiments in maintaining and transmitting this phenomenon we call Judaism.

And as far as I know, in every physical location where that transmission has occurred, the people doing the transmitting have been violently attacked at some point, meaning Judaism and Jewishness attracts the violent ire of people wherever it is.

Eventually, the people who live around Jews at some point decide that they’ve had enough of them and blame them for their problems. And neither America or Israel are exceptions to that rule. I think it’s important to see that in perspective, that these are really all just experiments in the safe transmission of the national religious and cultural identity that began in an obscure pair of kingdoms at the southwestern edge of the Fertile Crescent.

So do you think the Holocaust could happen in the U.S. today?

Oh 100%. Anything is possible, and the speed at which classic antisemitism has returned to the public discourse is an indication that it’s never hidden for long. I don’t think it would look exactly the same and I don’t know what it would look like, but I think it’s entirely possible. A catastrophic destruction of Jewish life can and has occurred in most places where Jews have lived. Up until a few years ago, Israel was the only place where Jews were regularly killed on the streets, and now it’s become more common throughout the world. Jewish safety and Jewish freedom are not necessarily the same things. But I think just like any people, Jews have a right to both.

And, by the way, Poles murdered Jews before, during, and after the Holocaust as well. But there are signs of light: there were Poles who saved Jews at tremendous risk to themselves and their families. Some of them were murdered along with the Jews they hid. Some are still alive and I think that the Jewish community should do everything they can for them. Their courage and moral clarity in the face of threat should be a lesson to every single person alive. It’s overwhelming to imagine. There’s an organization devoted to them called the Jewish Foundation for the Righteous that readers can check out.

There are good people everywhere and at every time, including Poles today who are deeply committed to recovering Jewish Polish history. We met this one guy in Lublin at the NN Theatre which is doing incredible work documenting the history of Jewish life in Lublin. The guy who runs it is not Jewish and is around my age. He has learned Hebrew and devotes his professional life to restoring and securing the memory of Lublin’s Jewish community. I’m deeply grateful to him and his colleagues.

After having been where the Holocaust actually happened, how do you feel when people invoke Holocaust comparisons to make contemporary political arguments?

I think that the potential for bigotry is something that exists in all of us. That’s a universal lesson from history, not just the Holocaust. But these attempts to equate what’s happening now with the Holocaust are grotesquely and offensively off base, to say the least, and whatever similarities there are reveal the profundity of the difference between them. One can be against the ICE raids, for example, and at the same time recognize how perverse it is to equate them with the mass deportation and murder of European Jewry. What I think is very disturbing is that people who invoke the Holocaust at this moment seem to think they’re learning the lessons of history by imposing the past onto the present. But what they’re doing is the opposite: they are imposing the present onto the past. And that’s like a double act of intellectual violence. I have to believe that when people do it they don’t quite know enough about either situation. It’s an offense born of ignorance, I hope.

What I think is very disturbing is that people who invoke the Holocaust at this moment seem to think they’re learning the lessons of history by imposing the past onto the present. But what they’re doing is the opposite: they are imposing the present onto the past. And that’s like a double act of intellectual violence.

Were you able to find anything about your family while you were there?

A little bit. I took a photo of the page of victims who share my last name, some who share my great-grandfather’s exact name. I’d rather not say too much about it.

Is there anything else you’d like to share?

I’m very grateful to Pardes, to my tour guide, David Bernstein, and to Rabbi Jonathan Leener who organized the trip for the shul, for the privilege and the honor to learn, and to go on a safe, well-organized trip to the land of my ancestors.

Shabbat plans?

Going to shul with my sweetheart!

Phil Getz is the Managing Editor of SAPIR Journal, which explores the future of the American Jewish community and its intersection with cultural, social, and political issues. You can sign up to receive a free print subscription here.

Miranda again. I want to end this powerful conversation by acknowledging that this Shabbat is the first Shabbat in 120 weeks we don’t have to pray for the return of our hostages.

May we enjoy a sweet and peaceful Shabbat,

💦Related Drops

They Packed Drums

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

There is a detail in this week's parsha that I cannot get past.

The Israelites are leaving Egypt. They have been slaves for generations. They are carrying unleavened dough on their backs because there was no time to let it rise. They are walking into a desert with their children, their elderly, their animals, no supply chain, no map, and an army behind them. And the women packed drums.

Parashat Beshalach — Shabbat Shirah, the Shabbat of Song — contains the most famous musical moment in the Torah. The sea splits. The Egyptians drown. Moses and the Israelites open their mouths and sing the Shirah, the Song at the Sea:

אָ֣ז יָשִֽׁיר־מֹשֶׁה֩ וּבְנֵ֨י יִשְׂרָאֵ֜ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֤ה הַזֹּאת֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה וַיֹּאמְר֖וּ לֵאמֹ֑ר אָשִׁ֤ירָה לַֽיהֹוָה֙ כִּֽי־גָאֹ֣ה גָּאָ֔ה ס֥וּס וְרֹכְב֖וֹ רָמָ֥ה בַיָּֽם׃ Then Moses and the Israelites sang this song to GOD. They said: I will sing to GOD, who has triumphed gloriously; Horse and driver have been hurled into the sea.

— Shemot 15:1

The Shirah is one of the few passages in a Torah scroll written in a special format — brick-like, stacked, with open spaces between the words. The song has its own architecture.

But the moment that stops me isn't the Shirah. It comes after:

וַתִּקַּח֩ מִרְיָ֨ם הַנְּבִיאָ֜ה אֲח֧וֹת אַהֲרֹ֛ן אֶת־הַתֹּ֖ף בְּיָדָ֑הּ וַתֵּצֶ֤אןָ כׇֽל־הַנָּשִׁים֙ אַחֲרֶ֔יהָ בְּתֻפִּ֖ים וּבִמְחֹלֹֽת׃ Then Miriam the prophet, Aaron's sister, picked up a hand-drum, and all the women went out after her in dance with hand-drums.

— Shemot 15:20

Hand-drums. Tuppim. Carried by women who had been slaves twelve hours earlier.

Rashi, citing the Mechilta, asks the obvious question. Where did the drums come from? They were fleeing. They barely had time to bake bread. And his answer: the righteous women of that generation were confident that God would perform miracles for them, and they brought timbrels with them from Egypt.

They packed drums before they knew there would be a reason to play them.

I have been thinking about this all week, because on Monday, January 26, the body of Master Sergeant Ran Gvili was found in a cemetery in Gaza City and brought home to Israel. He was twenty-four years old. A police officer in the Yasam counter-terror unit, he had been recovering from a broken shoulder on the morning of October 7, 2023, when he heard what was happening, put on his uniform, and drove to the front. He fought at Kibbutz Alumim. He was killed defending the border communities and the Nova Festival survivors, and his body was taken to Gaza. He was the last hostage — the last Israeli held there. Eight hundred and forty-three days.

When the soldiers brought him out of Gaza, they gathered around his body and sang Ani Ma'amin — "I believe, with perfect faith." The IDF's top commanders stood and saluted as the troops sang Hatikvah.

His brother Omri said at the funeral: "our pride is much greater than our sorrow." His mother Talik called herself a proud, proud mother. His sister Shira said: "I feel a crazy sense of freedom. I feel relief."

For the first time since 2014, no Israeli captives remain in Gaza.

I keep coming back to the timbrels. The women did not wait for the miracle to believe in it. They packed the instruments before the sea split, before there was any evidence that singing would be warranted. The bread didn't rise. The drums went into the bags anyway.

There is a custom on Shabbat Shirah to put out grain for the birds. You leave something outside. You trust it will be found.

Last Shabbat, congregations sang Az Yashir together during Shacharit, same as every week. It is part of the daily liturgy. Most weeks it rolls by. But once a year the parsha catches up with the prayer, and the song you say every day becomes the song you actually read. You realize you have been carrying this song in your mouth every morning like a woman carrying a drum out of Egypt — and on Shabbat Shirah, you finally hear it.

The righteous women of that generation were confident. That is what Rashi says. Not that they knew. Not that they had proof. Confident. They packed instruments for a celebration that hadn't happened yet — and when the sea opened, they were ready.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Famous Last Words

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 29 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on January 29, 2026.

One last chance … to say what matters

We've always been fascinated by famous last words. Sometimes they're foolish, at times oddly specific, and sometimes unforgettable. The rhythm-and-blues singer Johnny Ace reportedly said, "It's okay! Gun's not loaded … see?" It was, and he died instantly.

And writer Oscar Wilde, distressed by his cheap Paris hotel, reportedly remarked, "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One or the other of us has to go."

Those lines make us shake our heads, but they also point to something deeper. When time runs out, the mask falls, and whatever mattered most often rises to the surface. Famous last words can offer a glimpse into what makes a life successful.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Love rises to the surface

People often talk about the people they loved when the end is near. Joe DiMaggio's last words weren't about baseball, but about Marilyn: "I finally get to see Marilyn."

Again and again, love, not accomplishment, rises to the surface.

Dwight D. Eisenhower spoke of love too: his wife, his children, his grandchildren, and his country. And in the final phone calls from 9/11, many messages were simply, "I love you." Love isn't only something the soul feels; it's something we express.

2. Humor is resilience

Some last words are funny, even at the edge of life. And such humor can reveal a surprising kind of strength. As Buddy Rich was being prepared for surgery, he was asked, "Is that anything you can't take?" He replied, "Yeah … country music."

Lighthearted last words aren't just jokes; they indicate an unbreakable spirit.

Humphrey Bogart supposedly quipped as his end neared, "I should have never switched from Scotch to martinis." Humor doesn't ease pain, but it helps us endure it.

3. Last words reveal true priorities

Some final words don't just sound memorable. They reveal what a person lived for. Pavarotti said a life devoted to music is "an existence spent wonderfully," and that's what he devoted his life to. These weren't random thoughts; they were a life's summary.

The lesson is to choose what matters while we still can.

Da Vinci admitted, "I have offended God and mankind," because he felt his work fell short of the quality it should have reached. Meaning comes from dedication, and greatness grows from our inner life.

📜 2 Quotes

"A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold."

— Proverbs 22:1

"It is not enough to be busy; so are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?"

— Henry David Thoreau

❓ 1 Question

If your last words could express what you loved most, what would you say?

Famous last words can be foolish, funny, or full of meaning. But their real gift is this: They remind us that life is not endless, and that this awareness is a precious gift.

Over the past year, Spiritual Sparks has grown into something larger. I'm now nearing the final stages of preparing a short book -- a curated reader shaped around the same themes of inner life, meaning, and everyday spirituality. I'm grateful for the encouragement along the way and will say more soon.

Until next time,

May you choose love while there is still time to express it. May you meet life's challenges with courage, and sometimes even with humor. And may your days be shaped by what matters most, so that whenever your last words come, they will reflect a life well lived.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. If your life could be summed up in one line, what would it say? If you'd like to share, I'd be delighted to read your one line.

P.P.S. Enjoy these words? If so, please forward to a friend or send them a quick email

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason is Rabbi Emeritus of Nusach Hari B'nai Zion Congregation in St. Louis and the author of the upcoming book Spiritual Sparks: A Reader. His weekly newsletter Spiritual Sparks brings timeless Jewish wisdom into everyday moments.

Hardened Hearts and Praying Legs

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 23 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 23, 2026.

Last week, I had one of the most meaningful Shabbats I’ve had in a long time.

A small group of us at Base UWS had the privilege of hearing from Susannah Heschel, daughter of the late, great Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel.

For those who don’t know, Heschel was a beacon in the Civil Rights movement, famously having marched with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (yes, this is a belated MLK Day post), and really practicing what he preached. He emphasized that action was just as important as prayer, and that fighting injustice was a religious duty. He wrote at least a dozen successful and influential books, like The Sabbath and God in Search of Man. Heschel represented a kind of Judaism that was intellectual, spiritual, and deeply engaged with activism in the pursuit of justice.

Heschel stands left of King in Montgomery, Alabama at the conclusion of the third and final Selma to Montgomery voting rights march on March 25, 1965. Heschel later famously said that march made it feel like “legs were praying.”

His daughter, Susannah, who was about 9 at the time of the aforementioned famous march, is a scholar and professor of Jewish studies at Dartmouth College. You can read a nice interview with her here about her father.

Susannah started off the evening by sharing her father’s history. Only having read one of his books (The Sabbath, obvy), I didn’t know too much about him other than he was a prominent scholar and theologian in the 20th century. I had no idea he was born in Warsaw in 1907, and only escaped Nazi Germany because he was one of five Jewish scholars selected for emergency American visas in 1939. He left for America just six weeks before the Nazis invaded Poland. His mother and sisters were murdered, despite him desperately trying to get them visas.

Susannah shared personal and heartwarming stories, shedding some light on who he was as a father and not just as a renowned rabbi. She also shared how it felt to be reintroduced by him to Dr. King as a little girl, and having Dr. King remember her.

In a round of questions from the audience, someone asked Susannah who she thought was a modern day Abraham Joshua Heschel within the Jewish world, fighting for justice and inspiring others to do the same just like he did.

She answered that while she could think of a few people, she encouraged all of us to see ourselves like her dad. We all have the capacity to embody those values he held so dear. One easy way is by showing up with kindness. She shared a story of how a few years ago, a man walking ahead of her dropped something. When she caught up with him to return the item he dropped, he thanked her with the biggest, warmest smile. It was so genuine, she hasn’t forgotten it years later. It’s so easy to treat people with warmth and dignity. We have this choice every single day.

And now, a word of Torah

Speaking of choice, there’s three parshiot when G-d hardens Pharaoh’s heart: last week’s parsha (Va’eira), this week’s parsha (Bo, a parsha that holds a special place in my heart, so to speak), and next week’s parsha (Beshalach). At first, G-d doesn’t do this to Pharaoh. In the first few plagues, it’s Pharaoh who hardens his own heart.

I always thought this meant he closed himself off to any pity he might feel for the Israelites, preventing him from freeing them. But then why would G-d later harden Pharaoh’s heart for him? Isn’t G-d just contributing to the problem of G-d’s own people not being free? Like those who complain about their problems, yet don’t do anything about them. We know the ones.

It’s not until the plague of boils that G-d hardens Pharaoh’s heart (Exodus 9:12), and continues this way for the rest of the plagues. With some research, I learned hardening a heart could mean Pharaoh made up his mind with his own free will at first. In plagues 1-5, Pharaoh chooses stubbornness, to not give in to G-d’s demand of freeing the slaves. So after the death of livestock (5th plague), G-d takes away Pharaoh’s ability to repent, teaching him that his choices have consequences. Except he’s so steeped in injustice, he’s not even teachable at this point. The great biblical scholar, Maimonides, agrees.

In Torah fashion, that’s just one interpretation!

Susannah taught us a different interpretation, from the Hasidic master Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev. In his book of teachings, the Kedushat Levi, the Rabbi points out that the Hebrew root for heavy/hardened (כָּבֵד kaved) has the same root as the word for honor/dignity/glory (כָּבוֹד kavod).

Instead of G-d taking away Pharaoh’s will, G-d gives Pharaoh dignity and honor to make his own choices, however bad they may be. This reframing allows us to show compassion for our enemies, a very Hasidic thought.

At first, I liked this interpretation when I heard it from Susannah. But after reading Maimonides’s interpretation, I found it to be a little fluffy. It also didn’t sound very Jewish to me. After all, we tend to really not like our enemies. But that’s the beauty of Judaism: it’s a whole range of thought, ideas, and debates. Plus, I’m never one to doubt the persuasive power of similar Hebrew roots!

Neat side note: In my research, I found another interpretation that outweighs (pun intended) all the rest! You know how each plague corresponds to an Egyptian god (darkness defeats their sun god, Ra, etc.)? Apparently in Egyptian mythology, it was believed that the soul resided in the heart, and if your heart weighed less than a feather, your soul would live on in Aaru, the Field of Reeds. But if your heart weighed more than a feather, it would be devoured by the goddess Ammit (part lion, hippopotamus, and crocodile), and you would be condemned to live in Duat, the underworld. As we learned just above, G-d doesn’t just harden Pharaoh’s heart; he makes it heavy, condemning him to an eternity of hell. Which makes me react like this (G-d is the kid in the glasses):

Well, my friends, I was going to write about how after Susannah’s talk, I had a discussion with some friends about what dignity means to us. But my mind is kind of blown from the Torah and I need a minute (or 25 hours!) to recoup. In the words of Rabbi Heschel, “The higher goal of spiritual living is not to amass a wealth of information, but to face sacred moments,” (The Sabbath). It’s almost time to face our sacred moment.

Shabbat Shalom. Or as we say in Egyptian hell:

It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing, Duat, Duat, Duat, Duat, Duat, Duat, Duat, Duat,

💦Related Drop

What the Table Remembers

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 23 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

There is a falafel stand at Mahane Yehuda market in Jerusalem that changed a man's life. Not because the falafel was extraordinary — though if you've been to Mahane Yehuda, you know it might have been. But because of what he saw when the fried chickpea balls came out of the oil. Round. Golden-brown. Warm.

David "Dugo" Leitner was fourteen years old in January 1945 when the Nazis marched him out of Auschwitz. Starving, freezing, wearing camp clothes in the Polish snow, he dreamed about his mother. She had promised him that in the Land of Israel, bilkelach — small, round bread rolls — grew on trees. She told him: "David, when you get to Israel, when you reach Jerusalem, you'll never go hungry again."

Most of the prisoners on that march died. Dugo didn't. He made it to Israel in 1949, walked into the Jerusalem market, and saw the falafel — warm, round, golden — and his mother's voice came back.

From that day forward, every January 18, Dugo ate a double portion of falafel. One for himself. One for the promise. This past Sunday, three years after Dugo's passing at ninety-four, tens of thousands of Israelis lined up at falafel stands across the country for Operation Dugo, now in its eleventh year.

If that isn't Jewish joy, I don't know what is. Joy infused with sorrow and flush with food. Tradition. Eating. Laughing. Coming together.

The parsha this Shabbat is Bo. It contains the last three plagues, the death of the firstborn, and the Exodus itself. But the Torah spends remarkably little time on the drama. What the parsha lingers on, obsessively, is what comes after: how to remember it.

Four times in Bo, the Torah pauses to talk about children asking questions:

וּלְמַ֡עַן תְּסַפֵּר֩ בְּאׇזְנֵ֨י בִנְךָ֜ וּבֶן־בִּנְךָ֗ and that you may recount in the hearing of your child and of your child's child

— Shemot 10:2

וְהָיָ֕ה כִּֽי־יֹאמְר֥וּ אֲלֵיכֶ֖ם בְּנֵיכֶ֑ם מָ֛ה הָעֲבֹדָ֥ה הַזֹּ֖את לָכֶֽם׃ And when your children ask you, 'What do you mean by this rite?'

— Shemot 12:26

וְהִגַּדְתָּ֣ לְבִנְךָ֔ בַּיּ֥וֹם הַה֖וּא לֵאמֹ֑ר And you shall explain to your child on that day

— Shemot 13:8

וְהָיָ֞ה כִּֽי־יִשְׁאָלְךָ֥ בִנְךָ֛ מָחָ֖ר לֵאמֹ֣ר מַה־זֹּ֑את And when, in time to come, a child of yours asks you, saying, 'What does this mean?'

— Shemot 13:14

Four questions. Four answers. The Haggadah later builds its famous four children out of these verses. But here, in the raw text, the repetition does something simpler: it insists. Tell them. When they ask, tell them. When they don't ask, tell them anyway.

And notice what the Torah chooses as the vehicle for transmission. Not a scroll. Not a lecture. A meal. The memory lives in the food.

Dugo Leitner's falafel wasn't a symbolic choice. He didn't sit down one day and decide that chickpeas would represent his survival. He walked into a market, saw something round and warm come out of the oil, and his mother's voice returned to him. The memory chose the food.

The Torah understands this. Bo doesn't say "write down what happened" or "build a monument." It says: eat this, and when your child asks why, tell them.

Dugo's great-grandson was born recently. His parents named him David Amichai — David for Dugo, Amichai because Dugo ended every family gathering with the same two words: Am Yisrael Chai.

Four times the Torah says: when your child asks. It doesn't say "if." It says "when." The question is coming. The only thing the parent has to do is make sure there's something on the table worth asking about.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

When Jews Ruled Basketball

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 16 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 16, 2026.

Hi friends! Something different for ya…

This week’s Drop was inspired by a fellow Jew recently asking me, “Why do so many Jews like basketball?”

I had never heard of this before! Baseball, sure, because of our famed players like Sandy Koufax and Moe Berg, and apparently the Mets being today’s “Jewish team” (🤷‍♀️ don’t shoot the messenger). But basketball? I only know two Jews who are obsessed with the sport.

Not knowing anything about the history (or much about sports for that matter), I answered incorrectly that it’s probably because Jews look up to (pun intended) such tall athletes?? But I had to dig further to find a real answer and share it with you all!

Some of you may already be familiar with this history, but it was all new to me! Let me know if you also learned anything new. 🏀 But before we begin…

NEW 🔥 SHABBAT NOTES: Do you have a burning question, either something you’ve always wondered about Judaism, or just a question about my own Jewish journey/The Shabbat Drop? Or a question for Fred (I’ve been getting requests for more of my dad!)? Reply to this email or comment below, and I may answer them. No promises.

Philosopher-novelist Rebecca Goldstein writes in Jewish Jocks: An Unorthodox Hall of Fame about a period in American sports history (1910s-1930s) “when Jews ruled basketball — and lest you think those last three words are a misprint, let me repeat: Jews ruled basketball.”

Jews have been a part of the NBA since, well, the very beginning. It was Ossie Schectman, a player on the NY Knicks, who scored the first points in league history (back then called the Basketball Association of America) against the Toronto Huskies in 1946. He was 6’1; so much for my stereotyping!

But let’s backpedal (yes, I Googled basketball terms). The late 19th and early 20th centuries saw Eastern European Jewish immigration to America en masse. Popular sports at the time, like baseball, football, and tennis, were seen as elite, and were played at predominantly Protestant institutions like country clubs and Ivy League schools. Institutions that often banned Jews. Sounds like a foul to me!

Basketball, which was invented by Dr. James Naismithin 1891, was cheap and didn’t require much, just a basket and a ball. The accessible game was played by Jewish immigrants who wanted to assimilate and prove themselves athletically, in spaces like public gyms, settlement houses, and school basements. Looks like baby Moses wasn’t the only one who loved a good basket!

"It was absolutely a way out of the ghetto," saidDave Dabrow, a player from the Philadelphia SPHAs (named for the South Philadelphia Hebrew Association that initially funded the Jewish team). "It was where the young Jewish boy would never have been able to go to college if it wasn't for the amount of basketball playing and for the scholarship."

The Irene Kaufmann Settlement junior basketball team, 1929 (Jewish Unpacked)

And they had an edge! They understood that they didn’t need to be the tallest or strongest to win. Like good Jewish boys, they used their brains. It was all about strategy: using speed, collaboration, and plays to score.

Pretty soon, players were forming teams at YMHAs, synagogues, and community centers. At a time when antisemitism banned Jews from many elite fields and spaces, they found opportunities in fields like comic books, cinema, and comedy in the Catskills. It sounds like basketball was no different.

Despite making it to the big leagues, the American Basketball League to be precise, Jewish players often faced antisemitism. Moe Goldman, a player for the Philadelphia SPHAs, recalls in Douglas Stark’s book, When Basketball was Jewish:

“There was antisemitic feeling among the fans in other towns. We went to Prospect Hall in Brooklyn to play the Visitations, and the first row of spectators when we went by would poke us with cigarettes. They’d call us ‘Jew bastard’ or something like that. Maybe it was a little intensified for the SPHAS, but I think they did it for every team. Most of the teams in the ABL had Jewish players.”

But it wasn’t always like this; many Jews looked up to these talented players. After all, the athletes were proudly, visibly Jewish. Teams like the New York Hakoahs (Hebrew for “strength”) wore Stars of David on their uniforms. And they dominated the courts while doing it!

The golden era of Jewish basketball waned by the ‘50s, when more Jews moved to the suburbs. In that sense, basketball mirrors a broader immigrant story, as Jews pivoted from crowded city blocks to new forms of integration and identity. ;)

Notable Players

Barney “Tiny” Sedran

Born Bernard Sedransky on the Lower East Side of New York, Barney was the shortest player ever inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame, in 1962. At 5’4” and 115 lbs., he was known for his passing, speed, and agility. Barney was one half of the “Heavenly Twins,” with teammate Marty Friedman, of the New York Whirlwinds in the 1920s. Read more about him here.

Marty Friedman

Known as one of the best defensive guards of his era, Marty Friedman promoted basketball internationally during World War I, organizing a 600-team tournament in France that led to the Inter-Allied Games. He played for the Whirlwinds and coached the Cleveland Rosenblums (we need more team names like this today!). Read more about him here.

Amar’e Stoudemire

This American-Israeli bball star played for the Phoenix Suns, NY Knicks, Dallas Mavericks, and Miami Heat before retiring in 2016. In 2018, he converted to Judaism with the name Yahoshafat Ben Avraham. He was inducted into the International Jewish Sports Hall of Fame last year. He’s 6’10 (maybe size does matter). I actually met him on the streets of Jerusalem a few years ago, and just like when I met Robert Kraft, I had no idea who he was. So it goes. Read about Amar’e getting blessed by a rabbi three days ago here.

Deni “Turbo” Avdija

The only Israeli player in the NBA today, Deni began his professional career with the Washington Wizards and now plays for the Portland Trail Blazers. And, in case you’re wondering, he’s 6’8. Read more about him here.

Senda Berenson

Many Jewish women have played and continue to play a major role in the sport, too. Some from the very beginning! Have you heard of the “Mother of Women’s Basketball?” Born Senda Valvrojenski in Lithuania, she popularized basketball for women. Just one year after basketball was invented, as director of PE of Smith College, she formed the very first women’s college basketball team and wrote the first rulebook for it. Learn more about Senda here.

Naama Shafir

Naama was the first Orthodox Jewish woman to play on a Division I college team, competing from 2012–2016. The former MVP at University of Toledo would walk two miles on Shabbat to play games. She grew up religious in Israel, and received special rabbinic approval to play on Shabbat. Her rabbi toldThe Forward, “Although the Halacha says that it’s forbidden to jump and run on Shabbat, someone who derives pleasure from it can do it. But exercise is forbidden. Practice is in the category of ‘exercise’ and therefore forbidden, but the game itself is fun for the player.” In 2020, after marrying and having a daughter, she signed to play for Elitzur Ramla in the Israeli Female Basketball Premier League. Read more about her here.

Shabbat Shalom! Nothin’ but net,

The Narrow Place

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 16 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

I am writing this from London, and I have taken off my kippa and replaced it with a ball cap.

I don't want to write that sentence. I have never wanted to write it less.

A few days ago I was in Jerusalem, where I wore it without a second thought. The only danger was the kind that comes with a siren and a shelter and ninety seconds to get underground. London does not have sirens for what happens on its sidewalks.

Parashat Vaera opens with God speaking to Moses in the most direct terms the Torah has yet offered:

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר אֱלֹהִ֖ים אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיֹּ֥אמֶר אֵלָ֖יו אֲנִ֥י יְהֹוָֽה׃ God spoke to Moses and said to him, "I am GOD.

— Shemot 6:2

And then the promise — four verbs of redemption that will become the four cups of seder wine:

לָכֵ֞ן אֱמֹ֥ר לִבְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵל֮ אֲנִ֣י יְהֹוָה֒ וְהוֹצֵאתִ֣י אֶתְכֶ֗ם מִתַּ֙חַת֙ סִבְלֹ֣ת מִצְרַ֔יִם וְהִצַּלְתִּ֥י אֶתְכֶ֖ם מֵעֲבֹדָתָ֑ם וְגָאַלְתִּ֤י אֶתְכֶם֙ בִּזְר֣וֹעַ נְטוּיָ֔ה וּבִשְׁפָטִ֖ים גְּדֹלִֽים׃ Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: I am GOD. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary chastisements.

— Shemot 6:6

And what happens when Moses carries this promise to the people?

וַיְדַבֵּ֥ר מֹשֶׁ֛ה כֵּ֖ן אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וְלֹ֤א שָֽׁמְעוּ֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה מִקֹּ֣צֶר ר֔וּחַ וּמֵעֲבֹדָ֖ה קָשָֽׁה׃ But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.

— Shemot 6:9

Mikotzer ruach — shortness of spirit. Their breath was too short to take it in. They couldn't hear the promise of redemption because the narrowness of their lives — Mitzrayim, from the root tzar, meaning narrow — had squeezed the air out of them.

I think about this on a London sidewalk, in a ballcap because wearing my kippa is too dangerous. Constricted. Narrow. The narrowness isn't the same as slavery. But the mechanism is familiar — when your body is managing fear, your spirit has trouble receiving good news.

And yet. God makes the promise anyway. That's the part of Vaera that doesn't get enough attention. The Israelites can't hear it. Moses protests he's unfit. Pharaoh isn't interested. Nobody is ready for redemption. God starts it anyway. The four verbs land in a room where nobody is listening, and they don't expire. They wait.

Last week, while we were still in Israel, Alon and Monique Abady donated a sixteen-story, three-hundred-thousand-square-foot building — valued at a hundred million dollars — to Chabad of California. It will become the largest Jewish center in North America.

The Abady family arrived in the United States from Syria in the 1970s with almost nothing. A young Chabad rabbi named Baruch Shlomo Cunin helped them — found them housing, gave Alon's mother a job, provided the scaffolding for a family to rebuild. Decades passed. Abady built a real estate empire. He and the rabbi lost touch. And when Chabad came looking for a building, Abady didn't hesitate.

Fifty years. A kindness given to a family in a narrow place, and a hundred-million-dollar building rising from the return. That's the four expressions of redemption playing out across a lifetime. Each verb in its own decade.

The narrowness is real. So is the promise. God doesn't wait for us to be ready.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Deep Roots, Lasting Growth

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on January 15, 2026.

Flourishing begins inside

A writer named David Quammen once climbed the second-tallest tree in the world. As he stood high in the branches, the President — the nickname given to this towering tree — released a dollop of melting snow. It scattered as it fell, breaking into tiny crystals that caught the light on their way down.

"Gesundheit," he said, instinctively.

What could cause a dispassionate professional to feel such a personal connection to what others dismiss as "a big plant with a stick up the middle"? Perhaps it's because when we encounter something deeply rooted, able to grow vast and expansive, we recognize a truth about ourselves. Not all strength is loud. Not all growth is visible. And what allows something to rise high often lies far beneath the surface.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Deep Roots Make Growth Possible

A tree can withstand strong winds from what connects it below the surface, not from what rises majestically above the ground. Some of the sturdiest trees rely on roots that spread and intertwine with others, forming an unspeaking web of hardiness.

We are similar. Growth -- real, lasting growth -- begins when we are rooted: in our inner life, in a sense of meaning larger than ourselves, and in relationships that steady and shape us. Without roots, even the most promising growth eventually collapses.

Growth doesn't begin with reaching higher. It begins with being rooted.

2. Growth Begins Unseen

There are seasons when trees appear lifeless, their branches bare and still. Yet beneath the surface, sap is already stirring, preparing what will later emerge in leaf and fruit. The tree stirs, beyond notice.

Our lives have similar seasons. Understanding deepens quietly, commitments to improve take shape, and resolve is formed long before results appear -- guided by a spiritual essence at work within us. What looks like stagnation may be preparation.

Lasting growth often begins long before it is seen.

3. Full Growth Needs Connection

The tallest trees on earth don't survive on their own. Their roots reach outward, intertwine, and share strength and nourishment with each other. Trees planted in isolation or rigid rows are far more vulnerable than those growing in clusters.

Human flourishing follows the same pattern. We endure storms more steadily and grow more fully when we are joined to a larger, sustaining whole. When we are connected to others, stress eases, resilience deepens, and healthier lives take shape.

Some kinds of growth are only possible when we try growing together.

📜 2 Quotes

"He shall be like a tree deeply rooted alongside brooks of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and whose leaf never withers; and everything that he does will succeed."

— Psalms 1:3

"The deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk / Even just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway — / To the edge of the river of life, and drink."

— Joy Harjo, "Speaking Tree"

❓ 1 Question

What person or life experience helped root a deep-seated sense of value or belief within you?

"I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees." — Dr. Seuss, The Lorax

Dr. Seuss understood that without trees, the landscape would be far less joyful, and, ultimately, our lives unsustainable. In learning how trees grow, we also learn how our inner growth unfolds unseen and how we grow more fully when connected to others.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of steady growth, even in places no one else can see,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Where in your life might unseen growth be quietly taking place?

P.P.S. Consider allowing Spiritual Sparks to branch out, sharing it with others.

Jewish Things on My Mind Right Now

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 09 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 9, 2026.

Hi friends,

To quote Larry David, it’s a little late for the Happy New Year, but I’m going to wish you one anyway!

There are a few things buzzing around my mind, some not Jewish (like how not getting the flu shot out of pure laziness was my biggest regret of 2025), and some Jewish. This week’s Drop is pretty political, but hey, there’s a lot going on in the world right now. If you want something more upbeat, scroll to the end. Yalla!

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1. The Protests in Iran

It’s been inspiring to see the nationwide protests from the past week: young women with their hair flowing in the wind (at least, I assume there’s wind, it sounds more poetic that way), people tearing down gates to government buildings, and flags and banners of the Islamic Republic burning in the streets.

Why is this Jewish? The Iranian regime has been funding proxy networks like Hamas and Hezbollah throughout the Middle East, causing terror, war, and economic hardships for its citizens. I haven’t been much of an optimist when it comes to the end of the 46-year-regime in Iran, but with what seems like a constantly changing Middle East, you never know what could happen. The end of the regime could be the start of a new Middle East.

→ For a personal history on Iran’s Mashhadi Jews, check out my friend’s Drop!

light it up, girl

2. Holocaust Comparisons

I wrote the following before this week’s horrific shooting of Renee Nicole Good. My anger about that outweighs my anger about what I’m about to share with you, but I kept it in this week’s post due to its Jewish relevance.

Earlier this week, I was listening to one of my (now former) favorite podcasts, when out of the blue, the host compared the Holocaust to today’s ICE raids. I respectfully commented that while ICE raids are a serious issue, the Holocaust was a separate moment in history and shouldn’t be used to compare. I also noted the rising antisemitism worldwide, including the recent massacre in Sydney, because it seemed weird to talk about learning from the Holocaust without mentioning today’s antisemitism. And, much to Larry David’s dismay, I ended the comment with a “happy new year,” to be polite.

Surprisingly, the host responded, and I thought her comment was inappropriate, defensive, and frankly a little antisemitic as she made the following points:

Her Jewish friend made the Holocaust comparison (tokenizing)
People in her neighborhood have been abducted for protesting against the genocide in Gaza (still not a Holocaust and uses libel that’s just wrong)
These are not separate issues (I mean… just objectively, factually wrong)
Ending in “Free Palestine” (shutting down the conversation even though I said nothing about Israel)

You’d never guess it, but this podcaster recently posted an episode on critical thinking. Also, who talks to their fans this way?! After I responded and educated, she removed all comments from her Spotify, so I’m guessing she realized the error of her ways.

It made me think of how there’s an increasing and alarming lack of knowledge among young Americans when it comes to the Holocaust. And now we can’t even let the Holocaust be a Jewish event in history. Or speak up about it without getting “Free Palestine” thrown in our faces to shut us down. I know it was one instance, but I could see this happening to many of us, especially when interacting with Gen Z.

FYI: Jews generally really don’t like Holocaust inversion or comparison. As I told this podcast host in my comment, we can hold mental space for both of these issues. At least I can.

3. Not Caring as Much About Being “Politically Homeless”

Like many liberal-minded Jews, I felt betrayed by the Left after 10/7.

A group that so often speaks out against oppression, sexual assault, and violence either ignored, celebrated, or denied the atrocities that happened to not just Israelis, but to Arabs, Americans, Thais, and others.

I’d go through periods of anger and confusion amidst the grief. It wasn’t until I came across the video below by this influencer with nice nails that I realized I stopped caring.

In this video she made in response to the U.S. attack on Venezuela this week (wow a lot happened this week - I hope you’re taking care of yourselves!), she talks about her political homelessness, how she stopped caring, and is instead actively choosing to think through an issue before jumping to conclusions. Also… it’s nice to know we’re the majority!

4. Mayor Mamdani Protecting Jewish New Yorkers

Sike! Made you look. Okay, I’m not trying to let this guy take up too much brain space, but I wanted to point out an example of misinformation that spread this week. It occurred on Mamdani’s first day as mayor, when the news claimed he explicitly rolled back the IHRA definition of antisemitism.

Zionist social media reacted with alarmist, angry posts (mine included), claiming he’s intentionally making New York less safe for Jews. They failed to mention, though, that Mamdani revoked Mayor Adams’s executive orders, one of which included IHRA (which, by the way, totally says that criticizing the Israeli government isnotantisemitic).

This does not negate the fact that much of his ideology is antizionist and I do believe his policies will make the city less safe for Jews (still waiting for his response to yesterday’s pro-Hamas chants outside a synagogue in Queens). But to support point #3, let’s make fully exploring the details before reacting our 2026 New Year’s resolution! And let’s hope Mamdani decides to practice what he preaches by restoring the IHRA definition of antisemitism, if he really supports Jews.

5. My Impromptu D’var Torah from Last Week

Upbeat time! This Simchat Torah, I made a goal to learn parsha every week, and shofar so good! I learn in different settings: weekly classes at work, at synagogue, and from my buddy’s amazing Substack, Torah Goes Hollywood, your perfect blend of Torah and cinema.

Last week, while visiting my brother and his family, I felt like enhancing our Shabbos meal with some unsolicited Torah. Luckily, I had just read this old TGH ‘stack, comparing Parsha Vayechi to the 2008 Joaquin Phoenix film “Two Lovers.”

I’m not going to talk about a film I’ve never seen; you can read TGH for that! But the post taught me about a moment in last week’s parsha I’ve never heard of before: When Jacob is on his death bed and blesses Joseph’s sons, Ephraim and Menashe, he crosses his hands so the younger Ephraim gets the right hand, the better blessing.

We’ve seen this theme before in Genesis, of the younger brother stealing the blessing. Jacob did the very same thing to Esau, and here he is now, bestowing the blessing to Ephraim.

I explained this to my older brother, a proud smile plastered on my face (or maybe it was all the wine I was guzzling before the oncoming Dry January). I concluded that clearly, the younger sibling, the superior sibling, wins every time. L’chaim. 🍷

In actuality, this theme teaches us that chosenness doesn’t always equal status, and is frequently bestowed upon the vulnerable, the underdog, or someone who needs to go through a struggle to develop character (me, I guess?).

After my d’var, I bet my brother was about to sell me to Midianite traders! I share this cheeky story and slight brag with you because I feel my Torah literacy growing each week, and it tickles my Jewish soul. And now we’ve just entered Exodus. I’m so pumped!

What’s on your Jewish mind this week? LMK.

Shabbos,

A Stranger in a Foreign Land

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 09 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The best meal I had in Israel this trip was at a BBQ restaurant on the main avenue in Kiryat Shmona.

I say "this trip" like it was an impulse vacation. It was and it wasn't. We came at the last minute, though it feels like we are always drawn here. During the trip we joined our friends that are here with the Atlanta Israel Coalition.

After the group disbanded, we took a train south to Be'er Sheva, then drove north, all the way up to Kiryat Shmona, because we'd heard things about this town and wanted to see it with our own eyes.

What we found: a man running a nonprofit who spoke about the future of the Galil like she was reading a blueprint she'd drawn herself. A municipal worker who described the rebuilding not as recovery but as improvement — "We are not going back to what it was. We are going forward to what it should have been." A man behind a grill turning out meat that would make any Texan in a smokehouse disappointed with their life choices.

We don't live here. Not yet. Aliyah is the plan, but the bureaucracy has its own calendar.

This week's parsha is Shemot — "Names." The opening of the book of Exodus. And it begins, of all ways, with a list:

וְאֵ֗לֶּה שְׁמוֹת֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל הַבָּאִ֖ים מִצְרָ֑יְמָה אֵ֣ת יַעֲקֹ֔ב אִ֥ישׁ וּבֵית֖וֹ בָּֽאוּ׃ These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each coming with his household:

— Shemot 1:1

A roll call. There's a midrash in Vayikra Rabbah that says the Israelites in Egypt were redeemed because of four things — and one of them is that they didn't change their names. Four hundred years of slavery, and the names survived.

The parsha unfolds from there into enslavement, the decree to kill the baby boys, the birth of Moses, his rescue from the Nile by Pharaoh's daughter. Moses grows up in the palace, flees to Midian after killing an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew slave, and marries Tzipporah. She gives him a son, and Moses names him:

וַתֵּ֣לֶד בֵּ֔ן וַיִּקְרָ֥א אֶת־שְׁמ֖וֹ גֵּרְשֹׁ֑ם כִּ֣י אָמַ֔ר גֵּ֣ר הָיִ֔יתִי בְּאֶ֖רֶץ נׇכְרִיָּֽה׃ She bore a son whom he named Gershom, for he said, "I have been a stranger in a foreign land."

— Shemot 2:22

Gershom. Ger sham — a stranger there. Moses is safe in Midian. He has a wife, a son, a flock to tend. He could stay. He could let the name be a memorial to what he left behind. A lot of people would.

Then the burning bush. Moses is shepherding his father-in-law's flock in the wilderness, and he sees something strange. He could keep walking. He doesn't.

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֔ה אָסֻֽרָה־נָּ֣א וְאֶרְאֶ֔ה אֶת־הַמַּרְאֶ֥ה הַגָּדֹ֖ל הַזֶּ֑ה מַדּ֖וּעַ לֹא־יִבְעַ֥ר הַסְּנֶֽה׃ Moses said, "I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn't the bush burn up?"

— Shemot 3:3

Asurah na — let me turn aside. The next verse says God saw that he turned aside, and only then did God call to him. Rashi notes this: God waited for Moses to notice. The call didn't come until Moses chose to look.

On Wednesday — Hebrew Language Day — the Academy of the Hebrew Language announced that Israelis chose habaita, "homeward" — as the Hebrew word of the year. Twenty-five percent picked it, beating "trauma," "rehabilitation," and "Rising Lion" (the twelve-day war with Iran).

The word that won was the direction. Homeward. It was chosen because of the hostages who came home. Because of families coming home. Because after a year of hatufim — "hostages," last year's word — the country chose to name its next chapter with a destination.

Hebrew hadn't been a spoken mother tongue for about seventeen hundred years when Ben-Yehuda arrived in Jerusalem in 1881 and decided it would be again. A language that came home.

Shemot is the book of exile becoming exodus. The whole book moves in one direction. Habaita.

We leave next week. We don't want to. The Airbnb is in Be'er Sheva, and our hearts are in Kiryat Shmona. But Moses named his son "stranger in a foreign land," and then a bush caught fire, and then he turned aside to look.

The direction is set. The rest is paperwork.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Becoming Excellent, Becoming You

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 08 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on January 8, 2026.

It's a soul thing. A life lived awake

The name Stradivarius is synonymous with excellence. Antonius Stradivarius refused to release a violin from his workshop until it was as close to perfection as skill and human care could make it. His philosophy was summed up in a single line: "Other men will make other violins, but no man shall make a better one."

But is excellence reserved only for geniuses like Stradivarius? Excellence is not a function of genius, or even talent. It is about faithfulness to what we have been given, and the refusal to casually treat our own potential. The question is not whether we can be Stradivarius, but whether we are willing to become our fully excellent selves.

To understand excellence more deeply, we need to look beneath the surface.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. What Is Excellence?

Excellence is native to the soul -- a longing, a desire, a drive embedded in our spiritual essence. Settling for mediocrity is counter to our inner nature.

Deep down, we want our lives to matter, to leave a trace of light where we pass.

Excellence is often confused with success. Success measures how we compare to others; excellence measures how faithfully we develop what we were given. In this light, the desire for excellence lives within us, long before becoming externally visible.

2. The Obstacle To Excellence

The greatest impediment to excellence is rarely failure, but what we believe about ourselves. When people believe they have potential, they rise to meet it; when they doubt themselves, invisible ceilings take shape.

We tell ourselves stories. "I'm not so creative," "I don't have a head for numbers," "I'm not likable," "Excellence isn't for people like me."

These beliefs become self-fulfilling prophecies. The truth is, we don't fall short because we lack ability, but because we underestimate the greatness of our own souls.

3. Actualizing Your Excellence

Excellence begins when we realign how we see ourselves. People are created equal, but fulfillment is always personal. When we release the belief that our soul is ordinary, we awaken to the recognition that mediocrity contradicts our spiritual essence.

Once that inner shift takes root, a practical path forward becomes clear. We begin by finding what truly stirs us -- that intersection of curiosity, delight, and purpose.

Joyfully, we build daily habits that create the extraordinary. Excellence is a journey, shaped one faithful step at a time, guided by the soul.

📜 2 Quotes

"If you are not a better person tomorrow than you are today, what need have you for a tomorrow?"

— Rabbi Nachman of Breslov

"Bob Gibson is the luckiest pitcher I ever saw. He always pitches when the other team doesn't score any runs."

— Tim McCarver, Gibson's catcher, said with a wink.

❓ 1 Question

Where in your life might you feel invited to become more fully yourself?

Excellence doesn't ask us to become someone else. Nor is it result-dependent or defined by success. It asks us to become more fully who we already are, with faithfulness, intention, and care.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week of bringing more of who you are into the world,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What's one small habit or choice where you'd like to act with greater faithfulness to who you are? I'd love to hear.

P.P.S. If today's message resonated, feel free to share it with someone who might appreciate the reminder.

And He Lived

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The parsha about Jacob's death is called "And He Lived."

That is the first thing to notice about Parashat Vayechi. The Torah does not name this portion "And He Died" or "And He Blessed" — all of which happen in the text. It names it for the seventeen years Jacob spent in Egypt with his family around him. The quiet years. The living ones.

וַיְחִ֤י יַעֲקֹב֙ בְּאֶ֣רֶץ מִצְרַ֔יִם שְׁבַ֥ע עֶשְׂרֵ֖ה שָׁנָ֑ה וַיְהִ֤י יְמֵֽי־יַעֲקֹב֙ שְׁנֵ֣י חַיָּ֔יו שֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֔ים וְאַרְבָּעִ֥ים וּמְאַ֖ת שָׁנָֽה׃ Jacob lived seventeen years in the land of Egypt, so that the span of Jacob's life came to one hundred and forty-seven years.

— Bereishit 47:28

Rashi asks a famous question about this parsha: why is it "closed"? In a Torah scroll, most portions begin with a visible break. Vayechi has none. He offers two reasons. The first: because when Jacob died, the eyes and hearts of Israel were closed by the coming bondage. The second: Jacob wished to reveal the end of days, but the vision was concealed.

A closed parsha. A hidden future. And still: "And he lived."

I am writing this from Israel. We have been with the Atlanta Israel Coalition. On New Year's Eve, we spent hours preparing food with Shlomi's food truck and then drove along the Gaza border fence, distributing falafel, schnitzel, and shakshuka pita sandwiches to IDF troops.

This is still an active war zone. The soldiers told us, more than once, that they feel forgotten. And then we handed them kosher ducks — the little rubber ones with the yarmulkes — and you could hear them squeaking as we drove off. Soldiers laughed. Some of them, we were told, laughed for the first time in days.

I keep thinking about Jacob's deathbed. The text says he called his sons together and blessed each one — individually, specifically, seeing each for who he was.

כׇּל־אֵ֛לֶּה שִׁבְטֵ֥י יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל שְׁנֵ֣ים עָשָׂ֑ר וְ֠זֹ֠את אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֨ר לָהֶ֤ם אֲבִיהֶם֙ וַיְבָ֣רֶךְ אוֹתָ֔ם אִ֛ישׁ אֲשֶׁ֥ר כְּבִרְכָת֖וֹ בֵּרַ֥ךְ אֹתָֽם׃ All these were the tribes of Israel, twelve in number, and this is what their father said to them as he bade them farewell, addressing to each a parting word appropriate to him.

— Bereishit 49:28

When Jacob blesses Joseph's two sons, Ephraim and Manasseh, he crosses his hands. Joseph tries to correct him. Jacob refuses. And then he says the words that Jewish parents have repeated every Friday night since:

וַיְבָ֨רְכֵ֜ם בַּיּ֣וֹם הַהוּא֮ לֵאמוֹר֒ בְּךָ֗ יְבָרֵ֤ךְ יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ לֵאמֹ֔ר יְשִֽׂמְךָ֣ אֱלֹהִ֔ים כְּאֶפְרַ֖יִם וְכִמְנַשֶּׁ֑ה So he blessed them that day, saying, "By you shall Israel invoke blessings, saying: God make you like Ephraim and Manasseh."

— Bereishit 48:20

The commentators ask: why these two? One answer that has stayed with me: Ephraim and Manasseh were the first generation raised entirely in exile — born in Egypt, surrounded by Egyptian culture — and they remained who they were. The blessing is not for greatness. It is for continuity.

There is a moment, near the very end, after Jacob has died and the brothers are terrified that Joseph will finally take his revenge:

וְאַתֶּ֕ם חֲשַׁבְתֶּ֥ם עָלַ֖י רָעָ֑ה אֱלֹהִים֙ חֲשָׁבָ֣הּ לְטֹבָ֔ה לְמַ֗עַן עֲשֹׂ֛ה כַּיּ֥וֹם הַזֶּ֖ה לְהַחֲיֹ֥ת עַם־רָֽב׃ Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.

— Bereishit 50:20

L'hachayot am rav. To keep alive a great people. That is what Joseph sees when he looks back at his own suffering: not vindication, but preservation. Life sustained.

Jacob's life was not easy. When Pharaoh asked him his age, Jacob answered: "Few and hard have been the years of my life." And yet the Torah names his final chapter "Vayechi." And he lived.

The parsha is closed. The future is hidden. And the name on the parchment, with no gap and no break, still reads: And he lived.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

To Listen Is To Care

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 01 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on January 1, 2026.

The heart of relationship is listening

Franklin Roosevelt once complained that during White House receiving lines, no one really listened to what was said. To test his suspicion, he tried an experiment. As each guest shook his hand, Roosevelt murmured, "I murdered my grandmother this morning." Most people responded without missing a beat: "Wonderful!" "Keep up the good work."

Only at the very end of the line did someone actually hear him. The ambassador from Bolivia leaned in and whispered, "I'm sure she had it coming."

Listening allows love and respect to grow. But genuine listening is rarer than we think. It asks more than silence; it asks presence. Today's message explores what it means to truly listen, and why doing so elevates both the listener and the one being heard.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. What is Good Listening?

Good listening is dialogue. Exceptional listeners engage in a give-and-take, helping to clarify and amplify the speaker's thoughts. At its best, listening reassures the speaker that they're being understood, and that someone truly cares enough to be present.

Ancient wisdom teaches that while a word may be worth one coin, silence is worth two, but only when that silence is active, engaged and purposeful.

Listening with care is the spiritual art of making space for another soul.

2. Why Good Listening Matters

Good listening creates connection, trust and shared presence. When we listen with intentionality, another person feels that their inner world is worth of attention.

Dialogue requires two souls, not one performer and one audience.

Attuned listening elevates our inner lives. When we pause to truly absorb another person's words, we spiritually open a window so new light can enter. Listening with care doesn't just gather words; it creates genuine resonance between souls.

3. Becoming a Better Listener

Becoming a better listener begins with creating a small pocket of silence. We can then gain access to meaning, feelings and nuance, subtleties often communicated indirectly.

Quietude expands the soul, creating the space where listening becomes harmony rather than reaction.

With distractions cleared, our attention is fully present. From that place, we can time our voice wisely, asking questions that invite discovery rather than rushing to respond. Over time, these habits transform listening into a spiritual practice of humility and connection.

📜 2 Quotes

"Everything has its season … a time to be silent and a time to speak."

— Ecclesiastes 3:1, 7

"The word 'listen' contains the same letters as the word 'silent.'"

— Alfred Brendel, Austrian classical pianist and poet

❓ 1 Question

Can you remember an occasion when you felt really listened to? What did your listener do to give you that feeling?

A traveling salesperson was dining at his favorite restaurant when the steak he ordered well done arrived rare. Irritated, he waved over the server and snapped, "I said WELL DONE!" "Well, thank you," the server replied. "I appreciate the compliment."

Truly good listeners are rare; it's a learned and practiced skill, not an innate talent. Anyone can become an exceptional listener. Our souls crave it. Our relationships deserve it.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week filled with presence, connection and care,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What's one good practice that helps you listen more deeply? Please share with me your valuable insight!

P.P.S. Someone you care about may be interested in today's insights into 'listening with care.' As an act of caring, you can share today's message.

6 Jewish Books I Read in 2025

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 26 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 26, 2025.

Shalom from California! Just like Joseph in this week’s parsha, Vayigash, I too am having a reunion with my brother! But with less weeping.

This year, I hit a personal reading record (43 books, but who’s counting), and when I wasn’t lost in romantasy (helloooo Sarah J. Maas fans!) my list was prettyyy, prettyyyy Jewish. Here are my favorite Jewish books I read this year.

Let me know in the comments if you’ve read any of these, and what Jewish books you’re reading or would like to read in 2026. :)

Shabbat Shalom & Happy New Year! See you in two weeks,

Mrs. Lilienblum’s Cloud Factory by Iddo Gefen

Hands down the quirkiest and most entertaining novel I read this year! Following an eccentric family in the Negev whose matriarch invents a machine that turns sand into rainclouds, this satirical novel contrasts the scrappy, small business mentality of the desert with the high-powered, fast-paced Tel Aviv start-up world. The characters are rich and soulful, and the surrealist story weaves Jewish themes throughout, from witty tales of Chelm to Kabbalah. But nothing carries the plot like the Negev itself, as if it were one of the main characters. Can’t recommend this one enough!

The Source by James Michener

I fell in love with James Micheners’ novels when I read Alaska to prepare for my trip to Alaska last year. Like another favorite author of mine, Edward Rutherfurd, Michener captivatingly teaches about the history of a particular place through thorough research and vivid detail. So when I learned he had a book on the history of Israel and the Jewish people, I jumped at the chance to read it.

The book hops back and forth between past and “present,” starting in 20,000 BCE following a prehistoric man named Ur, to the site of a fictional archaeological dig in the ‘60s based on Tel Megiddo. Once you get past the cheesy beginning on the tel, you span millennia of rich Jewish history, including both exiles from the Land of Israel, the Seleucid Empire, Jesus, the formation of the Talmud, the Crusades, the Inquisition, and the War of Independence.

Wow this book is dense, but that goes to show how much history we have! The Source is also an engaging way to learn about what makes us Jews tick. For example, characters debate each other on matters of the Jewish soul, like if we should follow what the rabbis say in the Talmud, and whether or not Israel should be a completely religious state. Do we need laws to ensure our survival? What kind of country do we want to be? The main character on the 1960s tel is not Jewish, so it’s also fun following the journey from his perspective as he learns about and explores these issues. If you have the time, read it.

The Torah in the Tarot by Stav Appel

My favorite non-fiction I picked up this year is one scholar’s argument that a particular Tarot deck from 17th-century France may have been used as a means for secret, illegal Jewish education. It’s so interesting and compelling, I wrote a whole separate Drop on it. Bonus: it comes with a copy of said Tarot deck!

A Passion for Israel: Adventures of a Sar-El Volunteer by Mark Werner

If you followed my Israel adventures this summer, you’d know I volunteered on an IDF base with Sar-El just before the 12-Day War with Iran. I met amazing people on this one base in the Negev (can you tell I love the Negev?), other like-minded volunteers from Canada to France. One volunteer, who had done this work with Sar-El over 25 times, had written not one but two books about his experiences. He was kind enough to give me his first book which I devoured.

In his first installment, Mark Werner documents his volunteer stints from 2006-2019. Each chapter describes his experience on a different base around the country, and opens up with history of what’s going on in Israel and in the region at the time. But where there’s a lot of detailed history, Mark also infuses heart into the narrative, with entertaining and sometimes funny stories of the friends and balagan (“chaos”) he meets along the way.

Personally, reading Mark’s book was therapeutic after having left Israel while being there during two wars at the same time. It was also eye opening (and depressing) to read about both Hamas and the weaponization of Iran’s nuclear program gaining ground in the early 2000s, and comparing that history to today. Depressing more in terms of Hamas, and not so much with the Iranian regime, considering we whooped the latter’s tuchus in June.

As a Jew: Reclaiming Our Story from Those Who Blame, Shame, and Try to Erase Us by Sarah Hurwitz

We all know and love Sarah Hurwitz’s Here All Along. So much, in fact, that I deemed it my favorite Jewish book of all time.

So you bet I was excited when she came out with her second book, As a Jew, a clever and snarky title referencing those “good Jews” who love to tokenize themselves by putting distance between them and the Jewish homeland.

I have to admit, it was hard for me to get through the first half. If her first book was rah-rah yay Judaism!, her second feels like a response to external forces (like Christian antisemitism, and assimilation during the Enlightenment) that have played a part in shaping negative views of her own identity. Which is the point, but I found it to be a negative premise. Or maybe, with my rah-rah spirit, I had trouble relating to it. But I scheduled to lead a book club discussion on it, so I had to follow through!

… and I’m glad I kept going! Because the second half tears into antizionist beliefs and why they’re antithetical to Judaism and just plain hypocritical. I don’t think enough books address the current cultural crisis of antizionism we are in, so Sarah’s book is both timely and therapeutic (can you tell books are my therapy?), even though she wrote it before 10/7.

The only problem? I don’t think people who need to read this book are the ones picking it up. But it definitely belongs on the shelf of any Jewish advocate who wants to be well informed. Sarah’s unabashed and honest exploration of her identity will inspire you to stand up for Jewish beliefs and exhibit Jewish pride. I’m not just saying that because she follows this Substack ;) (omg!)

Hostage by Eli Sharabi

Not my favorite book I read this year, but undoubtedly the most important. The first published memoir of a hostage’s experience while held captive in Gaza, Eli Sharabi’s detailed account of what happened on 10/7 and after is a must-read to pay tribute to what he and others endured under the hands of Hamas and Gazan civilians.

He brings insight and nuance, shedding light on conversations he has with both civilians and militants who hold him hostage. The bonds he forms with other hostages, like Hersh Goldberg-Polin and Alon Ohel, and the role he plays as their comforting and stoic father figure, makes you wonder how you would act in their shoes (even though they didn’t wear any).

A reminder there is still one more hostage in Gaza, Sgt. Ran Gvili. I just shared a powerful menorah lighting with his younger sister, Shira, and heard how he saved over a hundred people at Nova and killed 15 terrorists, only to risk his life. He must be brought home.

💦 If you like books, check out these Drops:

Come Forward

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 26 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Yesterday was December 25th. Not my holiday. But it was a workday in Israel, and, for us, we spent it at the Michael Levin Base in Jerusalem cooking a BBQ for lone soldiers.

Lone soldiers — chayyalim bodedim — are IDF service members without immediate family in Israel. Some are volunteers from the Diaspora. Many are immigrants. All of them serve without the support structure most soldiers rely on. They are, in a meaningful sense, people who left everything behind to show up.

We are in Israel this week with the Atlanta Israel Coalition. Our friend Cheryl Dorchinsky, who founded the AIC, has been organizing solidarity missions since the war began. We had been helping her plan this one from Atlanta for months. So we joined them and added our hands to theirs.

Earlier in the week we drove to an industrial area outside Tel Aviv to drop off sweatshirts to be printed with IDF unit insignia for paratroopers serving on the Golan. We visited a PTSD therapy farm in Efrat and planted an olive tree. We toured a children's home in Kiryat Gat that runs a bakery as part of its educational program.

On Monday we met with a Haredi rabbi who recently enlisted in the IDF himself — a man who described himself as "a healthy Jew" and meant it as a complete sentence.

None of this is dramatic. That is the point.

In Parashat Vayigash, Joseph reveals himself to his brothers. Twenty-two years of separation — and then three words in Hebrew that carry the weight of an entire family's grief and hope:

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יוֹסֵ֤ף אֶל־אֶחָיו֙ אֲנִ֣י יוֹסֵ֔ף הַע֥וֹד אָבִ֖י חָ֑י וְלֹֽא־יָכְל֤וּ אֶחָיו֙ לַעֲנ֣וֹת אֹת֔וֹ כִּ֥י נִבְהֲל֖וּ מִפָּנָֽיו׃ Joseph said to his brothers, "I am Joseph. Is my father still well?" But his brothers could not answer him, so dumfounded were they on account of him.

— Bereishit 45:3

Ani Yosef. I am Joseph. Three syllables. And his brothers could not speak. The room went silent. That is what truth does when it finally arrives: it takes your voice away.

Then Joseph sees them frozen and says something the Torah renders with a specific verb:

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יוֹסֵ֧ף אֶל־אֶחָ֛יו גְּשׁוּ־נָ֥א אֵלַ֖י וַיִּגָּ֑שׁוּ וַיֹּ֗אמֶר אֲנִי֙ יוֹסֵ֣ף אֲחִיכֶ֔ם אֲשֶׁר־מְכַרְתֶּ֥ם אֹתִ֖י מִצְרָֽיְמָה׃ Then Joseph said to his brothers, "Come forward to me." And when they came forward, he said, "I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt.

— Bereishit 45:4

Gshu na elai. Come forward to me. The same root as the parsha's name — vayigash, "and he approached."

And then Joseph does something remarkable. He reframes the entire story:

וְעַתָּ֣ה ׀ אַל־תֵּעָ֣צְב֗וּ וְאַל־יִ֙חַר֙ בְּעֵ֣ינֵיכֶ֔ם כִּֽי־מְכַרְתֶּ֥ם אֹתִ֖י הֵ֑נָּה כִּ֣י לְמִֽחְיָ֔ה שְׁלָחַ֥נִי אֱלֹהִ֖ים לִפְנֵיכֶֽם׃ Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.

— Bereishit 45:5

L'michyah — to save life. God sent me ahead. That reframing takes an extraordinary kind of generosity. It does not erase what happened. It says: what you meant for harm, God meant for sustenance. And now come closer, because we have work to do.

A few chapters later, Jacob finally arrives in Egypt. Joseph hitches his chariot and rides out to meet him in Goshen:

וַיֶּאְסֹ֤ר יוֹסֵף֙ מֶרְכַּבְתּ֔וֹ וַיַּ֛עַל לִקְרַֽאת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֥ל אָבִ֖יו גֹּ֑שְׁנָה וַיֵּרָ֣א אֵלָ֗יו וַיִּפֹּל֙ עַל־צַוָּארָ֔יו וַיֵּ֥בְךְּ עַל־צַוָּארָ֖יו עֽוֹד׃ Joseph ordered his chariot and went to Goshen to meet his father Israel; he presented himself to him and, embracing him around the neck, he wept on his neck a good while.

— Bereishit 46:29

Od. Still. A good while. Twenty-two years of absence collapsed into one embrace. Rashi, following the Midrash, says that while Joseph wept, Jacob was reciting the Shema. The deepest reunion he could imagine became a prayer.

Thursday, in the kitchen at the Michael Levin Base, we made schnitzel, we grilled burgers and hotdogs, and watched teens and twenty-somethings in uniform line up for a hot meal on an afternoon that many in the rest of the world was spending with their families. These are kids whose families are in Los Angeles or Paris or Johannesburg. They chose to be here. They showed up.

Gshu na elai. Come forward to me. The whole parsha runs on that verb. Everyone is crossing distance — physical, emotional, generational — to stand in the same room with someone they love.

This is what a solidarity mission is, stripped of its brochure language. You cross the distance. You show up. You cook the food. All of it says: we are here. Gshu na — come forward. We came. Many times, that is enough.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Nurturing Hope

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 25 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on December 25, 2025.

When life brings challenges, hope matters.

A man condemned by the king was granted a year's reprieve after assuring his majesty that he could teach the royal horse to fly. If he failed, he would face punishment at the end of the year.

Asked later why he would make such an impossible promise, the man explained, "Within a year, the king may die. Or I may die. Or the horse may die. And who knows? In a year, maybe the horse will learn to fly."

His answer wasn't naïve; it was hopeful. Hope widens the horizon of what might yet unfold. Hope doesn't ignore reality; it insists that reality isn't finished yet. Nurturing hope is this week's message.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Hope Is …?

Hope is a vision of a better outcome and movement toward it, not wishful thinking. Hope begins with spiritual clarity: obstacles remain, but lose the power to define the future.

Hope embodies the soul's longing that refuses to remain still.

Hope is the belief that things can be made better. Hope is the parent who keeps showing up for a struggling child, the community that rebuilds after loss. Hope lives when we step forward to bring possibility into being.

2. Hope Arises From Who We Are

Our capacity for hope tells us something profound about who human beings are. A train stops when it runs out of tracks; we can keep going even when all the tracks are gone.

That forward-leaning instinct of hope is a sign that something enduring is woven into our spiritual essence, our soul.

Even in our darkest moments, a quiet inner voice insists, "This is not the end." It is a transcendent spark that refuses to let despair have the final word.

3. How Is Hope Lived?

Hope becomes real when it moves from vision into action. It asks us to engage in the spiritual labor of planting seeds without certainty of harvest.

Every step we take, however small, brings hope in its wake.

When we act on our soul's quiet whispers, we discover spiritual courage. Dreams may inspire us, but only action gives them form. Hope becomes real the moment it moves us from wishing to participating.

📜 2 Quotes

"Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life."

— Proverbs 13:12

"Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul."

— Emily Dickinson

❓ 1 Question

How might nurturing hope change the way you live, or act this week?

Sometimes hope shows up in the most unexpected places. A man once stopped to watch a Little League baseball game and asked a boy in the dugout what the score was. "Eighteen to nothing," the boy replied. "We're behind."

"I'll bet you're discouraged," the man said. "Why should I be?" the boy answered. "We haven't even gotten up to bat yet."

Alexander Pope captured that spirit well when he wrote, "Hope springs eternal in the human breast." Young and old alike, we need hope not merely to survive, but to thrive.

Until next time,

Wishing you a week filled with courage, perspective, and nurtured hope,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Was there something or someone who recently gave you hope? If you care to share that story I'd love to hear it.

P.P.S. Know a friend who could use a perspective on hope? Be a friend and share this email.

This Chanukah, I Refuse to Cast My Jewishness Aside

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 19 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 19, 2025.

🕯️This Drop is dedicated to the 15 souls who were tragically taken from us at Bondi Beach, Sydney on Sunday. They were celebrating the first night of Chanukah. May their memories be a blessing, and fuel to live our Jewish lives proudly and unapologetically. If you can, please donate to the Bondi Relief Fund.

Something’s not sitting right with me this Chanukah. Aside from the horrible, sad start to the holiday, that is.

After the news broke out of Sunday’s terrorist attack at Bondi Beach that left many dead and wounded, my Jewish friends texted with concern over worldwide antisemitism. Some friends cried. My one Jewish connection in Sydney, who lives in Bondi Beach just five minutes from the attack, said the community anticipated something like this happening, just not so soon. My social media feeds were bombarded with messages like, “Praying for Sydney” and “This is what happens when the world spreads blood libel against the Jewish state.”

Sunday felt like a day that’s becoming all too normal in the Jewish world: the deadly images/footage, the tears, the frustration at our friends’ silence and condemnation. I didn’t come across anything out of the ordinary that day. Until I did. Twice.

First, a Facebook friend, rather than mourn, immediately took to criticizing his fellow Jews for calling out antizionism in the wake of the attack. His post insinuated that since the shooters had a “Muslim-ish sounding name,” we shouldn’t jump to conclusions about his motive. This was hours after news broke out of witnesses hearing them say Allahu Akbar before shooting, and hours before IS flags were found in one of the shooter’s homes. As I also pointed out to him, someone else with a Muslim name, Ahmed al-Ahmed, a Syrian immigrant and fruit shop owner, risked his life to disarm the shooter. It’s as if reality is more complex than the narratives we try to impose.

OP was right in that we should call out Islamophobia whenever we see it, instead of jumping to conclusions and stereotyping. But I was enraged by his choice in priorities especially when the facts were out there, rushing to defend a narrative before acknowledging Jewish suffering and loss of innocent life, and throwing his fellow Jews under the bus in the process (the latter of which I know I’m doing right now, but stick with me).

Fast forward to that evening at a small menorah lighting, when a group of us were discussing the events of the day and the desire for more worldwide solidarity.

Someone there, who only found out about Bondi a couple of hours before sundown, said, “That’s why it’s important to engage in cross solidarity. I just came from a solidarity group for those affected by ICE.”

While ICE raids are a serious issue in this country, I found her statement to be performative, useless, and a bold choice to redirect Jewish pain elsewhere instead of comforting other Jews, on a holiday no less. I couldn’t help but respond: “That’s nice, but some of those groups tend to not be so welcoming toward Jews.”

Her response? “Hmm, it’s so unfortunate we’re all hurting and in pain.”

I couldn’t understand these few Jews choosing to set aside their own people’s suffering for the sake of others, just as much as I didn’t understand her meaningless response to me.

I’m a liberal at heart. I believe in helping those who are oppressed, and I think it’s hypocritical for Jews not to. But why do we have to cast our Jewishness aside in the process? Is it seen as “too much” to care about Jewish safety? Is it more important to fit in with other groups?

These instances from Sunday - both online and in real life - reminded me of the Hellenistic Jews of the Chanukah story, the ones who abandoned their traditional practices to blend in with Greek society. The ones who said “no thanks” to Shabbat observance and instead chose to wrestle naked at the gymnasium (okay, that does sound kind of fun though).

Like one of my favorite Jewish Substacks said this week, the holiday is about “celebrating the right to be different.” Even when it’s looked down upon. Even when it’s dangerous. Today, when we’re facing an ideological war, that choice is worth celebrating.

I don’t understand why it has to be so hard to both confront hatred you see online and publicly mourn dead Jews. To stand up for something you believe in without discarding your identity at the door.

My great-grandmother’s menorah. Yes, it has Herzl on it!

After a few days of carrying heavy emotions, I realized my anger outweighed my sorrow, and that this has become a usual pattern for me after any tragedy. Maybe this is how I process grief? Maybe it’s easier to be angry than sad.

Which reminded me how complex humans are, and maybe this is how some Jews process their grief, by channeling their social justice? Or maybe I’m giving them too much credit.

Maybe it’s not my business at all what other Jews do.

But I can still be angry. I’m a Jewish woman in 2025; I have every right to be.

Still, there’s only so much anger I can hold before it consumes me, which isn’t productive at all. In times of helplessness, I like to focus on what I can control. Luckily, we’re in the season of darkness. I say “luckily” because we can control how much light we put out into the world. Also, we’re now in what I call Scotch season!

Here’s some Chanukah light. Thank you for reading.

A Yemenite Chanukah Song

“Hannukah Hankini” is a traditional song that Yemenite Jews sang for centuries during the Festival of Lights. The song consists of Yemenite dialect and Hebrew words. Here’s a version on Instagram with translated lyrics.

Watch on YouTube

A Cute Reframing on How to Talk to Kids about Chanukah

Now here’s a Facebook post that made me smile! A friend posted this interaction between his wife and kids:

This reframing, talking about what Jews have rather than what we don’t have, is key to raising kids with Jewish joy. But what do I know about raising kids?!

My New Chanukah Sweater Dress!

Shabbat Shalom and Chanukah Sameach,

💦 If you love Chanukah, check out these Drops:

The One They Didn't Recognize

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 19 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

We came to Israel for Chanukah. We had been planning it for a few short weeks. We were so anticipating the hanukiyot in the Old City. Then a travel bug dropped us both, and here we are in an apartment near Levinsky Market in Tel Aviv, drinking tea, watching the sun go down on the fourth night of Chanukah through a window that faces a street where nobody appears to be lighting anything.

Levinsky Market is magnificent. It is also, by any standard, not the Old City of Jerusalem. The visible Jewish ritual observance? Approximately zero. Even though there's a shul a few steps away.

This is not a complaint. It is, however, a setup.

The parsha this Shabbat is Miketz — "at the end" — and it falls, as it almost always does, on Shabbat Chanukah. The collision is not accidental.

Miketz is the parsha of hiddenness. Joseph, sold into slavery by his brothers, thrown into an Egyptian prison, is now the second most powerful man in the ancient world. He has an Egyptian name. An Egyptian wife. Egyptian clothes.

When his brothers show up in Egypt, desperate and hungry, they bow before him and they do not have the faintest idea who he is.

וַיַּכֵּ֥ר יוֹסֵ֖ף אֶת־אֶחָ֑יו וְהֵ֖ם לֹ֥א הִכִּרֻֽהוּ׃ For though Joseph recognized his brothers, they did not recognize him.

— Bereishit 42:8

The Hebrew is sharper than the English. Vayaker — he recognized. Lo hikiruhu — they did not recognize him. Same root, twice. The verb for knowing someone by sight, flipped.

This is what Egypt does. Egypt takes Joseph and covers him. New name, new wife, new language, new title. But Joseph knew. He always knew. When his sons were born, he told the world exactly who he was — not in Egyptian, but in Hebrew. He named them in the language of his father.

וְאֵ֛ת שֵׁ֥ם הַשֵּׁנִ֖י קָרָ֣א אֶפְרָ֑יִם כִּֽי־הִפְרַ֥נִי אֱלֹהִ֖ים בְּאֶ֥רֶץ עׇנְיִֽי׃ And the second he named Ephraim, meaning, "God has made me fertile in the land of my affliction."

— Bereishit 41:52

The land of my affliction. Not "my new home." Joseph is running the economy of the known world and he names his son a reminder that this place is still exile. The fertility is real. The affliction is also real. Both live in the same name.

Chanukah sits on top of Miketz this week. The Chanukah story is also about hiddenness. The Greeks didn't try to destroy the Jews the way Egypt or Babylon did. They tried to cover them. The Temple wasn't burned — it was defiled. Burning is an ending. Defilement is a covering. The building is still there; the holiness is buried.

And then someone finds a jug of oil. Sealed, hidden, stamped with the seal of the High Priest. One day's supply. It burns anyway.

This week, Israel and Egypt signed the largest energy deal in Israel's history — $35 billion in natural gas flowing from the Leviathan field to Cairo.

When Bibi announced it, he reached for the obvious metaphor: "We have brought another jug of oil to the nation of Israel." The country Joseph once sustained is now buying fuel from the country Joseph's descendants built. The gas is under the Mediterranean, invisible, buried deep in rock — and it turns out to be worth a fortune.

Hidden things have a way of surfacing in this story.

Back in the apartment near Levinsky, I made the bracha and lit the chanukiyah we brought with us. Four candles plus the shamash. No Old City stone walls. No crowds. Just two sick Jews in a Tel Aviv apartment, keeping the mitzvah of pirsumei nisa — publicizing the miracle — to a street that probably wasn't watching.

Joseph's brothers saw an Egyptian official. They missed what was right in front of them.

The Greeks saw a provincial temple. They missed what was sealed inside it.

I spent a day disappointed about not being in Jerusalem for Chanukah and missed the fact that we were lighting candles in Israel. In Israel! The land Joseph dreamed about but never returned to, the land the Maccabees fought to keep, the land we get to walk into with our passports and our suitcases and our head colds, like it's the most ordinary thing in the world.

It is not the most ordinary thing in the world.

The oil in the Temple wasn't impressive. One small jug. Sealed, overlooked, insufficient. It didn't matter. The miracle was that it was there at all, and that someone bothered to look.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Gift of Light

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 18 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on December 18, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Illumination reveals clarity and beauty. Darkness recedes when light enters.

History is full of stories of people who were fired, only later to flourish. Walt Disney was fired as a cartoonist for "lacking imagination and good ideas."

In hindsight, such moments feel almost laughable. But at the time, they were experienced as failure, rejection and darkness. What changed wasn't the circumstances themselves, but the spiritual lens through which their lives were viewed.

This week, we explore The Gift of Light, and what it allows our soul to see.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Light is About Seeing, Not Changing Reality

What does it mean to "see the light"? We often assume light changes what's around us, but it doesn't rearrange the furniture or alter the room.

Light doesn't change reality; it reveals it. The room is the same whether the lamp is on or off; only our perception changes.

One can live with eyes wide open and still miss what truly matters. Light offers clarity -- the ability to notice a loved one's presence, or to see the transcendent opportunity within a challenge rather than only an obstacle.

2. A Small Light Can Carry Enormous Power

Darkness feels overwhelming, but proves to be illusory. A single flame can illuminate a large room or cavern, far beyond what its size would suggest.

Until light appears, darkness looks foreboding. The same is true when circumstances seem bleak, a hidden spark often remains. When a violin string snapped during Itzhak Perlman's performance, he finished the concerto on three strings.

Setbacks don't extinguish our light; they invite us to use it differently.

3. Light Takes Many Forms, But Its Greatest Power Is Unity

Wisdom is light. Compassion is light. Justice is light. Knowledge is light. Music is light. Alone, they flicker. Together, they blaze.

When individual lights are unified rather than competing, they become far greater than their sum. A single candle illuminates modestly, but candles joined together in a candelabra radiate far more powerfully.

When unity gives each light direction and purpose, darkness doesn't stand a chance.

📜 2 Quotes

"The entrance of Your words gives light, helping even the simple to understand."

— Psalms 119:130

"In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary."

— Aaron Rose - American film director and artist

❓ 1 Question

What part of your life might look different if you saw it in a new light?

Sometimes nothing about our circumstances changes.

What changes is the light by which we see them.

Until next time,

May you be blessed with greater light, helping you see life with clarity and beauty.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Have you noticed a moment when your light helped someone else see more clearly? I'd love to hear about that experience.

P.P.S. Please consider sharing the light of this Spiritual Sparks message.

My Jewish Dream Finally Came True!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 12, 2025.

Hi!

You may have noticed there was no Drop last week (if not, I’m not offended). That’s because I’ve been pouring all my Jewish (and marketing) energy into an event my work hosted with Rachel Goldberg-Polin and Jon Polin, the parents of Hersh Goldberg-Polin, who was kidnapped and murdered by Hamas last year.

I’m so proud to have worked on hosting these two forces of hope with The Jewish Education Project at Temple Emanu-El’s Streicker Center. Hearing personal stories about Hersh reminded me to stay true to my values, and to continue learning Torah and striving to make the world a better place. If that’s Hersh’s legacy, what a legacy that is.

One of the ways I am continuing to learn is by attending Jewish classes, and I finally fulfilled my Jewish dream of learning at Lehrhaus! This Jewish house of learning and kosher restaurant (named one of the best new restaurants in the U.S. in 2023) is Somerville, MA’s hottest Jewish tavern of learning.

Lehrhaus was inspired by the 20th century Freies Jüdisches Lehrhaus (Free Jewish House of Learning) in Frankfurt, which served as an adult Jewish learning center for assimilated Jews.

Co-founded by the philosopher Franz Rosenzweig, the original Lehrhaus’s learning style was based on “a learning that no longer starts from the Torah and leads into life, but the other way round: from life, from a world that knows nothing of the Law, or pretends to know nothing, back to the Torah. That is the sign of the time.”

It certainly is a sign of the time that the Boston Jewish community was itching for a 21st century Lehrhaus!

I’ve been wanting to go ever since we interviewed the founder, Rabbi Charlie Schwartz, on The Jewish Education Project’s podcast, Adapting: The Future of Jewish Education (this is a Drop bragging about my work, I guess). Listening to a young, energized rabbi describe a place where Jews of all backgrounds can schmooze, grab a book off the shelf, attend a class, and enjoy a drink or a meal, had me hooked on his every word! For the first time in my life, I thought, “I must go to Boston.”

Two years after its opening, I finally went, attended two very different classes, and had a meal. Here’s this week’s Drop. It’s related to Chanukah, I promise :)

First, the ambience was exactly what I expected: cozy, buzzing with conversation, unpretentious, and intellectually curious. You’re greeted by shelves upon shelves of books, with comedically specific genre descriptions.

Being there made it feel like being Jewish is… cool. Which made me realize it doesn’t always feel that way. Let’s face it: Our faces are always in books. We celebrate our enemies not destroying us. We usually have stomach problems (there’s actually a Lactaid gumball machine, see below). Some of our rabbis and educators are desperate for us to connect to our identities, a little too much sometimes. And some of us are just plain weird.

But a vast and kickass Jewish book collection, scholarly deep cuts, a cutout of Hannah Arendt in the bathroom, various Jewish heroes depicted on the walls from Emma Lazarus to the guy who cleans the notes out of the Kotel, and a cocktail with pistachio arak in it (I’m getting ahead of myself)… it made me feel cool. Energized. Proud to be Jewish.

Class 1: Early Days of the Diaspora

My first class of the evening was called, “Who Invented the Diaspora?” and was taught by scholar Dr. Malka Simkovich. To be honest, it took me a good 20 minutes to settle into the class mentally, as my mind was buzzing because I was finally at Lehrhaus and I wanted to explore every nook and cranny!

But here’s my takeaway: The word diaspora first appears in the ancient Greek translation of the Bible (called the Septuagint, from 250–150 BCE). The word was used to describe the dispersion of the Jewish people, but get this: it was used to replace the word “horror” in Devarim 28:15-68:

The Lord will cause you to be defeated before your enemies; you shall go out against them one way and flee before them seven ways. You shall become an object of horror to all the kingdoms of the earth.

The Septuagint replaced “object of horror” with “be in dispersion,” a made-up Greek word for horror. This proves that the word diaspora was never intended to be a neutral word.

I found this insight particularly interesting, because there has been a pro-diaspora movement in the last couple of years to try to disconnect Jews from the land of Israel and to paint the diaspora as puppies and rainbows. While I think aspects of the diaspora are interesting and beautiful, like how Jews ended up in India of all places, we were never supposed to end up here in the first place. The heart of Jewish peoplehood is centered in Israel. We pray for a return to Zion and celebrate holidays rooted in the land. We only left because we were exiled. Also, it’s privileged to think the diaspora is safe for all Jews. That’s not to say Israel is puppies and rainbows (it’s more like dirty cats and intense heat). We could get into a debate on this, but that’s a whole other Drop!

To continue this tangent, I recently attended a lecture where the speaker argued that because old Jewish manuscripts reflect symbols of their societies (like a 17th-century ketubah from Italy decorated with naked women in the Italian style of the period), the Jews of that time must have lived rich and fulfilling lives. However, it was later revealed that it wasn’t the Jews who created their own manuscripts. Why, you ask? Because they weren’t allowed to. Some rich communities they were a part of!

A Lactaid machine as a palette cleanser to break up the class material…

🕎 Here’s where the class ties into Chanukah!

In this class, we also read excerpts from 2 Maccabees, containing possible letters from 124 BCE written by Jews in Jerusalem to Jews in Alexandria, Egypt. In them, the Jerusalem Jews implored the Alexandria Jews to celebrate what would later become known as Chanukah, only they call it “the festival of booths in the month of Chislev,” since Chanukah was originally a late celebration of Sukkot (that’s why we get eight days of jelly doughnuts!).

Keep in mind, these writings took place just 40 years after the Maccabean defeat of the Seleucids and the rededication of the Temple. Still, the text sounded so urgent and desperate to have Jews outside the land honor the “Purification of the Temple” out of fear of Jews becoming obsolete. Those Alexandria Jews probably thought that the defeat of the Seleucids didn’t affect them, so why should they care? If only they knew the delicious fried foods their descendants would one day enjoy!

For a holiday that’s now one of the best known to non-Jews thanks to its proximity to Christmas, and one that’s celebrated by Jews all over the world, from Gaza to Hong Kong, it was interesting to read about a fear of it becoming forgotten so soon after the events took place.

Class 2: Dream Circle

If the first class was scholarly and historical, the following class was mystical and Freudian. Deliciously different, in a good way!

Ariel Hendelman led “Up Above & Down Below: Dreaming in the Jewish Tradition.” Using a framework for interpreting dreams from Jill Hammer’s book, Undertorah: An Earth-Based Kabbalah of Dreams, Ariel led us in a session to interpret our recent dreams together! Here’s how the framework goes:

The dreamer shares their dream in the present tense, as if they are living it in the moment. They describe as many details as possible without trying to interpret it themselves.
After they’re done sharing their dream, members of the circle ask clarifying questions about the dream, so they have as many details as possible.
Then the circle is open to interpretation. Each person starts with, “As a dreamer of this dream…” as if the dream is their own, and they share their perspective or any insights.

Here’s an example:

A man shared his dream of being in the backseat of a car while his dad, who is no longer living in real life, is driving. His mother, who is also no longer living, is in the passenger seat. The dreamer realizes they are running low on gas and his father doesn’t notice, but his mother does and sees a gas station.

We asked questions like, “What kind of car is your father driving?” “Where in the backseat are you sitting?” “Are you younger, or are you your age today in the dream?” The dreamer tried to answer our questions as best as he could.

Then people gave their interpretations: As a dreamer of this dream… “I feel protected by my parents, knowing they’re taking care of me.” “I feel like I’m the parent for noticing the gas running low, and my father is the child.” Someone even related the dream to that week’s parsha, comparing his father to blind Isaac and his mother to Rebecca who swoops in and takes care of business.

It was honestly therapeutic and eye opening, as some people shared interpretations that the dreamer may not have thought of before. One woman said she was grateful for an insight I shared about her dream.

Food, and the Diaspora Again (No Tangent This Time!)

Lehrhaus’s cocktails, which are displayed on a menu designed to be a page of Talmud, are creatively themed and crafted. I already teased my delicious Saz-Arak. I would go back just for the drinks!

For dinner, we ordered the pickle plate to start, the famous beet Reuben, and fish and chips. The food menu is also designed as a page of Talmud, and gives fun facts like where the Reuben sandwich was first documented (the Cornhusker Hotel in Lincoln, Nebraska), and tidbits about the Brazilian Jewish community.

This menu circles back to the diaspora discussion, a reminder that Jewish food is made up of the many journeys of diasporic Jews. We wouldn’t have this eclectic menu, which includes fish and chips (from Sephardic Jews fleeing Spain), and pletzl (Ashkenazi flatbread from Paris, meaning “little square”) otherwise.

I got a kick out of (quite literally) the amba vinaigrette and the spicy s’chug aioli that came with the fish and chips. Aside from that, I didn’t think the food was as good as the learning, but I don’t go to Boston for the food ;)

My much-anticipated Lehrhaus visit lived up to the dream. And just like Joseph in this week’s parsha, you never know where your dreams will take you. They just might take you to Boston… or DC! Which is where Lehrhaus is looking to open next. As someone who was once very active in the Jewish DC scene, it will be a great addition there.

Shabbat Shalom / Happy Festival of Booths in the Month of Chislev!

May your Jewish dreams come true,

Shabbat Prompt ✍️

What ARE your Jewish dreams? To have a b-mitzvah later in life? Finish studying a tractate of Talmud? Memorize a specific prayer? Raise a Jewish family? Host a Seder? Finally go on that Jewish trip to India? Feel free to share in the comments!

The Kitchen in Someone Else's Apartment

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Tuesday night we stood in the kitchen of an Airbnb near Levinsky Market in Tel Aviv and made it ours. After, we walked to the bakery around the corner — kosher, because this is Israel and finding kosher is massively easier here than the South — and bought challah and rugelach and a bag of pita that was still warm.

Tonight we light Shabbat candles in a stranger's apartment. Just the two of us. The challah is store-bought. The kitchen is borrowed. And Shabbat will be Shabbat.

Parashat Vayeshev opens with one of the most deceptive sentences in the Torah:

וַיֵּ֣שֶׁב יַעֲקֹ֔ב בְּאֶ֖רֶץ מְגוּרֵ֣י אָבִ֑יו בְּאֶ֖רֶץ כְּנָֽעַן׃ Now Jacob was settled in the land where his father had sojourned, the land of Canaan.

— Bereishit 37:1

Vayeshev. And he settled. The word suggests permanence — a man finally at rest after decades of running. He fled Esau. He worked fourteen years for the wrong wife and then the right one. He wrestled an angel. He buried Rachel on the road. Now, at last, he is home.

Rashi saw it differently. "Jacob sought to dwell in tranquility, and the troubles of Joseph pounced upon him." The parsha called "And He Settled" is the one where everything falls apart. Joseph is his father's favorite. The brothers strip him of his coat, throw him in a pit, and sell him to a caravan heading south.

Joseph — seventeen years old, dragged across borders to a country where he knows no one — lands in the house of an Egyptian officer named Potiphar. And the Torah does something worth noticing:

וַיְהִ֤י יְהֹוָה֙ אֶת־יוֹסֵ֔ף וַיְהִ֖י אִ֣ישׁ מַצְלִ֑יחַ וַיְהִ֕י בְּבֵ֖ית אֲדֹנָ֥יו הַמִּצְרִֽי׃ GOD was with Joseph, and he was a successful man; and he stayed in the house of his Egyptian master.

— Bereishit 39:2

God was with Joseph. Four words. No miracles. Joseph lands in a foreign house and gets to work. Then Potiphar's wife lies about him, and Joseph goes to prison. And the Torah repeats itself:

וַיְהִ֤י יְהֹוָה֙ אֶת־יוֹסֵ֔ף וַיֵּ֥ט אֵלָ֖יו חָ֑סֶד וַיִּתֵּ֣ן חִנּ֔וֹ בְּעֵינֵ֖י שַׂ֥ר בֵּית־הַסֹּֽהַר׃ GOD was with Joseph — extending kindness to him and disposing the chief jailer favorably toward him.

— Bereishit 39:21

Sold. Enslaved. Slandered. Imprisoned. And at every station: God was with Joseph. The phrase is not a promise that things will work out. What he has not lost is the capacity to show up wherever he lands and make it function. To settle — even when nothing about the situation is settled.

On Wednesday — two days before this column goes up — Syria officially registered its first Jewish organization in the country's history. The Jewish Heritage in Syria Foundation, chartered on December 10, is led by Rabbi Henry Hamra, the son of the last rabbi to leave Syria. Hamra and his son read Torah in the Faranj synagogue in Damascus, the only one of the city's twenty-two synagogues still largely intact. Fewer than ten Jews remain in the country. The community once numbered in the tens of thousands.

A son came back to the place his father left, walked through a door that had been sealed for decades, unrolled a Torah scroll, and read.

Vayeshev does not mean "and he found peace." It means "and he dwelt." The act is the point. The dwelling was not in the walls. It was in the person.

We did not build this kitchen. The challah came from a bakery whose name I cannot yet pronounce properly. Tonight we will have two candles, a borrowed countertop, and each other.

Chanukah starts Sunday night — and we will light those candles here, too, in someone else's apartment, in a land that feels more like home than home does.

Vayeshev Yaakov. And Jacob dwelt. Not because the world was quiet. Because he was there.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Do Miracles Still Happen?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 11 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on December 11, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

The world is a mask hiding a deeper reality. Removing the mask reveals miracles -- and awakens exhilaration and wonder.

Doctor Bloom was famous for "miraculous" cures. One day a little old woman, bent fully in half, shuffled into his office. Thirty minutes later she walked out completely erect. A stunned woman in the waiting room whispered, "It's a miracle! What did he do?" "Miracle, shmiracle," the old lady said. "He gave me a longer cane."

Many people think a miracle must break the laws of nature. But Dr. Bloom's playful story reminds us that what we call a miracle depends less on what happened and more on how we look at it.

Today we'll explore what miracles truly are, where they can be seen, and how we can train ourselves to notice them.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. What is a Miracle?

People assume a miracle must be supernatural, but classic wisdom sees it differently. A miracle is anything to inspire amazement, not necessarily by suspending nature's laws.

Miracle comes from the Latin mirare -- "to look at" -- meaning it requires attention.

Wonder is the essence; perception is the key that awakens awareness. The natural world's grandeur can astonish the soul. When we train our eyes to notice, we discover that miracles never disappeared -- we simply stopped seeing.

2. Hidden Miracles -- Nature as the Spiritual Mask

The world runs on fixed laws, but this predictability is a spiritual mask concealing deeper reality. The miraculous hides behind nature, inviting us to peer beneath the surface.

The world is a veil: opaque at first glance, yet transparent when viewed with awe.

Consider the hidden miracles within you: 60,000 miles of blood vessels, eyes that see seven million colors. These marvels are always here, waiting to be noticed. When we stop calling a sunrise or a heartbeat "normal", the world becomes breathtaking again.

3. Training the Eyes to See -- Living with a Miracle Mindset

A miracle asks us not just to witness, but to awaken. A spiritual seeker is like a deep-sea diver, searching beneath the surface for hidden treasures.

Everything is a miracle -- but let those we're used to be seen with fresh eyes.

Classic wisdom asks: Is the growth and birth of a child any less miraculous than the splitting of the Red Sea? Cultivating this miracle mindset -- where nothing remains routine -- is how we step into a spiritually vibrant life.

📜 2 Quotes

Your wonders and thoughts are for us … they are too overwhelming to count.

— Psalm 40:6

I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

— Louis Armstrong, What a Wonderful World (1967)

❓ 1 Question

What miracle in your everyday life do you most often overlook?

Why focus on miracles? Because when everything is seen as a miracle, gratitude awakens from every heartbeat, every breath -- and all the day-to-day workings of nature itself. We begin to remember that miracles surround us constantly, even if they unfold seventy times a minute.

Science seeks the natural within the supernatural; the spiritual seeker learns to see the supernatural shining within the natural.

Until next time,

May your eyes be opened to the miracles around you.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What moment of everyday wonder has stayed with you -- something that felt like a quiet miracle? I'd be delighted if you would share that moment.

P.P.S. Please consider sharing these insights about miracles with a friend.

The Name You Carry Home

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 05 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

I booked another flight. This time with a layover in Milan, departing next week for Tel Aviv. The airfare was absurdly cheap. I bought two tickets before the price could change its mind. And possibly before I talked to my husband.

He looked at the confirmation email and said, "You know it's going to be hard to leave shul." He was right. This would be our third trip to Israel this year. Leaving feels like stepping away at the wrong moment. But there's a broader congregation, too. Am Yisrael doesn't stop at the walls of one synagogue in Atlanta.

I chose the name Uriel when I converted — "my light is God" — and Chanukah starts the week after we land. If there was ever a time to carry that name somewhere specific, this is it.

It will be hard to leave here. It will be hard to leave there. Both of those things are true.

Parashat Vayishlach opens with Jacob heading home after twenty years away — and terrified of what's waiting for him. His brother Esau is marching toward him with four hundred men. Jacob prays. He sends gifts ahead. He divides his family into two camps. And then, the night before the encounter, he sends everyone across the Jabbok River, and he stays behind. Alone.

וַיִּוָּתֵ֥ר יַעֲקֹ֖ב לְבַדּ֑וֹ וַיֵּאָבֵ֥ק אִישׁ֙ עִמּ֔וֹ עַ֖ד עֲל֥וֹת הַשָּֽׁחַר׃ Jacob was left alone. And a figure wrestled with him until the break of dawn.

— Bereishit 32:25

The Torah doesn't tell us who the figure is. The figure wrenched Jacob's hip out of its socket, and still Jacob held on. Dawn came. The figure said, "Let me go." Jacob said no. Not until you bless me.

The figure asked his name. Jacob said it: Yaakov. The heel-grabber. And then:

וַיֹּ֗אמֶר לֹ֤א יַעֲקֹב֙ יֵאָמֵ֥ר עוֹד֙ שִׁמְךָ֔ כִּ֖י אִם־יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל כִּֽי־שָׂרִ֧יתָ עִם־אֱלֹהִ֛ים וְעִם־אֲנָשִׁ֖ים וַתּוּכָֽל׃ Said he, "Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human, and have prevailed."

— Bereishit 32:29

Jacob walked into the dawn with a new name and a limp. Both were permanent.

Earlier in the parsha, before the wrestling, Jacob prayed one of the most quietly devastating lines in the Torah:

קָטֹ֜נְתִּי מִכֹּ֤ל הַחֲסָדִים֙ וּמִכׇּל־הָ֣אֱמֶ֔ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר עָשִׂ֖יתָ אֶת־עַבְדֶּ֑ךָ כִּ֣י בְמַקְלִ֗י עָבַ֙רְתִּי֙ אֶת־הַיַּרְדֵּ֣ן הַזֶּ֔ה וְעַתָּ֥ה הָיִ֖יתִי לִשְׁנֵ֥י מַחֲנֽוֹת׃ I am unworthy of all the kindness that You have so steadfastly shown Your servant: with my staff alone I crossed this Jordan, and now I have become two camps.

— Bereishit 32:11

Katonti. I am small. I crossed this river once with nothing but a walking stick, and now look — two camps, a family, flocks, a life. The word isn't false modesty. It's the gasp of a man who can see the distance between where he started and where he stands.

On Monday, Israel's Defense Ministry announced that the Iron Beam laser defense system — renamed Or Eitan, "Eitan's Light" — is complete. The system intercepts rockets and drones with a beam of light at a cost of about three dollars per shot. It was named in memory of Captain Eitan Oster, twenty-two years old, an Egoz commando killed fighting in southern Lebanon in October 2024. His father, Dov Oster, was one of the system's lead developers. A father built a shield of light. It carries his son's name now.

I think about Jacob at the Jabbok a lot when I'm preparing to pack for Israel. The man had two camps and stood between them alone in the dark. He did not run. He wrestled. And the blessing he demanded was a name.

Names matter. I picked mine maybe a year ago and received it about seven months ago, standing in a mikveh in Atlanta. Uriel. The light of God. I did not pick it because I thought I deserved it. I picked it because I thought it was a direction — something to walk toward, not something I had already become. Katonti. I crossed this Jordan with nothing, and now I have two camps.

Both camps are mine. The pull between them is not a problem to solve. It is what it feels like to belong to something larger than one building, one city, one comfortable life.

Jacob limped into the sunrise carrying a new name he would spend the rest of his life growing into. That is what names do. They don't describe who you are. They describe who you are supposed to become.

Next week we land in Israel just days before the first candle. We'll be there when the lights go up.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Life is a Test

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 04 Dec 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on December 4, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Life's curriculum is everywhere

Two university students were cruising toward A's in chemistry. Overconfident, they overslept and missed the final exam. Thinking fast, they told their professor they'd been visiting a sick friend and got stranded on the way back because of a flat tire. Sympathetic, he let them take a makeup test, placing them in separate rooms. They were surprised to find a one-question-exam: "Which tire was flat?"

In life, we're constantly confronted with tests -- stuck in traffic, criticized at work, managing a child's meltdown in the grocery store. Are these simply interruptions?

Classic wisdom teaches that life is a test even in the ordinary choices that fill our days. Today, we'll explore what that means -- and how to navigate it with wisdom.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. What Defines a Test?

Life's tests aren't usually headline moments. How we deal with a difficult colleague, whether we hold a door for a stranger, the patience we summon with relatives.

Tests aren't interruptions to your life; they are your life's curriculum, disguised as ordinary moments. This is why classic wisdom teaches that everything -- yes, everything -- is a test of our character, containing potential to transform us.

Spiritual growth is rarely formed in the spotlight -- it's built in daily, unglamorous choices. Every test, no matter how small, refines the soul.

2. Why Does Life Test Us?

Potential that's never challenged stays dormant. Just as unused muscles atrophy, our spiritual capacities -- courage, compassion -- weaken when unexercised.

A flat line on an EKG means life has stopped. Only when the line rises and falls is the heart truly beating. So it is with the soul: highs and lows are signs of spiritual life.

The world is designed so that growth happens through tests. The challenges we'd rather avoid are often the very things that awaken our deepest strengths.

3. How Do We Navigate Tests Better?

Remove "impossible" from your vocabulary. Even in the secular world, this truth reveals itself. Formula 409 was named for the 409th attempt before success. Michael Jordan turned being cut from his high school team into fuel for greatness.

Most importantly, shift your perspective from "Why is this happening to me?" to "What can this make of me?" When we face difficulty without retreating, struggle becomes the catalyst of growth.

Challenges don't diminish us. Every test passed nourishes and expands the soul.

📜 2 Quotes

"It is good for me that I was afflicted, so that I might learn Your instructions."

— Psalms 119:71

"Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired, and success achieved."

— Helen Keller

❓ 1 Question

What test do you find yourself facing on a daily or frequent basis?

A lobster grows only when its rigid shell becomes tight and uncomfortable; that pressure forces it to shed the old and form a roomier one. Discomfort is what triggers its growth. The same is true for us. The tests we face, large and small, may feel confining, but each one holds the potential to expand us, strengthen us and deepen our spiritual life.

Until next time,

May the challenges you face become pathways to clarity, courage and growth.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Did you recently face a test -- and pass with flying colors? I'd love to hear about the test you aced.

Enjoy this week's message? Feel free to forward it to a friend who might appreciate a little strength for their own tests.

Jewish Book Month: The Torah in the Tarot

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 28 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 28, 2025.

Happy Friday! For those in the U.S., I hope you had a delicious Turkey Day. Or Pie/Mashed Potatoes/Mac n Cheese Day instead because turkey is gross (and not even originally considered kosher!).

Hebrew fun fact before diving into this week’s Drop: The Hebrew word for “Jews,” yehudim, comes from the root of the Hebrew word hodu, or “to give thanks.” It’s also Hebrew for “turkey."

Now that I got that out of my system… if you know me, you know I’ve gotten into the mysterious world of tarot in the past year after I had a powerful reading.

People have misconceptions that tarot is used as fortune telling, which is how it can be used. But another more practical, less witchy way to use the cards is by using its specific imagery to look inward and see how you can apply the cards’ messages to your own life. Like a Rorschach test for interpreting your life, but the imagery is clearly a naked child mounted on a white horse… or Taylor Swift, or cats, depending on which deck you’re using! And that’s supposed to symbolize happiness.

I, at least, don’t take that to mean, “You will find happiness.” Rather, I reflect on the areas of my life that already leave me feeling content. And the more cards you pull, the more you can tell a story with those cards about your life. It can be therapeutic and clarifying.

Now that I’ve totally sold you on tarot, here’s where it gets even more mysterious.

Last Shavuot, I attended the most fascinating lecture that totally sold ME on the tarot having Jewish connections!

The most obvious is The Wheel of Fortune card, which contains the Hebrew letters יהוה for the Tetragrammaton, the name of G-d. And the 22 Major Arcana cards represent the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet!

Stav Appel’s riveting 2am class explained the possible origins of this Jewish connection. The Jean Noblet Tarot de Marseille deck was made around 1650 in France, during a 250-year ban on public Jewish life (thanks, King Charles).

Crypto-Jews had to find a workaround and get creative to practice Judaism… like teaching through tarot cards. It’s one of the few times in history you could call Jews sneaky and mean it as a compliment!

Ayin Press

When you study the Noblet deck through a Jewish lens, it starts to look like way more than just a set of cards. Hidden in the art are Hebrew letters, Torah stories, ritual objects, and even the Jewish calendar. It’s like a secret textbook for underground Jewish learning. And I’ve been waiting five months to write about it, because his book, The Torah in the Tarot, just came out!

In honor of the 100th anniversary of Jewish Book Month, I’m sharing what I’ve been calling my favorite thing in Judaism lately.

A Brief History of Tarot

The original deck comes from 15th-century Italy, when it was used as a card game called trionfi and was purely for entertainment.

Then, in 17th-century France, it evolved into the Tarot de Marseille deck. Its glow up included sharper and more symbolic imagery, closer to the standardized tarot imagery of today.

In early 20th-century London, tarot reinvented itself again, thanks to illustrator Pamela Colman Smith. Her 1909 Rider-Waite-Smith deck added full scenes to the Minor Arcana for the first time, making the cards accessible, story-driven, and ripe for intuitive reading. The RWS deck basically set the standard for every modern deck you see today.

From the Visconti-Sforza Tarot deck, 15th century Milan (Wikipedia)

Okay, but how is it Jewish?

The Jean Noblet deck is the oldest deck in the larger 17th-century Tarot de Marseilles collection. Stav, data scientist by day, just happened upon a copy and noticed many biblical references in the imagery.

When he took a closer look at all the cards, he noticed symbolism and connections that were too numerous and specific to be coincidences. His book, which includes a copy of the deck, breaks down each of the 22 Major Arcana cards and explains their Jewish connections. When you read it, you too will be thoroughly convinced that this deck was once a vessel for Jewish teaching and wisdom, getting a glimpse into crypto-Judaism of post-Renaissance France.

Video by OhrJudaica

Convince me. Give me an example.

Time for a lil D’var Tarot! The Lovers card aligns perfectly with this week’s parsha, Vayetzei.

There’s three people in The Lovers card. In the original Italian Tarot deck, The Lovers had two people on it. Then, the Marseille deck’s Lovers card suddenly featured three people, possibly representing Jacob (in the middle), Rachel (with her hand on her heart), and Leah (on the left).

In this week’s parsha, Jacob falls in love with Rachel, Laban’s daughter, and wishes to marry her. Laban agrees to the marriage, but tricks Jacob into marrying his older daughter, Leah, after seven years of labor. In exchange for another seven years of work, Jacob marries Rachel. Jacob has eight sons with Leah (two with her maidservant), and four sons with Rachel (two with her maidservant).

No wonder the 20th-century Lovers card reverted to its original depiction of two lovers; three leads to 14 years of labor!

Not convinced? Check out the headpieces on each woman’s head. They’re mandrake roots, which were used for fertility back then. Leah has eight on her head (two hidden for Zilpah’s sons). Rachel has four on her head (two less prominently placed for Bilhah’s sons).

We’ve got more insight into the Torah’s messiest love triangle! Each Major Arcana card in the Noblet deck represents a Hebrew letter. The sixth card, The Lovers, represents the sixth letter of the Aleph-Bet, vav. See the red line going down Jacob’s torso? Vav signifies “and” in Hebrew. It also represents connection or union, like Jacob in union with Rachel and Leah, like the ladder in his dream connecting heaven and earth, and like his choices connected to his legacy (Rachel’s son = Joseph, our next Torah hero!).

Still not convinced? Notice the angel above his head? That’s the angel Jacob wrestles with in the next parsha, who gives him—and all the Jews after him—the name Israel.

I could give you more chilling examples, like how The Hanged Man represents Haman, the villain of the Purim story. The Magician represents a mohel, the rabbi who performs a bris. And the Sun’s imagery of two people in front of a wall represents Shabbat, with 39 bricks in the wall for the 39 melachot, or categories of labor forbidden on Shabbat. There are so many examples of hidden Judaica on each card. You just have to see for yourself!

Stav’s compelling book makes a great Chanukah gift for that spiritual, mystical Jewish friend, or anyone who loves Torah.

Shabbat Shalom! Thankful for you,

The People Named for Thank You

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 28 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

There were four dishes of sweet potatoes on the counter yesterday. One was dairy, one was pareve, one was gluten-free, and one was — as far as anyone could tell — an act of love by someone who had never heard the word fleishig and was doing their best.

Thanksgiving in the Southern California hills, in an Airbnb large enough to absorb three generations of family and every dietary restriction they'd brought with them.

My husband's mother is Jewish. She's also celiac. The broader family, her husband's side, are not Jewish. They don't quite understand kashrut, or why some of us need separate plates, or why the cranberry sauce has to be checked for gelatin. But they made room. They always make room.

Here is a thing I have noticed about Thanksgiving. Americans do it once a year and it nearly breaks them. The logistics alone — the travel, the cooking, the seating chart, the question of who brings what. An entire nation in a state of low-grade panic for a week, all to sit at one table and say thank you.

Jews do this over fifty times a year. Every Friday night. Candles, wine, bread, a table, a pause. We don't call it Thanksgiving. We call it Shabbat. And by Wednesday most weeks I'm already thinking about the menu.

Tonight, the table will be set again. My mother-in-law has a gluten-free challah recipe (kosher to orthodox standards) which is genuinely good — soft, sweet, with a golden crust that holds together when you tear it.

Tonight she will cover her hair with a piece of lace that belonged to her grandmother and light Shabbat candles. The rest of the family will be somewhere nearby. Nobody will announce what is happening. She will just light them, say the blessing, and stand there for a moment with her hands over her eyes.

I'm writing this from the passenger seat as we drive from the Airbnb back to her house in Yorba Linda. Yesterday was about gratitude performed once. Tonight is about gratitude practiced always.

In Parashat Vayetzei, Jacob leaves home. The Torah gives it exactly one verse:

וַיֵּצֵ֥א יַעֲקֹ֖ב מִבְּאֵ֣ר שָׁ֑בַע וַיֵּ֖לֶךְ חָרָֽנָה׃ Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran.

— Bereishit 28:10

No packing scene. No goodbye. He is running from Esau, heading toward an uncle he has never met, with nothing but the road. He stops when the sun goes down, puts a rock under his head, and sleeps. And while he sleeps, he dreams — a ladder set on the ground with its top reaching the sky, angels going up and coming down.

God speaks. God promises. And when Jacob wakes, he says something startling:

וַיִּיקַ֣ץ יַעֲקֹב֮ מִשְּׁנָתוֹ֒ וַיֹּ֕אמֶר אָכֵן֙ יֵ֣שׁ יְהֹוָ֔ה בַּמָּק֖וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה וְאָנֹכִ֖י לֹ֥א יָדָֽעְתִּי׃ Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, "Surely GOD is present in this place, and I did not know it!"

— Bereishit 28:16

God was in this place, and I did not know it. He wasn't in the Temple — there was no Temple yet. He was on the side of the road, alone, with a rock for a pillow, in a place he had not planned to be. And God was there.

Jacob goes on to Haran. Falls in love with Rachel, works seven years for her, gets married in the dark to the wrong woman, and wakes up next to Leah. He works another seven years for Rachel.

And Leah — unloved, unchosen, given to a man who wanted her sister — begins to have children. She names each one as a prayer. Reuben: God has seen my suffering. Shimon: God has heard. Levi: maybe now my husband will be close to me.

Three sons, three names, three pleas for love or acknowledgment. And then the fourth:

וַתַּ֨הַר ע֜וֹד וַתֵּ֣לֶד בֵּ֗ן וַתֹּ֙אמֶר֙ הַפַּ֙עַם֙ אוֹדֶ֣ה אֶת־יְהֹוָ֔ה עַל־כֵּ֛ן קָרְאָ֥ה שְׁמ֖וֹ יְהוּדָ֑ה וַֽתַּעֲמֹ֖ד מִלֶּֽדֶת׃ She conceived again and bore a son, and declared, "This time I will praise GOD." Therefore she named him Judah. Then she stopped bearing.

— Bereishit 29:35

Hapaam odeh et Hashem. This time — I will give thanks.

Not "see me" or "hear me" or "love me." Just thanks.

The name Yehuda comes from the root hodaya — gratitude, praise, thanksgiving.

And Yehuda is the son whose name becomes the name of the people. Yehudi. Jew.

We are, literally, the people named for thank you.

My father's mother was named Leah. Her father — Yaakov — was Jewish, married a Christian, raised the family outside the faith. Leah wasn't halachically Jewish, which meant her sons weren't either. None of them would have had reason to know. But every spring she fed the boys matzah for a week and never told them why. They just thought it was odd crackers. I did not learn any of this until I was deep into my conversion, studying the matriarchs, and my own father mentioned it in passing — as if it were nothing. A man named Yaakov. A daughter named Leah. In a parsha about both of them.

There is a line I keep coming back to — God was in this place, and I did not know it. Jacob said it about a roadside in the dark. I have said it about a kitchen in Yorba Linda, watching a woman who has kept her grandmother's lace for decades cover her hair and light two candles. I have said it about four kinds of sweet potatoes lined up on a counter. I have said it about matzah served without explanation every spring to boys who would never know why.

Tonight the candles get lit again. Fifty-two times a year we set a table and say the blessing. We are the people named for it.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Gratitude: From Heart to Habit

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Wed, 26 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on November 26, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Jackie Kennedy, a billionaire, and a boll weevil: lessons in growing gratitude

This week's message arrives a day early, so you can have fresh thoughts for your Thanksgiving table tomorrow.

This Thanksgiving weekend, many of us will be hosted by others. Some of us, therefore, will have thank-you notes to write.

If that someone is you, you can take inspiration from Jacqueline Kennedy. After her husband's assassination, she expressed thanks for the "hundreds of thousands of messages, close to 800,000 in all," vowing to respond to every one of them.

The very idea that she could even imagine such a thing is incredible. But do you know what happened? It took the First Lady about ten years, but every single one of those 800,000 letters was eventually acknowledged.

Gratitude takes many forms, and today we'll explore three essential truths about this transformative practice.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. What Gratitude Looks Like

Gratitude shows up in countless ways, sometimes playful, sometimes profound. A little boy once wrote that he was thankful for his eyeglasses, explaining that they kept the boys from hitting him and the girls from kissing him.

Richard Chaifetz, who once pleaded for help to stay in college, later donated $12 million to St. Louis University in thanks. Classic wisdom teaches that gratitude isn't about having; it's about taking pleasure in what you already have.

Gratitude isn't a feeling; it's a way of seeing.

2. What Blocks Us From Gratitude?

Why do we miss gratitude? Because we chase "more." Many have had wealth, fame, power and pleasure -- yet died miserable. Billionaire J. Paul Getty, when asked how much was enough, answered, "A little bit more."

The myth that things make us happy blinds us to blessings already present.

And numerous misconceptions abound -- for example, that our unhappiness is our own business. But like a pothole in the road, a sour disposition is a public menace, affecting everyone around us. In truth, gratitude restores joy and rejuvenates the soul.

3. Cultivating Gratitude

Count your blessings each morning. Gratitude is a spiritual muscle -- it grows with practice. Build "monuments" of remembrance, like the town of Enterprise, Alabama, which honored the boll weevil for forcing residents to diversify crops and prosper.

Don't let favors go unacknowledged. Thank the person who prepared your meal, taught your children, or held the door.

And when we live with the attitude of being "blessed with everything," we discover that gratitude transforms perspective and connects us to the Source of all life.

📜 2 Quotes

A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones. — Proverbs 17:22

The hardest arithmetic to master is that which enables us to count our blessings. — Eric Hoffer

❓ 1 Question

What is the one thing you can pause right now to truly savor and appreciate?

A few years ago a survey of 65 nations found that the world's happiest people lived in … Nigeria. Those ranked second through fifth were the people of Mexico, Venezuela, El Salvador and Puerto Rico.

We Americans -- like fellow consumers in Europe, Asia and elsewhere -- spend gleefully on iPads, iPhones, flat-screen TVs, SUVs and all sorts of expensive items. We indulge, we gratify, and we expect to be the happiest people on the planet.

We can be happiness billionaires -- if we accumulate happiness, cultivated by investments of gratitude.

Until next time,

May your soul be inspired by your growing mastery of counting your blessings

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What is something you're extremely grateful for? I'd love to hear what you highly appreciate.

P.P.S. Appreciate this week's message? Forward it to a friend.

It's Bring Your Goyim to Shul Day!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 21, 2025.

Shalom friends,

Before my dad writes in the comments that goy is not a nice term to describe non-Jews, please know I’m using it here with love. Besides, “It’s Bring Your Non-Jewish Friends to Shul Day” just doesn’t have the same ring!

About a month ago, a couple of my non-Jewish friends told me they would love to attend a Shabbat service. Excitedly, I picked a synagogue and marked a date on the calendar, and invited a couple more goyim for the ride. Get in loser, we’re going to synagogue!

FYI: “Shul” is Yiddish for school, and is commonly used in Orthodox communities. I say it because it’s fewer syllables than synagogue. ;)

I knew just the place I would take them to. See, I shul shop around NYC like it’s my hobby, so I am familiar with all sorts of services the city has to offer. I chose to take them to a Reform synagogue, because I thought its cathedral-like architecture and English services would make them feel at home (which is ironic because they’re French).

I enjoy the Reform service because it reminds me so much of my own services from childhood: a chill rabbi playing guitar on the bimah, Torah reading on Friday night, the familiar tunes (why is Orthodox Adom Olam so solemn?!). I also find it more personal when the rabbi gives the congregation a chance to say the names of those we’re mourning or praying for out loud.

So I was excited to give my friends a little taste of Shabbat, Reform style. I was also nervous too. Would they ask me questions I wouldn’t know the answers to? Would they be turned off by anything? Would the rabbi’s sermon be political?

Shabbat Shalom

We got through security and took our seats in the pews. I explained the evening’s itinerary: prayers, songs, reading from the Torah. Oh, and if you see people touch the Torah with their prayer book and then kiss it, that’s normal.

Candle lighting began, another aspect of the Reform service I appreciate in case I’m not coming from home directly and didn’t get the chance to light beforehand.

Once the band started playing and the cantor was singing her soulful, sopranic (which is a word I just made up) hymns, I started imagining the service through their eyes. It all felt incredibly churchy to me.

“This isn’t a typical Shabbat service,” I kept saying to my friends. But they seemed to be enjoying it. Also, who was I to say what was typical or not in Judaism?

As much as I enjoy Reform, I feel it misses the mark when it comes to prayer. I often feel as though I’m listening to a spiritual concert rather than having a personal conversation with G-d.

At one point, the cantor sang a prayer to the tune of “Rise and Shine” (and give G-d your glory, glory!) in honor of Parshat Noach. Of course, my French friends weren’t familiar with this American Sunday school deep cut.

Torah Time

Then came the rabbi’s sermon for Parshat Noach. The rabbi spoke of the flood, and how G-d acted with justice by flooding a world filled with חמס (violence, injustice) or “Hamas” (Yeah, you can’t make this stuff up. Genesis 6:11). G-d also acted with mercy by making a rainbow appear, a commitment to not destroy the world even when humans fail. 🌈

The rabbi related this to the Israel-Hamas War coming to an end, the new ceasefire that went into effect, and how Hamas immediately broke it. Israel had every right to continue the fighting once Hamas broke the ceasefire—there were still hostages’ bodies in Gaza after all. But with the war over, Israel had a choice to make: stoop to Hamas’ level (like it usually does, let’s be honest, not that I can blame it), or stand up to injustice? Noach teaches us that while justice is necessary to confront evil, mercy is necessary to rebuild the world.

Yeah… this evening wasn’t political at all!

“There are things that bring us all together.”

After a baby naming, blessings for a soon-to-be married couple, and blessings over the wine and bread, we went to a community dinner. I noticed how attentive I was to every detail, to ensure my friends had a good time and that we Jews made a good impression. Would the food be good? (It was, but they ran out of protein by the time we got some.) Would people be friendly? (They were, but I wasn’t even able to sit with my friends due to limited seating!) Would I drink a lot of wine and talk about circumcised penises? (You bet.)

So, did we make a good impression? Here’s a friend’s beautiful and honest words about his first synagogue experience:

I was raised in a mostly atheist family, with maybe traces of Protestant and Catholic values and rituals, but overall no strong religious influences. As a result of that (I think), I do not myself believe in God. However, in the past decade of my adult life, I have been more and more curious about other people’s faith – what it is grounded in, how they express it, how they apprehend the belief that there is a certain something driving how the universe works. Through travel and many discussions, I have especially been interested in learning how different religions honour their God(s). When I asked Miranda if she would bring me to a Jewish service, she was thrilled, which was a first discovery in itself: I had imagined Judaism as so rooted in community and tradition that an outsider’s curiosity might feel intrusive.

I didn’t really know what to expect from this service, on the spectrum of hour-long, sermon-filled Catholic masses to relatively quicker affairs like some of the rituals I have seen people perform in buddhist temples. The synagogue was Reform, I learned later, and apparently that explains that almost the entirety of the ceremony was composed of songs. Fun note: they also had actual instruments on stage, like in a gospel church (vs. just a very solemn big ass organ in Catholic churches)! The songs were catchy, but I didn’t understand much as most of it was in Hebrew.

What I especially liked was the emphasis on community, for example that moment when the rabbi was asking a string of questions along the lines of “Everyone who is mourning a close one, please stand,” to finally have the entire congregation standing up and realizing that there are things that bring us all together. In that same vein, the short ceremonies to introduce a newborn to the community or the groom of a soon-to-be-wed couple (who was coming from another synagogue), with again that tone of “This is the community, and today is the day you are being introduced to it”.

I came out of the service happy I got to be part of that community for an hour… and wondering what an Orthodox service looks like! Maybe that will be for another Shabbat outing with Miranda (well, on separate sides of the synagogue, that is). Until then: Shabbat shalom, and may curiosity always be reason enough to show up.

Last Shabbos, I spent Saturday morning services with my old Orthodox community, and the difference was night and day. I still love my Reform service like an old friend, but wow! The ruach (spirit) of communal prayers. The parsha class (and free coffee). The hora dancing in honor of a betrothed couple. I just might bring my friends here after all.

Shabbat Shalom! With “Rise and Shine” stuck in my head,

💦 Check out these related Drops:

The Wells You Dig Twice

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Monday night I drove out to a house in Milton, Georgia, to hear an Israeli lieutenant colonel talk about what you write to your children when you might not come home.

The Atlanta Israel Coalition hosted Lt. Col. Amos Davidowitz, who wrote an ethical will — a tzava'ah — to his kids before going to war.

The room was someone's basement family room (maybe forty chairs) that was way nicer than any basement has a right to be.

He spoke about Israel's challenges not beginning on October 7, about the moral weight of command, about surviving and then writing and then surviving again.

Just a man in a living room in the Atlanta suburbs, explaining what it means to put the things that matter on paper before you run out of time.

What struck me wasn't the war stories. It was the genre. An ethical will is one of the oldest forms of Jewish writing — a parent distilling everything they know into something a child can carry. It is, in the most literal sense, an inheritance. And inheritance is the entire engine of Parashat Toldot.

Toldot — "generations," "histories," or more precisely, the things that get produced by a life — is usually read as the story of two brothers. Esau and Jacob. The birthright sold for stew. The blessing stolen in disguise. Isaac's famous bewilderment:

וַיִּגַּ֧שׁ יַעֲקֹ֛ב אֶל־יִצְחָ֥ק אָבִ֖יו וַיְמֻשֵּׁ֑הוּ וַיֹּ֗אמֶר הַקֹּל֙ ק֣וֹל יַעֲקֹ֔ב וְהַיָּדַ֖יִם יְדֵ֥י עֵשָֽׂו׃ So Jacob drew close to his father Isaac, who felt him and wondered, "The voice is the voice of Jacob, yet the hands are the hands of Esau."

— Bereishit 27:22

The twins get all the attention. The deception scene plays like theatre. But sandwiched between the birthright sale and the stolen blessing is a chapter almost nobody talks about: Isaac and the wells.

After Abraham dies, the Philistines fill in every well Abraham dug. Stopped them up with dirt. It is a small, spiteful act — not war, not conquest, just the erasure of what someone else built. And Isaac's response is not to rage or retaliate. He digs them again:

וַיָּ֨שׇׁב יִצְחָ֜ק וַיַּחְפֹּ֣ר ׀ אֶת־בְּאֵרֹ֣ת הַמַּ֗יִם אֲשֶׁ֤ר חָֽפְרוּ֙ בִּימֵי֙ אַבְרָהָ֣ם אָבִ֔יו וַיְסַתְּמ֣וּם פְּלִשְׁתִּ֔ים אַחֲרֵ֖י מ֣וֹת אַבְרָהָ֑ם וַיִּקְרָ֤א לָהֶן֙ שֵׁמ֔וֹת כַּשֵּׁמֹ֕ת אֲשֶׁר־קָרָ֥א לָהֶ֖ן אָבִֽיו׃ Isaac dug anew the wells that had been dug in the days of his father Abraham and that the Philistines had stopped up after Abraham's death; and he gave them the same names that his father had given them.

— Bereishit 26:18

The same names. He didn't rename them. Didn't claim them as his own discovery. He called them what his father called them and went back to work.

The first well, the locals contested. He named it Esek — contention. The second, they disputed again. Sitnah — harassment. He moved on, dug a third, and nobody fought him over it. He called that one Rehoboth:

וַיַּעְתֵּ֣ק מִשָּׁ֗ם וַיַּחְפֹּר֙ בְּאֵ֣ר אַחֶ֔רֶת וְלֹ֥א רָב֖וּ עָלֶ֑יהָ וַיִּקְרָ֤א שְׁמָהּ֙ רְחֹב֔וֹת וַיֹּ֗אמֶר כִּֽי־עַתָּ֞ה הִרְחִ֧יב יְהֹוָ֛ה לָ֖נוּ וּפָרִ֥ינוּ בָאָֽרֶץ׃ He moved from there and dug yet another well, and they did not quarrel over it; so he called it Rehoboth, saying, "Now at last GOD has granted us ample space to increase in the land."

— Bereishit 26:22

Isaac is the quietest of the patriarchs. Abraham left everything and walked into the unknown. Jacob wrestled an angel and limped away with a new name. Isaac dug wells. He re-dug wells. He gave them old names and waited for room.

There is something in that patience worth sitting with.

Yesterday, thousands of Ethiopian Jews gathered at the Sherover Promenade in Jerusalem for Sigd, the annual holiday marking the renewal of the covenant between God and the Jewish people. Beta Israel, the Ethiopian Jewish community, preserved their Judaism in near-total isolation for over two thousand years — no contact with the wider Jewish world, their own traditions, their own sacred texts, their own priestly class called kessim. They kept the faith alive without knowing anyone else was keeping it with them. They dug the same wells.

This year, among the thousands on the promenade, Avera Mengistu was there. Mengistu, an Ethiopian Israeli, was held by Hamas in Gaza for ten years and five months before being freed in February. Thursday was his first Sigd as a free man.

He received a blessing from the kessim while Jerusalem spread out below.

There are flashier stories in Torah than Isaac's wells. The binding of Isaac is dramatic. The stolen blessing is operatic. The wells are just a man doing the same work his father did, in the same place, with the same names, against the same opposition. He digs. Someone fills it in. He digs again.

I sat in that living room in Milton on Monday night and listened to a man read from the book he wrote to his children (and gives to all of us) — the distilled version of everything he wanted them to carry forward if he didn't make it back. The audience was quiet. The kind of quiet that means people are actually listening.

An ethical will is a well. You dig it and name it and hope the name survives. Isaac's wells survived. The kessim's prayers survived. The man in the living room survived, too, and his children got to read the letter in his presence instead of his absence.

Rehoboth. Ample space. The well nobody contested. Isaac dug it last, after the contention and the harassment, and what he found there was room.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Awe!

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 20 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on November 20, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Why astronauts weep in space -- and how to find that same wonder without leaving Earth

In 1965, astronaut Ed White stepped out of his Gemini 4 capsule for America's first spacewalk. When ordered to return, he resisted: "I'm not coming in… this is fun!" Minutes later, climbing back inside, unforgettably he said: "It's the saddest moment of my life."

Years later, Alan Shepard stood on the lunar surface and, looking back at Earth, wept -- experiencing what scientists now call the "overview effect," a cognitive shift that comes from seeing our planet from space. White was overwhelmed by the vastness of the cosmos; Shepard by the fragility and beauty of home.

Most of us will never float in space or walk on the moon. But awe isn't reserved for astronauts. It lives within every soul, waiting to be awakened in everyday wonders.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. What Awe Is -- The Soul's Response to Transcendence

Awe is that unmistakable "wow" -- whether standing at the Grand Canyon, hearing a symphony swell, or beholding a baby's perfect tiny foot. It's humbling and exhilarating at once: we feel small yet expanded, connected to something greater than ourselves.

In awe, the soul whispers: this matters.

Awe arises when we encounter something vast, beautiful or morally profound -- something that stops us in our tracks, transcending our ordinary understanding.

2. What Blocks Us From Awe -- Taking the Amazing for Granted

Children live in constant fascination, but somewhere along the way, most of us grow numb to what surrounds us. Why? Because yesterday's wonder becomes today's wallpaper -- we get used to the miraculous and call it mundane.

We treat people as objects, experiences as interruptions, and life itself as a checklist.

The extraordinary becomes invisible through repetition: the sunrise, a leaf's design, the birth of a child. We mistake life as familiarity, when all of existence is extraordinary.

3. Cultivating Awe -- The Fascination Formula

We don't have to wait for awe to find us; we can cultivate it deliberately. Start by noticing the amazement already before you: the Fibonacci spirals in a sunflower, the quiet dignity of a store clerk, a stormy sky's tumultuous roar.

When awe strikes -- the resilience of a friend, music that moves you -- name the moment or write it down. A soul attuned to fascination sees what others overlook.

Awe is a gateway to the transcendent; the soul expands when reminded of infinite space.

📜 2 Quotes

"When I behold Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars that You have set in place."

— Psalms 8:4

"Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe … the starry heavens above and the moral law within."

— Immanuel Kant

❓ 1 Question

What might you be taking for granted today that once filled you with awe and wonder?

In 1997, Bill Gates spoke to 1,500 people in Seattle at a science convention. Back then, Fortune Magazine reported Gates had a personal wealth of $35 billion. After his speech, Dr. John Cantwell Kiley, a medical doctor with a Ph.D. in philosophy, stood up and asked, "Mr. Gates, if you were blind, would you trade all of your billions to have your sight restored?" Without hesitation, Gates replied, "I'd trade all my money for my sight."

Awe-inspiring wonders surround us every day -- but we've grown used to them, and they fade into invisibility. Consider practicing to see the familiar as if for the first time.

Until next time,

May your soul stay open to wonder, and may awe meet you in unexpected places.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. When was the last time you felt genuine awe -- and what was it about that moment that sparked it? I'd love to hear your experience.

P.P.S. Enjoy this week's message? Forward it to a friend. Looking for an inspiring, thought-provoking newsletter? Check out "The Ethics Ninja" by Yonason Goldson at yonasongoldson.substack.com -- highly recommended.

What if we treated Judaism like our camp crush?

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 14 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 14, 2025.

📚 Last chance to sign up forvirtual book club! We meet on Sunday to discuss As a Jew by Sarah Hurwitz!

It’s cuffing season! 🍂

Last week, a friend invited me to see the latest Jewish romcom, 31 Candles. I’ll admit I was hesitant at first.

While I appreciate a romcom (or for Ted Lasso fans, rom-communism), I’m often skeptical of movies or shows that feature a watered-down version of Judaism for some cheap laughs (i.e., bagel humor), especially when non-Jews watch and think that’s the only version of Judaism there is.

That’s why I haven’t seen an episode of Nobody Wants This, and judging by what the community has said about it, it sounds like I’m not missing much. I try to keep an open mind, though, so I’m sharing a post by a reform rabbi who appreciated its authentic representation of different forms of Judaism, something I can get down with!

Anyway, I told my friend I would only write about 31 Candles if I liked it, and well, here we are. I’m writing about a movie for Jewish Book Month.

A 30-year-old Jewish film director who makes Christmas movies runs into his old camp crush, who happens to be a b’nei mitzvah tutor. Naturally, he decides to study for the bar mitzvah he never had with Eva Shapiro as his tutor. His bar mitzvah project? To fall in love before he turns 31.

Jonah Feingold, who directed, wrote, and edited the film also stars as the main lead, Leo. The main character perfectly encapsulates what it’s like to feel lost in your early 30s (trust me, I would know): wanting love but not knowing if you’re capable of having it, searching for identity and belonging, and getting in your own damn way.

This indie film’s got it all: hook ups, dating, Shabbat, making fun of podcasters, a discussion about G-d, a bris, Torah, and antisemitism. Plus, it’s a refreshing twist: a romcom from a guy’s perspective.

Much like the 2024 indie film, Between the Temples (which I briefly wrote about here), 31 Candles is about trying to find yourself and uses Jewish identity as an anchor, not just to carry the plot along.

When Leo hosts his first Shabbat dinner, he proudly yet clumsily recites the blessings over the candles, and awkwardly claps when he’s done. Ever so Jewishly, he then ponders the idea of free will versus G-d, which leads to a discussion about the Holocaust and atheism.

But, hey, like the female lead says, “Maybe G-d isn’t just black and white,” while comedically holding up a black and white cookie.

Watch on YouTube

Throughout most of the film, Leo acts like a lovesick thirteen-year-old: anxiously texting Eva Shapiro (he calls her by her full name to show how much he idolizes her, which we know is a big no-no in Judaism!), spending as much time with her as possible, and trying to impress her.

Which got me thinking… what if we approached Judaism like that? Hear me out.

When Leo is getting ready to host Eva Shapiro and his friends for Shabbat dinner, he’s frantically cleaning and removing the stickers off his new wine glasses (which he tells his guests belonged to his great-grandmother).

Over a montage of cleaning, he tells the viewer about the power of having a crush and how much one does to impress her, including buying silverware. “When we have a crush, we can create world peace,” he says naively.

What if we approached Jewish identity like this? Having a crush on our identity or on our own concept of G-d?

When you get ready for a date, you meticulously prepare, trying to look and feel your best. As do we when preparing for Shabbat or any other holiday!

We rush in the preparation, because we don’t want to be late and make a bad impression. Traditionally, we rush in cooking and cleaning because time stops for no one and Shabbat comes whether you’re ready or not.

When we’re sitting across the table from our date during dinner or drinks, we hang on to their every word and we’re conscious of our own. In Judaism, there’s a word for that kind of presence: kavanah, or intention. It means giving something your full attention, like saying prayer with feeling, not just because you’re “supposed to.” It means being present and doing something for the right reasons, something Leo struggles with. And in Judaism we pay attention to our own speech as well, to make sure we don’t participate in lashon hara, or “evil speech” that could hurt someone’s reputation.

I was thinking about this after I left the movie theater and went to a Shabbat service. I I was trying out a new synagogue that night. Even though I didn’t love the service, I still paid attention and gave it respect, as if this new community was suddenly my camp crush reappearing in my adult life, which is ironic because my camp crush wasn’t Jewish.

Because how can you know if something or someone is right for you if you’re not paying close attention?

Next time you need a spiritual pick-me-up, treat something as though you’re dating Eva Shapiro, or whoever your camp crush was. Thinking of going to a service? Treat it as though Jake Weinstein, who you smooched by the lake at 14, will be there. Trying to study some parsha? Give the text the same amount of focus you would as if you were AIM chatting with Sarah Goldfeld, who you wrote a song for in the camp talent show.

And now, a word from our director/writer/Leo on his Jewish identity:

“I had grown up Jew/ish, which is a line that the character says in the film. And then he says he watched Rugrats Passover, but ultimately it’s true. Even though my grandparents were the founding members of a temple called Stephen S. Wise in Los Angeles, and my sister had had her bat mitzvah, so I had always felt a bit out of the loop and left behind. Ultimately, I wanted to make a film that honored my Jewish heritage and my grandmother after having just directed a Christmas romantic comedy for Amazon Prime. I was a bit nervous and scared to explore my Jewish identity, so I did it the best way I knew how, which was ultimately via the safety net of making a film. Which ironically ends up becoming quite a vulnerable experience in a way that no one can possibly imagine until you’re doing it. But I couldn’t be more happy about the experience and connected to my Jewish roots as well as my artistic roots through the film.” -Jonah Feingold

31 Candles is a heartwarming portrayal of what it means to “feel” Jewish. It also has a great Jewish cast featuring Jackie Sandler and Judy Gold! And if my review didn’t entice you enough to watch it, the hilarious Judy Gold should.

“What do you call a cheap circumcision? A rip off!”

Good Shabbos. Treating every Drop like a date,

💦 If you like camp, check out this Drop:

I Will Go

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 14 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Thursday afternoon I was at the grocery store picking up a few things for Shabbat. The woman in front of me in line was buying challah ingredients: flour, eggs, honey, yeast. Not a mix. The ingredients. She had a handwritten recipe card in her hand, the kind with old stains on it and one corner curling up.

She said she hadn't baked challah in years. The recipe was her grandmother's, from a kitchen in Cleveland that doesn't exist anymore. The grandmother died a long time ago. But this woman's daughter — four years old — had seen someone braiding challah at a friend's house and came home asking to learn. So she dug the card out of a drawer.

A recipe card that sat in a drawer for years. A four-year-old who wanted to learn something she didn't know was hers. That is the whole story.

The parsha this Shabbat is Chayei Sarah — "The Life of Sarah." It is, by any measure, a strange name for what it contains. The very first thing that happens is that Sarah dies.

וַיִּהְיוּ֙ חַיֵּ֣י שָׂרָ֔ה מֵאָ֥ה שָׁנָ֛ה וְעֶשְׂרִ֥ים שָׁנָ֖ה וְשֶׁ֣בַע שָׁנִ֑ים שְׁנֵ֖י חַיֵּ֥י שָׂרָֽה׃ Sarah's lifetime—the span of Sarah's life—came to one hundred and twenty-seven years.

— Bereishit 23:1

She dies in Hebron, and Abraham mourns her, and then the text does something remarkable: it keeps going. Not into grief. Into action. Abraham negotiates the purchase of a burial cave at Machpelah. The first Jewish real estate transaction in the Torah. The first permanent claim to the land.

And then, before the grief has even settled, Abraham sends his servant Eliezer on the most important errand in Genesis: find a wife for Isaac. The servant arrives at a well outside the city and prays for a sign:

וְהָיָ֣ה הַֽנַּעֲרָ֗ אֲשֶׁ֨ר אֹמַ֤ר אֵלֶ֙יהָ֙ הַטִּי־נָ֤א כַדֵּךְ֙ וְאֶשְׁתֶּ֔ה וְאָמְרָ֣ה שְׁתֵ֔ה וְגַם־גְּמַלֶּ֖יךָ אַשְׁקֶ֑ה אֹתָ֤הּ הֹכַ֙חְתָּ֙ לְעַבְדְּךָ֣ לְיִצְחָ֔ק וּבָ֣הּ אֵדַ֔ע כִּי־עָשִׂ֥יתָ חֶ֖סֶד עִם־אֲדֹנִֽי׃ let the maiden to whom I say, 'Please, lower your jar that I may drink,' and who replies, 'Drink, and I will also water your camels'—let her be the one whom You have decreed for Your servant Isaac.

— Bereishit 24:14

Rebecca appears. She offers water. She waters the camels. Eliezer brings gifts. Her family asks for a delay. Eliezer says no. So they call Rebecca and ask her directly. One verse. One word.

וַיִּקְרְא֤וּ לְרִבְקָה֙ וַיֹּאמְר֣וּ אֵלֶ֔יהָ הֲתֵלְכִ֖י עִם־הָאִ֣ישׁ הַזֶּ֑ה וַתֹּ֖אמֶר אֵלֵֽךְ׃ They called Rebekah and said to her, "Will you go with this man?" And she said, "I will."

— Bereishit 24:58

Elech. I will go. She is leaving her family, her city, her country, everything she has ever known — to marry a man she has never met, in a land she has never seen, to join a family whose matriarch just died. And her answer is one word. No conditions. No negotiation.

I think about that word more than I probably should. I am a convert. I chose this. There was a moment, not unlike Rebecca's, where the question was put plainly: will you go with this? And the answer was the same one-word answer, though mine was less elegant and involved a lot more paperwork.

What strikes me about Rebecca is not her courage, exactly. It is her clarity. The text doesn't say she deliberated or asked for a sign. She said elech and got on a camel.

The parsha closes with Isaac bringing Rebecca into his mother Sarah's tent.

וַיְבִאֶ֣הָ יִצְחָ֗ק הָאֹ֙הֱלָה֙ שָׂרָ֣ה אִמּ֔וֹ וַיִּקַּ֧ח אֶת־רִבְקָ֛ה וַתְּהִי־ל֥וֹ לְאִשָּׁ֖ה וַיֶּאֱהָבֶ֑הָ וַיִּנָּחֵ֥ם יִצְחָ֖ק אַחֲרֵ֥י אִמּֽוֹ׃ Isaac then brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he took Rebekah as his wife. Isaac loved her, and thus found comfort after his mother's death.

— Bereishit 24:67

Rashi says that when Rebecca entered Sarah's tent, three miracles returned: the candles burned from Shabbat to Shabbat, the challah dough was blessed, and the cloud of the Divine Presence rested over the tent again. All three had ceased when Sarah died. Rebecca walked in and the light came back.

That is why the parsha is called "The Life of Sarah." Not because Sarah is alive in it — she dies in the first two verses. Because everything that follows is her life continuing. The land Abraham purchases is for her. The wife Eliezer finds is her successor. A life measured not by its duration but by what it set in motion.

This past Tuesday, the Genesis Prize Foundation named Gal Gadot as its laureate. Gadot, who organized private screenings of October 7 footage for Hollywood leaders when most of the industry stayed silent, announced she would direct the entire $1 million prize to Israeli organizations working to heal the physical and psychological wounds the war inflicted. Elech, in her own idiom.

A woman in Atlanta digs a recipe card out of a drawer because her four-year-old asked to learn to braid challah. The handwriting on the card is her grandmother's. The dough hadn't been made in years. Now it will be again, because a child reached for something she didn't know was waiting for her.

The light comes back because someone walks in and lights it.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

A Good Heart: The Jewel Within

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 13 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on November 13, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Our humanity and spirituality converge in a good heart

Famed actor and comedian Alan Alda met the love of his life over a ruined rum cake. In 1956 at a mutual friend's dinner party, Alda met Arlene Weiss. When a rum cake slipped from the hostess's hands and landed on the kitchen floor, they were the only two guests who didn't hesitate to eat it with spoons -- not out of hunger, but out of kindness, unwilling to see her feel embarrassed. The good-hearted couple married a year later, and this past year celebrated their 68th wedding anniversary.

What made them both reach for those spoons? A good heart -- and classic wisdom teaches that this quality is the source of a vibrant spiritual life. Today we'll explore the power of a good heart, navigate the 'two hearts within,' and discover how life's experiences soften and open us.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. The Power of a Good Heart

More than kindness, a good heart is a spiritual superpower. Just as the physical heart pumps life-giving blood to every organ of the body, a good heart circulates goodness through every part of our being.

When we have a good heart, we potentially possess all other virtues -- they simply await actualization.

Classic wisdom illuminates that this is the greatest quality we can cultivate, for it becomes the wellspring from which all other spiritual strengths naturally flow.

2. The Two Hearts Within

Each of us lives with two hearts -- one that uplifts, one that distracts. Within us exists a quiet tug-of-war; one heart seeks meaning, truth and what endures; the other seeks comfort, ease and the passing moment.

Which heart will we follow -- the one of soul or the one of self?

The good heart is drawn to love and reaching our potential; that which nourishes our soul. To maintain focus we must gently remind ourselves: I want to be good. That simple intention, held in awareness, begins to transform our choices and illuminate our path.

3. Softening the Heart

Classic sources teaches that the heart is like an unplowed field -- naturally hard and resistant, unable to receive nourishment until the soil is softened through cultivation. Our hearts, too, must be opened, and this happens through both joy and sorrow.

Joy waters the heart through gratitude; difficulties open it through empathy.

The invitation is to let both do their softening work. When we let life's experiences touch us deeply and open our hearts to others, we nurture our own soul. That's where vibrant spirituality comes alive.

📜 2 Quotes

"Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life"

— Proverbs 4:23

"Good heart is the best religion; its light is the most powerful light"

— Mehment Murat ildan -- Turkish playwright, novelist

❓ 1 Question

What's one challenge you face in choosing truth and meaning over ease and comfort?

A universal spiritual quest involves searching for sincerity and depth of connection -- not just with others, but with our own soul's essence. The good news? That heart of gold isn't buried somewhere far away. It's the jewel within you, waiting to be polished by awareness, softened through experience, and awakened by intention.

Until next time,

May you discover and nurture your heart of gold.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. When have you felt your good heart guiding you -- and what helped you listen? If it stirred something within you, I'd love to hear what surfaced.

P.P.S. A good heart shares what nourishes the soul. If these weekly reflections have touched you, I'd be honored if you'd share them with someone seeking deeper meaning. When friends subscribe through your referral, you'll receive:

*1 friend —> 'Seven Blessings for the Journey'

*3 friends —> 'Spiritual Growth Journal'

*5 friends —> Personal Q & A with me

What does Judaism say about birthdays?

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 07 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 7, 2025.

📚 Join virtual book club next week on 11/16 to discuss As a Jew by Sarah Hurwitz!

When writing a Jewish blog, I often have to remind myself that I don’t have to write about every single Jewish thing that happens in the news. I will say, though, that this week has been emotionally difficult, and I only feel the divide among my fellow Jews widening.

I also reeeally don’t like being gaslit since history has shown us what happens to Jewish safety when anti-Zionist ideology comes to power. Oh yeah, and I saw a Swastika on my way to work again.

In an effort to find some semblance of control, I want to focus on something positive, and that is the joyous occasion of a birthday.

We’re midway through the month of Cheshvan. The name of this month often has a “mar” in front of it for “bitter,” because there are no holidays and it’s when our matriarch, Rachel, died.

But this month isn’t all that bitter, because next week marks the birthdays of two very special people in my life! Give it up for my baby niece, and The Primary Steakholder in My Heart, Phil (another excellent nickname suggestion from ChatGPT but I switched up the spelling since he loves steak)! 🥳👏

They have a lot in common: They both enjoy music, swimming, and mangoes. And I love them both very much!

I’ll be honest. I didn’t have a Drop topic for this week until yesterday morning, when Phil suggested I write about how Judaism views birthdays. I wasn’t excited by the idea, so I was just going to write a continuation of my (almost) annual Jewish Gratitude List (check out part I and part II). But just like Phil’s and my niece’s height, I was coming up short (another thing they have in common!).

So I did some Jewish birthday research and was surprised by what I found. Thanks for the great idea, P. If you also have a bday in Cheshvan, this one’s for you!

Trivia time: Birthdays are only mentioned once in the Torah. Do you know whose? I’ll reveal the answer below this gif:

It’s Pharaoh’s!

“And it came to pass on the third day, Pharaoh’s birthday, that he made a feast for all his servants; and he lifted up the head of the chief butler and the head of the chief baker among his servants.” (Genesis 40:20)

I was quite surprised to learn this. What does it mean that the only birthday mentioned in the Torah is that of our oppressor? Someone seen as a symbol of self-worship, ego, and power? Keep this question in mind throughout this Drop, please. All will be revealed, I promise.

Pirkei Avot, Ethics of the Fathers, breaks birthdays down for different stages throughout one’s life:

“The age of five for the study of the Bible; then ten for the study of the Mishnah; 13 for the commandments; 15 for the study of Talmud; 18 for marriage; 20 for earning a living; 30 for power; 40 for understanding; 50 for giving advice; 60 for old age, 70 for grey hairs; 80 for special strength, 90 for bowed back; 100–it is as if he had died and passed away.” (Pirkei Avot 5:21)

A few comments: I know 13 is B’nei Mitzvah and all that, but if Judaism is so into symbolism, why not the age of 10 for the commandments, hmm?

Good to know 50 is the appropriate age for giving advice, so that the next time someone gives me unsolicited advice I’ll say sorry you’re in no position to do so; you’re only 48.

I don’t want to live in a world where 18 means marriage, but I DO want to live in a world in which 70 is when you get gray hairs!

In all seriousness, 80 is definitely a kind of special strength. I’ve heard from people in their 80s who have survived all kinds of hardships, from the Holocaust to overcoming personal losses, and still have the energy to keep going and tell their story. Like the time we almost killed my dad on his 80th birthday by forcing him to walk up steep Italian seaside cliffs under the blazing August sun. I’ve also met some of the strongest people on my volunteer trip in Israel this summer and they were in their 80s!

As for being in your 90s, while a bowed back is a common physical trait at this age, I found something a bit more uplifting in this d’var. The Hebrew in Pirkei Avot’s description is lashuach (“bent over”), which can also mean beaten down or disheartened, like ma tishtoch’chi from L’cha Dodi: “Why are you downcast?”

However, if you read it as lasuach (with a sin), it means “to converse.” 90 is not a time of decline but of storytelling and reflection, which tracks because my dad tells a lot of stories. Lasuach appears in the Torah when Isaac goes out lasuach basadeh (“to converse in the field”) before meeting Rebecca. The rabbis interpret this as prayer, teaching that ein sicha ela tefillah, that conversation itself can be prayer. (See, Dad, I told you that you pray!)

My last comment/question on this is: Whatever happened to living to 120? Does Pirkei Avot not respect Moses?

My dad and me on the Amalfi Coast, 2009. He’s skeptical because he knows we almost killed him on his birthday.

Just because birthdays aren’t explicitly mentioned in the Torah, doesn’t mean you can’t celebrate them! In typical rabbi fashion, rabbis encourage us to mark our special day by studying, reflecting, and giving tzedakah. Specifically, having an aliyah (being called to the Torah), reading psalms (including the psalm number associated with their new age), thanking G-d for giving us another year of life, and reflecting on the past year by asking ourselves: What have we accomplished? How have we helped others? How have we made the world a better place?

Which brings me back to my first question about why Pharaoh’s birthday is the only birthday mentioned in the Torah and what that means for Jews. Perhaps the rabbis have given us the answer. A birthday is meant to be a day of reflection and making the world a better place, and that the Torah shows us how NOT to treat a birthday, by making it all about us and control and power. Though presents and a massage are still fine, I say.

Devoting a single day to making the world a better place is going to be tough for my niece and Phil, since they already make the world better every single day of the year! Shoutout to his sisters who also share this special day with him, Ariella and Sharona.

Shabbat Shalom and Yom Huledet Sameach,

💦 If you like birthdays, check out these Drops:

She Laughed

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 07 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

A woman visiting my shul in Atlanta told me last Shabbat that she'd become a grandmother for the first time. She is not young. She had stopped bringing it up.

When she said the words her face did something I recognized — a kind of startled delight, as if she still couldn't believe the sentence coming out of her own mouth. She said it twice, to two different people, and both times she laughed before she finished the sentence.

This week's parsha is Vayera — "And He Appeared" — one of the most packed portions in the Torah. God visits Abraham as he recovers from his circumcision. Three strangers arrive in the desert heat. Sodom burns. Lot's wife turns to salt. Hagar and Ishmael are sent into the wilderness. And at the end, the Akeida — the binding of Isaac on Mount Moriah (the scene that has haunted Jewish theology for three thousand years).

There is enough weight in Vayera for a semester of graduate school. But I want to stay with one moment near the beginning — the moment Sarah laughs.

The three visitors tell Abraham that his wife will bear a son within the year. Sarah, listening from behind the tent flap, is ninety years old. She has wanted a child her entire life. She has waited and prayed and made arrangements and given up. And when she hears the promise, she does the most human thing imaginable:

וַתִּצְחַ֥ק שָׂרָ֖ה בְּקִרְבָּ֣הּ לֵאמֹ֑ר אַחֲרֵ֤י בְלֹתִי֙ הָֽיְתָה־לִּ֣י עֶדְנָ֔ה וַֽאדֹנִ֖י זָקֵֽן׃ And Sarah laughed to herself, saying, "Now that I've lost the ability, am I to have enjoyment—with my husband so old?"

— Bereishit 18:12

She laughed. Not with joy — with disbelief. The sharp, quiet amusement of someone who has stopped expecting anything. The Hebrew is vatitzchak, and it is a private laugh, b'kirbah, inside herself. She didn't say it out loud. She didn't perform it. She heard the impossible and her body responded before her faith could catch up.

God notices. And asks Abraham a question:

הֲיִפָּלֵ֥א מֵיְהֹוָ֖ה דָּבָ֑ר לַמּוֹעֵ֞ד אָשׁ֥וּב אֵלֶ֛יךָ כָּעֵ֥ת חַיָּ֖ה וּלְשָׂרָ֥ה בֵֽן׃ Is anything too wondrous for GOD? I will return to you at the same season next year, and Sarah shall have a son."

— Bereishit 18:14

Hayipale — is anything too wondrous? The root pele means wonder, marvel, something that breaks the frame of what you thought was possible. God does not scold Sarah for laughing. God asks a question and makes a promise. The laugh stands. The promise stands. Both are true at the same time.

Three chapters later, the promise lands. Isaac is born. And Sarah laughs again — but the laughter has changed completely:

וַתֹּ֣אמֶר שָׂרָ֔ה צְחֹ֕ק עָ֥שָׂה לִ֖י אֱלֹהִ֑ים כׇּל־הַשֹּׁמֵ֖עַ יִֽצְחַק־לִֽי׃ Sarah said, "God has brought me laughter; everyone who hears will laugh with me."

— Bereishit 21:6

Tzchok asah li Elohim. God has made laughter for me. The same root — tz-ch-k — that described her bitter, private laugh in chapter eighteen now names the joy everyone will share. And it becomes the child's name. Yitzchak. Isaac. He will laugh.

The boy is named for the feeling his mother had when the impossible turned real.

There is a kind of joy that only arrives after you've given up on it. It is not happiness you expected or earned. It is the laughter that escapes when the thing you stopped believing in walks through the door anyway.

Sarah knew this. Her laughter didn't start with faith. It started with exhaustion and age and a reasonable assessment that life had already given its answer. The wonder is that the laughter didn't stay there.

In Israel this month, organizers of the International Music Showcase Festival were bracing for the worst. The festival brings global music professionals to Jerusalem and Tel Aviv each November to hear Israeli artists — and with a cultural boycott gaining steam, the artistic director had told the Times of Israel she was readying herself for it not happening at all.

This year when they opened registration, they had to start turning delegates away. Fifty professionals from five continents — festival directors, producers, talent scouts from the UAE to South Korea to the UK — said yes. The woman who expected silence got a full room.

I don't want to stretch the parallel too far. A music festival is not a divine promise. But there is something in the shape of it — the readiness for disappointment, the bracing, and then the thing you stopped expecting shows up and fills the room and you don't quite know what to do with your face.

Sarah's first laugh was private, defensive, and human. Her second laugh was public, overflowing, shared. The Torah gives both of them space. It does not pretend the disbelief didn't happen. It does not erase the years of waiting or the bitterness of a promise that seemed to take too long. It holds the whole arc. The doubt and the delivery. The private laugh and the public one. And names a child after the distance between them.

Vayera is a parsha full of fire and terror and impossible tests. It ends on a mountaintop where a father almost loses everything. But it turns on something smaller: a woman behind a tent flap who heard an absurd promise, laughed because she had no reason left to believe it, and was answered anyway.

The boy she held in her arms carried her laughter in his name for the rest of his life.

The woman at shul was still laughing on her way out.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Life Is Short — It Goes Fast

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 06 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on November 6, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

We've always been intrigued by the last words of others. George Appel, facing execution in 1928, quipped: 'Well, gentlemen, you are about to see a baked Appel.' Drummer Buddy Rich, being prepped for surgery, was asked if there was anything he couldn't take. His response? 'Yeah, country music.' Even in their final moments, these individuals found humor. But whether our last words are profound or playful, we all eventually speak them. Our topic this week, Life is Short -- Don't Wait, focuses on the words we should speak and the actions we should take while we're still blessed with the here and now.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Slow Down to Truly Live: Letting Go of the Unimportant

Life is too short to be busy. In our frantic rush from one task to the next, we mistake motion for meaning, confusing a full calendar with a full soul.

Many realize at life's end that happiness was a choice they could have made all along. True spiritual living asks us to eliminate the noise that crowds our days -- not to do more, but to make space for what transforms us.

Slowing down takes courage: the courage to release what doesn't serve our spirit so we can prioritize what does.

2. Recognize Urgency: The Illusion of Infinite Time

We deceive ourselves into believing time is endless. The result: that conversation, that renewed connection, that human touch -- all put off until mañana.

But our souls know the truth: We must stop waiting for the perfect moment and act today on what matters. Classic wisdom teaches that great people "come with their days," meaning they make every day count.

The spiritual path isn't about 'someday.' It's about recognizing that today is the day we've been given to live fully.

3. Make Time for Who Matters Most

One of our deepest regrets as we age is losing touch with friends, letting golden relationships slip away while caught up in our own busy lives.

In the end, only love deserves to be remembered. Joe DiMaggio's devotion to Marilyn Monroe continued for twenty years after her death. Three times a week, he sent roses to her grave.

His final words were, "I finally get to see Marilyn." This is the transformation our souls seek: a well-lived life measured by love.

📜 2 Quotes

"Go to the ant, you lazy one; see its ways and grow wise."

— Proverbs 6:6

"There's still time to change the road you're on."

— Led Zeppelin, "Stairway to Heaven"

❓ 1 Question

Who in your life would be delighted to hear from you?

A gas station attendant once apologized to a clergyman for the long holiday weekend wait. "It seems as if everyone waits until the last minute to get ready for a long trip." The clergyman smiled. "I know what you mean -- it's the same in my business."

Let's not wait until the last minute to do the things that truly matter. Life is short -- and it goes fast.

Until next time,

May you live each moment with presence, and may life and love walk beside you always.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. When was a time you acted "before it was too late" and felt grateful you did? I'd love to hear your story. Please reply and share it with me.

P.P.S. Life is short -- including the time to share what matters. If these reflections touched you, don't wait. Pass these sparks along to someone who also might be inspired.

Anne Frank Lookalike Competition!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 31, 2025.

Happy Friday.

Here’s a story for you, a lesson from that story, and then a more meaningful story related to the first story. Got it?

Last Shabbat was sort of an unusual Shabbat. Friday night was great—I brought my non-Jewish friends to synagogue (hopefully a Drop on that soon!), but since my favorite Shabbat partner was out of town, I found myself walking around Gramercy early Saturday afternoon.

I had just left a tour of the National Arts Club with New York Adventure Club, a local company I help out with and a great way to explore hidden gems around the city, when I saw this flyer on a street light:

Never trust anything in Comic Sans

There have been a few of these lookalike competitions around town, from Timothée Chalamet to Pedro Pascal, each with their own similarly designed flyer of black and white and Comic Sans.

That’s why I almost overlooked this one, until the photo on the flyer stopped me in my tracks. An Anne Frank lookalike contest? Did Anne Frank belong in the same comedic or heartthrobic (I just made up that word) bucket as Timothée and Pedro? Not that I think Timothée is a heartthrob, but still. I was exasperated.

Storming off (admittedly I was too stunned to rip the flyer down), I pulled up Instagram to see if anyone else was posting about this. Even though I’ve been keeping my phone mostly off on Shabbat (a practice that’s been spiritually fulfilling!), I had it on that day to help check people in for the tour.

Not finding any news about this competition, I took my anger to my feed and made the following post:

As you can see from my caption, I felt the need to do something. While I understood I probably wouldn’t change minds, I think representation is important, no matter how small. Showing a crowd that people are offended by this and there’s a way to educate matters.

I quickly became obsessed by this competition and what to do about it, hunched over my phone while pacing the streets, trying to contact Jewish organizations and influencers, getting my friends’ opinions on what to do, and rallying the troops to oppose this.

That was when I realized I never scanned the QR code on the flyer. So disgusted by the idea of the contest, I stormed off and took to social media before pausing and finding out more information.

I found a website where you can scan a QR code from a photo (thanks, technology!) and it brought me to the page for a new musical called Slam Frank.

I had heard of this musical before. It’s a satirical show about her life based on a viral Twitter thread in 2022 that accused her of having white privilege. The made-up theater troupe in the show pokes fun at progressives by reimagining Anne as a pansexual Latina named Anita Franco.

Okay. Fine. The flyer was probably a marketing stunt for the show (with improper grammar, I may add). I updated my Instagram post to reflect my latest discovery. But as someone who’s in marketing, I thought the address should send people to the theater. (I later DM’d the musical about this. They never responded.)

Which led me to wonder: was there ever a real contest? I never showed up to the park. I decided this flyer was taking up enough of my precious Shabbat energy.

I later learned that the contest was probably fake, and the flyer was likely created by a Jew to mock the woke. This person may have been related to the theater or not.

My heart sank all over again, not just because I found this “joke” to be unhumorous, but for how I reacted to it. How easily I let a piece of paper break my social media boundary on Shabbat, and in doing so, allowing the idea of Jew mockery to win for a moment.

And worst of all, the stunt got me writing about the musical on this Substack, which means their marketing worked. Fool me once!

So I guess the lesson here is when things upset you, take a beat, find out as much information as you can, and remember to breathe. Remember your values. Even though my phone was on, I didn’t have to take to social media, or contact my fellow Jews who I knew would be equally upset about this. I don’t regret posting the flyer though, since the post sparked some interesting conversation (and I hope it will in the comments here as well!.

From the WWII Museum in New Orleans. There’s only one Anne Frank! Also, I feel weird smiling in this photo but there you have it.

I refuse to let Jew mockery or bad humor take over this week’s Drop! So I’m sharing a story that brings me hope.

It’s a story my colleague told me a couple of years ago, explaining her reason for converting to Judaism. She grew up in Ecuador in a family that wasn’t Jewish. I’ve been wanting to share her story for a while now, and figured this was the perfect week to do so. I’ll let her share the rest!

“When I was a child, I often got in trouble at school for being too talkative. To keep me out of trouble, my mother handed me books and told me to read instead of chatting with friends. One of those books was The Diary of Anne Frank.

Anne’s story made me wonder about Judaism, about why anyone would persecute others for their faith, or risk everything to protect them, and about why identity and belief could be worth enduring, hiding, or even dying for. Growing up in a city of over two million people with fewer than 500 Jews, my first encounter with Judaism came through Anne’s voice. I was heartbroken by her fate but deeply moved by her resilience and her ability to find light in the darkness.

I did not know it then, but that book began the journey that would lead me to become a Jew by choice years later. I still thank Anne for teaching me how to stay proud in the face of adversity, to find joy in small moments, and to keep believing in the goodness of people and the hope of a better future.”

Instead of Anne’s legacy being stripped down to her looks, it’s her words that continue to reach across cultures, generations, and languages. They inspire new beginnings and new connections to Jewish life, even in the unlikeliest places.

So maybe that’s the lesson. Hatred or mockery will always find ways to reach us. Sometimes it can get under our skin. But so can light. And I want to keep choosing and reaching for that light.

Have a spooky Shabbat 🎃,

P.S. Shabbat Drop Book Club got moved to 11/16 so you have more time to read As a Jew by Sarah Hurwitz! Don’t miss our virtual hang!

This book is for anyone who cares about how the Jewish story get framed and misrepresented, and how to take back and own our collective story.

The Name You Arrive With

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Sunday, a man named Evyatar David came home to Kfar Saba. He had been held in Gaza for just over two years. When the convoy turned onto his street, a procession of orange emergency vehicles flanked the car — United Hatzalah, Israel's volunteer first-responder corps.

His father, Avishai, is one of them. A paramedic. For the entire duration of his son's captivity, Avishai David put on the orange vest and went out to save other people's sons. He answered calls. He treated injuries. He showed up. And when the call finally came for his own family, his colleagues showed up for him — the same orange, the same urgency, pointed toward home.

I keep thinking about the father. Two years of going out while waiting for someone to come back.

The parsha this Shabbat is Lech-Lecha — one of the most loaded two-word phrases in the Torah. God speaks to Avram in chapter 12, verse 1, and the whole story turns:

וַיֹּ֤אמֶר יְהֹוָה֙ אֶל־אַבְרָ֔ם לֶךְ־לְךָ֛ מֵאַרְצְךָ֥ וּמִמּֽוֹלַדְתְּךָ֖ וּמִבֵּ֣ית אָבִ֑יךָ אֶל־הָאָ֖רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֥ר אַרְאֶֽךָּ׃ GOD said to Abram, "Go forth from your native land and from your father's house to the land that I will show you.

— Bereishit 12:1

Go forth. Leave your country, your birthplace, your father's house. Go toward a place I haven't named yet. I'll show you when you get there.

There is no map. There is no itinerary. There isn't even a destination, just a direction — away from what you know, toward what God will reveal. The rabbis spend a lot of ink on lech lecha, which literally translates as "go to yourself" or "go for yourself." The doubling matters. This is not just movement. It is a going-toward that is also a becoming.

And then come the promises. God doesn't send Avram into emptiness. The very next verse:

וְאֶֽעֶשְׂךָ֙ לְג֣וֹי גָּד֔וֹל וַאֲבָ֣רֶכְךָ֔ וַאֲגַדְּלָ֖ה שְׁמֶ֑ךָ וֶהְיֵ֖ה בְּרָכָֽה׃ I will make of you a great nation, And I will bless you; I will make your name great, And you shall be a blessing.

— Bereishit 12:2

A great nation. A great name. A blessing. All of this spoken to a seventy-five-year-old man with no children, standing in a place he is about to leave. The promise is absurd by every measure available to him. He goes anyway.

Five chapters later, after famine and war and a covenant cut between animal halves in the dark, God changes Avram's name:

וְלֹא־יִקָּרֵ֥א ע֛וֹד אֶת־שִׁמְךָ֖ אַבְרָ֑ם וְהָיָ֤ה שִׁמְךָ֙ אַבְרָהָ֔ם כִּ֛י אַב־הֲמ֥וֹן גּוֹיִ֖ם נְתַתִּֽיךָ׃ And you shall no longer be called Abram, but your name shall be Abraham, for I make you the father of a multitude of nations.

— Bereishit 17:5

The name changes because the person has changed. Or maybe the person changed because the going changed him. Either way, the man who left Ur is not the man who builds an altar in Canaan. He walked out as Avram — "exalted father" — and arrived as Avraham, father of multitudes. Sarai becomes Sarah. The names they were born with give way to the names they grew into.

The Talmud says a convert is like a newborn child. I can tell you from experience that this is both true and slightly misleading. You are not starting from scratch. You are arriving with everything you carried — every mile, every question, every slow step when doing something for the first time and weren't sure you were doing it right — and you are being given a new name to hold all of it.

My Hebrew name is Uriel ben Avraham Avinu v'Sarah Imenu. Son of Abraham our father and Sarah our mother.

Every convert gets those parents, because every convert reenacts the same journey: leaving the familiar, trusting the direction, arriving as someone whose name has changed.

During my conversion process I got interested in genealogy — the way you do when you're building a new identity and start wondering what the old one was actually made of. My grandmother (father's mother) was named Leah. I didn't think much of it until I pulled the papers. Her father was listed as "Jack," which traced back to Jacob — Yaakov — a Lithuanian Jew who somehow ended up serving in the British forces in the First World War. He moved to Australia afterward. Married a gentile woman. He wrote poetry. He wrote songs. He had been wounded more than once in combat, and he was gentle in the way that soldiers who've seen too much sometimes are. When word of a second war reached him, he couldn't bear it. He took his own life.

I found all of this in records and old documents, a man I never met who carried something I recognize. A Jewish spark that traveled generations through intermarriage and migration and silence and somehow surfaced in a great-grandson sitting in an Atlanta synagogue, studying for a conversion. The formal process required rigorous study, a mountain of paperwork, a beit din, a mikveh, and — thanks to a decision my parents made when I was a new born — a pin prick. The halachic term is hatafat dam brit, a drop of blood drawn to seal the covenant. But whatever was sealed that day had been traveling a long time.

Lech lecha is the convert's parsha. But it's also everyone's. Every person who has ever packed a bag without knowing what the next place would look like.

Every father who went out in an orange vest because the work didn't stop just because his world had. Every hostage who walked into a Red Cross vehicle and stepped back onto Israeli soil with a name the whole country had been saying for two years — finally spoken in the present tense.

Between the command to go and the promise that follows it, there is a single verse that holds the whole parsha together. It comes later, after the stars:

וְהֶאֱמִ֖ן בַּֽיהֹוָ֑ה וַיַּחְשְׁבֶ֥הָ לּ֖וֹ צְדָקָֽה׃ And he put his trust in GOD, who reckoned it to his merit.

— Bereishit 15:6

He believed. That's it. No proof. No evidence. An old man looking at the sky, told his descendants would be as numerous as what he saw, and he believed it. The Hebrew word is he'emin — from the same root as amen. He said amen to an absurd promise, and the Torah calls it righteousness.

Avishai David said amen every morning he put on the vest. Every call he answered. Every stranger he treated while his own son sat in a tunnel in Gaza. That is what trust looks like when it has no proof and no timeline and no map — just a direction, and the discipline to keep walking toward it.

The going is over. The arriving has begun.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Truce at Heart: Finding Peace with Yourself

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 30 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on October 30, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Is peace of mind something that happens—or something we create?

Legend has it that a famous entertainer was once asked how he managed to stay so calm and carefree. Smiling, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick wad of cash, and said, "This is why." It's a funny story -- and probably untrue -- but revealing. It reminds us how often we confuse external ease with inner peace.

Woody Allen once said, "Having money is good, if only for financial reasons."

But money doesn't always buy happiness -- a man with ten million dollars is no happier than a man with nine.

Today, we'll explore the deeper source of calm -- the kind that can't be counted or spent: peace of mind. Serenity emerges from patience that steadies us in what is before us, faith that anchors us in what is beyond us, and optimism that illuminates what may be.

1. Patience: Peace with the Present

Patience calms our spirit, opening the doorway to inner tranquility. It turns the inner turbulence of frustration into a still pond of quiet strength.

Patience allows us to keep our cool in the face of a delayed plane, a forgotten errand or a missed deadline. It accepts life's timing with grace, trusting that purpose unfolds in its own season.

When inner peace flows from within, serenity is no longer something we chase -- it's something we hold.

2. Faith: Peace Through the Unseen

Faith is the trust of the soul -- the deep calm that sustains composure. It's what lets a child rest through the storm, knowing his father is the captain of the ship.

Faith is our inner voice: You are not alone; you are being guided. To our unanswered prayers it whispers "not yet," and "I am with you" even in the valley of shadows.

Faith transforms fear into courage and fate into destiny, teaching us to see possibility within every challenge. Peace of mind is the product of faith -- the knowing that life has purpose, even when we don't see it.

3. Optimism: Peace with the Future

Optimism looks forward. It is the art of considering realistic possibilities and finding solutions, wherever they may occur. It's not denial of reality, but belief in our capacity, with the soul's guidance, to see what could be.

Optimists face the dark and still look for light, believing every challenge holds a spark of hope. They excel at reframing -- transforming hardships into hopes.

Optimism is the soul's way of saying, "I trust that the possibility of good awaits me."

2 Quotes

"A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones."

— Proverbs 17:22

"For peace of mind, we need to resign as general manager of the universe."

— Larry Eisenberg, engineer and writer

1 Question

Can you recall a moment when peace found you -- and what allowed it to arrive?

Peace of mind isn't an escape from life's noise, but the quiet center within it. When our world feels uncertain, our soul can rest easily when we are patient with the present, have faith in what we can't see, and meet the future with realistic optimism.

Until next time,

May you find calm within life's noise, and may peace of mind be your steady companion.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

Spiritual Care Through Connection: A Conversation with Rabbi Ben Varon

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 24 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 24, 2025.

🕯️ This Drop is dedicated to Michael Smuss, the last surviving member of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, who passed away yesterday at the age of 99. He was born in Danzig, Poland, and lived in the ghetto from 1940 until the uprising in 1943. As a member of the Jewish resistance, he bravely fought against Nazis with Molotov cocktails. He survived various death camps and a death march. After the war, he became a painter to process his trauma and later dedicated his life to Holocaust education and dialogue between Germany and Israel. May his memory be a blessing.

I’m excited to share this week’s interview with you all!

I met Rabbi Ben at a monthly salon called “Our Friends Are Smart,” where people share and teach about their interesting jobs in science, technology, art, and more. Shoutout to Adina and Avi for being awesome (and smart) hosts!

It just so happened that the night Ben shared about his meaningful work as a hospital chaplain, the Freakonomics podcast stopped by to record the session!

They were recording an episode about peoples’ jobs, specifically jobs today that didn’t exist in 1940. Even though Ben’s job existed back then, though not as structured as it is today, Freakonomics wanted to record the way in which people talk about what they do for a living. It’s a super interesting episode—check it out here!

I was inspired by Ben’s role at his hospital, primarily because I always associated chaplaincy with Christianity, and I know I’m not alone in that. I enjoyed interviewing him and getting his take on how G-d and prayer play a role in comforting people during tough or vulnerable moments, and how that looks to different people.

It’s a meaningful conversation with an activity at the end. I hope you enjoy it.

Tell us about yourself!

My name is Ben Varon. I am a Conservative rabbi who works as a full-time chaplain at NYU Langone Hospital–Brooklyn, in Sunset Park. I’m a multi-faith chaplain at the hospital. At least 85% of the patients that I work with are not Jewish; I speak and work with people of all faiths, all backgrounds, or no faiths. I’m here to provide emotional and spiritual support to all who need it.

When people think of chaplains, they think of religion or God, but most of our work is about offering emotional and spiritual support. There is a fine line between what is emotional support and what is spiritual support; they often overlap.

For some people who are more religious, they sometimes reflect on their faith, asking, “Why is God doing this to me? Why is God punishing me?” Those existential questions do come up, but they tend to be the minority.

Most of the time, people want someone to sit and talk with them and help them process what they’re going through. Prayer might be a part of that. Patients are going through really hard things, whether it’s end of life or not, or a diagnosis they just received. Being in the hospital, no matter what people are going through, brings up feelings. They reflect on their life, on what they’re going through, on their family or relationships, on everything and anything that could come up for someone. We as chaplains try to provide a space for them to reflect on what they’re going through.

What does a typical day look like?

Every day looks different. When I arrive, my first focus is on spiritual care consults. In an ideal world, most of my day would be spent on these, since consults come from doctors, nurses, social workers—anyone in the hospital who can refer us. With 500 patient beds, we can’t see everyone, so referrals help us reach those who need us most: patients facing a tough diagnosis, someone in distress, or a family member struggling.

The second focus of the day is the palliative care list, which is helping patients and their family face serious illness and end of life with dignity and peace. This includes checking in with patients if they’re able, but if they’re not able to, then I check in with their family on how we can support them during this process.

The third area is responding to every cardiac arrest and trauma 1, and we try to go to every rapid response. In these cases, we’re going to see if there’s family present. For the most part, the doctors and the medical team are with the patient, so we’re not there to support them at that moment—maybe afterwards or a day later when they’re more stable. But in that moment it’s to see if there’s family there.

And then after that, it’s making rounds on the units that I cover. I cover about five units, and I try to find the people that might need support. Sometimes I look at the hematology/oncology list. Other times I’ll look at a patient’s age. I make a point of being seen by staff—nurses, physical and occupational therapists, social workers—since chaplains aren’t always top of mind. Often, being present leads to moments like a nurse saying, “Chaplain, I think this patient could benefit from your support.”

Tell us about your rabbinical journey.

I finished rabbinical school a little over three years ago. I never had any interest in being a pulpit rabbi. I thought Hillel work on a college campus would interest me. I applied to a few college Hillels, but it wasn’t the right fit. My last summer before graduating was when I did my first unit of chaplaincy work, coincidentally at the hospital that I work at now. I liked the experience enough that I wanted to then apply for a chaplain residency in my last year. The year right after rabbinical school, I did the residency and that’s what really sold the work for me. I did the residency for a full year at New York Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital in Park Slope. A few months after that ended, I got a full-time job here at NYU and I’ve been ever since.

How has rabbinical school helped you in your current work?

I loved my time in rabbinical school. I learned a lot, and I grew a lot as a person. We talked about using our spiritual authority, and a lot of that takes confidence and belief at the beginning of rabbinical school. But it took time—about five years in rabbinical school and the year of residency—to develop belief in myself, belief in what it means to be a rabbi and to not be afraid to use that authority. At the beginning of the residency, I was more hesitant to put myself out there or put myself into a tough situation. The more I’ve done the chaplaincy work and leaned into what it means to be a rabbi, the more I can go up to a doctor and say, “This is what we do, and what we offer is important.” So much is focused on the physical, so how do we try to say the emotional and the spiritual are integral to a patient’s wellbeing?

How has your work shaped your beliefs in G-d?

The role that God plays in my work is something that I’ve always struggled with. On one hand, belief in God or not doesn’t impact the work that I do. How I practice Judaism doesn’t impact who I am or the work that I do. It’s not at the forefront of why I do what I do.

And at the same time, I want to believe that God is in human interaction. It’s when we see godliness and value in each other. That’s being made in the image of God. I see it the most when I’m praying with patients, when I’m holding a patient’s hand, when I’m sitting with them in silence, being with them, supporting them. I like to believe that’s where God is.

How about prayer? What role does that have in your work?

Prayer can play a powerful role in my work, though it looks different for each patient. For some, especially my Christian patients for whom spontaneous, outloud prayer is a part of their faith, it’s how they connect with God. When I sit with patients, I try to craft a spontaneous prayer that acknowledges what they’re going through, letting them know I see and hear them. Even if my own beliefs differ, I act as a vessel, supporting them in communicating with a higher power in a way that feels authentic to them. I typically start with “Please God,” and leave space for patients to conclude in their own faith language, like using Jesus’ name.

Prayer helps patients feel less alone—not just physically, since I’m present with them, but also spiritually, reaching out for support, healing, or protection. One of the hardest parts of being in the hospital, for many patients, is the loneliness, whether someone has little family support or even when loved ones are present but can’t fully understand their experience. Prayer allows them to feel the presence of something higher, listening and protecting, providing comfort and connection when human support alone can’t fully meet their needs.

How do you take care of your own mental health?

This is the question I get most. I don’t have a great answer other than I think I’m just made to do this work. In an ideal world, we’re all able to find the work that suits us and this just happens to be work that suits me.

A couple of years ago during my residency, the mom of a young patient I had supported said to me, “I don’t know how you do this every day.” And what I said to her was, “I’m not going through what you are going through.”

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t take a toll on me. And maybe it’s taking a toll on me subconsciously, but thankfully I am able to not take it home with me. It doesn’t mean I don’t have my moments when I need to cry, or talk to family and friends and staff that I’ve built really good relationships with.

Is there anything else you’d like to add?

I lead a weekly spirituality group in the hospital’s behavioral health unit. This work is similar to other chaplaincy but requires different skills. One of the things I love about group work is helping people realize they’re not alone—others in the room may be facing similar struggles, and supporting each other can be incredibly healing.

A lot of what we try to do in the groups is help people identify what is spiritual for them, whether it’s God, faith, religion, nature, their family, or something else.

The definition we use for spirituality is the things in life that give us meaning, purpose, and connection to something larger than ourselves. Again, that can be your faith or religion, but I like to say it could be baking, fishing, or going to concerts. What might be spiritual for one person might not be considered spiritual for someone else. When I lead these groups, my role is to help participants identify what supports, guides, or protects them in their lives.

I use the following story and activity to help patients explore this:

What are your Shabbat plans this week?

I am eating Shabbat dinner at my friend’s apartment, going to synagogue Saturday morning, and relaxing on Shabbat afternoon.

May your Shabbos be flood free,

P.S. Join next book club on Zoom THIS Sunday, 10/26 to discuss As a Jew by Sarah Hurwitz!

Download the Cracked Jar story and activity here:

The Cracked Jar Story

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The Cracked Jar Worksheet

187KB ∙ PDF file

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The Second Week

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 24 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

The rabbis cannot decide whether Noah was great or merely adequate.

The parsha opens with what should be straightforward praise:

אֵ֚לֶּה תּוֹלְדֹ֣ת נֹ֔חַ נֹ֗חַ אִ֥ישׁ צַדִּ֛יק תָּמִ֥ים הָיָ֖ה בְּדֹֽרֹתָ֑יו אֶת־הָֽאֱלֹהִ֖ים הִֽתְהַלֶּךְ־נֹֽחַ׃ This is the line of Noah.—Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his age; Noah walked with God.—

— Bereishit 6:9

Righteous. Blameless. Walked with God. Three endorsements in a single verse. But it's that one phrase — b'dorotav, "in his age" — that the commentators cannot leave alone. Some rabbis read it as praise. He was righteous even in a corrupt generation; imagine what he'd have been in a generation of good people. Others read it as criticism. He was only righteous compared to his neighbors; put him next to Abraham, and he'd be unremarkable.

The Torah doesn't settle it. The ambiguity stays.

I've been thinking about this all week — my second Shabbat in the new Torah cycle.

Last week was Bereshit, the grand opening, Genesis from the top. The whole congregation was still warm from Simchat Torah. The energy in shul was high.

This week is just — Noach. The second parsha. No holiday, no special occasion, no dancing in the aisles. You show up, you read, you daven, you go home.

The holidays do build a structure around you — the sukkah, the schedule, the services, the meals — and then they end, and the structure comes down, and you're standing in your yard and the next holiday is Chanukah, which is two months away and pretty minor.

Everything between here and there is ordinary time.

Tradition tells us that Noah spent a year inside the ark. A full solar year, sealed up with his family and every living species, the rain hammering the roof, the water rising, the world outside gone. And when it was over — when the ground finally dried — the Torah says he sent out a dove. Three times.

וַיְשַׁלַּ֥ח אֶת־הַיּוֹנָ֖ה מֵאִתּ֑וֹ לִרְאוֹת֙ הֲקַ֣לּוּ הַמַּ֔יִם מֵעַ֖ל פְּנֵ֥י הָֽאֲדָמָֽה׃ Then he sent out the dove to see whether the waters had decreased from the surface of the ground.

— Bereishit 8:8

The first time, the dove came back with nothing. The water was still everywhere. Noah reached out his hand and took it back into the ark. He waited seven days.

The second time, the dove came back toward evening with a plucked-off olive leaf in its beak. One leaf. That was enough. Noah knew the waters had receded.

וַתָּבֹ֨א אֵלָ֤יו הַיּוֹנָה֙ לְעֵ֣ת עֶ֔רֶב וְהִנֵּ֥ה עֲלֵה־זַ֖יִת טָרָ֣ף בְּפִ֑יהָ וַיֵּ֣דַע נֹ֔חַ כִּי־קַ֥לּוּ הַמַּ֖יִם מֵעַ֥ל הָאָֽרֶץ׃ The dove came back to him toward evening, and there in its bill was a plucked-off olive leaf! Then Noah knew that the waters had decreased on the earth.

— Bereishit 8:11

The third time, the dove didn't come back at all. It had found somewhere to land.

Three sendings. The patience of that — seven days between each attempt, sitting in the dark, not knowing whether the world outside still existed. The first return is discouraging. The second is a leaf. The third is an absence you learn to read as good news: the dove found dry ground and stayed.

And then Noah steps out and the first thing he does — before planting, before surveying the damage, before anything practical — is build an altar.

וַיִּ֥בֶן נֹ֛חַ מִזְבֵּ֖חַ לַֽיהֹוָ֑ה וַיִּקַּ֞ח מִכֹּ֣ל ׀ הַבְּהֵמָ֣ה הַטְּהֹרָ֗ה וּמִכֹּל֙ הָע֣וֹף הַטָּה֔וֹר וַיַּ֥עַל עֹלֹ֖ת בַּמִּזְבֵּֽחַ׃ Then Noah built an altar to GOD and, taking of every pure animal and of every pure bird, he offered burnt offerings on the altar.

— Bereishit 8:20

Gratitude first. Before the vineyard, before the covenant, before the rainbow —

Noah's first act in the new world is to say thank you. The man the rabbis can't decide is great or merely adequate walks out of the ark and builds an altar on a planet that still smells like mud.

I keep coming back to the b'dorotav question. In his generation. It reads differently when you're five months into being Jewish. I am not someone who left everything and walked to a land God pointed at. I am a person who chose this, in this specific time, in this specific city, surrounded by the specific people I'm surrounded by — and I am doing my best to be righteous in my generation. In my context. With the tools and the knowledge and the community I have right now.

Some weeks that looks like carrying a Torah scroll while the whole room sings. Some weeks it looks like standing in the backyard holding a dried willow branch, wondering what to do with it.

Rashi notes that the Torah says Noah "walked with God" — but Abraham "walked before God." Noah needed support. Abraham walked on his own. The implication is that Noah was the lesser figure. But I read it differently. Walking with God means you haven't figured it all out yet. You're keeping pace, staying close, letting the relationship carry some of the weight. That is not weakness.

That is the second week of the Torah cycle — when the music from Simchat Torah has faded and you're just reading the parsha because it's the parsha, and you show up because showing up is the thing.

The dove came back with a leaf. Not a branch. Not a tree. A single olive leaf, plucked off and carried home at dusk. Small evidence that the world survived.

The dove didn't need a forest. It needed a leaf.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Healing Touch of Empathy

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 23 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on October 23, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

A study on postoperative pain found that patients spoken to gently and empathetically by their anesthetist needed half as much pain medication and recovered days sooner. This healing power of empathy isn't limited to hospitals -- it transforms every relationship we touch. Empathy, it turns out, doesn't just ease the heart -- it helps the body heal. This is the quiet spiritual power we all possess: feeling another's pain, bridging the distance between souls, awakening something essential within us. This week, we'll explore what empathy truly means, why it asks so much of us, and how we can grow to become not merely more sympathetic, but more empathetic.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Recognizing Our Oneness

Sympathy watches pain from afar; empathy steps inside it. Sympathy says, "I feel sorry for you." Empathy whispers, "I feel with you."

Empathy is the spiritual art of entering another's world -- seeing with their eyes, hearing with their heart.

To empathize is to bridge the quiet space between souls, carrying part of another's burden as your own. Empathy begins when we stop seeing others as "other," and remember we are one.

2. The Challenge: Empathy Requires Effort

Empathy is difficult. We greet people with "How are you?" But rarely want the truth.

True empathy requires humility, imagination and courage.

We avoid the broken heart because it's hard to witness. This spiritual numbness isn't malicious -- it's protective. Our spiritual challenge: To live with an open heart in a world full of suffering requires courage and intentionality to carry our friend's burden.

Know someone carrying a heavy burden? Forward this to them. Sometimes the most profound act of empathy is letting someone know they're truly seen.

3. Growing Empathy in Our Soul

Empathy is an act of the soul -- a spiritual muscle we can strengthen. It grows through full intention, honest questions and deeds that lighten another's load.

The soul knows: "He ain't heavy -- he's my brother.

Sharing in sorrow, rejoicing in the success of another -- each deepens the heart. Spiritually, empathy flows from recognizing the intrinsic oneness of humanity and the universe. To empathize is to act from that oneness -- the soul speaking through empathy.

📜 2 Quotes

"Do not oppress a stranger; you know the feelings of a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." -- Exodus 23:9

"You never really understand a person until you climb into his skin and walk around in it" -- Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird

❓ 1 Question

When have you felt the difference between sympathy and empathy?

Empathy transcends sympathy -- it's the soul's recognition that another's burden is also our own. Each act of empathy; a listening ear, a shared tear, a burden carried together sends ripples through the world. The soul speaks through empathy, reminding us that no one walks alone.

Until next time,

May you feel with others deeply, and may empathy awaken your soul.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. When have you felt the difference between someone feeling sorry FOR you versus someone feeling WITH you? I'd love to hear your story. And if these weekly sparks bring light to your Thursdays, consider sharing with others seeking deeper meaning. Each soul we reach expands our circle of life someone who truly knows how to feel with others.

What I Learned From October 7th

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 17 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 17, 2025.

📚 Join next book club on Sunday, 10/26 to discuss As a Jew by Sarah Hurwitz!

My dear community,

This week, Jews all over the world celebrated the joyous homecoming of the living hostages. Watching their reunion videos felt like a breath of fresh air. We also acknowledged those who didn’t come home alive, and the fact that Hamas didn’t hold up its end of the deal by handing over the remaining bodies of the hostages within 72 hours. We’re still awaiting their return.

We’ve been waiting for this moment for two years. For a ceasefire, one that will hopefully last. For this horrible war to be over. For a new day.

I’m not sure how optimistic to feel about a new Middle East. On one hand, several Arab nations may join the Abraham Accords, and the peace plan calls for a new governing body in Gaza that’s not Hamas, something Gaza clearly needs.

On the other hand, once the ceasefire was put in place, violence broke out in Gaza, with Hamas shooting members of rival factions, and thousands of Palestinian prisoners—many convicted for murdering Israelis—are now free (which is how 10/7 happened). Many have reason to believe the cycle of violence will only continue: Hamas attacks Israel, Israel strikes back, rinse, repeat.

So… are we to have hope or not? During this time of so many unknowns, I guess that choice is up to us.

I still feel it’s too raw to reflect. We only just starting coming up for air. As some of us have been saying, “It’s finally October 8th.” Yet, as a pensive person in need of blog material, I can’t help but jot a few things down.

What I’ve Learned From October 7th:

Antisemitism is alive and well. Like many of us, I put it in the back of my mind and focused on other issues. I thought, “It’s 2023. Jews are fine! We’re blowing Jew hatred out of proportion.” And then I woke up on 10/7 with posts from my Facebook friends praising the most horrendous attacks someone can do to another human being. Those same friends later justified or ignored anything overtly antisemitic that the anti-Zionist movement has done to Jewish-owned stores, kosher restaurants, synagogues, etc. And if you’ve studied the history of how antisemitism manifests, it’s plain to see how Israel is being used as the latest libel, and Zionists = Jews. Take it from someone who used to scoff at this seemingly paranoid idea. I could go on, but that’s not what this post is for.
We can’t close ourselves off. At the same time, throughout this war I was disheartened by members of my community who were so quick to deny any accusation against Israel, saying Israel could never be responsible for anything horrendous that happened. I get it… it stung when the NY Times blamed Israel for the bombing of al-Ahli Arab Hospital, only to discover the blast came from the Palestinian Islamic Jihad and killed hundreds. And we know a significant number of civilian deaths weren’t actually civilians. But to deny starvation in Gaza? To deny the deaths of women and children? I understand wanting to wait and see what the news would reveal before jumping to conclusions, but that isn’t solved by jumping to the conclusion that Israel had nothing to do with it. We know we’re a people of peace and humanity, so let’s show it. As my rabbi said in his Rosh Hashanah sermon, “Speaking up for the suffering of Palestinians doesn’t make you an anti-Zionist or even a woke Jew; it makes you human.”
Don’t go to the NY Times for news on Israel. Well, I knew this one already. Though it’s important to see what the rest of the world is reading.
More people support us than we think. In the past two years, every single time I told a stranger I’m Jewish, I work in Jewish education, or I was going to Israel, they supported me wholeheartedly, saying things like, “I respect how your people fight to the death to defend your own,” or, “I’ve always wanted to go to Israel!” I stopped being nervous and started being proud. I received more reactions like these than I got yelled at for wearing my “Bring Them Home” shirt, and it felt great every single time.

It’s important to protect your energy. I don’t want to generalize here, but from my experience of talking with people who said there was a genocide happening (and they weren’t referring to the one taking place in Sudan), they don’t know know much. They even admitted to me that they didn’t know much. So, at some point I stopped wasting my energy and instead chose carefully with whom to associate. Also: put limits on your social media apps on your phone!!!
It’s more important to own your truth than to follow the crowd. On that note, I was recently speaking with someone who was worried that this war will be viewed in history as a genocide, not because he believed it was, but that’s how it will be known to the rest of the world, causing more antisemitism and damaging international relations with Israel. I said I don’t think it will be labeled as a genocide, judging by the way mainstream media calls it what it was: the Israel-Hamas War. Plus, society today doesn’t think of the atomic bombs dropped on Japan as a genocide, but rather as what ended WWII. While I do think Israel could have conducted the war better, and it’s important to take Israel’s relations with the rest of the world into consideration, the fact that Israel scaled back its major operations as soon as we got our hostages back and Hamas was no longer a major threat proves Israelis in general want peace and a better future. People live in their own narratives; there’s no changing that. As long we carry our humanity with us (read point 2) and hope for a better future for both Israelis and Palestinians, only by standing tall and writing our own narrative can we move forward, instead of allowing others to do it for us.

Jewish stories are needed now more than ever. Wow! What a segue, it’s almost like I planned that! Clearly, the world needs more Jewish stories, more Jewish education, more Jewish pride. So, speaking of…

🎈Happy 3rd Shabbat Dropiversary 🥳

Three years ago, I started this blog as a small experiment in reflection and connection. Somehow, it’s grown into this beautiful corner of the internet where we think, feel, and wrestle together. I can’t wait to see where year four takes us, but I bet it will be full of interesting Jewish insights! Hopefully I can stop writing about antisemitism and war and focus on the fun and deep stuff.

Whether you’ve been here since week one or you just subscribed, thank you for being part of this community of almost 700 readers made up of both Jews and non-Jews of all ages, spanning 35 states and 25 countries (I see you, Nigeria!).

Here’s a look at the top posts from the past year:

Good Shabbos from the Poconos,

The First Word Again

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 17 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Tuesday night, our shul finished reading the last words of the Torah. Moshe dies on Mount Nebo, looking out at a land he will never enter. The scroll reaches its wooden spindle. And then — without pause — we rolled it back to the first column and read the opening line of Genesis.

This was my first Simchat Torah as a Jew. Seven hakafot — seven circuits around the sanctuary, each one announced and then swallowed by the singing. Children on shoulders. A man in his eighties holding a scroll to his chest with both arms.

I carried a Torah twice, which is a thing you cannot prepare for: the weight of it against your ribs, the velvet warm from the last person's hands, a room full of people singing around you while you try not to trip.

The gabbai gave up trying to keep order around the fourth hakafa and mostly just sang and danced.

We unrolled an entire scroll — Bereshit to V'zot HaBracha — and stretched it in a wide circle held up by the congregation. Every column visible at once, the parchment translucent under the sanctuary lights, everyone gripping the edges with careful (and gloved) hands. A whole year of reading laid out in a single loop. Then we rolled it back, and started over.

Across the Jewish world this week, over 1,250 synagogues in more than thirty countries danced with Torah scrolls wearing matching mantles — white covers embroidered with the Israeli flag and a line from Kohelet: "A time to mourn, and a time to dance." Each mantle bore the name of someone killed on October 7 or in the war since. The Simchat Torah Project, launched by Mizrachi after the massacre, sent covers from Buenos Aires to Berlin, from small-town shuls in New Jersey to communities in Australia that had never heard of each other. Two years after the day that tore this holiday open, they danced.

Bereshit — the parsha we read this Shabbat — opens like this:

בְּרֵאשִׁ֖ית בָּרָ֣א אֱלֹהִ֑ים אֵ֥ת הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם וְאֵ֥ת הָאָֽרֶץ׃ When God began to create heaven and earth—

— Bereshit 1:1

And then the very next verse:

וְהָאָ֗רֶץ הָיְתָ֥ה תֹ֙הוּ֙ וָבֹ֔הוּ וְחֹ֖שֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י תְה֑וֹם וְר֣וּחַ אֱלֹהִ֔ים מְרַחֶ֖פֶת עַל־פְּנֵ֥י הַמָּֽיִם׃ the earth being unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and a wind from God sweeping over the water—

— Bereshit 1:2

Tohu vavohu. Unformed and void. The Torah doesn't begin with paradise. It begins with chaos.

Worth sitting with for a moment. The very first thing described after the announcement of creation is the mess. Darkness. Formlessness. A deep with no bottom and a wind with nowhere to land. The world's first condition is raw material — and a long way from good.

And then:

וַיֹּ֥אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֖ים יְהִ֣י א֑וֹר וַֽיְהִי־אֽוֹר׃ God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light.

— Bereshit 1:3

Light first. Before the sun, before the stars, before anything with a name or a shape. Rashi records the midrashic tradition that this was not ordinary light — not the light of day four, when the luminaries appear — but an or haganuz, a hidden light set aside for the righteous in the world to come. The first light was not functional. It was a statement of intent.

From there, creation unfolds in a rhythm. God makes. God sees. God calls it good. Six times: tov. And on the sixth day, when everything is finished:

וַיַּ֤רְא אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־כׇּל־אֲשֶׁ֣ר עָשָׂ֔ה וְהִנֵּה־ט֖וֹב מְאֹ֑ד וַֽיְהִי־עֶ֥רֶב וַֽיְהִי־בֹ֖קֶר י֥וֹם הַשִּׁשִּֽׁי׃ And God saw all that had been made, and found it very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.

— Bereshit 1:31

Tov me'od. Very good. Not perfect — the Torah never uses that word for creation. Good, as in: this is something, where before there was nothing. This has form, where before there was void.

Wednesday morning, the first morning after Simchat Torah, I woke up and things were quiet. No more hakafot. No more three-week sprint of holidays that started with Rosh Hashanah and ran through Sukkot without a break. The etrog on the counter is drying out. Ordinary time starts now — and that, strangely, is the point.

There's a tradition that Shabbat Bereshit sets the tone for the entire year. How you enter this first Shabbat shapes everything that follows.

You've just run through the Days of Awe, Yom Kippur, the intensity of Sukkot, the dancing of Simchat Torah. Now: Shabbat Bereshit.

The first regular Shabbat of the new cycle. The scroll unrolls from Bereshit and stretches forward through fifty-three portions into next fall. Everything starts from here.

This year, the starting carries weight. The October 7 anniversary fell during the holidays. The final living hostages came home. The memorial ceremony at Mount Herzl was Thursday. And through all of it — the grief, the dancing, the ceremonies, the news breaking across phone screens — the Torah kept rolling. Deuteronomy ended. Genesis began. The scroll doesn't wait for readiness.

Bereshit tells us that creation started with tohu vavohu and arrived, six days later, at tov me'od. The distance between chaos and very good is six days of separating — light from dark, water from sky, land from sea. Naming things. Placing things where they belong. And then:

וַיְבָ֤רֶךְ אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־י֣וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֔י וַיְקַדֵּ֖שׁ אֹת֑וֹ כִּ֣י ב֤וֹ שָׁבַת֙ מִכׇּל־מְלַאכְתּ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁר־בָּרָ֥א אֱלֹהִ֖ים לַעֲשֽׂוֹת׃ And God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy—having ceased on it from all the work of creation that God had done.

— Bereshit 2:3

The first thing declared holy in the Torah is not a place. Not a person. Not the light, not the land, not the human being formed from dust and breath. It's a day. A rest. The sanctification of stopping.

After three weeks of holidays, after the anniversary, after the dancing — we arrive at Shabbat. The Torah's own first rest. The one built into the architecture of the world before there was a world to rest in.

Tuesday night I saw our congregation hold an entire Torah between us, every column visible, every word. Then we rolled it back to the beginning and someone started singing and we danced.

I don't know what this year holds. The scroll is long. The world is, on plenty of days, still tohu vavohu — formless, dark, a wind without anywhere to land. But the first act after the void is light. And the first thing declared holy is rest.

Friday evening. Candles. The first Shabbat of the new year.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

A Mother's Heart & Soul

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 16 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on October 16, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Her love and spirit shape who we become. The hand that rocks the cradle forms our inner and outer world.

This edition is dedicated to the memory of my dear mother, who recently departed this world at the age of ninety.

Much of what I write about today -- a mother's quiet strength, her nurturing presence, and the power of love expressed through small acts -- was lived by mother every day of her life. She also had a wonderful sense of humor, often wrapping wisdom in wit. You'll find one of her favorite sayings in the quotes that follow. I share these reflections in her memory, and in tribute to all mothers who shape the world through gentleness and devotion.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. A Mother is the First Teacher of the Soul

Long before her child takes a first breath, a mother is already teaching -- through rhythm, voice, and presence. Science now confirms what the heart has always known; even before birth, a mother's calm, music, and mood shape her child's inner, emotional, and spiritual world.

Before a child learns words, they absorb tone -- the warmth of being held, the succor of comfort, the sense that life is safe and good.

The language of the soul is first spoken in the heart and arms of a mother.

2. A Mother is a Transformative Presence

Much of a mother's greatness is unseen. The maternal influence lies not in grand gestures but in the quiet constancy of everyday care.

Through selfless perseverance -- the meals prepared, the fears soothed, the dreams encouraged -- she shapes how her children come to understand love and goodness.

What seems ordinary becomes lasting. Her truest lessons are lived, not spoken. Through her hands and heart, she transforms motherhood into a spiritual path.

3. A Mother is a Generational Light

A mother doesn't only give life -- she gives continuity. Like starlight that still shines across distance, her moral and spiritual radiance continue to illuminate those who follow.

A mother's love and compassion ripple outward, shaping the unseen fabric of generations. What she teaches through integrity and care endures beyond her years, quietly guiding lives yet to come.

Each act of goodness a mother lived becomes a spark carried forward in the souls of her children and grandchildren.

📜 2 Quotes

"Her children arise and praise her …. She is clothed with strength and dignity … She speaks with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is upon her tongue."

— Proverbs 31: 28, 25-26

"Whether you're rich or poor, it's nice to have money."

— Mrs. Jacquelyn Smason

❓ 1 Question

What's one lesson your mother taught you -- not with words, but by how she lived?

A mother first awakens the soul, teaching life's language through rhythm, voice and love. Her steady compassion turns ordinary moments into quiet acts of transformation. Each of us carries sparks of our mother's light in how we love, comfort, and give.

A mother's love is never extinguished; it becomes the quiet glow that guides us forward. May the sparks my mother kindled continue to warm every life she touched -- and so may it be with your mother.

Until next time, wishing you sparks of love that keep your mother's light shining through you.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. What is one moment when your mother's love changed you? Reply to share your answer. And consider forwarding this email to someone whose mother's light still shines through them.

Love in the Shadow of War

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 10 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 10, 2025.

This week marked the 2nd anniversary of October 7th. I hope you spent it doing something meaningful, whether by reading (I’m currently reading Amir Tibon’s The Gates of Gaza), watching one of the many new shows or films available to stream to commemorate the day, mourning, or praying.

If you missed the chance, it’s not too late. Here’s some “uplifting” related content—if there is such a thing—to mark such a horrific day.

I wrote this draft a week ago, and since then, we have strong reason to hope. With a ceasefire agreement signed by Israel and Hamas, and a possible hostage release early next week, these dark days are finally looking brighter. Though, as I right this, I’ve just been alerted that sirens have sounded in southern Israel, so don’t hold your breath.

I know this war has caused a lot of suffering and loss, but we all could use a little more love and good news, right?

This past Tu B’Av, the Museum of Tolerance in Jerusalem debuted a photography exhibit called “Love in the Shadow of War.” Curated and conceptualized by Ifat Shomrony (shoutout to my colleague, Eyal, for the connection!), the exhibit features eight couples whose love stories unfolded against the backdrop of the current war, capturing the rare and tender moments of connection and intimacy that emerged amid fear, loss, and uncertainty. Each couple shared a brief version of their story to instill hope in all of us.

I selected three stories from the exhibit to feature here! If you’re in Israel, please visit the exhibit for meeee.

Photographer: Tzadok Limor

“And they shall become one flesh” (Genesis 2:24) The love story of Rimonda Elisha and Ilan Etzioni

Rimonda Elisha (72), a widow from Kibbutz Hanita, returned from a trip to Kyrgyzstan straight into the nightmare that engulfed Israel on October 7th. She was shocked and confused. All she could think about was the meat left in her freezer. Travel to the north was not permitted, so she packed two bags full of meat and distributed them among her children — perhaps trying to save something from the chaos. A few days later, she was evacuated to an assisted living facility. There she met Ilan Etzioni (80), a widower from Kibbutz Dan who had lost his wife to illness during the war. “I thought I didn’t need a man in my life,” she said, but his gaze cracked her frozen heart and opened it to a new and unexpected love. “This is the only good thing to come out of the war,” they say.

Photographer: Tzadok Limor

“Vi zogt men oyf yidish libe?” – ‘How do you say “love” in Yiddish?’ The love story of Yonatan Alman and Tal Alman-Finkelman

Yonatan lost his father in 2020 and feared that his father’s beloved language, Yiddish, would fade away. He decided to keep it alive. He began studying Yiddish and read his father’s writings in Language and Life magazine. When the war broke out, he was drafted to the reserves. While serving in the Artillery in the north, he posted jokes about matchmaking and songs in Yiddish he performed, holding his rifle. Among his thousands of viewers was Tal, a neuroscience researcher and yoga instructor. She watched and laughed all night and reached out to him the next day. He replied quickly. They talked for hours, and met in person a few days later. They got married in September 2024, and have a 5-month-old son. “Just as he revived a language, we have revived the language of love — together,” says Tal.

“Life is only a flicker of melted ice” -Dejan Stojanović The love story of Tal Parnass and Giora Marani

On the same street in Hadera lived Tal (39) and Giora (32), both breathing and cold exposure instructors, each in their own peaceful world. They never imagined they would find love in a time of war. Ilay Baram was a pioneer of ice bathing in Israel. He went to dance at the “Nova” festival and was murdered there. His tin bathtub with his name painted on it became a lasting memory. On October 17th 2023, Tal and Giora met at Ilay’s memorial. Giora’s smile touched Tal; her gentleness warmed him. They became one breath, moved in together by the sea, and are getting married this summer. They teach people to take ice baths and breathe through the pain. “An ice bath teaches pain and security and connection,” Giora says.

Learn more about the exhibit here. ❤️

Shabbat Shalom with love and peace,

P.S. Join next book club on Sunday, 10/26 to discuss As a Jew by Sarah Hurwitz!

💦 Other 10/7 Drops:

What Passes By

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 10 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Tuesday morning I was at shul for Sukkot services, picking up our lulavim and etrogim. The same crowd as last year, the usual melodies, the weight of the citron in my hand for the first time this year. That evening I was standing in a Chabad sukkah eating hors d'oeuvres with strangers.

Not a dinner. A drop-in. The kind of thing Chabad does — a sukkah outside the building, a folding table with wine and cookies and somebody's homemade kugel, a line of people ducking in to make a bracha, eat something under the schach, fulfill the mitzvah, move on. Five minutes, maybe ten if you stayed for a l'chaim.

Last year I ate under my rabbi's sukkah. His backyard, the October air in Atlanta doing that thing where it can't decide between summer and fall, a long table of congregants passing dishes, a roof of palm fronds with stars showing through. I had a seat. I had a place setting. That was one kind of meaningful. This year I stood with a paper plate, said the bracha for dwelling in the sukkah, and watched a man I'd never met teach his daughter how to shake a lulav. That was a different kind of meaningful.

There's a halachic detail about sukkot — the structures, not the holiday — that I find quietly radical. You don't have to own one. The mitzvah is to dwell in one. If yours isn't standing, you sit in someone else's. You drop in. The obligation doesn't disappear because your circumstances changed. It travels.

The Torah reading for Shabbat Chol HaMoed Sukkot is not a regular parsha. It's drawn from Ki Tisa — Exodus 33 and 34 — and it picks up in the aftermath of the golden calf. The worst thing that could happen has happened. The people built an idol forty days after Sinai. The tablets are shattered. The covenant looks finished.

And Moses, standing in the wreckage, makes a request:

וַיֹּאמַ֑ר הַרְאֵ֥נִי נָ֖א אֶת־כְּבֹדֶֽךָ׃ He said, "Oh, let me behold Your Presence!"

— Shemot 33:18

Show me. After everything — the calf, the rage, the broken stone — show me who You are.

God's answer is one of the strangest moments in the Torah. I will make all My goodness pass before you. But you cannot see My face. No one can see My face and live. I will place you in a cleft in the rock, shield you with My hand as I pass, and then:

וַהֲסִרֹתִי֙ אֶת־כַּפִּ֔י וְרָאִ֖יתָ אֶת־אֲחֹרָ֑י וּפָנַ֖י לֹ֥א יֵרָאֽוּ׃ Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen."

— Shemot 33:23

You will see My back. Not My face. The Sforno reads this as a statement about how human beings experience goodness: you recognize it after it has passed. While it's happening, you're sheltered in the rock with a hand over your eyes. You feel the tremor, the warmth, the weight of something moving. You don't know what it is until you turn around.

And then what follows the cleft in the rock is the revelation of the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy — the words Jews repeat on Yom Kippur, on fast days, whenever the ark is opened and the congregation needs to invoke divine compassion:

וַיַּעֲבֹ֨ר יְהֹוָ֥ה ׀ עַל־פָּנָיו֮ וַיִּקְרָא֒ יְהֹוָ֣ה ׀ יְהֹוָ֔ה אֵ֥ל רַח֖וּם וְחַנּ֑וּן אֶ֥רֶךְ אַפַּ֖יִם וְרַב־חֶ֥סֶד וֶאֱמֶֽת׃ The ETERNAL passed before him and proclaimed: "GOD! GOD! a Deity compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness,

— Shemot 34:6

Rachum v'chanun. Compassionate and gracious.

This is what God chooses to show Moses after the golden calf. Not wrath. Not the ledger of sins. The first thing revealed after the worst betrayal is the capacity for mercy.

Thursday morning the hostage deal was announced. All forty-eight remaining captives, living and dead. During Sukkot — zman simchateinu, the time of our joy.

The news broke while tens of thousands were gathered at the Kotel for birkat kohanim. Ex-hostages stood among the worshippers. Families who had spent seven hundred and thirty-three days at Hostages Square in Tel Aviv — holding signs, counting hours, lighting candles every Thursday — were dancing. A man named Misha Nataf had driven from Haifa to the square every week for two years, except the weeks around his son's birth. A woman named Rachel Shani Stopper found herself, for the first time in all those Thursday nights, singing out loud.

We read Kohelet — Ecclesiastes — on Shabbat Chol HaMoed Sukkot. The book that opens by calling everything hevel — vapor, breath, a mist that burns off by morning — and then spends twelve chapters figuring out what's worth doing anyway.

לַכֹּ֖ל זְמָ֑ן וְעֵ֥ת לְכׇל־חֵ֖פֶץ תַּ֥חַת הַשָּׁמָֽיִם׃ A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven:

— Kohelet 3:1

A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance. Kohelet doesn't say the weeping ends when the dancing starts. It says they each have their season. At Hostages Square, the families of the living danced while the families of the dead stood nearby, holding photos of sons and brothers whose bodies are still in Gaza. Both things, in the same plaza, under the same sky. Eighteen bodies still held. The joy broke through anyway.

The sukkah is the only structure the Torah commands us to build that is meant to come down. The schach — the roof — has to be open enough to see the stars. Seal it tight and it doesn't count. You sit in something fragile and eat and bless and, if the week has given you reason, you rejoice. The vulnerability is the requirement.

This week gave reason. Not clean reason. Not resolved or finished. But the goodness passed, and for a moment — in a plaza in Tel Aviv, at the ancient stones in Jerusalem, under temporary roofs across the Jewish world — we could see where it had been.

Tuesday night I stood in someone else's sukkah and said the bracha. Leishev basukkah. Five minutes under borrowed schach. The mitzvah doesn't require your own roof. It requires you to show up.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Time's Treasure

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 09 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on October 9, 2025.

Each day is a jewel waiting to be polished with meaning. Time is a spiritual treasure placed in everyone's hands, though too often we treat it as ordinary.

This week's message explores the treasure of time--a jewel we polish daily, transforming fleeting moments into sparks of meaning.

3 Ideas

1. Each Day - A Jewel in Your Crown

Why every day deserves precious attention

A child protests: "But mom, I took a bath yesterday!" Mother replies, "True, but that was yesterday. Today is a brand new day, and a brand new you, my love."

Each day is a new world, a precious gem distinct from all others. Precious things are measured in small increments: gold by the ounce, diamonds by the carat. Human life is strung together in days, like pearls on a precious thread.

Every moment and day we invest with meaning becomes eternal.

2. The Time Billionaire – Our True Wealth

We're all richer than we realize

There's an old tradition of giving a gold watch to a groom, with a clear message: time is more precious than gold. A million seconds is just eleven days. A billion seconds? More than thirty years. That's what makes us all Time Billionaires.

The real question isn't how much time you have, but how you're polishing each moment with purpose.

Time awareness is a gift to our soul.

3. Time as an Invitation – Seizing the Spiritual Now

Seizing spiritual opportunities in each moment

Each moment invites us to spiritual engagement. Time is not a straight line but a spiral path, circling upward with deeper echoes.

The same spiritual energies and themes return each year--the holidays, the seasons, life's recurring challenges. As they return, greater spiritual maturity fosters deeper engagement and growth.

Soulful living means befriending time. Time may fly, but you are the pilot.

1 Question

Since time is a treasure, what is one activity you could set aside or limit so you could invest more in what truly matters?

2 Quotes

"Everything has a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven."

-- Ecclesiastes 3:1

"Time is the only thing you can't buy. I can buy whatever I want, basically. But I can't buy time."

-- Warren Buffett

Our appreciation of time doesn't transform all at once. It deepens little by little as we notice, value, and choose to live with spiritual intention. Each small choice polishes your daily jewel into eternal meaning.

Until next time,

Wishing you sparks of meaning that brighten the treasures in your days,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. If you were granted one extra hour daily, how would you use it for what matters most? Reply and share—your insight may spark someone else's transformation.

The Song and the Rain

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 03 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

There is a specific kind of quiet that happens the day after Yom Kippur. Not silence but a lightness, almost physical, as if something pressing against your chest for ten days finally eased. I woke up this morning, drank coffee for the first time in twenty-six hours (but who's counting?). The fast was over. The gates had closed. The new year was no longer ahead of us; we were in it.

Ha'azinu — "Listen" — is Moses's song, delivered on the last day of his life. It is not what you'd expect a dying man to sing. Most of it is a prosecutorial brief: God was faithful, the people were ungrateful, punishment followed, redemption will come. It's fierce. It names names. And it begins with this:

הַאֲזִ֥ינוּ הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם וַאֲדַבֵּ֑רָה וְתִשְׁמַ֥ע הָאָ֖רֶץ אִמְרֵי־פִֽי׃ Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; Let the earth hear the words I utter!

— Devarim 32:1

Heaven and earth as witnesses. Moses calls the whole creation to the stand. And then, before the indictment begins, he says something unexpected:

יַעֲרֹ֤ף כַּמָּטָר֙ לִקְחִ֔י תִּזַּ֥ל כַּטַּ֖ל אִמְרָתִ֑י כִּשְׂעִירִ֣ם עֲלֵי־דֶ֔שֶׁא וְכִרְבִיבִ֖ים עֲלֵי־עֵֽשֶׂב׃ May my discourse come down as the rain, My speech distill as the dew, Like showers on young growth, Like droplets on the grass.

— Devarim 32:2

Rain and dew. That's the image Moses reaches for on his last day — not fire, not the splitting of seas, not tablets cracking against stone. He wants his words to land the way water lands on something growing. Gently. Persistently. In a way the soil can actually absorb.

There's a reason we read Ha'azinu in the space between Yom Kippur and Sukkot. For ten days the liturgy pressed us — who we were, who we failed to be, what we'd change. Kol Nidrei. The Al Chet.

The long, relentless list of ways we missed the mark. All of it serious, all of it necessary, and all of it a kind of storm. Then the gates closed, the shofar sounded, and we broke bread. The storm passed. Now what?

Moses answers the question before we ask it. After the severity comes rain — not another flood, not another warning. Rain. The kind that makes things grow.

The song itself is sharp. It does not flinch from the ugliness of what went wrong and what will go wrong again. God calls the people crooked and perverse. There are arrows and plagues. But running underneath all of it is verse four:

הַצּוּר֙ תָּמִ֣ים פׇּֽעֳל֔וֹ כִּ֥י כׇל־דְּרָכָ֖יו מִשְׁפָּ֑ט אֵ֤ל אֱמוּנָה֙ וְאֵ֣ין עָ֔וֶל צַדִּ֥יק וְיָשָׁ֖ר הֽוּא׃ The Rock!—whose deeds are perfect, Yea, all of whose ways are just; A faithful God, never false, True and upright indeed.

— Devarim 32:4

HaTzur. The Rock. Moses reaches for the most solid, unmovable thing he can name and says: this is who God is. Perfect in action, just in all ways, faithful.

The people wander; the Rock does not.

That word — tzur — shows up five times in the song. It's the refrain underneath the melody of accusation and consequence. Whatever else happens, the foundation holds.

I thought about that last night at break-fast. Our rabbi had said something during Ne'ilah about the gates closing as an act of mercy — not shutting us out, but holding us in.

A woman I didn't recognize was at our table — first time at shul, she said, visiting a friend. She asked what happens after Yom Kippur, what comes next. I wanted to say everything, but I said: now the joy starts.

Earlier this week, the Jerusalem Post reported on Jewish college students across the country holding enormous Rosh Hashanah dinners on their campuses.

Three hundred fifty students at the Chabad at Pitt. Five roommates at the University of Michigan who rented tables and chairs and cooked for seventy people in their parking lot, running dishes between apartments because they needed more ovens.

Students wearing their Magen David necklaces visibly on campuses that had been hostile to them for two years. Not because the hostility stopped. Because the holiday came and they showed up anyway.

Young growth receiving the rain.

Moses knew he wouldn't cross the Jordan. He knew the people would fail again — the song says so explicitly. He sang it anyway. And the frame he chose for that song was not a warning but a wish: let my words fall like rain. Let them land on something living. Let them sink in.

There's a line near the end of the parsha, after the song is finished and Moses steps back into prose:

כִּ֠י לֹא־דָבָ֨ר רֵ֥ק הוּא֙ מִכֶּ֔ם כִּי־ה֖וּא חַיֵּיכֶ֑ם וּבַדָּבָ֣ר הַזֶּ֗ה תַּאֲרִ֤יכוּ יָמִים֙ עַל־הָ֣אֲדָמָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֨ר אַתֶּ֜ם עֹבְרִ֧ים אֶת־הַיַּרְדֵּ֛ן שָׁ֖מָּה לְרִשְׁתָּֽהּ׃ For this is not a trifling thing for you: it is your very life; through it you shall long endure on the land that you are to possess upon crossing the Jordan.

— Devarim 32:47

Not trifling. Not an artifact or an heirloom or a tradition you keep out of habit. Your life. Seventy students in a parking lot in Ann Arbor knew that, even if they couldn't have named the verse. The woman at our break-fast table knew it too, or she wouldn't have asked what comes next.

The rain doesn't fall all at once. It doesn't need to. It falls on young growth, on grass, on whatever is ready to receive it. The song carries the storm inside it, but the frame is gentleness — the patient, persistent work of water on living things.

The coffee was good. The morning was quiet. The year has begun.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Gift of Forgiveness

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Tue, 30 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on September 30, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Forgiveness may be one of the hardest gifts to give, yet it frees the soul to breathe again. We each know the struggle: we're aware forgiveness matters but often feel resistance rise. Yet forgiveness is not weakness; it is a profound act of spiritual courage and strength.

To forgive is to reclaim our own life--loosening anger's grip and allowing the heart to heal. Forgiveness reveals spiritual strength and unfolds as a journey.

— 3 Ideas —

1. Forgiveness Sets You Free

Breaking the chains of resentment.

Anger and resentment weigh us down as if chained by an anchor to the seabed. Holding on may feel like control, but it only binds us to pain.

Research shows forgiveness acts like natural medicine, lowering stress and strengthening the body. An old tale teaches us to write offenses in the sand so the wind can erase them--but carve kindness in stone so it endures.

Forgiveness frees us from the past--even if others don't seek it. It is a gift we give ourselves: the freedom to rise, unanchored, and begin to heal.

2. Forgiveness is Strength, Not Weakness

The courage to choose grace over revenge.

When insulted, it's natural to want to strike back--but real power is holding back. Classic wisdom praises those who swallow hard and remain silent. One story tells of a visitor who thanked a man for throwing a rotten orange: "I'm grateful you didn't throw a stone."

Such restraint transforms hurt into holiness. Forgiveness is not weakness, but the highest expression of our soul's strength.

When we forgive, we draw closer to the greatness of our spiritual selves.

3. Forgiveness is a Journey

A process of daily choices toward peace.

Forgiveness happens in a moment--but also unfolds over time. Memories return, and we may need to forgive again and again.

We nurture forgiveness by remembering the times we've been forgiven and imagining how good it can feel to forgive. It grows easier when we recall our own need for mercy--none of us is perfect.

To forgive never means condoning harm or exposing ourselves to it. It means releasing ourselves from the prison of bitterness and anger.

— 2 Quotes —

"You shall not hate your brother in your heart… you shall not bear a grudge."

— Leviticus 19:17–18

"An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind."

— Mahatma Gandhi

— 1 Question —

Who in your life could you forgive--or ask forgiveness from--to bring peace this week?

Forgiveness rarely happens in one sweeping moment. It is a point and a process, growing little by little as we choose peace over bitterness. With each step, the soul becomes lighter and freer--and as we forgive others, life, in its mysterious way, often moves others to forgive us.

Until next time,

Wishing you sparks of peace that light your way.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Think of someone you've forgiven—or want to forgive. How did that change, or how might it change, your spirit's freedom? Hit reply and share your thoughts. Your story may inspire others.

May Your Doors Be Open

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 26 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 26, 2025.

I hope everyone had a meaningful and delicious Rosh Hashanah!

I was going to skip this week, but I have a chag-related story I just had to share.

Last weekend, I was hanging out with some friends in the park. One of them, who was also stuck in Israel during the 12-Day War, looked like she was in a state of bliss as she was dancing to Hasidic music playing from someone’s phone speaker.

I wish I could have captured the moment forever: her long hair swaying behind her back as she tilted her head toward the sunny sky, smiling.

When I walked up to her, she exclaimed, “I’m so ready for the High Holidays!” She really looked it. I muttered, “Really? Can’t relate,” in a tone that sounded like how this emoji looks: 😒

You see, ever since I returned home from Israel, I’ve felt as if a part of myself has been missing—or rather, that I left a part of myself there. I’ve carried a heaviness I’ve been trying to lighten through prayer, purpose, even therapy. I’ve felt like the last panel in this award-winning graphic essay.

So it was hard for me to match my friend’s spiritual energy. Until she told me a story.

She began telling me how she she’d been feeling disconnected from everything after her trip to Israel. I instantly perked up, because she put into words something I had been feeling too.

“It was like my spiritual doors were closed. Literal ones, even: I tried visiting the Kotel for the first time and they weren’t letting anybody in because of the war,” my friend told me.

Not long after her return home, she attended a Jewish silent meditation retreat, where a teacher/spiritual guide told her to sit with her disconnectedness. It’s okay; the doors will open when they are ready.

A few weeks later, she happened to walk by 770, the famed Chabad World Headquarters in Brooklyn, and someone told her the Rebbe’s office was open to women that day (it normally isn’t); would she like to come inside? She entered, felt the spiritual energy of the room, picked up a book, and began to daven. Though she didn’t know much Hebrew, she recognized the prayer she opened to, a phrase from Hallel (Psalm 118:25):

ָנָּא ה’ הוֹשִׁיעָה נָּא, אָנָּא ה’ הַצְלִיחָה נָּא

Ana Adonai hoshi‘ah na, Ana Adonai hatzliḥah na

Please, Lord, save [us] now, Please, Lord, grant [us] success now.

This line is often said as an urgent plea. My friend felt comforted after having opened to this prayer, much like the time in Israel when I randomly opened a siddur and landed on the “Accepting the Sovereignty of Heaven” prayer.

Standing together in the park on that beautiful day, my friend told me, “Rosh Hashanah is when the gates of Heaven open up for us all. You’re doing okay, and your doors will open too,” like an assuring angel whispering in my ear.

I was looking for a pic from Israel by a door and I found one! Even if it was a door 2,100 years ago.

I asked what I can do to uplift myself spiritually during this time. She shared that she’s been praying more, specifically reciting Modeh Ani, the morning prayer of gratitude and something I’ve been saying every morning (not just on Shabbat morning like I used to). She’s also been saying prayers before bed, something I’ve actually been thinking of doing.

She then spoke on the importance of forgiveness, a theme during these Days of Awe. She said while it’s important to forgive, it’s also okay to think about what relationships no longer serve you, which is also something I’ve been thinking about (and something a lot of Jews have had to do in the past two years, unfortunately).

We hugged, and I walked away from that conversation feeling ready for the High Holidays. I’ve been marinating in that powerful conversation all week, thinking of how to realign myself, what to add and subtract from my life.

“Pay attention to who is around you and the people you come across on Rosh Hashanah, for this was the day people were created.” My friend also said these words to me, and since then, I’ve had weird synchronicity involving things/places in my life… and it’s only been a few days of 5786!

Me and my bro in 2013. This door to the Lutheran Hospice Guest House in Jerusalem was definitely closed off to us. (Also, what is this outfit??)

I can’t wait to see what meaningful, beautiful, woo-woo Jewish magic lies in store for me this year.

Last week, my colleague led a beautiful Rosh Hashanah teaching that included the following from Rabbi Sharon Cohen Aniseld’s Rosh Hashanah message this year to Hebrew College:

“… teshuva is not about the impossible fantasy of returning to what was. That fantasy is profoundly understandable, born as it so often is out of grief, but it is nostalgia—not teshuva.

Teshuva entails a different kind of return—arduous, uncertain, unpredictable, and alive. It is a return not to what was, but to what is and what might be. It is a return not to who we were, but to who we long to be. It is a return not to an irretrievable past, but to each other and to God. In this sense, the call to teshuva is a call to both belonging and becoming.”

Real teshuva is coming home to yourself. Instead of longing to return to the support and spirituality I felt in June, I can bring parts of that time into my life here, now: continuing to study Hebrew, praying, listening to Israeli music and watching Israeli shows (Shababnikim!!), cooking Israeli cuisine, going to marches in support of the hostages still in Gaza, and staying in touch with my friends from the trip. And when all else fails, I can listen to happy Hasidic music like my friend, and like that famous Hasidic Rebbe once recommended to me.

I can already feel my doors beginning to open, or maybe just slowly letting in some light. I hope the same happens for you, however you’re seeking it.

Shabbat Shalom. Sending love and light,

P.S. If you’d like to talk spirituality and how it connects to Jews as a people, sign up for virtual Jewish book club! We’ll discuss Sarah Hurwitz’s new book, As a Jew, on 10/26.

💦 If you like Jewish spirituality, check out:

The Last Walk

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 26 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

My husband baked twenty-four loaves of challah for Rosh Hashanah. Two dozen.

Our kitchen looked like a bakery that had lost control of its inventory. Round challot for the new year — some plain, some with raisins — stacked on every available surface, wrapped in paper bags, cooling on racks.

The thing about our challah is that people have opinions about it. Strong opinions. The kind of opinions that make someone at the Rosh Hashanah dinner say, with complete seriousness, that she was packing two extra loaves in her carry-on for her family in Cincinnati.

Homemade. Kosher. Braided by hand in our kitchen.

Apparently this is better than what most people are used to, and once you've had it, store-bought is a hard sell. I can't say we disagree.

I watched the loaves go out the door — to friends, to the people at the dinners we attended — and I kept thinking about a verse from this week's parsha.

Parashat Vayeilech is the shortest portion in the Torah. Thirty verses. It covers the last day of Moshe's life, and the first word tells you everything: vayeilech — and he went. On his last day, the leader does not summon the people. He goes to them.

וַיֵּ֖לֶךְ מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיְדַבֵּ֛ר אֶת־הַדְּבָרִ֥ים הָאֵ֖לֶּה אֶל־כׇּל־יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ Moses went and spoke these things to all Israel.

— Devarim 31:1

He is a hundred and twenty years old. He knows he will not cross the Jordan. God has told him as much. And his response — on the last day, knowing what he knows — is to walk to the people and speak to them.

He does not retreat. He does not grieve in private, or at least the text doesn't record it. He goes.

What does he say when he gets there? Two things. First: I am old, and I cannot lead you anymore. Second: be strong.

חִזְק֣וּ וְאִמְצ֔וּ אַל־תִּֽירְא֥וּ וְאַל־תַּעַרְצ֖וּ מִפְּנֵיהֶ֑ם כִּ֣י ׀ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֗יךָ ה֚וּא הַהֹלֵ֣ךְ עִמָּ֔ךְ לֹ֥א יַרְפְּךָ֖ וְלֹ֥א יַעַזְבֶֽךָּ׃ Be strong and resolute; be not in fear or in dread of them, for it is indeed the ETERNAL your God who marches with you—who will not fail you or forsake you.

— Devarim 31:6

Chizku v'imtzu. Be strong and resolute. He says it to the people in verse 6. He says it again to Joshua in verse 7. God says it to Joshua in verse 23. Three times in thirty verses. The parsha has one message and it means it.

This is Shabbat Shuva — the Shabbat of Return, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We stood for judgment. We will stand again.

The days between are supposed to be for teshuvah — turning, examining, repairing. It is a strange week. You have just heard the shofar with all those piercing blasts meant to wake something up in you, and then the ordinary world returns and you have to take out the recycling and answer emails. The urgency of the shofar fades before the kitchen is clean.

Vayeilech lands on this Shabbat and it fits perfectly, because the parsha is also about what comes after. Moshe is done leading. The wilderness is nearly done. The Jordan is right there.

And what Moshe does — with his last breath of authority — is hand the Torah to the Levites, charge Joshua publicly, and give one of the most extraordinary commandments in the entire text: Hakhel.

הַקְהֵ֣ל אֶת־הָעָ֗ם הָֽאֲנָשִׁ֤ים וְהַנָּשִׁים֙ וְהַטַּ֔ף וְגֵרְךָ֖ אֲשֶׁ֣ר בִּשְׁעָרֶ֑יךָ לְמַ֨עַן יִשְׁמְע֜וּ וּלְמַ֣עַן יִלְמְד֗וּ וְיָֽרְאוּ֙ אֶת־יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֔ם וְשָׁמְר֣וּ לַעֲשׂ֔וֹת אֶת־כׇּל־דִּבְרֵ֖י הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּֽאת׃ Gather the people—men, women, children, and the strangers in your communities—that they may hear and so learn to revere the ETERNAL your God and to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching.

— Devarim 31:12

Gather the people. All of them. The men, the women, the children, and — right there in the verse — the ger, the stranger in your gates. Everyone hears the Torah read aloud, every seven years, at Sukkot. No one is excluded. No one has to earn their way in. You show up, you hear the words.

I think about that verse when I think about the challah going out the door. Twenty-four loaves, braided and baked and given away. Some went to people who have been keeping Rosh Hashanah their entire lives. Some went, apparently, to Cincinnati.

The week before Rosh Hashanah, Israel's Central Bureau of Statistics released its annual population report.

A hundred and seventy-nine thousand babies were born in the past year.

And — here's the number that stops you — ninety-one percent of Israelis report being satisfied with their lives.

In a country that has been at war for nearly two years. In a country where the hostages are still being held. Ninety-one percent.

Chizku v'imtzu, said three times in a single parsha, lived out by a population that refuses to stop building, baking, birthing, and showing up to shul.

That is what Moshe is doing on his last day. He is not mourning. He is walking toward the people and telling them what matters: you will be strong, you will gather, you will teach your children, and God goes with you. The Jordan is there. Cross it.

Shabbat Shuva asks us to return.

Vayeilech shows us how: by going forward.

Moshe's last walk is not a retreat. It is a handoff. The Torah goes into the ark. The song goes into the mouths of the people. The leader who will not cross the river makes sure that everyone who will is ready.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

What is Spirituality?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 25 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on September 25, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Nurturing your essence within. We yearn for a spiritually vibrant life, yet often struggle to know how to reach it.

What do we really mean when we talk about spirituality? It's a word often used to evoke comfort or inspiration, yet its true depth can be overlooked. Spirituality is more than a feel-good slogan; it's a dynamic reality that gives life profound meaning. To understand spirituality, we first need to understand what makes us uniquely human.

3 Ideas

1. What Makes Us Human: Beyond Super-Intelligent Apes

Recognizing the spark beyond biology

Science calls us Homo sapiens, the 'wise humans.' While we share many traits with animals--they can crack coconuts; we can launch satellites--if the difference is only brainpower, perhaps we're just apes with upgraded software.

Yet almost everyone senses there's something more.

Spirituality assumes a truism: we're not merely clever animals, but souls infused with a spark of transcendence. That inner life is the spiritual essence of being human.

2. The Three Unique Capacities of the Soul

Hunger for meaning, purpose, and virtue

Our soul expresses itself in three capacities:

The hunger for meaning: asking "Why am I here?"

The ability to choose purpose over passing pleasure

The freedom to choose virtue over vice

These capacities shape how we listen, love, and decide what matters most.

3. Creating a Spiritually Vibrant Life

Growing spiritual depth through choice

A spiritually vibrant life begins with seeking meaning--asking the great existential question, 'What's it all about?' and actively searching for answers.

Pursue purpose through decisions that foster growth and change. Unlike animals, we ponder legacy and wrestle with moral dilemmas--that's the gift of being human.

Finally, choose virtue over vice by using our free will. Our spiritual identity is shaped by the choices we make.

2 Quotes

"God formed the human from the dust of the earth, and He blew into his nostrils the breath of life …" --Genesis 2:7

"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience." --Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (Philosopher)

1 Question

Where in your everyday life do you feel spiritually alive?

Perhaps in a moment of choosing patience over frustration, helping someone without recognition, or pausing to appreciate the beauty around you.

A spiritually rich life doesn't require a mountaintop retreat or sudden reinvention. It begins with quiet introspection: 'Am I living with meaning?' 'Where am I going?' 'Can I release some of the distractions that fill my days?' Each honest question opens space for deeper connection to our spiritual selves.

Until next time,

May spiritual sparks light your soul and guide your way.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Whether it's sunrise, a song, or a shared silence — what stirs your soul? Reply with your spark, or forward this message to someone who lights yours.

P.P.S. Next week's Spiritual Sparks will arrive in your inbox on Tuesday

What's in Your Jewish Pie?

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 19 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 19, 2025.

Hey y’all! Book club is BACK! I know I said the next book would be The Amen Effect, but our Jewish queen, Sarah Hurwitz, has a brand new book out that I want to read and talk about with all of you!

Join us on Sunday, October 26th at 10:30am ET for virtual book club to discuss As a Jew: Reclaiming Our Story from Those Who Blame, Shame, and Try to Erase Us.

“For this commandment that I command you today is not beyond your understanding, nor is it far away. It is not in heaven, nor in the seas beyond your reach for the Word is very near to you. Carry it out with your mouth and with your heart.” (Deuteronomy 30:11–14)

In this week’s parsha, Moses reminds the Israelites, who are about to end the Land of Israel without him, how accessible the covenant and mitzvot are. They don’t require supernatural effort, distant journeys, or someone else to interpret the divine will for them.

During this time of year, we reflect on the person we’ve been and the person we strive to be. Personally, I like to reflect on how I’ve been living out my Jewish values, like learning, praying, giving tzedakah, etc. These values often overlap with the person I strive to be, but intentionally naming them helps me set aside time to focus on self-development through a Jewish lens.

While the work of reflection, repair, and return may feel daunting, the Torah tells us it’s already within our reach.

With this in mind, I’ve created a sort of framework to reflect on this idea and see where I could apply myself more Jewishly in the year ahead. Something like this may already exist in the Jewish world, but I swear I thought of this in the shower, so don’t @ me.

I based it on the Life Pie exercise in Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, where you divide a circle into six categories: Spirituality, Exercise, Work, Play, Friends, and Romance (though, if it were up to me, my pie would look like a haphazardly sliced New Haven pizza: an acute triangle of Hebrew studies here, a cheesy trapezium dedicated to self-confidence there).

After your slices are labeled, you place a dot in each slice at the degree to which you are fulfilled in that area (the closer to the outer rim, the better). When you connect the dots, you get a snapshot of how “whole” you are, or what area in your life needs attention. I do this once a quarter and then it makes me hungry for pizza or pie.

Source: creativeoverthinker.com

So, what does a Jewish check-in look like? What slices make up our Jewish pie?

I’m not claiming the following slices are the only slices of a Jewish pie, nor do these slices belong on YOUR pie. Just like I prefer a margarita pizza and my friend prefers white sauce drizzled with hot honey, each person’s pie is going to look different.

For example, you could have a three-slice pie (a Mercedes-Benz, if you will) featuring “the big three” pillars of Jewish life according to rabbinic literature:

Tefillah (prayer)
Tzedakah (charity/justice)
Gemilut chasadim (acts of lovingkindness)

Or, you could have it divided by what I call the Jewish triad, the three dimensions that sustain Jewish identity as a people:

Jewish Peoplehood (Am Yisrael)
The Land (Eretz Yisrael)
Religion (Torah/Avodah/Mitzvot)

Or, you could be more specific and divide your slices into Jewish values, like I did. For example, what is it about religion that calls to you: Mitzvot? Prayer? Connecting to G-d?

I cut my pie into six slices based on the values I want to prioritize. Here’s what that looks like:

Clearly I have some work to do in the tzedakah and chesed department 🙃

The good news is there’s so many Jewish values out there! Other options for your pie include:

G-d
Israel
Tanakh
Talmud
Kashrut
Tikkun Olam
Holidays, or a specific holiday
Family purity, if that’s your jam
Hebrew
Yiddish!

The beautiful thing about Judaism is that the list can go on and on! No matter how you slice it, there’s a piece of Judaism that’s yours. May you reach the edges of your pie in meaningful and fulfilling ways.

My friends: have a beautiful, sweet, joyous, safe, and healthy new year. Let me know what’s on your pie or what you’d like to explore Jewishly in the year to come!

Shabbat Shalom and shanah tovah u’metukah,

P.S. Our friend Amit from last week’s Drop is speaking at a shul on the UES tomorrow morning. Message me for the details to hear his story in person!

You Are Still Standing

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 19 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

There is a particular quality to the week before Rosh Hashanah in Atlanta. The heat has not broken yet — it won't, not really, not until October — but something in the light shifts. The afternoons are shorter by a minute or two. You notice it in the parking lot after Selichot, walking to the car in a darkness that arrived earlier than it did last week. The year is turning whether you feel ready for it or not.

Parashat Nitzavim lands here every year, the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah. This is not a coincidence. It is the last regular Torah reading before the new year, and the rabbis placed it here deliberately, because of what happens just before it.

Last week's parsha — Ki Tavo — contains ninety-eight curses. Drought, siege, exile, disease, madness. A catalogue of everything that could go wrong if the covenant fails.

The Midrash says the people heard those curses and turned pale. Who can survive this? Moses looked at them and said: atem nitzavim hayom — you are standing here today. You already sinned. You already fell short. And you are still here, all of you, standing.

אַתֶּ֨ם נִצָּבִ֤ים הַיּוֹם֙ כֻּלְּכֶ֔ם לִפְנֵ֖י יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶ֑ם רָאשֵׁיכֶ֣ם שִׁבְטֵיכֶ֗ם זִקְנֵיכֶם֙ וְשֹׁ֣טְרֵיכֶ֔ם כֹּ֖ל אִ֥ישׁ יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ You stand this day, all of you, before the ETERNAL your God: your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials—the entire body of Israel—

— Devarim 29:9

All of you. The text runs through the whole list — heads, elders, officers, children, wives, the stranger in your camp, the woodchopper, the water-drawer. Nobody is left out of this count. The covenant is made with every person standing at the foot of that mountain, and then Moses says something extraordinary:

כִּי֩ אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֨ר יֶשְׁנ֜וֹ פֹּ֗ה עִמָּ֙נוּ֙ עֹמֵ֣ד הַיּ֔וֹם לִפְנֵ֖י יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֵ֑ינוּ וְאֵ֨ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֵינֶ֛נּוּ פֹּ֖ה עִמָּ֥נוּ הַיּֽוֹם׃ but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the ETERNAL our God and with those who are not with us here this day.

— Devarim 29:13–14

Those who are not with us here this day. The Talmud reads this as every Jewish soul that would ever exist — including converts, including children not yet born, including people who would find their way to this covenant centuries later through paths no one could predict. A covenant made in the desert with people who were not yet standing, and it held for them anyway.

I converted to Judaism four months ago. I was not at Sinai in any sense the body understands. But the tradition says I was — that every soul stood there, including the ones that hadn't arrived yet, including the ones who would choose in, who would stand in a mikveh in Atlanta in May and emerge into a calendar that was already theirs.

The parsha says the covenant was made for me before I knew it existed. That is either a beautiful idea or a wild one. Most weeks I think it's both.

Yesterday, a study out of Hebrew University confirmed what marine scientists have been cautiously hoping for years. The coral reefs in the Gulf of Eilat survived four consecutive summers of intensifying heatwaves — including a record-breaking 113-day event in 2024 — without mass bleaching. Five species held. No collapse. In a year when reefs worldwide are dying, the corals off Eilat's coast are still standing.

The researchers called the Gulf one of the last strongholds of reef survival on the planet. Those corals migrated north through the Red Sea thousands of years ago, passing through the brutally hot Bab al-Mandab strait between Djibouti and Yemen. Only the ones that could endure that crossing made it through. The heat selected for survival. What arrived in Eilat was already built to last.

There is something in that image — organisms shaped by the passage they survived, carrying resilience they didn't know they had — that rhymes with the parsha's logic.

The covenant was shaped by the wilderness. Forty years of failure, rebellion, thirst, death, golden calves, and the constant grinding question of whether any of this was worth it. And at the end of all that: you are still standing. Not because you were perfect. Because you endured.

The parsha builds to the line everyone knows:

הַעִדֹ֨תִי בָכֶ֣ם הַיּוֹם֮ אֶת־הַשָּׁמַ֣יִם וְאֶת־הָאָ֒רֶץ֒ הַחַיִּ֤ים וְהַמָּ֙וֶת֙ נָתַ֣תִּי לְפָנֶ֔יךָ הַבְּרָכָ֖ה וְהַקְּלָלָ֑ה וּבָֽחַרְתָּ֙ בַּחַיִּ֔ים לְמַ֥עַן תִּֽחְיֶ֖ה אַתָּ֥ה וְזַרְעֶֽךָ׃ I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—if you and your offspring would live—

— Devarim 30:19

Choose life. The command is simple and the choice is not.

Choosing life means choosing the whole thing — the holidays and the fasts, the sweetness and the weight, the years when the honey flows and the years when it doesn't.

It means standing again on Rosh Hashanah and saying hineni — here I am — knowing you fell short last year and will fall short again.

It means choosing in again, every time, not because you're certain but because you showed up.

A few verses earlier, Moses tells the people the commandment is not in heaven and not across the sea. It is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart.

Not far away. Not hidden. Already here, in the words you say and the life you live.

The coral doesn't travel to find its resilience. The resilience was built into the passage.

In a few days, I will stand in shul with my husband as someone who has been a Jew for a full season — through Shavuot, through Tisha B'Av, through the long summer of counting. It is not my first Rosh Hashanah in a synagogue. It is the first one where the covenant made at the foot of a mountain with those who were not yet there belongs, formally and irrevocably, to me.

The apples are already in the kitchen. The honey is on the counter. The year is turning.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Path to True Happiness

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 18 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on September 18, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

"Nobody can be uncheered by a balloon," said Winnie the Pooh. But to borrow from Peggy Lee -- is that all there is to happiness? Let's explore how spiritual people truly cultivate happiness.

3 Ideas

1. Happiness is shaped in the mind of the beholder

Things don't make us happy--our lens does. You can have much and feel empty, or have little and feel joy.

One traveler groans through a two-hour flight delay; another enjoys the chance to read, reflect, or meet a stranger. Same delay, different lens.

Happiness isn't about what you have, but about how you see what you have. A spiritual life turns the physical into a portal, not the purpose.

2. Four Spiritual Pillars of Happiness

Belonging, Gratitude, Purpose & Transcendence.

Happiness isn't random. It grows from foundations we can choose:

Belonging: connection to others and community

Gratitude: savoring blessings already here

Purpose: using our strengths to serve and uplift

Transcendence: rising above self, connected to the Divine

3. The lens we choose

From self to soul: habits that shape joy.

Lasting happiness doesn't come from chasing things, but from shaping how we see life.

We train that lens by noticing blessings--not what's missing.

We deepen happiness by serving others with purpose, shifting from self to soul.

We widen it by seeking moments of transcendence--glimpses of order in the ordinary.

These small practices ignite sparks of spirituality that endure and light our way.

2 Quotes

"Who is wealthy? One who is happy with their portion in life." --Ethics of the Fathers

"Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." --Abraham Lincoln

1 Question

Happiness isn't a happening.

What can I do to create and deepen it in my life?

True happiness rarely arrives with fanfare; it grows quietly--through gratitude, purpose, belonging and transcendent connection--until it becomes the steady music of the soul, glowing with sparks of happiness.

Until next time,

Wishing you sparks of happiness that light your way,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. "'Nobody can be uncheered with a balloon,' said Winnie the Pooh. Who or what is your balloon--a source of happiness that lifts your spirit? Reply with your 'balloon,' or forward this spark to someone who lifts yours!"

Standing Strong with Amit Bar

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 12 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 12, 2025.

Hi! Miranda here. By happenstance, I’ve been meeting IDF soldiers both online and in person who have been badly injured in the Israel-Hamas War, survived (thank G-d), and are now living out their life’s purpose for the greater good.

One of them is Amit Bar. I met Amit at the JTS event, “SPOILER: The Unpredictable Story Festival” earlier this week, where Israeli writer Etgar Keret and The New Yorker editor Deborah Treisman spoke about storytelling and editing. It’s also where Etgar Keret signed my bookmark in Hebrew (!!) but anyway…

After the event, attendees were schmoozing in the lobby, including my main man (I’m trying to find new and different ways to refer to my partner. It’s worth noting that ChatGPT suggested “the CEO of my heart.”), and a young Israeli man with glasses and a warm smile. The latter was sharing the story of how he lost his leg in Gaza.

Surprised, I looked down, and only then did I notice the black-and-silver prosthetic leg visible from his right shorts.

Amit was at this event because he devoured Etgar Keret’s books during his entire army service, his favorite being A Glitch at the Edge of the Galaxy. After his injury, he asked Etgar to visit him in rehabilitation, and that’s when their meaningful connection started. After Amit was released from the hospital, the pair ran an event together where they read stories they had written, and even wrote one story together that was published in an Israeli newspaper. Amit is also a poet.

I’ll let Amit share the details of his story below, but I just want to say that while he was speaking with us and showing us videos of his rehab sessions here in the U.S., I didn’t see the aftermath of a sad war story standing before me. All I saw was pride and the desire to give back to his country in a meaningful way.

At a time in the Hebrew calendar when we are called to return to our deepest selves, Amit is already doing just that, despite—or because of—great personal cost.

Note: Amit is in NYC until September 30th and is looking for synagogues to share his story! If your shul or community would be willing to host Amit, please reach out by commenting or replying to his email and I will connect you.

Take it away, Amit.

My name is Amit Bar, I’m 24 years old. In 2021, I joined the IDF and began my service as a combat soldier in the Nahal Brigade.

On the morning of October 7, my team and I went down to the South to prepare for entering the Gaza Strip. On November 1, 2023, we entered Gaza. We had one mission in front of us: to bring our brothers and sisters home.

On the morning of December 26, we were walking in Jabaliya. Suddenly, there was a huge explosion. Smoke filled the air, and bombs went off all around us. The building collapsed on top of me. Twelve soldiers were wounded in the incident, and my commanders, Shay Shamriz and Shauli Greenglick, were killed just two meters away from me. A heavy door fell on my right leg, and I was evacuated by helicopter.

As I was being evacuated, I called my mom because I thought I was dying. It was one of the hardest moments: I was on 20/40 blood pressure, I truly thought I was about to die. But I told my mom I was fine so she would not worry.

Within an hour and ten minutes, I was at Beilinson Hospital in Petah Tikva, where doctors treated me and saved my life. My other leg was full of shrapnel. I spent a whole day sedated in intensive care and woke up very weak. That was when the doctor told me that my leg had been amputated and that my friends had been killed.

A few days later, they discovered dangerous infections caused by bacteria from Gaza, which brought on chills, vomiting, and fever. For about a month and a half I was in intensive care, fighting for my life. Later, I was transferred to the plastic surgery department, where they treated me with new methods and technologies. After another month, I was transferred to rehabilitation at Sheba Hospital, where I began the long process of recovery and learning how to walk again.

I stayed there for about nine months, working hard in occupational therapy, hydrotherapy, and physiotherapy. Slowly, I began taking my first steps with a prosthetic leg.

On October 7, 2024, I was released from the hospital. Today, I still come to Sheba a few times a week for day rehabilitation. One month after I was released from the hospital, I started my studies at Reichman University in Herzliya, because it is important for me to combine rehab with my studies.

I chose to study diplomacy because since I cannot return to the army and fight for my country on the battlefield, I want to fight for it in other arenas such as the Foreign Ministry, public diplomacy, and social media. I want to believe that my life has meaning, and I feel a deep need to live a meaningful life and to give back to my country and society. My vision is to be independent, to build a family, and to contribute to the community around me.

I also want to share my request to the Jewish community in America. My hope is that they will make Aliyah to Israel, and if not, that they will stand with Israel by supporting organizations such as Belev Echad, which helps wounded soldiers.

Thanks again for your support and for helping me spread this message.

Shabbat Shalom, Amit

You can follow Amit’s adventures on his Instagram.

Here is a music video he made starring his new leg, to Danny Sanderson’s song,לא יפריד דבר (“Nothing Will Separate Us”), edited by his friend, Jonathan Gat Pelesh.

This project really captures Amit’s upbeat spirit. I’m so happy for his life; this is only just the beginning for him.

Nothing will separate us forever. Even if the world stops for one day My place will always be by your side All the way I am your lover

You have always been everything to me Thanks to you I learned what and who I am Such a once-in-a-lifetime gift You should cherish it forever

The river will carry us There is no telling where Or the length of the journey And when we arrive I will say for sure

Shabbat Shalom. Prayers from New York,

The First Fruits of Showing Up

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 12 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Last night — September 11th, twenty-four years after the date seared into American memory — I sat in a room in Atlanta and watched a member of the Israeli Knesset take questions from a crowd that was not in a gentle mood.

MK Ohad Tal, Religious Zionism party, had come to speak to our community at an event I'd helped Cheryl Dorchinsky and the Atlanta Israel Coalition put together. The topic was the war with Iran — the Twelve-Day War this past June, some of us have been calling it the babushka war — and the general state of things in Israel.

The questions were pointed. How secure is the north? What about the hostages? What happens when the next round starts?

Tal answered them one by one, without notes. Some answers satisfied. Some didn't. The room stayed until the end.

I drove home thinking about what it means to stand before a community and give an account.

The parsha this Shabbat is Ki Tavo — Deuteronomy 26 through 29 — and it opens with one of the most compressed, striking rituals in the Torah: the bikkurim, the first fruits.

Here's the setup. You've entered the land. You've planted. You've harvested. Now you take the first of what the soil gave you, put it in a basket, carry it to the Temple in Jerusalem, hand it to the priest, and say something. Not a prayer. A declaration.

וְעָנִ֨יתָ וְאָמַרְתָּ֜ לִפְנֵ֣י ׀ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֗יךָ אֲרַמִּי֙ אֹבֵ֣ד אָבִ֔י וַיֵּ֣רֶד מִצְרַ֔יְמָה וַיָּ֥גׇר שָׁ֖ם בִּמְתֵ֣י מְעָ֑ט וַֽיְהִי־שָׁ֕ם לְג֥וֹי גָּד֖וֹל עָצ֥וּם וָרָֽב׃ You shall then recite as follows before the ETERNAL your God: "My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation.

— Devarim 26:5

The declaration continues: the Egyptians oppressed us. We cried out. God heard. God freed us with a mighty hand and brought us to this place, a land flowing with milk and honey. And now — here are the first fruits.

If the words sound familiar, they should. This is the core text of the Passover Haggadah. Every spring, at every seder table from Brooklyn to Buenos Aires, Jews recite a version of this passage.

But in the parsha, the context is different.

At the seder, the community recites it together. In Ki Tavo, a single farmer says it — standing alone in the Temple courtyard, basket in hand, speaking to a priest.

One person. One basket. A whole national history compressed into a few sentences.

I was nothing. I was enslaved. I was freed. I arrived. Here is the fruit.

That's what Ohad Tal was doing last night, in his way. Standing in a room in Atlanta and reciting, in contemporary terms, the compressed version of where Israel has been. October 7th. The war in Gaza. The northern front. Twelve days of direct war with Iran. The hostages. The losses. The gains. And then taking the questions — the hard ones, the ones without clean answers — because standing before a community and giving an account is what you do when you've arrived somewhere, even if the arriving isn't finished.

Ki Tavo means "when you come." Not "after you've come." Not "once you've settled in." When. The declaration happens in the middle of the process.

You're still planting. The land is still new. But you bring what you have and you say: here is what happened to get me here.

And then the Torah does something I keep returning to. After the declaration, after the tithes, after the entire recitation of national suffering and divine rescue, comes this:

וְשָׂמַחְתָּ֣ בְכׇל־הַטּ֗וֹב אֲשֶׁ֧ר נָֽתַן־לְךָ֛ יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ וּלְבֵיתֶ֑ךָ אַתָּה֙ וְהַלֵּוִ֔י וְהַגֵּ֖ר אֲשֶׁ֥ר בְּקִרְבֶּֽךָ׃ And you shall enjoy, together with the Levite and the stranger in your midst, all the bounty that the ETERNAL your God has bestowed upon you and your household.

— Devarim 26:11

V'samachta b'chol hatov. You shall rejoice in all the good. The joy is commanded — and it follows the suffering.

You don't rejoice because you've forgotten the Aramean wandering, the Egyptian labor, the crying out.

You rejoice because you remember all of it, and you're still here, and the soil gave fruit.

The Levite and the stranger — the ger, the one who doesn't own land, the one who depends on the community's welcome — they are included in the celebration. The joy is not private. You brought one basket, but you share it.

Two days from now, in Manhattan, an Israeli singer named Akiva will take the stage at the United Palace Theatre for a concert in partnership with Yeshiva University.

Akiva grew up in the hills of Samaria. His father was a chazzan. He blends liturgical melody with contemporary Israeli sound — selichot and shofar alongside songs that pack stadiums in Tel Aviv. Three thousand people are expected. Rosh Hashanah is days away.

An Israeli artist carrying the first fruits of where he comes from into a room full of Jews in New York, in the final days of Elul — that is bikkurim in a different key.

The basket looks different. The declaration is a concert. But the structure is the same: here is what the land gave me. Come share it.

Ki Tavo always lands in Elul, the month of preparation before Rosh Hashanah. The shofar is blown every morning. The inner accounting has begun.

Two weeks from now we'll stand before God and recite our own compressed histories — what we did, where we fell short, what we're asking for.

But before all of that, the parsha says: rejoice. Name the suffering. Recite the history. Bring what you have. And then — v'samachta — find the joy in all the good.

Last night, after the last question, after the pointed exchanges and the complicated answers, something shifted in the room. People stayed to talk. They shook Tal's hand. They thanked Cheryl. They lingered. It looked, from where I stood, like a community that had just brought its basket to the front of the room and was working out how to share what was in it.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Friends Lift Our Soul

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 11 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on September 11, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Friends gathered outdoors on a crisp fall evening, a roaring fire warming the circle, hot chocolate mugs in hand. I was reminded of this recently when I shared ice cream and laughter with dear friends. Laughter rising, stories flowing, hearts opening. What could be better? True friendship is one of life's deepest joys -- and one of the soul's greatest gifts.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. The Invisible Thread of Soul Connection

What transforms pleasant gatherings into deep soul-connection? Built on trust, vulnerability and accountability, true friendship stretches across distance and time.

Even in a friend's absence we feel their presence -- like a quiet current of connection. They help us become fully ourselves, more attuned to our spiritual essence.

When people connect with love and sincerity, spiritual vibrancy surges between them like electricity.

2. Friendship as the Path of Spiritual Growth

True friendship isn't just companionship, but a catalyst for the soul.

They love us enough to gently steer us when we're drifting toward the edge.

And our friends presence awakens the best in us, helping us to live closer to our spiritual values. A true friend doesn't just walk beside you -- they help you rise.

3. The Diamond Carver -- Turning Flaws Into Gems

Every friendship carries scratches and imperfection. The deepest ones don't ignore them, but transform them.

Like the artisan who carved a rose from a flawed diamond, spiritually bonded-friends help us turn wounds into wisdom. They offer only loving correction.

Their care is intentional, invested and enduring, even when it's not easy. A true friend doesn't see flaws as defects, but as invitations to beauty.

📜 2 Quotes

"...you shall love your friend as yourself..." -- Leviticus 19:18

"A true friend is someone who thinks you're a good egg even though they know you're slightly cracked." -- Bernard Meltzer

❓ 1 Question

When has a friend's presence lifted your soul in a way you'll never forget? What did they say or do that stayed with you?

Let's remember: Every true friendship carries sparks of the soul, creating connections that uplift our spirit.

Until next time,

May your friendships bring laughter, honesty, and comfort. And may they connect your souls to live with meaning and joy.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

Spiritual Sparks is your weekly dose of 3 ideas, 2 quotes, and 1 question for the soul.

P.S. Remember the old saying, "Friends are like stars; you don't always see them, but you know they're there"? Who's that star for you, and why? Hit reply and let me know.

If this message on friendship made you think of a friend or two, forward it to them or invite them to join. Together we're building a circle of hundreds of readers who share a spark of meaning each week. Want to make it easy? Just click here to send them a quick email and share a spark today.

3 Things Bringing Me Jewish Joy Right Now

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 05 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 5, 2025.

Hi friends,

With summer winding down and real life kicking in, plus the fact that the High Holidays are right around the corner (ahhh), I thought I’d share some Jewish joys that have been grounding me.

Today marks day 700 of this horrible war, with 48 hostages still in Gaza. I don’t know about you, but I’m trying to be more proactive in finding ways to uplift myself Jewishly. Here are some ways I’m doing that.

1. Mango Languages

When I tell American Jews I’m learning Hebrew, the question I most often get is, “What app do you use?” On my long and winding Hebrew learning journey, I’ve tried every app out there. My favorite so far is Mango Languages.

Step aside, Duolingo! Mango Languages is far superior because it teaches you useful vocab and how to actually correctly pronounce the words. When I was in Israel, people were surprised by my range of vocab, everything from al tid’ag (don’t worry) to te’unat drachim (car accident).

I even learned how to say Tzarich latzet mehasherutim ki yesh chefetz chashud (We need to get out of the bathroom because there is a suspicious object.) But if you’re an innocent American woman learning Hebrew on an IDF base, don’t bother saying this to anyone if you really mean it, because no one will take you seriously.

For any time someone assumes you have 17 cows. I hate when that happens!

Mango also explains those pesky Hebrew exceptions and unique instances: “Oh you thought the answer was echad shavua? Here’s why it’s shavua echad.” Super helpful!

Unfortunately, there is only one unit in Mango Language, but I highly recommend the app, especially if you have an NYPL card which makes it free! The app also has other languages. Shoutout to my brother for recommending it.

Donate to The Shabbat Drop

2. Zionist Girls Read Book Club

A few weeks ago, I saw a post on my Instagram feed by a random Bookstagram account I follow which featured a Palestinian memoir. Since I had never heard of the book before, I was curious to read the caption, but disappointed to find the “review” of the book to be just a paragraph critical of Israel’s “genocide” and a nasty statement about Zionists.

I went to the account’s profile, which usually posts fun romantasy, to see if they read an Israeli memoir (like the well-balanced and empathetic Letters to My Palestinian Neighbor by Yossi Klein Halevi), but nope. It didn’t seem like this person had any connection to Zionists, or Jews for that matter. It didn’t even seem like they had an interest in Palestinians, frankly.

Disheartened by the hate, I was reminded of an account I follow but had never interacted with: Zionist Girls Read. Rather than be angry at random online hostility, I decided to channel my frustration into action, and signed up for their next meeting.

From Zionist Girls Read’s Instagram

I assumed the club’s reads would be typical books on the history of antisemitism or Israel’s history, but I was pleasantly surprised to learn their next book was Mrs. Lilienblum’s Cloud Factoryby Iddo Gefen, a novel that was already on my TBR (thanks, Hadassah Magazine!). The club celebrates Jewish and Israeli culture by uplifting Israeli authors at a time when the publishing industry has been marginalizing them.

I had four days until the next virtual book club meeting, and I breezed through the novel, which was easy to do because it was so delightful (and, okay, I was on vacation). I’ll write more about the book in my end-of-year Jewish books wrap up. :)

The meeting had about 15 friendly, well-read women from all around the country. We had a q&a discussion with the author, who is a current PhD student in cognitive neuroscience at Columbia (and writes a cool neuroscience Substack!).

The next book is The Gates of Gazaby Amir Tibon, meeting virtually on 10/28. Sign up here.

3. The New Black

A young Haredi man is stuck standing in the middle of a minefield in Israel. An IDF soldier steps out in protective gear and offers to carry him on his shoulders to get him out.

“You’re going to carry me on your shoulders?” the Yeshiva student asks cautiously.

“How symbolic,” the commander dryly points out.

That’s just one of the many brilliant scenes from the hit Israeli comedy, The New Black, or in Hebrew, Shababnikim. My new favorite show follows the lives of four yeshiva students in Jerusalem who try their best, but keep getting pulled by the sway of “the outside world.”

It’s laugh-out-loud funny yet touches on sensitive topics at times, like shomer negiah and spirituality. It’s truly a comfort if you’re missing Israel, and is easy to understand even if you’re not familiar with the Haredi scene, which some of my friends say is (sometimes) accurately portrayed on the show. Plus, the theme song and scene transitions feature delicious Israeli funk, and the guys are adorable. Need I say more?

Stream it on ChaiFlicks. You won’t be disappointed. And season 3 comes out next week!

What’s been bringing you Jewish joy lately? I’d love to know in the comments!

Shabbat Shalom. Stay blessed,

You Cannot Look Away

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 05 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Thursday morning, the kind of hot where August refuses to become September in Atlanta. Too much humidity. Not enough of whoever is at the control looking at the calendar.

I stopped for coffee at Crema and found a phone on a table outside — blue case, face-down, next to a half-finished iced coffee that wasn't mine. My first instinct, honestly, was to leave it. Someone would come back. Someone always comes back.

I sat down at the table with my coffee and waited. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. A kid came jogging around the corner, patting pockets, scanning the ground with that particular panic. I held it up. He grabbed it, said something between thank you and oh thank God, and took off. The whole thing lasted less than thirty seconds. If that.

It was nothing. A phone on a table. And I almost walked past it.

Parashat Ki Teitzei, the Torah portion for this Shabbat, contains seventy-four of the Torah's 613 commandments — more than any other portion in the entire Five Books.

They come fast: returning lost property, building a railing on your roof, the laws of marriage and divorce, honest weights in the marketplace, how to treat a worker and what you owe a stranger at harvest. The range is enormous. The scale is almost always small.

One of the earliest laws in the parsha is about exactly what happened on that bench:

לֹֽא־תִרְאֶה֩ אֶת־שׁ֨וֹר אָחִ֜יךָ א֤וֹ אֶת־שֵׂיוֹ֙ נִדָּחִ֔ים וְהִתְעַלַּמְתָּ֖ מֵהֶ֑ם הָשֵׁ֥ב תְּשִׁיבֵ֖ם לְאָחִֽיךָ׃ If you see your fellow Israelite's ox or sheep gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your peer.

— Devarim 22:1

The commandment expands. If you don't know the owner, bring the animal home. Keep it safe. Wait. And the scope widens — the same rule applies to a donkey, a garment, anything your neighbor loses and you find. The verse that closes this sequence carries more weight than its three Hebrew words suggest: לֹא תוּכַל לְהִתְעַלֵּם — lo tuchal l'hitalem. You must not remain indifferent. Or, more literally: you cannot hide yourself.

You saw it. You can't unsee it. Now do something.

Ki Teitzei — the name means "when you go out" — assumes you will go out. Into the road, into the field, into the market. And when you do, you will encounter other people's losses, other people's needs.

The parsha doesn't wait for you to feel generous or ready. It tells you what to do when you arrive at the moment. I sat at the table for ten minutes because three thousand years ago somebody wrote a rule about an ox — and because it's the right thing to do.

A few verses later comes one of the Torah's most discussed small commandments — shiluach haken, the sending away of the mother bird:

כִּ֣י יִקָּרֵ֣א קַן־צִפּ֣וֹר ׀ לְפָנֶ֡יךָ בַּדֶּ֜רֶךְ בְּכׇל־עֵ֣ץ ׀ א֣וֹ עַל־הָאָ֗רֶץ אֶפְרֹחִים֙ א֣וֹ בֵיצִ֔ים וְהָאֵ֤ם רֹבֶ֙צֶת֙ עַל־הָֽאֶפְרֹחִ֔ים א֖וֹ עַל־הַבֵּיצִ֑ים לֹא־תִקַּ֥ח הָאֵ֖ם עַל־הַבָּנִֽים׃ If, along the road, you chance upon a bird's nest, in any tree or on the ground, with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over the fledglings or on the eggs, do not take the mother together with her young. שַׁלֵּ֤חַ תְּשַׁלַּח֙ אֶת־הָאֵ֔ם וְאֶת־הַבָּנִ֖ים תִּֽקַּֽח־לָ֑ךְ לְמַ֙עַן֙ יִ֣יטַב לָ֔ךְ וְהַאֲרַכְתָּ֖ יָמִֽים׃ Let the mother go, and take only the young, in order that you may fare well and have a long life.

— Devarim 22:6–7

The reward — "that you may fare well and have a long life" — is the same reward promised for honoring your parents, one of the Ten Commandments.

The rabbis noticed. Pirkei Avot puts it plainly: be as careful with a minor commandment as with a major one, for you do not know the reward for the mitzvot. The small ones and the great ones arrive on the same road.

The Torah doesn't rank them.

And that, I think, is the architecture of this whole parsha. Seventy-four laws. Some govern war and marriage. Some govern a railing on your roof and the honest scale at your market.

Ki Teitzei lines them up one after another and asks you to pay attention to all of it. The ox. The garment. The bird. The measure. Your neighbor's donkey stuck in a ditch. You cannot hide yourself from any of it.

This week, in Katowice, Poland, Israel's national basketball team beat France 82–69 and then Belgium 92–89 to reach the EuroBasket knockout round for the first time in over a decade. Deni Avdija — 24 years old, NBA forward, wearing blue and white in a Polish arena — put up 22 points against Belgium. Israel went out, showed up, and played. In Poland. Under the flag. And the arena had to watch.

Lo tuchal l'hitalem. You cannot look away.

Seventy-four commandments. Most of them fit in a single sentence. All of them assume you left the house this morning. That you will meet someone. That you will see something. And that when you do — when there is a phone left behind, or a bird in a tree, or a team wearing your flag in a country that once tried to erase you — you will not walk past it.

I almost did. The parsha says I can't.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

From Cookies to Cabernet

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 04 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on September 4, 2025.

Every meal carries sparks of the spirit. Every bite holds spiritual potential, waiting to be awakened.

Julia Child once said, "People who love to eat are always the best people." She understood that food expresses love, brings people together, and creates joy. But food offers us something deeper.

This week we explore food as nourishment for the body and sustenance for the soul.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Eating as a Spiritual Practice

Your morning cup of coffee passes through 11 stages and over 125 pairs of hands.

Farmers, pickers, roasters, merchants -- a global community laboring for you.

We often drink without thought, yet every sip carries hidden sparks of care and skill.

Pausing to notice our food and drink awakens gratitude, and gratitude stirs the soul.

In that moment, awareness transforms a cup of coffee into spiritual presence.

2. Nourishing More Than the Body

Food carries more than calories -- it holds sparks of spirit that nourish the soul.

Everything in this world carries a spiritual spark.

Some are easily accessible, like the warmth of sunlight or the kindness of a friend.

Others lie buried deeper, waiting to be uncovered.

We draw out these sparks when we eat with gratitude and with the awareness that food is fuel for purpose: to live with meaning, to serve, to grow.

3. The Soulful Delight of Eating

Eating is pleasurable, and we were created to enjoy it. At our core, we're seekers of delight, longing to dwell in a garden of joy.

Life's deepest pleasures nourish the soul far more than a hot fudge sundae. Yet food, enjoyed at the right time and place, can also awaken the spirit.

The key to savoring a fine Cabernet Sauvignon? Presence -- the same mindful attention we bring to a spiritually vibrant life.

📜 2 Quotes

"...man does not live by bread alone, but by everything that comes forth from the mouth of God." -- Deuteronomy 8:3

"C is for cookie, that's good enough for me." -- Cookie Monster, Sesame Street

❓ 1 Question

What might shift if you treated each bite as a way of caring not only for your body, but also for your spirit?

Let's remember: every bite holds sparks of spirit, waiting to be revealed.

Until next time,

May your food nourish both body and soul. May that strength be used to live with meaning and joy.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

Spiritual Sparks is your weekly dose of 3 ideas, 2 quotes, and 1 question for the soul.

P.S. Cookie Monster says "C is for cookie." What's your "C" food memory -- a meal, a taste, a shared table -- that always lifts your spirit? Hit reply, I'd love to hear it.

If one friend came to mind while reading this, forward them this email or send them a quick invite. Together we're building a circle of hundreds of readers who share a spark of meaning each week. Want to make it easy? Just invite a friend by email and share a spark today.

The Queen is in the Field

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 29 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 29, 2025.

Hi friends,

I hope you’ve had a wonderful summer. Elul is here and we’re back in Shabbusiness!

I interviewed my pal and Jewish communal leader, Sarah Chandler.

Sarah’s appeared on the Drop before, when I wrote about her dreams workshop for last year’s Shavuot learnings! And now that Elul is here, we’re making our dreams a reality. Or at least trying to.

Elul is traditionally a month of reflection, return, and spiritual preparation for the High Holidays. Sarah’s work through Shamir Collective—connecting Jewish spirituality with the earth, embodied practice, and ancient modes of worship—aligns beautifully with this season’s themes of renewal, introspection, and reconnection.

In this interview, we talk about Sarah’s work, including a workbook to help you get into the Elul mindset, and a kit for cemetery measuring candles. If you’re someone who’s seeking spirituality and likes to celebrate the High Holidays a little more your own way while honoring tradition, this Drop is for you!

Read on to understand what Sarah’s holding here! :)

Tell me about Shamir Collective.

Shamir Collective was originally started as a side project, as a way to lift up artists and musicians and authors, and people who are making creative projects for educational programming, like a coloring book or an album, for example. The original idea was that it would be a collective, with people joining in and supporting each other. So if you're an artist and you need music for something, or someone else is a musician and they need art for something, you would support each other in that way.

About half of Shamir Collective is my consulting, where people hire me in 10 or 20 hour packages to help them with self management, long term planning, or crowdfunding for a project, such as an album, or they need a website to offer their teaching services. I started taking on clients in 2017. And then the other half is my own teaching and events. Right now, I'm doing a lot with dreams and with earth-based spiritual practices like cemetery measuring.

How are you helping spiritual leaders prepare for the High Holidays?

Our new Elul zine, Expanding the Field, came out this week. I was honored to work with an amazing team - my editor Eden Pearlstein and long term collaborator Rabbi Aya Baron, as well as contributors Scott Osman and Ayse Birsel. When I heard that one of our favorite illustrators was on board, Jessica Tamar Deutsch, I literally gasped with joy.

My hevruta in London already started using it for her reflections in Elul and my mom already downloaded a copy for herself.

The workbook is designed so that you can either use it throughout Elul to prepare for the holidays, and/or you can use it instead of going to shul. It could be for someone who doesn’t find sitting in rows in an air conditioned building and holding a brick of a book to be spiritual, or it could be for someone who wants to go to shul and hear their cantor, and they also want something different.

Cover design & original illustrations: Jessica Tamar Deutsch

The zine has four sections that correspond to spiritual practices of the holiday season: hitbodedut (praying alone to G-d, often in the woods), shofar (the ram’s horn which is blown during the High Holidays), tashlich (casting away our sins into a body of water), and simanim (special foods that have a good omen for the new year).

Each section has an introductory essay to help you think about the practice, including ritual scripts, as well as some excerpt from the machzor. So you're really getting the mix of traditional and creative at the same time. Then there’s an amazing workbook at the end with prompts and additional exercises.

Join Sarah and Aya on Monday Sept 8 for a free Zoom launch event with Ritual Well.

The idea for this zine started in 2020, when Aya—then a rabbinical student, now a rabbi—and I created a similar book for Yom Kippur: The Azazel Chapbook: A Guide for Your Earth-Based Yom Kippur Journey. Instead of feeling regretful that we couldn’t go to synagogue because of the pandemic, we used it as an opportunity for a solo day in nature rooted in authentic Jewish teachings. This new book can be purchased at Ayin Press in both print and PDF.

Cemetery Measuring

Another current project that includes a product is the grave measuring and soul candle-making kit. There's this obscure custom from the Middle Ages to the early 20th century of Eastern European women providing ritual technology for individuals visiting their ancestors in cemeteries, especially during the month of Elul. They would trace individual graves or entire cemeteries with candlewick and then make it into candles.

What's interesting is we have a lot of descriptions of the candle making, and we have the Yiddish prayers from people who did it, but we don't have as many descriptions about how they did it, or why the tradition stopped. And so my historian friend Annabel Gottfried Cohen and I have been working to revive it, along with a handful of other musicians and culture workers.

Check out this video of Annie demonstrating the practice and telling the history here.

We’re also doing an in-person event demonstrating this practice on September 7th at a cemetery in Queens!

Each kit contains:

🧶 Candle wick (enough to measure two averaged-sized graves) 🪦 Tkhine (prayer) card for measuring individual gravnes 🐝 Pliable natural beeswax (enough to make 4-8 small candles) 🕯️ Tkhine (prayer) card for home candlemaking 🥢 A box of wooden matches with the words נשמה ליכט neshome likht (soul candle) printed in Yiddish on the side

Continue the tradition and connect with your ancestors by purchasing the kit here!

Tell me about your Jewish journey and how it evolved into the work you’re doing today.

I grew up in a very active Reform community at Temple Isaiah in Lexington, MA, with hundreds of kids in our Hebrew school. I wasn't necessarily into what I would now call spirituality; I was more into the social aspect and a standard American Hebrew school education. But it was a very strong community, with family programs from third grade to sixth grade, Hebrew high school, and youth group. I was very active Jewishly, especially in my teens.

Then I was very inspired after my summer in Israel with NFTY when I was 16, which was in 1995. It was from there I knew I wanted to be a Jewish educator and Jewish communal leader. After that, I spent many summers at camp and was inspired by NFTY Northeast and leading services, this idea that you come together and that the kids lead everything. From there, I went to Brandeis, where I loved the Reform community (BaRUCH) and the pluralism that let different minyanim coexist. To me, that felt like we were building the “Third Temple,” or a space where everyone could find their place and respect each other’s practices.

After college, I moved to New York for its vibrant Jewish life. My first job was at the JCC Manhattan during the time they opened their new building. That’s also when I discovered the Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center and the Teva program. My experience living and teaching there an incredible laboratory for Jewish eco-spiritual practice, everything from daily meditation and chanting to innovative Shabbat rituals and holiday retreats. I spent two transformative falls there teaching eco-spirituality and ritual. Teaching Jewish environmental education in the Berkshires showed me that you could live in nature and still have a thriving Jewish life.

I went on to earn my master’s at JTS in Jewish experiential education with a focus on adults, and returned to Isabella Freedman as program director for five years. By 2015, I moved back to New York.

If someone wanted to deepen their connection to the earth and Jewish tradition during Elul but didn’t know where to start, what’s one small practice you’d recommend?

Choose a tree that you're going to walk by a lot. It could be between your house and the Subway, or on your property where you live. Select one that you're going to visit every single day over the month, and just be in relationship to it. We call this “meet a tree.” Go there once a day, even for 60 seconds, and just observe it, or lean against it, and notice the texture or notice if the leaves are changing and just honor it. This is a time where the days are getting shorter, when things are slowing down and dying, so it’s about anything you can do to take an opportunity for reflection.

There is also a custom to blow a shofar every day in Elul, so if you have a shofar or another kind of trumpet, you could blow it every day. There's some really ominous teachings that basically say if you don't blow the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, you'll be blowing the shofar at a funeral, meaning something bad will happen. The philosopher Ibn Ezra wrote that the angels need to hear the shofar, so if you don't blow it for this joyful reason, then you'll need to end up blowing it for this sad reason. It’s superstitious, but it's a wake up call.

If you don’t have a ram’s horn, you can cry out. Because the Torah actually doesn't refer to a “shofar”; when it refers to Rosh Hashanah, we see the phrase Yom Teruah, which is the sound that the shofar makes. And it's also the same word for crying out. The shofar is to support you in crying out, so if you don’t have a shofar, you can just cry.

What are your Shabbat plans this week?

I’ll be at LimmudFest at Camp Ramah Darom in Georgia, a beautiful opportunity for learning and prayer in community.

💦 Enjoyed this Drop? You might also enjoy:

Go Home First

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 29 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

The shofar started this week. Every weekday morning in Elul — the month before Rosh Hashanah — Jewish communities sound the ram's horn. No specific message. Just: pay attention. Something is coming.

We have been home for about a month after a summer that covered Israel twice, Poland, Vienna, Venice, Rome, Rotterdam, Athens, and more airplanes and trains than I care to count, the sound of the shofar in a familiar sanctuary is a particular kind of anchor. Nothing moved. The chairs are the same. The siddur is the same. I am not.

The parsha this Shabbat is Shoftim — "Judges." It opens the most constitutional section of Deuteronomy, a blueprint for the society Israel is about to build:

שֹׁפְטִ֣ים וְשֹֽׁטְרִ֗ים תִּֽתֶּן־לְךָ֙ בְּכׇל־שְׁעָרֶ֔יךָ אֲשֶׁ֨ר יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֶ֛יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לְךָ֖ לִשְׁבָטֶ֑יךָ וְשָׁפְט֥וּ אֶת־הָעָ֖ם מִשְׁפַּט־צֶֽדֶק׃ You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the ETERNAL your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice.

— Devarim 16:18

Judges in every gate. Officers to enforce what they decide. A justice system laid down before the people even enter the land. Moses is building the infrastructure of a society in advance — deciding what kind of country this will be before anyone lives in it.

Two verses later, the most famous line in the parsha:

צֶ֥דֶק צֶ֖דֶק תִּרְדֹּ֑ף לְמַ֤עַן תִּֽחְיֶה֙ וְיָרַשְׁתָּ֣ אֶת־הָאָ֔רֶץ אֲשֶׁר־יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶ֖יךָ נֹתֵ֥ן לָֽךְ׃ Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the ETERNAL your God is giving you.

— Devarim 16:20

Tzedek, tzedek tirdof. The doubling is hard to miss. The rabbis noticed it — why say "justice" twice? Rashi offers a reading: pursue justice whether the outcome favors you or not. Justice is not a tool you reach for when it serves your side.

But for all the attention "justice, justice" gets — and it deserves every sermon it has ever inspired — the moment in Shoftim that catches me this year comes later, in the laws of war.

Before the army goes out to fight, the officers address the troops. The speech they give is not what you would expect:

וְדִבְּר֣וּ הַשֹּֽׁטְרִים֮ אֶל־הָעָ֣ם לֵאמֹר֒ מִֽי־הָאִ֞ישׁ אֲשֶׁ֨ר בָּנָ֤ה בַֽיִת־חָדָשׁ֙ וְלֹ֣א חֲנָכ֔וֹ יֵלֵ֖ךְ וְיָשֹׁ֣ב לְבֵית֑וֹ פֶּן־יָמוּת֙ בַּמִּלְחָמָ֔ה וְאִ֥ישׁ אַחֵ֖ר יַחְנְכֶֽנּוּ׃ Then the officials shall address the troops, as follows: "Is there anyone who has built a new house but has not dedicated it? Let him go back to his home, lest he die in battle and another dedicate it.

— Devarim 20:5

Has anyone planted a vineyard and not yet harvested it? Go home.

Has anyone betrothed a wife and not yet married her? Go home.

Is anyone afraid and disheartened? Go home.

The army is about to fight, and the Torah's first order of business is to make it smaller. To subtract people from the ranks — not because they are useless, but because their lives are unfinished. You built something and haven't lived in it yet. You planted something and haven't tasted the fruit. You love someone and haven't begun the life you promised. The Torah says: go home. Finish what you started. The battle can wait for you.

I read an article this week about a group of LGBTQ Jews from North America who traveled to Israel this summer — some for the first time — because the communities they relied on back home had stopped making room for them. Pride events in several cities had excluded Jewish groups or turned hostile. One man, arriving in Tel Aviv, said it felt like a place where he could breathe — as a gay person and as a Jew. Not one or the other. Both. I know exactly what it means to walk into a room and realize you don't have to leave a piece of yourself at the door.

The exemptions in Shoftim are not about weakness. A society that opens with "justice, justice shall you pursue" follows it with a provision that says: we do not demand everything from everyone. Some things are more pressing than the fight. A house you built and haven't lived in is one of them.

Elul started Monday. The shofar sounds each morning. The tradition says this is the month when the King comes out to the field — when God meets you where you are, not where you are supposed to be. It is the month of return, which is a gentler word than repentance.

The question Shoftim asks before the battle: have you built something? Have you planted something? Have you begun to love? And if you have — go home first. Dedicate the house. Harvest the vineyard. Start the life.

The battle, unfortunately, will always be there. The needs will always remain in some form. It is up to us as a collective whole to manage them while still allowing for life — in all its holy messiness to flourish. But once that's attended to? Come back. Pick up your place at the front line.

The shofar each morning asks the same question from a different angle. Not "are you ready to fight?" Just: is there something you haven't finished?

Elul gives you a month to go home and do it.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Dreams -- Messages From Afar?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 28 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on August 28, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Dreams may be whispers. Could they be guiding you toward who you might yet become?

Mark Twain, Missouri's own literary giant, once said, "Without dreams and goals there is no living, merely existing." He spoke of aspirations, hopes that carry us into tomorrow.

This week's Spiritual Sparks is about dreams -- not just the ones we chase, but the ones that visit us in sleep: gentle nudges toward who we might yet become.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Dreams carry messages of possibility

Most dreams are just our minds tidying up the day's clutter. But classic wisdom teaches that at night, part of the soul rises, receiving messages. These whispers from above and beyond trickle down as sparks of hidden potential and find their way into our dreams. Pay heed to dreams that are vivid or recurring.

Research shows animals dream: a cat may dream of chasing a mouse, but it doesn't dream of becoming a better cat. Only we dream of spiritual transformation: of becoming more than we are. A true dream is the soul reminding us of who we might yet become.

2. Dreams are meant to move us

What if life asked us to join in, not just watch? After all, our time here on earth isn't meant to be a spectator sport. What if a true dream wasn't entertainment at all, but the very moment we truly wake up?

Dreams summon us to live closer to who we were meant to be. They open our eyes to a vivid vision of our future, urging us to pursue projects, reconnect with old friends or make something right.

And when we grow, life grows with us: new doors open, and opportunities arrive that match the person we are becoming. Dreams aren't meant to be watched -- they're meant to be lived.

3. Dreams show us our potential future -- but we must act on them

Classic wisdom warns that a life without dreams slips toward spiritual decline. Many spend months planning a vacation but little time planning a life.

Dreams let us glimpse landscapes of possibility and discover the one that feels like home. Great spiritual leaders were dreamers, and their visions reshaped reality because they dared to act.

Better to chase a dream than be chased by regret -- for a dream without action is just sleep.

📜 2 Quotes

"And Pharaoh said to Joseph, 'I dreamed a dream, but no one can interpret it…'" -- Exodus 41:15

"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams." -- Eleanor Roosevelt

❓ 1 Question

Think of a recent dream that stayed with you. What feeling did it leave behind? What might it be inviting you to explore?

Let's never grow too old to dream -- or too busy to listen.

Until next time,

May your nights bring clarity and your days bring courage to act on what you've seen.

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

Spiritual Sparks is your weekly dose of 3 ideas, 2 quotes, and 1 question for the soul

P.S. I'd love to hear about a dream that changed your perspective. Hit reply - your story might inspire next week's Spiritual Sparks!

Spend It on Whatever You Want

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 22 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

There is a verse in this week's parsha that stopped me cold the first time I read it. I was still in conversion classes. The rabbi had assigned the portion and I was reading ahead, pen in hand, expecting prohibitions, expecting gravity.

Deuteronomy delivers plenty of both. And then, in the middle of a passage about tithes, the Torah says this:

וְנָתַתָּ֣ה הַכֶּ֡סֶף בְּכֹל֩ אֲשֶׁר־תְּאַוֶּ֨ה נַפְשְׁךָ֜ בַּבָּקָ֣ר וּבַצֹּ֗אן וּבַיַּ֙יִן֙ וּבַשֵּׁכָ֔ר וּבְכֹ֛ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר תִּֽשְׁאָלְךָ֖ נַפְשֶׁ֑ךָ וְאָכַ֣לְתָּ שָּׁ֗ם לִפְנֵי֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ וְשָׂמַחְתָּ֖ אַתָּ֥ה וּבֵיתֶֽךָ׃ and spend the money on anything you want—cattle, sheep, wine, or other intoxicant, or anything you may desire. And you shall feast there, in the presence of the ETERNAL your God, and rejoice with your household.

— Devarim 14:26

Anything you want. Wine. Intoxicant. Whatever your soul desires. Feast there. Rejoice.

I remember putting the pen down and thinking: this is not the religion I was told about.

The parsha is Re'eh — "See" — and it opens with a choice set before the people like a meal on a table:

רְאֵ֗ה אָנֹכִ֛י נֹתֵ֥ן לִפְנֵיכֶ֖ם הַיּ֑וֹם בְּרָכָ֖ה וּקְלָלָֽה׃ See, this day I set before you blessing and curse:

— Devarim 11:26

Blessing and curse. Obey and flourish, or turn away and don't.

The framing sounds binary, almost stark. But what follows is 126 verses of detailed instruction on how to build a society — where to worship, what to eat, how to mark the calendar, and, repeatedly, insistently, what to do with your money.

Re'eh is the longest parsha in Deuteronomy, and a remarkable amount of it is about generosity.

The laws of tzedakah appear here in their fullest form:

כִּֽי־פָתֹ֧חַ תִּפְתַּ֛ח אֶת־יָדְךָ֖ ל֑וֹ וְהַעֲבֵט֙ תַּעֲבִיטֶ֔נּוּ דֵּ֚י מַחְסֹר֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֥ר יֶחְסַ֖ר לֽוֹ׃ Rather, you must open your hand and lend whatever is sufficient to meet the need.

— Devarim 15:8

Patoach tiftach — open, you shall open. The doubled verb in Hebrew is an intensifier.

Not "you may open your hand."

Not "consider opening your hand."

Open it.

The Torah does not suggest generosity. It insists on it. And two verses later comes the reason, stated without hedge:

נָת֤וֹן תִּתֵּן֙ ל֔וֹ וְלֹא־יֵרַ֥ע לְבָבְךָ֖ בְּתִתְּךָ֣ ל֑וֹ כִּ֞י בִּגְלַ֣ל ׀ הַדָּבָ֣ר הַזֶּ֗ה יְבָרֶכְךָ֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ בְּכׇֽל־מַעֲשֶׂ֔ךָ וּבְכֹ֖ל מִשְׁלַ֥ח יָדֶֽךָ׃ Give readily and have no regrets when you do so, for in return the ETERNAL your God will bless you in all your efforts and in all your undertakings.

— Devarim 15:10

Have no regrets. The commandment is not just to give but to give without the tightness in your chest that comes from watching the money leave. That tightness is human. The Torah knows it's there. And it says: let it go.

This is where Re'eh does something I didn't expect when I first studied it. The parsha holds two commandments side by side — give freely to others, and feast joyfully yourself.

Most religious traditions, at least to the meagre extent to which I'm aware of them, I'd encountered before Judaism treated those as opposites. Self-denial was holy. Enjoyment was suspect. Generosity meant sacrifice, and sacrifice meant it should hurt, at least a little, or it didn't count.

Re'eh disagrees. The same portion that says "open your hand" also says "spend it on whatever you want."

The same God who commands tzedakah commands the second tithe — money set aside specifically to be enjoyed, in community, before God.

The feasting isn't a reward for the giving. They're companions. Two sides of the same instruction: be open. Be open with what you have, and be open to what is good.

This week, Tel Aviv University announced it would award full tuition scholarships to 180 undergraduate students who served more than two hundred days in the reserves this past year.

Two hundred days. These are people who put their academic lives on hold — exams, thesis deadlines, the ordinary rhythm of a semester — and went where they were sent.

Over eight thousand TAU students were called up for reserve duty since the war began, the most of any academic institution in Israel. And since then, the university has distributed more than forty million shekels in scholarships.

I read the announcement on Wednesday morning at my desk in Atlanta, some what? three weeks back from our second trip to Israel this summer. The house is quiet again. The suitcases are unpacked. I am re-learning the shape of ordinary weeks — grocery runs on Thursday afternoon, Shabbat prep on Friday, the communal time on Saturday..

The TAU story hit differently from this distance. Not as headline, but as texture. A country where a university looks at students who gave a year of their lives and says: we see what you did, and here is our hand, open.

The phrasing in the announcement was practical — tuition coverage, academic adjustment, financial support. The substance was patoach tiftach. Open, you shall open.

Re'eh closes with the three pilgrimage festivals — Pesach, Shavuot, Sukkot — and the instruction for how to observe them. And here the Torah makes its most extraordinary demand:

שִׁבְעַ֣ת יָמִ֗ים תָּחֹג֙ לַיהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ בַּמָּק֖וֹם אֲשֶׁר־יִבְחַ֣ר יְהֹוָ֑ה כִּ֣י יְבָרֶכְךָ֞ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֗יךָ בְּכֹ֤ל תְּבוּאָֽתְךָ֙ וּבְכֹל֙ מַעֲשֵׂ֣ה יָדֶ֔יךָ וְהָיִ֖יתָ אַ֥ךְ שָׂמֵֽחַ׃ You shall hold a festival for the ETERNAL your God seven days, in the place that GOD will choose; for the ETERNAL your God will bless all your crops and all your undertakings, and you shall have nothing but joy.

— Devarim 16:15

V'hayita akh sameach. You shall have nothing but joy.

Not "try to be happy." Not "reflect on your blessings."

You shall be joyful. It's a mitzvah — a commandment, with the full weight of obligation behind it.

Joy as obligation is a strange idea until you live inside it for a while. Then it starts to make sense. Joy is not the absence of difficulty. It's a practice. Something you build, the way you build a sukkah — temporary, open to the sky, and sturdy enough to sit in.

The parsha that begins with "see, I set before you blessing and curse" ends with a commandment to choose joy. Open your hand. Feast with your household. Have no regrets.

The Torah doesn't ask you to choose between generosity and enjoyment. It places them on the same table and says: both. See them both. Choose them both.

A few weeks home. The spices from the shuk are in the pantry. Shabbat is coming.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Love, Giving, and Popcorn

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 21 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on August 21, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Can you define love? We know it when we feel it ... but what makes it grow?

Welcome to Spiritual Sparks. You're receiving this email because you signed up to receive weekly insights on spirituality. Each week, I'll share 3 meaningful ideas, 2 thought-provoking quotes, and 1 reflective question.

"Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round," wrote Lewis Carroll in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. True! And love makes our world go round, touching one of the soul's greatest pleasures. This week's topic is love: how it delights the soul, how it grows through clarity and appreciation, and how it deepens through giving.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Love is a deep soul pleasure

Love is one of life's greatest joys, celebrated in countless songs and stories.

It's powerful enough to inspire sacrifice and life-changing choices.

Why do we crave it? Our soul recognizes love as an eternal spiritual pleasure.

Animals love by fiercely protecting their young.

Human love, though, widens; it extends to friends and the Divine.

A mother lion will die for her cubs, but she won't bake cookies for the neighbor's kids.

2. Love grows with clarity and appreciation

Most people can sense love but struggle to define it. Love is an emotion created within us when we recognize the good qualities and virtues of another person.

We can't love what we don't know. Attention awakens love.

Sometimes love is present but hidden, like yogurt smudged on our glasses.

Remove resentment and ingratitude, and love is released into the soul's open air.

3. Love is strengthened through giving

We often think we give because we love — but we also love because we give.

Giving plants the seeds of love in the human soul.

Parents love their children so deeply in part because they give so much for so long.

Infatuation fades but love endures, as the country song says: "Honey, I don't care, I ain't in love with your hair. And if it all fell out, well, I'd love you anyway."

When comfort and self-interest are set aside, real love is free to flourish.

📜 2 Quotes

"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity."

— Proverbs 17:17

"Love is sharing your popcorn."

— Charles Schulz

❓ 1 Question

Who or what do you feel a deep love for ... and why?

True love rarely arrives with fanfare. It's cultivated through noticing more goodness, giving more freely, and loving more deeply.

Until next time,

Wishing you moments of love that make your soul smile,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

A Blessing from Fred

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 15 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 15, 2025.

Okay, I know I said I was on vacation mode, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to wish my dad, who turns 96 on Monday, a happy birthday! 🥳

Fred has played a pivotal role here on the Drop, from bestowing upon us the wisdom of old age, and then doing it again when he turned 95, to talking about his favorite Jewish women, and reminiscing about the Holocaust studies program he ran at the University of Bridgeport.

But he’s contributed so much more than that in his large life, having served in the Korean War, educating and fascinating readers daily with carefully curated posts on his own blog, always making loved ones and strangers laugh, and being the best father a girl could ask for.

Back in the spring, I led an IYUN Circle on counting the Omer (which I still need to write about and recap our learnings!). Fred attended one of the sessions on prayer. Not the most religiously inclined, he was quiet the whole time, but spoke up at the end when he proposed creating a prayer using AI.

Like many of us, he’s had a fascination with artificial intelligence. His fascination has become sort of a new hobby, always reading about different AI platforms, using Perplexity AI as a research tool, and looking me up and telling me how it describes The Shabbat Drop (“The Shabbat Drop appears to be a well-regarded and thoughtful resource for those interested in Jewish life, especially people looking for inspiration and reflection ahead of Shabbat… If you enjoy reflective writing, cultural exploration, or spiritual newsletters, it seems worth checking out.” Wow, thanks!).

Aren’t his new glasses soooo trendy?

As soon as “class” ended, my dad followed through, and used AI to create his own prayer. For my first time dipping my toes into Jewish education/facilitation, it was remarkable to see someone connect to Judaism through a lens of their own passions. Kind of like the time my friend helped connect a Jew of Color to Judaism through Barbie.

I’d like to end this week’s Drop by sharing my dad’s prayer. I don’t know what prompt he used to create it, but I could tell it was made with curiosity, excitement, and an open heart. As we get closer to Elul and the High Holidays, may we embrace our own Judaism and spirituality with this same mindset.

Join me in wishing my dad a very happy birthday in the comments! And feel free to try making up your own prayer using ChatGPT. Be as specific or broad as you like, and share your prayer in the comments as well.

A Prayer for Peace and Healing

Blessed are You, Adonai, our God, Sovereign of the universe, Who brings peace to the world and healing to the brokenhearted. In this moment, we turn our hearts to You, Seeking comfort for those in pain and strength for those in need.

May Your light shine upon us, guiding our steps, As we strive to bring kindness and compassion into our lives. Help us to be instruments of Your peace, To heal the wounds of our community and the world.

Grant us the wisdom to understand one another, The courage to stand up for justice, And the humility to learn from our differences. May we find solace in Your presence, And may our prayers rise like incense before You.

As we gather in unity, let us remember those who are suffering, And may our collective voices uplift their spirits. Bless us with hope, love, and the promise of a better tomorrow. Amen.

Shabbat Shalom. May our prayers be answered,

💦 Enjoyed this Drop? You might enjoy:

Underfoot

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 15 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Wednesday morning I touched the mezuzah on my way out and didn't realize I'd done it until I was already in the car. Hand up, fingers to the doorpost, fingers to my lips, keys out, door locked. The whole thing took two seconds. I was thinking about traffic on 85 and whether I'd remembered to send a message, and somewhere between the doorknob and the ignition my hand had done what it does every time I leave the house.

I sat in the driveway for a second and thought about that.

This week's parsha is Eikev — the word usually gets translated as "because" or "if." But eikev also means "heel" — the bottom of the foot, the part that touches the ground. Rashi picks up on this. These are the mitzvot a person might trample with their heel, he says. The small commandments. The ones that seem minor, easy to skip, not worth the effort on a busy morning.

וְהָיָ֣ה ׀ עֵ֣קֶב תִּשְׁמְע֗וּן אֵ֤ת הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים֙ הָאֵ֔לֶּה וּשְׁמַרְתֶּ֥ם וַעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֹתָ֑ם וְשָׁמַר֩ יְהֹוָ֨ה אֱלֹהֶ֜יךָ לְךָ֗ אֶֽת־הַבְּרִית֙ וְאֶת־הַחֶ֔סֶד אֲשֶׁ֥ר נִשְׁבַּ֖ע לַאֲבֹתֶֽיךָ׃ And if you do obey these rules and observe them carefully, the ETERNAL your God will maintain faithfully for you the covenant made on oath with your fathers:

— Devarim 7:12

The big commandments are easy to remember. Don't murder. Keep Shabbat. Honor your parents. Those come with weight, with drama, with obvious consequences.

The heel commandments are different. Touching a mezuzah on the way out the door. Saying a bracha before a glass of water. Returning a lost object. The things that structure a life without announcing themselves.

Moses, still standing on the eastern bank of the Jordan, still speaking to a people he will not cross over with, describes the land they are about to enter:

כִּ֚י יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ מְבִֽיאֲךָ֖ אֶל־אֶ֣רֶץ טוֹבָ֑ה אֶ֚רֶץ נַ֣חֲלֵי מָ֔יִם עֲיָנֹת֙ וּתְהֹמֹ֔ת יֹצְאִ֥ים בַּבִּקְעָ֖ה וּבָהָֽר׃ For the ETERNAL your God is bringing you into a good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill;

— Devarim 8:7

Wheat and barley. Vines, figs, pomegranates. Olive oil and date honey. A land where you will eat without scarcity, where the rocks are iron and the hills hold copper. It is one of the most sensory passages in the Torah — not a list of laws, not a warning, just a description of abundance so specific you can almost taste it.

And then, right after the abundance, a command:

וְאָכַלְתָּ֖ וְשָׂבָ֑עְתָּ וּבֵֽרַכְתָּ֙ אֶת־יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ עַל־הָאָ֥רֶץ הַטֹּבָ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֥ר נָֽתַן־לָֽךְ׃ When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the ETERNAL your God for the good land given to you.

— Devarim 8:10

This verse is the source for birkat hamazon — grace after meals, the blessing Jews say after eating bread. It is the only blessing in the Torah that is explicitly commanded. The blessing before eating? The rabbis derived that one from logic: if you bless when you're satisfied, how much more should you bless when you're hungry and in need? But the Torah itself only commands the one after. Eat. Be satisfied. Bless.

The commandment is not for the moment of hunger, when every bite matters and gratitude comes easy. The commandment is for the moment after — when you're full, when the edge is off, when it would be simplest to push back from the table and move on without a word. The blessing exists for precisely the moment when you are most likely to forget.

A heel commandment, in other words. The kind you step right over.

In Chicago last week, a group of parents moved forward with plans to open a new Jewish high school inside city limits. They have a building under contract and the local Jewish federation behind them.

The project grew partly from concerns about Jew-hate in the public and private schools — a school board president forced to resign over antisemitic social media posts, a lawsuit against an elite prep school where the band allegedly played the Nazi anthem.

But the bigger draw, parents said, was something simpler: they wanted a Jewish high school their kids could reach without a ninety-minute commute. No march. No viral moment. Just families looking at what their children needed and starting to build it.

That is a heel commandment. The kind of work that doesn't make [usually] a headline, doesn't photograph well, and will outlast most of the things that do.

Moses knew what he was doing when he put the land description and the blessing in the same breath. The abundance is real — the springs and the wheat and the copper in the hills. And the forgetting is real too. He spends the next several verses warning about exactly that: you will build houses and settle in, your herds will multiply, your silver and gold will increase, and your heart will grow haughty and you will forget. The blessing after eating is a guardrail. A small practice to hold the whole structure in place.

Later in the parsha, Moses asks the question that sounds enormous but turns out to be surprisingly small:

וְעַתָּה֙ יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל מָ֚ה יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ שֹׁאֵ֖ל מֵעִמָּ֑ךְ כִּ֣י אִם־לְ֠יִרְאָ֠ה אֶת־יְהֹוָ֨ה אֱלֹהֶ֜יךָ לָלֶ֤כֶת בְּכׇל־דְּרָכָיו֙ וּלְאַהֲבָ֣ה אֹת֔וֹ וְלַֽעֲבֹד֙ אֶת־יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ בְּכׇל־לְבָבְךָ֖ וּבְכׇל־נַפְשֶֽׁךָ׃ And now, O Israel, what does the ETERNAL your God demand of you? Only this: to revere the ETERNAL your God, to walk only in divine paths, to love and to serve the ETERNAL your God with all your heart and soul,

— Devarim 10:12

What does God ask? Only this. Walk the paths. Love. Serve. The Talmud notes the absurdity — "only this?" As if it's simple? — and concludes that yes, for Moses, it was.

Which, somehow, is not a boast. It is an observation about what practice does to a person. The things you do every day stop feeling enormous. They become the floor you walk on. They become the heel.

In Chicago, a group of parents signed a lease. In kitchens and dining rooms everywhere, Jews will push back from Shabbat dinner later tonight and sing birkat hamazon — the long version, the grateful version, the one that takes several very full blessings to say what could be said in a sentence: thank you for the food.

The small commandments bear the weight. That's the whole parsha.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Purpose ... Why Am I Here?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 14 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on August 14, 2025.

Awaken your purpose: The doorway to a purpose-driven life

Welcome to Spiritual Sparks. You're receiving this email because you signed up to receive weekly insights on spirituality. Each week, I share 3 meaningful ideas, 2 thought-provoking quotes, and 1 reflective question.

Some say that one of life's greatest challenges is sustaining a sense of meaning over many decades. This week's topic is purpose.

Living well may add years to your life, but discovering your purpose will add life to your years.

✨3 Ideas

1. The Human Capacity to Seek Purpose

We are wired to ask: Why am I here? What is my purpose? What is the meaning of my existence?

The ache for meaning is the most basic expression of our spiritual essence.

A giraffe munching on leaves never pauses to ask, "Is this what life is all about?"

To seek purpose is to acknowledge that life is more than survival or success.

Actualizing our spirituality begins not with certainty, but with the willingness to ask.

The very act of asking awakens the soul, stirring our deepest essence to seek.

2. The Uniqueness of Each Person's Mission

You weren't made to be Moses, da Vinci, or Michael Jordan.

The Divine question isn't "Why weren't you them?" but "Why didn't you become you?"

Your mission is as unique as your fingerprint, and just as intentional.

The stars are named. You were named in love to share love.

You are one-of-a-kind, with a shifting mission each season of your life: never lived before, never to be repeated.

3. The Gateway to Purpose: Self-Knowledge and Action

The journey inward is the first step toward living outward with purpose.

Woe to the person who doesn't know their faults, for they don't know what to correct.

Double woe to the one who doesn't know their strengths, for they are unaware of their gifts.

Purpose doesn't live in thought alone.

A ship is safe in a harbor, but ships are made to sail, and so are we.

The soul doesn't seek perfection.

It seeks participation.

When you act from who you truly are, you walk with purpose.

📜2 Quotes

"Teach us to number our days, then we shall acquire a heart of wisdom."

— Psalm 90:12

"Millions long for immortality … yet don't know what to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon."

— Susan Ertz, Author

❓1 Question

What are your superpowers? The gifts that make you feel most alive and help others come alive too?

Meaning isn't something we discover only once.

It's something we cultivate daily, through the choices we make and the love we share.

I'd love to hear what gives your life meaning, especially in the quiet, ordinary moments.

Until next time,

Wishing you purpose, presence, and the joy of becoming,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

💍My Love for Medieval Jewish Wedding Rings

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 08 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 8, 2025.

💖 Help me reach my goal! 💖

Hi friends. My birthday is at the end of the month, and I’d love to celebrate my next follower milestone (because reaching 700 is way more exciting than turning 32). I have 68 more to go! Help me by sharing this Substack with someone you know who loves Jewish content! 🙏

Speaking of Jewish love… Tu B’Av starts tonight! It’s a minor holiday celebrating a major theme: love.

According to the Talmud, it’s when young women dressed in white and danced in the vineyards of ancient Israel, while young men came to choose a bride.

Now known as “the Jewish Valentine’s Day,” it’s common for people to propose or marry on this day. Aside from coupling up romantically, Tu B’Av is also about finding connection—with each other, or with yourself (I made the latter up, but I love self love!). During these challenging times, it’s always a good reason to dress up and connect with someone.

💕👉7 lovely activities you can do to commemorate Tu B’Av

Which brings me to a topic I’ve been wanting to write about for a while.

Years ago on a solo trip to London, I was exploring the V&A Museum, when I stumbled upon a shiny case of ornate rings. Each ring was shaped like a house. Taken by their gold and silver splendor, I read the plaque next to the case and was astonished to learn these rings had Jewish origins!

They were medieval Jewish wedding rings! During the 12th-15th centuries across Europe, Ashkenazi grooms would place an elaborate, oversized ring shaped like a tiny house on their bride’s index finger, symbolizing the home they would share together. Index finger so it’s easier for the crowd to see, and because it’s said that the index finger has direct connection via artery to the heart. Aw.

Medieval Jewish wedding rings from 14th century Germany. Note the two hands that clasp in the band. (source: Medieval.eu)

These rings were purely ceremonial, since most people back then were too poor to own wedding rings. These house rings were often communal, passed down and loaned out by the local synagogue. The Monopoly piece-like rings were too big to be worn all the time, anyway! Kinda gangster, though…

The rings were often inscribed with “mazal tov” to wish the happy couple good luck. Some opened like a locket. Some resembled the Temple in Jerusalem.

14th century ring from Alsace, France. Looks like a circus tent to me! (source: stljewishlight.org)

I love these traditional rings, not just because I have a fascination with antiquated Jewish traditions (priestly breastplate, I’m looking at you), and not just for their beauty. But they serve as a reminder that the home is the heart of a Jewish marriage. Unless you’re one of those annoying digital nomad van-life couples who never shower.

See more antique Jewish wedding rings here!

Is this your first time hearing about medieval Jewish wedding rings? Let me know in the comments!

📰 Shabbat Thoughts

Bringing back another old tradition where I used to share Jewish articles I enjoy. Here’s one on kashrut and identity:

The Wondering Jew

Why I Keep (Kinda) Kosher

A couple of years back, I was having dinner at a friend’s house. And he’d cooked a pork dish of some sort — pork shoulder, pork loin, really, it could have been pork anything. When I hear “pork” in a…

a year ago · 14 likes · 12 comments · Joshua Max Feldman

Shabbat Shalom. Connect with someone you love today,

P.S. Going on vacay mode for a bit. See you in a few weeks! ☀️

When You Are Away

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 08 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Athens has a kosher burger restaurant called King David Burgers. We found it on our layover — a day and a half between Tel Aviv and Atlanta, the ancient city filling the gap between the land we'd just left and the home we hadn't reached yet.

We walked up, ordered, and there on a shelf behind the counter sat two rubber ducks. Kosher Ducks. From this website. Somehow, before we arrived, someone had brought them to the shop. The lady behind the counter told us the person who left them had done so in solidarity after the restaurant was attacked — targeted for being a kosher business. Two small, absurd reminders that the community persists.

I sat with my burger and thought about that for a while.

Athens was a bucket list destination. The Acropolis delivered — pale stone, blue sky, twenty-five centuries of engineering holding its shape against the heat. The streets told a different story. Graffiti we'd rather not have read. Looks we'd rather not have gotten. A general atmosphere that made two men in kippot walk a little faster. We checked the box. We have no desire to go back.

The parsha this Shabbat is Va'etchanan — "and I pleaded" — the second portion in Deuteronomy. Moses is still on the eastern bank of the Jordan, still speaking to a people he will not accompany across.

וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן אֶל־יְהֹוָ֑ה בָּעֵ֥ת הַהִ֖וא לֵאמֹֽר׃ I pleaded with GOD at that time, saying,

— Deuteronomy 3:23

Va'etchanan. The root is chen — grace, an unearned gift. Moses, despite everything he had done, didn't claim entry to the land as something owed. He asked for grace. God said no. We covered that refusal last week.

But Va'etchanan doesn't stay with the refusal. It moves forward. And what it moves into is the most important paragraph in Jewish life.

שְׁמַ֖ע יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵ֖ינוּ יְהֹוָ֥ה ׀ אֶחָֽד׃ Hear, O Israel! The ETERNAL is our God, the ETERNAL alone.

— Deuteronomy 6:4

The Shema. Six Hebrew words. First thing a Jewish child learns. Last thing said before death. Recited morning and evening, every day, in synagogues and bedrooms and bomb shelters. The rabbis built an entire architecture of prayer around these verses.

Three lines later:

וְשִׁנַּנְתָּ֣ם לְבָנֶ֔יךָ וְדִבַּרְתָּ֖ בָּ֑ם בְּשִׁבְתְּךָ֤ בְּבֵיתֶ֙ךָ֙ וּבְלֶכְתְּךָ֣ בַדֶּ֔רֶךְ וּֽבְשׇׁכְבְּךָ֖ וּבְקוּמֶֽךָ׃ Impress them upon your children. Recite them when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up.

— Deuteronomy 6:7

When you stay at home. When you are away.

The tradition was built for this. Not for the Temple, which would be destroyed. Not for the land, which would be lost and regained and lost and regained again.

The Shema was engineered for portability. Say these words in your house. And say them when you don't have one.

We left Israel on Tisha B'Av — the saddest day on the Jewish calendar, the day that commemorates exile itself. That night, in an Athens Airbnb apartment, we said the Shema before bed.

The same words we had said in Jerusalem days earlier. The same words we say at home in Atlanta every night.

The city outside was beautiful and old and, for us, unfriendly. We had walked past enough graffiti and drawn enough stares to know that being visibly Jewish here came at a price. We are not naive about Jew-hate in Europe. But experiencing it in person, sharpens the knowledge into something physical. The threats we faced in Israel were real but different. It felt — even amidst the sprints to the shelters — safer.

That same week, while we were in transit, nearly two thousand Jewish teenagers from six countries gathered in Pittsburgh for the JCC Maccabi Campus Games — the largest Jewish youth sporting event in the world, hosted on a college campus for the first time in the event's history.

The Games opened on Tisha B'Av itself, on the day the calendar says mourn. Two thousand kids showed up to swim and play basketball and dance and be loudly, publicly, unapologetically Jewish. On a campus. In 2025.

The Shema in a hotel room in Athens. Two thousand teenagers in Pittsburgh. Rubber ducks in a burger shop, left by someone in the wake of an attack.

The tradition says: recite these words when you are away. People keep doing it.

This Shabbat is Shabbat Nachamu — the Shabbat of Comfort — named for the haftarah from Isaiah:

נַחֲמ֥וּ נַחֲמ֖וּ עַמִּ֑י יֹאמַ֖ר אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃ Comfort, oh comfort My people, Says your God.

— Isaiah 40:1

Nachamu. The first word spoken after the mourning of Tisha B'Av. Seven weeks of consolation haftarot begin here, leading all the way to Rosh Hashanah.

The tradition places this parsha — with the Shema, with the instruction to carry the words everywhere — right after the lowest point on the calendar.

The comfort isn't that exile ends. Jewish history would be simpler if it were. The comfort is that the words don't change.

The Shema said in a Jerusalem apartment and the Shema said in a city where you feel watched — same six words.

The tradition doesn't require a Temple or a homeland to function. It was designed for the moments when you have neither. And when you have both, you say the same words, and the gratitude is sharper for knowing the difference.

We got home to Atlanta in August. The heat familiar, the house intact. That night, in our own room for the first time in weeks, we said the Shema.

Same words. Same cadence. Jerusalem, Athens, Atlanta.

When you stay at home. When you are away. When you lie down.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Beauty's Deeper Dimensions

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 07 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on August 7, 2025.

Uncover the spiritual power hidden in beauty

Some things catch the eye — but beauty does more.

We're drawn to it without always knowing why. We sense its presence, yet struggle to define it. This week's message explores what makes beauty spiritual, why it moves us, and how it invites us to see and live more soulfully.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. True beauty is harmony between the inside and the outside

Beauty isn't just about appearance, it's about alignment. It's the sublime coherence of outer beauty and inner purity. That's why we're drawn to faces that radiate kindness, or to children whose innocence hasn't yet been clouded.

And that's why some people become more beautiful the more we get to know them.

Beauty flows from the soul outward. When our outer lives mirror our inner spiritual brilliance, we become not only whole, but luminous.

2. Beauty opens the heart and expands the soul

We're deeply affected by our surroundings. A beautiful home or environment can become a doorway to our spirituality, making us calmer, more present and more receptive. Psychologists have begun to explore how beauty affects us spiritually.

But not all beauty is true beauty. Some beauty is like glitter, bright but fleeting. True beauty doesn't distract; it quiets the noise. In stillness, beauty awakens the soul to seek the Divine moments that move us — a rising or setting sun, a melody, a kind glance.

3. Beauty was given to us to lift us higher

Beauty isn't merely for enjoyment, but is a cue. The design that permeates every aspect of the universe all train the soul to recognize the beauty of a virtuous life. Only human beings can appreciate beauty as a bridge to spirituality.

Some ancients saw holiness in beauty, but classical wisdom sees beauty in holiness.

True harmony lies where spirit and matter meet. When the physical mirrors the spiritual, beauty becomes more than pleasure; it becomes a path to nobility.

📜 2 Quotes

"Behold, you are beautiful, my beloved; behold, you are lovely. Your very appearance radiates innocence, like the eyes of a dove."

— Song of Songs 4:1

"Beauty awakens the soul to act."

— attributed to Dante Alighieri, Italian poet, writer, and philosopher (1265–1321)

❓ 1 Question

Beauty wears many faces; some fleeting, some lasting. What image or moment comes to mind when you think of true beauty?

Beauty is everywhere …. if we learn to see with the eyes of the soul. I'd love to hear about the moments of beauty that have inspired you.

Until next time,

Wishing you light, insight, and the beauty of the soul,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

The Two-Space Solution

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 01 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 1, 2025.

💦 Droplets (Announcements)

🗓️ My friend Darielle’s free, online class on the Jewish calendar has been poppin’! It’s halfway through, but you can still join us as we learn about a different Jewish holiday and look at sources—both ancient and modern. Next class is on 8/17 - sign up here!

🎭 I met an Israeli tourist who’s visiting NYC for two weeks to participate in a musical improv class (I know, I know…). He’s leaving soon and reeeeally wants people to come out and support his final show today before Shabbat rolls in. Tickets are $5 each. See you there.

🤭 I’ve been writing this blog for 3 years and only just realized that most responses have been going straight to the spam folder. I’m not ignoring you! Until I can figure out how to fix that, I will check spam constantly.

Tisha B’Av starts tomorrow! You know what that means! Fasting, praying, and sitting on the floor. There goes the weekend… 😩

In all seriousness, this mournful holiday, which always falls on the 9th of Av, commemorates the destruction of our Temple in Jerusalem—the original and the sequel.

We’re supposed to feel this loss deep in our souls. Over the past few years, I’ve gradually leaned into this holiday a bit more, as I’ve done with all holidays since taking Judaism a little more seriously.

Two years ago, I wrote about how inconvenient it is that Judaism’s least fun holiday occurs during the most fun part of the year. I was annoyed that Tisha B’Av fell in the middle of my vacation. I was young and immature.

Last year, I was less whiny, and wrote about how October 7th changed my view of Tisha B’Av since I was marking a tragedy that happened during my lifetime (we tend to mark modern-day tragedies as well on this day). Again, the holiday occurred during a vacation (I need to plan better), but I watched this film about the destruction of the Second Temple told through oil paintings. Highly recommend. That Drop inspired a friend to fast on Tisha B’Av.

Watch on Vimeo

But there’s another theme tied to this day, and that’s sinat chinam, or baseless hatred.

You see, the rabbis believed that the Second Temple wasn’t destroyed by the Romans alone, but that it fell because of baseless hatred among Jews. They saw a fractured Jewish society, full of infighting and social divisions between groups like the Pharisees, Sadducees, Zealots, and others. In fact, one famous Talmudic story blames the destruction on a party invitation sent to the wrong guest, which led to said guest turning on the Jews and accusing them of rebellion to the Romans. Big yikes!

I always thought it ridiculous to emphasize the baseless hatred rather than the Roman attack, until 10/7, when Hamas decided to attack Israel at a time when it was heavily divided politically. The rabbis’ idea serves as a moral message to society, one that still resonates today. And boy, do I love a learning lesson.

Just the other day, a Jewish community of which I am a proud member, and one I hold dear to my heart, saw similar disagreement that led to fracturing, but thankfully not a Roman siege.

The group, which identifies itself as Zionist, was revived as a response to too many anti-Israel or disengaged groups emerging in its borough. While its 200+ members’ beliefs, politics, and backgrounds vary, we all have one thing in common: we love and care about Israel.

But just like Israeli society, we all can’t agree on how the state or war in Gaza should be conducted. We can’t even agree on how to talk about it. Nor should we! It wouldn’t be a Jewish group if we agreed with each other!

So… in a subgroup of our community WhatsApp, one in which people are encouraged to discuss in-depth topics on all things Israel, politics, and the like (and one that I always keep muted), things got heated, which led to so-called trolling, censorship, hurt feelings, and strong disagreements. So much so that a new WhatsApp subgroup was formed for those who felt differently from the direction the conversation was going.

While I believe subgroups only divide us further (literally) and create echo chambers, I think there’s important points to be made here: A) Clearly there’s different beliefs within Zionism. People who know and study Zionism know this, but too often, Zionists are painted as monolithic and it irks me. B) Despite our separate beliefs and thousands of WhatsApp subgroups (all of which I plan to mute), we can still come together as one big community, because of our love of Israel. The members who splintered off could have left altogether, but they stayed. I hope we can continue this unity.

I know there are members of this group reading this, so I implore us to keep showing up: to community Shabbat dinners, to organized events around town (like dining at Gazala’s on the Upper West Side to support our Druze friends), and in each other’s lives. In a world that’s seeing an increasing amount of animosity toward Jews these days, we’re all we have.

Tisha B’Av asks us not to just to reflect on the past, but to look forward at how we can build and repair our communities. It’s when we learn to move from sorrow to hope.

At a time when children are starving, 50 hostages (who are also starving) are still in Gaza, and the war doesn’t have an end in sight, it may feel hard to conjure hope. But after both Temples were destroyed, Jewish life was not. In exile, we grieved, then got our act together and rebuilt. Let’s not give up on the communities that sustain us, however different our opinions may be.

…unless of course, your community wishes for the annihilation of a people, or insists that Judaism and Zionism aren’t inextricably linked, but I’ll leave that for you to decide. :P

Speaking of unity, now is a good time to mention I did not come up with the clever name for this Drop, The Two-Space Solution. Another community member did. So before anyone kicks me out, I wanted to acknowledge that.

Shabbat Shalom and have an easy fast,

The Word That Carries Both

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 01 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Thursday I packed a suitcase in a Jerusalem apartment for the last time this trip. Sunday we fly home. Again. The backpacks are heavier than when we arrived — a few books from a shop near the shuk, and a bag of spices that will may not survive customs with its dignity intact.

Sunday is also Tisha B'Av — the ninth of Av, the day Jews fast and mourn the destruction of both Temples. The saddest day on the calendar. We are leaving Israel on the day that commemorates exile from it.

I keep noticing the timing. You don't choose when Tisha B'Av falls.

The parsha this Shabbat is Devarim — "Words" — the opening of the fifth and final book of Torah. Deuteronomy. Moses stands on the eastern bank of the Jordan, across from the land he will never enter, and begins to speak.

אֵ֣לֶּה הַדְּבָרִ֗ים אֲשֶׁ֨ר דִּבֶּ֤ר מֹשֶׁה֙ אֶל־כׇּל־יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל בְּעֵ֖בֶר הַיַּרְדֵּ֑ן בַּמִּדְבָּ֡ר בָּֽעֲרָבָה֩ מ֨וֹל ס֜וּף בֵּֽין־פָּארָ֧ן וּבֵֽין־תֹּ֛פֶל וְלָבָ֥ן וַחֲצֵרֹ֖ת וְדִ֥י זָהָֽב׃ These are the words that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan.—Through the wilderness, in the Arabah near Suph, between Paran and Tophel, Laban, Hazeroth, and Di-zahab,

— Devarim 1:1

The list of place names reads like geography. These are the places where Israel sinned — the golden calf, the complaints about the manna, the spies — but Moses doesn't name the sins. He names only the locations. The rebukes are coded. Tucked into the landscape, mentioned and moved past. Because he loved them, Rashi says, he criticized by allusion.

This is how the final book of Torah begins. Not with a law. Not with a command. With a man standing at a border he cannot cross, choosing his words carefully for people he is about to leave.

A few verses later, Moses recalls a moment from forty years earlier:

אֵיכָ֥ה אֶשָּׂ֖א לְבַדִּ֑י טׇרְחֲכֶ֥ם וּמַֽשַּׂאֲכֶ֖ם וְרִֽיבְכֶֽם׃ How can I bear unaided the trouble of you, and the burden, and the bickering!

— Deuteronomy 1:12

Eichah. How. The same word that opens the Book of Lamentations — Eichah, read on Tisha B'Av, the scroll of Jerusalem's destruction. The same word. But here in Devarim it carries a different weight entirely.

Moses says eichah because there are too many people. Too much life to manage alone. God had just multiplied them until they were as numerous as the stars. The nation was so alive, so full, so loud with bickering and demands and needs, that one man couldn't hold it all.

Moses's eichah is an eichah of abundance.

Rabbi Levi says three prophets used the word eichah: Moses, Isaiah, and Jeremiah. He compares them to three friends of a noblewoman. One saw her in her glory. One saw her in her recklessness. One saw her in ruin.

Moses saw Israel thriving — and still said "how."

Isaiah saw them straying and said "how."

Jeremiah saw them broken and said "how."

The same word. Three registers. The first eichah was spoken because things were overflowing.

This week, between packing and last errands, I read that Kibbutz Kissufim — a community near the Gaza border devastated on October 7 — inaugurated a new cowshed. The dairy farm manager, Reuven Heinik, was killed two days after the attack while checking on his herd. The cows were slaughtered or scattered. The milking installation was demolished. The farm was the economic center of the kibbutz and a place where children grew up visiting the animals. All of it, destroyed.

They rebuilt. The cowshed reopened. A calf that was four months old on October 7, displaced and relocated during the war, came home to the new facility and gave birth herself. The dairy now produces twenty-five percent more milk than before.

I keep thinking about that calf. Displaced, relocated, brought back. Life continuing in the exact place it was meant to end. Twenty-five percent more. Not restoration. Increase.

Near the end of the parsha, Moses makes his request — the one that every reader knows will be denied:

אֶעְבְּרָה־נָּ֗א וְאֶרְאֶה֙ אֶת־הָאָ֣רֶץ הַטּוֹבָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֖ר בְּעֵ֣בֶר הַיַּרְדֵּ֑ן הָהָ֥ר הַטּ֛וֹב הַזֶּ֖ה וְהַלְּבָנֹֽן׃ Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan, that good hill country, and the Lebanon."

— Deuteronomy 3:25

God says no. Go up to the summit. Look at it. See it with your eyes. You shall not cross.

Moses gets the view but not the entry. The seeing but not the staying.

I am aware of the difference between a man denied entry to the promised land by divine decree and a man leaving it voluntarily on an El Al flight with a layover in Athens. The comparison does not hold. But the feeling of standing somewhere you chose, somewhere that chose you back, and knowing you are about to be on the other side of it — that much is real.

Tomorrow is Shabbat Chazon — the Shabbat of Vision, named for the haftarah from Isaiah: "The vision of Isaiah." It is the last Shabbat before the mourning of Tisha B'Av. The tradition is to sit with what you can see even when what you see is hard.

Moses sees the land. He names it good. He does not cross. He speaks instead. The entire book of Deuteronomy — Devarim, "words" — is what comes out of the mouth of a man standing at a border. What he could not carry in his feet, he carried in language.

The sign at Ben Gurion Airport says ברוכים הבאים — welcome. I have read it as a tourist, as a new convert, as a volunteer, and now as someone leaving on the day the calendar says exile began.

Each time the sign stays the same. Each time I read it differently.

Eichah. How. The word that holds the weight of a people too alive to manage and the weight of a city emptied of them. The word that carries both.

Sunday we fly. The land stays. Our hearts? Two places at once, it seems.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Soul is Your Essence

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 31 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on July 31, 2025.

The 'You' Inside You

There's a part of you that remains steady through every season of life; deeper than your thoughts, your emotions, or even your body.

This week's message is about the soul: the you beneath it all.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. You don't have a soul. You are a soul

Many people define themselves by their body — their reflection in the mirror, and how others perceive them. Others go deeper, identifying with their thoughts or even with their personality. But your soul isn't any of these. It's the deeper "you," your transcendent essence.

Classical wisdom teaches that we are a synthesis of body and soul, physical and spiritual. The body walks us through the world … but the soul is who we are.

2. Some truths resonate because they've always been part of us

Have you ever just known that something was right or wrong without knowing how?

Before we learn words, something within us recognizes what is virtuous and ethical. A Yale study found that "babies, even months old, instinctively favor helpfulness and recoil from harm." Before language or instruction, they reveal an inner moral compass.

We don't begin life as a blank slate, a tabula rasa. These truths aren't learned from scratch; they're embedded within us, taught to and remembered by the soul.

3. The soul longs for meaning more than comfort

Some of the most meaningful jobs in the world, such as caregiving, special education, and nursing, often come with modest pay. And yet, people pursue them. Many individuals volunteer time and resources, forgoing ease, comfort, and momentary pleasure. Why?

Comfort may soothe the body, but the soul is nourished by purpose. It doesn't need to be convinced to care; it simply needs the space to do so.

The world contains two types of people: givers and takers. Our soul yearns to give.

📜 2 Quotes

"The soul is always praying — even when the lips are still."

— Rabbi Avraham Kook, first Chief Rabbi of the Land of Israel

"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience."

— Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, French philosopher

❓ 1 Question

What's a moment when you knew your soul was leading — not your body, not your ego, but something deeper?

If you've ever had a moment when something deep within you stirred, when your soul felt unmistakably present, I'd love to hear about it. Some responses may be shared (anonymously, unless you say otherwise) in a future edition of Spiritual Sparks.

May your week be guided not by what the mirror shows, but by what your soul already knows. Wishing you light, insight, and a deeper connection to who you truly are, your soul.

Until next time,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

*Article Access Note — Unable to access the article, and want a deeper dive into the Yale study? I'm happy to share the article—just ask.

Notes from an IDF Base

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 25 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 25, 2025.

Two Drops ago, I shared a detailed account of my time in Israel during the 12-day war with Iran. If that post started with Chapter 1 (“A New War”), then consider this week’s Drop the prologue to my Israel 2025 story.

As you know, I flew into Israel a week before my boyfriend was supposed to fly in (who never made it to Israel because, well…) to volunteer with a program called Sar-El.

Side story I don’t have to include but feel like complaining about: Why didn’t I volunteer with Birthright like everyone else, you ask? I had tried to volunteer through Birthright not once, but twice right after 10/7. Both times led to me being accepted, having technical difficulties with my application, not receiving help or any answers, and then being flat-out rejected without any explanation, all while my friends got to go volunteer.

So… third time’s the charm, right? Since I was going to Israel anyway for personal reasons, I figured I would find a different program to volunteer with. Shoutout to the Swords of Iron Facebook Group for sharing the opportunity I would eventually participate in, which interviewed and accepted me within a week!

That brings us to Sar-El, a program where you volunteer on an IDF base to help with logistics work, freeing up soldiers for more important tasks. Each base is different and you find out which base you’ll be on and what you’ll be doing the day you meet with the group, so you have to like surprises!

As a preface, I went into my army volunteer experience with uncertainty. I had just been accepted to the program when I learned about the Red Crescent workers killed in Gaza. It’s true that Hamas terrorists were among those killed, but still, I wondered: Was this really the right time to be volunteering with the IDF?

In a war that has gone on for far too long—one that is causing a devastating humanitarian crisis we’re seeing unfold before our eyes—I wasn’t sure there was a “right” time. But then I reminded myself of the mission of the IDF: to protect and defend the Jewish homeland. That’s separate from my beliefs of the government (which are quite negative), or decisions made by an individual commander, who the IDF later dismissed. Besides, it’s not like these young people fighting asked for this war.

During my week on base, I asked the soldiers tough questions regarding the situation in Gaza. I was relieved to hear their responses, often filled with a mix of humanity, compassion, and remorse. Their answers reflected the ethics of the IDF I’ve heard about for so many years, unlike the headlines we read in the news.

There’s a line from an amazing novel I’m reading right now about the Vietnam War (The Women by Kristin Hannah) that resonates with me, and that is: “Can’t they support the warriors and hate the war?”

Lastly, my whole Israel journey began when my brother joined the IDF as a lone soldier in 2010. His choice to move to Israel and defend the Jewish people was the catalyst for reconnecting with my Judaism, which changed the trajectory of my life.

Looking back, it’s only fitting that I was rejected from picking fruit with Birthright in the early days of the war. Instead, I got to experience a small part of what my brother did, bringing everything full circle. And boy, did it leave an impression on me. Thank you for reading.

Names and photos of soldiers have been intentionally excluded from this post.

Day 1

On Sunday morning, I met the group at Ben Gurion Airport. That’s when I found out we were going to a base in the Negev, about 30 miles from Gaza. It’s a logistics base, primarily with drivers who transport combat troops and deliver critical supplies.

It was a pretty large base, but we were confined to a small area that included our bunks, the dining hall, a small lawn with the occasional stray cat, a small synagogue, and a gazebo area with benches and a table that became our nightly hang.

We were an intimate group of 12, led by three young madrichot (counselors) from the IDF. Two were Israeli and one was from Ukraine. Our ages ranged from 31 to 82. We came from the U.S., France, and Canada. Most of us were Jewish but not everyone!

I quickly bonded with Judi and Jill, who are featured at the top of this Drop I wrote while in Israel. They’re two vivacious sisters-in-law who quickly took me under their wing (and who, as of today, owe me a phone call). I also became friendly with Jean, a former French naval officer and linguistics professor from a small fishing village in the south of France who sees all soldiers as “his children.” 🥲 I became friendly with everyone, really, because our group was so small and close!

The food on base was delicious. For lunch, we enjoyed a range of options from fresh schnitzel to a variety of salads. We learned that before October 7th, this base didn’t have a kitchen and dining hall since it’s a commuter base. But due to its proximity to Gaza, it became regularly used so they opened one.

The dining hall was full of young soldiers and older commanders and reservists, all dressed in their fatigues. We sat separately as a group; the soldiers didn’t engage with us. At first, I wondered if they even wanted us here, but our madricha assured us they were shy. To be continued on that front!

That afternoon, we got a tour of the base, which wouldn’t have been complete without receiving our army fatigues. These were real army uniforms that were mandatory for morning flag raising, but we typically kept them on because we became attached to them. I mean… boiler suits are in nowadays!

On my next Sar-El stint, I want to bring my brother’s IDF beret. His fatigues might be a little too large for me though…

Day 2

Our first full day — it was time to work! After breakfast and flag raising, we worked for about three hours in the morning, took a lunch break, then worked for a couple of more hours, and then enjoyed free time.

On the first day, Judi and I volunteered to clean up the dining hall while the rest of the group did something else, and later Jill joined us. There was a lot of work to be done, from organizing the storage closets to mopping the huge floor, which I found meditative. It made the soldiers very happy to return to a sparkling clean dining room. At one point, the dining hall manager called me over and said, “I need you,” which felt meaningful to hear. That’s why I came here, to be needed.

The Three Musketeers - we make cleaning fun!

During my free time, I studied Hebrew and read. I became deeply committed to improving my Hebrew, which was easy since some of the soldiers didn’t speak English.

An example: When cleaning the dining hall, I asked a soldier where a stack of paper plates should go, and I could tell he was searching for the English word for “closet” but couldn’t quite find it. I looked at the two closets nearby and asked in Hebrew, “Smol o yamim?” (left or right?). His face lit up with a surprised smile. “Yamim!” he said, beaming. Who knew that a brief exchange—half in English, half in Hebrew—about paper plates and closets would mean so much?

By our second day, the soldiers and reservists on base quickly warmed up to us, asking us questions about why we’re here and teaching us Hebrew. I was surprised by how generous they were. Our neighbors (yes, we slept next door to reservists, which made it feel like camp) shared their coffee with us, and one even got me a bag of candy. I should have been buying them coffee and candy.

It’s not just foreign volunteers they give food to; more than one soldier told us they give food to hungry Palestinians begging for food they come across in Gaza. We also met the drivers who actually drive aid to the Gaza border. I was curious what else I would learn and discover in the upcoming days.

Day 3

Judi and I did such a great job cleaning the dining hall that we were invited back the next day, but we wanted different work. We joined the rest of the group in the warehouse, organizing various tools and parts, most of which I couldn’t name in English or Hebrew to save my life.

Background has been changed to conceal photos of the base, so here’s me working in the Negev!

Each night, our madrichot ran programs to teach us about Israeli culture. This night’s activity was about Israeli memorial stickers, which are placed on store fronts, bus stops, lamp posts, and street signs all across the country to honor civilians and soldiers who have died in the current war.

Each sticker bears the deceased person’s photo, their name, lifespan, army rank if applicable, and sometimes a motto connected to them. They’re a beautiful way to honor the fallen and really bring the country together.

As a group, we looked at dozens of stickers spread out on a table and chose one that stood out to us. I chose a young man named Shay Michaeli, because he had a kind smile.

Indeed, his sticker said, “Thank you, for with your blue and kind eyes, there isn’t anyone you haven’t truly seen.”

Upon scanning his sticker’s QR code, I learned he enlisted in the IDF as a combat soldier in 2022 and died in 2024 at the age of 19. He is survived by his parents and sister.

I got a better sense of who he was by visiting his memorial Instagram profile, which features photos of him with cats, bubbles, and stuffed animals. I couldn’t believe this skinny, kind-looking man was a combat soldier. He seemed like someone who could have been my younger brother.

Another sticker that stood out to me was in honor of Captain Or Moses, who died on 10/7 at 22 and whose sticker said, “Live like you will die tomorrow. Learn like you will live forever.”

Something I noticed on all the stickers while writing this was that each name was not followed by the traditional z”l, the Hebrew abbreviation for “May their memory be a blessing,” but by hy”d.

Curious, I looked up what hy”d stands for, and learned that it’s Hebrew for “May G-d avenge their blood.” It follows the names of victims of terror, Holocaust victims, etc.

While I understand this abbreviation has deep traditional roots, stemming from the Bible that calls for vengeance for bloodshed, I think the emphasis should be on the person’s life, rather than on revenge.

I just had a nice talk with Phil, my person and unofficial rabbi, about this. He said he prefers the wording because it’s a method of linguistic witness. “Even if nobody witnessed the actual murder, they bear witness to the fact that it happened,” he said with logic and sound reasoning, as usual.

You can look up more stickers and honor the victims’ legacies here.

Day 4

This day’s work was more intensive, as we filled large crates with tank repair parts. Each kit included tools like sledgehammers, chains, and hooks. And let me tell you, they were heavy! The commander and some of the male volunteers doubted my strength, but I showed them. I’d carry a heavy bar or chain and say, “Ani chazakah!” (I am strong). 💪

While I am strong, having help made the work much faster. Here’s me and my fellow volunteer, David from Texas!

At first, we were told we were preparing these kits for future wars, should Israel need them. This left me feeling disappointed; I wanted to support Israel during this war.

But we then met a combat soldier who just arrived from Gaza. He assured us our work was going directly to aid the soldiers in Gaza, and that we were saving lives.

We were allowed to ask him questions, so I asked him his opinions of the war, and how he’s making sure civilians are out of harm’s way. I can’t share some of what he said because it involved soldier protocol and it was off the record, but his answers restored my faith in the IDF and cast aside any doubts I had.

What I can share is how he responded when I asked him for one takeaway he’d want you all to know. He said: “Don’t follow an ideology. Follow your own values.” We agreed the same could be said for both sides of this devastating war.

When talking to this soldier, we somehow got on the topic of his fears of Judaism disappearing within the next 200 years. He expressed his concerns regarding interfaith marriage and less engaged Jews. While I thought his worries were valid, I found his forecast of Judaism to be overdramatized, but remained quiet and more of an active listener.

It was when he started ranting about female rabbis that I spoke up. He argued that Judaism doesn’t permit women in that role, that we should stick to traditional gender roles, and that women don’t know enough Torah or Talmud to be rabbis. I told him that not only do women study Torah and Talmud, but I know and work with an orthodox woman who is a respected Torah scholar. He didn’t believe me and said I must be thinking of her husband. Oy!

We then got into an interesting discussion about whether or not it’s okay to adapt your own Shabbat practices to meet your needs in the modern day, a topic that’s important to me and one that we surprisingly agreed on.

I came alive during the conversation, knowing that I wasn’t afraid to express my opinions and argue with this poor guy who’s fighting in Gaza and being pestered by a liberal American! He didn’t mind at all though.

Break time: After studying Hebrew, I usually went for walks with friends to catch the sunset. The breaks felt strange because of how peaceful the base felt. It was like I was on vacation, surrounded by palm trees and birdsong. But then I’d quickly snap out of it and be reminded of war, especially when I’d hear distant bombs. It was this weird mental jump, going from peace to harsh reality, like how I describe in my Drop about being in a war zone.

That’s when I realized that this true sense of peace I felt was because I was here in Israel, living out my values and interests, rooted in a strong sense of community.

I had to edit out the background because it was the entrance sign to the base, so here we are “in Tel Aviv.”

That evening, we had another program commemorating the victims of 10/7, and read in depth about some of the lives lost. It was followed by a group discussion, during which I vehemently disagreed with some points my fellow volunteers raised. One person brought up Israeli programs that bring young Jews and Arabs together, and expressed how they can’t create real change and might even cause harm, because “look what happened on 10/7.”

I responded, saying not only do I believe dialogue is the first step toward peace, but I know it to be true, and cited my interview with the co-founder of Polyphony.

Here in the Negev, I was finding my voice, and I wasn’t afraid to use it.

Candid photo of me praying in the base shul. I’d come here when I’d feel overwhelmed or wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

Day 5

Our last day… I couldn’t believe it! I was getting so used to my daily routine here: enjoying fresh meals with friends, hauling heavy tools from one place to another, realizing that I brought the tools to the wrong place because I had no idea what the soldier was telling me to do in Hebrew, studying and practicing my Hebrew, and making memories along the way.

I was proud to lead the flag raising ceremony that morning, with all soldiers on base present. So of course I couldn’t figure out how to hook the flag rope on the hook, and a commander had to come and help me. Yes, this was all captured on video. No, I can’t post it but am happy to send it to anyone who needs a good laugh.

Before leaving the base at noon, we squeezed in one more hour of work, which involved cleaning up the base. As a base full of mostly men, it was disgusting! I will spare you the details, but cleaning the base was harder than lifting heavy tools.

Following an ice cream party, we received certificates and pins from the base commander. I also received an unofficial certificate from my friends for “outstanding use of her journalistic instincts in Hebrew attempts to ask the tough questions.”

Throughout the week, soldiers told us how much it meant to them that we were there. They also couldn’t believe it. “You paid to be here?” they asked us incredulously.

One pointed out that right after 10/7, there was an influx of volunteers from around the world, but since then, the numbers have dropped. That’s why our presence there really mattered. It also showed the soldiers that despite the global hate, there’s people around the world who care about them.

Upon our return to Tel Aviv, not even a full day later, the new war with Iran had begun. Thanks to Sar-El, I had friends to stick it out with. I will never forget the time I was able to finally give back to the country that had given—and continues to give—me so much.

📚 Shabbat Plot

Hey! My fellow volunteer has written not one, but TWO books about his Sar-El experiences. If you’re interested in Sar-El but can’t make it to Israel right now, or you want to live vicariously through his adventures, check out this second book: A Passion for Israel: Adventures of a Sar-El Volunteer by Mark Werner.

The book follows his 14 stints of volunteering from 2006-2019. Each chapter starts with context around what’s going on in Israeli news, so much of the book focuses on the Second Lebanon War, Hamas, and Iran. Reading it in Israel was eerie, considering how much history was relevant to the present day, like Hamas kidnapping Israelis, and Iran’s nuclear capabilities.

Mark paints a vivid picture of what it’s like being on base, including the camaraderie, being there during wartime, and his love of Israel. I highly recommend it.

Shabbat Shalom. Praying for peace for all,

Every Stop Along the Way

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 25 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Wednesday morning we drove the AIC group to Ben Gurion. Returned the rental car. Hugged everyone. Watched them walk through the crowds and disappear into the liminal space that is an airport.

Then my husband and I got on a train to Jerusalem.

We were supposed to be leaving too. The tickets were booked. The backpacks (traveling light so our baggage allowance could be utilized to shlep supllies over from Atlanta) were packed. But sometime the day before, sitting in a Tel Aviv Airbnb with the fridge emptied and the donated supplies gone and the Kosher Ducks distributed to their last home, we looked at each other. We're not done.

So we called the airline. Paid the change fee. August 3rd instead. Ten more days in Israel, with no itinerary. No delegation. No schedule. Just us, the country, and whatever we can carry — which right now is not much more than ourselves. But we can give labor. We can buy supplies. We can still help.

The parsha this Shabbat is Matot-Massei, a double portion that closes the Book of Numbers. Massei opens with something unexpected: a list. Not a law, not a story. A list.

אֵ֜לֶּה מַסְעֵ֣י בְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָצְא֛וּ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם לְצִבְאֹתָ֑ם בְּיַד־מֹשֶׁ֖ה וְאַהֲרֹֽן׃ These were the marches of the Israelites who started out from the land of Egypt, troop by troop, in the charge of Moses and Aaron.

— Bamidbar 33:1

Forty-two stations. They set out from Rameses and camped at Sukkot. They set out from Sukkot and camped at Etham. On and on. Most of these places appear nowhere else in the Torah. At many of them nothing is recorded as having happened. They camped. They moved on. They are listed anyway.

Why bother recording all of this? Rashi's answer is a parable. A king whose child was sick took him on a long journey to be healed. On the way home, after the child recovered, the father pointed to each stop along the road. Here we slept. Here you were cold. Here you had a headache. The father recounts the journey not because the stops were remarkable — but because the child was. Every station mattered because his child was there.

The listing of the journeys, Rashi says, is an act of love.

Matot, the first half of this double portion, opens with a different kind of weight:

אִישׁ֩ כִּֽי־יִדֹּ֨ר נֶ֜דֶר לַֽיהֹוָ֗ה אֽוֹ־הִשָּׁ֤בַע שְׁבֻעָה֙ לֶאְסֹ֤ר אִסָּר֙ עַל־נַפְשׁ֔וֹ לֹ֥א יַחֵ֖ל דְּבָר֑וֹ כְּכׇל־הַיֹּצֵ֥א מִפִּ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה׃ If anyone makes a vow to GOD or takes an oath imposing an obligation on themselves, they shall not break their pledge; they must carry out all that has crossed their lips.

— Bamidbar 30:3

Lo yachel devaro — he shall not profane his word. The Hebrew root is chalal, meaning to hollow out. A broken vow doesn't just break a promise. It empties the words themselves.

Nobody swore an oath in that Airbnb when we elected to change our flight. But somewhere in the arithmetic — the need still here, our hands still available, the days accessible — going home would have hollowed something out. The mission would become a trip. A thing we did, past tense, finished. Staying made it a station on something longer.

The train from Ben Gurion to Jerusalem takes about twenty-five minutes. It climbs through the hills and drops you deep under Yitzhak Navon Station. Far underground. Then you walk up into the light and the heat and the city is just there.

We checked into a small place near the Old City. We davened at the Kotel that evening. Hundreds of people at the wall, the low murmur of prayer layered on prayer, the stones warm from the day.

Roughly two months ago I stood at that same wall for the first time as a Jew, ten days after my conversion, wrapping tefillin I had just bought in Bnei Brak. That was a beginning. This felt different. Not a beginning and not an ending. A station.

The sign at Ben Gurion, from each previous trip, still says the same thing — ברוכים הבאים, welcome — but I keep reading it differently. Two years ago it was a greeting. Now it feels like a fact.

Massei lists forty-two stations. Rashi's parable says the father pointed to each one out of love. Something sharper is there, too. The father also said: here you caused me grief. Here you made me angry. Here you complained. The list includes everything — the miraculous and the mundane, the faithful and the rebellious. All of it counted. All of it named.

The last thing this book does, before the people cross the Jordan, before the story moves forward into Deuteronomy and the speeches and the arrival, is look back and name every place they have been. Not the highlights. Not just the miracles. Every camp. The ones where they rested. The ones where they failed. The ones where nothing happened at all.

As if to say: before you arrive, remember where you walked.

Ten more days. The next stations do not have names yet. But we are here — in the city where the stones are warm and the prayers are old and the welcome sign at the airport turns out to have been right all along.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

When Life Hurts

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 24 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on July 24, 2025.

From the wound itself comes the healing

Some of life's deepest lessons don't arrive through clarity and calm. They come through disruption. Through pain. Through moments that leave us reeling, but invite us to grow.

This week's message is about finding meaning when life hurts… and listening for the soul's quiet message within it.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Pain isn't just a challenge, it's a message.

Pain is a reality, suffering is often a choice. What if we reframed pain as an invitation, rather than a torment? A toothache tells us: "Call the dentist." Other forms of pain may not whisper so clearly… but they are signals too. We can suffer not just to endure, but to notice, to reflect, to recalibrate.

From the wound itself comes the healing. This is not poetic metaphor, but the soul's language of renewal. Ego shrinks, clarity emerges, and we begin to ask, "What is this moment asking of me… and how will I respond?"

2. Daily struggles are opportunities, and each day offers diamonds.

Trivial frustrations often feel huge. Classical wisdom teaches, however, that a soul is meant to be so elevated that nothing should go wrong unless it's meant to provoke growth.

A struggle isn't punishment. It is precision. A day is not just time. It is value.

A single day can be more spiritually transformative than a decade of living. How?

When we recognize that everything happens for a reason, and respond thoughtfully to the struggles it brings.

3. Real spirituality doesn't bypass suffering, it transforms it.

Struggle often forces us to ask questions we would rather avoid: What do I really value? Who am I becoming? One recent study found something remarkable: when people face deep challenges, those who stop to re-evaluate their core values tend not only to recover, but to grow.

This is referred to as Post-Traumatic Growth.

The key isn't just surviving the pain, it's allowing that pain to realign you with your purpose. Spiritual growth often starts not in peace, but in disruption.

📜 2 Quotes

"For though the righteous one may fall seven times, he will arise, but the wicked ones will be brought down by adversity."

— Proverbs 24:16

"Get outside of that box that you've grown accustomed to. Go places that you never thought you'd go. Meet people that you never thought you would get a chance to meet. Because that's the only way you're going to enjoy life. Get outside of the box. Make things happen. Be your own person."

— Bo Jackson, former professional All-Star athlete

❓ 1 Question

Has a challenging, painful experience ever become a turning point in your life?

If you've ever faced a challenge or experienced pain and struggle and found you grew from the experience, I'd love to hear about it. Some responses may be shared (anonymously, unless you say otherwise) in a future edition of Spiritual Sparks.

Until next time,

Wishing you light, insight, and the courage to grow through the hard places,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

The Broken Letter

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 18 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Yesterday, I stood in a metal workshop near the Gaza border and watched a man make art. Out of a rocket.

Yaron Bob lives in Moshav Yated — a tiny community about a mile from both Gaza and Egypt. His studio is filled with the remains of dozens (if not more) of Kassam rockets, Iron Dome interceptors, Iranian Ballistic Missiles, and whatever other debris of war the police bring him after the bomb squad clears it.

He heats the metal. He hammers it on an anvil. He shapes it. Sometimes petal by petal, into a rose. Also menorahs, mezuzot, musical instruments. One of his sculptures plays Hatikvah.

He didn't want to touch the rockets at first. They were instruments of death. But after two close calls — one landed just meters from him — he decided he needed to make something from the metal that had tried to kill him. So he made roses.

Our volunteer group from the Atlanta Israel Coalition stood in Yaron's workshop and watched him work. Furnace, anvil, hammer, hands. The metal does not cooperate easily. It resists.

The parsha this Shabbat is Pinchas, and it opens with a covenant that arrives in a strange package.

At the end of last week's parsha, Pinchas — grandson of Aaron the high priest — committed an act of violent zealotry. He killed two people with a single thrust of a spear. The details are awful. The act stopped a plague that had already killed twenty-four thousand.

לָכֵ֖ן אֱמֹ֑ר הִנְנִ֨י נֹתֵ֥ן ל֛וֹ אֶת־בְּרִיתִ֖י שָׁלֽוֹם׃ Say, therefore, 'I grant him My pact of friendship.

— Bamidbar 25:12

Brit shalom — a covenant of peace. Granted to a man who just committed an act of extraordinary violence. The Torah does not explain the paradox.

But the scribes who copied the Torah for generations noticed something. In every Torah scroll, the word שלום — shalom, peace — in this verse is written with a broken letter. The vav, the vertical stroke in the middle of the word, has a crack running through it. The letter is split but not severed. Still legible.

The word still reads "shalom." But the break is mandated — scribes are required to write it that way.

Commentators have debated why for centuries. Some say it teaches that peace, even divinely granted, is never fully whole after violence. Others read it as a reminder that the covenant is contingent on wholeness of character. Others connect the fracture to the fracture in the community itself — twenty-four thousand dead, and the repair begins with a cracked letter.

I don't know which reading is right. I do know that a man in Yated has been hammering broken metal into art, and its stunning, and yet you can still sort of tell they used to be rockets.

The parsha doesn't stay with Pinchas. After the covenant, after a new census, the text arrives at five women who did something no one had done before.

The daughters of Zelophehad — Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah — come forward. Their father died in the wilderness. He had no sons. Under the existing rules, his name and his share of the land would simply disappear. So the five sisters walk up to Moses, Eleazar the priest, the chieftains, and the entire assembly at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting and make their case:

לָ֣מָּה יִגָּרַ֤ע שֵׁם־אָבִ֙ינוּ֙ מִתּ֣וֹךְ מִשְׁפַּחְתּ֔וֹ כִּ֛י אֵ֥ין ל֖וֹ בֵּ֑ן תְּנָה־לָּ֣נוּ אֲחֻזָּ֔ה בְּת֖וֹךְ אֲחֵ֥י אָבִֽינוּ׃ Let not our father's name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father's kinsmen!"

— Bamidbar 27:4

Moses takes the question to God. And God answers:

כֵּ֗ן בְּנ֣וֹת צְלׇפְחָד֮ דֹּבְרֹת֒ נָתֹ֨ן תִּתֵּ֤ן לָהֶם֙ אֲחֻזַּ֣ת נַחֲלָ֔ה בְּת֖וֹךְ אֲחֵ֣י אֲבִיהֶ֑ם וְהַֽעֲבַרְתָּ֛ אֶת־נַחֲלַ֥ת אֲבִיהֶ֖ן לָהֶֽן׃ "The plea of Zelophehad's daughters is just: you should give them a hereditary holding among their father's kinsmen; transfer their father's share to them.

— Bamidbar 27:7

Ken. Right. Correct. The law changes on the spot. Five women who refused to be erased walked into the most powerful assembly in Israel and the system bent to accommodate what was true.

Rashi says their eyes saw what Moses's eyes did not see. The person closest to the problem saw the solution first.

This week, our group fanned out across Israel with everything you — our donors and supporters — helped us carry. At Hadassah Medical Center on Tuesday, we moved room to room through the children's ward, handing out toys and coloring books and rubber ducks. A child clutched one of the Kosher Ducks and grinned. Her mother whispered something to us — thank you for bringing joy. That was the whole sentence.

Wednesday we toured communities in Judea and Samaria and then drove to an IDF base where we served nearly two hundred soldiers fresh meals alongside our partner, the Binyamin BBQ Brigade. Burgers, smoked meats, sides, desserts. The soldiers kept thanking us and we kept telling them to stop — we were there for them, not the other way around. One soldier, the one who drove us home, told us his wife was expecting their first child the next morning. We loaded him up with toys and ducks and sent him off with more handshakes than any one person should have to endure.

Thursday: Yaron Bob's workshop and the roses. Then the Nova memorial site, where we stood for a few minutes in silence. Then Shuva Achim, stocking shelves and preparing meals for soldiers coming in and out of Gaza. Then the Michael Levin Base, delivering supplies for lone soldiers — young people who moved to Israel to serve, without family in the country.

Every stop this week had something in common with the daughters of Zelophehad. Someone saw a gap — in supplies, in morale — and walked forward to fill it. No one waited for permission. No one waited for the conditions to improve.

The broken vav in the word shalom. A covenant of peace written with a fractured letter. The scribes could have smoothed it over. They didn't. They insisted on the crack.

I think the tradition understood something that Yaron Bob's roses also understand.

Peace forged from the material of war doesn't arrive unblemished. It arrives carrying the memory of what it used to be. The metal remembers being a rocket. The letter remembers being whole. The covenant holds anyway.

Tonight will be spent in Jerusalem. Candles, wine, bread. The ordinary architecture of rest. A cracked letter, still spelling a whole word.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Language of Touch

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 17 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on July 17, 2025.

The deepest touches leave no fingerprint

Some connections don't come through words. They come through presence, through warmth, through a hand, a glance, a silent gesture that says: You matter. This week's message is about touch — not just as a sense, but as a spiritual language.

✨3 Ideas

1. We are made to be touched.

In the early 20th century, an orphanage faced a tragic mystery: a high rate of infant mortality. When a new practice was introduced of gently holding each child for a few minutes each day, death rates dropped dramatically. Touch can transmit not only emotion, but presence, connection, and even destiny.

To be touched with care is to be affirmed: You exist. You are not alone. You matter.

Touch is a silent language of the soul.

2. Touch carries love from one soul to another.

Touch doesn't just express affection, but carries varied emotional messages. In a remarkable study, participants communicated emotions using only a touch on the forearm. No words. No facial expressions. Not even eye contact. Amazingly, those being touched could identify feelings like love as accurately as if they'd seen the toucher's face. Touching connects us as the soul reaches across the divide between bodies.

3. Some touches leave no fingerprint — only a mark on the soul.

Classic sources speak of those whose hearts were touched by the Divine; not with hands, but with awe. A spiritual spark flickered to life within them, quiet but unmistakable.

Sometimes, truth hits us that way. A moment of clarity, a quiet awakening, a sudden sense of knowing.

Not every touch is physical. Some awaken the soul within.

📜2 Quotes

"You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living being."

— Psalms 145:16

"I just want someone to talk to And a little of that Human Touch"

— Bruce Springsteen, "Human Touch"

❓1 Question

When was the last time you were touched — not just physically, but spiritually? Was it something someone said, did, or simply who they were?

If you've ever been touched by a hand, a word, or a moment that reached something deep within, I'd love to hear about it. Some responses may be shared (anonymously, unless you say otherwise) in a future edition of Spiritual Sparks.

Until next time,

Wishing you light, insight, and a gentle touch of the soul,

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

🔥 Bringing the Heat This Tammuz

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 11 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 11, 2025.

Tammuz is here, which means it’s really hot and I’m weepy. (To get a Tammuz refresher, check out this Drop.)

I’m weepy, quite literally so, because I’ve been having a hard time adjusting to being back home after my eventful trip to Israel.

I’m not talking about jet lag. I’m talking about missing strangers looking out for one other. I miss everyone working towards the same mission (you know, community and sense of purpose?). I miss people being on the same page about the Iranian regime being bad. I miss chocolate milk in a bag, dammit!

A local artist I met during the war with Iran, who said to me: “I can’t believe we get to sit here on this beautiful rooftop while so many people in the world are suffering through war.” That statement of gratitude, perspective, and compassion has stayed with me.

Back in New York, when walking to shul on Shabbos, I saw stickers placed over hostage flyers that read “Zionism is not Semitism.” Nice try, but thanks for the laugh and the nonsensical statement.

Then my friend told me her mailbox had the word “Israeli” written on it next to her name, and—guess what?—she’s not even Israeli.

My other friend voiced her concerns about Mamdani winning the mayoral race, something many Israelis also voiced to me. She said that his refusal to condemn violent speech against Jews will only endanger Jews in New York, in a city where antisemitism is already increasing. She’s not alone. Make that 20 friends.

I’m also fed up with other people’s opinions and blanket statements about the war in a way I wasn’t before, as if war is simple. As if we lost all our critical thinking skills and the ability to hold multiple truths at once.

I miss being there and just living. I’m aware this paints a simplified picture of Israeli society which is NOT the reality, but hey—I was only there for three weeks, and during that time, it really did feel like the country came together.

Back in NYC, proudly wearing my BTH shirt in honor of Carmel Gat, who was murdered by Hamas

As I write this, I realize my post-trip sadness is actually fitting for where we find ourselves in the Jewish calendar. We’re approaching the saddest time of the year, when Rome breached the walls of our sacred Temple, leading to our exile, and that feeling of spiritual longing really resonates right now.

That is why, as a palette cleanser in between two long posts, I’m keepin’ it short this week and providing some Jewish opportunities, mainly because I don’t have much else to say, other than… keep calm and stay cool!

💰 Donate to Shalom Austin’s Flood Relief Campaign

The news about this week’s flash floods in Texas broke our hearts. Jews all over the country expressed grief over the tragic loss of the young campers from Camp Mystic, knowing full well how camp is meant to be a place of joy, safety, and belonging. Donate here to help provide urgent relief to those affected.

🗓️ Sign Up for the “Living the Jewish Calendar” Online Class!

Speaking of the Hebrew months, my friend Darielle is hosting a free, six-session Zoom class on the Jewish calendar and it starts this Sunday! Here’s her description:

As 5786 approaches, join me on Sunday mornings for a journey through the Jewish calendar. The holiday cycle is like a spiral through history, repeating the same themes but never in the same way or the same place. What is the essence of each holiday? How might the rhythms of the Jewish year inspire and amplify our inner life? Are there spaces for dissent, doubt, or disaffection in the calendar, or is practicing tantamount to “believing?” We’ll learn together what it means to participate in the multifaceted tapestry of Jewish ritual.

Come learn with us - sign up here!

📺 Stream Jewish Content the Best Way… with a Discount!

Get the hottest Jewish streaming platform, ChaiFlicks, featuring shows and movies from all over the world! No, they aren’t paying me; I’m just a fan and subscriber, though I’ve written about one of their shows before!

ChaiFlicks is still having their 4th of July sale and I have the promo code. Comment “Chai” below to get the code - you can get 64% off a yearlong subscription! 😳

And when you do subscribe, I recommend the show Checkout. It’s like The Office but in an Israeli grocery store. It’s laugh-out-loud funny, and very, very Israeli.

✍️ Shabbat Prompts

What’s Tammuz without a little journaling? Feel free to write on pen and paper, or share in the comments if you’re feeling so bold and fiery!

What’s heating up in your life right now? What do you wish was heating up?
When have you felt spiritually “parched” or disconnected? What quenched that thirst, if anything?
What’s a skill you have that helps you navigate dark times?

Shabbat Shalom,

What He Saw

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 11 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Wednesday evening, a group of teens sat around Cheryl Dorchinsky's dining table in Atlanta, hot-gluing tiny kippot onto rubber ducks.

This requires some explanation. The ducks are kosher — or at least as kosher as a rubber duck gets, which is to say they've been decorated with Stars of David and hamsas and sent into the world as tiny ambassadors for this website's parent project.

These particular ducks are headed to Israel. The plan is to hide them on IDF bases and in hospitals and wherever else our volunteer group ends up— tucked into care packages for soldiers and families to find.

The dining table was also covered in spreadsheets, packing lists, donation receipts, and a plate of half-eaten hummus.

In two days, our group from the Atlanta Israel Coalition flies to Israel.

Eleven days on the ground. Every dollar raised through the Hearts United campaign going directly to people who need it. Duffel bags full of socks, first aid kits, coloring books, toys for hospitalized children. All of it hand-delivered.

My husband and I have been sorting supplies all week. The logistics of love turn out to be remarkably similar to the logistics of anything else: spreadsheets, deadlines, someone asking if the toiletries bag will fit in the overhead bin.

The parsha this Shabbat is Balak — named not for a prophet or a patriarch but for a Moabite king who was terrified of Israel and decided to do something about it.

Balak sees what the Israelites have done to the surrounding nations and panics. He hires Balaam — a non-Israelite prophet with a reputation for effective curses — to climb a mountain, look down at the Israelite camp, and destroy them with words.

Three times Balak positions Balaam on a height overlooking the camp.

Three times Balaam opens his mouth to curse.

Three times, blessings come out instead.

Before the third attempt, something shifts. Balaam stops seeking omens. He turns toward the wilderness, lifts his eyes, and actually looks:

וַיִּשָּׂ֨א בִלְעָ֜ם אֶת־עֵינָ֗יו וַיַּרְא֙ אֶת־יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל שֹׁכֵ֖ן לִשְׁבָטָ֑יו וַתְּהִ֥י עָלָ֖יו ר֥וּחַ אֱלֹהִֽים׃ As Balaam looked up and saw Israel encamped tribe by tribe, the spirit of God came upon him.

— Bamidbar 24:2

And then the line that changed everything:

מַה־טֹּ֥בוּ אֹהָלֶ֖יךָ יַעֲקֹ֑ב מִשְׁכְּנֹתֶ֖יךָ יִשְׂרָאֵֽל׃ How fair are your tents, O Jacob, Your dwellings, O Israel!

— Bamidbar 24:5

Mah tovu — how good. The words of a man paid to curse became the first words many Jews say when they walk into synagogue each morning. For centuries. Every day. The opening of the liturgy is the language of an enemy who couldn't go through with it.

Rashi asks what Balaam actually saw that moved him. His answer is small and specific: Balaam noticed that the entrances of the Israelites' tents were not aligned to face each other (Rashi on Bamidbar 24:5, citing Bava Batra 60a).

Each family had arranged their home so that nobody could see into their neighbor's dwelling. Privacy. Dignity. The quiet, unglamorous architecture of people who care how they live next to each other.

From the top of a mountain, a hired prophet looked down at a camp of former slaves in the wilderness and saw — not military formations, not fortifications, not power — the way they had set up their tents. And it broke him open.

Mah tovu. The praise of the tents. That blessing has long endured. The synagogues and study halls are still here. The everyday goodness was the one thing the curse couldn't reach.

This week, while we packed boxes, the ceasefire negotiations lurched forward in Doha. Hamas submitted what was called a positive response, then attached reservations. The talks continue. The hostages are still in Gaza. Their families are still counting days.

I have no idea (well, I have some ideas, but no definitive information anyway) how this will shake out. What I do have? I have a living room floor covered in packing tape and a flight on Sunday.

But I keep thinking about what Balaam saw — and what he didn't see. He was positioned on mountaintops. Balak chose the vantage points carefully, hoping the right angle would help the curse land. And from that height, looking down at a nation he was hired to destroy, the prophet saw tents. Homes. The ordinary infrastructure of people living next to each other with care.

From a certain height, a living room full of volunteers sorting donated gear doesn't look like much. A woman hot-gluing a felt kippah onto a rubber duck is not at first glance a strategic asset. A stack of coloring books for kids in hospitals is not a policy position. But from the angle Balaam accidentally found — the angle where you stop looking for what's wrong and just see what's there — it's exactly the thing that can't be cursed.

Earlier in the parsha, Balaam's donkey sees the angel blocking the road before the great prophet does. The simplest creature in the story perceives what the professional visionary misses. Sometimes the clearest sight belongs to whoever is closest to the ground.

This week, from the ground in Atlanta, I watched as people made plans. Paid their own way to fly across an ocean. To clear rubble. To cook food. To hand-deliver socks. Spend our evenings preparing to give.

Mah tovu ohalekha Yaakov. How good are your tents.

Soon we will land—back in Eretz Yisrael. Eleven days, duffel bags and duct tape and whatever we can carry. The real cargo is the same thing Balaam saw from the mountain: people arranged around each other with care, doing the ordinary things that hold a community in place. No curse ever figured out how to reach it. The tents are still standing.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

How Does Music Touch Your Soul?

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason — Thu, 10 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published in Spiritual Sparks on July 10, 2025.

Read on beehiiv

Some moments in life can't be explained, only felt. Music is a rare gift that speaks straight to the soul, often more clearly than words ever could.

✨ 3 Ideas

1. Why does almost everyone love some kind of music?

Because music is a universal language: It speaks directly to the soul. It bypasses logic and reaches something deeper, more innate and transcendent. It crosses all boundaries, touching hearts and connecting people young and old. Music rises above cultures, and backgrounds, fostering shared emotion and common experience.

2. Music is more than entertainment; it's a form of wisdom.

It blends structure, beauty, and emotion with mathematical precision and expressive depth. At its highest, music becomes sacred wisdom, echoing Divine harmony. It doesn't just express feeling; it reveals the order of the universe beneath the surface of sound, and can act as soul-refining wisdom.

3. How does the soul and body interact when we listen to music?

Music awakens the brain like few other sensory experiences, lighting up emotion, movement, and memory in perfect harmony. It touches the heart too, steadying its rhythm, quickening its pace, even drawing it into sync with others when we sing as one.

Classical wisdom teaches that the soul is present throughout the body, but especially alive in the mind and heart, where thought, feeling and connection dwell.

Music stirs them all... tuning body and soul into harmony.

📜 2 Quotes

"A niggun (a soul melody without words) is the quill of the soul. Through it, the soul writes what cannot be spoken."

— Baal Shem Tov, Jewish mystic, founder of Hasidic movement

"Soul music is timeless. It speaks to the spirit and moves something deep inside you."

— Alicia Keys, Grammy-winning singer-songwriter

❓ 1 Question

What is one song or piece of music that touched you as a transcendent experience ... something that felt bigger than the lyrics it might have contained? Why do you think it resonated so deeply with your soul?

If a piece of music ever touched your soul in a way that felt beyond words, I'd love to hear about it. Some responses may be shared (anonymously, unless you say otherwise) in the next edition of Spiritual Sparks.

Until next time,

Wishing you light, insight, and a little soul music

Rabbi Ze'ev Smason

P.S. Know someone who'd enjoy Spiritual Sparks? Forward it along — the more souls inspired, the better.

Like Covid, but with Missiles

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 04 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 4, 2025.

Hi friends,

After three weeks in Israel, I am finally home safe and sound. Thank you to everyone who checked in on me from afar—I didn’t expect it, and it gave me comfort.

I originally went to Israel for my boyfriend’s nephew’s bar mitzvah and arrived a week before him to volunteer with Sar-El, a program that places volunteers on IDF bases to assist with logistical support. The day he was supposed to fly to Israel to join me was the day the new war with Iran started, so his flight was canceled.

This was not the Drop I imagined writing when I first set off for Israel, but it turned out to be far more meaningful than I could have expected. I’m posting this one first and then will write about my Sar-El experience in a follow-up post. Thank you for reading.

This Drop is dedicated to the 28 Israelis who lost their lives during this war. May their memories be a blessing. 🕯

Chapter 1: A New War

After the announcement of Israel’s attack on Iranian nuclear sites, the entire country shut down. All public gatherings were canceled, so I spent Shabbos dinner with a couple I knew from my MJE community who moved to Tel Aviv, and that’s where I had my first siren experience.

Because they’re such a calm couple, I felt I was in good hands. They had a very nice mamad (a shelter in one’s home) that doubly served as their three-year-old daughter’s bedroom. As we heard short pops overhead, one of my friends pointed to the sky with a grin on his face, nodding his head in affirmation. “Iron Dome” he mouthed (we had to keep quiet since his daughters were sleeping). That was when I realized I was hearing the Iron Dome, Israel’s defense system, for the first time.

Short pops of defense burst to meet enemy rockets, followed by one large bang. “That didn’t sound good,” my friend whispered as his grin quickly disappeared. He explained the difference in missile sounds and how to distinguish between the pops of Iron Dome rockets and heavier impact of rockets hitting the ground.

When we got the okay to leave the shelter, I walked the one-minute walk to my Airbnb. I was alone that night since my boyfriend couldn’t fly in.

At about 1am, I was holding my phone in my hands (Shabbos, I know, but I kept it on due to siren alerts), when the ominous duh-dun duh-dun of the Home Front Command app went off, signaling me to stay close to a shelter and causing my heart to nearly burst out of my chest.

Then, the real sirens went off in central Tel Aviv, alerting residents of an incoming missile barrage. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my water bottle and keys, put on my flip flops, and headed down to my apartment building’s miklat (a public shelter usually in the basement of a building), which was a much different vibe than my friends’ shelter down the street.

Instead of a child’s clean, decorated bedroom, this miklat doubled as a storage room and was full of strangers. I sat in a corner chair as people filed in: old ladies holding babies close to their chests, young couples, and a single guy with a dog. They talked among themselves in Hebrew and I felt left out.

My Airbnb miklat, a typical Israeli miklat

Suddenly, four thunderous booms rang out one after the other. It felt like it was happening right outside our room. I will never forget the look a young man gave me in that tense moment. He was a man about my age, sitting alone like I was. When his eyes locked with mine, strained with uncertainty, I could hear his silent questions directed to me: Are you as scared as I am? Are we going to be okay?

Not used to rocket fire, my body started uncontrollably shaking and the tears started falling. Thankfully, an Israeli woman about my age said to me, “Ze beseder, ze beseder.” I may not be fluent in Hebrew (yet), but I knew what that meant: it’s okay.

About 10 minutes later, we were given the all-clear to leave the shelter, and I headed upstairs to my room. I was too afraid to fall asleep, dreading the possibility of that scary alarm waking me up (as I dread every alarm waking me up, but worse), so I made the mistake of reading the news and watching footage from what was the largest missile barrage in world history. I couldn’t believe I just sat through that. Thank G-d (and Danny Gold) for the Iron Dome!

Chapter 2: From Margaritas to Missiles

That was a glimpse of what my nights in Tel Aviv were like for a week. Luckily, my Sar-El friends were staying at a nearby hotel called the Maxim which gives discounts to volunteers. My friends (shoutout to Jill and Judi!) graciously let me crash on their floor so I wasn’t alone. Not only was I surrounded by love and good company daily, but I got free breakfast, free happy hour, and miklat experiences I will never forget. I already have a book title in mind: Down in the Maxim Hotel.

Seriously, I could write a book about all the characters I met down there! There was Brad, an older gentleman from San Antionio, TX with a thick accent and Texan pride. He carried around copies of a photo of John C. Woods, aka “the Texas Hangman,” the Nuremberg executioner of Nazis. How can you be afraid of Iranian missiles when you have the spirit of John C. Woods in your back pocket?

Brad’s copy of the Texas Hangman he gave me

There was Sandra, a playwright from Connecticut who I bonded with, not just because she’s a fellow Nutmegger, but because she’s left-leaning like me. We both shared our sadness and disappointment when we heard that some Jews in Israel praised the deaths of an Arab family in the village of Tamra due to the missiles. Sandra wrote a play about both Jews and Palestinians after October 7th, and she’s writing a new play about what we all just experienced at this hotel. I hope I make it into her play!

Todd, visiting his daughter who just moved here, grew up Conservative and had become more religious. We had good chats about spirituality over Arak on the rooftop.

Speaking of the rooftop, I wrote on social media that the day-to-day juxtaposition was wild. One minute we would be sitting up there, enjoying takeout of tacos and bottled margaritas from the one restaurant that was open, overlooking a Mediterranean sunset while practicing our Hebrew and laughing…

From left to right: my fellow Sar-El volunteer David, Batsheva, Al, and me

… the next minute, alarms would send us rushing to the basement shelter, huddling together while we heard nearby booms, a mix of the Iron Dome intercepting missiles mixed with real ones that struck the city.

The scariest one was the night a missile landed near the U.S. Embassy. It actually landed just four blocks from our hotel. The sound was so loud, it reverberated in my ear. My friend clasped onto my hand so tightly as we all screamed.

The next day, we walked around, surveying the damage. I’ll never forget that day. There was so much glass from the impact, it looked like Kristallnacht 2.0.

I met an oleh (an immigrant to Israel) who told me his whole apartment was “ripped to shreds.” I also met a shopkeeper who gave me a free beer because his liquor store was in ruins, and frankly, I could have used the beer.

One Israeli also taking in the damage to his neighborhood told me, “We put things to the side and continue forward. That’s the chemistry of the Middle East.”

Dumbfounded by the destruction before me—I had never seen anything like it in my life—I was surprised to hear a light-hearted, “Hey, Miranda!” coming from the sidewalk. It was some friends from the hotel sitting at a table at the one juice shop that was open. Suddenly, I felt the tension in my shoulders release as I saw my friends. What else was there to do besides have some juice?

This became our reality. With most of the country shut down, it felt like Covid, but with missiles.

At one point on the beach, I had a realization that this was a strange time for Israelis too. I saw a soldier come out of a taxi cab with a professional camera. He looked around in quiet amazement at the nearly empty Tel Aviv beach, one that’s normally buzzing with people and life.

As I saw him snapping photos, I was reminded of how I was in awe of the soldiers on my first trip to Israel on Birthright, 13 years ago. Now, this young soldier stood in awe. In that moment, we were both in awe together, marveling at the strangeness of reality.

Two stories to end this chapter on a positive note:

I was able to find a volunteer opportunity through a local WhatsApp group (which was mentioned in the news here!). A few Tel Avivians had organized an impromptu day camp for young children, giving other parents a much-needed break. Together, we played games and made arts and crafts with the kids, and the parents were so grateful. It made me wonder what children make of this situation and how they’re coping. It was inspiring watching a community come together during an unprecedented time to bring joy to one another.
As soon as that first Shabbat during the war ended, we did Havdalah (blessings to separate Shabbat from the rest of the week) on the rooftop of the Maxim Hotel. It was cathartic to sing and sway together in the face of our enemies. After it ended, a man came up to us and said how beautiful the service was. He’s not Jewish, from the country of Georgia, and was here for work and was stuck. He said that our Jewish blessings were truly inspiring to see.

Chapter 3: Living on a Prayer

After a week spent relaxing on the beach by day (even though beaches were technically closed) and running to bomb shelters about three times per night, I headed to my boyfriend’s family in Ariel for his nephew’s bar mitzvah. Luckily, it happened on the one day when restrictions eased, so small public gatherings were permitted!

It was so nice getting to experience a simcha during times of war. This is what Israel is all about: pausing to celebrate life in the middle of chaos. I even got a big piece of shrapnel that fell a few days prior to take home as a souvenir!

What I took away from my time in Ariel, though, was something much more meaningful: family, quality time, and prayer. Bomb shelters are so much better when you play Telephone with cute children in them!

I also felt like my spirituality was awakened during this part of my trip, especially when I realized that the parsha during the war with Iran was Shelach, when Moses sends spies to scout the land of Israel.

Something stirred within my Jewish soul as I heard the Torah being read: “The land, which we passed through to spy it out, is an exceedingly good land. If the Lord delights in us, he will bring us into this land and give it to us, a land that flows with milk and honey” (Numbers 14:7).

I had been to Israel six times before—for work, with organized group trips, to visit family—but this was the first time I found myself contemplating my purpose for being in that exceedingly good land during this time. (Side note: a few days later, when reading The Source by James Michener, the book also quoted this parsha!).

I got chills all over again when I realized that the following Shabbat would be Parshat Korach, my bat mitzvah portion.

As for prayer, I davened in the morning with the family. Not a stranger to prayer but one who hasn’t prayed in a minute, I opened up a prayer book and was taken by the words on the page I happened to flip to.

It was the Kabbalat Ol Malchut Shamayim, orthe"Accepting the Sovereignty of Heaven” prayer from Shacharit (the morning prayers). I had never noticed this prayer before. The words read:

What are we? What is our life? What are our acts of kindness? What is our righteousness? What is our deliverance? What is our strength? What is our might?

These powerful questions were reminiscent of the questions I was asking myself on this trip. The prayer is about thanking and praising G-d. Considering I was safe and able to celebrate a simcha, I had a lot to thank G-d for.

I now say that prayer each morning, my own daily reminder of my time in Israel during the war. My soul lifts at these words:

Happy are we! How goodly is our portion, and how pleasant is our lot, and how beautiful our heritage!

Todd praying on the rooftop of the Maxim Hotel

Chapter 4: A Taste of Kibbutz Life

While in Israel, I learned of an opportunity to fulfill a childhood dream of mine. Sar-El invited volunteers stuck in Israel to spend a week on a kibbutz in the south to learning Hebrew, on a program called Kibbutzimer. I remember learning about kibbutzim, agricultural communities in Israel, in Hebrew school as a child and thinking the idea was neat. I really wanted to live on one.

I told Sar-El I would sign up for the program as long as I could work remotely in the evenings. I still had a job after all, and didn’t bring my laptop on my trip because I didn’t think I’d stay an extra week and a half! So, thanks to WhatsApp and the kindness of strangers, I procured a laptop and was ready to head to the south.

My way of getting there was quite scary, though. I was standing outside the train station in Tel Aviv, looking for the group when of course, a siren went off. I was caught off guard because it was at 8am, an odd time for Iran to send missiles!

I followed strangers into an office building, and we waited around in the stairwell. This was probably the most anxious I had been trip, since I know stairwells are more of a back-up option to shelters. But the strangers calmed me down and assured me it was safe. I was so scared I didn’t tell my mom about this moment (hey, Mom!).

Our small group of seven arrived at Mashabei Sadeh, a kibbutz so remote that it was much safer than Tel Aviv. In fact, some families from Tel Aviv were “vacationing” there to get away from the sirens.

Ironically, even though I felt safer, I was pretty sad on this kibbutz because I missed some of my Sar-El friends who left through Egypt. It’s strange to miss a time when you were in danger, but that goes to show how impactful bonding is.

Every morning, we studied Hebrew for three hours. I learned important words like milchama (war), and hafsakat eish (ceasefire). And then I worked in the afternoons/evenings.

There wasn’t much going on, so we found pleasure in the simple things: walking around, saying hello to the kibbutz cows, and socializing at a small coffee cart.

In the evenings, it became my solo routine to exercise on those funny workout playgrounds they have all over Israel. I enjoyed “running” on the step-and-swing machine and staring up at the stars, while listening to the sounds of peacocks wailing and Israeli Air Force jets fly overhead from a nearby base. It was a reminder of how important it is to have routine while going through a challenging time.

Even though the kibbutz was safer than the city, we still had our share of sirens. I’ll never forget how I learned the Hebrew word for airplane. At around 7am, we were woken up by the Home Front Command alarm warning us to stay near a shelter. As we gathered outside, we heard a loud roaring sound that was quickly grew louder. Suddenly, the sound was overhead, so I panicked and sprinted across the road to the shelter. That’s when I heard Israelis calling out, “Matos! Matos!” They quickly reassured me that it wasn’t a rocket, just a plane from the nearby air force base. Phew!

About halfway through our kibbutz stay, a ceasefire was put in place between Israel and Iran. But that didn’t make life in Israel peaches and cream. That morning, seven soldiers died in Gaza. During this new war, I had forgotten all about the ongoing war with Hamas, and felt so guilty.

I want to share something our Hebrew teacher told us that somber morning:

“This is everyday Israeli life: a ceasefire is put in place and the country opens up, but then seven soldiers die. We live day to day, yes, but that doesn’t mean you should make your problems small. Everyone has their own problems they’re dealing with. I ask that you think about us Israelis when we’re home. And I want you to know that you coming here gives us power and support.”

Thanks to the ceasefire, we got to go on a field trip! We visited places even Israelis don’t visit because they’re so remote:

Our first stop was Shivta, a former Nabatean city with Byzantine ruins, including churches, homes, and ancient agricultural systems.
We then visited an abandoned train car from the Ottoman Empire. This rusted relic was from the Turkish military railway, a line that ran between Be’er Sheva and the Sinai Peninsula, and was only in use for a couple of years until the end of WWI.
Ashalim Power Station: This thermal energy producer looks like the tower from Mordor. 50,000 mirrors reflect and heat water inside the tower, providing about 1.6% of Israel’s energy.
Along the Egyptian border stand 100 columns. Each one is inscribed with the word for “peace” in another language. In the 90s, Israeli sculptor Dani Karavan created “Path of Peace” in response to the peace agreement between Israel and Egypt and as a symbol of hope for lasting peace in the region.
Ezuz, where Dani Karavan was from, is a tiny, off-the-grid desert village where a few families settled years ago and never left, kind of like a funky artist colony. I got Torah-chills again when one resident told us this was as close as you can get to where Moses sent out the spies to scout the land. I knew I felt a connection to Ezuz, and it only grew. There are a few hotels there, one of which is made from a repurposed bus. It’s soooo cute and I would love to stay there sometime to escape. Next war!

By the time I was finally settling into my routine, it was time to head back to Tel Aviv. It felt weird living out a childhood dream of mine and experiencing kibbutz life under these circumstances. It made me realize I don’t think I’m cut out for the quiet kibbutz life; I’m more of a big city gal! But I recommend this short-term Ulpan for anyone looking to strengthen their Hebrew in an immersive way.

Chapter 5: Back in Tel Aviv

Back in the city, I secured an affordable flight out of Israel with a layover in Bucharest. I was invited over for Shabbat dinner by some neighbors I met my AirBnb’s miklat. They were a lovely French couple who immigrated to Israel years ago.

I had never experienced a Shabbat meal so lively and full of joy! Ten people about my age sat around the dinner table, singing with wild abandon, fists pounding on the table, Arak and wine flowing. They all looked so Israeli-casual: t-shirts and shorts, kippot, and proudly respecting tradition. It was inspiring to see.

I later learned they were all Tunisian-French Israelis, and that’s why they were so spirited. I finally understood Sephardi supremacy. As much as I love my matzo ball soup, my Shabbat meals aren’t like this!

On Sunday, June 29, I had my bags packed and was about to leave for the airport, when I received an email from my airline. My flight was canceled.

After some stress and rebooking, I pivoted and spent my last day having thoughtful conversations with people I either barely knew or just met.

First up was lunch (at the best shawarma place in TLV!) with someone from my DC Jewish life. He had moved here a year ago with his family and saw on Facebook that I was still in town. We talked about how his past year has been (pretty eventful), and he shared some words for American Jews:

“Jews need to come here, spend time here, and live here. They need to see history unfolding in real time, only in the best ways. We need more Americans here. It’s our time to come and shape this country, put our footprint on it, to make sure Israel and America can get back on track together. American Jews are uniquely positioned to do that in a way that Jews in other countries aren’t. And Jewish Americans need Israel. There’s this emerging symbiotic need. In a country that’s always 10 years behind, it needs Western energy. Come! Let’s build together.”

I then got drinks at a trendy bar with a woman around my age who made Aliyah from Colorado six months ago. I met her at the hotel during the war because her parents were staying there.

She told me that she moved for a couple of reasons, one of which was October 7th and the reactions from colleagues and so-called friends. She said that moving here keeps her from spiraling and worrying about antisemitism.

By the end of the day I couldn’t help but think… maybe my flight was canceled so I could stay one more day to have these conversations. 👀

Conclusion: The End of a Journey

The next day, I made it out of Israel through Athens. My boyfriend’s parents had a layover there, too, so we split our time between the rooftop pool and Chabad. I saw the Acropolis, the Parthenon, and a really great thrift store, but nothing compared to what I experienced in Israel.

I left a piece of myself in Israel on this trip, in part for the people I met and bonded with in bomb shelters at 3am, but also for my love of the country. I’ve always known I had it, but this time I truly felt it in my soul and in the way I cried so much when I had to finally leave.

Bomb shelter buddies 4 life!

Before I left for Israel three and a half weeks prior, someone told me that every trip there changes you in some way. I feel forever altered by my most recent experience—by new friends I bonded with in bomb shelters at 3am. By the kindness and strength of strangers. By prayer. By having witnessed a war firsthand, shaping my politics and worldview more acutely. By my love of the country. I’ve always known I had it, but this time I felt it in my soul and in the way I cried so much when I had to finally leave.

I don’t believe I was stuck in Israel. Israelis kept asking me that. “So, you’re stuck here?” I think I was supposed to be there during this time, as crazy as that sounds.

On the way to the airport, my Uber driver asked me, “Heading back to the United States?” I said yep, to which he said, “Big trip.” Buddy, you have no idea.

Am Yisrael Chai. Shabbat Shalom, and as always, thank you for reading. 🦁

Sing to It

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 04 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Yesterday, I sat at my desk with a bottle of water and logged into our rabbi's Zoom parsha study — for the first time in six weeks I didn't have to calculate what time it was somewhere else. No more joining from an Airbnb near Machane Yehuda — though the rav's joke about which direction Torah is meant to flow (from Jerusalem, not to it) was humorous. Eastern Daylight Time. My desk. My bottle of water.

It is a small thing, a midweek study session on a screen. It is also the kind of thing that really centers things.

My husband and I have been home for a week and a half. We are already (well, mentally anyway) packing again. Nine days from now we fly back to Israel with the Atlanta Israel Coalition — eleven days on the ground, bringing supplies and showing up wherever we're needed.

Every one of us is paying our own way: flights, hotels, meals. Every dollar raised through the Hearts United campaign goes straight to impact — care packages for reservists, supplies for children in hospitals, essentials for families who lost their homes.

We are going out of love, and because solidarity between our community here in Atlanta and the greater community of Am Yisrael is not an abstraction. It is something you do with your hands and your feet. It's not a joyful moment, but this is a manifestation of Jewish Joy. I'm sure we'll also bring some of the Kosher Ducks.

But that is next week. Now, it is time for parsha study, and the parsha is Chukat.

Chukat — "statute" — covers more ground than almost any other portion in Torah. It opens with the red heifer, the most famously inexplicable commandment in the entire text:

זֹ֚את חֻקַּ֣ת הַתּוֹרָ֔ה אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּ֥ה יְהֹוָ֖ה לֵאמֹ֑ר דַּבֵּ֣ר ׀ אֶל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל וְיִקְח֣וּ אֵלֶ֩יךָ֩ פָרָ֨ה אֲדֻמָּ֜ה תְּמִימָ֗ה אֲשֶׁ֤ר אֵֽין־בָּהּ֙ מ֔וּם אֲשֶׁ֛ר לֹא־עָלָ֥ה עָלֶ֖יהָ עֹֽל׃ This is the ritual law that GOD has commanded: Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid.

— Bamidbar 19:2

A chok — a statute — is a law you follow without fully understanding the reason. The rabbis said that even Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, couldn't crack the logic of the red heifer. You do it because it's the law. That's the whole explanation.

But the red heifer is just the opening.

Chukat races through forty years of wilderness in a few dozen verses. Miriam dies. The well disappears. Moses strikes the rock when he was told to speak to it. Aaron dies on Mount Hor. Poisonous serpents attack the camp. Wars are fought and won. Two of the three leaders who brought the people out of Egypt are gone by the end.

And in the middle of all of it — crammed between the serpent bites and the military victories — the people sing.

Miriam's death arrives in two sentences:

וַיָּבֹ֣אוּ בְנֵֽי־יִ֠שְׂרָאֵ֠ל כׇּל־הָ֨עֵדָ֤ה מִדְבַּר־צִן֙ בַּחֹ֣דֶשׁ הָֽרִאשׁ֔וֹן וַיֵּ֥שֶׁב הָעָ֖ם בְּקָדֵ֑שׁ וַתָּ֤מׇת שָׁם֙ מִרְיָ֔ם וַתִּקָּבֵ֖ר שָֽׁם׃ The Israelites arrived in a body at the wilderness of Zin on the first new moon, and the people stayed at Kadesh. Miriam died there and was buried there.

— Bamidbar 20:1

Two sentences. Arrived. Died. Buried. The Torah does not pause. The very next verse: the community was without water.

Rashi catches the juxtaposition. From the loss of water immediately following Miriam's death, we learn that all forty years in the wilderness, the people had their well — a miraculous, traveling source of water — in Miriam's merit. They didn't know it while she was alive. They found out the moment she was gone.

The Talmud names three gifts that sustained the people in the desert: the manna in the merit of Moses, the clouds of glory in the merit of Aaron, and the well in the merit of Miriam.

When Miriam dies, the water stops. When Aaron dies later, the protective clouds vanish. The gifts were tied to the people who carried them.

Here's where Chukat turns. After the serpents, after the losses, the text arrives at a place called Be'er — literally "well" — and something unexpected happens:

אָ֚ז יָשִׁ֣יר יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֖ה הַזֹּ֑את עֲלִ֥י בְאֵ֖ר עֱנוּ־לָֽהּ׃ Then Israel sang this song: Spring up, O well—sing to it— בְּאֵ֞ר חֲפָר֣וּהָ שָׂרִ֗ים כָּר֙וּהָ֙ נְדִיבֵ֣י הָעָ֔ם בִּמְחֹקֵ֖ק בְּמִשְׁעֲנֹתָ֑ם וּמִמִּדְבָּ֖ר מַתָּנָֽה׃ The well that the chieftains dug, That the nobles of the people started With maces, with their own staffs. And from Midbar to Mattanah,

— Bamidbar 21:17–18

They sang to a well. After everything — after Miriam's death and Aaron's death and the snakes and the thirst — they found water, and they sang to it. Not a hymn to God. Not a song of military triumph. A song to water.

The rabbis noticed that God's name doesn't appear in the Song of the Well. At the Sea, Moses and the people sang to God. Here, they sang to the well itself. Some commentators read this as a sign of the people's growth — they'd learned to dig for water, to participate in the miracle instead of waiting for it to arrive. Others connect the song back to Miriam, whose name is absent but whose well has returned.

Either way, it's a song about the ordinary sustenance that keeps you alive. Spring up. We see you. We're grateful.

This week, as ceasefire negotiations crept forward in Doha, Hamas submitted what mediators described as a "positive response" to the framework for a sixty-day truce and the release of hostages. The realist in me lacks optimism. I still want to hope, however.

Fifty people are still in Gaza. Their families have been counting days for far, far, far too long. The response is not a deal. It is a step — a murmur in the rock, maybe, before the water comes.

Nobody is singing yet. But the well is being dug. Maybe water will be found.

I keep thinking about the structure of the Song of the Well. It credits chieftains and nobles — the leaders who dug. The water didn't just appear. People worked for it. The miracle was real, but so was the labor.

The first Shabbat back after our long trip — last week, Korach — was reunion. Walking into shul, seeing familiar faces, hearing the rabbi's voice in person rather than over Zoom. This Shabbat is different. This one is routine. The study group. Shabbat prep today.

The rhythm that was always here, waiting for us to come back to it.

Miriam carried the well for forty years and nobody thanked her until it was gone.

The rabbis say the people didn't mourn her properly — they buried her and moved on, and only noticed what they'd lost when they were thirsty. There's something in that failure of attention that stings. The things that sustain you most quietly are the things you forget to name.

A midweek parsha class on Zoom. A rabbi who keeps the schedule whether you show up from Atlanta or from a hotel room an ocean away.

In nine days, a group of us from this city, carrying duffel bags stuffed with first-aid kits and coloring books, paying our own way, because the well doesn't fill itself. You dig it with your own staffs. You show up, and then you sing.

Spring up, O well. Sing to it.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

The Early Waker

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 27 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Tomorrow morning my husband and I will walk into our own shul for the first time in weeks. We have been gone since mid May. Israel first — tramping about the Old City, visiting the Kotel, exploring the shuks. Then Poland, Austria, Italy, the Netherlands. Jewish ghetto streets turned gelato districts. Memorial plaques where there used to be neighborhoods. Chabad offering Shabbat dinners in cities where Jewish life depends almost entirely (or so it seems) on them and whichever tourists show up.

In the midst of all of it, the sirens ramped up in Israel and the Iranian war began while we were in Vienna.

We watched it unfold from European Airbnbs, hotels, and in Telegram channels and in WhatsApp groups with friends. Refreshing news apps. Messaging friends in Tel Aviv, Binyamin, Be'er Sheva, Ashdod, Haifa. It just became the 12-day war. A babushka war.

We flew home Tuesday. We are bone-tired in a way that sleep hasn't fixed yet.

For us though? Some sense of normalcy. For our friends? Not so much. And tomorrow? Our rabbi. Our seats. The people who know our names.

The parsha this Shabbat is Korach, and it is the Torah's portrait of a community cracking apart.

Korach is Moses's cousin — a Levite, a man of standing, not some fringe agitator. He gathers 250 respected leaders and marches on Moses and Aaron with a line that sounds, on first read, almost reasonable:

וַיִּֽקָּהֲל֞וּ עַל־מֹשֶׁ֣ה וְעַֽל־אַהֲרֹ֗ן וַיֹּאמְר֣וּ אֲלֵהֶם֮ רַב־לָכֶם֒ כִּ֤י כׇל־הָֽעֵדָה֙ כֻּלָּ֣ם קְדֹשִׁ֔ים וּבְתוֹכָ֖ם יְהֹוָ֑ה וּמַדּ֥וּעַ תִּֽתְנַשְּׂא֖וּ עַל־קְהַ֥ל יְהֹוָֽה׃ They combined against Moses and Aaron and said to them, "You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and GOD is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above GOD's congregation?"

— Bamidbar 16:3

All the community are holy. Everybody heard God at Sinai. Who made you the boss?

It is the kind of argument that works precisely because there is a kernel of truth buried inside it.

Rashi points out that they all stood at Sinai. They all heard the commandments from God directly. Korach though seems to be weaponizing it.

The Mishnah draws the line sharply. A disagreement for the sake of heaven — like the debates of Hillel and Shammai — endures. A disagreement not for the sake of heaven — like Korach and his followers — does not.

The rabbis don't say Korach was wrong about everyone being holy. They say his purpose was wrong. He took a true statement and bent it into a tool for grabbing power. The words were right. The direction? Crooked.

What follows in the parsha is catastrophic. The earth opens. Fire descends. Those 250 faced some.... lets just say bad news. Fourteen thousand seven hundred people die in a plague. Korach's rebellion is the Torah's worst community fracture — worse than the golden calf, worse than the spies. The rupture is total.

And then God does something unexpected. After all of it — the swallowing, the fire, the plague — God tells Moses to collect a staff from the leader of each tribe. Twelve staffs, placed overnight in the Tent of Meeting. In the morning, one of them will have sprouted. That is how the people will know whom God has chosen.

Moses walks in the next day:

וַיְהִ֣י מִֽמׇּחֳרָ֗ת וַיָּבֹ֤א מֹשֶׁה֙ אֶל־אֹ֣הֶל הָעֵד֔וּת וְהִנֵּ֛ה פָּרַ֥ח מַטֵּֽה־אַהֲרֹ֖ן לְבֵ֣ית לֵוִ֑י וַיֹּ֤צֵֽא פֶ֙רַח֙ וַיָּ֣צֵֽץ צִ֔יץ וַיִּגְמֹ֖ל שְׁקֵדִֽים׃ The next day Moses entered the Tent of the Pact, and there the staff of Aaron of the house of Levi had sprouted: it had brought forth sprouts, produced blossoms, and borne almonds.

— Bamidbar 17:23

A dead stick. Left overnight. And in the morning: sprouts, blossoms, and ripe almonds — all at once, all on the same branch. Things that in nature never appear simultaneously. The entire life cycle of a tree compressed into a single night.

The Hebrew word for almond is shaked. It comes from the same root as "to watch," "to wake early." The almond is the first tree to blossom in the land of Israel — it wakes before everything else.

Jeremiah uses the same root when God tells him: I am watching over My word to perform it. The almond is the tree that shows up first.

After the worst fracture in the wilderness, God's answer is not another punishment. It is proof of life in dead wood. A staff that no one expected to do anything — a walking stick, a piece of cut timber — produces fruit overnight.

This past few days (even though it's felt like months), as the Iranian ceasefire settled and news trickled in from Israel, one detail stayed with me. During the twelve days of fighting, while Iranian missiles were landing in Israeli cities and Soroka hospital in Be'er Sheva took a direct hit that destroyed its surgical ward, the hospital's kept working.

Staff moved operations underground, into shelters and reinforced rooms. In those twelve days, Soroka delivered over a hundred babies. A hospital with a hole blown through its surgical building, under missile fire, and the maternity ward did not stop.

I keep thinking about those mothers and those medical teams. Nobody waited for the war to end. Nobody waited for conditions to improve. They showed up — underground, between sirens — and life came anyway.

On Wednesday I was on the phone with Cheryl Dorchinsky — executive director of the Atlanta Israel Coalition, under whose auspices this column's parent project runs — when the notification came through that El Al had reopened ticketing.

I told her my husband and I wanted to get back to Israel to volunteer. She wanted in. Before we hung up the phone we had booked our tickets. Delta from Atlanta to Miami, El Al from Miami to Tel Aviv. Leaving July 13. Landing the 14th. Eleven days on the ground.

I need more time here to recover. I want to spend more time with my own close community. But the need is great and the greater community simply cannot wait.

AIC is collecting funds and supplies to bring things that are desperately needed — items for children in hospitals, first aid kits for IDF soldiers, care packages for reservists, essentials for families who have lost their homes.

We are in contact with grassroots organizations across Israel, and the list grows every day. If you want to be part of what we are bringing, the Hearts United fundraiser is live — every dollar goes directly to the mission. Eleven days, boots on the ground, hands on.

But first: tomorrow. Our shul. The familiar faces, the rabbi's voice. Six weeks of wandering and now we are back in the place where people know which seat is ours.

After Korach — after the fracture, after the earth opened and the fire consumed — what healed the community was not a speech or a punishment or a policy change. It was a branch that bloomed in the dark, quietly, while everyone else was sleeping.

Some mornings, you walk in and something has sprouted.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

🏹 Aiming with Awe: Judaism as a Practice

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 20 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 20, 2025.

An Update from Israel

Hi friends,

Crazy to think just a week ago, I wrote that Israel was hakol tov. That was before the Iranian missiles came in and we spent sleepless nights running to bomb shelters.

I’m still here - not sure when I’m leaving - and I’m safe and well cared for. Throughout Israel, there has been death, destruction, and displacement, but we keep our heads held high. We may be afraid to sleep at night, but we entertain those in the shelter. We may not know when we’re going home, so we go to the beach and get our nails done at the one salon that’s open. That’s life! This Shabbos, I’m going to a bar mitzvah. It’s all about the simchas.

I cried when I took this picture. This was from my last night in my hotel’s shelter in TLV. I’ve bonded with these people during scary times and I will never forget them.

I was supposed to go home on the 22nd which is no longer happening, so I signed up for a one-week ulpan program in the south, where I will learn Hebrew, work my job from there, and make my childhood dream of living on a kibbutz come true. We have a saying here in Israel: When life gives you missiles, learn Hebrew! After that, I will try to get a flight home that won’t break the bank.

Will certainly Drop about my experience in depth, but for now, follow my adventures on Instagram at @theshabbatdrop, and enjoy a Jewish piece for Pride Month written by someone I met at a storytelling event run by Central Synagogue (the same one where I met our Taiwanese friend, Celeste!).

Stay safe and proud, Miranda

The following was written by Arden Donohue.

I was on my way home after visiting my mom, sitting on a dark bus at night, watching sermons on my phone as research for a writing project. Rabbi Angela Buchdahl’s Yom Kippur sermon titled, “Inviting God Back to the Garden” popped up on YouTube. She talked about how people have trouble feeling awe because they don’t perceive a God that transcends the universe in the big and small moments of life.

She described looking up at the starry night sky as a little girl at her home in Takoma, Washington and feeling awe in being a part of something larger than herself because she had realized that it was the same sky that spread over her previous home in Korea. I wasn’t yet a Jew, but this sense of awe in the small moments that conspire for us was the closest thing I had ever heard to my own theology. It felt like coming home, like some divine alignment was taking place. The light coming from my phone illuminated the path I was meant to take.

"I am truly living Jewishly when I’m simply living Jewishly, because Judaism isn’t a finite checklist, but a practice." -Arden Donohue

Early on in my Jewish life after my conversion, I was impatient to move towards my destination. I wanted to live as Jewishly as possible in a Reform way, going to communal Passover seders and an adult Jewish summer camp where I first tried archery. I quickly fell in love with it, the mindful and active aspects that made it meditation in motion.

Once, in an archery competition, I had been shooting too quickly in order to conserve my energy, but that meant that I was also missing my targets more than usual. My skill level was plateauing because I had accepted that progress was slow. But at that moment, an experienced archer I respect called out: “If you spend longer aiming, you’ll miss less.” Obviously! But I hadn’t been thinking that way because I was trying to avoid target panic, stressing out from over-aiming.

I gave his advice a try. I spent more time aligning my scope with the target and positioned my second sight ring over it.

Despite the fact that I’m usually more tired in the second half of a competition, my score kept getting higher, and to my surprise, I wasn’t getting tired either. By being patient and spending time with the practice, I could actually be in better alignment.

I feel the same way about Judaism. Both Judaism and archery aren’t about perfection, but improvement and practice. I once heard an archer say, “It’s not the quality of equipment that helps, but simply shooting more arrows.” For us, it’s not about going to the grandest events, or having the most beautiful tallit. It’s about showing up when the opportunity presents itself and maybe even creating it ourselves.

I am truly living Jewishly when I’m simply living Jewishly because Judaism isn’t a finite checklist, but a practice. One that has made me more patient. Patient enough to sit still for six hours while someone moves a needle in my arm or wait that last hour of Yom Kippur before the break fast.

Combining my two loves, I recently designed and got an archery tattoo that includes a citation from the Book of Isaiah. Fittingly, the verses read, “I was hidden in the shadow of God’s hand, so that I was like a polished arrow concealed in God’s quiver.”

I like the metaphor of God having a target that She sends me towards on a straight path to my destination. It’s the only way I’m ever straight.

The Grapes Were Real

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 20 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Wednesday evening in Rome I walked through the old Jewish Ghetto and ran into Ben Shapiro—though he had to have two bodyguards, we were basically doing the same thing.

The Ghetto is about five blocks of narrow streets along a bend of the Tiber. Today it has restaurants and gelato shops and a few synagogues and "stumble stones" throughout. We stayed the night in an Airbnb—an apartment that had been constructed several centuries earlier.

The neighborhood was beautiful. It was also the place where, in October 1943, the Nazis rounded up over a thousand Roman Jews and sent them to Auschwitz. Fewer than twenty came back.

My husband and I have been traveling through Europe for two weeks — Poland to Vienna to Venice to Rome to Rotterdam — and the pattern has been the same in every city. Beautiful buildings. Jewish names on plaques. Museums where there used to be people. In Vienna, the Jewish quarter has a memorial. In Venice, the original Ghetto is a stop on a walking tour. In Rome, the kosher restaurants are packed and the synagogue is an architectural wonder. The people are mostly gone. There are still fewer Jews on the planet than there were before the Shoah. That fact hits differently when you're eating cacio e pepe where many used to live.

The parsha this Shabbat is Shelach — "send" — and it contains one of the most famous intelligence failures in the Torah. God tells Moses to send scouts to check out the land of Canaan. Twelve go, one from each tribe. They travel for forty days. When they come back, the first part of their report is unanimous:

וַיְסַפְּרוּ־לוֹ֙ וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ בָּ֕אנוּ אֶל־הָאָ֖רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֣ר שְׁלַחְתָּ֑נוּ וְ֠גַ֠ם זָבַ֨ת חָלָ֥ב וּדְבַ֛שׁ הִ֖וא וְזֶה־פִּרְיָֽהּ׃ This is what they told him: "We came to the land you sent us to; it does indeed flow with milk and honey, and this is its fruit.

— Bamidbar 13:27

The fruit, by the way, was staggering. A cluster of grapes so large it took two men to carry it on a pole. Pomegranates. Figs. The evidence of the land's goodness was physical, visible, right there in their hands.

And then the report splits. Ten of the twelve say: the people who live there are giants. The cities are fortified. We can't do it.

וְשָׁ֣ם רָאִ֗ינוּ אֶת־הַנְּפִילִ֛ים בְּנֵ֥י עֲנָ֖ק מִן־הַנְּפִלִ֑ים וַנְּהִ֤י בְעֵינֵ֙ינוּ֙ כַּֽחֲגָבִ֔ים וְכֵ֥ן הָיִ֖ינוּ בְּעֵינֵיהֶֽם׃ we saw the Nephilim there—the Anakites are part of the Nephilim—and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them."

— Bamidbar 13:33

The rabbis notice something painful in that second clause. "We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves" — that's fear. Fear is human. But "and so we must have looked to them" — that's projection.

They had no idea how the Canaanites saw them. They took their own smallness and assumed the world agreed.

Caleb doesn't deny the giants. He doesn't pretend the cities aren't fortified. He reads the same evidence and reaches a different conclusion:

וַיַּ֧הַס כָּלֵ֛ב אֶת־הָעָ֖ם אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיֹּ֗אמֶר עָלֹ֤ה נַעֲלֶה֙ וְיָרַ֣שְׁנוּ אֹתָ֔הּ כִּֽי־יָכ֥וֹל נוּכַ֖ל לָֽהּ׃ Caleb hushed the people before Moses and said, "Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it."

— Bamidbar 13:30

Same land. Same grapes. Same giants. Two reports. The difference is not in what they saw but in what they concluded from the seeing.

This week — the same week I was walking through ghetto streets turned gelato district — Israel's ongoing wartime baby boom continued to make headlines.

Despite rockets, reserve duty, and a multifront conflict, Israeli women have been having babies at rates not seen in years. A ten percent increase in births in late 2024 extended into 2025. The land that the ten spies described as one that "devours its inhabitants" is generating life faster than it has in a generation.

Somebody looked at the same map the pessimists looked at and chose to bring a child into it.

Since October 2023, more than fifty-three thousand Jews worldwide have made aliyah. Moved to Israel. During a war. My husband and I applied several months ago to join them. Of those that already made it? Over five hundred of them were doctors who left practices in North America, France, and South America to work in Israeli hospitals. At a conference in Paris in May, three hundred more European physicians explored the process. The modern Calebs don't deny the giants. They carry the grapes.

The parsha ends with something I didn't connect to the spies until recently. After the disaster — after the people panic, after God decrees forty years of wandering — the text gives a commandment that seems to arrive from nowhere. Tzitzit. Fringes. Tie them to the corners of your garments and look at them:

וְהָיָ֣ה לָכֶם֮ לְצִיצִת֒ וּרְאִיתֶ֣ם אֹת֗וֹ וּזְכַרְתֶּם֙ אֶת־כׇּל־מִצְוֺ֣ת יְהֹוָ֔ה וַעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֹתָ֑ם וְלֹֽא־תָת֜וּרוּ אַחֲרֵ֤י לְבַבְכֶם֙ וְאַחֲרֵ֣י עֵֽינֵיכֶ֔ם אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּ֥ם זֹנִ֖ים אַחֲרֵיהֶֽם׃ That shall be your fringe; look at it and recall all GOD's commandments and observe them, so that you do not follow your heart and eyes in your urge to stray.

— Bamidbar 15:39

The Hebrew does something the English can't. Lo taturu — "do not follow" — uses the same root as the word for what the spies did. Tur. To scout. To tour. To look around. The twelve scouts toured the land and ten of them saw wrong. Now God says: here is something to look at instead. Tie it to your clothes. Every morning, see it and remember. Don't let your eyes make you a grasshopper.

A parsha that opens with a failure of seeing closes with a commandment about seeing correctly. The spies had the evidence in their hands — grapes so heavy two men strained to lift them — and still came back afraid. The tzitzit are a permanent corrective, tied to the thing you're already wearing. You don't have to go looking. The reminder is right there, at the edge of your garment, every day.

Yesterday we came to Rotterdam for a friend's seventy-fifth birthday. Seventy-five years in a continent that tried to empty itself of our people, and here we are. There was cake. There were candles. The room was warm. Outside, Europe did what Europe does — carried on, largely unaware that anything remarkable was happening in this particular apartment.

Seventy-five years. The grapes were real.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Jewish Firefighters? Holy Hell 🔥

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 13 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 13, 2025.

Shalom from Israel!

!שלום מישראל

We’ve had some crazy news here in the last 24 hours, as Israel bombed Iran’s nuclear sites, causing Iran to retaliate with rockets and Israel intercepting them. Thank you to everyone who reached out for my safety.

Me and my new friends right now at the beach! No rockets here, just love and temporary tattoos.

If you think the timing of the news was a coincidence, think again ;) Let’s just say I’m glad my meetings with top commanders and Mossad finally persuaded them to take swift and direct action. Sof sof!

In all seriousness, I just spent an incredible week volunteering on an IDF base and I can’t wait to tell you about my experiences.

‘til then, I’m sharing my latest piece with Jewish Unpacked about a local group of Jewish firefighters who are not only protecting New Yorkers, but have been supporting Israel since the start of the war, standing strong in the face of hate, and inspiring others to live more Jewishly.

I learned about them last year when one of their members emailed me after finding this Substack.

That’s one of the joyous wonders of writing a Jewish blog—you never know who you’re going to meet. I’ve made connections with such fascinating and kind people from all over the world.

From Ner Tamid’s Instagram

This firefighter and I got coffee, and he shared his perspectives and stories, some of which I was unable to include in the piece. One thing I noticed between him and the fire chief that I interviewed was how neither of them wanted the story to center on themselves. They weren’t seeking recognition as individuals. Instead, they saw themselves as part of something larger, a unit working together toward one mission. Their humility, their deep sense of purpose, and their devotion to the greater good AND their Jewishness were inspiring. I’ve witnessed this ethos while volunteering in Israel as well. There’s nothing else like it.

Read the piece here!

Taking next week off. Follow my adventures on Instagram: @theshabbatdrop. Praying for safety, peace, and a return of the rest of the hostages!

Shabbat Shalom from Tel Aviv!

-מעיין

Until the Flame Rises

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 13 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Sunday I went to Auschwitz-Birkenau.

I don't know what I expected. I'd read the books. I'd watched the movies. I'd seen the photographs. I'd visited museums and memorials. I thought I was prepared. I was not.

What I was not prepared for was the tidiness. The paths are maintained. The signs are informative—to a point. There are guided groups in every language, moving through the barracks and the crematoria on a schedule, headsets on, stopping at designated points for photographs. It is curated. There is a gift shop.

Birkenau is worse. The sheer scale of it — the train tracks, the ruins of the gas chambers, the rows of barracks stretching to the horizon — is genuinely beyond language. And here, too, the informational panels are polished and careful.

The history is presented with the rough edges sanded smooth, the specifics of who did what to whom softened into the passive voice, as if the murder happened to no one in particular and was carried out by no one at all. The one word you will read the least at Auschwitz-Birkenau seems to be "Jews."

It was, to borrow an incredibly inadequate word, unbearable.

The only very vaguely tolerable moment in the entire visit was unplanned. Walking through Birkenau, we came across a Jewish group — Canadian if you could tell from the collection of Maple Leaf and Israeli flags — and they were davening. Praying. Standing in the place that was built to be the last place any Jew would ever stand, and reciting the same words Jews have been reciting daily for centuries.

We joined them — saying the words and for a few minutes the place was not a museum. It was a minyan.

The parsha this Shabbat is Behaalotecha — "when you raise up" — and it opens with an instruction about light.

דַּבֵּר֙ אֶֽל־אַהֲרֹ֔ן וְאָמַרְתָּ֖ אֵלָ֑יו בְּהַעֲלֹֽתְךָ֙ אֶת־הַנֵּרֹ֔ת אֶל־מוּל֙ פְּנֵ֣י הַמְּנוֹרָ֔ה יָאִ֖ירוּ שִׁבְעַ֥ת הַנֵּרֽוֹת׃ Speak to Aaron and say to him, "When you mount the lamps, let the seven lamps give light at the front of the lampstand."

— Bamidbar 8:2

The English loses the Hebrew. Behaalotecha doesn't mean "mount" or "kindle." It means "when you cause to rise up." The root is alah — to ascend. The Torah uses a word about rising for the act of lighting a flame, because that's what fire does. It climbs.

Rashi catches this. His comment on the verse has stayed with me since I first read it: the lamplighter must hold the flame to the wick until the light ascends of itself. You don't just touch the fire to the lamp and walk away. You stay. You hold it there. You wait until the flame catches and rises on its own.

Rashi also explains why this passage follows the dedication offerings of the twelve tribal princes. Aaron watched the other leaders bring their gifts for the dedication of the Mishkan and felt left out — his tribe wasn't included. God responded: your part is greater than theirs, because you will kindle and set in order the lamps. (Rashi on Bamidbar 8:2)

The offerings were one-time events. Grand, expensive, each one catalogued in detail across the entire previous parsha. Aaron's task was daily. Walk in. Trim the wicks. Hold the flame. Wait. Do it again tomorrow. The princes brought spectacle. Aaron brought continuity.

Behaalotecha covers a lot of ground after the menorah. The Levites are consecrated. A second Passover is created for those who missed the first — because when a group came to Moses and asked "Why should we be left out?" God made room. The silver trumpets. The departure from Sinai. The complaining about the manna. Moses breaking down under the weight of leadership. Miriam's punishment for speaking against her brother.

It's a messy parsha. The Israelites leave Sinai and immediately start falling apart. They want meat. They want Egypt. They're tired. Moses tells God he can't carry this people alone — "kill me rather" — and God responds by sharing the prophetic spirit among seventy elders. Nobody in Behaalotecha seems to be at their best.

But the parsha opens with the menorah. Before the grumbling, before the rebellion, before any of it: light the lamps. Hold the flame to the wick. The light rises.

The same week I was at Birkenau, Argentina's President Milei was in Jerusalem, standing before the Knesset, saying "Am Yisrael Chai."

A head of state, in the capital, in the middle of everything, affirming that the people of Israel are alive. I read about it on my phone on a tram in Krakow — the city where the Jewish quarter is basically a souvenir shop.

I keep going back to Rashi's image. The lamplighter holds the flame to the wick until it rises on its own. Not a single dramatic act. A daily one. Showing up, trimming, holding, waiting. The light is not the lamplighter's. The lamplighter's job is to stay long enough for it to catch.

At Birkenau, a group of Jews we'd never met stood in the place that was engineered to be the end of Jewish prayer and they prayed. The words were the same words — the same siddur, the same cadence, the same language that has been carrying our people for thousands of years. The place was designed to extinguish the flame. Eighty years later, someone is still holding it to the wick.

The menorah was lit in the Mishkan — a tent. A portable, temporary, pack-it-up-and-carry-it structure in the middle of the wilderness. God did not wait for the Temple to command the lighting. The light did not require permanence. It required someone willing to show up every day and hold the flame.

Tonight — the same as every Friday night — hold the flame. Wait for it to rise.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Cool Things I Learned This Shavuot!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 06 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 6, 2025.

Time for another post-Shavuot roundup!

This week was Shavuot (my fav Jewish holiday!), which commemorates the Jews receiving the Torah from G-d at Mount Sinai. It’s also when we stay up all night to learn and eat cheesecake!

This was my fourth year celebrating it. The past two years I’ve gone to Manhattan’s JCC and have learned about interesting topics ranging from cemetery measuring to martyrdom in Judaism (read my JCC roundups here and here).

It’s fun and chaotic (who doesn’t love an evening that starts with chocolate-covered espresso beans?), but I was looking for something different this year. That’s why I celebrated in Brooklyn, where educators and rabbis from a bunch of shuls across the borough come together to teach classes. Here’s some cool things I learned.

1. The Golem reminds us to do something

In “The Golem” by I.L. Peretz, the Jews of Prague faced horrible violence. Rabbi Yehuda Loew created a golem out of clay to protect the Jews. He breathed life into it, and the golem rose to fiercely protect the ghetto. But the golem raged, killing everyone, including the Gentiles who sometimes served as the Sabbath goyim!

So as Shabbat approached, the rabbi laid the golem to rest by whispering a psalm in its ear. The golem returned to a heap of clay, and this is how the story ends, with it

“…concealed in the uppermost part of the synagogue of Prague, covered with cobwebs that have been spun from wall to wall to encase the whole arcade so that it should be hidden from all human eyes.... The golem, you see, has not been forgotten. It is here! But the name that could bring the golem to life in times of need, that name has vanished into thin air. And no one is allowed to touch the cobwebs that thicken.

Do something — if you can!”

For a destructive creature, he was quite cute! Source: Historicmysteries.com

Why does the story end with a plea to do something, if you can?

While the story of the golem warns us of unchecked power and uncontrolled violence, Rabbi Regina Sandler-Phillips taught this Shavuot that we shouldn’t close ourselves off completely, lest we find ourselves in a cobweb of indifference or inaction.

In times of loss, hardship, or… war, it’s easy to feel frustrated, powerless, overwhelmed, or xenacious (yearning for change!). But we cannot remain closed off to the events of the world. Even the most Zionist among us should speak out when civilians are caught in the crossfire or are starved. It doesn’t make us less Zionist or less pro-Israel; it makes us human, capable of empathy.

Here’s to doing something, whether that’s donating, protesting, mourning, or bearing witness. Don’t find yourself closed off, caught in the cobweb or cocoon of your emotions. Because you know what the Hebrew word is for cocoon? It’s גוֹלֶם. Golem.

2. Chosenness may have been a choice

Jews often feel uncomfortable with the notion that we are G-d’s chosen people. I’ve never felt this way; since birth, my mother has told me how special I am. Little did I know it had to do with my monotheism!

I understand chosenness to mean responsibility, that we have a greater obligation to perform mitzvot and follow G-d’s laws, to be a light unto the nations. But I was taught that G-d came down from His celestial perch and said “I choose you.” Like Pokémon!

Well, I learned another interpretation, from none other than my extremely Jewishly literate and lovely partner, Phil.

I’m leaving out teachings and sources for brevity (sorry, Phil!), but here are some examples from Jewish history and thought that challenge the idea that G-d simply chose us and we had no say in it.

Abram began questioning idols waaay before G-d came into the picture. In the Book of Jubilees 11:23-26 (yes, that’s a thing, from the 2nd century BCE), it says:

“… and he was two weeks of years old, and he separated himself from his father that he might not worship idols with him. And he began to pray to the Creator of all things that He might save him from the errors of the children of men, and that his portion should not fall into error after uncleanness and vileness.”

At age 14 (a “week of years” is 7 years, x2 = 14. It’s poetic and confusing!), Abram questions idol worshippers around him, and begins to speculate on his own how all things on earth are made. What were YOU doing at 14? My Heavenly Father at that age was Gerard Way.

Let’s look at the Talmud. In the Gemara, there’s a story about G-d holding Mt. Sinai over the Jewish people, saying, “If you accept the Torah, excellent, and if not, there will be your burial.” Yikes!

Shabbat 88a:5 says that the Jews were coerced into accepting the Torah, since G-d was going to drop a mountain on them, and therefore it was not binding. The rabbis here make a legal point, that acceptance of Torah cannot be made under duress. So when do the Jews accept G-d’s covenant?

Mt. Sinai suspension via ChatGPT

Welcome to the Book of Esther. You know, Purim? According to the rabbis, this is when the Jews reaffirmed their covenant with G-d. In Esther 9:27:

"The Jews ordained, and took upon them, and upon their seed, and upon all such as joined themselves unto them.”

At this point in the Book of Esther, during the time of Ahasuerus, the Jews willingly accepted what they were previously coerced into. The rabbis interpret this verse as more than the observance of Purim. They see it as the pivotal moment when Jews accept Torah by choice, without open miracles, and during exile. All from a book that doesn’t mention G-d once!

It turns out that chosenness isn’t just about being picked; it’s about choosing back. Like love.

3. Tarot = Torah

Welcome to my favorite class all night/morning (sorry, Phil!).

I recently got into Tarot based on a powerful reading I received last year. People have misconceptions that Tarot is used as “fortune telling” (it can be), but it’s really using cards with specific imagery to look inward and see how you can apply the cards’ messages to your own life.

Did you know Tarot has Jewish connections? The most obvious is the Wheel of Fortune card, which contains the Hebrew letters יהוה for the Tetragrammaton, the name of G-d. And the 22 Major Arcana cards represent the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet!

Just like playing dreidel during Antiochus’s reign, when Jewish practices were outlawed, Jews had to find a workaround and get creative to practice Judaism… like teaching through Tarot cards! It’s one of the few times in history you could call Jews sneaky and mean it as a compliment!

When you look at the Noblet deck through a Jewish lens, it starts to look like way more than just a set of cards. Hidden in the art are Hebrew letters, Torah stories, ritual objects, and even the Jewish calendar. It’s like a secret textbook for underground Jewish learning.

For example, let’s look at the Moon card (below left). Other than the moon (which oddly looks like a sun), we see two buildings streaked with red, two dogs (or a dog and a lamb), and a body of water separated by what appears to be a lobster.

Left: original Noblet deck. Right: popular 20th century Rider-Waite-Smith deck

Buildings streaked with blood? A dog and a lamb? Separated water? Could this be… a retelling of the Passover story? It sounds coincidental until you learn that in Old French and Spanish, the word 'langosta' means lobster. You know what else it means? Locust.

And the dog may be depicted as barking, because it’s said in Exodus 11:7, G-d promises that the Exodus will be so unopposed that “not even a dog will bark…”.

And do you see those three beige lumps at the bottom of the card? Those represent the three pieces of matzah on the Seder table. Check out some relevant hidden Hebrew letters:

Source: Stav Appel

I later went home and looked at my own deck, the Wyspell Feminine Tarot Deck, and guess what’s in the corner of the Moon card that I never noticed before? That’s right—a lobster. 🦞 (And many similarities, including the two buildings and dogs. I like to think the mountain is Mt. Sinai).

Stav’s class was full of examples from many Tarot cards, a convincing argument that today’s popular Tarot decks are copies of copies of copies of a deck once used for secret Jewish education. He had so many card examples he’s writing a book on it, and you bet your bottom dollar I’ll be writing a full Drop on it when it comes out this fall!

4. What the Third Commandment really means

Here’s an entry from a friend who wasn’t going to do anything for Shavuot but then decided to hop on a Zoom class on the Ten Commandments:

“I listened to a lecture on the Ten Commandments: how to apply them to your life and how they should be interpreted. The rabbi explained how we misinterpret the Third Commandment of not taking G-d's name in vain. I thought that this commandment was telling us not to say ‘goddamnit,’ but it actually means not doing mitzvot. We are here to do good on the earth, and if we don’t, we’re not living up to G-d’s name.

I also liked how the rabbi also talked about the idea of keeping the Sabbath and being able to find ways to make Shabbat your own. This doesn't necessarily mean that you need to not use your phone completely and not take the Subway, but just find little things instead to make Shabbat. It's okay if you don't do everything; that shouldn’t deter you from keeping Shabbat in a real and restorative way.”

That’s all, folks. I hope you had a lovely chag. Drop something cool you learned in the comments!

I’m on my way to Israel to volunteer with Sar-El on an IDF base with limited Internet! I might schedule a post, and then take a break! ✈️

Good Shabbos. Be well,

Fifteen Words

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 06 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Tuesday I was in Israel. On Thursday I took a train to Krakow.

The distance between those two sentences is about twenty-five hundred kilometers. It is also the distance between a living Jewish civilization and the place where one was murdered and made into a museum.

Kazimierz is the old Jewish quarter of Krakow. If you visit — and people do, constantly — you'll find restaurants with names in Hebrew and Yiddish, menus featuring "traditional Jewish cuisine," and shops selling questionable merchandise.

There are plaques marking synagogues. There are walking tours of the ghetto. It is all very thorough, and it is incredibly sad in a way I was not prepared for. The buildings are real. Some of the synagogues still stand. But the people who filled them are gone, and what remains is basically just decoration.

Jewish life here has the quality of a very detailed replica.

I'm spending Shabbat in Krakow thanks to Chabad, which operates here the way it operates everywhere — somebody shows up, sets a table, keeps the lights on.

Friday night there will be services. There will be a meal. Someone will say the brachot over wine and challah.

The parsha this Shabbat is Naso — "lift up" or idiomatically "count" — the longest portion in the Torah. It covers a lot of ground: the continuation of the Levite census from last week, the laws of the Sotah, the Nazirite vow, and then a long, repetitive catalogue of identical offerings brought by each tribal leader at the dedication of the Mishkan.

On first read, Naso is not the parsha you'd pick for inspiration.

But tucked between the laws and the offerings — buried in the middle of dense procedural text — sit the most famous words of blessing in the Torah.

God tells Moses to instruct Aaron and his sons, the kohanim — the priests — to bless the people of Israel. And then God gives them the words.

Exactly fifteen of them, in Hebrew. Three lines:

יְבָרֶכְךָ֥ יְהֹוָ֖ה וְיִשְׁמְרֶֽךָ׃ GOD bless you and protect you! יָאֵ֨ר יְהֹוָ֧ה ׀ פָּנָ֛יו אֵלֶ֖יךָ וִֽיחֻנֶּֽךָּ׃ GOD deal kindly and graciously with you! יִשָּׂ֨א יְהֹוָ֤ה ׀ פָּנָיו֙ אֵלֶ֔יךָ וְיָשֵׂ֥ם לְךָ֖ שָׁלֽוֹם׃ GOD bestow favor upon you and grant you peace!

— Bamidbar 6:24-26

The English smooths the imagery. The second line, in Hebrew, says ya'er Adonai panav elekha — may God make His face shine upon you. Light, directed at a single person. The third: yisa Adonai panav elekha — may God lift His face toward you. And the three lines grow as they go — three Hebrew words in the first, five in the second, seven in the third. The blessing expands outward, like hands being raised.

The verse right after is easy to miss:

וְשָׂמ֥וּ אֶת־שְׁמִ֖י עַל־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל וַאֲנִ֖י אֲבָרְכֵֽם׃ Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them.

— Bamidbar 6:27

Vesamú et shemí al bnei Yisrael — they shall place My name on the children of Israel. The kohanim don't do the blessing. They place God's name on the people, and God does the rest. The priests are a delivery mechanism. The blessing belongs to someone else.

Here's what stays with me. These fifteen words were given in the midbar — the wilderness. No Temple. No Jerusalem. No permanent address. The Israelites were camping, packing up, carrying the Mishkan on their backs from one stop to the next.

And this is when God hands over the words Jews have been saying to each other ever since. While they're still wandering.

Birkat Kohanim — the Priestly Blessing — is the oldest biblical text we have physical evidence for. In 1979, archaeologists found two tiny silver scrolls at Ketef Hinnom, outside Jerusalem, dating to the seventh century BCE — four hundred years before the Dead Sea Scrolls. Scratched into the silver, barely legible: yevarechecha Adonai veyishmerecha. The words had already been traveling for centuries by the time someone pressed them into metal.

They've been traveling since. Through both destructions. Through every exile. Through every diaspora community that gathered a minyan in a room and called it a shul.

The words don't need a building. They don't need a homeland. They need someone willing to say them and someone willing to stand there and receive them.

Last Shabbat I was in Israel for Shavuot — my first as a Jew. The holiday that marks the giving of the Torah at Sinai. Three and a half weeks after my conversion, standing in the place where the calendar was built to be lived, where the language on the street signs is the language of the liturgy.

A few days later I'm in a city where the Jewish quarter is a souvenir shop and Shabbat dinner depends on one Chabad rabbi and whoever walks through the door.

The blessing was built for exactly this. Bamidbar — in the wilderness. The words were given before any fixed address, and they've never needed one since. Every Friday night, in synagogues and living rooms and Chabad houses in cities where Jewish life was nearly erased, someone says these same words. Three, then five, then seven. Expanding ever outward.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

“I’m Taiwanese, and I’m Jewish.”

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 30 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 30, 2025.

💦 Droplets (Announcements)

☂️ Omer Circle: Shavuot starts this Sunday evening! Get ready for a night of learning with a short morning of learning. The online Omer Circles have been popping—our third and last is THIS Sunday at 10:30am ET. We’ll be talking about Shavuot and brokenness. Register here!

☂️ Good news: Remember last week when I shared the story of my missing journal full of notes on my Jewish wisdom class?! After months of stressing and obsessing (the name of my future memoir), I found it totally by accident. Or it found me. The moral of the story? Complain on a public forum and you will get what you want.

WRONG! The moral of the story is to let go and to remember that life isn’t defined by your stuff. Plus, if I never lost the journal, I wouldn’t have gotten a juicy lesson to write about ;)

☂️ Pledges: There’s now a pledge feature on Substack. Don’t worry, my Jewish ramblings are still free and will be for a long while (but don’t threaten me with a good time). If you would be interested in supporting this ol’ blog by paying $5/month, you can let me know by making a pledge at the bottom of this email. No pressure at all, I’m just happy you’re here.

May is both Jewish American Heritage Month and Asian Pacific Islander Heritage Month. This convergence invites us to honor the rich histories, cultures, and contributions of these vibrant communities. It also highlights the importance of embracing these mixed identities. In this spirit, I invited a member of my local community, Celeste, to share her thoughts on the intersection of being Jewish and Taiwanese, and how her journey has shaped her sense of self. I met Celeste at a Jewish storytelling event run by Central Synagogue.

The following was written by Celeste.

I am Jewish and Taiwanese, with a pause in between; a semicolon, if you will. And I stand exactly there: the precipice, the in-between, the semicolon between both worlds. Jewish; Taiwanese. Yes, a grey area, but an area I have learned to embrace within my own existence.

I was raised very much Taiwanese, but the world reflected back to me a experience that was shades of being Jewish.

Link to Hillel International’s post above in the intro!

Growing up, language school is a rite of passage for so many Asian Americans, and my afterschool Mandarin classes were held in a Chinese Protestant Church. My mom, as knowledgeable as she was, would point to the stiff-necked portraits of a very pasty, strawberry blonde hippie and state, "That's Jesus. And he's a Jew, just like you!"

But second-grade me had no idea how this likeness had any resemblance to me, why he looked so uncomfortable, or how he was from the hot deserts pictured in the storybooks across the church.

The weirdest phenomenon of growing up outside of a major Jewish community is realizing how many random opinions are out there about exactly what you are. And how to protect a young child's grasp of the world? I was told to be quiet, to be smaller, to say anything but being Jewish.

Being mixed on top of all of this made navigating being Jewish, well, hilarious. Kids would stare as my mom came to pick me up in her Toyota, and the same questions were asked again and again. "Your mom's Chinese? What's your other half? Does your dad have curly hair?" And elementary me would reply with the perfect explanation. "Why yeah, I'm half Gypsy actually. Like Esmeralda from that one Disney movie!" Or one I still sometimes use today: "Yeah, my dad's white… but, like, hairy white."

Esmeralda low-key giving Miriam vibes

But as I grew into myself—and into the reflection that stared back at me in the mirror—these same questions echoed a deeper reality. How much would I let my Jewish identity truly define me—or was it just my fear of it? Of being fundamentally Jewish, and all the beautiful confusion, meaning, and duality that comes with exactly that.

And most of all, to be able to state—casually and firmly, with no “but” at the end, “I’m Taiwanese, and I’m Jewish.”

Shabbat Shalom and chag sameach! Be proud of who you are,

💦 If you like reading about Jewish identity, check out:

Counted by Name

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 30 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

There is a craft supply shop on a side street near Levinsky Market in south Tel Aviv that sells, among other things, tiny metal charms. Stars of David, hamsas, pomegranates, little menorahs — all about the size of a thumbnail, meant to be strung on necklaces or attached to keychains or, in this case, used to "kasher" rubber ducks. I spent a Friday morning sorting through bins of them, picking out charms for a friend back in Atlanta who makes the handcrafted Kosher Ducks for this very website—or at least until the ones she is having manufactured get delivered.

Levinsky Market is the kind of place that resists tidiness. Spice shops next to Eritrean groceries next to stores selling cheap luggage next to a place with what they say are the best burekas in the city (I personally think that those are found at a particular spot in Carmel Market).. Everyone is going somewhere fast. Nobody cares about having a quiet moment with some charms. Things are bustling.

The parsha this Shabbat is Bamidbar — "In the Wilderness" — the opening of the fourth book of Torah. In English the book is called Numbers, because it begins with a count. God speaks to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai and gives the instruction:

שְׂא֗וּ אֶת־רֹאשׁ֙ כׇּל־עֲדַ֣ת בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל לְמִשְׁפְּחֹתָ֖ם לְבֵ֣ית אֲבֹתָ֑ם בְּמִסְפַּ֣ר שֵׁמ֔וֹת כׇּל־זָכָ֖ר לְגֻלְגְּלֹתָֽם׃ Take a census of the whole Israelite community by the clans of its ancestral houses, listing the names, every male, head by head.

— Bamidbar 1:2

Se'u et rosh — the Hebrew for "take a census" — literally means "lift up the head." The people aren't tallied. They are elevated, one at a time. B'mispar shemot — by the number of names. Each person counted individually, by name, by family, by tribe.

Rashi, the great commentator, asks the obvious question. Why does God keep counting the Israelites? This is at least the third census since the Exodus. His answer is one sentence. "Because they are dear to Him, He counts them now and then." You count what you love. A parent counting children at a rest stop. A collector checking the shelf. God in the wilderness, lifting heads.

After the count, the parsha does something I didn't expect the first time I read it. It maps the camp. Each tribe gets a position — Judah to the east, Reuben to the south, Ephraim to the west, Dan to the north — all arranged around the Tent of Meeting at the center:

אִ֣ישׁ עַל־דִּגְל֤וֹ בְאֹתֹת֙ לְבֵ֣ית אֲבֹתָ֔ם יַחֲנ֖וּ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל מִנֶּ֕גֶד סָבִ֥יב לְאֹֽהֶל־מוֹעֵ֖ד יַחֲנֽוּ׃ The Israelites shall camp each [household] with its standard, under the banners of their ancestral house; they shall camp around the Tent of Meeting at a distance.

— Bamidbar 2:2

Ish al diglo — each person under their banner. You are counted, you are named, and then you are placed. Everyone has a spot in the camp.

Earlier this week was Yom Yerushalayim — Jerusalem Day — marking the anniversary of the city's reunification in 1967. I was in Tel Aviv, but the flags were everywhere. On balconies, on cars, in the hands of thousands marching through the Old City toward the Kotel. Monday the whole city was there, facing the same center. The camp arrangement in Bamidbar — tribes positioned around the Tent of Meeting, everything oriented inward — felt less like an ancient logistics chart and more like something I'd just watched happen in real time.

Wednesday marked six hundred days since October 7th. The signs were everywhere. Almost regardless of politics yellow saturated the public space. Fifty-seven hostages still in Gaza. Six hundred days of counting. That kind of count — the daily, aching kind — runs on the same fuel Rashi describes, only turned inside out.

You count what you love. You don't stop counting until everyone comes home.

There's a rabbinic teaching about the wilderness that has stayed with me since I first encountered it. The Torah was given in the midbar — the desert — because the desert belongs to no one. It's open, unclaimed, available to anyone willing to show up and receive. The rabbis read this as deliberate. Not a place with a deed. Not a city with walls. A place where anyone can arrive.

And the first thing God does in that open wilderness is count everyone who showed up. By name.

I'm still getting used to mine. Uriel ben Avraham — less than three weeks old. In Atlanta, a beit din gave it to me. At the Kotel, nobody asked. But the name is in the count now, if the count is the kind Rashi describes — the one that happens because someone thinks you're worth numbering.

I fly out next week. Europe for a bit, then home. The suitcase has tefillin, a siddur with dog-eared pages, and a orange plastic bag with tons of tiny charms. Bamidbar opens a new book in the Torah, and it opens with a roster. No laws yet. No narratives of rebellion or complaint. Just: who is here, what are their names, where do they stand.

Friday morning in south Tel Aviv. Counted.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

Secrets for a Well-Lived Life—Revealed!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 23 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 23, 2025.

🕯️This Drop is in memory of Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim who were killed the other night outside the Capital Jewish Museum in DC. Yaron was to propose to her next week in Jerusalem. I’ve been especially distraught over this news. Maybe it’s because they were passionate about Jewish causes like me, attending the type of event I would go to. Maybe it’s because I used to live in DC, whose Jewish community propelled my Jewish journey as an adult. Or maybe I find myself, once again, overwhelmed by the amount of hate in the world.

I was going to write about this in depth today, about how the line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism continues to blur, how spewing hateful rhetoric incites violence, and how history teaches us that we shouldn’t be surprised by this.

But instead, I’m choosing to focus this Drop on Jewish learning, not on antisemitism. And reading about Yaron and Sarah, how they worked for peace and bridging Israelis and Palestinians, and how involved they were in so many Jewish organizations, I think they too would have wanted that. May their memories be a blessing.

I recently finished taking a seven-part class on Jewish values taught by one of the most influential rabbis in the world. I’m not going to say who he is because I don’t want him to get mad at me for spilling some of his secrets!

He gave sermons on topics like the Jewish life cycle, goal setting, relationships and dating, Zionism, and the Jewish future. To be honest with you (and I’m always honest with you, dear reader), the class was more on self-help and personal development, but hey, I’m a junkie for that!

The food and drinks in the class were also amazing, and I connected with some great wisdom-seeking Jews. But forget what I ate (lamb skewers on the fluffiest pita) and drank (strawberry basil gin fizz with fake foam if egg white’s not your thing)… let’s get to some non-Jewish Jewish learning!

How to make sure your life is meaningful

Okay, this is actually pretty Jewish. It’s straight from the Talmud, people! According to Shabbat 31a, a person is asked four questions when they die. No, not the Passover four questions! These four questions:

Were you honest in business? – This question asks whether you acted with honesty and integrity in your work and financial affairs. Anyone can say they were a nice person, but were they a mensch when it counted?
Did you raise a family? – Traditionally, this refers to fulfilling the mitzvah of having children, but it can also be interpreted more broadly as contributing to the growth and continuity of the world. Did you raise a pet? Did you build community? According to Mystery Rabbi who taught my class, there is nothing more powerful than the responsibility of helping something/someone grow, which is why it’s so natural to have your parents die before you do. Sad, but natural, as it means they fulfilled their responsibility. Oy, sorry that got grim!
Did you study Torah? – The purpose of life is not to be happy; the purpose of life is to continuously grow your soul, aka deepen your understanding of life and continue to learn. This question emphasizes the importance of lifelong learning and making time for spiritual growth and education. Studying Torah is a great way to do this.
Did you expect redemption? – Or as I prefer: Did you live with hope?

➡️ Read more on these questions here.

Relationships are like diet books

…if one worked, everyone would follow one. In other words, when we see love that feels real, like Jacob being married to Leah for seven years so he could get with Rachel (aha! Jewish connection!), we all want to believe it’s possible. But in relationships, there’s no one-size-fits-all. What works for one couple may be entirely wrong for another.

“The Meeting of Jacob and Rachel” by William Dyce (source: Bible Study With Randy)

And to be happy in a relationship, you have to be honest with yourself. Is this relationship living up to your values? Do you have an honest friend who can really tell you what they think of your partner? (The rabbi placed a big emphasis on friendships and being even more selective with them than you are with a partner.)

We put too much pressure on our partners. They don’t need to check every box (therapist, teacher, workout buddy, even soulmate) or be into everything you’re into. You have friends for that. Hopefully. Expecting one person to fulfill every need is a setup for disappointment. What matters more is: Do they show up with emotional energy? Do they get up in the middle of the night for the baby? Are they kind?

If you’re single and dating, don’t let the texting go on for more than a week. Just meet up already!

And remember:

Men = emotional sprinters Women = emotional marathon runners

(The rabbi was a little old school)

You thought I wouldn’t mention Zionism

But what’s Jewish learning without a little Israel, antisemitism, and anti-Zionism?

When people, like those “I was lied to about Israel” Jews, find out the truth about what happened in 1948, that disillusionment they feel often becomes their new truth. The shock of a more complicated, even painful history turns into distance, maybe even rejection. It’s a psychological response: to protect ourselves from disappointment, we disconnect. But nation origin stories are always messy. Why should Israel be any different or singled out?

Be wary of anyone who tells you one version of history: that Jews drove out the Palestinians, or that Arabs told Palestinians to leave. Both things can be true, and are true. Which says a lot about Israel education, but that’s for another Drop!

But there’s hope. The most optimistic thing Mystery Rabbi heard all year was from Fareed Zakaria, who said the following on The Prof G Pod with Scott Galloway:

"People forget in the early 1970s, the Harvard Crimson was writing editorials in favor of Pol Pot. It was writing editorials arguing that the North Vietnamese should win the Vietnam War because they were the forces of progress and liberation. These are 19- and 20-year-olds. They've often been radical."

Radicals soften with age. We know this, but it’s a good reminder. So don’t fear the chanting college students with covered faces. They’ll grow up to become hedge fund managers.

Also, Mystery Man predicts that more Arab nations will coalesce because they want to take out the Muslim Brotherhood. This rabbi is smart, so I’d listen to him if I were you!

Your life is not defined by your stuff

I’m going to tell you a story. The story of a woman named Miranda. A woman so organized who never lost anything… until one day, she lost her prized notebook from Jewish class.

It was branded, shiny, beautiful. A bullet journal with its own folder pocket that influencers would drool over. The journal also contained the class schedule that would serve as her ticket to Israel.

You see, each class, Miranda would proudly present her journal to check in for attendance so that she could enter a raffle to win a flight to Israel with a four-day stay in a nice hotel (!!).

If anyone finds this journal, keep it. I hope you make something of your life.

But one day, the journal vanished, causing Miranda great distress. She couldn’t believe it was gone, that journal that contained three classes’ worth of secrets and Jewish wisdom. And her chance at Tel Aviv.

She obsessed over finding her missing journal. She even had dreams about it. Until one day, she remembered a piece of advice from the wise rabbi who taught her class.

It was the week of the devastating LA fires. The rabbi began the class talking about the fires and how we as humans prioritize stuff. Living in LA, he shared stories of families who lost all their belongings, accumulated over decades. They may have lost their homes, but he reminded them they still had their lives. They would rebuild, and it would be tough, but they were alive. They can always get new stuff.

The rabbi encouraged the class to not define their lives by their stuff. Miranda does this all the time. As a maximalist, she defines her life by her patched peach-colored Norwegian cardigan. As a mega Outlander fan, she treasures her book signed by the cast. She would be sad if these belongings burnt to ashes, along with the fiery cross (Outlander reference).

The rabbi’s words reminded her that as frustrating as it was to lose the journal, the knowledge it contained wasn’t gone. And now she has shared some of it with you.

She also realized she didn’t need the journal to enter the raffle to go to Israel. Because she eventually bought herself a ticket to volunteer there in June! And her friend and fellow classmate won the raffle instead, because her friend is more organized and doesn’t lose things.

Do not define your life by your stuff. Go out and live. Grow your soul.

✍️ Shabbat Prompt

Here’s an exercise from class. Write down your three most important values. Some examples: Curiosity, growth, creativity, love, adventure, compassion, justice.

Did you write them down? Don’t read on until you’ve done so!

Okay. Good. Now, ask yourself: are you living each of these values? Consider them and put a check mark next to each one if you are doing so. If not, examine how you can bring more of these values into your life.

Because living in alignment with your deepest values is the truest path to a meaningful and fulfilled life.

Shabbat Shalom,

💦 If you like life advice, check out:

Strangers Resident

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 23 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

The first thing you see when you land at Ben Gurion is the sign. ברוכים הבאים — Welcome. I saw it two years ago with my husband, on our first trip, a birthday week in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. I saw it again this week. Same sign. Different person reading it.

Two years ago I was a tourist. A curious one — my husband grew up with Judaism (and Israel) in his bones, and I was there to explore what mattered to him, to walk the stones and eat the food and start to understand. I liked it. I loved parts of it. But I was visiting someone else's home.

This time I walked off the plane ten days after my conversion, carrying a siddur I've now prayed from every morning, and the sign hit differently. Not because Israel changed. Because I had.

The parsha this Shabbat is Behar-Bechukotai — a double portion, which happens several times a year when the calendar needs to catch up. Behar opens with God speaking to Moses on Mount Sinai, and the first instruction is about arrival:

דַּבֵּ֞ר אֶל־בְּנֵ֤י יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ וְאָמַרְתָּ֣ אֲלֵהֶ֔ם כִּ֤י תָבֹ֙אוּ֙ אֶל־הָאָ֔רֶץ אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֲנִ֖י נֹתֵ֣ן לָכֶ֑ם וְשָׁבְתָ֣ה הָאָ֔רֶץ שַׁבָּ֖ת לַיהֹוָֽה׃ Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of GOD.

— Vayikra 25:2

Ki tavo'u el ha'aretz — when you enter the land. Not "if." Not "should you happen to." When. The parsha gives the rules before the arrival, with a confidence that the arrival is coming.

The rest of Behar is a manual for living on that land. Shemitah — every seventh year, let the land rest. Yovel — the jubilee, every fiftieth year, debts forgiven and property returned. Laws about fair pricing and caring for the poor. And then, tucked into the property laws, the verse I keep turning over:

וְהָאָ֗רֶץ לֹ֤א תִמָּכֵר֙ לִצְמִתֻ֔ת כִּי־לִ֖י הָאָ֑רֶץ כִּֽי־גֵרִ֧ים וְתוֹשָׁבִ֛ים אַתֶּ֖ם עִמָּדִֽי׃ But the land must not be sold beyond reclaim, for the land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me.

— Vayikra 25:23

Gerim v'toshavim atem imadi. Strangers and residents, you are, with Me. Last week's parsha mentioned the ger — the stranger — in the gleaning laws, a reminder to leave room at the edges.. This week the word comes back, and the scope widens. Everyone is a ger. The land belongs to God. You live on it, you work it, you build your home on it, but you don't own it. You are strangers resident.

For a convert standing in the arrivals hall at Ben Gurion, that is an extraordinary thing to ponder.

On Tuesday I took a bus to Bnei Brak to buy tefillin. If you haven't been — it's a Haredi enclave just east of Tel Aviv, one of the most densely populated places in Israel, and on a weekday afternoon the sidewalks are full of men in black hats and boys on bikes and women pushing strollers past storefronts selling religious books and ritual objects.

I went into one of these shops looking more than a little of place. The man behind the counter asked what I needed. I told him I was looking for a pair of teffilin — the small black leather boxes that hold verses of Torah. He went through a few options and showed me how they should sit. I paid. He wrapped them in a velvet bag. Twenty minutes, start to finish.

I'd watched my husband do it dozens of times before my conversion — learning the wrapping without being able to do it myself. You wind the strap around your arm seven times, place the shel rosh on your head, and wrap the strap around your hand and fingers in a pattern that spells one of God's names. The morning after Bnei Brak, I put mine on for the first time. At the Kotel.

I know how this sounds. New convert, ten days in, wrapping tefillin at the Western Wall — the swelling score practically writes itself. It's humorous and a bit dramatic. But the actual experience was not so cinematic. It was small and physical. The slight pressure of the knot against the back of my head. The shel rosh settling into place. You recite the brachot — the blessings. You pray. You take them off. You go on with your morning. Amidst hundreds of others doing the same thing. All of us probably wishing it wasn't quite so scorching hot.

The Old City was different this time in a way I'm still working out how to describe. Two years ago I walked through the quarters and it was beautiful and historical and interesting, in the way that very old places are interesting to people who don't belong to them. This time the stones in the Jewish Quarter weren't a museum. They were the ground under a life I'd chosen — or rather, the ground I'd been assigned as a stranger resident. Not a resident, but certainly strange.

Bechukotai, the second half of this week's double portion, opens with a promise:

אִם־בְּחֻקֹּתַ֖י תֵּלֵ֑כוּ וְאֶת־מִצְוֺתַ֣י תִּשְׁמְר֔וּ וַעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֹתָֽם׃ If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments,

— Vayikra 26:3

Im bechukotai telechu — if you walk in My statutes. The Hebrew root of "walk" is the same root as halacha, the word for Jewish law. The whole system — what to eat, when to pray, how to mark time, when to let the land rest — comes from a word that means putting one foot in front of the other. You don't arrive at Jewish life. You walk in it. One morning, then the next.

I walked out of the Kotel plaza into the narrow streets of the Old City, past the soldiers and the shopkeepers and the tourists taking photos. Everyone there — every one of us — strangers resident on land that belongs to someone else.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

A Middle Finger to Terror

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 16 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 16, 2025.

We’re in the period of the Omer right now, the 49 days between Passover and Shavuot (if you want to talk about it on Sunday morning with us, sign up here!). It’s traditionally a time of spiritual preparation and semi-mourning, as we commemorate a plague that killed thousands of Rabbi Akiva’s students circa 2nd century CE.

Day 33 of the Omer, which was yesterday, brings us the minor holiday of Lag B’Omer, when the dying finally stopped. It’s a joyous day of bonfires, spending time outside, and for celebrating the mystical teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, who apparently died on this day (and who I was told to light a candle for on my odd and disappointing quest for spirituality last year). Light ‘em up, people 🕯️

Yes, this is a strange day of joy nestled in a season of grief, not unlike celebrating Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day, during a time of war.

And during a strange and sorrowful week, when Trump made a deal with Qatar, which funds Hamas, and terrorists killed a mother in the West Bank on her way to give birth, we find ourselves embracing joy not just in Lag B’Omer but in cheering Israel on as it takes the stage in the Eurovision finals tomorrow.

Eurovision contestant Yuval Raphael, 24, wrapped in an Israeli flag

As you may have read last year, I’m a big Eurovision fan. Like… I will be hosting a party in front of my TV with milkshakes. (If you don’t get that reference, please watch Australia’s entry. You’re welcome. I also wrote that line before Australia lost in the semi-finals, but I will still be making milkshakes.)

I tend to vote based on my favorite songs, but I also always vote for Israel (you can vote up to 20 times - scroll to the bottom to learn how YOU can too!). Last year, we watched Eden Golan belt her heart out about October rain despite the hate she received, inspiring us all, including my brother and wife who named their baby after her!

This year is even more emotional, as Israel is being represented by a survivor of the Nova massacre. Yuval Raphael is a gifted singer. While “New Day Will Rise” is not my favorite song in the world, it feels amazing to cheer on a country that’s a part of your soul, akin to cheering for your team during the Super Bowl, I imagine.

Watch on YouTube

With so much hate in the world, I’m trying to temporarily have tunnel vision, focusing on the love and excitement I feel for Yuval going to the finals! At least for this weekend. Because there’s a certain kind of resistance in joy, in shutting out the hate, the awful comments, the protestors making threatening gestures, and instead throwing parties, cheering, and spreading light.

Speaking of light, I’ll let Ora Blank, whose moving words I found on Facebook, share Yuval’s story.

The following was written by Ora Blank:

I admit it.

Unapologetically. Unironically. With glitter in my eyes and a dramatic hand to my chest:

I’m a Eurovision fan. Have been since the moment I made Aliya. It was destiny, really. Picture it:

I’d just fallen stupidly, inconveniently, madly in love — the kind of love that makes your teeth hurt. We’d stopped at the dépanneur at Tzomet Pat to buy cigarettes (as one does when in love and low on self-preservation). Eurovision was on the TV in the corner, casting neon chaos across dusty snack shelves. And something about it — the costumes, the disco ball sincerity, the complete and utter refusal to take itself seriously — hooked me.

Yes, it was camp. Yes, it was madness. And yes, I adored it. (And for the record, Israel’s entries? Always very normal. Extremely normal. Painfully normal. Obviously.)

But this year, something is different. Something sacred. Something unspeakably tragic and achingly beautiful.

This year, our representative is Yuval Dayan Raphael. She was there, at the Nova Festival on October 7th. Shabbat. Simchat Torah. 6:30 in the morning.

She wasn’t wearing armor. She wasn’t holding a gun. She was wrapped in music, in joy, in light.

And then — the unthinkable. Hamas terrorists descended. They brought death and horror into a place that had only ever known dance.

Yuval called her father. And in that moment, that singular moment that will echo in his soul forever, she begged him — pleaded — to call someone. Anyone. The police. The army. “They’re killing everyone,” she said. “They’re beating us. They’re shooting.”

And her father — what does a father say? What words are there for this nightmare?

He said the only thing that might save her: “Hang up and play dead.”

Let that sink in. She is not a story. She is not a symbol. She is a real girl with real parents and real terror seared into her bones.

And now, from the ashes of that horror, she is rising, stepping onto one of the biggest stages in the world, not just to sing — but to reclaim the music, the light, the joy that was stolen.

This is more than a competition; it’s a resurrection. It’s an anthem. It’s a middle finger to terror and a love letter to survival.

Vote for Yuval. Vote for courage. Vote for the power of music to carry us home.

Am Israel Chai

HOW TO VOTE

This is NOT just a song contest – this is OUR fight. And we need you.

You can vote from anywhere in the world – even if you’re not in Europe!

Here’s how to vote on Saturday, starting at midnight CEST if you’re not in Europe:

Go to the official voting site: www.esc.vote
Select “Israel – New Day Will Rise”
Vote up to 20 times per device! Yes, twenty times!

That’s it. No app. No SMS.

Just a few clicks and a few euros. And you can stream the show live on Peacock.

Israel needs every single vote. Don’t let the haters win.

Let’s stand strong, stand proud – and bring this victory home.

Shabbat Shalom. See you at the Israel parade,

💦 If you like Eurovision, check out:

Three Days In

Uriel ben Avraham — Fri, 16 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

On Tuesday afternoon, I stood before a beit din in Atlanta and answered questions about what I believed and how I planned to live.

Three rabbis. A small room. A conversation that was somehow exceedingly significant, nerve wracking, and an ordinary moment of my life, all at the same time.

Then the mikveh. Then the brachot. Then singing and dancing. And, of course, paperwork. Then the drive home in traffic, Jewish for about forty minutes and already late for something.

This is the first installment of "Finding the Joy" — a weekly column that takes the week's Torah portion and looks for what's actually worth smiling about in Jewish life.

If you're here because you found a rubber duck somewhere and got curious, welcome. If you're here because you know exactly what a parsha is and want to see what a brand-new Jew makes of one, also welcome. We'll figure this out together.

The parsha this Shabbat is Emor — "Speak" — and it contains one of the most remarkable chapters in the Torah. Leviticus 23 is the calendar. Not a metaphorical calendar. The actual schedule. God tells Moses to tell the people of Israel: here are your appointments.

דַּבֵּ֞ר אֶל־בְּנֵ֤י יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ וְאָמַרְתָּ֣ אֲלֵהֶ֔ם מוֹעֲדֵ֣י יְהֹוָ֔ה אֲשֶׁר־תִּקְרְא֥וּ אֹתָ֖ם מִקְרָאֵ֣י קֹ֑דֶשׁ אֵ֥לֶּה הֵ֖ם מוֹעֲדָֽי׃ Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: These are My fixed times, the fixed times of GOD, that you shall proclaim as sacred occasions.

— Vayikra 23:2

Moadim. Fixed times. The word comes from the same root as ohel moed — the Tent of Meeting. These aren't obligations dropped on you from above. They're meetings. Times when you show up because someone is expecting you.

And the chapter keeps going. Shabbat. Pesach. The counting of the Omer — you'll count forty-nine days from Pesach to Shavuot, one by one, marking each night. Then Rosh Hashanah. Yom Kippur. Sukkot. A full year of showing up, laid out in a single chapter of Torah. I read it again Tuesday night, a few hours after the mikveh, sitting on my couch with both a chumash and a siddur I'd owned for a year but now owned differently. The whole calendar, right there. My calendar now.

There's a detail in Emor I keep returning to. Right in the middle of the festival laws — between the instructions for Shavuot and Rosh Hashanah — the Torah drops in something unexpected:

וּֽבְקֻצְרְכֶ֞ם אֶת־קְצִ֣יר אַרְצְכֶ֗ם לֹֽא־תְכַלֶּ֞ה פְּאַ֤ת שָֽׂדְךָ֙ בְּקֻצְרֶ֔ךָ וְלֶ֥קֶט קְצִירְךָ֖ לֹ֣א תְלַקֵּ֑ט לֶֽעָנִ֤י וְלַגֵּר֙ תַּעֲזֹ֣ב אֹתָ֔ם אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֵיכֶֽם׃ And when you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the ETERNAL am your God.

— Vayikra 23:22

The stranger — the ger. Right in the middle of the party invitation list. You're laying out the festivals, the appointed times, the full calendar of celebration, and you pause to say: leave room at the edges. Someone is going to show up who wasn't born into this. Make sure there's something left for them.

I am three days into being a Jew, and the parsha already mentioned me.

On Monday — the day before my beit din — Edan Alexander came home. Nineteen years old when Hamas took him on October 7th, twenty-one when he hugged his mother at the base in Re'im. Five hundred and eighty-four days in captivity. His grandmother said she'd barely slept and had baked his favorite foods.

Alexander's homecoming and my conversion have nothing in common in scale. One moved nations. The other happened in a small room in Atlanta with three rabbis and a few prayers. But they landed in the same week, and something in the overlap stays with me. He came back to a family that never stopped counting the days he was gone. I walked into a people who've been counting days for thousands of years. The moadim are how you mark time when time matters — not the empty kind that just passes, but the kind you build toward.

Today is Lag B'Omer — day thirty-three of the Omer count. Bonfires went up last night across the Jewish world, from Meron in the Galilee to patches of dirt in Brooklyn. In Israel, Lag B'Omer is also the day for saluting the IDF reserves — a detail that landed harder this year than most, with fifty-eight hostages still in Gaza and a soldier just home. The Omer period is semi-mourning — we count the days between Pesach and Shavuot in memory of a plague that killed thousands of Rabbi Akiva's students — and Lag B'Omer is the day the plague stopped. Joy inserted into the count. A pause for breath in the middle of grief, like a verse about the stranger planted in the middle of the festival laws.

Tuesday — four days from now — I fly to Israel. Only my second trip. The first was two years ago with my husband. A birthday week in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv for me and for him? Exploring his roots. This time I will land as a Jew. I'm going to buy tefillin. I'm going to put them on for the first time at the Kotel. I am aware that this sounds like the third act of a movie nobody greenlit, and I am aware that life is not a movie, and I am also aware that sometimes the truest things sound the most scripted. So it goes.

Emor hands you the whole calendar and says: these are the appointments. Pesach in the spring. Shavuot seven weeks later. Count the days. Sukkot when the harvest comes in. Show up. The joy isn't in the obligation — it's in the specificity. You have somewhere to be. Someone is expecting you.

I showed up on Tuesday. The calendar goes from here.

Shabbat shalom.

— Uriel ben Avraham

What does Maimonides have to say about erectile dysfunction?

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 09 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 9, 2025.

Dear reader,

It’s time for another Jewish travel Drop! Even though my trip to Iceland was back in February. 🫣

But before we begin, join me and other like-minded Jews on Sunday, May 18th at 10:30am ET on Zoom for an Omer Circle, as we discuss the period of time between Passover and Shavuot, and discipline in Judaism. Register here!

Now, as you could guess, Iceland is… not that Jewish. This is probably due to its Norse pagan origins, followed by a Christian takeover around the year 1000 CE, and its geographic isolation.

So it was no surprise that during my short trip there, I visited more churches than synagogues, and more hot springs than mikvehs.

The only intentional Jewish experience I could have had was a visit to the Chabad of Iceland. However, they were closed that weekend for a conference. Sad!

The only accidental Jewish experience I had was an awkward encounter with Europeans who proudly said they were boycotting Eurovision because of Israel’s participation, which I wrote about in this post…

… until I visited Reykjavík’s Penis museum!

Okay, it’s officially called The Icelandic Phallological Museum. Known as the “world’s only genuine penis museum,” it boasts a collection of… erm… lower appendages from over 300 species. The only size that matters is the size of their collection!

So there I was, staring in awe and horror at animal organs of all shapes and sizes, from the mighty ram (whose thing spins at completion - woah!) to the massive sperm whale, the largest of mammals. The museum even features 22 🍆s from creatures of Icelandic folklore, such as elves, trolls, and what’s called a Christmas Lad (definitely not Jewish!).

Believe it or not, this is not the only sperm whale penis I’ve seen in my life. I actually saw one this week!

One minute I’m looking at a mold of Jimi Hendrix’s member (quite impressive!), and the next, I’m turning a corner and I come upon my man, Maimonides. Our man.

What was the famous 12th century scholar doing in the world’s only genuine penis museum? It turns out he’s well-endowed with knowledge of the matter.

Aside from being one of the most famous Torah scholars of the Middle Ages, Moses Maimonides, aka the Rambam, was also a physician. He wrote some health tips for the sultan of Egypt. Here’s the very detailed sign I came upon:

The sign about Maimonides at The Icelandic Phallological Museum

That’s the long and short of it. Those poor hedgehogs! Oh, and the museum’s cafe was great, too.

On a more solemn but related note, I recently attended an interesting class about the ethics of posthumous sperm retrieval using the sperm of fallen Israeli soldiers.

This topic has become a deeply emotional and ethically complex issue during this current war. Families, especially partners and parents of fallen soldiers, are increasingly requesting to preserve their loved one’s sperm to fulfill dreams of future parenthood or continue a legacy that was suddenly cut short. In many cases, these requests come out of fresh grief and are at the request of the dead soldier’s parents.

This raises serious ethical questions: Should grieving parents or partners be allowed to make this decision without the deceased’s explicit consent? Is it right to bring a child into the world who will never meet their father? What if the parents want a child from that sperm, but the soldier’s spouse never wanted to bear children, like this older case. How should Israel handle this going forward? Many countries like the U.S. in some states and France permit this practice with written consent while the father is still alive, but what if some of these fallen soldiers are young men who might not yet be sure if they want a family? The same questions can be asked about a woman’s eggs.

In a country concerned with family legacy and where death is unfortunately all too frequent, the Knesset is passing a bill called the Use of Sperm from Deceased Person for Procreation Purposes Bill. The proposed law would allow not only a spouse, but also the parents of a deceased person—if previously authorized in writing—to request the retrieval and eventual use of sperm for procreation.

👉 Read an interesting study about this here.

What do you think about this? Comment below.

And to finish this theme strong, I recently met the Sperminator, or serial sperm donor Ari Nagel.

Shabbat Shalom to you and yours,

💦 For more on this topic, check out:

The Most Important Jewish Election You’ve Never Heard Of

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 02 May 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 2, 2025.

This Drop in honor of Staff Sgt. Shachar Friedman (z”l), who was planning on leaving Israel amid the government protests, then decided to serve, believing war would bring about unity. He fell in Gaza in November 2023 while fighting Hamas. 🕯️

In happy news, we had an amazing and meaningful Omer Circle last Sunday. If you’d like to join next time, register here for our session on 5/18, where we’ll discuss discipline in Judaism. For those interested in Jewish spirituality, deep discussions, and 2020 Zoom nostalgia, you won’t want to miss it!

On to today’s Drop… I don’t know anyone who, by definition, is actually an anti-Zionist. Aside from mean people on the Internet or people I see in the park dressed as watermelon unicorn fairies (true story), everyone I know in my personal life thankfully believes in the right of the Jewish State to exist. Yay!

Those I know who say or think they are not a Zionist actually just disagree with Israel’s government, or Israel’s treatment of Palestinians, or are uncomfortable with Israeli history, as they have every right to be. But that doesn’t make you an anti-Zionist.

Zionism, at its core, is simply the belief in the Jewish people’s right to self-determination in our ancestral homeland. That’s it. Not support for a particular government or policy—just the idea that Jews, like all peoples, deserve a place to call home. It’s not a dirty word like the Internet wants you to believe. And that’s what’s so beautiful (and annoying) about Zionism: within this ideal are many different views and beliefs.

Now that we’ve established some truths, let’s talk about who this post is for. If you:

✅ Believe in the Jewish people’s right to a homeland in Israel in some way ✅ Are Jewish, to boot (if you’re not, I’m curious about who you are and I thank you for reading!) ✅ Live in the U.S.

…then you’ve checked all three boxes (okay, there’s a couple more but we’ll get to those later) for why this post matters to you and should probably know about something called the World Zionist Congress. It’s kind of a big deal, and yet, most of us have never even heard of it. Let’s change that.

WZC 101 (no, it’s not a radio station!)

Remember in history class when we learned about Theodor Herzl convening Jews in Basel, Switzerland to discuss the creation of the State of Israel? Well, that was the first Zionist Congress.

Just look at their stuffy suits and uncomfortable chairs! Thank goodness we can vote online in our pajamas on the couch! (Photo: Wikipedia)

Back in 1897, the goal was to dream up and advocate for the creation of a Jewish homeland. Today, the Congress still exists, but now its role is helping shape Jewish life in Israel and around the world through big funding decisions. And you get to be a part of it!

Known as “the parliament of the Jewish people,” it allocates $1 billion annually to support Jewish causes, from religious pluralism to building settlements in the West Bank. Meeting every five years, the WZC is made up of 525 representatives from international Jewish organizations. Americans make up one third of the elected delegates. U.S. Jews can vote for one of the 20+ slates, which represent the wide spectrum of perspectives in modern Jewry.

The Diaspora’s Role in Israel’s Story

Have you ever thought, “Gee, I’ve always wanted to live in Israel, specifically Tel Aviv, living off laffa and limonanas while avoiding jelly fish and rocket fire, but since I can’t, I wish there was some way to effect change and have my liberal Zionist voice heard from afar?” Too specific? Well, voting in the WZC ensures that YOU have some say in where money goes in Israeli affairs. It’s the closest we can get to voting in Israeli elections, people!

I’ve heard about this Congress in recent years, especially when I’ve received dozens of texts and WhatsApp messages telling me to vote for their slate. Oy. But combined with the emotional intensity of October 7th, feeling helpless from afar, and hearing powerful statements from Jews in my community about slates that will make a difference in Israeli and Jewish life, I felt inspired to vote in this election for the first time and spread the good word so others can do the same.

🇮🇱 This week was Yom Ha’atzmaut—Israeli Independence Day—and what better way to help write the next chapter of the Jewish story, even if just from afar? Especially from afar.

How to Vote and Who to Vote For

In addition to being Jewish, Zionist, and a U.S. resident, you have to be at least 18 years old, didn’t vote in the last Israeli election, and don’t mind spending $5 to vote (forget the latte; you can make coffee at home).

You can register and vote here, but how do you know who to vote for? Luckily for you, I made a quick guide/roast on all the slates, which you can read more in depth about here. There’s also horribly designed flyers created by all the slates you can click on and read! Here we go!

Achdut Israel 🔫 They really like the IDF Born post-October 7th, this slate, which means “unity” is all about Jewish strength, IDF pride, and global Jewish self-defense.

AID Coalition (America-Israel Democracy) 📢 Bibi who? Israeli expats who care about democracy.

Aish Ha’am 🔥 Burn antisemitism to the ground (not their official slogan) Orthodox outreach. Says they combat antisemitism, but still writes it as anti-Semitism. Sigh.

American Forum for Israel 🕍 Torah, tefillin, and tanks After a while they sound the same, but this one is aligned with former MP Avigdor Liberman, who split from Netanyahu over his support in drafting the ultra-Orthodox into the army.

Am Yisrael Chai 🎓 Hopefully more than cherry tomatoes Aiming to represent college students and promote advocacy.

ANU: A New Union 🌈 Tikkun Olam, TikTok edition A new left-wing slate of millennials and Gen Z’ers with a two-state solution and a dream.

Beyachad 🇷🇺 From Russia with Zionism It means “together,” but only if you’re Russian and Orthodox.

Dorshei Torah V’Tzion ✡️ The Judaism Netflix doesn’t want you to know about Women rabbis and LGBTQ rights, but make it Orthodox!

Eretz Hakodesh 📜 They’re not here to make friends A right-wing group who shocked everyone last time by coming in third.

Hatikvah: The Progressive Slate 🕊️ All you need is love (and a pluralistic Israel) Backed by J Street, they’re holding out hope for democracy in Israel.

Herut North America 👓 Unapologetic Zionism meets old-school revisionists If you like Ze’ev Jabotinsky, this one’s for you!

Israel365 Action 🙌 Evangelical vibes without the Evangelicals (allegedly) Formerly “One Jewish State,” but not that One Jewish State.

Israeli American Council 🇺🇸 Infusing their ‘Israeliness’ Israeli Americans who are proud Zionists. Not relevant, but I went to their conference once and met an actor from Fauda. And Sheldon Adelson, but the actor was cooler.

The Jewish Future 💬 Moderate liberal Zionism For people who like their Zionism with a dash of nuance. Their flyer looks oddly like the ones I used to design in my previous job. Hmm…

Kol Israel 📣 StandWithUs and stand proud From campus to Congress, they’re fighting antisemitism and fighting for the Olympics to be in Israel in 2048.

Mercaz USA 🕯️ The Zionist Arm of Conservative Judaism… which is pretty Zionist anyway I had to Google was Masorti Judaism was. Who knew it was the international name for Conservative Judaism?!

Orthodox Israel Coalition – Mizrachi 🪬 Modern Orthodox A religious Zionist slate backed by OU and YU. Came in second place last time.

Shas Olami 🕍 “The time has come to take responsibility!” (their actual slogan) Any Sephardic Orthodox Jews in the house?! Also, I love the editing on this flyer.

VISION 🎓 Zionism, but make it Gen Z and unapologetically right-wing They would not get along with our Hatikvah friends.

Vote Reform 🎤 This one goes out to everyone who’s ever said “dayenu” with a guitar The reigning champs of 2020. Democratic, pluralistic, progressive. All your favorite rabbis from summer camp are here.

ZOA Coalition 🇺🇸 Pls stop texting me, I’m not voting for you From the founding days of Zionism to your college Hillel, ZOA’s still out here fighting BDS and two-state talks. And their flyer really stresses me out.

Who you votin’ for? If you feel comfortable, feel free to comment.

Vote in the World Zionist Congress elections by this Sunday!

Don’t do it for me. Do it for him:

Shabbat Shalom,

💦 For more on Zionism and democracy, check out:

"My Thoughts Are Free"

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 25 Apr 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 25, 2025.

Hi there! I hope you had a wonderful Passover and you didn’t miss chametz too much.

My Passover was spent with the happiest baby on earth, my niece. I’m guessing she was so giggly and full of smiles because she knew it was her first Passover (she’s really smart). To celebrate, I read her the Rugrats Passover story, Let My Babies Go!, which was the Passover story from my own childhood. Talk about passing our history down to the next generation!

Around the table, the adults talked abundant acts of love (thanks Kabbalist Omer app, MyOmer!), Israel, and Passover traditions. Also, shoutout to this Brooklyn-based kosher caterer for being insanely delicious (still dreaming about those honey chipotle wings - he ships nationwide).

Speaking of the Omer, The Shabbat Drop Omer Circle begins this Sunday morning. For those interested in Jewish spirituality, deep discussions, and 2020 Zoom nostalgia, you won’t want to miss it! Register here.

As we count the Omer and reflect on our collective liberation, this week also held the weight of Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. It's a different kind of sacred time in the Jewish calendar that asks us to pause, remember, and honor six million lives lost.

And because April is National Poetry Month, I went digging around for Holocaust-themed poetry. However, everything I found was unsurprisingly grim. Poems about gas chambers and the feeling of a knife to the heart of the Jewish people didn’t quite speak to me, which makes me sound so privileged! Or choosy! But I wanted something that had more… life in it?

I was about to give up the search when I came across Poetry in Hell, a collection of poems written by Polish Jews during the Holocaust.

Bravely collected by members of the Oneg Shabbat Society, a secret group of Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, they were hidden in buried milk cans as part of a larger mission to document ghetto life for the future. And life is exactly what they contain: the poets wrote about everything from bagels to heartbreak, from anger to faith.

After the war, the poems were recovered, preserved, and translated into English thanks to the Jewish Historical Institute of Poland and the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

I wanted to include poetry that wasn’t solely focused on pain and suffering, but that still gives voice and life to those who endured it. And the fact that they had enough hope to intentionally bury their words for someone in the future to find feels like its own quiet act of resistance.

The poems are grouped into five deeply human themes:

Nature
Home, Love, Life
Ghetto, Hunger, Struggle
Death, Anger, Mourning
Tradition, Faith, Protest

You can explore the collection yourself - it’s massive! But here’s a couple of poems that stuck out to me:

Source: poetryinhell.org

Girl With Bagel by Miriam Ulinover (1890-1944)

The bagels the bagels that we baked together each one darling daughter is made of two parts.

First we roll the tempting dough to make a twisted pole then put the ends together dear to make a rounded hole.

And with a warm and generous heart give to the hungry poor remember what your Bobe taught Don’t take another’s share

And soon enough there came a test of hunger for the girl Could she resist the tempting scent of warm and twisted dough?

“So Here” she called, “come and get it!” the dough that smells so fine And from the bagel that is last give me the hole-that’s mine!

Share this poem with a friend.

Source: poetryinhell.org

Thoughts Are Free Found in “Notebook for Grade 3,” which was buried in a milk can under the Ber Borokhov School, a Labor Zionist school in Warsaw

These are lyrics to a song of resistance against Nazism which was sung world wide in many languages during WWII.

My thoughts are free they cannot be captured! They just flutter by like quiet new dawns for no one can deface them deny or erase them You know it’s not new You know this is true. I think what I like What makes me feel pleasure My thoughts come and go They’re my quiet treasure. And no one can know them Imprison or own them No one can deny Di gedanken zint fray.

Shabbat Shalom,

💦 For more on Yom HaShoah, check out these Drops:

5 Picks for Passover: From Playful to Powerful

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 11 Apr 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 11, 2025.

Let’s carve out sacred time during these wild times.

Before we dive into the pool that is this week’s Drop, I want to invite you to a special learning series on the Omer! It’s my first text study so I’d love for you to join.

During this free, three-part online series, we will explore ideas, texts, and wisdom from Jewish tradition about the Omer—the 49 days we count between Passover and Shavuot—which starts this Sunday! The counting, not the series.

☕ Spend your Sunday mornings with us, take a breath, and do a little learning. Here’s the when and what:

Session 1: Sunday, 4/27 10:30am ET - The Omer: The Practice of Counting Days
Session 2: Sunday, 5/18 10:30am ET - Discipline and Inspiration
Session 3: Sunday, 6/1 10:30am ET - Shavuot: Broken Tablets

No intro here, just jumpin’ into it since I’m suffering from the frenzy that is pre-Pesach stress like I’m sure you are. Except I don’t have to clean since I’m visiting my brother, his wife, and their beautiful baby for Pesach! Yay! Although, I should probably still give my apartment a regular clean…

That said, I hope you have a wonderful start to your Passover, whether you’re spending it with family, friends, or doing solo Pesach - that’s cool too!

I wish for you meaning, delicious meals, and engrossing stories, like how last year, my dad revealed the Exodus-ness ofCall Me By Your Name! Okay, now that this is turning into an actual intro, here’s some Passover—or just Jewish—goodness:

1. Graphic Novel: “The Tomb of the Broken Amulet” by Arnon Z. Shorr

One of my favorite Jewish graphic novelists, Arnon Z. Shorr (whose work I featured in “5 Jewish Books I Read in 2023”) just came out with a new book, and it’s a timely Passover adventure! “The Tomb of the Broken Amulet” (written by Shorr and illustrated by Joshua M. Edelglass) follows four Israeli siblings whose Passover turns extraordinary when they stumble upon an ancient tomb hidden in the Judaean desert. Set in the present day during the Israel-Hamas War, the children inadvertently awaken a mummy and must confront their fears.

"With 'The Tomb of the Broken Amulet,' I wanted to set a classical mummy story in a Passover setting. The story isn’t just a fun genre mashup. It's about a post-October 7 family contending with loss, finding courage, and learning that – like the Passover Seder – our stories don't truly end until we've found what's missing." -Arnon Z. Shorr

This Passover mummy adventure is part of a broader comic book series of Jewish holiday stories called Festival of Forgotten Tales. Perfect for children and great for adults too, you can order it here and read it with your family!

2. Video: The Last Passover in the Warsaw Ghetto

Survivors from the Warsaw Ghetto describe the preparations for the final Passover seder in the Warsaw Ghetto on the eve of the uprising. Read their powerful quotes here and perhaps discuss around the seder table.

Watch on YouTube

3. Seder Plate Addition:

Last Shabbos, I had the privilege of hearing Ruth Messinger, former president of the American Jewish World Service, speak at shul in honor of HIAS’s Refugee Shabbat. She spoke about the current refugee crisis in America, and reminded us that as Jews, we have a strong connection to this cause, having once been immigrants ourselves in search of safety and a better life.

Until recently, I wasn’t one for additions to the seder plate. I’m a traditional kinda gal. But a core tenet of Judaism is pursuing justice, and the Torah repeatedly reminds us to not oppress a stranger, for we were strangers in the land of Egypt. Reflecting on our freedom is important and necessary, but it’s equally important to reflect on how we’re making the world a better place with our freedom.

That’s why I love Ruth’s addition to the seder plate this year: an heirloom or personal item from your family that symbolizes their immigrant history, something that connects us to the past and reminds us of our shared responsibility to support those who are displaced. This could be a family photograph or book from the time of immigration, a cherished item passed down through generations, or a document that tells the story of how our families found refuge and rebuilt their lives. By honoring our immigrant roots, we can inspire empathy and action in support of those who are still seeking a home.

What would your family’s item be? Comment below!

4. Album: Common Blue

Okay, this isn’t directly Passover related, but did you know I also write for the publication, Jewish Unpacked? Read my latest piece about an indie Jewish album produced by Havurah, an interview with their music director, Leah Dunn, and listen to the album below while you’re cooking. Ignacio Wer’s cosmic cover of “Avinu Malkeinu” will hit you like starry serenity.

Listen on Spotify

5. Graphic Novel: “One Little Goat” by Dara Horn

“At long last, here is the time-traveling, goat-centric Passover adventure my people have been awaiting for thousands of years.” -Lemony Snicket

I can’t write about hot-off-the-press Jewish graphic novels without mentioning Dara Horn’s new book. The author of People Love Dead Jews, another book I listed in my 2023 post, published her first graphic novel for kids containing important themes of history, memory, and family.

“One Little Goat” (illustrated by Theo Ellsworth) features a boy and a time-traveling goat who try to locate a missing afikomen by visiting Passover seders throughout history. This includes visiting the boy’s dad’s secret seder in Soviet Russia, his grandmother’s seder in 1943 Poland, a medieval seder, and even the seder of Rabbi Akiva in the 2nd century.

If you ever feel like this during the seder, this book is for you:

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach,

💦 If you love Passover, check out these Drops:

Putting the 'Ha' in Haggadah

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 04 Apr 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 4, 2025.

Not to sound threatening, but… Passover is coming.

Get out your aluminum foil! Get out your ten breadcrumbs to scatter around only to pick them up again (isn’t Judaism adorably kooky?)! But most importantly, get out your Haggadahs.

The Haggadah is the most widely published book in Judaism. Throughout history, thousands of Haggadahs have recounted the story of how G-d freed the Israelite slaves and brought them out of Egypt. You know, with the frogs and the boils and the parting of the Red Sea?

They also have reminded parents of the mitzvah to retell the Exodus to their children, no matter if their child is wise, wicked, simple, or doesn’t know to ask questions. Designed to spark discussion around the table, the Haggadah reminds us that the Exodus is about more than history—it’s about shaping Jewish identity, recognizing G-d’s role in redemption, and ensuring that freedom and justice remain core values. In today’s world, we apply it to our own lives, discovering our personal Egypts, and how we can apply the theme of liberation to bring justice to the world.

Last year, I started accumulating my own Haggadahs. I love those Seders when everyone reads a passage from a different kind of Haggadah. It’s such a fun way to switch up a Seder! So far, I have traditional from the ArtScroll collection (thanks, Karen and Joe!), a NYC-themed “Fuhaggadahboudit” Haggadah by my girl Danielle, and a feminist one (recently acquired by our friends at the Krakow JCC).

…but do I have one based on the hit show The Office?! Or Curb Your Enthusiasm?

Now look, I know silly Seders might not be everyone’s thing. But we do this every year—twice I might add—so we might as well make it fun.

Last year, the first Passover after October 7th, felt like it needed solemnity and a reminder of our connection to the land of Israel. As if we don’t get that on every other Jewish holiday.

This year, the global Jewish community is still heartbroken as almost 60 hostages (some presumed to be dead) are still in Gaza and the war persists. But how do Jews cope with pain while they’re stuck with family for hours on end? We joke. And laugh. And break bread- I mean, matzah.

So I say bring on the laughs. I support anything that helps you better connect with your Judaism. Which is why I want to introduce you to Dave Cowen’s parody Haggadahs.

LA-based comedian Dave Cowen began writing parody Haggadahs for his friends and family. He published his first, a Trump parody Haggadah, in 2018. He’s written seven since then, including Haggadot on Seinfeld (“The Yada Yada Haggadah”) which was featured in The New York Times, a Biden-Harris Haggadah, a Curb Your Enthusiasm Haggadah, and his latest, The Office Haggadah.

“When I was growing up, I never understood why we would do two nights of the Seder and basically read the same story in the same way. It felt so boring and deadening. It made me tune out and not pay attention. I feel like what modern storytelling and comedy does is keep everyone alert, active, and engaged at the table. It keep us all in the moment, laughing and connected, learning the traditions in a new way that appeals to the modern and fun in us. That sounds quite pretentious for an Office or Seinfeld or a Curb Haggadah, but maybe we have two nights in America so that the first night stays traditional like it is in Israel. And the second night is for us to blend our American culture with our Judaism. And as an American Jew, I personally can’t think of anything more Jewish American than sitcoms.” -Dave

👋 Miranda here, again. Dave inspired me: I personally don’t have two Seders, but I LOVE the idea of doing two where the first is traditional and the second is silly/modern. I could be persuaded, maybe if, let’s say, Michael Scott made an appearance…

Good thing Dave teamed up with fellow comedian Dan Lerman to create The Office Haggadah! To save his people from downsizing and destruction, Michael has the team—the cast of characters we all know and love—host a Scranton Seder to pitch Dunder Mifflin as the exclusive paper supplier for Maxwell House and their Haggadahs.

In this Exodus retelling that reads just like an script, Michael Scott receives a sign from G-d in a burning coffee machine. The characters participate in my favorite ice breaker: when was the last time you cried?

But who finds the Afikomen? And which character represents each of the four children? All will be revealed in this Haggadah. A sample to whet your chametz-loving appetite:

From Dave’s point of view (which is an experienced one, considering he studied screenwriting at USC and was a story analyst at William Morris Endeavor), episodic television gets you to identify with characters to learn a story. There is a traditional narrative structure to the Seder; it literally means “order.” And there is also a traditional narrative order to sitcoms like The Office and Seinfeld. What Dave has done is meld the two together. You get the modern American storytelling structure and the ancient Hebrew one. It’s both fun and educational, whether it’s read aloud at your table or by yourself.

Buy them here (only $9 a pop) and try it for yourself!

A portion of the proceeds go to Jewish organizations which have varied over the years. Some have gone to Dave’s temple in Rochester growing up, Temple Beth El. Some have gone to a progressive spiritual group in LA called Nefesh. Some have gone to the IDF. This year, some proceeds will be donated to Dan’s synagogue, Wilshire Boulevard Temple, in LA.

Not a fan of The Office? Like I said, Dave’s written a Curb Your EnthusiasmHaggadah!! And no, I will not curb my enthusiasm one bit.

In this special Pesach edition, Larry discovers that all his friends have become unmiserable after discovering Kabbalah. Because miserable people can’t be friends with unmiserable people, Larry endeavors to make all his friends miserable again at a Seder led by the charismatic female Rabbi of LA’s suddenly in-vogue Kabbalah Center.

Here’s a sample containing that painfully awkward Larry-Cheryl-Ted Danson dialogue we all know and love:

Don’t they sound just like the characters?

I’m waiting for The White Lotus Haggadah: “And then there was a tsu-naw-mi… oh no wait, that was the sea parting.” “I don’t even have my chametz… I’m going to have to drink myself to sleep.” “You want to live in Egypt?! Piper, nooo.”

Shabbat Shalom. Don’t take it so seriously,

💦 If you enjoyed this Drop, you might like:

Feeling Liberated: What a Play Taught Me About Jewsplaining

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 28 Mar 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 28, 2025.

Hey you! I’m running my first-ever text study through IYUN and would love to learn with you! During this free, three-part online series, we will explore ideas, texts, and wisdom from Jewish tradition about the Omer, the period of self-reflection as we count 49 days between Passover and Shavuot.

☕ Spend your Sunday mornings with us (10:30am ET), take a breath, and learn a little.

Sunday, 4/27: The Omer: The Practice of Counting Days
Sunday, 5/18: Discipline and Inspiration
Sunday, 6/1: Shavuot: Broken Tablets

I’m milking Women’s History Month for all it’s worth, and it’s worth a lot! Because today, we’re exploring second-wave feminism and Jewish representation on the stage.

Last week, I had the privilege of seeing the Roundabout Theatre Company's world premiere of Liberation at the Laura Pels Theatre. Written by Bess Wohl and directed by Whitney White, this Off-Broadway play takes place in a 1970s Ohio rec center gym, where a group of diverse characters run a women’s liberation group.

Roundabout Theatre Company

Liberation is more than women’s civil rights, protests, and personal freedom. It explores the complexities of feminism, choice, and just how messy the pursuit of freedom can get.

The heart and soul of the play are the gifts each woman brings to the table (er… basketball court)—her personal journey, identity, and perspective—as they grapple with everything from the constraints of marriage to the power of self-love. They might even get nude in the process!

Lizzie (played by Susannah Flood), the leader of the group, is a journalist who wants to cover more substantial topics other than weddings and obituaries.
Susie (Adina Verson), a punk and the most radical of the group, openly identifies as lesbian and lives in her car with her pet bird.
Dora (Audrey Corsa) is tired of being passed over for a promotion at work only to watch men get the role, even though she is more than capable.
Margie (Betsy Aidem), the oldest, is a housewife who dreams of stabbing her husband because he doesn’t do the dishes.
Celeste (Kristolyn Lloyd) is an intellectual who is back home taking care of her mother, and who brings a nuanced perspective as the only Black woman in the group.
Isadora (Irene Sofia Lucio) is a passionate, radical Italian activist stuck in a green-card marriage.

But don’t let these one-line descriptions fool you; these women are anything but stereotypical or basic. In fact, they grapple with their dreams and contradictions, like wanting to be taken seriously like a man but using your looks to get ahead. And wanting to be an independent feminist but being pulled toward romance and marriage. Liberation asks: As a feminist, can you really have it all? What does being a feminist mean to you? And how did we get to a point where, in 2025, our rights to abortion are being stripped away and the government is banning words like “women” —where did feminism fall short?

(photo by Joan Marcus)

Here’s Where it Gets Jewish

I know you’re probably thinking, “Get to the Jewish part! This is a Jewish newsletter, isn’t it?” In that case, you should think about feminism more.

But sure, I’ll get to the Jewish part. It just so happens that not one but two characters in this play are Jewish. I can’t remember the last time I saw a play or musical featuring Jewish characters that wasn’t about antisemitism or the Holocaust. Can you? (But if you’re interested in that, check out Leopoldstadt and Parade)

The punk character Susie Hurricane introduces herself as living in her car with her pet bird, and how her dad sat shiva for her. She says it with a sense of gleeful pride, not missing a beat as she explains what sitting shiva is, how it’s the seven-day Jewish mourning practice.

Other than Isadora revealing her upbringing—how she was raised by nuns and later learns her mother was Jewish—the only other Jewish moment is when Susie translates Hashem as G-d for the other women when describing a dream. Oh, and when describing her naked body, she says “feh,” (a Yiddish word to express disgust).

True, Jewishness isn’t a central theme of the play, but the way Susie portrays her identity and explains Jewish colloquialisms to the other women made me think of how I do this in my own life, and of the different ways to Jewsplain. I know that word takes on different definitions for some, but in this case, let’s say it means to explain and identify Jewish ideas when you’re the only Jew in the room.

There’s different ways to Jewsplain. You can A) toss around Yiddish or Hebrew words/expressions without explaining or defining anything, as though everyone knows what you’re talking about. Or, B) You can use those terms, then clarify them for your listener without having been asked, like what Susie does. C) You can reference something Jewish, then pause to look around for quizzical looks in case they need explaining (Ex. “I took the day off because it was Yom Kippur…… 👀”). This assumes people know what you’re saying, but you’re open to explaining should they need. D) You can flat out ask if people know what you’re referencing, for example if they’ve heard of a ketubah before.

… Or you can do the weird thing I did to a woman on the street the other day, which was Jewsplain before even getting to the Jewish part, like:

Me: "Oh you’re reading A Court of Thorns and Roses!”

Her: “Yes!”

Me: “Love that book! I just dressed up like Feyre because… well, I’m Jewish, and there’s this holiday called Purim that just happened, and that’s where we—”

Her: “Cool, I’m Jewish too!”

Me: “Oh thank goodness, I wasn’t sure how to back out of starting to explain 5th century BCE Shushan to a stranger on the street.”

Why is my preamble necessary? It’s not! Susie’s character inspired me to go about my Jewish business without feeling the need to explain every little thing, and if people don’t know what I’m referencing, that’s on them to ask questions. Not exactly the Susie style of explaining without being asked, but I don’t want to assume someone doesn’t know what sitting shiva means, or what a bris is.

How do you address Jewish ideas to someone who may not be familiar with them? Please share in the comments!

Speaking of Susie, here’s Adina Verson on what playing Susie means to them:

“My character, Susan, comes from a Jewish family who has disowned her. I love that Susan clearly has differing ideas regarding gender roles in her Orthodox upbringing, but still holds on to her Jewish spirituality. I think she is led through her life by a deep connection to the spiritual and the signs she believes are presented to her. At one point in the play, she describes a dream in which her mother’s voice and God’s voice are the same—this reminds me of my own experience in childhood when my synagogue replaced the prayer books with new ones that had no gendered pronouns for God. It felt revolutionary. I love that Susan is still tied to her Judaism, and the idea that Judaism can and does continue to evolve.”

Right on!

Here’s Where it Gets Even More Jewish

I’d like to share a fantastic quote by playwright Bess Wohl on how Judaism is in fact central to Liberation:

"Jewish women played a crucial role in second-wave feminism—from Gloria Steinem to Bella Abzug to Betty Friedan to Shulamith Firestone to Letty Cottin Pogrebin—so it felt important to include Jewish characters in the play. There is historically a deep and strong connection between Judaism and activism, especially with regard to the power of collective action. In the play, the character of Susan has rejected much of her Orthodox upbringing, however she retains the sense of intellectual rigor that surely came with it. Her own Jewish identity is something that she struggles with—what does it mean to fight for your rights as a Jewish woman and can you hold both identities at the same time? Furthermore, how is her Jewish identity both a source of strength and inspiration—at one point she receives a feminist manifesto from ‘Hashem,’ but also a challenge as she bristles against Jewish laws and traditions. Another character in the play, who is half-Jewish but was raised by Catholic nuns, is also the product of a regimented upbringing, albeit in the Catholic church. Putting women who were trying to rewrite the rules in conversation with ancient cultures, hierarchies and systems felt like particularly rich and fertile ground for the play."

I loved Liberation for its complexities and the messiness of being human. Of being a woman! It’s running until April 6th. Get liberated and see it soon by purchasing tickets here.

Shabbat Shalom! I hope you get the chance to teach something Jewish to someone,

💦 If you enjoyed this Drop, you might like:

Courage: Let the Queens Show Us How It's Done

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 14 Mar 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 14, 2025.

First of all, chag Purim sameach AND happy Pi Day! I hope at least one of you out there feast on little pie hamantaschen, like these Key Lime Pie Hamantaschen. Also, please note the name of that baking blog is Cinnamon Shtick. 👏

Now that the fun stuff is outta the way… I try not to have too many Drops about antisemitism, but it’s a topic that has come up in conversations lately: in my monthly Jewish ideas class, at work, around the Shabbos table, and in texts with friends. The most pressing of these is the last one because this week, just 10 blocks south of me, a friend not only had her mezuzah—but those of her neighbors—ripped off their doorposts and thrown down the hall, left in shatters. Yup.

Plus, antisemitism is related to the story of Purim. For a refresher, click here.

In this story, we see two distinct models of resistance (I know that’s a loaded word these days but bear with me) from Vashti and Esther. Vashti’s defiance (which I left out in my old summary, my bad!) is immediate and public: when King Ahasuerus commands her to appear before him naked at court, she refuses, facing exile and possibly execution as a result.

I felt bad I left out Vashti in my Purim summary, so here she is as depicted in One Night with the King (2006)

Esther, on the other hand, conceals her identity for much of the story. Only when the moment is right does she reveal herself as a Jew, using calculated strategy and timing to save her people.

Both methods require bravery, a deep sense of self-awareness, and an unwavering commitment to their principles.

This week, I’ve been reflecting on these two leadership styles in the context of recent encounters with antisemitism.

Encounter 1: Feeling Targeted at Target

At a recent Shabbat dinner, I met a fierce and proud Jewish woman—let’s call her Malka—who was telling us a story that took place at her neighborhood Target. Reminder: this was in New York City.

While standing in line there, Malka overheard a teenage girl loudly say something vile about Jews. I don’t feel like repeating it, but it had to do with supporting that failed artist from WWII with the ugly mustache. Unsure whether or not the comment was directed toward her, Malka whipped around and stared down the girl and her silent friend out of pure shock and disbelief. Shook up, she proceed to check out in line.

Then, on the way out of the store, Malka happened to be standing behind the two girls on the ascending escalator and felt like she had to say something to them and would never forgive herself if she didn’t address their antisemitism.

“What you said about Jews back there was awful and you should be ashamed,” Malka told them. The girls’ response? One of them half-apologized for her friend’s words by saying, “I know, I tell her she shouldn’t be saying things like that in public.”

“She shouldn’t be saying things like that ever,” Malka said in defiance. At the top of the escalator when they were about to part ways, Malka overheard the girl who made the original comment say, “Ugh. Jews,” with an eye roll. Yup.

In Queen Vashti-like fashion, Malka took a stand, calling out strangers for their hatred. After the initial shock, there was really no hesitation; like Vashti, Malka refused to tolerate their words and pushed back. Hearing this story, I was so proud of Malka. I admired her strength and her ability to reject their antisemitism without second-guessing herself. I was almost envious. Which brings me to my next story…

feeling very gify today

Encounter 2: Eurovision? More Like Zero-vision

A few weeks ago, I was traveling around Iceland (an Icelandic Drop awaits!). While on a classic full-day tour of the Golden Circle, I spent the day getting to know a couple from the UK, chatting about travel, culture, and work. Then during lunch, I casually asked if they were into Eurovision, because I was in vacation mode where I think the world is perfect and grand, and I happen to love Eurovision.

“Oh yeah, we love Eurovision! But we boycotted it last year.” Pause. “Because of Israel.”

I froze. I said nothing, really. Just a “Ohh, hmm.” I was dumbstruck not just by her words, but by her confidence in her assumption that I would agree. And then, just like that, the conversation moved on.

Yeah… not exactly an Esther moment for me. No big reveal of my Jewish identity, hidden when I took off my Star of David before stepping into the hot springs. No at least playing dumb, asking why she made that choice, especially since, if she really hated Israel that much, she would boycott Eurovision every year. Or being honest and saying, “Look, I feel differently, but I want peace between Israelis and Palestinians, and in a perfect world, I would support two states.” Not even a mention of how I thought Eden Golan, last year’s Israel representative, was an objectively amazing singer.

I was also having a hard time processing this person’s smugness at boycotting Israel when we just discovered the horrible news of the Bibas family that week. Children strangled to death and a country forced into a war it didn’t start… but 10 points to this person for not turning on her TV! 🥴

I’ve been frustrated by my silence ever since. Yet Purim reminds me of the importance transformation, of how Esther goes from silence to stepping up. I didn’t speak up for the Jewish people in that moment, didn’t educate those strangers or show them that not everyone shares their perspective.

But one day, my Esther moment will come should I ever need it, G-d forbid.

✏️ Shabbat Prompt

Purim reminds us that courage takes different forms. Vashti shows us the power of immediate defiance. Esther teaches us that revealing ourselves at the right time can make a difference. When did you take a stand in your life, either defiantly or quietly? Feel free to journal, reflect, or write your answer in the comments! Purim sameach! And Shabbat Shalom,

💦 If you enjoyed this Drop, you might like:

The Power of Voice: What Being a Woman Is To Me

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 07 Mar 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 7, 2025.

This was one of those weeks where I wasn't sure what to write about until the eleventh hour, which ironically, I just learned is an expression that may have originated from the New Testament.

… but enough about the Christian Bible! I knew I wanted to write something related to International Women's Day, which is tomorrow. So, just like my single friends, I was looking for the perfect woman. (I’m feeling silly today, can’t you tell?)

Just kidding, all women are perfect. But I was on the hunt for an empowering story or woman to profile, and then Havurah's Jewish Short Film Festival provided.

The event, which took place on Wednesday at the Marlene Myerson JCC in Manhattan, featured nine short films created by emerging Jewish filmmakers from around the globe.

I loved the event so much (not just because it had free popcorn), I’m breaking this Drop into two parts: today’s will focus on a single short film, “A Song Without Words,” and part two will be about some other films I found moving.

Now, let’s get to the heart and soul of part one.

“A Song Without Words”

Director Shmulie Lowenstein introduces us to Chana Raskin, who grew up in Hasidic Crown Heights raised on the power of song. But it wasn’t until she suffers a brain injury that she truly connects to nigunim, humming along to the wordless, melodic tunes in Jewish tradition that are often sung in a communal or spiritual setting to get closer to G-d.

Photo: Shmulie Lowenstein

Chana now leads RAZA, a musical group dedicated to uncovering the spiritual essence of nigunim. Raza is an Aramaic word from the Zohar, Kabbalistic text, meaning “secret” or “hidden.” It comes from the line, “The secret of Shabbat is Shabbat herself.” Chills!

She is joined by several other female vocalists as they gather in a Brooklyn studio to sing old Hasidic songs, a Jewish rarity as these have typically been sung by only men. But they’re not just singing; they’re using harmony and vibrations to dig deep within their souls. In fact, Chana makes a point in the documentary that it’s not about singing; nigunim bring people to a place beyond time. They come together to command a space, to be a channel for the nigun.

One of those channels is Eleonore Weill, a woman from a small village in the South of France, where she and her family were the only Jews. She was not raised with much Jewishness, and one day discovers the exciting, fast-paced melodies of Klezmer. Eleonore also suffered from a traumatic head injury, and that’s when she learns about Chana’s project in Brooklyn.

Despite their different backgrounds, Chana and Eleonore have a shared purpose, one that transcends words, trauma, and even geography. The women find their voices in this male-dominated tradition, and so much more: friendship, healing, and spiritual release.

Watch on YouTube

To me, this is what being a woman is: finding your power and strength through the soft and beautiful. Especially when Chana is encouraged by Joey Weisenberg, founder and director of Hadar’s Rising Song Institute, to teach nigunim and feels a sense of Impostor Syndrome because she doesn’t feel like “the expert” in the room. At first, she thinks the people with instruments are the experts. She then learns how to be her own expert and command a space.

It reminds me of the time I first heard nigunim, back in 2022. I was at a retreat for ex-Hasids (don’t ask how I ended up there) and was hanging out with a group of men and women around a picnic table. They started nai-nai-naing the same song and happily banging on the table to the beat, transitioning from one peaceful nigun to the next. I felt left out I didn’t know the tunes, but it didn’t matter because it was easy to catch on. I instantly felt community in this wordless space.

Watch on YouTube

“A Song Without Words” — and Chana’s powerful testament to this tradition — also reminded me of how I used to sing. It’s been a while since I’ve performed and wrote songs. Maybe I stopped because I got busy, or maybe because I worried I wasn’t good enough in this city of extremely talented musicians. But this film reminded me that singing is the number one thing that wakes up my soul, like a runner’s high or climbing a mountain for other, more adventurous, people. I don’t need to be perfect or the expert; I just need to unlock that part of me again to feel something higher than myself.

The film inspired me to seek out opportunities to sing nigunim. I know they’re out there, just like I know there are more nigunim waiting for vessels like you or me to carry them into the world.

Listen to RAZA’s new album, Kapelya, the first full-length album of Hasidic nigunim sung by women:

Listen on Spotify

Shabbat Shalom. May you find solace in song and celebrate a woman in your life,

The Brutalist: A Blueprint for Jewish Survival

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 21 Feb 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 21, 2025.

This Drop is in memory of Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir Bibas, and Oded Lifshitz. May their lives be remembered for their journeys, not their destinations. Journeys full of motherly embraces and of helping others, of smiles, laughter, and kindness. May their memories be a blessing. 🕯️

The following contains spoilers for the movie The Brutalist. You have been warned!

Hi! This week, I spent four hours in the theater watching The Brutalist, and by the time I got out, it felt like half of my life passed before me. Yet, I’m still thinking about the film days later, so I can’t totally fault director Brady Corbet.

In an industry that has produced famous Holocaust films and Holocaust remembrance films (like my fav Oscar nom this year, A Real Pain!), it’s rare to see a major motion picture centered on post-Holocaust life, especially one slated to win best picture.

But Jewishness is merely a backdrop in this American epic that tells a story of power, the American dream, capitalism, and storytelling through art (or in this case, architecture).

If The Brutalist’s opening scene of an upside-down Lady Liberty doesn’t foreshadow Holocaust survivor László Tóth’s struggle of making it in America, then I don’t know what does.

The Hungarian Jew (masterfully played by Adrien Brody; it’s like The Pianist 2!), once a famous architect in Europe, must rebuild his life from scratch while waiting for his wife and niece to sail to America. During his series of unfortunate events, he gets kicked out of his cousin’s home for being falsely accused of making a pass at his cousin’s Catholic wife, suffers from heroin addiction, and faces abuse of power at the hands of his employer, which includes antisemitism and sexual assault.

When his wife and niece finally make it to America, they have “other” written all over them, with Erzsébet confined to a wheelchair due to osteoporosis, and Zsófia mute from trauma.

But if you’re reading this, I’m sure you know all this already, and I’ve had a busy week so I need to move this post along! Let’s delve into the Jewishness of the movie, shall we?

Israel or America: Where Do Jews Belong?

First, how ‘bout that tense dinner conversation when Zsófia announces that she and her husband wish to make aliyah and move to Israel? Erzsébet reacts with defensiveness, saying she and László must not be real Jews for living in America. This begs the question of where Jews belong, in Leopoldstadt fashion. Are they meant to settle in their indigenous homeland now that it’s an established state and a safe haven for Jews after all they endured? Or does America, a land of opportunity, provide a fresh start in an already established country? Can Jews have it both ways? Please share your thoughts in the comments!

Did the movie have Zionist undertones? Some reviews claim so, while others argue that the epilogue carries subtle anti-Zionist tones, since Zsófia supposedly twists her uncle’s words when he can no longer speak for himself, but we’ll get to that ending in a bit.

One could say it had overtones of Zionism, as David Ben-Gurion reciting Israel’s Declaration of Independence plays over a montage. Either way, when the harsh realities and discrimination of American life lead Erzsébet to consider making aliyah as well, the movie seems like it made up its mind on the Israel question, at least how it was perceived by American Jews in the 1950s. Eerie how history repeats itself, but we’ll get to that point in a minute as well.

Reuniting with Family: A Comparison to Today

By the end of the film, I became friendly with the woman sitting next to me (you get the chance to do that when your film comes with a 15-minute intermission). When the second act starts and László is reunited with his family, my movie theater neighbor commented that the scene was reminiscent of the videos we’ve been seeing of freed hostages reuniting with their loved ones.

Filmed in 2023, this could have been the film’s intention from the early days of freed hostages, but probably not. Sometimes we can’t help but insert ourselves into art to understand it better, or to find comfort in knowing our experiences are not ours alone to bear.

Still, living through Israel’s current war reminds us that history repeats itself, especially Jewish history. And during a tense week of awaiting to hear the fate of the Bibas family (when watching the film, we still didn’t know), it was nice to connect with a stranger. Now that we know the horrible news, I wish this mainstream film was even more Zionist.

Yom Kippur and America’s Sins

I’d be remiss to skip the overtly Jewish synagogue scenes, especially the Yom Kippur Vidui prayer and the theme of atonement. I don’t have anything profound to say about these scenes, but this article does. Let’s move onto antisemitism!

A Leech on Society

Throughout the film, László faces mainly antisemitic micro-aggressions rather than overt antisemitism, but he is othered nonetheless. Comments include how his accent makes him sound like a shoeshiner, how his presence is merely tolerated, and how he is leech on society. Jews are also referred to as “your people” to him and he is taken advantage of and sexually assaulted. Welcome to America.

This left me wondering… was it really this bad for Jewish immigrants in post-Holocaust America? We know the U.S. had an antisemitic past before the Holocaust, with the 1915 murder of Leo Frank and prominent figures like Henry Ford spreading anti-Jewish propaganda.

The Brutalist inspired me to look up the subject, and I hope you’re inspired to do the same. In short (even though the subject deserves a lengthy description but like I said, busy week!), it became uncool to publicly express antisemitism because of the Holocaust, and the relationship between Jews and Christians was strengthened. I don’t doubt immigrants like László faced the level of prejudice and abuse he faced, but I think other factors could have played into it, like the fact that they were poor and desperate for any work, so they were easy to take advantage of and look down on.

The Journey, or the Destination?

The movie ends in 1980 at a ceremony honoring László’s life’s work. In his old age, he is now the one who is wheelchair bound, unable to speak most likely due to a stroke. His wife is clearly no longer alive, and he is honored by his niece who reveals that his greatest project—a community center for Van Buren that is much of the focus of the movie—was actually based on his time in Buchenwald.

This is when Zsófia quotes her uncle by saying, “Don’t believe what the authors sell you… it’s about the destination, not the journey.” I do not remember him saying this to her; it must have been when I dozed off just before intermission. But it makes for a thought-provoking ending.

What does this cliché reversal mean to us as the viewer? One interpretation is a strong Zionist message, since the quote is retold by a character who rebuilt her life in Israel after enduring unspeakable trauma. She chooses not to define her life by her journey but by her destination. One might assume that László, like many other Jews, ultimately find refuge there as well since he agrees to follow his wife. But again, I could be projecting my own perspective onto the story. When the movie ended, I turned to my neighbor and said, “So the take away is we should all move to Israel, right?”

However, I’m not satisfied with this theory because it makes the ending all about Zsófia, who is not the main character of this story.

A different interpretation is that Zsófia misconstrues her uncle’s words, applying something he said a long time ago to later in his life about his finished project. If life is truly about the destination (László’s building), this ignores the journey (his trauma), which not only shaped him but is what fueled his creativity in the first place. The big reveal that the community center was in fact based on Buchenwald and László is unable to speak about it reinforces the movie’s themes of power dynamics, suffering, and capitalism. Yay!

Whatever you thought of this ambiguous ending and of the film in general, let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear your opinions! See you on Oscars Night.

Alexa, play “One for You, One for Me” by La Bionda. 🎵

Shabbat Shalom. Be nice to each other,

Some Lovely Little Tu BiShvat Poems

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 14 Feb 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 14, 2025.

This week in lame Jewish news, Kanye West sold antisemitic t-shirts and Hamas violated the ceasefire again.

This week in good Jewish news, Azerbaijan chose a Jew as their pick for Eurovision, and it was Tu BiShvat, the New Year of the Trees, so this week’s Drop is a wholesome post about trees!

Here’s me frolicking among the trees of Vancouver!

I joined a weekly, virtual Jewish writers’ group (and by that, I mean they meet weekly while I pop in once a quarter, but I’m working on my attendance). We have a warm-up prompt to get our creative juices flowing followed by a 20-minute prompt in which you can write anything, from poetry to biographical fiction.

For the upcoming Jewish holiday, one of the new members, a rabbinical student at the Jewish Theological Seminary, wrote a haunting elegy about man returning to nature in just 20 minutes. I share that poem, as well as a more uplifting poem by him, below.

Tu BiShvat isn’t just about trees; it reminds us that we are connected to the land in so many ways. On this day, we taste this connection when we enjoy the seven species of the Land of Israel—wheat, barley, grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives, and dates—each holding deep spiritual and historical meaning.

From planting saplings to feeling gratitude for the food on our tables, Tu BiShvat is a time to pause and recognize that our lives, like the trees, are deeply rooted in the earth, something easy to forget if you live in a city like me! Enjoy these poems.

So he slept by Zamir Halperin

So he rested in the shade of a sapling, and a grotto formed around him, and he slept.

And a root cradled his head, and a leafy branch became his blanket. And the grasses were his nightgown in the winter snow. And the grasshoppers would feed him until the fruit grew in, and the rain was his to drink. And the mosquitoes told him bedtime stories, and the wind sang him lullabies.

And a root held his feet, and the branches his arms. And the grasses lay thick against the winter snow. And the grasshoppers filled his stomach, and the rain closed his eyes. And the mosquitoes brushed his ears, and the wind sang him lullabies.

And the roots covered his heart, and the branches took his mind. And the grasses stood tall between the hairs on his chest. And the grasshoppers laid on his face, and the rain filled his nose. And the mosquitoes dined on his hands, and the wind sang him lullabies.

And the roots met his bones, and the branches found his muscles. And the grasses brought his body level with the earth. And the grasshoppers made homes in his throat, and the rain wore his skin away. And the mosquitoes claimed his fingers, and the wind sang him lullabies.

And the roots are his feet, and the branches his arms. And the grasshoppers sing his song, and the rain cries his woes, and the mosquitoes tell his legend. And the grasses prepare for the next man to sleep. And the wind sings his lullaby.

Aseini K’Ilan: Make Me Like A Tree

This poem was originally published in New Voices in 2023, where you can read the original Hebrew version of the poem. The Hebrew version, if you’re lucky enough to understand it, is an acrostic. Classic!

But first, a message from our ~~sponsor~~ writer:

“One of the Jewish virtues I love the most is the value of wonder. The fact that every natural wonder, from the sight of a rainbow to the smell of a spice, is given a brachah – the fact we are commanded to notice the world for what it is and what it offers – is such an awesome thing. In that vein, I try to look to nature to see what I can learn about being a Jew and a person on this Earth. Sometimes the simplest things can teach the greatest life lessons.” -Zamir

Make me like a tree rooted on the water, with fruit to give in its time.

Make me like lightning descending from the sky, illuminating the earth for a moment.

Make me like rain, light or heavy, that gives strength to a tired world.

Make me like wheat, simple and common, that brings forth our bread from the earth.

Make me like myrtle aside the lulav, that gives its color to joy.

Make me like a red rose with thorns, beautiful and strong in its way.

Make me like an olive with pure oil, a symbol of serenity and our dedication.

Make me like the sun that rises with us, which colors the sky with its light.

Make me like the dew on the grass, making the land glimmer at each dawn.

Make me like the sea, vast and unified, which renews the shore and itself.

Make me like a windflower, little and tall, a dot of color in the winter fields.

Make me like the moon alight in the darkness, smiling from among the stars.

Make me like the desert, open on all sides, strengthening all who trust it.

Make me like a river on the forest floor, rushing to enliven its world.

Make me like a bush with colorful flowers, beautifying its surroundings with its presence.

Make me like a cloud in a blue expanse, and its community that dances with the spirit.

Make me like an unripe fruit on its branch, constantly growing and sweetening.

Make me like nectar within a flower, feeding the smallest animals.

Make me like a rainbow against the gray, a promise of improving times.

Make me like a pomegranate with many seeds, a symbol of new beginnings.

Make me like a lily resting on the water, reaching up from the depths.

Make me like an apple waiting on its tree, prepared to ripen at its time.

And in the spirit of Valentine’s Day today, I’m sending you much love. Thank you, as always, for reading.

Shabbat Shalom,

💦 If you enjoyed this Drop, you might like:

The People of the Book and the Sword

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 07 Feb 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 7, 2025.

If you were walking down the street and someone started approaching you, about to throw a punch, what would you do? Would you try to run? Would you freeze, too stunned to react (me 🙋🏼‍♀️)? Would you try to defend yourself and punch back? Do you know how?

Self-defense is an important skill to have, and unfortunately, its become all too necessary for Jews. Jews comprise about 2% of the U.S. population, but are the recipients of over 50% of of all religiously motivated attacks.

I first learned about the self-defense program, Legion, shortly after October 7th, when I attended an alumni event for the Israel education bootcamp, Fuel for Truth. The same people who started FFT started this program, which teaches Krav Maga—Israeli martial arts—as well as defense against an active shooter, situational awareness, and combat first aid.

Created in 2014, Legion was the first nonprofit in the U.S. dedicated to training Jews and Jewish allies to defend themselves. Here’s an interview with its president, Corey Feldman. Hopefully it will inspire you to learn how to come to your own rescue.

What is the origin story of Legion?

I actually took over Legion from the founder, Jon Loew, and it's the same crew that started Fuel for Truth, which they started in the wake of 9/11. They quickly realized that people were going to start blaming Jews for 9/11, and that they there needed to be a way to educate young Jewish people about Israel and the truth behind a lot of these false claims like BDS, genocide, etc.

About 15 years later, they reached out to major Jewish organizations and said, “This kind of counterfactual current of misinformation began as we said it would, and we now see a stream of physical violence on the horizon. Do you want to be involved in this?” And no major Jewish organization would put their name on it. Everyone said Jon was crazy. Of course, now it's a fairly accepted reality that Jews need to defend themselves; it’s not a far-off concept, but one that’s pertinent and relevant to current affairs, not just in New York, but across America, and the world.

The idea was that Jews are the people of the book… and the sword. We always have been, but perhaps in America we forgot part of that legacy, that throughout our history, we have always had to fight to survive, and that things are not given to us. So, the idea is that you come to your own rescue, both in terms of your ability to speak, particularly about Israel, and that if, G-d forbid, you need to defend yourself, your family, and your community, you know how to do so.

Can you touch on the importance of knowing self-defense given today's climate of antisemitism, especially compared with those who advocate for the right to carry?

I think, in general, people have the wrong idea about the role of police. The police come to pick up the pieces. It’s very rare that police arrive in time or happen to be there when a physical incident occurs, be it on the Subway or on the street. We saw the videos of people asking if there's any Zionist on this train, right? You're going to have a couple minutes in a situation like this, where it's just you and the perpetrator or perpetrators. We believe in the role of police and a democratic society, but we can't rely exclusively on them to help us.

I think self-defense is a skill that everyone should know. Because Jews are targets these days, it becomes particularly important. We have at least two members who have been attacked and used what they learned in Legion to get to safety. I've seen the flip get switched, like in basic training, they turned us from civilians into soldiers and taught us how to summon up the aggression necessary to defend ourselves or our teammates, if necessary. And I didn't think that was really possible in a civilian context. But over the course of Legion’s training, I've seen it in people who were afraid to get hit, or afraid to even show up on the mats, who found that fire within them when it mattered and learned to call that up and use it in training. That’s been very cool to see among my fellow classmates.

Have you seen an uptick in registrations for the classes in the past year?

In October, I actually got called up to the reserves. I flew to Israel with my team and was in Gaza for six weeks, so I handed Legion over to our COO and our chairwoman. We usually had 30 or 40 people training in Manhattan, and after October 7th, we got up to about 100. We had to open up a secondary class on Sundays. I think it has subsided a little bit from the October 7th levels. People have a short memory, unfortunately, or at least become used to whatever the “new normal” is, so to speak. But still, we get a steady stream of registrants and participants, and most of them come from referrals of people who have done the class before.

What advice would you give to someone who doesn't think they are strong or quick enough to know self-defense?

We have a 75-year-old who got his yellow belt in our Connecticut chapter, and a Holocaust survivor did one of our classes in Manhattan. If he can get to the mats, what's your excuse? Everyone does what they're capable of. The spectrum of skill and background is very wide, and you partner with someone who is at your skill level. Inevitably, there are people within whatever cohort you find yourself in, from “never done self-defense in my life” to “I was a lone soldier in the IDF.” Every class has a mix of those sorts of people.

Do you see self-defense as a way to empower Jewish individuals beyond physical safety? How does it impact participants’ confidence and overall sense of security?

First of all, I think it connects Jews that practice the art to our history. Krav Maga was developed in the 30s by a Jew as a response to Nazi gangs that were roaming the streets of Eastern Europe. Sad to say there are some parallels to that, at least in New York City today. And I think feeling a connection to that legacy that goes from obviously pre-WWII to Israeli history to the Maccabees, it's a matter of pride and education in terms of where we came from.

As for confidence, I saw people who came into this class afraid, who by the end, you know, found their confidence. I remember in particular, one of my friends who's 5’9 or 5’8—I'm 6’2—and he was very skittish, and all of a sudden, eight months into the class, the bell goes off and he runs right at me. The fear was gone. And I think that's something that transcends self-defense, like that sort of confidence, knowing that you know how to defend yourself. It opens up a whole new world. It is similar to the idea that what I learned from the army forever changed my perspective and my belief in myself and what I could accomplish. I think for a lot of people, this class does something similar, where it's well beyond just self-defense. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that it has had a meaningful impact on them beyond just the physical stuff.

What are your Shabbat plans?

I am going home to spend Shabbat with my family in Westchester. My brother and his wife's daughter, Remi, will receive her Hebrew name in shul on Saturday.

Legion is doing rolling admission in the Brooklyn chapter. Stanford and Manhattan usually have set start dates. If you’re interested in coming to your own rescue, you can learn more on Legion’s website. You can contact them with the location you’re interested in, and someone will reach back out.

Stay safe and as always, Shabbat Shalom,

📘 Let's Get Uncomfortable!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 31 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 31, 2025.

A couple of weeks ago, The Shabbat Drop got uncomfortable (but not really because we’re all Jews lol) with our latest book club discussion, Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew, by Noa Tishby and Emmanuel Acho!

📘 P.S. Our next book (no date yet) will be The Amen Effect by Sharon Brous. Get your reading started early!

We look awfully happy to be talking about antisemitism!

Uncomfy Convos brings together two friends in dialogue: one Jewish (Noa) one black (Emmanuel) as an educational conversation similar to Emmanuel’s first book, Uncomfortable Conversations with a Black Man.

Noa, a current activist and former actress, producer, and the former Special Envoy for Combating Antisemitism and the Delegitimization of Israel, educates Emmanuel, a former NFL player and current author and producer, on:

what a Jew is, and how Jews are an ethnicity but not a race
if it’s okay to even call a Jew “a Jew”
how Jews are perceived as being too white to some and not white enough to others
the history of antisemitism
common Jewish tropes and where they come from
what Zionism is (and is not)
how to be an ally

As soon as I started reading this book, I realized it’s not for Jews. While it could help Jews explain some of these complex topics to non-Jews, it’s most beneficial to people who have burning questions about Judaism/Israel.

At times, it seemed as though Noa was talking for pages on end, giving a lecture on antisemitism. Yes, sometimes Emmanuel would push back, like in the chapter called “How This Book Almost Didn’t Happen.” In that chapter, Noa and Emmanuel explained how they had plans to write this book before 10/7, and then after that tragic day, their friendship became contentious when Emmanuel hosted a pro-Hamas Palestinian on his show after hosting Noa.

I appreciated their candor, how Emmanuel defended his position by saying many of his followers were hurting after he hosted an Israeli on his platform and he wanted to hear from the “other side.” In response, Noa expressed how much pain it caused her to have her friend willingly host someone who supported Hamas’ barbaric actions, and how silent the world was to Jewish pain.

Other than that part, we were hoping for more in-depth back and forth and pushback between the two. Maybe there needs to be a similar book where one Zionist and one anti-Zionist have respectful dialogue and learn from one another. In my dreams!

Let’s Talk About the Holocaust…

It was fascinating how timely this book was to my recent Poland trip! Many of the topics Noa and Emmanuel covered were topics that my friend and I discussed as we toured Jewish historical sites, one example being could the Holocaust happen again? Noa’s take on that was my favorite chapter in the whole book, describing in detail how the Holocaust was first perpetuated by everyday “good” citizens who were led to believe Jews were evil, selfish, and to blame for the economy. It was my favorite chapter because it made me feel less alone and less crazy for wondering this question. Her short answer: yes, not exactly like how it played out, but yes.

That was intense! Let’s take a break to appreciate how hot they are.

What I Learned

Though the book felt basic for me at times, I did learn a couple of things, like that the term “wandering Jew” is NOT a cutesy moniker for Jews wandering the desert or those who are lost in their religious or cultural identity. It comes from medieval Christianity, claiming those who don’t accept Christ are doomed to wander the Earth in perpetual exile.

Fun fact that I now know isn’t fun: The original name of this blog was Modern Jewish Wanderer. Phew… avoided that crisis! Though, there is something powerful about reclaiming tropes and negative connotations, but I personally prefer The Shabbat Drop.

How to Be an Ally

Lastly, I always love a book or piece that ends with actionable items, and Emmanuel and Noa include just that in the chapter titled, “Be a Mensch: Show Up as an Ally.” One tip was to adopt Natan Sharansky’s 3Ds of anti-Israel rhetoric: Demonization, Double Standards, and Delegitimization. If you’re comparing the IDF to Nazis, pointing fingers while ignoring actual genocides going on in the world, or denying Israel’s fundamental right to exist, your language might be antisemitic. That doesn’t mean you can’t criticize the actions of the Israeli government, though! Far from it.

My favorite piece of advice was rather than worrying about how you can stand up for Jews online, go out and enjoy Judaism. Go to a Shabbat dinner. Talk with Jews. Check out a synagogue service (okay I don’t think they said this but why not!). As Noa said, “Judaism is all about being in life, go be in life!”

Something that was said in book club was the emphasis on Jewish victimhood throughout this book. While it’s important to educate and make non-Jews aware of the rising levels of antisemitism around the world in recent years, we need to balance that with what it means to actually be Jewish.

I encourage you to explore that this Shabbos.

Shabbat Shalom!

💦 You might be interested in these similar Drops…

Indifference to Injustice is the Gate to Hell

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 24 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 24, 2025.

Monday, January 27th, marks marks the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau. It’s hard to believe that just three weeks ago, I was there, walking through what remains of the two concentration camps. That visit is best summarized by what my travel companion recently sent me:

In case you missed it, read about my own version of A Real Pain here.

A Surprising Discovery

A couple of months ago, I was on a walking tour with the New York Adventure Club called “A Tale of Three NYC Squares.” I expected to hear the usual history: how Union Square was once a burial ground, the couple of times Gramercy Park has been open to the public, and the account of Stanford White’s murder on the rooftop of the second Madison Square Garden just across the street from Madison Square Park. But what I didn’t expect was something else in the vicinity of the park!

Just east of the park on Madison Avenue, between 25th and 26th streets, is the New York State Appellate Division of the Supreme Court. It’s a Beaux-Arts building of grandeur, with Corinthian columns topped with statues of historical significance.

But what’s easy to miss is the carved detail on one of the white marble columns facing the park: an aerial view of Auschwitz with the inscription, “Indifference to Injustice is the Gate to Hell.”

This memorial, called the Memorial to the Victims of the Injustice of the Holocaust, was designed in 1990 by Harriet Feigenbaum. It was created when members of the court were concerned by an increasing indifference to injustice.

The map, based on a photograph taken on August 25, 1944 by the U.S. Air Force, shows the commandant’s house, the execution wall, gas and torture chambers, and crematorium. Feigenbaum chose to recreate this photograph to imply the U.S. knew of the camp, but did nothing about it.

This memorial is so easy to miss in the city! Have you seen this before? Let me know in the comments below.

🎻Violins of Hope

A new project is coming out using the Violins of Hope collection! This collection of violins belonged to Holocaust survivors, often adorned with original Stars of David, and have been restored and played in concerts around the world.

On Monday, in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day, composer Daniel Pelton is releasing “Violins of Hope,” a powerfultrio of compositions that represent freedom and hope in the midst of atrocity.

The project was recorded using instruments from the collection, with violins coming from WWII survivors, concentration camps, and the rubble of homes from the war.

“I want listeners to imagine the joy of getting your freedom back after it was taken from you, and the duty we have to enjoy ours, and do everything we can to maintain it,” Daniel said in a press release. “I hope that the instruments enjoyed their time being played in this piece that only acknowledges the light and leaves the darkness behind.”

Click here to pre-save and stream “Violins of Hope,” which goes live on Monday.

Watch on YouTube

📖Book rec: Cold Crematorium: Reporting from the Land of Auschwitz

There’s a “new” book out about Auschwitz that sounds like no other. Available in English after more than 70 years, this powerful and intense memoir recounts József Debreczeni’s survival at Auschwitz in the “Cold Crematorium,” a camp hospital where death awaited those too weak to work. Debreczeni was a Hungarian journalist and poet who recorded the horrors he witnessed with accurate detail. First published in Hungarian in 1950, it was never translated due to the Cold War and antisemitism, ironically. What’s called a masterpiece by reviewers, and one of the top 10 books of 2024 in the New York Times, was nearly lost to history.

If you can stomach it, check it out. Personally, I’m a little burnt out from reading too many Holocaust books lately, and from my trip to Poland. But this memoir sounds like it can’t be ignored. I plan to read it sometime this year.

That’s a wrap! Take time out of your day on Monday to think of the lives and generations lost during the Holocaust, and how we as a community can overcome evil in this world.

Shabbat Shalom,

💦You might be interested in these similar Drops…

How the Jewish Community Stepped Up During the LA Fires

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 17 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 17, 2025.

Welcome back to another Drop!

This chilly Friday brings you a d’var Torah (“word of Torah”) relating this week’s Torah portion, Shemot (“Names”), to how the Jewish community stepped up to help other Jews (and non-Jews!) during a time of crisis during the fires that raged across LA last week.

This parsha introduces Moses, the Hebrew prophet who shows up on Pharaoh’s doorstep as a baby. We’ve all seen The Prince of Egypt (I’m listening to the soundtrack as I write this!). Even if you haven’t read the Torah, we know Moses witnesses the injustices the Israelite slaves face at the hands of the Egyptians.

Oh, young Moses, you don’t even know what’s ahead of you! (Source: Rio Theatre)

After killing an Egyptian taskmaster for beating a slave, Moses flees to Midian, finds himself a sweetie who bears him a son, and plans to live out the rest of his quiet days tending sheep. But as they say, man plans and G-d laughs.

Or rather… G-d commands, for when G-d appears to Moses in a burning bush, G-d calls on him to help deliver his people out of affliction and into “a good and spacious land, a land that can flow with milk and honey.”

Moses with the Burning Bush (c.1963) by Marc Chagall (Source: Artchive.com)

After some Imposter Syndrome, Moses agrees to help free the slaves from the house of bondage. This part is powerful, because though Moses had fled to Midian and started a new life, he heeded G-d’s call, stepping into danger and discomfort to help his people.

His return to Egypt symbolizes deep responsibility—choosing to act when others are suffering, even at great personal risk. It’s at this specific moment that he embodies the principle of kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh—all Jews are responsible for one another.

You know who else exhibits this trait? All the Jews who stepped up and helped one another during the recent LA fires. Greater Los Angeles is home to more than 600,000 Jews, the second-largest community in the country. As soon as news of the wildfires broke out, members of the local Jewish community, as well as Jews across the country, and Israelis, jumped in to help in anyway they could.

Whether they scoured a burnt synagogue looking to save its Torahs, or checked in on their fellow Jews from across the country asking how to help, here’s a culmination of their compassionate efforts.

Opening Doors for Worship

After the Pasadena Jewish Temple & Center was destroyed overnight and many Jews lost their homes, 16 synagogues and Jewish schools opened their doors for shelter, prayer, and to host b’nai mitzvahs as planned.

The Chabad of Pasadena has been hosting families displaced by the fires, providing communal meals and essential supplies. Rabbis have actively checked on community members, even extinguishing fires to protect homes.

Sinai Temple hosted a Shabbat service last week for 200 people, many of whom were not regular service attendees. It’s inspiring how, despite the devastation and trauma, Shabbat goes on. Cue one of my favorite Broadway songs, “Prayer,” from Come From Away.

Rescue Efforts by Rabbis

In courageous Moses-like fashion, rabbis like Zushi Rivkin and Laibel Hanoka took direct action to save homes in Altadena. They used available resources to extinguish flames, rescue Torahs, and protect personal artifacts, including a 100-year-old chair of sentimental value.

Source: Chabad Pasadena, The NY Post

What Jews Do Best… Feeding People

Local restaurants like Yeastie Boys Bagels provided firefighters and anyone in need with bagels. They also distributed bagels at evacuation centers.

Financial Support from Jewish Organizations

The Jewish Federation of Los Angeles initiated a wildfire relief campaign to assist those affected by the wildfires. The Jewish Federation of the Sacramento Region launched a fundraising campaign for the victims. The Jewish Free Loan Association is giving out funds to people who must start from scratch. These are just some examples of many Jewish organizations looking to help. Click here to find an extensive list and donate today!

Israel Sends Aid

From Syria to Haiti, Israel has provided rapid aid in times of global emergency. When the fires broke out, Israel sent a delegation of firefighters to LA help extinguish them and provide expertise on preventing fire spread.

Jews Reaching Out to Other Jews

I know so many Jews who have reached out to those in LA for support to see what they can do. This is what it means to be Jewish: rolling up your sleeves, jumping in, and heeding the call.

Here is a great quote from Monica Osborne of The Jewish Journal that encapsulates her love of LA and the Jewish call to action:

“I’m reminded that God and history often speak from fire. The bush that burned before Moses contained both a promise and a threat. When he heard his name emanating from the flames, Moses answered, “Here I am,” three words signifying responsibility. Here I am. I think, now, that this is what we — those who have not lost homes and livelihoods — are called to offer in the face of the flames, in the face of tragedy so great we dare not put words to it. We can say here I am to give, to help, and to love.”

May we continue to reach out to those in need, may the victims use their Jewish resilience to repair and rebuild their lives, and may we soon hear good news.

Shabbat Shalom,

8 Questions I Get Asked About Poland

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 10 Jan 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 10, 2025.

Happy New Year!

I hope you celebrated in a way that made you feel reflective and grateful.

This Drop is dedicated to my older brother whose birthday is today. I point out the fact that he’s older not because he in fact is another year older today, but because I’m lucky I have him to look up to (he’s tall, too! okay enough dad jokes). Speaking of dads, he just became one, and he’s already doing a fantastic job at it. Happy birthday, Mickey. 🥳🎈

📚 Don’t forget: virtual book club this Sunday! We’ll be discussing Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew.

So… Poland. What brought you there? Did you go on a Jewish tour?

That is a really good guess, but no. I went for a friend’s wedding, which was based in Krakow. Then I traveled around with a dear friend who I met on a Jewish trip to India years ago through JDC Entwine! So you can imagine how special it felt to create our own Jewish trip, like A Real Pain: The Sequel. I was Kieran Culkin, for those wondering.

See? Told you I’m Kieran

Both of our great-grandmothers were from the Warsaw area, so we wanted to experience what was once the largest Jewish community in the world. We started in Krakow, where we celebrated Chanukah with the beautifully vibrant JCC. Then we spent New Year’s in Zakopane, a ski town in the mountains, and ended in Warsaw.

Was the food good?

Ah… the most important travel question! For the first few days, yes! I’m talkin’ buttery pierogi stuffed with potatoes and cabbage, potato pancakes smothered in a mushroom cream sauce, chewy smoked sheep milk cheese with cranberry sauce, and this street food that resembled French bread pizza but with mushrooms and garlic sauce. It was all heavy and comforting, the kind of food that leaves you craving a vegetable.

Then we got pretty tired of it by day four. But, hey, nothing a little vodka or mulled wine can’t wash down, eh?

Was it creepy?

I’m going to assume this question is due to its complicated history. Though walking by endless gray Soviet-style buildings in the dead of winter wasn’t doing it any favors. It was just like this video (I’m aware that’s Moldova) but with the occasional Christmas market!

It was only creepy when history came at you full speed ahead and smacked you in the face unexpectedly.

Here’s the best way to sum up the trip: One day you’re dancing with sausages by a bonfire in the mountains. Then the next, you’re back in the city, walking past a plaque that says, “Here is a square where Nazis shot 50 nurses.” Woah.

The creepiest thing that happened was when my friend and I were walking around Warsaw. We walked past a grand palatial building, and I said, “I can’t help but imagine that building used to have Nazi banners hanging from it, like in the old photos, you know? But maybe that was more in Germany.” The next day at the Warsaw Uprising Museum, I saw a photo of that exact building with Nazi banners hanging from it. The caption next to it said they renamed the square it was in to “Adolf Hitler Platz.”

Another moment that was not as creepy but eerily synchronous and sad was in Krakow. At a vintage shop, I really liked this one tall cobalt enamel container used as a vase. Then at Auschwitz, in one of the rooms displaying a huge pile of prisoners’ belongings, from pots and pans to crutches, lay that very same style of container. It stood out to me above everything else, like the girl in the red coat in Schindler’s List, and humanized the victims of the Holocaust all the more.

Definitely the creepiest photo I took on the trip - one of the prisoner wash rooms at Auschwitz. Look at those creepy paintings on the walls!

What was Auschwitz like? Did you cry?

Shoutout to my friend Jared who used to be a tour guide in Krakow, and who warned me of the stark differences between Auschwitz and Birkenau. The main difference is that Auschwitz was turned into a museum and some parts were renovated, while Birkenau was left untouched.

Because of this, Auschwitz at least felt somewhat sterile. Our tour guide threw tons of information our way, not letting us absorb anything (just like in A Real Pain!). And I also felt like because this is something I’ve read about my whole life and have seen it in movies, it felt so familiar to me.

Didn’t know my friend was taking this photo - thanks Sarah for capturing a reflective moment.

Birkenau was another story, for the way it was left untouched after the Nazis abandoned ship when they knew the Soviets were on their way to the camps. I had no idea the Nazis left explosives by the gas chambers and crematoria to hide their crimes, so those buildings were left in ruins and rubble, as you can see in the photo above.

Still, I didn’t cry. Maybe because I was too angry at the keffiyeh-wearing imbecile in my group who held us up because he needed to buy coffee at the Auschwitz café. I hope he learned something at least.

What surprised you the most?

How much Polish people love the Macarena. Seriously! Not just at events with dancing, but we even heard someone blasting it in their car. I can’t wait for 2052 when they finally learn about Chappell Roan.

A surprise was how few Jews there were at Jewish sites. You could just tell. I think it’s because the Jewish history sites are the thing to do here. That, and the salt mine. I’m so used to seeing photos of Jewish groups tour Auschwitz with Israeli flags, but nope, we only had the privilege of touring it with Keffiyeh Karl.

In New York, it’s only Jews who go to the Jewish museums, but in Warsaw? It was a culture shock seeing people of all ages and backgrounds intently learning about 1,000 years of Polish Jewish history.

Take this pic for example: These teens below were learning about Zionist leaders from history and were not calling for a walkout, a boycott, or to their mother in tears. What a breath of fresh air!

What surprised me most throughout the trip were the questions people were asking on tours. Questions like:

Why were the Jews persecuted? Was it because they were a minority?
If things got so bad, why didn’t they leave?
What happened to the Nazis after the war?

These are questions I grew up learning in depth. How could they not know? Though, to be fair, people write books trying to answer the first question, my favorite being Why the Jews? by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin, so you know its complex.

So of course I got nervous when our tour guide answered that first question with the short answer of “Jews were blamed for killing Jesus.” Yes, this is how early anti-Judaism spread throughout Europe, but it’s missing the political, social, and economic factors often related to antisemitism, like using Jews as scapegoats during societal crises. And how Jewish oppression differs from other minority oppressions, because history shows that our status in society could change overnight, whereas other oppression statuses relatively stay the same. (I just attended an interesting antisemitism training, so pardon the rant.)

I think that’s my biggest takeaway from this trip: In my Jewish professional bubble here in New York, it’s so easy to take my background for granted and assume everyone has the same level of knowledge as me when it comes to the Jewish stuff.

In prep for Sunday’s Shabbat Drop book club (join us!), I read a sobering reminder that since Jews make up less than .2% of the world population, that means most people on this planet don’t know a Jew. Ironically (or maybe not), I had to go to Poland to realize this.

Bummer! Tell me something funny please.

Here’s a video of me dancing with a sausage:

Do you recommend Poland?

Look, it’s not my favorite European country I’ve ever been to (that award goes to Estonia). Having said that, I think it’s a trip everyone should take in their life. Jew or no, it’s important, impactful, and necessary.

At at time when antisemitism is making a trendy comeback, we all know studying history helps us understand the present… or do we? After this trip, I’m not sure I have a clear idea of what people actually know anymore. The most we can do is learn. Like Keffiyeh Karl.

Shabbat Shalom. Thanks for reading.

P.S. How awesome is this: we met a Shabbat Drop reader in Warsaw! So cool meeting Internet friends IRL.

🎸 Rockin' Around the Chanukah Bush

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 27 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 27, 2024.

Dzień dobry from Krakow! I’m traveling around Poland, à la A Real Pain, finally fulfilling my lifelong dream of experiencing a Jewish heritage journey.

Having said that, I’m keepin’ it short and light this week, and wishing you a Happy Chanukah. I hope you are able to celebrate with loved ones and that your holiday is as sweet as jelly-filled doughnuts!

What does Bill Graham have to do with Chanukah?

No, not evangelist Billy Graham. I’m talking about rock promoter and founder of The Fillmore, Bill Graham. The guy who helped bring bands like the Grateful Dead and the Rollings Stones to the stage. This one:

You know those giant Chabad menorah lightings this time of year? You have Bill Graham to thank for that!

In 1975, he was approached by Jewish community leaders of San Francisco, including a Chabad rabbi, to create the first large-scale public menorah-lighting ceremony in the U.S. They constructed a 25-foot-tall menorah in SF’s Union Square which drew a thousand people. Graham joined what would become an annual tradition every Chanukah until his death in 1991. This giant menorah inspired similar menorah lightings in local communities around the world.

Graham was a German-born Jew and Holocaust survivor who escaped Nazi Germany to France via the Kindertransport. His mother died at Auschwitz. He not only transformed live music but also transformed public menorah lightings, bringing local Jewish communities together in proud displays of celebration. Rock on!

Where did I learn this cool info?! On the Jewish Educator Portal, the premier resource hub for Jewish educators, run by The Jewish Education Project (my work!).

Donate to The Shabbat Drop

Shabbat Shalom and Happy New Year. See you in 2025!

💦 Similar Drop

Shark Tank Meets Antisemitism

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 20 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 20, 2024.

Dear friends,

Last week’s post honored the victims of 10/7. This week, we honor their memories again, not by sharing on the tragic details of their deaths but by celebrating their legacies and focusing on building a brighter future. This week’s post talks about innovations to combat antisemitism (as a Jew, this is my idea of fun).

Earlier this week, I had the honor of attending a Shark Tank-like competition to showcase innovative ways to tackle the 200% increase in antisemitic attacks in the U.S. Hosted by a relatively new organization called The ADIR Challenge Foundation, the event gathered forward-thinking Jews of all ages to fill the pews of Central Synagogue and to vote for their favorite pitch of the final three ideas.

ADIR was named after the founder’s nephew who was killed on 10/7 while protecting his loved ones. Ever the problem solver, he once said to his aunt, “If you gave me a problem, I would figure out what to do.” This Drop is dedicated to him.

Source: theadirchallenge.com

The event marked the culmination of an entire year of sourcing and incubating ideas. Three finalists presented their projects, and one left with a cash prize to continue turning innovation into impact. Check out these inspiring ideas below and find out which idea won! And then vote for your favorite in the comments! Because hopelessness is NOT an action plan.

“If you gave me a problem, I would figure out what to do.” -Addir Mesika

1. Reportify: Using Gen-AI for College Campus Reporting

The first presenters introduced a streamlined platform designed to simplify the process of reporting antisemitic incidents on campus. Created by a recent UC Berkeley grad and a current senior at Stanford, the duo identified a systemic issue: most students fail to report incidents due to complicated systems, fear of retaliation, or a belief that nothing will change.

Get this: since 10/7, there have been 350 reported antisemitic incidents at UC Berkeley alone and not a single response from the university. The system is designed to fail: it apparently takes 45 minutes to file a report, and only 20% of reports go to the ADL.

Reportify uses gen-AI to make the reporting process more efficient and holds schools accountable for addressing the reports they receive. The platform not only collects reports but also ensures accurate submissions and tracks ticket responses in real-time with a centralized dashboard. By making reporting seamless and accessible, Reportify empowers students to hold institutions accountable and reclaim safety on their campuses.

Launched at 10 universities and counting, Reportify promises to stop antisemitism from becoming the norm by giving power back to students facing hatred.

2. Oct7: An OS for Community and Impact

Inspired by the urgency to act in the wake of 10/7, this online platform is a centralized hub for calls to action from community leaders, whether it’s managing social media campaigns, contacting lawmakers, and promoting protests—all within a single platform.

Remember the first few months of the war when you would get Whatsapp messages in all caps yelling at you to call your local congressman? Or you’d see a social media post calling for you to sign a petition? Created by Israeli tech entrepreneurs and ex-IDF elite units members, Oct7 harnesses community building and mobilizing all in one place to get shit done. The system is like all of those messages combined into one place, but with progress tracking and organization (and hopefully no messages in all caps).

With over 30,000 members across 70 countries already involved, the OS inspires real action, not just online but in life, ensuring that voices speaking out against hate are amplified in a unified and effective way.

3. SOTS: Support on the Spot

Worried the event you’re attending is going to have a large, antisemitic protest outside of it? Nervous about lack of security outside a synagogue? SOTS offers real-time mental health support to anxious Jews (so, like, all of us).

How it works: Either attached to your wrist or synched up to your phone, the device uses AI to measure stress indicators like blood pressure and provides immediate support through a button-activated system that connects users with trained volunteers. While you’re waiting to be connected, it sends you auto-generated messages of support. SOTS blends psychological insights with advanced technological solutions.

Its pilot program in Jewish communities demonstrates the device’s potential to bring comfort and strength to those who need it most. And the best part? With help just a push of a button away, you can attend a Jewish comedy show without feeling anxious that someone is going to call you a murderer to your face. Not that that’s happened to me or anything… 👀

And the winner is… 🥁🥁🥁

Reportify! Mazel tov to the two bright young women who are making a difference on college campuses facing antisemitism across the country (so, like, all of them). Even my alma mater isn’t immune after two leaders of GMU’s chapter of Students for Justice in Palestine were recently found owning weapons, Hamas and Hezbollah flags, and a sign that said “death to Jews.”

Side note: While searching for that article, I came across a report from just an hour earlier about another star student at GMU who was caught plotting a mass-casualty attack at the Israeli consulate in NYC. Gee, I was really hoping that move would free Palestine…

Sorry, sorry, I promised you a newsletter of Jewish joy. Anywho!

Here’s where I get all positive and cheesy

I think all three of these ideas are worth exploring, especially Oct7 OS because it’s a platform that meets everyone’s needs and one that I would use. However, if had hundreds of thousands of shekels lying around to pour into fighting hate, I’d put it into education.

That could look like anything: an AI tool that crawls the web and responds to misinformation with facts and educational resources. A VR experience simulating the lives of individuals facing antisemitism throughout history, which would be mandatory in every classroom. A role-playing game where you fight antisemitism throughout history, or fun games that teach students cool facts about Jews, not just the sad stuff.

Sitting in the audience during the competition, I got chills as I realized that bringing these ideas to life represents the future of activism—where innovation replaces the picket line, and technology becomes the new megaphone for change.

These projects are more than just solutions—they’re lifelines, ensuring that our communities can confront antisemitism with courage, strength, and innovation. Events like this remind me that even when we’re outnumbered, we’re not outmatched. Together, we have the power to innovate, organize, and fight back.

Learn more about all three presentations here.

Which idea for combatting antisemitism is your favorite? Vote below in the comments!

And most of all, have a peaceful and warm Shabbat, wherever you are.

P.S. It’s that time of year when my domain gets renewed. Any contribution would be much appreciated to cover the cost of running this blog! Here’s my Venmo or consider donating below. Thank you!

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The Most Important Book I Read This Year

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 13 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 13, 2024.

At the end of each calendar year, I make lists and definitely don’t check them twice. These include Chanukah gift guides and Jewish reads. This year, however, I wasn’t in the mood to make a wacky gift guide, and when it came to book recs, there was only one book I kept coming back to and wanted to focus on. But you’ll find other book recs at the bottom of this email. And if you’re interested in Jewish reads, you should definitely join our virtual book clubon 1/12. Register here!

Trigger warning: depictions of violence and loss. This post is intense, but not as intense as the book. While reading it, many people said to me, “I could never read that. I could never put myself through that.” While this is understandable, I recommend at least reading this review of the book to honor those whose lives were taken on October 7th, 2023. They didn’t have a choice, and their individual stories and lives are worth remembering. And then after reading, go hug someone you love and hold them close.

10/7: 100 Human Stories by Lee Yaron

This was the hardest and most important book I’ve ever read. I broke down crying two or three times while reading it, and I often found myself putting it aside to take breaks.

Honoring civilian lives lost on 10/7 like a Yizkor book of our day, each chapter not only describes their final moments, but also captures the spirit and resilience of their communities, and their individual hopes, dreams, and legacies.

At first, I wondered why a reporter from the left-wing Israeli newspaper, Haaretz, would document Hamas’ massacre in such a way, but once I started reading, I immediately understood. The victims of the massacre whose lives are beautifully honored in this book were the peacekeepers of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, those who truly believed peace was achievable.

One of those cases is probably the most famous name of Vivian Silver. Those who know her name know she was a peace activist and that she lived on Kibbutz Be’eri, a kibbutz whose members were often on the secular left and were active in building bridges between Israelis and Palestinians.

A native Canadian, Vivian co-founded the Arab-Jewish Center for Equality, Empowerment and Cooperation, which created jobs in impoverished Arab communities and brought young Arab and Jewish people together to volunteer. She drove sick Gazan children to hospitals. She was a bastion of peace and hope.

Vivian with her two sons at Kibbutz Be’eri in 2018 (NY Times)

One unforgettable moment from the book captures her spirit. As she was hiding in her safe room during the attack, she was being interviewed by an Israeli radio station that managed to get in touch with her. Rockets and gunshots were going off all around her, yet she was still advocating for peace over the telephone.

Interviewer: “It seems there’s only one sane side this morning. Discussing both sides might not be pertinent now-we’re under attack.” Vivian: “Well, then I suggest we continue this conversation after the crisis.”

Shortly after they hung up, she was texting her son (Him: “Just write something.” Her: “Something… Sorry, I’m trying to keep my sense of humor.”).

For five weeks, her son didn’t know what happened to her and assumed she was kidnapped and taken into Gaza. Then he received the news: Vivian’s apartment, including her safe room, was set ablaze by terrorists. A piece of her jawbone was discovered and matched to her DNA. This post is for her.

Another important name to know is Moshe Ohayon, a social activist who moved to the southern city of Ofakim from Jerusalem to make a difference. A couple of days before 10/7, Moshe hosted an event in his sukkah as part of an initiative called Sukkat Shalom (Sukkah of Peace), which brings two people together with different social, cultural, religious, and/or political views, not to debate but to learn and find common ground.

That day, Moshe brought together two prominent figures: a leader of the protests against Netanyahu’s Judicial Reform, and a leading voice from the West Bank settlement and Religious Zionist community. 50 people attended, and this was just one example of more than 250 sukkot erected that holiday that brought people of different backgrounds together. It’s no wonder Moshe was described as "the essence of good.”

Moshe Ohayon, whose story I will never forget

On 10/7 when terrorists infiltrated Ofakim, Moshe, along with his son Eliad, immediately went in his car and headed straight for the gunshots, despite his neighbors telling him to hide.

They tried to fight and fend off as many terrorists as they could. Their family hadn’t heard from them in hours, and only found out about their deaths when another one of the sons, Amitai, went looking for them and a witness showed him a picture of Moshe’s and Eliad’s bodies, father and son, in an embrace, their bodies pierced with bullets. This post is for them.

This post for is for Nadezhda and Natalya Sprebchikov-Tumiib, two sisters and best friends from the former Soviet Union who had moved to Israel in search of a better life. They just wanted to enjoy a trip to the Dead Sea, but were shot down along with other elderly, immigrant vacationers.

This post is for the Nepalese workers, the young men who traveled to Israel to farm and learn. They hid behind rice sacks, praying to see another day. One drank urine because he was badly injured and needed water. A couple of the young men were kidnapped and taken into Gaza. They wanted to earn money for their families back home. They wanted to finish the final season of Vikings.

This post is for the nineteen Negev Bedouins who died that day, whose community has a 2,200 times higher risk of dying from rocket attacks compared to the rest of the Israeli population, despite pleading with the government for years to grant them more protection. It’s important to note that a group of women in hijabs begged Hamas in Arabic to spare their lives, but Hamas killed them indiscriminately anyway.

This post is for Tamar Torpiashvili, a nine-year-old who died of a heart attack from the stress of constant rocket sirens in the days following the attacks. Her family described her as an angel, born on Shabbat and having died on Shabbat. She wanted to be an influencer and was loved by many.

This post is for Dolev Suissa, a father who died protecting his three-year-old daughter. Separated from his wife and their other daughter, he was shot and begged the young girl to go find her mother and sister. She didn’t want to leave him but he made her, knowing he was going to die, the ultimate sacrifice a parent could make.

Joshua Cohen, writer and Yaron’s husband, writes in the afterword, “It’s possible to read this book and finish it with a desire for revenge, and it is equally possible to read this book and finish it with a renewed commitment to peace.” I read this book during the High Holidays when I heard sermons on opening your heart to other ideas and perspectives, even when it feels impossible. Personally, this book pulled me toward both emotions, but it ultimately leaned toward peace—because peace, fragile as it may seem, is all we have.

Thank you for reading. There’s so many other stories from this book I didn’t cover. Let’s make sure their lives were not lost in vain. And if you’re in New York, the author is having a free book talk at Central Synagogue on 1/9. Register here.

📖 More of My 2024 Jewish Reads

Renia’s Diary: A Holocaust Journal by Renia Spiegel

Known as “the Polish Anne Frank,” this diary belonged to Renia Spiegel, a teenager during the Holocaust. Renia was a student, a poet, and a dreamer, and she documented her life from 1939-1942 up until her death in a ghetto. Her diary, which was uncovered and published decades after the war, contains mostly the musings of a teenage girl in love with war looming in the background. Her poetry is mature for a 14-year-old because she was forced to grow up at a young age. This is another book that made me cry, because the end of her short life is harrowing. You feel like you’re experiencing her death in real time due to the nature of its abrupt ending.

The Postcard by Anne Berest

Clearly I’ve had a theme this year, and I know I’ve written about this one before, but it’s worth mentioning again. Based on a true story, this novel follows Anne whose family receives a mysterious postcard listing relatives who died in the Holocaust. On a quest to find the sender and the reason for the mysterious postcard, she embarks on a journey of Jewish identity and family history. I learned quite a bit about Jewish life in France during this period. This book was also the first novel I read that vividly depicted the days just after the war when families were desperately searching for their loved ones who were most likely dead, bringing the book to a devastating close.

Shabbat Shalom. What Jewish books have you read this year?

Comedy as a Weapon for Survival Pt. IV

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 06 Dec 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 6, 2024.

This is the next installment of a series on Jewish humor based on YIVO’s online class on the subject, “Is Anything Okay?” If you missed earlier laughs, catch up on parts one, two, and three. Be sure to take the class to get even more information—it’s free!

Why the Catskills?

We know that the Catskills, a.k.a. the Borscht Belt, served as the birthplace of modern Jewish comedy. If you didn’t, mazel tov—you’ve learned something new just one sentence into this post. Can you believe this content is free?!

Throughout the first half of 20th century, hundreds of comedians performed at Jewish resorts there. It’s where legends like Jerry Lewis, Don Rickles, Mel Brooks, Rodney Dangerfield, and Joan Rivers got their start.

“No Borscht Belt, no Mel Brooks.” — Mel Brooks

But why that specific mountainous region? And why did Jews vacation there? Like most origin stories, it had to do with antisemitism.

By 1908, there were more than 500 Jewish-owned farms in the Catskills. They realized they could make extra money renting rooms. Most hotels and country clubs at the time didn’t accept Jews, so Jews who had a hankering for fresh air and summertime lake hangs (think one of my favorite movies, A Walk on the Moon) vacationed at these resorts. The resorts also served as a safe haven for them to be themselves and not be questioned about how American they were, an issue they faced at the time.

Possibly the most fascinating fact I picked up from this course was that this Jewish vacation guide inspired the Green Book (another favorite Viggo Mortensen movie!) published annually from 1936-66, which provided a similar grouping of hotels that would serve African Americans in the Jim Crow era. (YIVO Archives)

But Jews in the countryside needed their entertainment! As I wrote about in part three, Jews developed a lifestyle on the Lower East Side filled with entertainment: nickelodeons, variety shows, etc. So they brought that culture with them up to the mountains.

The most famous Catskills resort was Grossinger’s, known as a “kingdom of outdoor happiness.” The 1,200-acre, 35-building resort included two Olympic-sized pools, a ski slope, a summer ice rink, and a 3,000-person dining room. All the celebrities and high-profile guests of the day, from Jackie Robinson to Duke Ellington, stayed there, and it was the inspiration behind the film Dirty Dancing.

Here’s a super interesting video about its heyday and eventual demise, including stunning photography of its abandoned state:

Watch on YouTube

Tummlers

Remember my dream job mentioned in part one, the badkhn (the wedding jester who roasts the bride and groom)? Jewish resorts had something like this called a tummler (from the Yiddish verb tumlen טומלען, meaning “to make a fuss, stir up excitement) who greeted guests with jokes. Part comedian, part camp director, the tummler would infuse jokes into announcements of the day’s activities!

Mel Brooks got his start not on stage but as a 14-year-old tummler, waking up guests who fell asleep by the pool. The first reported tummler was a man known as "Windy," who in 1917 led the evening activities at a campfire event attended by garment workers on vacation at the Unity House retreat in the Poconos.

Comedian Profile: Henny Youngman, the King of One-Liners

Source: Abe Books

Born in London in 1906 and raised in Brooklyn, he inspired greats like Rodney Dangerfield. His comedy career began in the 1920s, printing joke cards at a print shop, where he was discovered by famed comedian Milton Berle, who encouraged him to keep writing jokes.

He became a legend with lines like:

A man goes to a psychiatrist. The doctor says, "You're crazy." The man says, "I want a second opinion!" "Okay, you're ugly too!"
Why do Jewish divorces cost so much? They're worth it.
My wife will buy anything marked down. Last year she bought an escalator.
Take my wife, please!

Okay, I’m getting tired of wife jokes and all these mentions of male comedians. We need some funny feminine energy in here. YIVO, whatcha got? (Keep reading!)

The Catskills of the South

While the Catskills were the heart of Jewish entertainment in the 50s, Miami was gaining cultural prominence due to the rise of commercial airfare.

Just like me on this cold, dreary December morning, New Yorkers were craving Florida’s sandy beaches and palm trees. Luckily, Florida lifted its ban on Jewish-owned real estate in 1949 (Wow, so kind of them!), making Miami Beach the hot (literally), new It Girl of vacationing, earning the not-so-hot nickname “the Shtetl by the Sea.”

Miami brought a fresh edge, with stars like Belle Barth, queen of the Jewish Miami comedy scene. Barth, a former Catskills performer, made Miami her stage in the ‘50s, with routines full of sharp wit and Yiddish references. She later opened her own club called the Belle Barth Pub.

Source: Vintage Stand-Up Comedy

The mid-20th century was a golden age for Jewish comedians, who were often on radio and TV. But to learn more about that, you’ll have to take the course!

Shabbat Shalom!! Have some laughs,

💦 Similar Drops

Jewish Gratitude List Pt. III

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 29 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 29, 2024.

Last week, The Shabbat Drop received its first-ever antisemitic comment. Don’t worry—my dad responded and put the hater in his place!

I wasn’t fazed at all because it’s the internet in 2024, and I was coming off a high. A Jewish high. A chai, if you will. Because right before some stranger spewed conspiracy theories riddled with typos, I had met two wonderful Jewish teens I’ll be mentoring for the year as part of a fellowship. These two inspirational women will be spending their time working on a capstone project that will improve their communities while empowering their own Judaism.

So +1 point for the Jews, 0 points for the trolls.

Make that 2 points, because this means we’ve made it, people! Haters = we’re doing something right. Either that, or my SEO game is on point.

Anyway, this is a nice little segue into my annual Jewish gratitude list. No, this has nothing to do with Thanksgiving! I started this tradition two years ago, and was inspired by a colleague’s social media challenge called #NoMarinthisCheshvan, where she posted one thing she’s grateful for each day of the month of Marcheshvan.

The challenge is named for the month we’re finishing up, Marcheshvan, a month known to be “bitter” (mar) since there are no holidays and it’s when our matriarch, Rachel, died. Read last year’s gratitude list here.

1. Actual good Jewish movies

No, I’m not talking about films with unoriginal plots about leaving the orthodoxy or opening up a bagel shop. I'm grateful for artsy movies that have been coming out in the past year that beautifully tell Jewish stories, tugging at the heartstrings without feeling cheesy. Take Between the Temples, starring Jason Schwartzman and Carol Kane, for example. A grieving cantor becomes the bat mitzvah tutor to his former music teacher. Together, they explore Jewish identity, connection, and platonic love. It was a little odd at times, but so is real life! Bonus points for using a brief blast of the shofar during intense scene transitions.

Photo: Searchlight

Another Jewish movie I just saw was A Real Pain, starring Jesse Eisenberg and Kieran Culkin. Written and produced by Eisenberg (and Emma Stone!), two Jewish cousins who couldn’t be more different travel to Poland together on a heritage trip. I laughed, I teared up, and I became all the more excited and curious for my upcoming trip to Poland next month. Is there a proper way to behave on a Holocaust tour? What about when it comes to confronting pain, your own and the pain of others? This movie delves into these deep questions, and more. We need more of these REAL Jewish stories, please.

2. My new Jewish class!

And Jewish learning opportunities in general. There’s so many if you know where to look. I started a seven-week class on Jewish ideas through the Streicker Center. Each class covers a different topic on Jewish wisdom—from goal setting to relationships—led by Rabbi David Wolpe, who was rated one of the top 50 rabbis in the U.S. It’s like Hebrew school but in your 30s!

We’ve only had one class so far, which included tasty Israeli food and cocktails, but to give you a taste (of the curriculum, not the food), we learned about the four questions you get asked when you die according to the Talmud (Shabbat 31a), which are:

Were you honest in business? This emphasizes the importance of integrity and ethical behavior in financial and professional dealings.
Did you set aside time for Torah study? This highlights the value of lifelong learning and dedicating time to engage with Jewish teachings and spiritual growth.
Did you build a family? This is understood to mean contributing to the continuation of the community, either through raising children or building a meaningful legacy.
Did you hope for redemption? This asks about maintaining faith and optimism, trusting in a brighter future and the fulfillment of divine promises.

3. Making connections with Jewish strangers

You know the feeling: you give a slight smile and nod to the other person wearing a Magen David necklace on the Subway, or your ears perk up when you hear people speaking Hebrew and join in.

I recently had a cute experience in southern Brooklyn. I was eating alone at a famous seafood restaurant during Sukkot (I’m a Jewish New Englander… what can ya do) when a couple of older men at a nearby table commented on the Chabad men across the street.

“They’re doing the lulav and etrog with people! Shh… don’t let them see us with our shellfish!” the two men said while giggling. I smiled at them because I was thinking the same exact thing myself.

The men saw me smiling at their comments, and we talked Judaism for 20 minutes. It was such a nice exchange that they gifted me a giant panettone, an Italian sweet bread traditionally eaten on Christmas (I swear one of the men was Jewish) that I brought home for Thanksgiving.

Thank G-d for Jewish interactions that make your Thanksgiving a little more Christmasy than you anticipated.

4. Ancient songs with contemporary sounds

I never thought I’d be blasting songs like “Avinu Malkeinu” and “Shir HaMa’alot,” songs that take me back to my childhood synagogue services, while doing the dishes as an adult, but a new Jewish album makes it fun.

Common Blue is an album produced by Havurah, a New York-based artist collective, and celebrates Jewish resilience and unity. Its title is a nod to Israel’s national butterfly, the common blue, and came out one year after October 7th. It’s a collection of Jewish songs—from ancient to classics of the 60s and 70s—covered by contemporary Jewish artists.

Some of my favorites are Ignacio Wer’s cosmic and mysterious version of “Avinu Malkeinu,” and Herman Düne’s stripped down, folksy cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Traveling Light.” Brighten up your Shabbos by listening here:

Listen on Spotify

5. Jewish book clubs

I just joined a Jewish history book club that I found on Whatsapp! Voting for the next read included topics like Abraham and the Jews, Jewish pirates of the Caribbean, and Jews during the psychedelic movement. I’m grateful for book clubs with substance, particularly if they’re Jewish, and all the topics one could cover in them.

Which is the perfect segue to invite YOU to join The Shabbat Drop Virtual Book Club! Our next meeting is on Sunday, January 12th. We’ll be discussing Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew by Emmanuel Acho & Noa Tishby. Register here and get uncomfortable!

✍️ Shabbat Prompt: What Jewish things (or people!) are you grateful for? Feel free to share in the comments!

Good Shabbos. Grateful for you,

Mimouna, Moufletta, and Misconceptions

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 22 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 22, 2024.

Happy Mizrahi Heritage month from THAT Jewish blogger who, on the first Friday of November, posted about the Ashkenazi tradition of cemetery measuring. Oops.

Don’t cancel me yet, because I reached out to my friend Leigh, who I met on our JDC Entwine trip to Estonia, to interview her about her Sephardic heritage.

Sephardic I say? Yes. You see, I incorrectly assumed she’s Mizrahi because her family is from a North African country. But Leigh put me in my place, and by that I mean she kindly explained it’s possible her ancestors were expelled from Spain during the Inquisition, so she identifies as Sephardic.

Mizrahi, Sephardic… hey, as long as I highlight something not Ashkenazi in this interview, I’m satisfied. There’s so many beautiful types of Judaism to celebrate. Enjoy, and I hope you learn something like I did. Don’t miss the Mizrahi playlist after the interview! 🎵

What’s your family’s background and history?

I was born here in Los Angeles to two Israeli parents, so I’ve always had dual citizenship with Israel. My family in Israel is Moroccan—my mom was born in Casablanca and she lived there until she was about five when she, her parents, and her younger brother moved to Tel Aviv. So the rest of my family was born in Israel but still strongly identifies as Moroccan Israeli. There’s a very strong ethnic subculture in Israel of the Moroccan Israelis. That’s something my family has always carried with them their whole lives.

It’s interesting because my entire family has married non-Moroccans (my mom is the oldest of seven siblings), but if you ask any of them or their children what they are, they’ll unanimously say Moroccan even though they married Turkish, Yemenite, Polish. Everyone says they’re Moroccan. That gene is quite strong in our family.

Why did your mom’s family leave Morocco? What it unsafe for Jews?

When my grandparents were alive we used to ask them this question. They said there was a time when it was actually really great to be a Jew in Morocco under the king. But things came out afterwards from other members of my family when it seemed like Jews were starting to get pushed out. My family eventually split into thirds: one third went straight to Canada, another third went to France, and another third went to Israel.

When my grandmother was older and struggling with dementia, she would have these flashbacks of being under attack and it sounded like she was scared of people knocking on the door or scared of someone coming to get her because she was Jewish. She never talked about this when she was alive. She didn’t say she ever experienced any of that in Morocco, but it sounded like there was some underlying trauma.

How do you balance your Moroccan heritage with your Israeli identity?

Growing up, I would spend every single summer going to Israel. My sister and I were raised as dual US-Israeli citizens with Hebrew as our first language. Being Israeli was the number one thing about our identity. When people ask if we’re Jewish, I say, “I’m Israeli.” That’s the type of Jew that I am. It’s not like reform or conservative, even though in theory I am a reform Jew. I’m just…Israeli.

I always assumed that everyone in Israel had the same type of identity as I did and used the same type of slang words. It wasn’t until I was an adult living there in grad school that I realized my grandparents had a very thick Moroccan accent that was different from the way other people’s grandparents spoke Hebrew, and that a lot of the phrases that I would casually toss around were Moroccan street slang.

When I was older, I also realized the differences in immigration between Ashkenazi and Sephardic immigrants. When my mom’s family moved to Israel, they were put in a south Tel Aviv neighborhood along with other North Africans and Persians. The whole neighborhood was full of Sephardic and Mizrahi immigrants. Hearing the stories from my mom about the neighborhood, its classism, and how they were treated, I don’t think it’s something I fully understood until I was older.

What’s your take on Ashkenormativity?

I think it’s a particularly American Jewish experience. I went to Jewish day school here in LA from preschool up until college, so I was always surrounded by a lot of Persians and Israelis. But a lot of people go to Jewish summer camp, which tend to be more Ashkenormative. There’s a lot of Ashkenazi takes on prayers, for example. It wasn’t until I went to USC that I met non-Jews who would be like, “I love Jews, there’s a deli by my house with good bagels.” But I don’t think I set foot into a deli until I dated an Ashkenazi guy. I love bagels, but lox is not something I’ve ever eaten or wanted to eat because it’s not something I grew up with. When my mom moved to the US, she learned how to make matzo ball soup because it was something kids talked about at school. My grandpa was like, “Why would you do that? We have our own food and culture.” It was a joke but also kind of real. She had gone her whole life without eating matzo ball soup.

My biggest qualm is probably the cultural perception to non-Jews. We should celebrate all the different traditions, especially here in the US, where we have such a massive population of Ashkenazi Jews who came in waves before and after the Holocaust. But the more recent waves in the last few decades have been Jews from other countries like Iran and Israel. I feel that’s not being accurately represented especially well in film or TV. I think when people think of Jewish TV, they think of shows like The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, which I love so much, but I would also love it if they thought of Fauda. A show that did it well was Wet Hot American Summer, when they had the Israeli camp counselor character. The mannerisms were spot on and it was hysterical.

I wish people who weren’t Jewish knew about Jewish culture that wasn’t just Ashkenazi, because I feel that feeds into the perception that all Jews come from Europe. I’m always astonished when I tell people I’m a Moroccan Jew, and they’re like, “What do you mean? You’re Jewish but Moroccan but also Israeli?” People can’t comprehend there were Jews in these countries for a long time. That’s really my passion project, showing people that other types of Judaism exist and can be celebrated as well.

“I wish people who weren’t Jewish knew about Jewish culture that wasn’t just Ashkenazi, because I feel that feeds into the perception that all Jews come from Europe.”

What are some traditions in your family that you’re proud of?

Some of my favorite ones have to do with festive occasions, like the henna parties before a wedding. It’s really beautiful and is my favorite wedding tradition. The bride and the groom wear traditional outfits. As a child, my sister and I would get dressed up for family weddings in these elaborate, gold-woven kaftans. It’s a gorgeous way to celebrate the wedding before the wedding, and I think the henna parties can sometimes be more fun than the wedding itself. They’re loose, loud, and fun.

Source: Hey Alma

The food in our tradition is unparalleled—they train us to eat spicy peppers since we’re two years old. Food plays a role in the festivities. There’s the Mimouna, the breaking of the Passover fast. That’s another tradition that has endured. My grandma would prep a week in advance and make these elaborate pastel sugar cookies shaped into little fruits out of marzipan. The traditional thing to have is a moufletta, a thin, sweet filled with honey or jam, and you roll them in stacks. My family has a moufletta-making party anywhere in the world, whether we’re on vacation or separated, we all send pictures making them together.

There’s also sfinge, Moroccan doughnuts, which are more for Chanukah but we’ll sometimes make them for the Passover festivities. They’re puffy, light, and golden doughnuts that you can fill with jelly. It’s a lot of fried foods! We also dress up for Mimouna and it feels celebratory. The fact that these traditions have endured history and movement, whether it’s to France, or Israel, or the US, is special.

Don’t these sfinge look amazing?! I can’t wait for Leigh’s invite for Passover חחח

Is there anything else you want readers to know?

There’s something that separates you culturally in a way that people don’t necessarily understand. Culturally, there’s something beautiful about meeting another Moroccan or another North African Jew. There’s a sense of familiarity in the way that they might describe their Tunisian or Yemenite grandma. They could be describing my Moroccan grandma, in the mannerisms and the way they describe their childhood—it probably sounds just what it was like to live and survive in a predominantly Muslim country. They have a real lasting impact on their descendants today in a way that you wouldn’t think about too often.

Got any fun Shabbat plans this week?

I joined a Jewish Federation networking group called the Community Leadership Institute that meets monthly. It’s been a beautiful community for me since the war. It’s a cohort of Jewish individuals between the ages of 30-40 who are looking to advance their own careers, and who find community and comfort through the group. It’s not on Shabbat this week, but feels like Shabbat for me.

Shabbat Shalom! May you experience a culture different from your own,

P.S. Hillel made a bangin’ playlist for Mizrahi Heritage Month. Check it out here:

Listen on Spotify

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A Rare Look Inside a Prison Synagogue

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 15 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 15, 2024.

Shalom,

Last weekend, I went to Philadelphia for the first time since high school and had a bell of a time. 🔔

Of course I visited all the touristy sights: the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Zahav, or rather, pining after it since I couldn’t get a reservation ahead of time, etc.

I didn’t expect to see or do anything Jewish over the weekend, even though I desperately wanted to for Shabbat after last week’s ‘Jew hunt’ in Amsterdam. And admittedly, the Jewish history museum wasn’t high on my tourist bucket list, not when Benjamin Franklin’s house was calling my name.

But you know what they say… woman plans [to avoid Jewish plans] and G-d says, “Not today, sister.”

Because while on an audio tour of Eastern State Penitentiary, America’s first system of penitence via solitary confinement, led by actor Steve Buscemi himself (did you know it’s pronounced Bu-SEM-ee?!), I found G-d. Rather, I found a room in which to pray to G-d. A synagogue. I found a synagogue at a penitentiary!

Background

Eastern State was built in 1829 as the first of its kind: a prison designed around the radical idea of penitence. Instead of punishment, prisoners were kept in solitary confinement to encourage reflection and remorse in what was known as the "Pennsylvania System" or "separate system," where prisoners were kept in silence and in solitary confinement as a form of rehabilitation, as opposed to the “New York System” adopted at Sing Sing, where silent labor took the place of solitary.

Spoiler alert: solitary confinement didn’t work, as it was deemed harsh and had led to serious psychological effects on inmates. Starting in the 1870s, the penitentiary transitioned away from this system and by the turn of the century was more of a congregate system where prisoners could interact with each other.

Which brings us to…

The Synagogue

Tucked away in Cell Block 7 (anyone else want to belt out Chicago? Wrong city, I know, but that tango is catchy!) is a tiny synagogue with faded doors. I stumbled upon it while looking for Al Capone’s luxurious cell (Cicero, Lipschitz! 🎶 Okay, now the musical is appropriate).

Me outside the synagogue with Steve Buscemi whispering sweet nothings into my ears

I was amazed to learn that while there was no chapel or sanctuary built for inmates (multi-purpose rooms were used for this function), a synagogue was built for Jewish inmates in 1924.

But let’s back up; the congregation wasn’t built in a day!

Before there was a synagogue in the penitentiary, Jewish leaders in Philadelphia were concerned Jewish inmates would be pressured to convert to other faiths. Clergymen would visit inmates in their cells, with the first recorded visit by a Jewish clergyman in 1845.

In 1917, the first Shabbat services were held using a Torah ark built by inmates. Philadelphia leaders wanted to support Jewish inmates in the prison, and B’nai B’rith formed a Prison Aid Committee. That following year, the prison saw a Jewish chaplain and later received matzah for Passover Seders.

Going a tad out of order here! Passover Seder in the synagogue, 1965

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Philanthropists saw the need for a Jewish congregation and figured services and community would help acclimate them to post-prison life. In 1924, there were thirty Jewish inmates out of 1,398 inmates. The synagogue was built that year, the first of its kind in U.S. history.

By 1927, there were 42 Jews, an increase of nearly 50% in three years. The Jewish population and prison population were rapidly growing, along with Jews involved in organized crime, like Max “Boo Boo” Hoff, who recruited other Jews into organized crime activity like counterfeiting and gambling. He visited Al Capone while he was incarcerated at Eastern State in 1929.

Inside the Synagogue

The original door to the synagogue. You can see the faded stars that fell off.

The synagogue, a small room which was used from 1924-1970 and then renovated in 2009, had all the familiar fixin’s: a Torah ark, a ner tamid, a reading table, a ceiling adorned with a gold Star of David, and benches lining the walls.

The shul, then and now: how it was found vs. how it was renovated to its original state.

It was discovered in the early 2000s in disrepair by severe weather damage, as you can see in the photos. There was a room in the back that served as a kosher kitchen.

The kosher kitchen left how it was found in the early 2000s - I wouldn’t want my food prepped in this kitchen now!

Lastly, a small exhibit on Jewish life in the prison covered a lot of the information and history I just described. It concluded with the opportunity for visitors to submit their own mitzvah, offering a beacon of light amidst the shadow of a decayed prison.

My cousin entering the exhibit on Jewish life in the prison!

In fact, the entire glimpse into Jewish life at the prison felt like a beacon of light. Prisons are inherently dark places, and Eastern State, with its bleak history, is no exception. Today, the U.S. prison system itself has one of the highest rates of incarceration in the world, imprisoning between 500 and 600 people for every 100,000 citizens. Its policies disproportionately impact Black Americans, who are incarcerated in state prisons at nearly five times the rate of white Americans. This stark disparity highlights the need for prison reform.

✍️Shabbat Prompt

What’s a good deed or act of kindness you’ve done this week? If you haven’t done one, what’s one you’d like to do? Try to do it this weekend or before Shabbat!

Shabbat Shalom,

🥳 Happy 2nd Shabbat Dropiversary

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 08 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 8, 2024.

Announcements (Droplets?)

📖 Book club is BACK! Join us on Sunday, January 12th on Zoom to discuss Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew by Emmanuel Acho & Noa Tishby. Register here and get uncomfortable! (Psstt - if only New Yorkers RSVP, we’ll have it in person!)

🖋️ New Yorkers: Our friends at Harlem Moishe House are hosting an Arabic and Hebrew calligraphy workshop on Thursday, November 14th. Explore art x Sephardic heritage!

It’s Friday. We made it. Let out a deep sigh.

I drafted this post a month ago and kept putting off publishing it. Let me tell you why.

October 6th was this lil’ blog’s birthday. I normally would have posted an anniversary post a month ago, but refrained for obvious and solemn reasons (here’s what I posted that week instead).

This has been another solemn week to those who stand for democracy and liberalism, which is about half of American voters, and 80% of American Jews.

For that reason, I thought of postponing this post again. But I decided to not let this week’s news get in the way of celebrating Jewish writing and the sharing of Jewish ideas. There’s always something worth celebrating, and the world doesn’t stop turning. The Drops keep on droppin’.

Then, last night in Amsterdam about a hundred Israelis were attacked by rioters outside a Maccabi soccer game. As I struggled to fall asleep after hearing this news, upset by the state of the world, I thought, “Oh no, now I really can’t post a celebratory/happy post tomorrow.”

But then I changed my mind, and here’s why:

On October 7th, I came across a statement that really struck me: as Jews, we can't return to who we were on October 6th; we can only move forward. That statement resonated deeply, not only because October 6th was the day before Black Shabbat, but also because it marks the day I began this project which connects me to my Judaism and with other Jews. I’m determined to not let that moment—or any dark moment—define or diminish Jewish joy. You can’t reschedule joy!

… not to mention the fact that I didn’t have a back-up topic for this week.

A big thank you

A wise person once told me to not focus on numbers and metrics (as if I can help it; I’m in marketing). However, another wise person told me to share my achievements of which I’m proud. Thank goodness I have so many wise people in my life to contradict each another.

If you’re still with me here, thank you for reading. You’re part of a two-year journey of storytelling—my own stories and those of others. You’re part of a community—which I can now say has grown to over 500 readers! 🎉—made up of both Jews and non-Jews, spanning 33 states and 23 countries (I see you, Nigeria!).

Our annual Shavuot picnic in the park with The Cheese Guy!

I don’t know who you are. Maybe you’re here to learn, or to get a little connection to Judaism before Shabbat. Maybe you’re my parents and have to read this. Maybe your inbox is lonely on Fridays. Either way, I’m so grateful!

Here’s a look at the top posts from the past year:

Shabbat Shalom. Here’s to many more Fridays together,

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Cemetery Measuring Women of Ashkenaz

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 1, 2024.

Welcome back to the Drop!

I hope you had a meaningful, celebratory High Holiday season. Personally, I got a lot of lulav shakes in, which was a first for me!

Note: Jewish Virtual Book Club has now moved to Sunday, January 12 at 10:30am ET to discuss Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew by Emmanuel Acho & Noa Tishby. Register here.

In honor of a different holiday that occurred this week, this week’s Drop is kind of ~witchy~.

I know Halloween isn’t very Jewish; in fact, its pagan origins contrast with Jewish values and practices. However, I grew up in capitalist America and love dressing up, so I happen to “celebrate” October 31st! Bring on the mini Snickers and Twizzlers!

Which brings us to… cemetery measuring. Sound spooky, doesn’t it? It’s actually quite meaningful, if not witchy.

I wrote about this a little back in my first Shavuot debrief, but realized people still don’t know what the heck I’m blabbering on about when I mention the cemetery measuring women. The world needs to know about this interesting, forgotten Jewish practice!

During tough personal times like an illness in the family, Ashkenazi women used to visit cemeteries and measure gravesites of loved ones or entire cemeteries, depending on the severity of the issue, with a string. They would do this to call on their deceased loved ones for help, kind of like a Jewish Ouija board.

They would also measure gravesites during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and try to connect to the dead. The practices dates back to the 12th century, and was widely popular during the 19th and 20th centuries. The women who did this were paid professionalsknown in Yiddish asfeldmesterins (cemetery measurers).

Source: S. Weissenberg, Neue Folge, (1906), pp.39-45

But, Miranda, what would they do with the piece of string?

They didn’t dangle the piece of string in front of people to hypnotize them. Nor did they create spiderweb decorations with the string for their local synagogues.

They used the string to tie knots for their husbands’ tzitziyot. Sike, that’s also a lie. I had you though, right?

Here’s the truth: they would make a candle by using the string as a wick. These candles, called neshome likht (soul candles) were often gifted to the local synagogue or used in rituals as yahrzeit candles or for Yizkor on Yom Kippur. Occasionally, they would light them for protection against evil spirits.

They would also cut the strings into smaller pieces and wear them around the wrists or ankles as protective jewelry.

An old Jewish cemetery in Krakow, Poland

How to measure a grave

Take a ball of thread or pre-waxed candlewick, and place one end on the ground at the top right-hand corner of the grave.
Unravel it around the grave and cut the thread when it meets the starting point.
Recite a personal prayer while measuring the grave, speaking to the deceased and calling on them for help with your personal matter and thanking them for their spiritual guidance.

Source: www.pullingatthreads.com

There you have it, the basics of Ashkenazi cemetery measuring women. Try it out for yourself! What late family member would you try to connect with? I have my dead cats’ ashes in my apartment - I could measure the boxes and make Shabbos candles out of the string!

A lot of my research came from researcher and historian Annie Gottfried Cohen’s website, Pulling at Threads. Check out her work on this topic there!

Shabbat Shalom and stay out of trouble,

Additional resources

Making Soul Candles: An Ashkenazi Jewish Ancestral Folk Tradition

Songs and prayers for cemetery measuring (and what we can learn from them)

A soul candles ritual guide for purchase

My Keffiyeh Karen Confession

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 11 Oct 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 11, 2024.

I don’t know about you, but it’s been challenging for me to get into a spiritual mindset this High Holiday season.

Could it be I’ve been focused on other aspects of my life? Or that I’ve been carrying the weight of the 10/7 anniversary and can’t focus on anything else? That could be it since my Hamas nightmares have returned.

Even my diet hasn’t been spiritual; on Monday, I had onion rings and a doughnut for dinner. No regrets. Then again, what is a spiritual meal? Challah and… vegetables? No thanks.

In checking in with myself in preparation for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, which starts this evening, I’ve noticed anger has been coming up a lot for me lately. Anger at misinformation, assumptions, and blind hatred. Which is obviously a healthy way to fall into a pit of negativity and blind hatred myself!

Take this story, for example:

Last Shabbat, I saw someone at shul was wearing a keffiyeh, the traditional Middle Eastern headscarf that has come to symbolize Palestinian nationalism. The sight of it immediately made me tense and uncomfortable. It wouldn’t have bothered me as much if this person wore a button that said “Free Palestine.” I’m all for a liberated Palestine if it comes with peace and security. But in my experience, the keffiyeh has become tied to antisemitic riots and hateful, terrorist-linked slogans like “bring the war home,” making it hard for me to separate the symbol from the violence and hostility I've witnessed.

So you can imagine my level of anger when this person touched our beloved Torah scroll with it like it was a tallis.

My oh-so optimistic friend sitting next to me pointed this out and said, “Isn’t it nice Jews with all different opinions can come together to pray?”

Of course it was. Jews coming together - what could be so bad about that? I smiled at that and exhaled all the tension out of me and went back to focusing on prayer.

But my inner peace didn’t last long, for when the leader made an announcement about their 10/7 commemoration event, I saw Keffiyeh Karen exchange looks with her friend like it was some sort of joke, an event she possibly couldn’t imagine attending. Goodbye, my optimistic friend’s words that once soothed me. Welcome back, anger.

I know it was wrong of me to hold onto anger for another Jew, to let my emotions get the best of me while being so easily affected by another’s actions. Especially because the keffiyeh and the sudra, the ancient Jewish headscarf, probably share the same origin.

And maybe that anger, that baseless hatred, is my confession this year. That and stealing a wineglass from my friend’s wedding last month. Hey, it was a dreamy teal glass goblet! You would have stolen it too!

Although… I’m flipping the script on Yom Kippur this year and not calling it a “confession.” It’s human to feel this amount of anger towards another Jew. In fact, and unfortunately, it’s pretty en vogue. And it’s unrealistic to flip a switch and rid yourself of an emotion as I just tried to in my synagogue story.

Having said that, I want to feel it less. But how?

This week, I had the honor of hearing from Nova survivors in person. They told their incredible stories of avoiding bullets and hiding out from terrorists until they could flee for their lives to safety.

They ended with the same kind of message: that it’s easy to be angry, to want to punch someone for their beliefs or something they’ve said, but that’s not who Jews are. We are the light. We need to embody that light, and continue to love and be Jewish.

Yarin, the DJ at Nova on October 7, 2023, shares his story at Temple Emanuel’s Streicker Center

It reminds me of another survivor I heard from on Monday, a former hostage in Gaza. When handed an apple to eat in her captivity, she first gave a piece to a young Gazan girl before eating the fruit herself (and recited the Hebrew blessing over it!). She was able to find humanity in the worst of circumstances.

These amazing stories made me realize that while I’m not quite ready to let go of my anger and this heaviness sitting on my shoulders, maybe there’s something I can do to minimize it at least by a fraction, like meditate, give tzedakah, and focus inward on prayer and other ways I can be the light.

… or I can get a massage at this Jewish-owned spa in Brooklyn that was vandalized on 10/7 for supporting Zionism aka raising awareness of the hostages, something any decent human would do. If you enjoy this blog, hook your girl up with a massage! ;)

During a recent Jewish meditation, I learned that instead of focusing solely on sins while striking your chest during the Vidui confessional prayer, you can think of it as a gentle knock on your heart, a way to check in with yourself.

I was so moved by the idea that I wrote a 100-word story about that concept, a practice I’ve been exploring in my creative writing. Here it is:

I stand before the towering front door to a place I seldom visit, fingers curled into a trembling fist. With a sharp inhale, my knuckles—and heart—knock for ten beats, waking the resident who sleeps inside. I give them a moment to collect themselves. It’s been a year, after all. The door reveals a time-worn woman wrapped in a white shawl, ready to receive confession of sin and blemish. Instead, I cross the threshold into her open arms, not to confront, but to love her and be loved in return. My soul and I weep in embrace, ready to begin again.

G’mar chatima tovah. May we all be sealed in the book of life!

Shabbat Shalom,

P.S. I’ll be taking the next couple of weeks off for the holidays to rest and work on my anger. I hope you take a break too. :)

💦 Similar Drops

How are you holding up?

Miranda Lapides — Mon, 07 Oct 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on October 7, 2024.

🕯 This Drop is dedicated to the following: Hersh Goldberg-Polin Z"L, Eden Yerushalmi Z"L, Carmel Gat Z"L, Almog Sarusi Z"L, Alex Lubnov Z"L, Ori Danino Z"L, Eden Alon Levy Z"L, every single Jew or friend of the Jews who has lost their life on or since Oct 7, all of our holy neshamot that we lost, reservists and families of fallen, all the antisemitic friends dropped like hot potatoes this year (bye bye), David Meir Z”L, Deborah and Shlomo Mathias Z”L, and all innocent lives lost in this war.

Thank you to those who submitted names to keep them in our hearts. Except for the antisemitic friends. Bye, bye. 👋

Shanah tovah, although the past year has been more bitter than sweet. I can’t believe it’s been a year since the most devastating day in Jewish history during my lifetime. I remember waking up to a text from a non-Jewish friend that morning, which read, “I’m thinking of you with what’s going on in Israel” and I immediately thought, “Oh no. What happened?”

I was at home with my parents glued to the TV and internet. I remember naïvely thinking, “Now the world will see why Israel needs to defend herself. The world will finally wake up.” How wrong I was.

A year later I wonder, “How are we still here? How are our loved ones still in Gaza? How is it getting worse? When will it get better?”

In times like this, I return to this comforting poem:

I asked you about what the past year has been like. Thanks to everyone who submitted - your voice is so important. This post I wrote right after October 7th said you are not alone. Your answers still prove that. Here they are.

10/7 made into the Hebrew word “yizkor,” meaning “remember.” Artist unknown.

It's been a year since October 7th, 2023. How are you holding up? What has your year been like? How has your Judaism changed or stayed the same in the past year?

“It's been a wild year with a lot of change. I've left several Jewish communities that didn't have the backbone to assert that Israel is a key factor for our Jewish identity, I joined a Modern Orthodox synagogue and rebooted a monthly minyan. My politics and entire worldview has changed. I'm no longer Left or Liberal, more of a Moderate Centrist still dedicated to tikkun olam, but in a less dogmatic way and with new allies -- and foes.”

“Went through anger, deep sorrow, lack of hope, pride in my Judaism, ashamed and bitterly disappointed in so many young people, escalated danger of social media. Profound sense of Zionism, anger that expresses destructive thoughts toward evil doers that would astound. Feel like I live in a bubble where people didn’t talk about it and now it’s as of it didn’t happen? Yet to me it is so central. Not afraid for myself but saw fear in Jewish college students and trauma resurface for someone who lived through the holocaust. Saw fear and caution in my daughters eyes once when walking down the city street singing Shabbat shalom - that really cut me to the core.”

“Ever more aware of my jewishness… more proud of it.”

“I did not think that a year later there would still be hostages held. That may be naive, but I don’t understand why there is not more urgency or more attention from the international community about the hostages. Then again, I have spent this year learning (reading books, not watching tiktoks) about Israel’s history (and about Jewish history - shoutout to Dara Horn, Noa Tishby and Dan Senor to name a few) and I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise that there is more outrage directed at Israel than at the terrorist organizations attacking Israel. This year has been (to name a few) devastating, frustrating, revealing, and hopeful. Hopeful because I have also gotten closer to my Judaism (it was the first year I attended Tisha B’Av services and fasted, which I was inspired to do so by the Shabbat Drop post!) and closer to the Jewish community (in person and online). That, the Jewish community and the resilience and faith demonstrated by the Jewish people from the beginning, is what makes me hopeful. Every day I think about the hostages and every day I think about the strength that their families have to keep on fighting to bring them home. I am told that showing up to the weekly marches with the Hostages and Missing Families Forum gives the families strength, but the families give ME strength.”

“I never really had a connection to Israel like you're SUPPOSED TO have as a Jew, like how you're taught in Hebrew school about all the reasons why Israel is amazing and all the reasons to love it. I felt it was important and valuable but never had that close of a tie to it. We returned home from Israel the Tuesday before the attacks happened and it was then that I fully understood personally how valuable it is.”

“Our family is doing well. We have always joked about being Jew-ish (i.e. pretty light on our observations) but after Oct. 7th we decided to take weekly shabbat seriously as a family event. We used to all observe separately but now we get together each week, rotating who hosts, to enjoy a big dinner, conversation, and screen free decompression time together. It has been the most wonderful action we have ever taken and we feel closer and more vibrant!”

“I retired to Mexico and stopped wearing any jewelry at all, except for my nose ring. On October 7th, I fastened my Star of David around my neck permanently, but then I realized that I would be safer visiting France and Spain in July without it. 😔”

“My Israeli ex-fiance developed anger issues as a result of the stress from 10/7 and impulsively dumped me, so 10/7 has indirectly resulted in me losing the love of my life and my housing, since we were living together. I have also distanced myself from a now-former close friend who decided that pro-Palestinian activism is the cause du jour, shifting all their attention first from BLM to LGBTQ rights, then to reproductive justice, and now to what’s going on in Gaza. I spend more time with Jewish friends these days and fully observe Shabbat a lot more frequently than I used to, and I’ve gotten into hosting Shabbat myself.”

“Not well... I feel a combination of immense anxiety, loneliness, PTSD and depression. I'm agnostic so my relationship with Judaism hasn't changed, but I've gotten much more involved in the Jewish community.”

“This past year in particularly with the leadup to Eurovision felt like being punched in the stomach, but having the pain constantly stay rather than go away.

A year ago I was someone who spent a lot of time in many hobby spheres, but sadly a lot of that changed due the normalization of anti-Semitism. I stopped going to events near NYU because someone on the street was shouting Jew hatred filled rants at me. I wouldn't dare go near Columbia U, NYU or the New School until the summer, and when I went to Blue Stripes (an Israeli-owned coffee shop across from the New School), I was even afraid of a provocation. There was also someone who tried to provoke me into a fight at the Greek Jewish Festival this year who got rushed away by the (increased) security.

Lists of artists piled up across the world who held Israel to a double standard and who trafficked in the same lies peddled by the Soviet Union in the 1960s in the aftermath of the six-day war. Too many of them thought about the Shoah as if it were a Marvel movie, seeing the Nazis and their collaborators as "aliens from outer space" (as the author Uwe von Seltmann, a Austrian gentile Yiddishist whose journey was spurred by the fact that his grandfather helped liquidate the Warsaw Ghetto, put it so eloquently as a problem).

When I was in Krakow (2011-2012) for my first job out of college, I read a whole lot of memoirs from Holocaust survivors, not also to mention those who were forced out of Poland after the anti-Semitic campaigns of 1968 after the six-day war (the Communist Party threw Jews out of their ranks and raged a full-scale campaign against them, using the exact same rhetoric that is all too familiar to many of us, the rest of the countries within the Soviet sphere of influence used very similar tactic). I constantly was thinking back to a lot of what I had read, especially SS officers telling Jews that they "deserved it" because they brought calamity on "German children" as a result of the Treaty of Versailles.

I stopped going to dance events altogether and I dropped a good deal of hobbies, some companies failed to denounce prominent anti-Semites within their ranks well enough, not also to mention I felt that I would avoid watching certain TV shows entirely because of a singular actor who held anti-Semitic beliefs.

To make up for the new holes in my social life I attended Jewish music festivals (Sababafest and the Gathering), got more involved with Manhattan Jewish Experience and my own Crown Heights neighborhood.

As a polyglot I decided to practice my languages using almost exclusively content from Jewish creators or those whom they associated with positively (in the Nordic countries in particular this turned out to be a godsend), one such Jewish creator who I won't name seemed to have been very "redpilled" as a result of similar experiences to mine and now voices support for the most far-right wing viable country in his country and even hosted its party leader on his program. Even though I have disagreements with that movement I'd prefer that to the auspices of ‘watermelon club.’”

“I'm like the latkes I made last Hanukkah - falling apart but proud of who I am. I've gotten more Jewish so to speak.”

“Stressed. All the time. I have always been affiliated but I feel a stronger bond to my fellow Jews because we are all facing the scourge of antisemitism and we are stronger fighting it together. I’ve also become more tolerant of Jewish Trump supporters 😁”

“My connection to Judaism has deepened. As the world outside grows more hostile, I’ve come to realize how vital it is to seek strength and solidarity within our community. When I moved to New York last September, I wasn’t prepared for the shock of October 7th—it was a harsh awakening. Fortunately, the Jewish community at Columbia, especially the Chabad, became a refuge from the rising wave of antisemitism, offering a space to strengthen my religious ties and engage in more mitzvot. Though I’ve always been proud of my Zionism and Jewish identity, this year, that pride has become even more central to who I am.”

“Everything sucks! I've done more, like lighting shabbat candles (which I've never really done). I've studied more, but also there are just more avenues and classes to do so. I've also become an accidental activist - never thought I'd do the things I'm doing. (I hear from other people I'm brave.... I'm just doing what I feel I need to, to get through the days).”

“I continue to believe that peace is impossible between Palestine and Israel. It gets harder to defend Israel every time they commit another atrocity. I personally have little connection to Judaism apart from my family so that has remained unchanged.”

“Barely. Worst year in my life so far. Same.”

“It’s been traumatic and eye opening and I have a magnetic pull to my Judaism as never before.”

“So much changed…complete connection to strangers - war moms/widows/displaced etc. which was a spiritual experience. And through so much change, Shabbat came every week to heal our broken hearts and give us strength for the next week.”

“As a proud zionist who made Aliyah about 3 years ago and serving as an officer the last year has made me million times more proud to be a Jew.”

“It's been very up and down. Emotional, as expected. It's brought me so much closer to my Judaism and wanting to feel connected. I live somewhere with a small Jewish community so we've felt even more alone. That connection has been much more important, vital to my wellbeing I'd say.”

“Very hard, but remembering why I came to live in Israel.”

“At first, like everyone else, I was disturbed, sad, scared, and stressed, and was especially sensitive and reactive to the anti-Israel protests that started on October 8th. It felt like the whole world was against Israel. Some days, it still feels like that. It took many months of digging myself out that mental hole (getting off social media helped!) to realize those radical ‘pro-Palestinians’ (in quotes because they're not really for Palestinians; if they were, they would actually focus on what Palestinians need to thrive and live in peace, like a functioning government that doesn't martyr its civilians, a better economy, to give up the right of return dream and accept peace deals with Israel after saying no so many times) are fringe and a majority of people support Israel in its just war against an evil regime and its proxies. October 7th has affirmed for me that anti-Zionism is antisemitism... that, or people just don't know what they're talking about. I hope its the latter.

Now that I've seen the light and am able to look at these antisemitic jerks with pity or at least ignore them (I've stopped taking anyone who decries 'genocide' seriously because I realize they lack nuance and shut down any any real conversation), I put my focus elsewhere: on continuing to educate myself, having conversations with people, maintaining my Jewishness, being with community, and praying for peace. But I can’t believe we’re still here. It’s been a year and almost 100 hostages are still in Gaza.”

“Been volunteering a few times every week. Have built a much deeper connection with prayer.”

“Every day feels different. Some days I’m feeling really strong while others, I want to crawl into a hole and hide. I feel more connected to Judaism and realized my true love for Israel and the Jewish people. I am now more aware of antisemitic tropes, microaggressions or examples in my day to day life.”

“It’s been a rough year to be an Israeli American—a lot of people have let me down. That being said, I also found that when I was vocal about the difficulties of being Jewish/Israeli during this time, many people surprised me with their care and consideration, even strangers. I’ve started to wear a Magen David everywhere I’ve gone, and I’ve been encouraged by all of the people, Jewish or not, who have commented on it.”

“I'm empowered by the support of my fellow Jews yet have felt isolated by the world at large. It feels like the year has been a bad dream we are all waiting to wake up from.”

“This year has been rough. Full of fear, disappointment, sadness and community. While my Judaism hasn't changed, my reality of anti-semitism has. I was hopefully naive before, and now I feel hopeless in ever eradicating it for good (sure it may get better, but not gone and not soon).”

“If there is one good thing for myself that has come out of the nightmare of this year, it’s that rather than wallowing in feelings of isolation, sadness, and anger, I’ve worked hard to find a community of wonderful Jewish friends. I’m not sure that had 10/7 never happened and I wasn’t witnessing such horrible antisemitism online, at work, and around my neighborhood, if I would have had the same motivation to build these friendships. Making friends as an adult is hard!”

“I am not practicing, by orthodox halacha I'm not a Jew/ would need to convert (dad side). Feeling fully accepted by community has always been a challenge but I'm on the journey. The way I reacted upon hearing the news of the massacre was... an actual rip through the chest, deep, bight, I saw it and then I held them, shema came out. I didn't grow up with any religious instruction and it wasn't a conscious prayer, just came out of the intense pain. I am still not practicing, I write about what it means to be Jewish in my journal almost every day and I want to be more outward with my identity. It takes times and rebuilding, but it's always here.”

“It's been tough but I am good. I have grown a lot. My Judaism has evolved a lot. I have grown stronger in spirituality and faith, while becoming less Orthodox. As I grew spiritually, I became more sensitive and aware of how parts of the Orthodox community were not serving my spiritual path and I became more flexible in aspects of halakhic adherence. For example some days I would wake up too tired and emotionally heavy to pray with Tefillin and rather than force myself, I instead would listen to music with spiritual and emotional content. I feel like this year we are living through a chapter of Jewish history and liturgy and don't need as much of the ritual adherence that is meant to bind and remind us of our place in the Jewish story. I have also started writing poetry based on my feelings and insights, weaving the stories of this year, my personal story, and Jewish history and memory.”

“I find myself thinking about the hostages often. I was already quite involved Jewishly and have continued to be. I have been both inspired and disturbed by the reactions within the Jewish community and out in that I think that our shared humanity has been threatened by both Oct. 7 and the consequent war. I think that moments like these are tests for both our particularist and universalist commitments, our values of peoplehood and liberalism, and I hope I’m doing it right.”

Any encouraging words of wisdom/advice/hope for the Jewish people? What has gotten you through this year?

“Finding and building a Jewish community that has the courage to stand for our beliefs has been very inspiring. Make new friends, build community. We're out there.”

“Be proud of who you are and your heritage. Don’t hide it. Find security hope and love in a community.”

“Keep close to friends for mutual support and general wellness.”

“What you can do living in NYC is being a loud and proud wear your stars of David etc. and show your Jewish principles by being a good person.”

“‘Their [the Jewish people] persistence, not to mention their achievements, in the thick of turbulence and trauma is nothing short of miraculous. Every single Jew you meet is a survivor.’ (Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew, p. 229). Friends, family, community, art, and books have gotten me through.”

“They tried to kill us, we survived. Let's celebrate.”

“Family!”

“Reading Shabbat Drop!”

“Zionism should not be seen as a dirty word. It is a liberation movement. We deserve the human right to self-determination just like all other peoples on the planet.”

“I am still struggling to figure this one out! I guess it helps to disconnect once in a while, for your own sanity.”

“Anti-semites throughout history have always found righteous justifications for themselves and they always turn out to be on the wrong side of history no matter what. See: blood libels, racial science, rootless cosmopolitan, and literally the whole of human history.”

“We are an amazing tribe of different backgrounds and lives, yet we all have one connection- being Jewish. Music. And Zionist Discord groups.”

“Every single person needs to do their share to advocate for Israel and the Jewish people. No act is small enough. Sign letters. Like pro-Israel posts. Write your politicians. What helps - attending rallies, spending time with friends, limiting news consumption and setting aside time for activities I enjoy.”

“Community, books (education is key!), and my few non-Jewish friends who have checked in on me who have given me a little bit of hope.”

“We have stood for 2,000 years and we are still here—we are not going anywhere. We have endured far worse, and each time, we have emerged stronger. This too will pass, and when it does, we will rise again, more resilient than ever before.”

“Be true to yourself and your Judaism. I also find that the Torah, ancient stories, traditions, and words of wisdom from our rabbis are so helpful and couldn't be more true. (NEVER thought I'd say this!!!) looking back at ancient stories are helpful to me. Rely on our Jewish friends - old and new. Lean on each other. Open up.”

“I encourage Jews to separate themselves from the violence committed against Palestinians. I personally do not support either side, but there is no doubt of the higher casualties of the Palestinians.”

“We will win. I'm a parent of IDF soldier.”

“A visit to Israel and joining as many awareness events as I can in my home city.”

“Find a mitzva. So many to choose from. Whether you say a sentence of tehillim, bake a challa or whatever it is…our people need us more than ever…and we need them…”

“This year made us realize how many people who pretended to support us turn their back on us however as a nation we united even stronger than before. From every aspect of life people were providing support and to me that speaks volumes.”

“Just know that you aren't alone. I know some of us have felt really isolated and alone, with the world feeling against us. I'm with you.”

“Volunteering.”

“The more you do, the more connected you will feel.”

“Friends and great follows on instagram. It can be very isolating, feeling gaslit by the world around you, not understanding how people who you thought were your ally, doesn’t actually stand with you.”

“Seeking community! It is there for us if we look for it, and well worth the effort.”

“Am yisroel chai. We are a nation and we live, it isn't gd bless the USA or some other national slogan it is a declaration of life for all Jews no matter where you live or how you practice.”

“I hope that we can all find community together rather than divisions. Honestly the biggest hope I found was in Israel, where the people are living their lives as the biggest form of resistance. It is not without hardship and concern for constant rockets, but I find that they are making the most of it and not giving a sh*t what other people think. The brief break from antisemitism and feeling unsafe was incredible. It makes me hopeful that we can feel that way as a community again. Either in Israel or outside of it.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time in the past year thinking of my ancestors. I asked my aunt if she thought this was what our ancestors felt during the rise of the Nazis, or right before pogroms, and she said she didn’t think so. That today, with the internet and social media, we are able to see these things coming, and we can fight back. We’re a small but mighty people. We’ve faced scary times before and we will make it through this.”

“Me give advice or hope, wisdom? No. You are the strongest, most true to yourself people I know. I admire you and draw inspiration from you everyday. Thank you for getting me through this year.”

“I was already deep in a journey of personal and spiritual growth when Oct. 7 hit, and thus I was able to face the challenges, do my part in taking responsibility for the defense of the country, and continue growing. My advice is to focus on personal growth and your own spiritual path in Judaism, and to connect to individual people's stories with sensitivity. Seek out sad stories to connect with empathy, and seek out hopeful and miraculous stories for inspiration. Seek out teachers and community that are right for you.”

“I think this is the return to Jewish history, a history that is long, rich, and enduring.”

Again, thank you so much to everyone who contributed.

Tragedy has a way of waking us up from complacency, forcing us to confront hard truths, and ask ourselves deep questions.

October 7th wasn’t just a tragedy but a moment of Jewish peoplehood. One day, whether it’s our future selves or our grandkids, we will be asked: What did you do in the days/weeks/months after? I hope when you look back, you can say you chose courage, solidarity, Judaism, humanity, and love.

Have a meaningful week,

From Leeks to Likes: Adventures in Jewish Storytelling

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 27 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 27, 2024.

Announcements (Droplets?)

📝 Last chance to fill out this anonymous survey on how October 7th has affected your Judaism and well-being. Please fill it out - I’d like to include as many Jewish voices as possible!

📖 Virtual book club is BACK! Join us on Sunday, November 3rd at 10:30am ET on Zoom to discuss Uncomfortable Conversations with a Jew by Emmanuel Acho & Noa Tishby. Register here.

✊ Sign this petition for Jewish inclusivity in independent bookstores across the country, where you can add bookstores to a database that have made you feel uncomfortable, frustrated, or isolated as a book-loving Zionist who values all perspectives.

Story time! About stories. How meta.

This week, I attended the 2024 Digital Storytellers Lab from the Jewish Writers’ Initiative. This yearlong fellowship gives digital storytellers the opportunity to develop, launch, and grow original media exploring Jewish themes for new media platforms. The fellowship provides funds and mentorship, and ends with a showcase.

We watched trailers for each of the fellow’s final projects, and it was fun to see not only the different types of Jewish stories being told, but also the diverse media used to tell them.

From a personal story about one’s miscarriage to celebrating Sephardic heritage through cooking, the projects spanned formats like podcasts, webcomics, animated videos, and more. Not every project is currently available to the public yet, but there are some below that are.

My favorite was a YouTube series by Alan Niku sharing the Sephardic custom of hitting someone with a green onion during Passover. In the trailer, he’s on a quest to find the biggest green vegetable that will do the most damage at his Seder (leeks!) while interviewing family members. It was a humorous and creative way of educating people about his Iranian Jewish culture and how it’s important to retell the Exodus.

A stock image, but you get the idea

Another creative goodie was a social media episodic, Michèle 1940 by Natacha Ruck, that tells the story of Natacha’s mother, a Jewish fashion icon in France. Since her mother is no longer living, she created a fake Instagram profile to share her story. Here’s the description for it:

If my mother was a teenager now, she’d be an influencer. She was born to Jewish refugees during WW2 in occupied France and she longed to move to Israel. But by the time she was 18, she had to decide between following her dream or use her fashion sense to save her family from bankruptcy. My project is to use archival photos and interviews to recreate her immigrant survivor narrative, on IG, Youtube and Tiktok.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Pale of Settlement by Josh Eiserike, a YA graphic novel. I’m not just giving it a shoutout because it used “Welcome to the Black Parade” by My Chemical Romance in the trailer. It’s Stranger Things meets Fiddler on the Roof. It’s history, adventure, and even romance. Two issues are out right now—send it to a comic book lover!

You may recognize one of the fellows, Miriam Anzovin, from social media for her Daf Reactions. Her project for this fellowship, Jewish Folklore Reactions, entails short-form video explanations and modern retelling of Midrash and folktales. Check out a sample below. I’m not quite following everything she’s talking about, but she looks like she’s having fun!

Watch on YouTube

To learn about all the fellows, click here. Maybe you’ll see me on there one day! Just kidding, this project keeps me plenty busy.

✍️Shabbat Prompt

What’s a Jewish story of your own that you could tell? How would you tell it? (hint: If you want to share it on a Jewish blog, reply to this email hehe)

Shabbat Shalom. May you hear stories that touch your heart, challenge your mind, and inspire your soul,

Miranda's Search for Spirituality

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 20 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 20, 2024.

But first… a question

How did the attacks on October 7th affect you as a Jew? Fill out the anonymous survey here. All answers will be posted the week of 10/7. Thank you 💙

Spirituality has been coming up a lot for me in conversation lately. When I chose the “woo-ey” option for Shabbat at a retreat for Jewish professionals. When I was at a recent barbecue talking about belief in G-d. When I heard from a rabbi chaplain, or as I like to call it, a rabblain, talk about how he works with patients, especially non-Jews, to tap into what spirituality means to them.

This Great Jewish Journey of mine has helped me sculpt my sense of spirituality. I’ve also explored non-Jewish concepts, like having my fortune read and Tarot cards pulled.

So, when my friend recommended that I get a blessing from a famous Kabbalah Rebbe visiting from Israel this week, of course I said yes.

Side note: I always thought a rabbi and a Rebbe were interchangeable (Rebbe is the Yiddish pronunciation of rabbi), but I learned in my research of this guy that a rabbi is more like a teacher, whereas a Rebbe is more like a spiritual guide, and mainly from the Hasidic movement.

Actually, the way my friend phrased it was that the Rebbe can read minds and tell you what your soul needs. Plus, he will make you smile. Since it’s very rare that a man can make me smile, I said game on — how do I meet the Reb?

Silence your beepers and buckle up! It’s story time.

It was a warm, quiet Wednesday evening on the Upper Ease Side. My appointment was in a small synagogue I had never heard of before. Eager and a tad nervous in my long skirt and long-sleeved shirt to cover up my temporary Outlander tattoos, I rang the buzzer, ready for big realizations and hard-hitting truths. Lesson one: never have expectations.

Waiting for the rabbi felt like sitting in a holy DMV: the rows of chairs, the stale smell of food that’s been sitting around, and unhappy-looking people. But I mingled with a nice, secular Israeli man who was also waiting his turn and, as I learned, had been recommended to come here by the same friend.

Then they called my name, and l walked over to the far side of the room, where the Rebbe was seated behind a partition. I approached the Hasidic leader, who was dressed in a fine black robe imprinted gold roses, with a mix of awe and curiosity that could only be described as how Moses must have felt at the sight of the burning bush.

The Rebbe only spoke Yiddish, so his translator sat beside him and asked me questions, mainly about my nine-month-old relationship.

“You are a perfect match!” the translator exclaimed of my partner and me. “But if the two of you don’t get engaged by Hanukkah, he will leave you for another woman.”

Not surprised by this push to get engaged so soon, I laughed and said, “No he won’t.”

Was I allowed to contradict this spiritual leader, a disciple in a long lineage of a holy dynasty? I decided I could once he took out a vape pen and started vaping in front of me.

The translator then asked if I needed help with anything else, not that I ever said I needed help with my relationship. I said I’d like to find myself spiritually. What can I do?

Then the Rebbe, in Yiddish, gave me a laundry list of tasks. Here is what he advised.

Watch videos of Gedale Fenster on YouTube, for they will change my life. I looked him up and he’s a motivational speaker, entrepreneur, author, life coach, and five other titles. I think this video, “Trophy wife or a wife that will help you get the trophy?” will definitely change my life.
Read the books of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov. This famous rabbi combined kabbalistic thought with Torah scholarship, and may have influenced Franz Kafka. I’ve never read his works, but his religious philosophy revolved around closeness to G-d and speaking to G-d in normal conversation "as you would with a best friend,” which is something I can get down with.
Feed the birds. This was when the Rebbe closed his eyes, furrowed his brows, and focused really hard on receiving an answer to what would help me grow spiritually. And that’s what he came up with. Dumbfounded, I looked at his translator and asked, “Like… literal birds?” He said yes. And I say hell no! As someone who recently accidentally kicked a pigeon because it grazed my ankle while feasting near me, I refuse to become a pigeon lady, no matter how spiritually it might elevate me.
Light a candle for the soul of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. I’ve heard of him — he’s a disciple of Rabbi Akiva and was the one who emerged from the cave all spiritual. Lag B’Omer is the anniversary of his death, which I admittedly don’t celebrate. Maybe I’ll try next year; I love a good bonfire!
Eat hot kugel for Shabbat. What a spiritual roller coaster we’re on here. I understand the mitzvah of eating a hot meal on Shabbos, and I like a hot, fluffy potato kugel, don’t get me wrong. But kugel… every Shabbat? Or can I switch it up and have those yummy chicken fingers with the mustard dipping sauce from kiddush? I like those.
Look up at the sky and say “Ein od milvado” (There is none other than G-d) three times. This guy enjoys nature, huh? He had me at “look up at the sky,” but I don’t feel the need to recite this line because I prefer the Shema, which has the same message that I’ve been reciting since Hebrew school and is more positive in language. Also… why say it when I can SING it?! Hit it, Mordechai Shapiro!

Watch on YouTube

Listen to happy Jewish Hasidic music. Clearly, I already have that covered. I find great meaning and peace in this beautiful song. But it’s not my genre, so if you have any recs, send them my way!
Wash your hands before you go to bed and when you rise in the morning. I love the tradition of washing my hands as a way of purifying myself and separating the mundane from the holy, but I’m often in a rush and I lost my beautiful copper hand washing cup! I also haven’t heard of washing your hands before bed. Must be a Kabbalah ritual.

After he went through this list of instructions, his translator handed me a little sticky jar of honey for Rosh Hashanah, and asked to donate $200 a month to the Rebbe’s work with orphans. I said I would give a one-time donation and then they took a picture of my credit card. So besides lighting candles and feeding the birds, I now have to add “keep tabs on my credit card bill” daily.

And that was… it. No mind reading, no real advice given. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but this wasn’t it.

I left feeling slimy. Angry, even. More so with myself than with these rabbis, feeling foolish for believing my life could be changed by simple words from a stranger, like those people who are susceptible to joining a cult. (Too late, I’m already in one, it’s called Judaism!)

As soon as I left, I called my friend to share my experience and feelings, and he said something that calmed me down:

“If you’re willing to try something like this, I have no doubt you will find yourself spiritually.”

It’s true. You don’t know what you like until you try what you don’t like.

Shabbat Shalom. May you find inner peace,

From Manischewitz to Mindfulness: A Jewish Retreat!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 13 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 13, 2024.

10/7 Anniversary Survey

October 7th was a turning point in modern Jewish history. The attack on Israel had a profound impact not just on Israelis, but on the Jewish people globally, and their collective consciousness. I want to know: in the past year, how did you and your relationship with Judaism change? How did you cope? How did you show up for your community? For yourself?

Fill out the anonymous survey here. All answers will be posted the week of 10/7.

Happy Friday (I’m aware that’s a weird segue, but I am happy it’s Friday),

Last week, I spent a beautiful, restorative weekend at a retreat for Jewish professionals held by Adamah at the Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center in Falls Village, Connecticut. The themes were:

Rest and rejuvenation
Jewish learning anchored in Elul and the High Holidays
Wellness, wellbeing, and self-care

It was a nice blend of schmoozing and relaxing with other Jewish professionals, while also creating a safe space to unload and process this past year. While I expected the Jewish learning sessions and the pickling class (if there’s no pickling, can you even call it it a Jewish retreat?!), I didn’t expect to have a transformative Shabbat experience. But we’ll save the best for last ;)

Here are some takeaways from the magical, woodsy weekend.

Our new mishpacha at the beautiful Isabella Freedman Jewish Retreat Center!

1. Manischewitz isn’t always kosher for Passover.

Let’s start with the light stuff. I attended an entertaining talk on kosher wine, and finally learned what makes wine kosher. It’s NOT that it’s been blessed by a rabbi as I usually tell non-Jews when I don’t know the real answer, but has to do with various factors like:

Agricultural considerations: just like wine must be supervised by a Shabbat-observant Jew, so too must the grapes observe Shabbat during the shmita year when harvesting is restricted every seven years.
Equipment: all equipment used in the production of kosher wine, such as crushers, fermenters, and barrels, must be kosher.
Ingredients: some clarifying agents added to wine used to enhance flavor or color include non-kosher ingredients like gelatin (from animal collagen) or products derived from milk, like casein. Fun fact: this is also why some wines are labeled vegan; some wines could contain other non-vegan additives like egg whites and isinglass (from fish bladder). Know before you vino.

Which is the perfect segue to the most surprising fact of all, at least for me who didn’t grow up completely observing Passover and didn’t have to worry about kitniyot: not every bottle of Manischewitz, the quintessential Jewish wine, is kosher for Passover. At some point, Manischewitz started sweetening its wine with corn syrup instead of sugar, which is problematic for Ashkenazi Jews during Passover. Because of this, Manischewitz produces a special Kosher for Passover bottle, which uses cane sugar instead of corn syrup.

Source: Kveller

So next time you prep that charoset, double check the k4p seal of approval! We also learned that we have Prohibition to thank for the prominence of the OU (Orthodox Union), but you’re going to have to read up on that yourself here.

2. Receiving can be just as powerful as giving.

In the spirit of Elul, the classes taught by the scholar-in-residence, Rabbi Shai Held, focused on self-improvement as seen in the Torah: living with compassion, loving your neighbor, and letting the spirit of giving flow through you. The session on giving, in particular, resonated with me the most.

Gift giving is my love language, and let’s just say my loved ones express their love well. I’m blessed! But sometimes when I receive a thoughtful gift, I feel an immediate urge to give back to that person, assessing the last time I gave them a gift. It can feel a little tit for tat in my overthinking Virgo head.

In the class on giving, we discussed the concept of grace, a definition I had never given much thought to before. The scholar described it as giving more than what is earned. A powerful example from the Torah is when G-d created humanity and gifted us life—not out of obligation, but out of chesed, loving-kindness.

How can you repay G-d for such an immense and generous gift? You can’t. The only option is to pay it forward and continue the giving, living a life rooted in chesed. This idea shifted my perspective, because while it’s thoughtful to reciprocate a friend's kindness, it’s even more meaningful to make the world a better place by spreading generosity out to others. It’s like how we emulate the behavior of those closely around us.

Sometimes, it’s also a gift to simply be the receiver, allowing others the joy of giving.

New friends!

3. There is no “right way” to spend Shabbat.

Friday night included traditional Kabbalat Shabbat and Maariv prayer services. But Saturday was a choose your own adventure, and boy did I choose wisely!

Instead of traditional morning services, I chose the hippie route, a service called “Avodat Lev” which included prayer, chanting, meditation, and a 20-minute radical amazement walk around a lake.

At first when I joined the singing circle, I wasn’t sure what I got myself into, but I connected with one of the songs we sang together, “Open to Receive” by Batya Levine:

May I be empty/full and open To receive the light May I be empty/full and open to receive

It was the silent walk through nature that was the clincher for me, though. After saying the Shema while looking out at the misty lake, we marched down a wooded path, noticing the nature all around us through our senses and feeling grateful for where we were.

I felt at peace as I crunched over dead leaves and grass, letting my palms wander over rough tree trunks and my eyes scan the branches and clouds above.

At one point, as the cool morning air filled my nostrils and lungs, I noticed a cluster of tiny, shriveled yellow flowers still clinging to their stems.

Initially, I thought, "Oh no, they’re dead. What a buzzkill for my Shabbos walk." But as I bent down to examine them more closely, I discovered that their inner walls were not only intact but adorned with beautiful flecks of orange and brown. Radical amazement, indeed.

I enjoyed engaging with Judaism in a way that is not normally accessible for me. I wondered how I could take this practice back with me to New York City. Where could I experience radical amazement back home? Central Park? How do I look at the park with fresh eyes? How do I extend this feeling beyond nature, and make just the act of motion sacred? Before I walk through the park, how do I get myself to the park without feeling the need to listen to a podcast or audiobook? Walking with people on Shabbat is easy, but alone? Do I not know how to be alone with my thoughts anymore? Do I always need a distraction?

Another, more complicated thought: how do I find community that values both tradition and individuality? Someone recently told me about her “hippie Conservative shul” in Boston, but that doesn’t help me. Would love to visit, though!

My biggest takeaway from the weekend was that I don’t always have to spend Shabbat traditionally. These days I’ve been thinking about what spirituality is to me and how I can best live authentically Jewish. Maybe I don’t feel a deep sense of something bigger just because I swear a long skirt or read a prayer I don’t fully connect with. And that’s okay.

Thank you, Adamah and Isabella Freedman, for the experience.

Shabbat Shalom,

P.S. These Drops are getting to be too much about me and I want them to be about YOU. Are you a Jew with a story to share with the world? Know any Jews with a story? Reply to this email to set up an interview or to send in a piece!

A Month by Any Other Name

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 06 Sep 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on September 6, 2024.

This Drop is dedicated to the six beautiful souls who were murdered by Hamas terrorists last week. This week, we’re talking about Elul and returning to your truest self, something they seemingly excelled at. Hersh believed in a Jerusalem for everyone. Almog enjoyed playing guitar. Carmel is said to have led fellow hostages in meditation to put them at ease, even in the worst circumstances (something that gives me chills because that’s what I would try to do in that situation), to name a few. Hersh, Almog, Carmel, Eden, Alex, and Ori: may your memories be a blessing.

Elul’s Deeper Meanings

You may already know this, but I didn’t, so I’m sure there are people out there who might learn a thing or two!

The four letters of Elul (אלול) are said to be an acronym for various biblical Hebrew sentences (we Jews love a good acronym). The most common is אני לדודי ודודי לי, “I am for my beloved and my beloved is for me,” (Song of Songs 6:3), expressing the closeness that we experience with G‑d during this time.

It’s also an acronym for את לבבך ואת לבב, from the line in the Shema: “Then G-d, your G-d, will open up your heart and the hearts of your [offspring].” The full verse of this prayer commands you to love G-d with all your heart, soul, and might.

But wait—there’s more! It’s also said to be an acronym for [ואשר לא צדה והאלקים] אנה לידו ושמתי לך [מקום], “[But one who did not stalk him, but G‑d] brought it about into his hand, I will make for you [a place to which he shall flee]” (Shemot 21:13). This is referring to the refuge that G‑d provides us all when we seek to rectify our past misdeeds. Yep, definitely smells like Elul.

🌹 Flower of the Month: The Rose

My friend, Tara, gifted me a beautiful Jewish calendar from At The Well which I’ve already hung at my desk at work! Each month features its own explanations and significance, including the flower of the month.

Elul’s flower is the rose, which tickles me because every Shabbat I like to exchange “roses", or highlights from the past week (no thorns here!). There are a couple of reasons and references as to why the rose is the Elul flower, but let’s stick with Song of Songs going back to the first acronym, “I am for my beloved and my beloved is for me,” which continues, “who grazes among the roses.”

Something I found beautiful was how the calendar described a rose as embodying both the power of vulnerable love and fierce strength. Roses are also known for their resilience, often blooming in hostile environments. If any flower captures the essence of Rachel, Hersh’s mother, I can’t think of a better one.

💬 Elul Quote

“For attractive lips, speak words of kindness. For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people. For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry. For beautiful hair, let a child run his fingers through it once a day. For poise, walk with the knowledge you’ll never walk alone. ... We leave you a tradition with a future. The tender loving care of human beings will never become obsolete. People even more than things have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed and redeemed and redeemed and redeemed. Never throw out anybody.

Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, you’ll find one at the end of your arm. As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands: one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

Your ‘good old days’ are still ahead of you, may you have many of them.” ― Sam Levenson, In One Era & Out the Other

Elul Links

→ The five things I’m doing to get into Elul mindset

→ The Simple Way I’m Preparing for the High Holidays

→ 70 Classic & Creative Rosh Hashanah Recipes to Celebrate the Jewish New Year

→ Send a message to the Goldberg-Polin family

→ A playlist put together by Carmel Gat’s loved ones in her memory

✍️ Shabbat Prompts

🌹 How have you responded to challenges or difficulties this past year? What have you learned from these experiences?

🌹 How do you return to yourself?

🌹 Who are you on the deepest and purest level, unaffected by your surroundings and outside forces?

🌹 What do you love about yourself that you want to nurture and grow in the year ahead?

Shabbat Shalom! Buy yourself a rose this month,

The Significance of Re'eh-visiting Old Lessons

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 30 Aug 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 30, 2024.

Shalom from the Holy Land! No, not that Holy Land… I’m writing from West Palm Beach! ☀️

Actually, it’s more like ☀️☀️🌧️⛈️☀️☀️👴🏻

I’m doing something rare in this Drop and writing a d’var (a word of Torah).

We’re nearing the end of the Torah, in Parsha Re'eh, when Moses recounts lessons from earlier to the Israelites as part of his final address before they enter the Promised Land.

This parsha seems awfully repetitive. After all, haven’t we been reading about these mitzvot in the last couple of Books? By now, the Israelites already know to observe the three big harvest festivals/holidays of Passover, Shavuot, and Sukkot, and to not eat pig. Are we experiencing déjà vu this week?

True, Moses is preparing the Israelites to enter a new land by reinforcing these teachings, but why? Are Jews forgetful? Judging how memory plays such a significant role in our stories and tradition, I doubt that’s the reason. Were they not listening the first time? By this point in the Torah, you’d think the Israelites would take the word of G-d more seriously than they had been in previous parshiyot.

Perhaps Moses repeats these lessons because he understands it takes a few times for one to really stick, especially when facing a new challenge or a transition.

That’s not the same as forgetfulness, because you can know the right thing to do but choose not to do it anyway out of comfort or fear. It’s like every challenge we face in life is a test for the lessons we’ve learned along the way.

In a way, challenges are a blessing and a curse (yes, that's a parsha pun for my Torah enthusiasts).

Side note: even if you don’t keep kosher or don’t observe Shavuos, the point I’m making still applies! We all give ourselves rules or have values by which we try to live, from cutting yourself off after one drink at a party to dating someone Jewish.

So, why am I talking about lessons? This week, I turned the insignificant age of 31. Every birthday, I like to take stock of different areas of my life. Approaching the new territory of my 31st year, and in the spirit of Moses’s re’eh-petitiveness, I thought it would be fun to re’eh-flect on last year’s Drop, 20 lessons I learned in my 20s, and see (yes, that’s another pun - re’eh means see) how I did.

So… in my 30th year, did I really practice what I preach?

Never apologize unless you really have to. ➡️ I often say this lightheartedly, but I don’t always follow it. Just the other day, I caught myself typing out the word “Sorry” because I felt that I was making my birthday plans complicated. Old habits die hard!
Communicating what’s on your mind because it’s better to be vulnerable than guarded. ➡️ Ha. Someone, anyone… please let me know in the comments if you do this comfortably, confidently, and 100% of the time.
Remembering what my favorite visionary creative, Qveen Herby, said, that it’s a part of the human journey to feel yucky. ➡️ Well, I’ve been feeling yucky about a part of my body for a good portion of the year. I’m doing everything I can to “fix” it but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t affected my self-image (which goes back to the first lesson I wrote down, that no one gives a shit about you because they’re too focused on themselves).
Ask for what you want even if you think the answer is no. ➡️ I’ve gotten better at this, but there’s still room for improvement.

Hey, at least I didn’t send a bad work email this year!

I celebrated by walking the length of Manhattan in 95-degree heat. I definitely felt yucky, but to quote my mom from lesson #2, I made my plan and worked my plan.

It’s human nature to be comfortable, to do things the way we’ve always done them even though we know we could improve. Moses’s re’eh-cap of G-d’s commandments, much like the re’eh-iteration of some of my favorite lessons, serves as a powerful re’eh-minder (that’s the last one, I promise) to hold ourselves to our own standards of living, and to not lose sight of who we truly are when we’re entering a new phase.

I may not be literally entering a new land this year (well, I will be traveling to Poland for the first time), but revisiting my old Guidebook for Life keeps me focused on the person I strive to be, even when I slip up (reminder: Yom Kippur begins on October 11th). Having said that, I should probably look at that list more than once a year…

Thank you for reading!

Shabbat Shalom. May we live by our lessons and values.

And re’eh-member (oops, I had to): always take the last cookie on the plate,

Comedy as a Weapon for Survival Pt. III

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 23 Aug 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 23, 2024.

This is a series in which I dive into topics I’ve learned about from YIVO’s free online class on Jewish humor, “Is Anything Okay?” If you missed earlier laughs, catch up on part one here and part two here. I originally said this was going to be a three-part series, but there are so many goodies and information in the class, I’m extending it to four or five parts! Enjoy!

In previous Drops, we talked about Jewish humor in the Torah and Talmud, and in the shtetl. Now we’re crossing the Atlantic to…

Comedy in the City - The Heyday of the Jewish Lower East Side (1880-1920)

Yiddish Theater and Vaudeville

Just like the shtetl, tenement living was not for the faint of heart. That’s why there were a lot of jokes about surviving tenement life, like this gem:

A landlord was asking two thousand rubles a year for rent on an apartment, and a prospective renter asked him, “Why are you charging so much money for rent?” “Why not?” The landlord responded. “It’s got three rooms and a kitchen!” “And a stable?” The renter asked. “Why do you need a stable?” “For the horse you’ll surely include at that price!”

At the time, variety shows and theater were popular forms of entertainment, and many Jews found themselves drawn to the stage—even though, at the time, it wasn’t considered the most respectable profession. Antisemitism created barriers in many other fields, making it tough for Jews to find work elsewhere. Despite the stigma, they embraced these roles, contributing to the vibrant world of entertainment.

Jewish theater wasn’t limited to New York City - here’s Iustina Minkova and Solomon Mikhoels in a production of Sholem Aleichem’s “200,000,” in Moscow, 1923 (The Theatre Times)

These Yiddish vaudeville and variety shows that commented on daily life and values would go on to influence comedians of the Borscht Belt. But we’ll get to them in the next part…

Marc Chagall’s “Introduction to the Jewish Theatre,” 1920

The shows combined aspects of Old World culture, new American culture, and the transitional problems immigrants faced. They were quite cathartic for Jewish audiences, as some laughed, cried, cheered, and even shouted out advice to characters during critical points in the plays. They even scolded actors who lit cigarettes or cigars on stage on Friday nights, even though audience members themselves were obviously not observing the Sabbath either. As someone who takes her theater and movie-going seriously, that would have annoyed me. Sit down; this isn’t The Rocky Horror Picture Show!

But don’t take my word for it — here’s a clip from a PBS doc on Jewish American life:

Watch on YouTube

The Joke Book

Publication led to the rise of joke books, which were exactly what they sound like, though many of these were not written by Jews at first and were often antisemitic, including depictions of ‘Jewface.’

By the 1950s, as many Jewish comedians gained popularity, a number of them published joke books, Milton Berle, Henny Youngman, and many others, containing hundreds, sometimes thousands of jokes!

Cooper's Yankee, Hebrew and Italian Dialect Readings and Recitations. New York: Wehman Bros., 1891. YIVO Archives.

Jewface in Print and on Stage

Remember that fun term I casually used in the previous section? Jewface was the Jewish equivalent to ‘blackface,’ and was used as a form of entertainment in the early 20th century. Gentiles began using it in 1880s and it was taken over by Jewish immigrant actors to portray Greenhorns, or newly arrived immigrants.

This form of comedy allowed them to critique their own identities and the stereotypes imposed on them. Think of Mel Brooks in Blazing Saddles, who used caricature to point out the absurdity of prejudice.

At the time, Jews were understanding where they fit into American society, as they were seen as white-passing but still “the other,” with barriers put up to fully prevent them from integration.

Some Jews got a kick out of Jewface, but it didn’t sit well with everyone. Reform rabbis, who were all about assimilating and leaving behind the ways of the Old World, were not fans.

More Jokes!

We could talk about Yiddishisms and Betty Boop, but you’re going to have to take the class to hear about that. Here’s some jokes, though:

There’s a sign on a church that says “Convert and we’ll give you $20.” Two jews are standing outside looking at the sign. One decides to go in and convert. When he comes out, the other guy says to him, “Did you do it? Did you convert? Did you get the money?” The other replies, “You people are always about money.”

A Jew gets hit by a car outside a church. The priest comes out and asks him, “Do you believe in the father, the son, and the holy ghost?” And the Jew says, “I’m dying and he asks me riddles!”

One night, a poor boy went to see a rich businessman, looking for a donation. “What is the meaning of this, coming to my house at night?” demanded the businessman angrily. “I beg your pardon,” the boy answered, “I do this during the day, too.”

Jewish Jokes with Fred

Jumping ahead in time a bit… during Covid, I made Zoom videos with my (then) 90-year-old dad, who you just read about in last week’s Drop! Here’s the last video in the installment. Enjoy!

Watch on YouTube

Gut Shabbes,

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The One Where Fred Turns 95

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 16 Aug 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 16, 2024.

Miranda here!

I hope you had a meaningful Tisha B’Av. Did you know that my dad is almost as old as the Temple?! This Sunday, he’ll be completing his 95th trip around the sun. Sunday is also Tu B’Av, the Jewish day of love. How appropriate, because I love this guy. He makes us all laugh, teaches us important life lessons and fun facts, and is objectively the best dad a gal could ask for.

It’s time for his annual b-day post. This one may sound a bit morbid, but for someone who frequently reflects on death—as we all should from time to time to remind us of what’s important in life—he manages to maintain a remarkably cheerful disposition.

Join me in wishing Fred a happy birthday in the comments and enjoy what he has to say.

Hello! These are some thoughts on getting on in years.

Old people will pass on wisdom such as this:

“If I could live my life over I would spend less time with work and more with those I love, my partner, and family, etc.”

Nah. Spend more time with work and earn more money and your love ones will remember you for how much real estate and money you left them.

Wisdom from old people typically includes having this or that to drink or eat daily and to that they attribute a long life:

This person ate eggs daily, that person always walked 10 miles daily, they did yoga every day etc. etc.

NO NO NO.

Churchill smoked cigars all day long. He drank huge amounts of booze daily. He was overweight… he lived to age 90!

What do we learn from his life? Life is a crapshoot. Yes, there are things you can do and things you should not do. But the crapshoot remains.

Anyway, I have been told by some young people that they dislike old people (they are frank with me because they know they are not in my will!) because old people are morose, seldom smile, and are often nasty.

I tell them: “Perhaps old people are that way because they know things that you will later in life discover for yourself.”

I’m making the funny; I have a great deal to be happy about, as you can see from this video from my 94th birthday:

Now here’s a tip: Each morning, first thing right after having prune juice, the elderly turn to the obituaries in their local paper. They see that so-and-so died and was two years older than they are. The say, “Of course he died before me, he was older.” Or a person has died and was younger. “Ha! Outlived that poor wretch.” Or, now with the internet (which, studies show, is very good for the brain as you get on in years) they can look up if so-and-so died.

But did you know there is no legal requirement to have have an obit? If you do not have one, anyone looking for you in obituaries will assume you are immortal!

Some advice (at last):

They (whoever that is) say “You can’t take it with you.” Wrong!

Withdraw everything you have, convert it all to cash, and enclose it in a pouch and insist in your will that the pouch be buried with you.

Can I explain the meaning of life to you? No. But I can illustrate it:

Recall the famous panel that illustrates human like form ambling along on hands and legs…next beginning try become bipedal by standing briefly on two legs; and finally standing fully erect on his two legs… a fully formed human being!

Move on and imagine this:

A fully bipedal human being standing fully upright, then walking with a cane, then moving about with a walker, and next using a wheelchair. Finally, being carried out on a stretcher.

As Peggy Lee, a once-famous singer sings: “Is that all there is?”

But I have a great deal to be happy about, as you can see in this video of me listening to disco through my headphones:

… or in this video of me at drag karaoke (I love music and Provincetown)!

If life is a journey, recall the motto of Cunard steamship cruise line: GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN.

And no: I do not know what to call the other half.

But I will end this by quoting the great baseball player Lou Gehrig: “I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”

Shabbat Shalom!

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How October 7th Changed My View of Tisha B'Av

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 09 Aug 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on August 9, 2024.

New here and want to read something more upbeat? Check out this recent Drop:

Tisha B’Av, the Jewish day of mourning that commemorates historical Jewish disasters, particularly the destruction of the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem, begins Monday evening.

Kotel Tisha B'Av by Rivka Nehorai

In last year’s Tisha B’Av post (see: My Tisha B’Av Tell-All), I’m embarrassed to say I wrote about how the holiday was more or less an inconvenience while on vacation, and why should we mourn when Jews are all about celebrating life, anyway? I couldn’t read that old post just now without cringing, but if that’s not growth, then what is?

Don’t get me wrong; I still think Av comes at a terrible time in the year. And just like last year, I’ll be on vacation when this 9th of Av hits. Urgh! But I now realize that trying to get into a spiritual mindset and focusing on something larger than yourself when it doesn’t feel like the time for that (like… when you just want to read A Court of Thorns and Roses on the beach!) makes it even more impactful. The weight of grief feels heavier under a sunny, clear blue sky. It can’t help but take a front seat in your mind, making it feel more than just a typical Tuesday.

My attitude shifted because of October 7th. In the pre-October 7th days, it was easy to opt out of observing Tisha B’Av because I didn’t grow up doing so. Reform Jews like myself see it as a religious holiday, yearning for the days of old when the entire Jewish people had one house of prayer directly connected to G-d.

For some modern Jews, it can be hard to connect to this idea, even though we still pray several times a day for its return. That way of living was over 2,000 years ago. You had animal slaughters and priests wearing bejeweled robes. Probably no bagels and lox at kiddush, to boot. It also served as the central place of worship, so most Jews during this time lived in Israel before being expelled. Yeah… hard to imagine, and hard to mourn (for me, personally).

Then after October 7th, I felt collective Jewish grief on a mass scale in a way I hadn’t before. Not from the Tree of Life shooting, for that didn’t feel like it extended beyond our borders here in the U.S. Not from reading Holocaust books, for as sad and angry as they made me feel, that was history, it didn’t feel close to home, and I didn’t lose anyone or know any survivors growing up. Also, sometimes when I read about the systemic brutality of the Nazi regime, it’s so barbaric and evil it’s hard to believe. How could murdering Jews become a society’s norm?

But October 7th, 2023? I lived it from afar and its aftermath. I watched the horrors unfold on TV. I saw supporters of terror in the streets. I heard from survivors. I saw the rising antisemitism. That was when I learned how murder does become the norm and how history does repeat itself. I felt not just the grief of the moment, but the grief of my ancestors. I understood the difference between reading about a tragic moment in time, and feeling my stomach drop as I worried about the future of my people.

“The joy of our heart is ceased, our dancing is turned into mourning.” -Lamentations, 5:15

This Tisha B’Av, I will take time out of my day to let myself simply feel those emotions, perhaps reflect on the Jewish people as a whole: our history, our aspirations, how this grief plays out in other Jewish rituals, and how I can relate to Jews who may not feel the same about Israel and what sadness they’re holding. At least we can all agree on one thing: fasting is difficult. But I’m going to try to do it anyway, out of respect for those we’ve lost this year who can’t eat with their families, who can’t read on the beach, who can’t dance ever again.

Speaking of others, I know I am not alone. That’s the paradoxical beauty of collective sadness. So if you do anything next week, hug a Jew!

I’m a different person than I was a year ago. We all are, in some way. We may have lost a lot in the last year, but we’re still holding on.

Shabbat Shalom,

Building Peace Through Classical Pieces

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 26 Jul 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 26, 2024.

This week brings you a very special Drop. But before I get to the interview, I want to share an experience I had back in May.

I remember it being an exceptionally emotional week during the war. It began with an intense Israeli Memorial Day observance and hearing from the father of Shani Louk, the 22-year-old German-Israeli tattoo artist who was killed at the Nova Festival. Though Independence Day followed, it was a holiday marked with sadness since so many hostages were—and still are—in Gaza, and so many lives had been taken since the start of the war. It was the week in which five Israeli soldiers were killed in friendly fire. It was also the week I visited the Nova exhibit downtown, bearing witness as much as I could to that horrible day and commemorating the hundreds of lives lost and kidnapped.

My heavy heart yearned for community and prayer, the main ingredients to the ritual of Shabbat. When I’m in my neighborhood, I like to attend the reform synagogue near my apartment for services, because A) it’s fun to walk on Shabbat and B) while reform isn’t my go-to type of service anymore, this particular service offers peace, nostalgia, and comfort for me.

Well, it normally does. At one point during the service, a formerly wounded soldier and the doctor who healed him lead the congregation in a prayer for the hostages. What was supposed to be a meaningful moment of unity was interrupted by the man in front of me, who shouted, “But what about the Palestinians?”

A few heads of those who heard him turned, and his wife put her hand on his back to calm him down. I could feel his rage reverberating in the pews before me. It was a rage mixed with anguish that had probably been pent up for months. His pain was so apparent to me, that all I could think of was how the war was affecting everybody, no matter their views. Even in shul, even on Shabbat, it was hard to find a way out of the heavy emotions from the week.

That was… until the end of the service, a mix of Arab and Jewish teens took to the podium to perform classical music. They were students of Polyphony, an organization based in Nazareth, whose mission is to bridge the divide between Arab and Jewish communities in Israel through classical music.

As they played Mendelssohn, I felt my shoulders drop, and the rest of my body ease into the pew in a way it hadn’t during prayer. This is what it was all about, I thought. The cohesion, the peace… why can’t we just have this all the time?

That’s why I had to interview Nabeel Abboud-Ashkar, Polyphony’s co-founder and executive director.

How did Polyphony start?

In 2006, I moved back from Germany where I did my masters in violin performance. I returned to Israel to found the first classical music conservatory in the Arab community in Israel, but specifically in Nazareth, my hometown. Our mission was to bring classical music into the Arab community and provide opportunities for young Arab children to excel in classical music. This is how we started in 2006. We founded this very small conservatory with 25 students and three teachers who were coming from Tel Aviv all the way to Nazareth to teach young Arab kids. The talent was incredible. The level of teaching was very high, and the whole setting was like a greenhouse.

To cut a long story short, in 2012, just six years after we founded the conservatory, two students from Nazareth, 15 and 16 years old, won first place at the Paul Ben Haim Competition in Tel Aviv, one of the major competitions in Israel. That was a defining moment. We realized how powerful music can be in breaking long existing barriers and stereotypes, and creating a common space for people to come explore what they have in common and create partnerships.

At that point, we thought of Polyphony as an organization, one that not only brings classical music to the Arab community in Israel, but one that impacts Israeli society by creating bridges and a common ground between Arabs and Jews.

In Israel, we run several programs. One of the special programs we have is called the Music and Society Seminar, where every year we have 10 Arab musicians from Nazareth and 10 Jewish musicians from Tel Aviv commit to be in the program for two years. They meet every month for a weekend, alternating between Nazareth and Tel Aviv. They create friendships, rehearse chamber music, engage in lectures and discussions, and get to know each other, trust each other, and open up to each other.

Another program that Polyphony runs is the Galilee Chamber Orchestra, which is Israel’s first professional Arab and Jewish chamber orchestra. At this point, it has over 15 members that are Arab and the rest are Jewish. We have somewhere between 36-40 members of the orchestra. It had its debut last year at Carnegie Hall. It’s not easy to get to Carnegie Hall, but for me the challenge was returning to Carnegie Hall. I’m happy to tell you that next year, on the 18th of November, 2025, we’re returning to Carnegie Hall again. Mark that date and come see us.

Watch on Vimeo

How does the program foster dialogue across differences, and how has this looked post-October 7th?

Engaging in dialogue and communicating is an integral part of our program. First, it’s the music that brings people together. The music is just the beginning of this journey to start engaging in conversation, because it helps them feel they have something in common and builds a personal connection. You’re already creating something beautiful together.

Once that’s already established, you no longer regard the other as a stranger but as someone with whom you’ve interacted. It becomes more about understanding different narratives and about what the other thinks, the different realities and discovering the similarities they have. It’s a long process with lectures, discussions, and dialogue. They rehearse together and then attend lectures by faculty from Tel Aviv University about something related to the arts and there’s still a social, historical context to it. When we advance in the program, the things we talk about become more explicit, stimulating conversation and an even stronger connection. They also build skills to engage and empathy toward each other.

We were highly encouraged to see how these connections withheld the events of October 7th. Music is just one element but cannot do the whole work alone. Every year we learn something new about our model and programs, and we make adjustments and refinements as needed.

Music is just one element but cannot do the whole work alone.

Can you share a memorable moment or story that highlights the positive impact of your work?

There are a couple of moments for me that were very moving and demonstrated how much progress we have made. One was the second week of November when students from Tel Aviv came to Nazareth for the first time for the weekend in spite all that was happening. They insisted to still come and meet. Nazareth was a ghost town. No one was coming in and out but you had 10 Jewish kids with 10 Arab kids spending the whole weekend together, talking for hours and hours. We worked on two films together that were playing in the Solidarity Film Festival in Tel Aviv. They put themselves in young shoes of Palestinians of Gaza, imagining all these different things they must be going through. To see the Jewish students able to relate in that way and have empathy despite all that’s happening moved me to tears. The other film was more abstract, featuring a person who experienced big trauma in her life and she sees the world only from the view of her room.

If there’s ever going to be a resolution to this conflict it’s got to start by relating to the pain of the other, realizing that this conflict is inflicting so much pain on everybody on both sides. Nobody owns suffering, and when people realize that everyone is suffering, the minute you think about the other, that’s going to be an important step in trying to understand how this could be resolved and not just managed.

How has founding this group changed your perspective on conflict resolution and cultural exchange?

A lot. Creating it and believing in its vision and mission meant that I believe I can find partners within Israeli society and the Jewish communities that share similar values as I do and envision this similar Israeli society as I do. The process of that vision has led me to reach out to and meet with so many Jewish organizations and people I wouldn’t have otherwise met. Building trust on common ground has made me believe it’s possible to advance this shared Israeli society. I have been creating relationships with U.S. Jewish supporters and partners. Through this relationship building, I’ve become more acquainted with the Jewish culture and faith in a way that transcends the politics, helping me become more open and receptive. In Israel, I’ve never gone into a synagogue. Here in the U.S. Polyphony performs at synagogues across the country continuously.

What are you up to now in the short term?

We now have a group of eight musicians from Israel performing on August 5th at Carnegie Hall. They were invited to be guests at the National Youth Orchestra. Now I am getting my Mid-Career Master in Public Administration at the Harvard Kennedy School of Government.

Thank you for reading! Nabeel and I hope that one day Palestinians and Israelis can one day live side by side in dignity, security, and safety.

And if you could tell us what polyphony in music is in the comments below, you win a metaphorical Shabbos treat!

Shabbat Shalom,

The Frozen Chosen 101

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 19 Jul 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 19, 2024.

Welcome back to The Shabbat Drop! Last week I was in Alaska, hiking, eating salmon, and looking for gold. Besides meeting some friendly Jews on my cruise from LA and Chicago, this was about as Jewish as my trip got:

💀 as the kids say, and unfortunately, so is Dick.

I’ll have you know that my cruise partner and I were excited for the volunteer-led Shabbat service we saw on the Princess Cruise itinerary. However, we were so engaged (no, not that kind of engaged, sorry Mom חחח) in a discussion with the ship’s naturalist, Robert, about whales that we missed it!

So, to make up for it, over dinner we read an insightful and nostalgic d’var from the Jewish Substack, Torah Goes Hollywood, connecting Moses hitting the rock to Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. Highly recommend the read! Both Silverstein’s words of wisdom and the d’var.

The Frozen Chosen

Some of you don’t know about Alaskan Jews and it shows. Whenever I tell people, “You know, Alaskan Jews are called the Frozen Chosen,” they giggle and say, “Oh, Miranda, you’re so funny!” And they’re wrong. Well, they’re right; I am funny. But they’re wrong in assuming I made up that name. Let the lesson commence.

The Frozen Chosen, as opposed to the Frozen Chosin, the nickname given to the U.S. soldiers who fought in the Battle of Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War (Korean War, shoutout to my dad!), got its start in the late 19th century, with Jews making their way over from Imperial Russia to live as fur traders. Some arrived from the continental U.S., mainly San Fransisco, in search of gold and stayed to develop communities, becoming businessmen and politicians.

Fun fact: after the U.S. purchased the Alaskan Territory from Russia in 1867, it was a Jewish soldier named Benjamin Levi who lowered the Russian flag and raised the flag of the U.S. at the site of the formal transfer of sovereignty in Sitka.

During World War II, the construction of military bases brought more people, including Jewish servicemen, to Alaska. Post-war, some stayed and laid down roots.

Leopold David, first mayor of Anchorage, Alaska (The Times of Israel)

➡️ Further reading: For the past 150 years, Alaskan Jews have blazed trails in the last frontier

As of 2012, there are about 6,000 Jews spread out among Anchorage, Juneau, and Fairbanks. Anchorage, being the largest city, has the most Jews, with a few synagogues and a Chabad.

Someone asked me how Alaskan Jews observe Shabbat, but the real question is when, since the sun barely sets in the summer. Shabbat begins at sundown on Friday and ends at nightfall on Saturday, so by that logic, Shabbat there should start at around 10:30pm. Can you imagine?! My overly-fed stomach of buffet delicacies including at least two kinds of pasta and three desserts at every meal wouldn’t be able to handle eating so late. Instead, like Jews throughout history, they adapt.

It turns out many Alaskan Jews follow the practice of starting Shabbat at a fixed time in the evening, often at around 7 or 8pm, regardless of when the sun sets. In the winter, with very little daylight and Shabbat often starting in the early afternoon, they do the same thing with services starting a little earlier. This way, they can maintain a semblance of a traditional schedule. How reform of them!

A part of me wishes I visited a synagogue or Jewish museum to experience the local Jewry and its history, as I often like to do now when I travel, but I didn’t have time. Now I’m getting my post-travel depress- I mean, Jewish fix by informing you, dear reader, of this research.

At least I saw lawman Wyatt Earp’s gun at Juneau’s Red Dog Saloon, who I wrote about in my first piece with Jewish Unpacked - The Jews of the Wild West - because his wife, Josephine, was Jewish! In the throes of gold fever, the famous couple ran a successful saloon in Nome, Alaska, where in 1900, about 60 Jews attended a Rosh Hashanah service. See, it all circles back.

Thanks for reading! And if you experience local Jewry while traveling this summer, let me know! I’d love to hear about it. Or submit your story for a guest contribution.

Shabbat Shalom. Stay cool,

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🎈Balloons and Jewish Brooklyn

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 05 Jul 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on July 5, 2024.

Good Shabbat! Makeshift Shabbat! Electric Shabbat!

… because I’m traveling and am not sure I’m going to have too many opportunities to be Jewish (though I’ll find a way, I’m sure).

This Drop is dripping into your inbox from the icy glaciers of Alaska, and yes, I brought electric tealight candles to bring in the Sabbath. It won’t feel too different from Shabbat, because I will still be consuming salmon! חחחחח

That said, I don’t have too much content this week, so I’m including links to my latest articles with Jewish Unpacked I have not yet shared here. Give them a read if you’re curious about the Jewish New York of today!

Bursting with Jewish pride: How a balloon store in Manhattan is showing up for Israel

After Oct. 7, Sharon Hershkowitz, the daughter of Holocaust survivors, proudly decorated her Tribeca storefront with blue and white balloons and a chalk-scrawled sign declaring, “Never again.”

Read it here!

It’s me with my girl, Sharon!

[The ultimate Jewish guide to Brooklyn, NYC: What to see, eat & do](http://rooklyn is home to cutting-edge restaurants, unique thrift stores, and fun nightlife, but do you know about its many Jewish offerings across the borough?)

Brooklyn is home to cutting-edge restaurants, unique thrift stores, and fun nightlife, but do you know about its many Jewish offerings across the borough? Shoutout to New York Adventure Club for the inspo. Check out my Manhattan guide here).

Read it here!

Shabbat Shalom. I hope you’re basking in the sunshine, reading, sipping on a frozen drink, or doing something that brings you joy. See you in two weeks,

Comedy as a Weapon for Survival Pt. II

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 28 Jun 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 28, 2024.

This is a three-part series based on the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research’s free, online class called “Is Anything Okay?”. To catch up on the laughs, read part one here.

Last time, we learned about silly Jewish traditions of old, like stories from the Torah and Talmud, and the badkhn, or the wedding jester. Now, let’s get serious and talk about the hardships of shtetl life, and then get silly again. We’ll also learn why the Jews had to be so humorous (Hint: it’s in the title of this post).

But first, here’s a joke about Chelm, a Polish shtetl famously known as “The Town of Fools” and often served as the brunt of jokes, like:

A fire broke out one night in the city of Chelm and all the inhabitants rushed to the fiercely burning building to extinguish the blaze. When the conflagration had been put out, the rabbi mounted a table and addressed the citizens:

“My friends, this fire was a miracle sent from heaven above.”

There were murmurs of surprise in the crowd, and the rabbi hastened to explain.

“Look at it this way,” he said. “If it were not for the bright flames, how would we have been able to see how to put the fire out on such a dark night?”

Sharp Wit in the Shtetl

Shtetl life was marked by relentless hardship, from poverty to pogroms. Despite these hardships, or because of them, humor emerged as a powerful tool to cope with the bleakness and maintain a sense of community and hope. It was a unique kind of humor, sharp and self-deprecating, often tinged with a bittersweet awareness of life's absurdities.

A scene from shtetl life by Isaak Asknaziy

The parody was a popular form of humor during this time. One of the earliest known parodies to appear in Eastern Europe was the Sefer ha-kundes (Book of the Prankster; 1824) from Vilna, a comic manual for pranks based on the style of the Shulḥan ‘arukh—a code of Jewish law.

Parody was used for religious change, whether it served as a campaign against Hasidism, like during the Haskalah (the “Jewish Enlightenment”) in the early 19th century, or for social change.

One example of using parody for social change was a siddur by Yitsḥak Kaminer, which used parody to address issues like the korobka (kosher meat tax), Jewish education, and literature. Parody made fun of things in the hope of reforming them, like a Yiddish version of The Onion.

"Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth the korobka from our pockets, and ensures our meat is holy, but our wallets are wholly empty."

"Blessed are You, Lord our God, who enlightens the hearts and minds of humanity, except when it comes to our literature, which remains as dry as the matzo at Passover."

Joke Books and More Jokes

Many joke books were created in the 19th century. The first Jewish joke book was written in 1810 by Rabbi Lippmann Moses Büschenthal. There are over 500 Yiddish joke books and books of funny stories published from the 1820s through the late 20th century in YIVO’s collections alone. In addition to joke books, there were Yiddish publications like Kol Mevasser, the first in the Pale of Settlement, that featured jokes.

Here’s more jokes!

One night a poor boy went to see a rich businessman, looking for a donation. “What is the meaning of this, coming to my house at night?” demanded the businessman angrily. “I beg your pardon,” the boy answered, “I do this during the day, too.”

(My personal favorite, of the dark variety): A gentile woman in a shetl of days of old was murdered. The community was worried because they knew the Jews were going to be blamed. So they gathered at the synagogue to plan on how they were going to get out of this. The rabbi comes in running and says, “Good news! It turns out the murdered woman was Jewish!” and everyone was relieved.

A sign on a church says, “Convert and we’ll give you $20.” Two jews are standing outside. One decides to go in and convert. When he comes out, the other guy asks him, “Did you do it? Did you convert? Did you get the money?” to which the other, the one who converted, replies: “You people are always about money.”

Jewish Jokes with Fred

Jumping ahead in time a bit… during Covid, I made Zoom videos with my (then) 90-year-old father. Coincidentally, our series on Jewish jokes is also in three parts. Here is part II, with some jokes and some history from. Enjoy!

Watch on YouTube

Gut Shabbes,

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Comedy as a Weapon for Survival Pt. I

5 Things I Learned on Shavuot

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 21 Jun 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 21, 2024.

Hello friends and newcomers!

This is my annual Shavuot appreciation post, as I reflect on all-night learning (and some dancing!) at the JCC.

But first: Thank you to those who attend the second annual cheese tasting with The Cheese Guy! We talked rennet, veganism, and being more Jewishly involved since October 7th. It was so nice meeting some new faces and gathering with some old, and by that I mean young, of course.

P.S. Putting this out into the universe - I would love to be able to host more events around Jewish identity and culture, but need funding! If you know of any generous Jews or organizations who would like to sponsor Jewish hangs, please email me.

Now on to the meat—er, cheese—of this Drop! Here’s my 5784 Shavuot wrap-up, lessons and insights gained from a wide variety of Jewish topics. If mysticism isn’t your thing, skip 1 & 2.

1. Don’t be so weird when you have a dream about someone.

You ever have an absurd dream about someone and you immediately tell them? I’m always that person, because I think it’s funny. However, in a class I attended called “Kabbalistic Dream Opening and Yiddish Lullabies” taught by Sarah Chandler of Shamir Collective, I realized it’s better to reach out to that person and check in on them. Maybe they came to your subconscious for a reason.

In fact, that same morning, I told someone, “Hey, this is so random, but I had a dream last night you got super drunk and made a scene. Isn’t that funny?” But this person was on my mind because of something they were going through. Wouldn’t it have been better if I simply said, “Hey, I know the holidays are coming up (Shavuot and Father’s Day) and I wanted to see how you’re doing?”

In the class, we had an interesting discussion about examples from the Talmud related to dreams, a prayer for when a dream needs healing, and the layers of dream opening, according to the levels of interpretation of PaRDeS:

Peshat (“straight,” the literal direct meaning): Write out clarifying details and “day residue.”
Remez (“hint,” pattern): Notice colors, numbers, puns, opposites, pairs, etc.
Derash (“to seek,” question/interpretation): Recall the dream, speaking in present tense. Ask: what does this all mean? What is the question of the dream?
Sod (“secret,” mystical, esoteric): Reflect.
Tikkun (“fixing”): Suggest what you can do to repair the dream; give imagery that will lead to transformation and spark creativity.

BRB, grabbing my dream journal!

2. Tanya is not a person.

Just kidding, I knew Tanya was a text, but not much else beyond that. My rabbi used to constantly ask me to join his Tanya class without explaining what it was, saying I would enjoy it. Well, I would enjoy taking candy from strangers but you don’t see me doing that.

But this Shavuot, I finally went to a Tanya class of my own volition. Tanya is a text of Chabad-Lubavitch Hasidic Judaism that lays out the philosophy of Chabad and explains various concepts in Jewish mysticism and ethics. Jewish mysticism? Delicious!

💬 Yiddish Word of the Day! Farbrengen: a joyful gathering Ex. The 2am Tanya class was also a farbrengen, so we started with l’chaims (shots of whiskey).

Get in boys, we’re studying Tanya

We looked at Chapter 32, the heart of the Tanya, which in short emphasizes the importance of fulfilling the commandments, even when faced with challenges and hardships, and how it’s important to focus on one’s soul rather than one’s body, because everyone has their own body, but we’re all one soul from the same Divine spirit.

3. How 10/7 changed me.

On the way to my next session, I accidentally ended up in one of the most coveted programs. There I was, tired and stumbling around looking for the stairwell, when I was frantically ushered into a small room by a staff person who thought I was looking for that room.

There before me was Columbia professor and Instagram star Shai Davidai! Shai grew his platform after October 7th, making videos speaking out against antisemitism, not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had to do so after witnessing the antisemitism on campus.

Admittedly, I turned my phone on to take this. C’mon, it’s Shai Davidai!

I’m a fan of his, but didn’t feel like I needed to sit in on an interview having seen so many of his reels. But I almost got chills in the audience, like, “Maybe I’m supposed to be here for a reason.”

Well, my gut was correct because I didn’t learn much (other than he is truly a sweetie and a mensch!) and left halfway through, but his session was a reminder how every Jewish life has changed in some way after October 7th, his being no exception. It got me thinking about my own identity, but enough about me; that’s a topic for you to chew on.

✍️Shabbat Prompt: How has your Jewish identity changed after October 7th?

4. Heroic death in Jewish history is a modern concept.

Time for my favorite class of the nacht!

We see evidence of heroic deaths all the time in Israel, not just today but in modern history: Zionist pioneer and founder of the first Jewish military unit, Joseph Trumpeldor, uttered his famous last words, “Never mind, it is good to die for our country.” Prime Minister David Ben Gurion established Yom HaZikaron in honor of Israeli soldiers to “unite around their memories and set forth their heroic acts.”

JT was kind of a babe, no? I vote Josh Hutcherson to play him in a movie.

We see this in Jewish texts as well. The Maccabees said, “Let us die bravely for our brethren, and leave no cause to question our honor!” During the Crusades, Rabbi Yehuda ben Shmuel he-Hasid of Speyer composed the following lines in the wake of his community’s murder: “Handsome youths and dignified elders were killed. / They assembled, all agreeing to be martyred, / testifying to the unity of God’s name, courageously.” The martyrs he’s referring to chose to die rather than convert to Christianity, a mitzvah in their eyes. And lest we forget Masada, when Jewish defenders of the fortress chose to commit mass suicide rather than be captured and enslaved, which rabbis never talk about. Why do they not talk about this?

In this interesting class taught by Rabbi David Hoffman of Honey Foundation for Israel, we learned how heroic deaths are everywhere in Jewish text and history… except in the Torah. That’s because putting the emphasis on the individual’s sacrificial death took the attention away from G-d. You see, the Torah primarily focuses on conveying laws, ethical teachings, narratives of key figures, and the relationship between G-d and the Jewish people. Even though the Torah is full of battles, it doesn’t glorify heroic deaths.

I enjoyed this class because it didn’t go the way I expected. I thought it would be a laundry list of examples of heroic deaths, but the rabbi went in a different direction. Which brings me to my realization of the night…

5. I am ready to take my Jewish learning to the next level.

I remember the days when any form of Jewish text study caused me anxiety. Group discussions on Torah, philosophy, and Talmud seemed like a daunting activity.

As much as I love the JCC’s Tikkun Leil, I think I am ready for Jewish learning with more substance. Don’t get me wrong—where else on Shavuot can I dance to Klezmer with strangers at 3am (and have a video of it)?!

If anything, this year’s celebration of Torah learning gave me the confidence to deepen my knowledge and look for opportunities elsewhere. The next chapter of my Jewish Journey awaits.

What did you learn/do this year? Comment below!

With love and cheesecake,

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”Excuse me, is this ‘Jews and UFOs?’”

🏳️‍🌈 Gay Shabbat

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 14 Jun 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 14, 2024.

This Drop was written by Gillian Gurney, a community member of Gay Shabbat, whose mission is to bring Queer, Jewish joy to LGBTQIA+ Gen Z Jews in New York City.

I didn’t exactly enjoy Friday night services growing up. When I was younger, I would physically plug my ears in protest when my dad, the head Cantor at my temple, sang. There would always be an inundation of congregants rushing towards me, pinching my cheeks, celebrating my father’s voice, and the frequent line “I’m sure you have a wonderful voice too.”

Spoiler alert: I don’t. And I was embarrassed.

It wasn’t just services, I struggled with my Jewish identity as a whole - I was known as the ‘cantor’s daughter’ before I had a clue as to much more about myself. Sometimes, I felt I didn’t have a say in who I was. Fast forward to college, I attended high holiday services at my Hillel for Rosh Hashanah, and left crying. I attributed it to missing my family, but I knew I missed my Jewish community too.

I went back to my dorm and watched my dad’s service 3,000 miles away. It felt strange cranking up my laptop volume as my dad’s voice billowed throughout my shoebox sized room, since I was used to desperately trying to block out the sound. I realized I was finally ready to not only hear his voice, but also listen.

Suddenly my conception of my Jewish identity began to change rapidly and I craved it. I attended Hillel and Chabad nearly every Friday throughout my college years. Despite this, there was always something slightly off as a constant undercurrent throughout my life. Little did I know, there was a whole other portion of my identity that I had yet to confront.

During the pandemic, when everyone was left with time to ruminate, I began to question if I was bisexual. It took my entire life to come to this realization, and it took an additional year to say it out loud in an empty room. Once I did, I immediately went back on my word.

Deviating from my Jewish identity journey, here, I felt like I had a choice, but it was dangerous - to conform to societal norms. I convinced myself I didn’t have to embrace this part of myself. I did this for the following two years and it was excruciating.

I didn’t understand the true degree that I was making choices out of fear, until I moved to New York City. In November, a friend asked me to attend something called Gay Shabbat. I will admit I said ‘of course!’ despite having zero intention of committing. I was so worried about how others would perceive me.

I ended up attending and this began a new chapter of my life. I came to realize that while there are parts about me that I can change, not only is Judaism not one of them, neither is bisexuality. These dual identities live deeply inside my soul, and they always have, but this was the first time I became ready to express them both on my own terms.

Gay Shabbat promotes inclusivity in a way I did not know I needed. It turns out the Jewish and Queer communities have a lot of overlapping values, like community and inclusivity, yet that is often an ignored truth. Through Gay Shabbat, I’ve met my girlfriend and so many wonderfully unique and special individuals who make me feel seen for everything that I am.

Pride is a time to celebrate, but also acknowledge the work that so many before us have contributed to allow our community to be in such a position while also understanding the work we still have ahead of us.

And now, over the course of 25 years, through the strength and reflection within myself alongside a village of support, I’m also ready to celebrate.

I’m finally ready to unplug my ears, let the noise wash over me, and even use my own voice too.

Gillian Gurney (she/her) is a Los Angeles Native turned New York City transplant. She works in political PR, and spends her free time running on the west side highway, hosting Shabbat dinners with her friends, and obsessively playing the NYT games.

A Labor of LGBTQ Love

Michael Liani captures the intimate worlds of queer Israeli couples

Read about it here in Jewcy Magazine.

Shabbat Shalom,

P.S. Please send me anything interesting you learned about on Shavuot so I can add it to next week’s Drop!

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Fun fact! I’m trans. Wow!

🧀 A Catch-Up with the King of Kosher Cheese

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 07 Jun 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on June 7, 2024.

The holiday of Shavuot, which commemorates the receiving of the Torah with all-night learning and eating cheesecake, is next week and I’m so excited! Last year, I interviewed kosher cheesemaker Brent Delman, aka The Cheese Guy, on his business, products, and what makes cheese kosher. Read that in depth here.

I see there’s watermelon in this photo. Unlike his cheeses, that didn’t age well!

A year later, I caught up with him to find out about his newest products, which include a two-year-aged grated parmesan shaker, fresher than any preservative-filled junk you’d find in the grocery store. For the more observant Jews out there, he has a new collection of “Super Kosher Cheeses,” which are Chalav Yisrael. Among these offerings are a Tilsit (gruyere style) and a creamy Burrata from Italy. Yum! I just wrote about these and more in The Jewish Link for their Shavuot edition. Check that out here:

Read My Article Here

Shabbat Drop-In

If you’re drooling over The Cheese Guy’s Chagall, a pungent and creamy French cheese rubbed with white wine, herbs, and black pepper, you’re going to want to come to the free post-Shavuot cheese tasting and park hang on Sunday, June 16th.

🍒 Recipe: Ricotta and Cherry Sweet Buns

I’m including a recipe from the Shavuot of Longing Cookbook, created by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum. They’ve been doing a tremendous amount of work to raise awareness for the ~120 people still held captive in Gaza. This cookbook contains 75 favorite recipes of the hostages, contributed by their families who miss them very much.

I’m giving away a PDF copy of this book and it’s not too late to enter! Comment below on this post with a ❤️ and I will announce the winner today on Instagram just before Shabbat. If you don’t win, you can still donate at the link above!

This recipe is in honor of Avinatan Or, who was kidnapped on October 7th by Hamas terrorists. His family describes him as “a whole world of love, light, and kindness… a gifted cook and an avid skier.” He was planning on moving in with his girlfriend. Make this recipe in his honor. Scroll down for a video of how to make them.

Shabbat Shalom! In preparation for next week’s issue, please email me something you learned on Shavuot. Not like next week’s Drop is going to be a Shavuot recap or anything……..

Comedy as a Weapon for Survival Pt. I

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 31 May 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 31, 2024.

Announcements

6/16 - Register (it’s free!) for the 2nd Annual Shavuot Picnic & Kosher Cheese Tasting - bring friends! And snacks if you’re a super cool person.
GIVEAWAY: A digital version of the Shavuot of Longing Cookbook by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum. Comment with a ❤️ to be entered to win.

When we think of Jewish humor today, we may look to modern greats like Jerry Seinfeld (well, I don’t, but some do), Larry David, and Mel Brooks. But how far back does the industry go, and what influenced it? What’s Jewish humor, anyway?

I’ve been taking a free, online, self-paced class on Jewish humor through the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research called “Is Anything Okay?” In honor of Jewish American Heritage Month (belatedly… I told you I’m a procrastinator), I’m writing a three-part Drop on some historical tidbits I learned from the class. Some are fascinating, and some are downright irreverent. But what’s Jewish humor without irreverence? To get the full scope of the topic, I highly recommend signing up for the course here. C’mon, I know your ears (or in this case, eyes) perked up when I said it’s free.

Source: YIVO

The name of the course comes from an old joke:

Two Jewish women are sitting in a restaurant. The waiter comes over and asks, “Is anything okay?”

According to a study performed by psychologist Samuel Janus in 1975, approximately 80% of American comedians at the time were of Jewish origin. For a people who make up 2% of the U.S. population, that’s a pretty significant percentage. Learn about the history of this funny ethno-religion, starting with how far back our humor goes.

Tracing the Jewish Funny Bone - Traditions of Old

Torah: We all know the earliest example in the Torah is when G-d tells Sarah, at the age of 90, that she is going to have a baby and she laughs, making us think about our preconceived notions of G-d and how those can be overturned.

Talmud: According to a story in the Talmud (Ta'anit 22a) about Elijah the prophet in the marketplace, laughter and bringing people together through laughter is a sign of the world to come.

Rabbi Beroka went over to the men and said to them: What is your occupation? They said to him: We are jesters, and we cheer up the depressed. Alternatively, when we see two people who have a quarrel between them, we strive to make peace. It is said that for this behavior one enjoys the profits of his actions in this world, and yet his reward is not diminished in the World-to-Come.

Traditions of the Old Country

Of course, there’s the Purim spiel - a comedic performance and retelling of the story of the Book of Esther, incorporating modern references, satire, and slapstick comedy. It’s a lighthearted celebration of the holiday's theme of triumph over adversity, and dates back to at least the Middle Ages. Watch a sample of my own take on the Purim spiel where I made fun of people at my shul, with love of course.

Purim celebration in Germany, circa 1920 (source: Leo Baeck Institute)

But my favorite tradition I’ve learned about in the class is the badkhn, a Jewish wedding jester, aka the first Jewish standup comedian. Step aside, Alex Edelman… the badkhn, popular in 19th century Poland, had one job, which was developed initially as a response to the commandment to “delight the bride and groom.” This wedding jester cracked jokes about the wedding party, and sometimes went so far as to insult guests and made the bride cry, erupting into fights at the wedding. Looks like I just found another side hustle!

Jewish Jokes with Fred

Jumping ahead in time a bit… during Covid, I made awkward Zoom videos with my (then) 90-year-old father. Coincidentally, they are also in three parts. Here is part I, which gives a brief rundown of Jewish humor, followed by joke telling, something we could all use during these dark times. Enjoy!

Watch on YouTube

Be on the lookout for parts 2 & 3 after Shavuot!

Shabbat Shalom and always find a reason to laugh,

Cut. It. Out! The Bris Drop

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 24 May 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 24, 2024.

Shabbat Drop-In

6/16 - Register (it’s free!) for the 2nd Annual Shavuot Picnic & Kosher Cheese Tasting - bring friends!

"And he that is eight days old shall be circumcised among you, every male throughout your generations." (Genesis 17:12)

From my first Shiva to my first bris, I’ve recently covered the lifecycle of Judaism (Anyone getting divorced soon? Would love to attend.) The baby of the hour was the newborn son of my friend. The ceremony was right down the road from Columbia University, the morning after the student arrests, so the tradition felt even more meaningful amidst antisemitism so close to home. I’ll take a celebration of life over public support for terrorism, harassment of Jewish students and faculty, and backwards Hebrew any day!

To prepare, I Googled how to dress (casual was fine since it was in someone’s home) and if I should bring anything (nah but after the bris is a nice gesture). Shoutout to Rabbi Barry who explained what was going on and answered my questions, like does a bris still happen if it falls on Shabbat? Oh yes, you bet it does. But it was a Wednesday, so it was no skin off my back.

Once the mohel arrived and set up his kit, the baby was passed down by family members over to him. I felt like a pervy weirdo because I wanted to get a good view - it was my first bris after all! - and kept craning my neck to get a peep at the snip. It was all so new to me, yet felt familiar at the same time.

After a few brachot and some crying (from the baby, not me), the parents announced the name of the newest member to the Jewish nation: Raphael, Hebrew for ‘G-d has healed’, a name to express a hope for healing now and always. What a joy it was to experience a simcha during this time, especially one of a dear friend. Also, the post-bris bagels and lox were delicious!

Ask a Rabbi: What happens to the foreskin after a bris?

“You should bury it somewhere in the ground anywhere of your choosing. It is ruled in the Shulchan Aruch that the foreskin is to be buried in sand or earth, and practically the custom is to place it immediately after the circumcision within a vessel which contains earth or sand and bury it there. Now, the question is raised as to what one is to do with this cup after the Bris. So while some Mohalim are accustomed to save the foreskins until they pass away and then bury it with them, the more widespread custom is to then bury it in the ground.” —Rabbi Yaakov Goldstein

Well now I’m left with more questions than answers. Anyone else?

Bris from the Past

While rummaging through her parents belongings, my mom found this amazingly disturbing business card from the 1920s that belonged to a mohel.

“Why my dad would keep this, G-d only knows.” The question is: why wouldn’t Pipa keep this?

Front of a mohel’s business card, circa 1920

Back of the card. This gem truly belongs in a museum.

Shabbat Shalom. Stay curious, and watch out for the scissors,

🎤🎵Hallelujah! Israeli history through Eurovision wins

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 17 May 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 17, 2024.

This week has been emotional, heavy, intense, and delicious, starting with Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terror, and then transitioning to Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israel’s celebratory Independence Day.

Personally, my week began with hearing a heartfelt speech by Nissim Louk, Shani Louk’s father, who found out his 22-year-old daughter was murdered on October 7th by seeing a photograph of her body facedown on the back of a Hamas terrorist-driven pickup truck.

I then visited the Nova Exhibit, a memorial dedicated to the 400+ festivalgoers, including Shani Louk, who were killed and kidnapped on that dark day. Seeing the footage of terrorists hunting down Jews and people who didn’t know if they were going to make it out alive, and their belongings from the festival displayed before me, was a sobering experience reminiscent of a Holocaust museum. I promise this Drop gets uplifting and fun - keep reading.

Shoes found at the site of the 10/7 Nova massacre, where 400+ people were murdered and kidnapped. Last week, a freed hostage found her shoes here.

I also saw swastikas posted in my neighborhood, which I took down and reported to the police. I always wondered when that inevitable moment would come, and it finally happened. “But New York is full of Jews!” someone once said to me. It’s full of Jews wondering when they should pack their bags and leave. I’m not going anywhere; the pizza is too tasty here.

The week’s mood shifted with an Israeli BBQ and a study of Eden Golan’s Eurovision song lyrics to “Hurricane.” As a member of the European Broadcasting Union, Israel has been competing in the song contest since 1973, has won four times! So let’s change the mood even more by looking at Israeli history through its four winning Eurovision songs. Yalla!

1978: "A-Ba-Ni-Bi" by Izhar Cohen and the Alphabeta

Watch on YouTube

In 1978, Israel was relatively young, celebrating its 30th year of independence. The nation was still in the aftermath of the 1973 Yom Kippur War, a conflict that left deep scars but also showcased the resilience and unity of the Israeli people. Maybe that’s why "A-Ba-Ni-Bi" (“I” in bet language, read further for clarification) brought much-needed joy and pride. The playful, sweet song about the secret language of love captured the imagination of Europe and secured Israel’s first-ever Eurovision win.

The victory allowed Israel to be seen in a different light, one of cultural richness and creativity rather than just political conflict. The song’s playful and joyous nature resonated with audiences, providing a refreshing contrast to the usual news about the Middle East. This victory helped humanize Israel, and was a celebration of life, love, and the vibrancy of Israeli society.

Backlash

Some Arab countries broadcasting the contest, like Jordan and Lebanon, cut the transmission when it became clear that Israel had won. Jordan went so far as to declare that Belgium, which finished second, was the winner.

A look at the lyrics

The title means “I” in a Hebrew sort of pig latin, where a different form of the syllable "ba" is inserted after each consonant in the original word, so I love you “Ani ohev otach” becomes “A-ba-ni-bi o-be-hev o-ta-bach.”

Ahava hi mila yaffa Hi tfila yafa, hi safa Ahava hi elai tova Hi tamid titgaber Ubisfat ahava nedaber

Love is a beautiful word It’s a wondrous prayer, it’s a language Love is good to me It will always overcome And we shall speak in a language of love

1979: "Hallelujah" by Gali Atari and Milk and Honey

Watch on YouTube

Hallelujah, indeed! Yes, Israel won two years in a row. This victory coincided with the signing of the historic Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty, a groundbreaking event that followed the Camp David Accords of 1978. The song's heartfelt and hopeful message resonated deeply with the spirit of the times, embodying the optimism of a new era of peace and cooperation in the Middle East. If only we could go back to this time, minus those dorky dance moves.

"Hallelujah" became an anthem of hope, not just for Israelis but for people around the world yearning for peace. The song's success at Eurovision was a reaffirmation of Israel's cultural and musical talent, as well as its enduring spirit against the challenges of its geopolitical landscape, reinforcing the idea that Israel was not just a nation embroiled in conflict but also a place striving for coexistence.

I love this comment on the YouTube video: “About 12 years ago, I was DJing at a foreign-language student disco in a cellar club in the little town in Germany where I live. Lots of Eurovision stuff. What we didn't realize was that a group of Israeli students were drinking on the floor above. I closed the disco with this song, and suddenly the Israelis, who heard the opening chords, came running down the stairs to join in the dancing to this gorgeous song. Somehow that moment summed up what Eurovision was all about - music bringing together people from different cultures. It makes me sentimental to think of it now, but it was a beautiful moment I will never forget.”

A look at the lyrics

“Hallelujah” originates from the Hebrew phrase "hallelu Yah," which combines "hallelu," meaning "praise," and "Yah," a shortened form of "Yahweh," the Hebrew name for G-d.

Haleluya im hashir, haleluya al yom sheme'ir, Haleluya al ma shehayah, umah she'od lo hayah, haleluya

Hallelujah with the song, Hallelujah for a day that shines For all that has been and for all that is about to happen, hallelujah

1998: "Diva" by Dana International

Watch on YouTube

The 1998 win with “Diva” was groundbreaking for several reasons. The victory of Dana International, a transgender woman, was a powerful statement of diversity, inclusion, and the progressive spirit of Israeli society.

The late 90s were a period of hope and transition for Israel. The Oslo Accords had been signed in the early part of the decade, and there was cautious optimism about the peace process with the Palestinians. Dana's victory was symbolic of breaking barriers and challenging norms, reflecting a society that was embracing change and pushing the boundaries of traditional values.

Backlash

Some conservative and religious groups within Israel expressed disapproval of Dana International's participation due to her being a transgender woman. This sparked debates about gender identity and LGBTQ+ rights within Israeli society.

A look at the lyrics

Yesh isha Gdola meha'haim Yesh hoshim sheyesh rak la Yesh ksamim Veyesh yamim kashim Ubama she'he kula shela

There is a woman who is bigger than life She has senses nobody else has There is magic, and there are hard days And a stage which is all hers

2018: "Toy" by Netta

Watch on YouTube

You can really see (and hear) how music and style have changed since 1998, with Netta’s “Toy,” an electronic nightmare that forever haunts my ears. The song, with its quirky beat and powerful message of self-empowerment, resonated with the #MeToo movement that was sweeping the globe. Netta’s performance was not just entertaining (to some) but was also a bold statement against bullying and gender inequality.

This period in Israel's history was marked by technological innovation and economic growth. Tel Aviv was emerging as a global tech hub, and the country was forging new diplomatic relationships with some Arab nations.

Backlash

Pro-Palestinian groups called for protests and boycotts after Netta’s win, particularly in the lead-up to the 2019 contest held in Tel Aviv that following year (the contest is held in the winning country that following year). Many pro-Palestinian activists and organizations called for a boycott, arguing that the contest was being used to "whitewash" Israel's policies regarding Palestinians, when they should have been boycotting purely because the song is so bad.

A look at the lyrics

Wonder Woman don't you ever forget You're divine and he's about to regret He's a bucka-mhm-buckbuckbuck-mhm boy Bucka-mhm-buckbuckbuck I'm not your bucka-mhm-buck-mhm-buck-mhm

I'm not your toy (not your toy) You stupid boy (stupid boy) I'll take you down now, make you watch me Dancing with my dolls on the motha-bucka beat Not your toy (cululoo, cululoo) (Cululoo, cululoo)

Doesn’t reading this make you feel like you’re losing your mind a bit?

2024: A Time of Resilience

Watch on YouTube

Even though Eden Golan didn’t win with her song “Hurricane” (originally titled “October Rain”), the context of her participation was significant. As Israel is still embroiled in a war in Gaza, with 132 hostages still there, and still reeling from October 7th, Eden was faced with public protests, threats, and bullying from other contestants. Because of this, she had to stay in her hotel room the entire week. Maybe we’re not so “united by music” as Eurovision’s motto suggests.

Despite these hardships, Eden’s performance, song, and composure were a testament to Israeli resilience in the face of adversity. Israel also had the second largest number of public votes, the most public votes from 14 countries, including the “rest of the world” vote, and placed 5th overall. Eden’s participation in the contest was the cheer we needed during a dark time.

A look at the lyrics

Someone stole the moon tonight Took my light Everything is black and white Who's the fool who told you boys don't cry?

Reflecting on Israel’s Eurovision wins and this year, these moments capture the essence of different eras in Israeli history, from the celebration of independence and peace to the embrace of diversity and resilience in the face of conflict. Is Israel only favored when there are attempts for peace? By that logic, Eddie Butler would have won in 2006 after the withdrawal from Gaza. Let’s hope for peace – and another victory on all fronts – soon!

Shabbat Shalom! With love and pop music,

Yom HaShoah and Honoring the Six Million

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 10 May 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 10, 2024.

Yom HaShoah was this earlier this week, and because I’m a procrastinator, you’re getting a Drop about it after the fact. But at least I didn’t forget. I would never.

From Holocaust survivors to college students, Jews today are noticing a pattern reminiscent of 1930s Germany. I’m talking about an increase in antisemitism worldwide, including the boycott of Israeli stores, ordinary people thinking they are doing right by tearing down flyers reflective of Jewish pain, intimidation tactics used to harass and/or silence Jewish students, and mobs in Europe hunting down Israeli tourists, just to name a few. I see calls for another Holocaust, or that “Hitler was right” in the comments section. Mental health tip: don’t read the comments section.

It’s our responsibility to not only pause for a moment in honor of the six million lives lost 80 years ago, but to tell their stories to keep their memories alive. This week, I had the honor of hearing all kinds of stories from colleagues about their loved ones: partisan fighters, DP camp lovers, and family members who risked their lives jumping out of cattle cars and in doing so, went on to create future generations of Jews.

And tomorrow, Israel performs in the final round of Eurovision. Take that, Nazis! Everyone wish Eden Golan b’hatzlacha!!

As we know, the only way to combat hate is with education and Jewish pride. And maybe some Krav Maga lessons. Here’s some Yom HaShoah content.

Read last year’s Drop written by my dad on a Holocaust education program he ran at the University of Bridgeport with Elie Wiesel:

A Poem by Janet R. Kirchheimer

Someone You Should Know: Dietrich Bonhoeffer

The other night in my neighborhood, I walked past a church with a sign paying homage to Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I didn’t know who he was, so maybe you don’t either. He’s someone you should know.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German Lutheran pastor and theologian who spoke out against the Nazis during World War II. His values of social justice and the moral imperative to stand against injustice led to his involvement in the resistance movement, even at great personal risk. Bonhoeffer wrote "The Cost of Discipleship" and "Letters and Papers from Prison," which continue to inspire with their profound insights into faith, ethics, and the nature of political resistance. He was executed by the Nazis in 1945, just weeks before the end of the war, but his legacy as a courageous advocate for peace and righteousness lives on.

📖 Book Rec: The Postcard by Anne Berest

After seeing this book everywhere last year, I finally picked it up (well, the audiobook). The narration made it hard to tell which character was speaking at times (I wish I read the darn thing), but by the end, I was crying, left feeling distraught and heartbroken. Not a light read.

Based on a true story, the main character’s family receives a mysterious postcard in the mail bearing the names of her relatives who died in the Holocaust. While juggling Jewish identity and raising a daughter, Anne begins a long search for its anonymous sender.

Part Holocaust novel that jumps between eras, part mystery, this book vividly captures a French family completely torn apart by the Holocaust, and a granddaughter trying to fill in the gaps. It helped me better understand France’s role in the war and French Jewry, specifically how French Jews weren’t seen as French, but as “the other.” While reading it, I thought, “There’s no way that the daughter of a survivor would have such little interest or knowledge in her relatives,” but I came to understand how that information was concealed from her during her formative years. Anne’s family chose to raise her more French than Jewish for her protection. No wonder she was grappling with her Jewish identity.

Shabbat Drop-In

🌸 SAVE THE DATE! The annual Shabbat Drop Shavuot picnic and kosher cheese tasting is BACK on Sunday, June 16th. I know it’s Fathers Day. Bring your father. ;)

Shabbat Shalom,

Call Me By Your Name: The Forgotten Exodus

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 03 May 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on May 3, 2024.

A hearty post-Pesach hello!

I hope everyone had a meaningful and delicious Pesach, or as delicious as it could be. I discovered Diddles and Haggada chocolate chip cookies, so mine was pretty tasty, thanks for asking.

An intro for all the new friends here:

My name is Miranda! I’m a NYC Jewish professional and unprofessional, driven by curiosity, enthusiasm (which I refuse to curb), and connection to this beautiful ethnicity and religion. About a year and a half ago, I decided to blog about the journey, sharing Jewish joy weekly, and picked up some friends along the way (shoutout to Josh from Toronto with whom I just grabbed coffee!). I sometimes host events online and in person (be on the lookout for the annual Shavuot picnic and next book club). Anyway, thanks for reading. It means a lot!

This is what I look like when I’m happy it’s spring.

Back to Pesach… we started a tradition in my family, as described in last year’s Passover Drop, where we require our guests to bring something that reminds them of any part of the Exodus story. This could be art, song lyrics, an object, story, etc. We go around the table and do a little show and tell. Again, people did not disappoint this year!

First, we had not one but two people compare the ten plagues to today’s climate crisis, with blood in the Nile representing plastics in the ocean, cattle disease and how cattle contribute to climate change, and death of the firstborn being death of our children. Yeah, it was a fun and uplifting seder!

Then someone brought a necklace he bought in the countryside of Portugal, where no local could explain what it was. So we took turns guessing. Some of us guessed it represented the stones of Jerusalem, while my mom thought it was a soccer ball.

What do you think it is?! What does it mean?! Comment below.

This year, I learned the most from my dad (as usual). He spoke about how the movie, Call Me By Your Name, a coming-of-age romance between two young Jewish men, is the story of the second Exodus. What?? How?? Well, pass the charoset and I’ll tell you.

The film was adapted from the novel of the same name (so it could have been called ‘Call Me By the Book’s Name’… ugh such a dad joke, sorry) by André Aciman, an Italian-American writer raised in Alexandria, Egypt as a Sephardic Jew.

Yes! Aciman’s parents were of Turkish and Italian origin, from families that had settled in Alexandria in 1905. He grew up speaking French, Italian, Greek, Ladino, and Arabic. During increased tensions between Israel and Egypt, it was becoming unsafe for Jews to live there, and they had to flee Egypt in 1965, when Aciman was 14. He moved to Rome and eventually settled in New York City.

Aciman chronicles his picturesque life in Egypt before the exodus in his 1996 memoir, Out of Egypt, which ends with the family’s last Passover Seder before they say farewell to their beloved home.

Here’s some brief history from Manya Brachear Pashman, the co-host of AJC’s podcast, People of the Pod:

“Egypt did not just expunge its Jewish community. It managed to erase Jews from the nation’s collective memory. Only recently have people begun to rediscover the centuries of rich Jewish history in Egypt, including native Egyptian Jews dating back millennia.

In addition, Egypt became a destination for Jews expelled from Spain in the 15th Century. And after the Suez Canal opened in 1869, a wave of more Jews came from the Ottoman Empire, Italy, and Greece. And at the end of the 19th Century, Ashkenazi Jews arrived, fleeing from European pogroms.”

Call Me By Your Name is infused with details of Aciman’s life in Egypt more than I ever knew. I saw the film years ago and didn’t remember the characters were Jewish. Yet, the main character, Elio, grapples with his Jewishness just as much as his sexuality. Even the setting of the Italian Riviera is really supposed to be the coastal Alexandria of Aciman’s childhood.

Navigating your Judaism can sometimes feel like trying to understand your desires as an awkward 17-year-old. I get it.

Are the two exodus stories here different? Of course. It sounded like Aciman’s exodus was one of pain, like his family really didn’t want to leave. But the antisemitism was so bad that his family had to flee just as quickly as the ancient Israelites had.

Here’s a quote from the author himself:

“Eventually, one morning, or one afternoon, I came back from school. And my father said to me, ‘You know, they don't want us here anymore.’ Those were exactly the words he used. ‘They don't want us here.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well, they've expelled us.’

And I was expelled with my mother and my brother, sooner than my father was. So, we had to leave the country. We realized we were being expelled, maybe in spring, and we left in May. And so, for about a month or so, the house was a mess because there were suitcases everywhere, and people. My mother was packing constantly, constantly. But we knew we were going to go to Italy, we knew we had an uncle in Italy who was going to host us, or at least make life livable for us when we arrived.”

These quotes are from an interview with Aciman on AJC’s podcast, The Forgotten Exodus, which features stories of Mizrahi Jews, the 800,000 people who left or were driven from their homes in Arab nations and Iran in the mid-20th century to forge new lives for themselves and their future generations. I don’t know about you, but this definitely makes me want to read the book and see the movie again! I can hear Sufjan Stevens now…

Here are some closing words from my dad:

“When we recall the Exodus at our Passover, we need also to remember the Second Exodus. This exodus came about when Israel became a state in 1948, and the Arab nations expelled Jews from their countries. Some 900,000 Jews were forced out or fled from their homes and in most cases were not allowed to take any of their possessions with them.

Thus, when we hear about the Palestinians who left their homes or were forced out when Arab nations attacked the new state of Israel, we should recall that as many if not more Jews were left homeless in this period of upheaval. Except they were not!

Arabs entered Arab nations and were put in refugee camps. Jews, forced out, went to the United States, or to Europe or to Israel, where in all cases they were taken in and became citizens.

Those Jews who fled of course do not seek to return, and no offer is made to compensate them for what had been stolen from them.

Thus, in this Second Exodus, Jews entered a new ‘promised land,’ and found freedom and the right to practice their beliefs whereas Arabs who left the area that had been called Palestine (not the original name) became refugees, stateless in lands belonging to other Arabs.”

And, for your enjoyment, here’s Fred (my dad) at the seder wearing his kippah that makes him look like the Pope with cousin Mike. Can you believe you get this kind of content for free?!

Shabbat Shalom and be well out there,

Meet Vince, a Jew de Vivre 🎉

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 19 Apr 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 19, 2024.

Why is this Passover different from all other Passovers? I don’t have to spell it out for you, but if I must… we’re embroiled in war, freedom feels out of reach when our hostages are still in Gaza, and most days, it feels like the whole world hates us. Geesh, maybe I’ll pass on the maror this year; I already have enough bitterness to out-kvetch a gaggle of old ladies!

I know we Jews tend to focus on the suffering part, but don’t forget that the Exodus has a happy ending. We eventually are liberated and united, and begin the journey toward “making things official” with G-d, but not without a little more kvetching.

I recently had an uplifting conversation with a new friend who is converting to Judaism. He was inspired to convert by a Passover seder he attended years ago. While I don’t need to be reminded of how awesome the seder is, it felt extra important to hear his enthusiasm on his spiritual journey, especially given the events of this year and especially around the idea of Jewish continuity. May we all be inspired by Vince’s journey and curiosity, and find liberation and peace soon. Chag sameach.

-Miranda

P.S. The first night of Passover is my mom’s birthday! Go wish my beautiful, talented mother a happy birthday in the comments!

This is not my mother; we’re back to Vince.

Vince, where in your conversion process are you?

I began in September 2022 and I’ll be finishing in May!

What have you learned in class?

There’s so much! It’s a crash course of the holidays, Shabbat, kashrut, marriage and sex, death, the Torah, the Shoah, G-d and the afterlife, Hebrew, and life-cycle events.

What initially drew you to convert?

When I was 21, I went to a Passover seder in Minneapolis with my friend Max’s family. It was my first Jewish experience, and it was mind-blowing to me. The fact that questioning is encouraged and is an intrinsic part of the seder was really cool and unique in terms of spiritual experiences. This profoundly spiritual experience in someone’s home, with no clergy, was really different from the Catholic tradition I was raised with. The idea that nothing is ever really settled is liberating. Also, the food was imbued with ritual meaning, and that was really amazing. There’s a randomness to eating a bitter herb and not randomness to it. It felt constructed but not arbitrary. The fact that it was simultaneously cultural and religious. It felt old… vibrant and alive, but really old at the same time.

What are you doing for Passover this year?

I’ve been seeing a nice Jewish girl for a few months and I’m going to her family for seder.

What’s been challenging for you during your conversion process?

There’s been a lot. Hebrew is tough to learn. The opportunities for learning or travel are geared towards people in college or college grads, whihc is fine, but being 35 is different. My priorities have shifted which has been really cool and difficult. A lot of social settings I used to find interesting have become a lot less meaningful or more antisemitic. That’s been heartbreaking, but now I have this meaningful part of my life that I used to not have, which is amazing, and things pale in comparison, even before 10/7. After 10/7, things that used to interest me just became a lot more difficult.

Be real with me… is there anything in Judaism you don’t like?

I don’t like benching. I delight in not benching because I find it boring. Also, women not being able to read from the Torah bothers me.

What denomination is your conversion?

My rabbi was ordained at what is called by both its advocates and detractors as “open orthodox,” so I’m getting a liberal, open-orthodox conversion. Conversion is actually a juridical question. In terms of who I am, that’s much less of a legal question. As for denomination, most of the Jews I know are Ashkenazi and I daven in an Ashkenazi format. The denominations are a bit of a crisis for Ashkenazi Jews; for Sephardic Jews there is just one denomination, or a lack of denominations. I’m comfortable in traditional prayer spaces with the full traditional liturgy but at heart I’m a pluralist. I don’t know if that makes me orthodox. It’s not really a question I ask myself; I’m just going to be Jewish.

What has surprised you?

I didn’t expect to lose my taste for pork. I’ve tried eating pork within the last year and I couldn’t.

What’s been an inspiring or fun part of the journey?

My social life is a lot better. There are a lot of opportunities to hang out with people, something as simple as Shabbat lunches or Shabbat dinners. There’s parties and holidays all the time. There’s hanging out after shul. People will also invite you out to do all types of stuff which I would like to be a part of more. I would love to have more regular friendships with people I’ve met in religious spaces.

How has your understanding of Judaism evolved?

That it’s just as much a tribe as it is a religion, and that it’s tribal in a non-metaphorical sense. I think most religions function in a way where belief precedes practice, and practice precedes belonging. In Judaism, it’s the opposite, where belonging precedes practice, which precedes belief.

I was drawn to Jewish thought and spirituality when I encountered it during Passover and was blown away by it. Then I went to shul and read the siddur – I wiped tears from my eyes so they wouldn't get on the siddur. For example, I was moved by all the stuff that talks about the personification of Shabbat, like greeting the Sabbath bride. I’ve talked to other converts who opened the siddur and also felt blown away by it. I encountered Jewish thinking and Jewish spirituality via Jews but then I realized that yeah, sure, there are Jewish ways of thinking and ways of asking questions, but you’re marrying into a people, regardless if you have a spouse or not. You’re wedding the whole people. You’re becoming them. It’s a tribe you can join.

What do you think about joining the tribe during high levels of antisemitism?

When you start to become Jewish, it’s like you relearn antisemitism. I had an adequate Holocaust education in my public school back in Wisconsin. But when you start to realize your neshama is Jewish, it’s different. Imagine if, on your 18th birthday, your dad sits you down and says, “There are some things about you that I want you to know that might explain how I move in the world and things that I’ve overcome that I’m proud of. Let me tell you about my crazy childhood...” And he tells you all these horrible, heartbreaking things. That’s what it feels like learning about antisemitism when converting. It’s not directly to you but it’s to your family. That, and admiration for the Jewish people having gone through so much but not letting it get them down. Jews have this joie de vivre given the circumstances.

That was my relationship to antisemitism before 10/7. Post 10/7 it’s similar - the heartbreak has only deepened - but I’m more worried and concerned about long-term trends than in the past. I’m committed to Jewish continuity and Jewish thriving. There’s an added layer to it.

Jew de vivre is definitely going to be the title of this post. So, what does Jewish continuity look like to you?

Hanging out with each other and being good to each other, whether you have a family or not. One of the things I didn’t expect was reading the prayers for the United States in the back of the siddur. I became a lot more patriotic very shortly after attending services. This country has a really troublesome, perplexing history but it is non-coincidental that Jews have done well here, as well as in Canada and Australia, and that is something worth valuing and preserving. Whatever has worked for Jews here, we need to be a part of continuing that. In terms of Jewish continuity, keeping your chin up about it. The State of Israel needs to exist as a Jewish democratic state, absolutely positively, and not lowering your voice about it.

What’s your favorite Jewish holiday?

Rosh Hashanah. It’s really spiritual. You have to think about yourself a lot. Plus, it’s during a lovely time of year. April is wretched where I’m from; it’ll snow on Passover sometimes. On Rosh Hashanah, the food is super sweet and you’re preparing for Yom Kippur, but Yom Kippur is really intense.

Favorite Jewish food?

Kreplach! I had it at my friend Gideon’s house for Shabbat dinner. I just love a meat dumpling.

Lastly, what are you up to this week for Shabbat?

I’m going to a Shabbat dinner! I actually had pre-existing plans and just forgot that this was the “big Shabbat” before Passover, so on Saturday I won’t actually be in shul. You forget a million little things like this when you’re still converting.

To Jew is to Do

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 12 Apr 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 12, 2024.

This week’s Drop is dedicated to my former colleague and friend, Ayela Meroody (z”l), who passed away this week. Ayela welcomed me with open arms last time I was in Tel Aviv. I worked with her at Alexander Muss High School in Israel, an amazing high school study abroad program, where this week’s guest also used to work. For a country so small, its people sure have big hearts. Ayela taught me that.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the honor of hearing my pal, Tuvia Book, give a talk on his recent experiences serving as a medic for the IDF in Gaza. I wrote a d’var Torah about it, connecting it to Leviticus, since the first few parshiot are all about sacrifices, an outdated Jewish custom. Or so I thought.

The d’var compared his selfless decision to volunteer during a war to a modern-day sacrifice. He was joined by Jews all over the world in the decision to drop everything and risk their lives to come together and voluntarily serve in Gaza. Hmm. Maybe we’re not so different from our desert-dwelling ancestors after all.

When there isn’t a war, Tuvia is a tour guide and educator, connecting Jews to their heritage in the place it all began, the Land of Israel. Meet Tuvia.

What specifically motivated you to drop everything and volunteer as a medic in the Israeli army during the war?

We learned in basic training: to Jew is to do, meaning that there are times in history where you must step up to the plate to become, in the words of Gandhi, “the change you want to see.” We all know that we do not have another land, and this is a war which was imposed on us (there was a ceasefire in place until October 6), and we have no choice but to fight until victory. I volunteered for a year. Not to take lives, but to save lives.

What has your experience been like?

I have been privileged to be serving in a very special IDF unit consisting of physicians, paramedics, combat medics, and combat troops. Every single person in my unit is a volunteer. Our mission is to provide rapid medical response, stabilization, and evacuation for our soldiers, our heroes. Everyone in my unit has come selflessly and voluntarily from all over Israel and indeed, all over the globe. They are men and women who represent the entire spectrum of society, religious, and political beliefs. United by one desire to destroy the evil forces who sowed terror and death upon Israel on the Black Saturday of October 7. (Source: The Times of Israel)

How do you think your experiences in the IDF have impacted your life and perspective on Israel and the Jewish people?

I learned just how united Israel really is. The IDF is one of those rare occasions when we’re on the same page. It’s when everyone realizes we need to get rid of terror, no matter what our politics are. They thought they could break us when Israel was at a time of civil war. Instead, October 7th united us. The spirit is strong in Israel. You feel that in the army. It’s only when you read the media that it seems weak. The sense of national unity is very uplifting.

From an educational standpoint, what do you think is/are the most important part/s of Jewish history that Jews should know to understand their relationship with the land of Israel?

It’s like what Natan Sharansky said: “If you don’t have a sense of history, you don’t have a sense of understanding.” Jewish education focuses too much on the negative. They don’t learn the positive, like when the Temple was built, what Jews did in Spain before expulsion or in Germany before the Shoah. Who were the Jews of Spain? Why was it called the Age of Enlightenment? A typical Spanish Jew spoke five languages and they were doctors and poets. When they learn about Israel, it’s a series of wars, but they don’t learn in 1950s the population doubled in size, in 1978 we signed a peace treaty with Egypt. There’s a danger in knowing only the negative stuff – the danger is you’re taught that it’s such a burden to be Jewish.

Regarding Israeli history, the most important topics are the history of Zionism and the founding of the State of Israel. They can read my book, For the Sake of Zion, which has sold 25,000 copies. It’s a basic textbook on Zionist literacy, explaining the Jewish connection to Israel, why Israel’s not an apartheid state, etc. If you don’t know your own history, then you can’t make the case for Israel.

“There’s a danger in knowing only the negative stuff – the danger is you’re taught that it’s such a burden to be Jewish.”

What other books do you recommend for learning about Israeli history?

For every person who cares about Israel, these are the books that should be on your Zionist bookshelf:

Israel: A Concise History of a Nation Reborn byDaniel Gordis
Why I am a Zionist: Israel Jewish Identity and the Challenges of Today by Gil Troy
The Nine Questions People Ask About Judaism by Dennis Prager and Rabbi Joseph Telushkin
Exodus by Leon Uris (the best entertaining novel, an oldie but a goodie)
Jewish Journeys: The Second Temple Period to the Bar Kokhba Revolt by Tuvia Book (2nd volume is coming out this summer)
The Atlas of Jewish History by Martin Gilbert
Start-up Nation: The Story of Israel's Economic Miracle by Dan Senor and Saul Singer
The Genius of Israel: The Surprising Resilience of a Divided Nation in a Turbulent World by Dan Senor and Saul Singer

What do you want the world to know?

The bottom line is that people hate strong Jews. They love their Jews to be weak. I’m proud to be part of a generation of Jews that defend themselves. In the history of Jews, we live in 2024, not 1924.

I also want to point out that Israel is hurting and now is the time to visit. Israel is losing a billion shekels a day in this war. There are 100,000 Israelis displaced. Don’t just share on social. Go and roll up your sleeves. There are many ways to show your support, and actions speak louder than words. Sending money is nice, but going there is better. There is nothing better than showing you care. Israel is always there for us, theres always pogroms and can take us in. It’s a symbiotic relationship, or should be, at least. That’s what real friends are, not fair-weather friends during the good and the bad. That’s how we get strong identities. So go to Israel. Do the first commandment - lech lecha - do some agriculture, but don’t only go when it’s bad.

What’s next for you?

I’m heading back to Israel and guiding two solidarity missions: a group of Jews and Christians from Utah and then a group from England. Then I’m going to Aruba for Passover, where I’ll be a scholar in residence for Chabad. Then I’m going back to Israel in May where I’ll be a keynote speaker at Ammunition Hill, a lone soldier center base. Then a few days later I’m going back into the army, maybe Gaza or maybe the north, depending on what’s going on at the time. Wherever there’s wounded people, that’s where we’ll be.

And lastly, what are your Shabbat plans?

I’ll be guiding a group at the Kotel on Shabbat in Yerushalayim. I’ll take them to the Kotel on Friday night, go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, walk around the Old City including the Christian and Jewish Quarters, and the Tower of David Museum because it’s one of the museums open on Shabbat.

Thanks, Tuvia. I wish you well on the next leg of your journey. Thanks for everything you’re doing on behalf of the Jewish people! Shabbat Shalom.

Creating Change, One Milk Carton at a Time

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 05 Apr 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on April 5, 2024.

It’s been an emotional and frustrating week. If you’re anything like me, you’re upset about the seven aid works in Gaza who were killed by Israeli airstrikes, and all innocent lives taken during this war.

If you’re also like me, you recognize that Israel’s war against Hamas is a just war against evil and the largest atrocity committed on the Jewish people since the Holocaust. Not only that, but you recognize this war will not end until the 132 hostages who, after six months, are still held captive in Gaza are returned home.

I’ve been reminding myself it’s possible to hold multiple beliefs at once. I can recognize Israel’s objective in this war, a cause any country would take up to defend itself against genocidal neighbors, while mourning the loss of innocent life and destruction and worrying what comes next for Gazans after this war. That’s not contradictory; it’s called being a human being… and maybe an open-minded intellectual who reads and understands nuance, but I digress (feeling snarky today!).

On that note, here’s a true and uplifting story, shared by a friend who will remain anonymous:

“I just walked to the corner store to buy milk. I go in there frequently and often chitchat with the owner of the store. I didn't know his name, but I know he’s from the Middle East. Anyway, I noticed when I walked in, there was a handwritten sticker posted on the outside of the door that said in marker, ‘From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.’ I was so upset seeing those words because it clearly was handwritten by someone. I don't know if the owner knew that it was there. But we know that the slogan suggests from the Jordan River to the Mediterranean Sea, everything in between – Israel and the Jews – should be killed. And what that creates in New York and in the U.S. is more antisemitism.

This is nothing to say about what's happening in Gaza, which is horrific, by the way, or about Israel's right to defend itself, which it does, although I don't believe in the way it is. But it was disconcerting to see that. So I went into the store, I got my milk and brought my black coffee to fill with my milk. We got to talking and he said, ‘I love having my coffee every day, but I can't have it now because it's Ramadan.’ So I greeted him with an ‘Eid Mubarak’ and asked how his holiday has been. I said, ‘I hope anyone you're connected to over in the Middle East is okay right now.’

As we got to talking about it, I said, ‘I noticed a sign on your door.’ And I explained, ‘With respect to what's happening now, the words ‘the river to the sea’ suggest that everyone between the river and the sea should be killed, to some. And what that means in New York and in the U.S. is more antisemitism and hate for the Jews. And it's happening a lot here and it's really unfortunate.’

We had this whole conversation. I asked him about his family. He told me that he was in Palestine until he was 17 and used to get picked up by Israelis to go over the border to paint houses and he saw so many good hearts, that the Israelis were good people. Like every place, there are good people and there are bad people.

I explained how a government is not representative of its people, like what I believe is very different than what Trump believes, for example, but I didn’t associate myself with Trump when he was in office.

After we talked, we walked outside and I showed him the sign. He said, ‘See, this is a sticker. Someone put this on the outside of my door. Now they know that now I have to get this off my glass door. But I understand what you're saying. I’ll get this removed. I'll have it taken down.’ Then we exchanged names and shook hands.

I think this conversation speaks to the beauty of what can happen with the kind of advocacy that is one-on-one conversations, neighborhood relationships, and the courage and the awareness to speak up and the compassion to listen. More conversations like these. This is how we make change, little by little.”

Shabbat Shalom. Here’s to more conversations like these,

Have a story or experience you’d like to share? Reply to this email!

Meet Randa, the Boss of Braided Bread

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 29 Mar 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 29, 2024.

To finish Women’s History Month strong, I wanted to rise to the occasion and feature my new friend, Randa, and her side hustle, Challah Back Baby. As much as I loaf challah, I don’t bake it very often, so it was fun to roll with Randa and hear about her business and her beautiful interpretations of this significant Shabbat bread. Doughn’t skip this interview; you’ll knead all her tips for your Shabbat dinners! Alright, enough of that… meet Randa!

What is Challah Back Baby?

Challah Back Baby is a baking workshop specifically for teaching how to bake challah. I not only teach how to make this traditional Jewish bread for Shabbat, but I also teach the significance behind challah baking. Twice a month, I host these workshops in synagogues, clubhouses, and other organizations, including one in my own home in Marlboro, New Jersey. There, in just two-hour classes, I lead a group in making challah and their very own challah covers with stencils and markers and napkin cloth.

I travel to people, mostly in New Jersey, but I’ve done one on Long Island. I pre-measure the ingredients and bring it into their home or organization. My biggest event was at a synagogue for 32 people.

A lot of attendees are mothers who never make challah. Sometimes I bring champagne or tea to drink while making it. If they’re getting tipsy I’ll make a game out of it, like every time you add an ingredient take a drink. I teach them how to make different kinds: chocolate which tastes like a babka, jelly, strawberries and blueberries. Really anything that is sweet can go into it for a sweet week. After that I'll pour cinnamon sugar on top for an extra sweetness. Shabbat is bringing in light and sweetness.

What is the significance of challah baking?

With challah baking, it’s a prayer. A prayer is made when you make a batch of dough. When making challah, you’re always giving a blessing to yourself but you’re also giving a blessing to someone that needs something, like if they’re sick and in need of healing. You keep the blessing in your mind when you’re putting the ingredients into the dough. The 10-15 minutes you spend preparing the dough is time you spend thinking about the person.

There’s symbolism – every ingredient means something. Take bowls, for example. What do our bowls mean? The bowl symbolizes a home; everything we put into our bowl symbolizes love and life, just like what we would want in our home. What’s water? Water is the purity in our lives. We should be thinking good thoughts when we’re in someone’s home or making bread.

Yeast means to rise; I am teaching people to rise to their fullest potential. Flour means coming together, which is what we do in these classes. Oil is a nod to the miracle of Chanukah, and to always believe. In my class, I say the miracle is that everyone came together today to make challah. Sugar is sweetness – to yourself first and then to others. Eggs mean fertility and could also mean making better lives, like someone is a bad egg, so how do you make them into a good egg? Salt represents the bitterness in our lives. A tiny bit of salt goes into the challah but you come away with something else. This asks: how can I make something in my life better?

How did you get into baking challah?

It started with my Hebrew school teacher. Years later, we were still in touch. She knew I was going through a hard time, contacted me, invited me over, and before I knew it, every Sunday we were making challah together. She introduced me to this beautiful tradition.

When I was making it all the time, I wondered how to give back to my community. I knew this was what I had to do and it makes me feel so good. Through Challah Back Baby, I’m teaching other women how to make an easier recipe. I make it so that I teach everyone to make two challahs (two because of the extra manna the Israelites received in the desert). My goal is to teach them how to make challah for others. It’s about giving back so the tradition can keep growing.

How did you grow up religiously?

I grew up keeping kosher and going to shul every Saturday. Shabbos was a big deal in my family. My mother is shomer Shabbos. She’s more religious, and I’m still religious. But she never made challah. Once I started making it, I taught her how to make it, and now she makes it once a month.

Can you share a challah-making tip?

Yes! Add a teaspoon of cinnamon into the dough before it rises to add sweetness. Another trick if you want that nice glazed look, take the yoke (not the egg white) and before you brush, add in a hint of vanilla extract.

What’s the significance of the challah cover and what are some of your favorites you’ve seen people make?

While the dough is rising, we make challah covers. You have about an hour for the dough to rise. You’re supposed to let it rise for two hours, but the whole class is two hours. We make it rise for about 50 mins and in that time I teach how to make a cover.

I teach what it means – when the bride is walking down the aisle, she is covered by a veil. Under the chuppah, now both the bride and groom are covered. Everyone says how beautiful they are. Once they take off the veil, the beauty is now shown. Challah is the bride of Shabbat. When we take off its cover, we’re showing its beauty one last time. On our Shabbat tables, the challah is hearing all these blessings (over the candles, the wine) and is supposed to not be embarrassed – everything’s getting blessed and this will, too.

The cover can also be used as a towelette to bring in love and light into your home. You’re not only making it for yourself but for your home or for someone else.

This is my way of doing more and being the best version of myself in my Jewish life, especially with everything that’s going on in the world. What are you doing to give back to the world?

And lastly, what are your Shabbat plans this week? I hope it involves challah!

I have recently moved to Harrison, NJ with my significant other. Shabbos has been a big deal for us since we moved in. I make soup and a chicken dish with a salad, veggies, and of course, handmade challah. This Shabbos we’ll be making a honey-glazed salmon with vegetables and plantains. I figured the spring months are on their way so I decided to make something sweet for a sweet spring to come soon. We will be saying blessings over the wine, challah, and Shabbat candles to bring in life, light, and beauty this Shabbat.

Facebook: @challahbackbaby Instagram: @challahbackbaby

✡️💦 Craving more Jewish content? Check out these related Drops:

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Ancient Courage and Modern Identity: A Purim Reflection

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 22 Mar 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 22, 2024.

Each week of Women’s History Month, I’ve been profiling an inspiring Jewish woman. Earlier this week, now that Purim is upon us (for a refresher on this fun and meaningful holiday read my old post Purim 101), I told myself, “Don’t write about Esther this week. It’s too cliché, don’t do it!!” I had other women in mind - don’t worry, I still include them in the links below - though I couldn’t help but draw parallels between what Esther did for the Jewish people 2,000 years ago and what Jews today can do for themselves and fellow Jews amid rampant antisemitism. Side note: I don’t like to say ‘rising’ antisemitism. Just like Jesus for some and unlike bread on Passover for us, it has risen. It’s here. And we must find a way to overcome it.

But first, here’s me in my costume at our work Purim party this week. Can you guess what I am?! (Hint: Pretend the Chumash is a Torah. There’s a bag of flour in my other hand.) For the reveal, follow me on Instagram at @theshabbatdrop.

In the Purim story, Esther concealed her Jewish identity, including her real Hebrew name, Hadassah, in the Persian court. She did this to protect herself amid tensions between the Jews and the Persians, and so that King Ahasuerus would choose her to be his wife. Purim fact: I recently learned the name Esther comes from the Hebrew astir meaning “I will hide.”

Similarly, in our modern world (still) fraught with antisemitism, many of us feel compelled to conceal aspects of our Jewish identity for fear of prejudice and discrimination.

Since October 7th, I’ve had friends wonder if they too should conceal their identities. They’ve thought of removing their mezuzah from their doorpost, or changing their name to a “goy name” on Uber to hide the fact that they have a Jewish name (Comment below with what your goy name would be!), or just… blend in.

Esther eventually summoned the courage to reveal her true identity to King Ahasuerus. It was out of urgency and desperation, because it was when she learned of Haman's plot to annihilate the Jewish people. Mordechai urged her to do so, and to plead with the king to spare her people. She did, and he did, ultimately leading to the downfall of Haman and the salvation of the Jewish community. Now let’s party!

Esther’s courageous act reminds me of the bravery required to assert our Jewishness openly in today's world. Whether it involves keeping your mezuzah up as a declaration of living in a Jewish home, or telling a room full of non-Jews proudly, “I am a Jewish professional” knowing it might lead to some uncomfortable questions, you are making a Jewish choice that could have tremendous effects on both Jews and non-Jews. By revealing your Jewishness to the world, you could inspire other Jews to do the same, which in turns tells our enemies that we’re not going anywhere. I might even be so bold to say this act could save the Jewish people. This is our urgent moment to reveal our true identity, our greatest pride.

This Purim, think of ways you could reveal your Jewishness, one small courageous act at a time. And give to the poor!

Other ways to reveal your Judaism, if you feel comfortable to do so:

Display other Jewish symbols proudly, like a Magen David necklace (Read Melanie’s Drop ‘I know we will overcome this’ for inspo!)
Join or start a Jewish affinity group in your workplace
Speak Hebrew loudly in public - if you’re Sephardic or from Long Island this shouldn’t be hard

Shabbat Shalom and Purim Sameach,

Interesting links about Jewish women in history

10 Jewish Women From History You Should’ve Learned About in School

How one wedding dress came to symbolize the strength of more than 2,000 Jewish women

A Millenium of Jewish Women’s Voices - an interactive map of Jewish history

Similar Drops to check out:

Purim 101

The Colorful Life of Iris Apfel

Jew Ho! The Jewish Bollywood Drop

The Colorful Life of Iris Apfel

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 15 Mar 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 15, 2024.

This Women’s History Month, I’m covering standout Jewish women in history. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention fashion icon and entrepreneur, Iris Apfel (z”l) who died on March 1st.

I’ve been personally exploring the theme of authenticity in both Jewish and non-Jewish areas of my life, and while she wasn’t all that actively Jewish, I couldn’t think of a better woman to honor. Iris was certainly her own brand, owning the look of short grey hair, oversized glasses, and colorful clothing with loud patterns up until the age of 102. Her bold look made me never fear aging, for if I could dress even a bit like her when I’m her age, I know my golden years will be full of joy. And since we’re in the Hebrew month of Adar, the month of joy, who better to celebrate than Iris?

“But Miranda, I don’t care about fashion.”

Hey now – Iris was more than knowing how to accessorize! The way she dressed reflected her approach to life: through courage, improvisation, and joy. Just keep reading, alright?!

Iris celebrating her 100th birthday (The Jewish Chronicle)

The self-proclaimed “geriatric starlet” was born Iris Barrel in Astoria, Queens, New York City, in 1921. She was the daughter of Russian Jews Samuel Barrel, whose family owned a glass and mirror business, and Sadye “Syd” Barrel, who owned a fashion boutique. It’s no wonder Iris grew up to be not only a fashion icon, but a savvy entrepreneur as well.

While not religious, Iris grew up connected to Jewish customs and traditions and values, like education, family, and embracing uniqueness and diversity, which likely inspired her throughout her career.

From a young age, Iris displayed a keen interest in fashion and design, often experimenting with different fabrics and styles. After studying art history at New York University and attending art school at the University of Wisconsin, Iris started a career in interior design.

In 1948, she married businessman Carl Apfel, becoming partners for life, in love, creativity, and collaboration. They started Old World Weavers, which sold and restored fabrics from around the globe. The couple traveled the world, from the Middle East to all over Europe, collecting textiles, jewelry, and other artifacts.

Iris with Carl (The Hollywood Reporter)

In the 1950s and 60s, Iris worked on design restoration projects at the White House for several presidents, including Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, and Nixon.

In her impressive life, she’s had an exhibit at the Met featuring her clothes and accessories (2005, entitled Rara Avis, a rare bird), wrote a best-selling book (Accidental Icon), and there’s been a documentary made about her (“Iris”).

Watch on YouTube

Some of my favorite Iris Apfel quotes:

“Are you a gal or a mouse?”
“When you don’t dress like everyone else, you don’t have to think like everybody else.”
“More is more and less is a bore”
“You’ve got to try it. You’ve only got one trip, you have to remember that.”
“I’m not pretty, and I’ll never be pretty, but it doesn’t matter. I have something much better. I have style.”
“Dress to please yourself. Listen to your inner muse and take a chance. Wear something that says ‘Here I am’ today.”
“I try to be happy whenever I can. I don’t fret about what’s past and we don’t know if there will be a future, so I make as much as I can out of what’s here now.”

✍️ Shabbat Prompt

When in your life are you most authentic? This could be secularly, like wearing blue lipstick just because you feel like it or standing up for your beliefs. This could be Jewishly, like praying on Shabbat but still using your phone because it’s your practice and whatever you make of it.

Bonus: Who is a Jewish woman in your life who inspires you and why? Comment with your answers below!

Shabbat Shalom! May you be bold enough to wear bright colors and funky patterns. Or whatever the hell you want.

Jew Ho! The Jewish Bollywood Drop

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 08 Mar 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 8, 2024.

Today is International Women’s Day, so this week’s Drop is dedicated to the 19 female hostages that are still held in captivity by Hamas in Gaza. It’s been 150+ days. We haven’t forgotten you.

Aaaand March is Women’s History Month. This month is dedicated to celebrating the contributions of women in U.S. history, but here at The Shabbat Drop, we bend the rules to make it about… well, whatever I want to write about. This includes Jewish holidays, Jewish books, Jewish ideas, and the best of what Judaism has to offer: Jewish women. But I’m not biased.

That’s why throughout most of March, I’m going to highlight Jewish women in history who have made an impact on society, challenged norms, shook things up, and inspired many while wearing their Judaism on their sleeve.

Our first Jewish woman was Bollywood’s leading lady, Ruby Myers, otherwise known as Sulochana.

From feminisminindia.com

Ruby was once the biggest Indian silent film star. The Angelina Jolie of Bollywood was also a Baghdadi Jew! Baghdadi Jews descend from Iraq and elsewhere in the Middle East, often fleeing from persecution from Muslim Turkish rulers of Baghdad. Some ended up in India in the 18th century via the spice trade and made a name for themselves, like the Sassoon and the Kadoorie families, which I wrote about a little here. Today, there are a couple hundred of them left in India, most having emigrated to Israel.

Born in 1907 in Pune, Western India, Ruby was discovered by a film scout while working as a telephone operator. She initially turned down his offer to work in film, but finally agreed, launching her lifelong career on screen.

The 20s saw the golden age of silent film. Ruby’s biggest were Typist Girl (1926), Balidaan (1927) and Wildcat of Bombay (1927). This is when she rebranded herself Sulochana, Sanskrit for "the one with beautiful eyes.” (What’s Hebrew for “the Jewish blogger with influential prose?”)

The 30s saw the arrival of movies with sound. Many silent film stars saw a lull in their career during this time, since Indian talkies required actors to be proficient in Hindustani. While many actors stuck to silent films, Ruby impressed everyone by taking a year off to learn the language, and she made a comeback with the talkie version of Madhuri (1932). She also opened her own studio called Rubi Pics.

Ruby in Shaan E Hind, 1936 (source: Flickriver)

Later in her career, she faced hurdles due to the industry’s patriarchal outlook on older actresses, and it became challenging for one of Bollywood’s biggest stars to find work.

She also faced backlash with her 1947 film, Jugnu, which was banned because it showed the "morally reprehensible" romance between an old professor and the beautifully-eyed Ruby. Yikes, I’d hate to see what the industry thought of my parents’ relationship back then!

In 1973, she received the Dada Saheb Phalke Award, the highest honor that can be bestowed upon an individual in Indian cinema, for her valuable contributions. She has also been portrayed in a documentary titled Shalom Bollywood (2017) that attempts to showcase the immense cultural contributions made by the Jewish Indian community to the entertainment industry. She died in Mumbai in 1983.

Watch on YouTube

Throughout her career, she’s played a gardener, a policeman, a Hyderabadi gentleman, a street urchin, a banana seller, and a European blonde. She’s been in 72 movies, and was the highest-paid actress of India’s silent film era, even more so than Bombay’s governor at the time.

She wasn’t the only Jewish Bollywood star at the time. Others included cousins Miss Rose (Rose Ezra) and Pramila (Esther Victoria Abraham, who was also the first post-independence Miss India), and Nadira (Florence Ezekiel Nadira). Can I get a Jew Ho?

Shabbat Shalom! May you honor and celebrate a talented woman in your life,

My story of Jonathan Pollard

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 01 Mar 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on March 1, 2024.

I want to tell you a story.

The year was 2015. I was a senior at George Mason University, brimming with the youthful promise of hope for my future. Actually, I was full of anxiety and, let’s be honest, probably alcohol from the night before.

I was the president of my campus’s Israel Student Association, inspired by recent trips to Israel and all that I had learned about Israeli history, fully in support of and passionate about the Jewish State.

My Zionism in college was as abundant as my hair.

One day, I was tabling in the student center, touting the basic Israeli advocacy points: Did you know Israel is the only democracy in the Middle East? Did you know Israel invented cherry tomatoes and instant messaging? Did you know Arabs make up 20% of Israel’s population and they serve in the government?

These are all true points to share if you’re teaching about Israel’s technological contributions and democratic values, but cringey if you use any of them as a reactive debate point to “Israel is committing genocide.” Let’s be better than cherry tomatoes and fight claims with facts! But I digress.

One of my professors approached me at the table. He was my friendly terrorism professor (because a professor of terrorism has to be friendly). At the time, I was taking a terrorism class for my minor in criminology.

He and I were schmoozing until he asked me, “So, what do you think about what’s going on with Jonathan Pollard?” The question caught me off guard. Here I was, ready to discuss cherry tomatoes, and he’s asking me about, well, someone I didn’t know.

That someone, Jonathan Pollard, happened to be a key player in the biggest scandal between my home country and the one I was representing on campus. A former U.S. intelligence officer, Pollard was convicted of spying for Israel in the 1985 and sentenced to life in prison. That day in the student center was the day he made headlines for having been released from prison after 30 years and was returning to Israel. It was a big deal to Israelis and some Americans.

After an uncomfortable silence and a mumbling of “Who?” my professor walked away and I wanted to hide under my table in shame. You’d think my professor would want to make this a teachable moment, but I guess not!

So I did my research and discovered who this Pollard person was and formed my own opinions. That was when I realized to care about something means to embrace it fully: learning about its nuance, its complexity, its problems, and its cast of wacky and problematic characters. Kind of like family! Just kidding, Mom and Dad.

On a more somber note, this is an idea I’m constantly tackling, especially these days with Israel’s war with Hamas and its extreme right-wing leadership.

Photo by Spencer Platt/Getty Images

Seven years later, this realization hit me again like a ton of falafel balls as I was on a religious trip to Israel, and who did our group run into on the streets of Jerusalem on Shabbos?! No, not 2018 Eurovision winner Netta Barzilai off to shul (that was another group, and she was not going to shul), but Pollard himself. A bit reserved, the man had been living freely in Jerusalem. Our rabbi introduced us to Pollard, who he deemed a hero, and we all moved on. I haven’t thought about him since. Frankly, I don’t consider him a hero so I try not to.

Now, my Jewish life has come full circle. In my free time, I write for Jewish Unpacked, and when the opportunity arose to write about a new show covering the Pollard affair, I jumped at the chance. Just kidding, I was apprehensive. To cover a story about a man who damaged U.S.-Israel relations at a time during war, a man who is a walking dual loyalty stereotype at a time when nearly 1 in 4 Americans hold antisemitic views, seemed unsavory.

But then I watched “Pollard,” the gripping four-episode docuseries, and was not only hooked, but was pleasantly surprised by how unbiased the show was. While I don’t view Pollard as the hero many make him out to be, I felt even more connected to Israel and my own belief system while watching the show. And I learned so much more about his life that it made up for my prior lack of knowledge. Take that, professor!

You can stream “Pollard” on ChaiFlicks, the leading streaming platform for Jewish and Israeli television. But before you do, read my article on it where I interview the filmmaker, Omri Assenheim, below.

Read my Pollard piece here

On Jewish Giving and Building a Better World

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 23 Feb 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 23, 2024.

I’d like to introduce you to a new friend of The Shabbat Drop: Effective Altruism for Jews, both the group and the concept. Last year, I attended their Shabbat dinner that I randomly found on OneTable. There, we discussed the importance of altruism in Judaism and different motivators for giving tzedakah, and then I tried helping a guy find a wife. You know, the usual Shabbat conversation, except more inspiring (for me and hopefully for the guy).

EA for Jews is a global community of Jews trying to improve the world as effectively as they can, using evidence and reason to determine how to best help others and taking action based on that research to help repair the world.

Below is an edited version of an article written by Zachary Brown, an EA for Jews volunteer, originally posted on Hey Alma. I hope you find it inspiring and insightful.

We always had a small tzedakah box on the shelf growing up, painted with a technicolor Jerusalem landscape. When I found a quarter on the ground, or my grandparents gave me 20 dollars, I would put some money in the box. When the box was stuffed to capacity, we would take the money to the bank, get it changed into larger denominations, and donate it. We would donate to a synagogue program to provide food for the homeless, perhaps, or to another local charity. When I was about 5 years old and obsessed with tigers, I insisted we donate to the World Wildlife Fund to save endangered wildcats.

As a small child, a few quarters here and there was a substantial portion of my income. More than substantial, since my income was, well, bupkes. But it never felt like a sacrifice to drop coins into the tzedakah box, because it felt like an affirmation of my place in the Jewish community.

I had learned in Hebrew school about God’s covenant with the Jewish people, and the mitzvot, or commandments, that were our end of the bargain. “As Jews,” my parents told me, “we give to the needy.” Every time I gave a penny I found on the sidewalk, I derived a corresponding naches, pride, at fulfilling my part of the community’s divine obligation.

I’m no longer a child with a fistful of pennies. I’m a confused young adult in a world on the brink. Even as we struggle to make progress confronting our age-old demons (racism, sexism, war, poverty, disease, exploitation, more), new technologies promise and threaten. We can envision a collective future of unprecedented global happiness, but are haunted by the fear of looming dystopia. Artificial intelligence is on the horizon; so too are new biological threats, climate change, political change, normative change. Amid all these changes, spare change in the tzedakah box no longer seems sufficient. Some argue we are at “the hinge of history,” a unique moment where our present actions may have disproportionate influence on the long-term future.

I wonder: how can I meet the magnified obligations of an outsized moment?

Two years ago, I discovered Giving What We Can, an organization encouraging people to take a pledge to give 10% of their income to the most effective charities they can find. It is not a Jewish organization, but its approach neatly parallels the Jewish practice of tithing, of giving a one-tenth portion of one’s produce or profits to charitable causes or the common good. This feels like a concrete way to translate my Jewish commitment to tzedakah into effective action and turn years of youth group tikkun olam talk into actual, um, tikkun–ing.

Giving What We Can is part of the larger effective altruism movement. Effective altruism is partly a research program, using reason and evidence to figure out the most effective ways to do good. It’s also a community, intent on turning those insights into action. The motivating principle is: If you’re going to try to do some good in the world, why not try to do as much good as you can?

Effective altruists try to understand what things we can do to improve lives as much as possible for as many as possible: for those living now and for those yet to come, for people as well as animals, for the marginalized and overlooked. Should I donate to alleviate global poverty, or to fund research to reduce the risk of global catastrophes? How can we positively influence the very distant future? What issues are most important, most neglected, most tractable?

So I’m pledging to donate at least 10% of my income to wherever I think it will do the most good. As I do so, I’ll take pride in joining an intergenerational chain of Jewish giving, extending from biblical tithing to the present.

I’m not surprised that so many Jews find effective altruism appealing, or that lately there has been a burgeoning interest in exploring the intersection of Judaism and effective altruism. Effective Altruism for Jews — a group I volunteer with — is a new organization aiming to inspire effective altruism in the Jewish community and support Jewish effective altruists.

It feels uncomfortable — sanctimonious, saccharine — to write about my new commitment to maximizing the good I do. I remember learning in Hebrew school about Maimonides’ hierarchy of tzedakah. He says we should give quietly, secretly, anonymously. But I have come to believe that part of the motivation behind Maimonides’ formula is the idea that we should give tzedakah out of a genuine desire to help, not a desire to be praised. I hope that, in talking about the promise of the effective altruist community, I can multiply my impact by sharing some of what I’ve learned.

I’m not some perfect tzadik. I still feel like a small Jewish kid in a world on the brink. But these days, as I fill my little technicolor tzedakah box (and an online donor-advised fund), I have new optimism: that these communities, Judaism and effective altruism, together, can make the world a bit less precarious.

Zachary Brown (he/him) is a recovering philosophy student now turned nonprofit data ana-lyst. Passions include whistling indoors, arguing, ducks.

Effective Altruism and Judaism Intro Fellowship

If you’re in the NYC area, you can put these ideas into practice with EA for Jews’ eight-week fellowship! This fellowship, starting in March, explores the core ideas of effective altruism and their relationship to Jewish tradition, texts, culture, and history.

It examines questions like:

What do Jewish texts and tradition have to say about our obligations to the global poor, animals, and future generations?
How should we balance concern for Jewish priorities vs. global priorities?
What can we do to most effectively address pressing global problems like global poverty, pandemics, and risks posed by emerging technologies?

Learn More and Apply Here

✍️Shabbat Prompt

When was the last time you gave tzedakah? Comment below.

Now go out and do some good in the world!

Shabbat Shalom,

My First Shiva Experience

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 16 Feb 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 16, 2024.

I just attended my first shiva. Up until now, my only experience with the Jewish seven-day mourning period was from movies like “This Is Where I Leave You” and “Shiva Baby.” Sadly, there were no fist fights or sugar daddies at this shiva. Maybe at my next one.

I did my research beforehand of what to do and what NOT to do. I Googled the rules of Shiva and talked to religious friends. I already knew the essentials, like don’t greet the mourner first - let them approach you - and expect them to have a tear in their clothing to represent the pain they feel.

What I did learn in my preparation was that unlike the movies, food is only for the mourners, so make sure to eat first. And when you leave, be sure to say the following to the mourner: “May you be comforted among the mourners of Zion.”

But as life often teaches you, preparation doesn’t fully ready you for reality, and often leaves you with more questions than answers.

Upon entering the mourner’s living room, I wasn’t sure where to sit. Do I make my way to the inner semi-circle surrounding the mourner, or do I start in the back and work my way toward them? If I did the former, would I be cutting people waiting to get closer? Wait, this isn’t divided by men and women, is it? There’s only men surrounding the mourner! They’re not praying, are they? Should I find some women to sit with in the back, just in case? (This is how my brain works in religious settings - fun, I know. And no, they were not praying.)

Thankfully, I found some friends in the back who called me over. I sat with them and was proud of myself for not saying, “It’s good to see you!” given the circumstance.

I quickly caught on to the flow of people moving closer to the mourner whenever a chair before us became empty. Taking my chance, I plopped down in an available one, and listened as he regaled the sizable crowd with stories of his loved one, often looking down with a forlorn smile. I felt claustrophobic among so many people in such a crowded space, though I realized the beauty of this problem, having a room full of people who have come to comfort the mourner.

Eventually, the person sitting shiva greeted me and thanked me for coming. By this point, my friends had joined the inner circle and we all heard stories, some I’ve heard before but didn’t mind because I could see how healing it was for the mourner to tell them.

That’s shiva in a nutshell - surrounding the mourner and showering them with love and lending an ear. When I lost my grandma years ago, there was no such ritual in my family, and all I wanted to do was tell people about how amazing her potato leek soup was, and of the summers I spent in her swimming pool. But I had no such outlet, so I wrote sad poetry about her instead.

The whole time, though, I couldn’t help but think how invasive the moment was. What if the bereaved family didn’t want to face people that day? What if they wanted to be left alone? But that’s the essence of Judaism - community, and knowing that you’re not alone, even when it feels like it.

I also thought it odd that he was sitting in a chair much lower than everyone else’s. I now understand this tradition comes from the Book of Job 2:13 (“They sat to the ground.”), but you’d think the mourner would want to be as comfortable as possible during this time. However, like the tearing of clothing to express pain, this practice reflects the same sorrow. #education

When it was time to say goodbye, I said a different version of my rehearsed line to the mourner, “May G-d comfort you among the mourners of Zion,” because that’s what it said on a sign behind him. I didn’t say it in Hebrew because it didn’t feel natural to me. I don’t think that diminishes the comfort I was trying to give him. I think he just appreciated me being there.

🥂Mood Change… Time for a Wedding!

Ahh, the circle of life. That evening, just a few hours after the shiva, I attended my first Persian wedding. Well, it was half Ashkenazi, half Persian, the blending of two cultures making it even more special.

Mazel tov, Dena and David!

It was traditional (chuppah, sheva brachot, all the works), but was also very bohemian, complete with a 30-minute meditation, a cacao ceremony, and a jam session. I danced the night away, celebrating love, tradition, and life. Because at the end of the day, that’s all you can do. Do it as much as you can. L’chaim! And thanks, Zachary, for the invite!

✍️Shabbat Prompt

Describe a Jewish tradition you experienced for the first time. How did you feel? What you learn? Did it change the way you thought about Judaism? Comment below!

Shabbat Shalom,

The best Jewish book, according to me

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 02 Feb 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on February 2, 2024.

“There is no right way to engage with Judaism—we just have to dive in and get started. We can’t leave the future of Judaism solely to rabbis, scholars, and Jewish professionals. While experts can certainly lead the way, the rest of us have to participate too, because…we may not like what they create.” —Sarah Hurwitz, Here All Along

This is just one of the many quotes from Here All Along: Finding Meaning, Spirituality, and a Deeper Connection to Life-in Judaism by Sarah Hurwitz that connected me even more deeply to my Judaism, if you can imagine. That’s why I’m deeming this the best book on Judaism!

But first, thanks to everyone who attended the first Drop’s book club! Our connection and love of Judaism extended from California to England as we discussed the book. For some juicy insights from our conversation, peep the bottom of this post, and be on the lookout for the next meeting. Have any book recommendations? Comment below!

Not pictured: Meredith!

I’m the first to admit this 4,000-year-old culture can be intimidating depending on your knowledge or experience. There’s so much history, holidays, and rules to remember and observe. How does one remember them all? Why are they so important to know? And most importantly, must we follow all of them to live an ideal life?

Part Judaism 101, part manual as to why it’s cool to care about being Jewish, this guidebook answers those questions throughout the following sections: the Torah, G-d, mitzvot, becoming a better person, prayer, Shabbat, holidays, and life-cycle traditions but mostly death. I’d also like to point out that Hurwitz, a former speechwriter for the Obamas and Hillary Clinton, didn’t connect to her Judaism until 36 so it’s never too late, people!

Here are my biggest takeaways from the book:

G-d doesn’t have to be a bearded man in the sky.

This topic came at the perfect time, as I’ve been having conversations with my colleagues (hi, Hannah and Eliana!) about G-d not being a man, and the Shechinah, the divine feminine. These conversations, and Hurwitz’s chapter on the various beliefs of G-d, challenged me to think beyond what I’ve been conditioned to believe. The views range from G-d being radically transcendent (Maimonides suggests that G-d is beyond human comprehension and completely separate from the created world, emphasizing the importance of understanding G-d through “His” actions and attributes as revealed in the Torah, rather than attempting to grasp “His” essence directly) to being all good but not all powerful (my favorite interpretation, even though I sometimes feel silly believing it, but that’s a whole other Drop). There’s more views than you’d expect, but you have to read the book to catch ‘em all. Maybe G-d is a Pokémon!

Study is a prerequisite for meaningful prayer.

In my Reform upbringing, we learned the songs, and they stick with you for life. You find yourself singing them automatically at shul, without even thinking about their meaning. Hurwitz talks about how study is a form of worship. It’s one thing to recite the Modeh Ani, but it’s another to understand what you’re grateful for (G-d restoring your soul after sleep). Rabbi Louis Finkelstein said, “When I pray I talk to G-d. When I study, G-d talks to me.” Like her G-d chapter, Hurwitz’s chapter on prayer taught me there’s more than one way to connect to G-d.

A refresher on the holidays but in a whole new way.

Hurwitz explains the significance of each major Jewish holiday in a way I wish I learned them in Hebrew school. Like how Passover “is the night on which we tell our children who they are.” Okay, that’s a Rabbi Jonathan Sacks quote, but Hurwitz delivered it to me on a silver platter, or in a matzoh ball soup bowl.

She also gave Sukkot, a holiday I’ve never felt connected to, a whole new meaning for me, by describing how while Rosh Hashanah may inscribe us in the Book of Life, Sukkot doesn’t guarantee that life will be pleasant or easy. Sukkot urges us to rejoice in whatever a life may look like, surrounded by people we love, delighted to simply be alive, and nothing else really matters beyond that.

Another delicious takeaway from her book is that the holidays reveal to us Jewish history, ethics, and deeper meaning that should be carried out throughout the rest of the year, not to just be celebrated and then forgotten until next year. For example, Passover teaches us to help the oppressed and Sukkot teaches us to take the bad with the good.

Shabbat isn’t just a rest from creation; it’s a creation of sacred time.

Okay, I didn’t learn anything new in the Shabbat chapter. But the way Hurwitz lists the benefits of Shabbat will make any reader turn off their phones at candle-lighting time and surrender their control over their lives to Shabbat. Am I going to list the benefits? You bet. Shabbat:

can help us stop being such control freaks and just let go for a change.
can help us fight consumerism, materialism, and workaholism.
can be a mini-holiday that injects joy into our lives each week.
can help us connect with ourselves.
can help us connect with others.
offers a vision of the world as it should be, inspiring us to improve the world as it is.

“G-d stopped to show us that what we create becomes meaningful only once we stop creating it and start remembering why it was worth creating in the first place.” —Vilna Gaon

Lastly, you’re not alone on this journey.

Hurwitz’s anecdotes were so relatable, I found myself writing in the margins, “YES!!!” Like when she describes being on a Jewish meditation retreat and her attempt at Hitbodedut, or speaking to G-d in an unstructured manner. I had the same exact experience in 2018, but I didn’t know that practice had a name at the time.

In the Torah chapter she says that when she first read the Torah, she read it for plot. My friends and I did the very same thing, asking each other, “What’s with the talking donkey?” when the point is to extract deeper meaning. And I’ve learned there’s much meaning—and interpretation—to be found!

Lastly, Hurwitz makes the point that she’s writing a book on Judaism even though she isn’t fully observant. I often feel this way too since I write a Jewish blog and don’t keep all the mitzvot (like Jewish Imposter Syndrome). But observance level isn’t a good way to measure one’s Judaism, since once could keep kosher but frequently gossip and lie. Rather, Hurwitz emphasizes there are many ways to be a committed Jew and what matters is improving the world through Jewish values.

As for the book club discussion, even though we had different backgrounds and levels of Judaism, we all came from a place of wanting to pick and choose and not feel guilty for it! It was like Jewish group therapy!

Someone made a beautiful point that people have different learning abilities, so why can’t people have different views of Judaism and interpretations that are unique and personal to them? We liked Hurwitz’s book because she recommends this while still respecting tradition.

Someone else suggested that instead of thinking “G-d wants us to keep mitzvot,” think of Judaism as more of a guide for our lives, like Shabbat is for us, not for G-d. Picking and choosing is really for ourselves to incorporate on our journey. And lastly, Judaism isn’t all or nothing, something I write about often here!

Shabbat Shalom. May it benefit you in some way,

Natesh's Search for Meaning

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 26 Jan 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 26, 2024.

Tomorrow is International Holocaust Remembrance Day. I’ve wanted to interview a Holocaust survivor on the Drop, but until I have the connections to do so (Please hook a writer up!), a personal story with an interview of someone I met on my travels will have to suffice. I hope his story inspires you to always learn, expand your worldview, educate others, speak your truth, and carry on the legacy of the six million Jews who perished at the hands of evil.

A few weeks ago I posted about my Jewish experience in Copenhagen, but didn’t mention my visit to Oslo. I didn’t have any planned Jewish experiences there, but oftentimes the best experiences are the ones that come as a surprise.

I booked a one-night stay in a mixed-gender room in a hostel because I’m a cheap risk taker. When I first walked in and settled into my bottom bunk, I started chatting up the young man in the bunk above me (Note: saying ‘young man’ definitely affirms my belief that I’m getting too old to stay in hostels.)

I broke the ice by saying to him, “Hi, I'm Miranda! I’ll be sleeping underneath you tonight!”

As we exchanged travel stories, I couldn’t help but notice a copy of The Diary of Anne Frank sitting in his bunk. Oooh, how to approach this with a stranger who has easy access to murder me in the night?

“So, what do you think?” I asked during a pause in conversation and pointed to the book. That’s a completely normal question to ask about a teenage girl who died in the Holocaust, right? I guess if I didn’t like his answer I could take my suitcase right out of there and request to switch rooms.

My bunkmate, whose name was Natesh, explained how it was his first time reading it. He started the book because of his fascination with the Holocaust and his desire to learn more about it. Naturally, I told him I’m Jewish, and the more we talked about the topic, the more my worries subsided.

He told me about how he moved to Germany, visited concentration camps, and is having conversations with friends from back home on the topic. I joked he was more Jewish than I am, but really I was impressed by Natesh’s curiosity and quest for knowledge.

Thanks to the internet, Natesh and I stayed in touch, and his story instantly came to mind when I started thinking about what I was going to write for Holocaust Remembrance Day. Here’s an interview with him, which he so graciously did when he was flying back home to Delhi for his cousin’s wedding (which he invited me to - major missed opportunity on my part!). Natesh, I’m so grateful to have met you! I hope to have you at my Shabbat table one day.

Natesh living his best tropical life

Where are you from and where do you live now?

I was born and brought up in the capital city named Jammu in the northernmost state of India called Jammu and Kashmir. Currently, I am residing in Munich, Germany.

How did you get interested in learning about the Holocaust?

I like to read about history, and WWII is one of the biggest historical events that has happened in modern-day history. I also believe it is very important to know the past wrongdoings committed by humans and to learn from them so knowing history makes sense to me. I had heard about the term “Holocaust” but came to understand it when my friend suggested the book Man’s Search for Meaning. It was written by an Austrian psychiatrist Viktor E. Frankl chronicling his life as a prisoner in concentration camps - one of them being Auschwitz - and life after freedom. I was quite shocked to learn about the atrocities committed against people just because they belonged to a certain religious group and it piqued my interest towards this topic.

How did you end up in Germany?

I got relocated to Germany for a temporary work assignment by my company for a year. Being in Europe and already knowing about the camps, I had already decided to visit at least one of them during my stay here to witness firsthand the heinous crimes committed as I had read about them. I visited Dachau (very close to Munich and the first concentration camp built by the Nazis) and Auschwitz-Birkenau in Krakow, Poland, as I knew about it already while reading about the Holocaust and also from the book.

What was your reaction while reading The Diary of Anne Frank?

I came to know about Anne Frank while visiting Auschwitz-Birkenau camp where they had a section of Jews in the Netherlands. It was quite shocking as well as amazing to know that people were living in hiding for years to escape persecution. Reading through the book, you wonder how basic things which we take for granted in modern day were a luxury for people living in hiding. The struggle of Anne Frank’s family and many such others in the annex gives a small glimpses of what people (Jews in particular) had to go through just to barely live. It is also a sad truth that countless girls like Anne Frank faced persecution during the war and never got to tell their story. I would highly recommend this book not just to know about live of Jews during the war but it also inculcates why we should be grateful every day for the life we have and to be more empathetic towards others.

During these days of increased antisemitism and lack of Holocaust education, what would you say to someone who may not know about these issues?

Well it is quite unfortunate that there are people who still don’t believe the Holocaust happened, but it is not shocking to me since my own community (Kashmiri Pandits) have experienced genocide and ethnic cleansing, and there is always some faction who tries to deny it. We should look up to Germany as an example for this as they have made it mandatory in their schooling to teach students about the atrocities committed by Nazi Germany and the things that followed after. I also believe they make the students visit a concentration camp once during their schooling. Moreover, we are fortunate that these concentration camps have been preserved as they serve as direct evidence of how low a human can stoop down to.

Also to people who don’t believe in Holocaust, I remember a quote just outside of the Birkenau camp: ”Never remain indifferent. Indifference kills.” During WWII, it was Jews and other minorities. Next time it can be you. We need more empathy and kindness, especially nowadays. The only way to know about these things is to read about them and to educate yourself. There is already an abundance of books and movies made on this event so one just needs to go through it.

HOPE - Humanity our Priority on Earth

Thanks for considering me to a part of your story, Natesh

Interested in this topic? Check out these similar Drops: - Studying the Shoah: An Educational Series (featuring my dad!)

A Torah in Tallinn: My Trip to Jewish Estonia

DON’T FORGET: The Shabbat Drop Book Club begins THIS Sunday on Zoom. You don’t want to miss out. We’ll be discussing Here All Along by Sarah Hurwitz. It’s sold out on Eventbrite so just give me your email address to get the Zoom link on Sunday.

Shabbat Shalom,

🌳Planting Trees for a Better Future

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 19 Jan 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 19, 2024.

This Drop is dedicated in memory of Leon Wildes z”l, who loved learning and teaching. May his memory be a blessing.

Approaching Tu BiShvat, Judaism’s “birthday of the trees,” we often turn our thoughts to being good stewards of the earth, the growing challenge of climate change, and our connection to the land of Israel, where the trees are about to bloom.

This year, my thoughts of Israel are colored by the war. I long for its quick conclusion - hoping for a return of the hostages and an end to the suffering of all affected by the hatred that fuels this conflict. I have felt sadness, sometimes anger, and often despair.

How might I connect these feelings to a Tu BiShvat message? Beyond seeing trees as a source of beauty and sustenance, Judaism sees the planting of trees as a message of hope and a commitment to our active involvement in building a better future.

“Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai taught, ‘if you have a sapling in your hand, and someone says to you that the Messiah has come, stay and complete the planting, and then go to greet the Messiah.’” (Avot d’Rabbi Natan)

In another well-known text, a wise man named Honi the Circle Maker meets an elderly woman planting a carob tree, which takes 70 years to produce fruit. Recognizing that the tree will not bear fruit in the woman’s lifetime, Honi questions the value of planting the tree. The woman replies, “Just as my ancestors planted trees for me, I am planting trees for my children and grandchildren.”

Why does planting the tree take precedence over greeting the Messiah? Why does the elderly woman plant a tree she knows she will never benefit from? Planting a tree maintains our commitment to the here and now and demonstrates our promise to build a better future, even if we will never live to see the outcome.

When the war began, I felt helpless and paralyzed. As the conflict continued, I looked for ways to help. It was daunting. How could I make a difference from so far away? I felt that only a miracle could change the course of the conflict.

But these texts remind me that we cannot rely on miracles, and our actions are critical for ensuring the future we wish to see. We cannot stop preparing for the future, even if the present looks bleak.

Empowered with this understanding, take action! Most importantly, educate yourself about Israel’s current conflict and its historical roots. Demonstrate against the rise of antisemitism. Donate to relief efforts. Check in with Israeli/Jewish friends and family.

And when this conflict ends, go to Israel and plant a tree, a statement of renewal and hope! Return to Israel and contribute to making it bloom, and be beautiful, again.

Jonathan Fass is a lifelong learner who is deeply committed to a Jewish and democratic state of Israel. He serves as the Senior Managing Director of RootOne, an initiative of The Jewish Education Project, that supports immersive Israel experiences for teens.

Bluegrass, Bourbon, and B'nai Mitzvahs

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 12 Jan 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 12, 2024.

This week’s Drop is dedicated to the memory of Yakir Hexter z”l, the nephew of my colleague, who was killed in Gaza this week alongside his study partner while fighting bravely to protect Israel and the Jewish people. As I told my colleague, this post may not be scholarly or about Torah, but it’s about something deeper: Jewish connectedness and family.

From Copenhagen to Kentucky, there’s Jewish life and stories waiting to be uncovered if you know where to find them. Luckily, Nathan Vaughan, podcast producer and masterful storyteller, has been documenting his family’s history on his new podcast, “72 Miles Til Kentucky” as a way to preserve these memories.

Listening to 72 Miles is like accompanying a friend on a journey as he returns to his roots, connecting deeper to his Judaism while recording family members who share sincere and heartwarming anecdotes along the way. Take his dad for example, who fell in love Nathan’s Jewish mom at a Baptist church when she was there working as a sign language interpreter. Together, they started a beautiful, southern, interfaith family. These lived experiences often mirror those conjured in I.J. Schwartz’s epic Yiddish poem titled “New Earth,” which follows the life of a Jewish blacksmith, newly immigrated from Lithuania, who settles in rural Kentucky with his wife and young son.

The stories go down easy like a glass of bourbon, tracing 150 years of Kentucky history, full of experiences that resonate today—being Jewish in America, being Jewish and southern, the lives of interfaith families, and finding creative ways to maintain one’s identity while experiencing small-town Jewish life.

I interviewed Nate, who produces our podcast at work, on how he started this project. And why 72 miles? Well, you’re going to have to listen to his podcast to find out.

Tell us about your family background and how your family ended up in Kentucky.

My mother was born in Trenton, MI, the third of six children in a tight-knit Jewish community just south of Detroit where almost everyone was related. She attended a synagogue named for her great-grandparents, and the iconic department store in town was owned by her aunt, but my mother was born to a less wealthy branch of the family. She never received a Jewish education, so she fell in with an evangelical youth group instead, and wound up running away to a private Christian college in Kentucky.

Nate with his mother while she was interim ED at CBE in Park Slope

My father was born to a southern Baptist family with over two hundred years of history in North Carolina, mostly as poor white folks. He was drafted into the Air Force during Vietnam and became the first person in his family to go to college, using his G.I. Bill benefits to earn an engineering degree at the University of Louisville. After four years on base, when he went away to college, his mother insisted that he find a church home. He picked Walnut Street Baptist Church because the service was telecast, and his mother watched at home, which meant she could always see that he was in church. That's where he met my mother, a nice Jewish girl from Detroit, who was working one Sunday morning, signing the service as an ASL interpreter.

One of first times Nathan’s family went to synagogue together, in Owensboro KY. It was for Purim, and his mother made that dress (and fascinator) herself. It may have been from her sister’s wedding, which would mean the fabric eventually made its way into Nate’s wedding chuppah.

What gave you the idea to start the podcast?

My mother's third career was as a Jewish educator and interim administrator for large Reform synagogues in moments of transition. In those roles, she met and counseled hundreds of interfaith families, using her own life experience as a guide. At length, she started to wonder if there was value to our family's stories, and how we could share those stories in ways that could support others on similar journeys. We started thinking about consulting, then life-coaching, even considered a cookbook. Finally we settled on a podcast, one that would share our stories, place them in context, and say something about the future of the American Jewish community.

From Nate’s mother’s adult B’nai Mitzvah, about four weeks before his own.

What has growing up in an interfaith family taught you?

Values can truly be universal, and if you're looking for community then perception matters too. I was raised in three distinctive religious traditions, and while I have always strongly identified myself as Jewish, I've learned from each of these traditions. I wish Jews took a moment in our service to "pass the peace" like Presbyerians do, because there's nothing more pleasant than smiling at someone and saying "peace be with you, my friend." And I probably only add the friend on because my father was a practicing Quaker. In a world where language is so important, the power of addressing every single person as "Friend" simply cannot be understated. The next time you feel an urge to say "sir" or "dude" or "buddy" try friend instead. It makes a remarkable difference for people to know they are your friend.

What has being a southern Jew taught you?

A friend and professor of mine, Dr. Rachel Fish, who's from Cookeville, TN probably sums it up best, a lesson she credits to her own father — to paraphrase her, "There is a tremendous privilege, pleasure, and responsibility in being the first and probably only Jewish person someone will ever meet in their lifetime."

The infamous yard menorah that Nate’s father built.

Any funny story you’d like to share?

I played a lot of Christmas music at band recitals in high school, and most years I marched in the town Christmas, playing "Winter Sleigh Ride" on a loop. By my senior year I was more than a little fed up. So I went on the internet, found the sheet music to "I Have a Little Dreidel" and asked my band teacher if I could play it for the winter concert. He agreed, and just like that I was a soloist.

I practiced every day. The sheet music I had downloaded was for piano, but I was a percussionist in high school who didn't play piano. So I chose the next best instrument, the xylophone. Loud enough to be heard by itself in an auditorium, with keys laid out exactly like a piano, I could hack the notes out on a xylophone the way people type with two fingers, just well enough to get by. The day of the concert approached, but I hadn't told my parents yet. In those days I was old enough to drive myself to school, and afterschool activities. So the first time my parents heard about my solo was when they arrived for the concert, and saw my name printed in the program while other parents kvelled that they couldn't wait to hear "Nathan play the Jewish song."

When my moment came, just before the intermission, the whole band stood and exited the stage, while I stayed behind, in the very back with all the percussion instruments. The band director strolled up to the microphone, said "And now, a solo by Nathan Vaughan," winked at me, and then abandoned me on stage before 1,000 people, including my parents.

I've never been a stellar musician, so I was pretty nervous. I hacked out the few notes, and made it through about half the song, feeling pretty confident. Then I came to the tricky part, which always gave me trouble. The pattern changed and like I'd done a thousand times before I accidentally paused for half a heartbeat while remembering where to go next, but this time I couldn't remember. So I stood there, hunched over the xylophone with the mallets in my hand, halfway through a song I'd known all my life, totally stuck on what to play, with a silent and seemingly rapt audience in front of me. So, in my nervousness, I slowly whispered to myself, "fuck..." Twenty feet away, the microphones were still on, and with my head still down I heard that word reverberate through the room. It hung in the air for a heartbeat or two, until suddenly the whole room burst out laughing. "I forgot the rest," I said, before bowing and running off stage.

Listen to 72 Miles Til Kentucky

Shabbat Shalom. May your Shabbat be filled with storytelling,

Shabbat Drop-ins

📅 Repair the World NY is hosting an amazing MLK Weekend of Service! If your Jewish values include a commitment to justice, this is a wonderful opportunity to put those values into action and make a tangible impact. Dr. King once said, "Life's most persistent and urgent question is, 'What are you doing for others?'" Join us in answering that question and being a force for good. Explore the programs and register here.

📅 Don’t forget about virtual Shabbat Drop book club! Join us on Sunday, January 28th at 5pm ET to discuss Here All Along by Sarah Hurwitz and Jewish identity, what we think about G-d, and other sects of Judaism. You know, shallow stuff…

Baruch ata Adonaj: Notes from Copenhagen

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 05 Jan 2024 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on January 5, 2024.

Hej! I went to Copenhagen over Christmas break and want to share my Jewish experience.

I’ve never intentionally sought out Jewish experiences while traveling (unless of course it’s on a JDC Entwine trip! Read about my Jewish Estonia experience from the summer here.). But given the war in Israel and my growing consistency to observe Shabbat in some way, I wanted to connect to my Judaism abroad, you know, to balance out sipping gløgg (mulled wine) in Christmasland.

A Brief History of Jewish Denmark

![Five Danish Jews pose outside a home in Copenhagen.

Among those pictured are the Hartvigs, the grandparents of Hetty Fisch.](/assets/columns/tsd/baruch-ata-adonaj-notes-from-copenhagen-1.jpg)

Danish Jews, 1941. Photo: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

Jews arrived in Denmark in the 17th century when a small number of Sephardic Jewish merchants and traders fleeing the Spanish Inquisition settled there (Yes, I’m doing bullet points. I’m jet lagged! If you’re really interested you can look this stuff up yourself!).
A significant Jewish community really began to form in the 19th century.
Denmark’s biggest Jewish claim to fame is its role in protecting its Jewish citizens during WWII. In 1943, as the Nazis planned to deport Danish Jews to concentration camps, the majority of the Danish population helped around 7,200 Jews escape to neutral Sweden. Big props to King Christian X who was an outspoken supporter of the Danish Jewish community.
After the war, the Jewish community in Denmark gradually rebuilt itself, and today it’s a small but vibrant part of Danish society with about 6,000 members.

Failed Attempts and Accidental Finds

Before visiting Copenhagen, I tried contacting their large synagogue, which is guarded 24/7 by armed security due to a recent Hamas threat. To those who think Hamas’ genocidal agenda against Jews is only about Israel: take note. Alas, they don’t accept tourists on Fridays. I passed by it and the gated entrance had a bunch of flowers and children’s toys in front of it which I was curious about.

I also tried visiting the Danish Jewish Museum, but it was closed despite Google’s listed hours. Here is a photo of me outside of it, refusing to be dismayed. Instead, I visited the national library that’s behind me in the photo, which turned out to be a great find.

However, some surprises were not so pleasant. After taking myself out to a cozy wine bar, I accidentally walked into a large pro-Palestinian, anti-Israel rally. Not my place to be! It was time to find some Jews.

Chabad of Denmark

Luckily, I had booked a Shabbat meal with Chabad. It wasn’t my first choice, as I had wanted to meet the Danish Jewish community, but I figured being with Jews is better than being alone. And your girl was yearning for her abroad Shabbat experience!

I was pleasantly surprised to have an eye-opening Shabbat meal. It was there that I was welcomed warmly by strangers, some who lived in Copenhagen and some who were passing through just like me. I met Jews from all over — the U.S., Brazil, Sweden, Israel — all with different flavors of Jewish identity like one big melting pot, or Smørrebrød (a Danish open-faced sandwich with many layers), if you will.

It’s really neat how you can meet a handful of people with so many different perspectives and life experiences. Over one Shabbat meal, I met:

✡️ A man who grew up in Israel and moved away at a young age because he didn’t fit in with the “macho” persona there, and has been living in Denmark for the last 30 years. I noticed despite leaving Israel, he was the most passionate defender of Israel when discussing the war. He was also connected to Jewish study despite having left Israel, which I thought was beautiful. ✡️ A young man from D.C. who was studying abroad in Kazakhstan and shed light on the Jewish community there. ✡️ His Danish friend who he was visiting, a young woman who wasn’t Jewish but felt a part of the community because she studied abroad in D.C. and joined a Jewish a cappella group and spent many Shabbats at Jewish homes in the D.C. area. She gave me insight into her non-Jewish friends’ views on the war.

At one point, I was Shabbat shamed (by a guest, not someone from the community) when I told someone I was leaving the next day. He said to me, “I wish you would take the full Shabbat to pause because it’s good for you.” Years ago, this comment would have annoyed me, but I brushed it off because this was my way of creating my own Shabbat experience. Previously, I never would have purposefully sought out a Chabad meal while traveling, and Judaism to me is all about progress and finding what works for you.

Towards the end of the night, I finally found a Danish Jew! He was actually half Danish, half Moroccan and we bonded over Kabbalah. He even gave me a pocket copy of the Zohar. Apparently, there are copies for different needs, and the one he gave me is for sustenance for my blog! Woohoo, let the subscribers roll in!

“The Jewish community in Denmark is lovely, especially Chabad. It’s my favorite Chabad of all. They are so loving and kind. Since the community is small here in Copenhagen you meet so many travelers here! I recommend everyone to visit Chabad Copenhagen.” -Benjamin

He walked me all the way back to my hostel to make sure I made it home safely and we talked more Kabbalah and he didn’t murder me. I promised him I would visit The Kabbalah Centre in New York, despite it being problematic in the eyes of some rabbis because they are open to all religions and “not very Jewish.” But I’ll have to see for myself, won’t I? After all, this is the Great Jewish Journey.

Shabbat Shalom! May this Shabbat open your eyes to other experiences and new people,

You might be interested in: - Jewish Identity on the Go-A Torah in Tallinn: My Trip to Jewish Estonia

Kosher reindeer, anyone?

5 Jewish Books I Read in 2023

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 29 Dec 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 29, 2023.

Shalom from Copenhagen! (Bet you don’t hear that often, but more on that next year…).

I recently read Hadassah Magazine’s article What Makes a Book Jewish? by Nora Gold, where eight famous Jewish writers like Anita Diamant and Dara Horn share their answers to this juicy question.

Aside from the predicted “dealing with Jewish experiences,” there were more insightful answers like Dara Horn’s unresolved endings mimicking real life, Helene Wecker’s outsider view of never quite fitting in, and Ruth Knafo Setton’s inclusion of diverse Jewish voices. When paired with Jewish scenarios and characters, these themes culminate to create a final product that’s educational, relatable, or downright intriguing.

Whatever you think makes a book Jewish, here were the Jewish books I read this year!

The Avengers by Rich Cohen

Heroes of the Holocaust and their legacies are often forgotten. Mostly we are taught of the Righteous Gentiles, non-Jews who saved Jews during the war. What about Jews who not only saved other Jews, but fought Nazis in the name of resistance? I present: The Avengers, the true account of a group of Jewish partisans from Lithuania’s Vilna Ghetto, and one of the best books I read this year. Imagine sneaking out of a city through its sewage tunnels, scheming in the frigid Baltic forest, and blowing up Nazi trains. Of course this book was tough to get through, but so necessary, because the story of this band of rebels led by Abba Kovner, Vitka Kempner, Ruzka Korczak is one of courage and dedication.

I learned about how Vilnius was once the “Jerusalem of Europe,” how these three real characters not only shared a bed but a dream of winning the war and moving to Palestine to live a life of freedom, and how they refused to cower and be “led like sheep to the slaughter.” The book doesn’t just tackle issues of revenge, but also makes you think about Zionism and the “new Jew” versus the “European Jew” of the Holocaust (David Ben-Gurion had some… interesting thoughts on this), and whether it’s better to build life anew, or run back toward danger to try to save as many of your people as possible. Plus, if you listen to the audio book like I did, it’s narrated by Larry King (z”l) so the whole story feels like breaking news! Hopefully it doesn’t have to be again…

Shmutz by Felicia Berliner

Switching gears here… this novel with its fabulously suggestive hamantasch on the cover was my first Goodreads win (yes, their giveaways are real!). A friend recommended this by saying, “You would LOVE this book! Well actually, I don’t know if you would…” So naturally, I was intrigued, mainly about my friend’s judgment of my taste.

Raizl lives in Brooklyn with her ultra-Orthodox family. While in school, she gets her hands on a laptop, which becomes the gateway to her porn addiction. Like Unorthodox, this is a story of wanting to break free and explore life beyond the Book and what the world has to offer. Parts of it were over the top and unbelievable, which is why I’m guessing my friend thought I might not like it, but the writing was stunning and you really got inside Raizl’s conflicted head. I expected it to be a fun book, but it was much more introspective and at times sad.

The Light of Days by Judy Batalion

Trigger warning: sexual assault and violence. If you don’t want to read about that, skip this book.

More Nazi resistance! Can you tell I had a theme this year? This book was similar to and even overlapped in characters with The Avengers, but focused more on Polish women in the resistance.

A great deal of research went into the writing of this book. I learned about how some of the fighters who looked more Polish and less Jewish walked around town disguised as Polish women, an acting job that meant life or death, and how some flirted with Nazis to get what they needed like a job or money. I learned about the high rates of sexual assault against women not only by Nazis but by Polish partisans, men they were fighting with. I learned how some female prisoners were forced to have sex with dogs. A rather gruesome read, much like The Avengers, but important nonetheless. Similar to The Avengers, it too ends in Palestine after the war. It was a little confusing to keep track of all the characters at times. I just found out this book is optioned by Steven Spielberg for a major motion picture, which would be an even greater way to get this important story out into the world!

People Love Dead Jews by Dara Horn

People love this book as much as they love dead Jews, but I just wasn’t on that bandwagon. In short, this book is a collection of essays on antisemitism with a provocative title. Using specific examples in history, literature, and Jewish life, Horn makes the point that the obsession with Jewish suffering outweighs respect for Jewish life, memorializing them in ways that prevent us from understanding the reality of their suffering. Take Holocaust fiction, for example. People rely on a “feel-good” Holocaust story, like The Tattooist of Auschwitz or The Pianist, to teach them about humanity rather than learning directly about the evils of humanity. Or how when traveling abroad, people seek out “Jewish heritage sites” that should really be called "Property Seized from Dead or Expelled Jews.”

I learned a lot from this book, like about the Chinese city of Harbin whose thriving Jewish community dissolved just as quickly as it was built, and the myth that last names were changed by immigration officers at Ellis Island. I just think a more accurate title should be People Don’t Care That Much About Jews. Horn’s caustic tone annoyed me at times, as well.

Joséand the Pirate Captain Toledano by Arnon Shorr and Joshua Edelglass

Pirates, adventure, and Jewish pride. What more could you ask for?! I wrote about this graphic novel in “🦸 The Marvels of Jewish Comics” when I bought it at the Jewish Comics Experience. I almost didn’t buy it because it looked like it was geared towards kids, but I was so intrigued by the story, I had to read it!

José Alfaro of Santo Domingo is a rambunctious teen with a secret…he’s Jewish. When he becomes a stowaway on a pirate ship, he discovers he’s not the only one. Set against the backdrop of the Spanish Inquisition, this exciting story with colorful illustrations will capture your heart and make you proud to be Jewish, and effectively, different. It also made me want to do a deep dive on Jewish pirates, perhaps for a future Drop?!

I read other Jewish books this year, like Jewish Meditation by Aryeh Kaplan and Here All Along by Sarah Hurwitz, but they’re deserving of their own Drops.

Speaking of…

Shabbat Drop-in

The Shabbat Drop Book Club is recommencing! I originally scheduled it for last October, but had to postpone due to… well, you know. I figured new Christian year, new Jewish discussion!

Let’s gather virtually on Sunday, January 28th at 5pm ET to discuss Sarah Hurwitz’s book Here All Along. I’m trying to make these meetings in person in NYC, so if you’re in the city you may want to hold out to discuss the book in the flesh. But if you really love this book or are lonely, join us on Zoom! RSVP. Link to come.

RSVP for the book club!

What Jewish books have you read this year? Let me know in the comments.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy New Year,

Meet Ronit, Israeli Artivist

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 22 Dec 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 22, 2023.

I met Ronit this year on Shavuot (Best. Night. Ever. I wrote a recap of it in my post called “Excuse me, is this "‘Jews and UFOs?’”). I loved her energy as we danced to disco beats silently on an Upper West Side rooftop.

I didn’t see her again until last week, when we ran into each other at a Brooklyn Hanukkah party. Call it bashert, because she told me all about her great activism work she’s doing in the art world to raise awareness of the 240 hostages that were taken by Hamas on October 7th. As of today, there are over 100 hostages still held by Hamas terrorists in Gaza. Meet Ronit.

Photo: 2023 Open Studios, Roshni Khatri

Ronit Levin Delgado is a New York-based multidisciplinary visual artist and from Israel. She was one out of three people selected from Israel as a Fulbright Scholar, a highly competitive prestigious international academic program with a mission to promote international cultural exchange and mutual understanding between nations through various disciplines. At the time, she didn’t think her nationality would have such an impact on her art. In fact, Ronit initially shied away from her Israeli ethnicity in the art world. So how did she become an “artivist” (artist + activist)?

“I am aware that only by being Israeli, my art has already inherited political context. I was trying to get away from this and create art that is more universal and expresses themes that everyone from any background, nationality, religion can relate to. We are all human beings and, in my art, I like to explore our common ground we share as a society. “

Five months ago, Ronit was awarded a residency with the prestigious Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, an Artist-in-Residency program on Governor’s Island.

When she first got accepted, she was planning on creating a multidisciplinary project called Muchachim Liyot Sameach מוכרחים להיות שמח (“Must Be Happy”), on the roots of Jewish happiness and joy, with the use of mirrors as introspective reflectionand feminine objects like lipstick to emulate self-love. It was supposed to be fun and uplifting, but all of that changed after October 7th.

“Chai” is a Star of David made out of lipstick that Ronit started selling to raise money for displaced Israeli families in need.

News broke out that Hamas attacked homes and a music festival in southern Israel. The terrorists had murdered, raped, and kidnapped women, men, babies, including her friends.

“I knew several people who died on October 7th. Israel is so small that it's impossible not to know anyone who was directly affected by the war, whether they were killed or kidnapped. I was so scared to open Facebook as my newsfeed was filled with more and more obituaries of friends’ families and my own friends every day.”

At the studio, she felt lonely, isolated, and unseen, and that was when she decided to pivot and make some noise for those held in captivity.

Photo: Jon Levi

#BringThemHome: A Silent Protest Performance

When Ronit returned to the studio after putting up kidnapped flyers around the city with other Israelis, she decided to utilize the posters and transform them into art by creating a performance on Governors Island and a large-scale installation.

She performed a silent protest performance on the island using the kidnapped flyers. Set against the pastoral backdrop and peaceful scenery of the island, Ronit wrapped herself in a Mylar Emergency Rescue Blanket bearing the faces of hostages in Gaza, followed by volunteers with their mouths covered by red tape. The performance served as a poignant statement that symbolized the global silence surrounding the hostages' release.

Photo: Jon Levi

“After October 7th, I couldn’t continue exploring the themes of happiness and joy that I initially researched for my LMCC residency on Governors Island.

After a week of feeling paralyzed and not going into the studio to work, I suddenly felt an urge, a responsibility as an artist to respond. So I created a silent protest performance art, where I called for people to join the march around the island, wearing red tape on their mouths to represent the world’s silence. I decided to use my voice and essence as an artist at a time when others couldn’t use their voice at all.”

Watch on Vimeo

She brought the performance back to her studio, incorporating elements from her previous pre-October 7th idea, like mirrors. To make the flyers personal and thought-provoking, Ronit replaced hostages’ faces with mirrors so viewers could see themselves as the kidnapped as an effort to build empathy.

Me as a hostage on a kidnapped flyer. I wasn’t sure whether to smile or not like the photos in the flyers. I know those photos are from before they were taken, but it felt wrong to smile.

But not everyone has empathy, unfortunately. Her studio mates’ reaction to the posters was not so positive. Fellow artists said it was offensive and propaganda that only showed one side (even though it was Hamas who broke a ceasefire pre-October 7th and carried out the deadliest attack on Israeli soil in the last 50 years), and that Ronit needed to censor herself (for what, telling the truth and sparing the gory details?).

“I couldn’t believe it! It wasn’t like I hung up pictures of the atrocities from October 7th, like the rape, burnt babies, and the aftermath of the horror. If you’re so offended by my art, maybe you should take a closer look in the mirror. Look inward and ask yourself why you’re feeling so offended.”

Kidnapped flyers cover a rock-shaped structure Ronit made from lightweight material, symbolizing the heaviness of October 7th, the Jewish mourning ritual of placing a stone on a grave, and the transformation from heavy to light.

“The events of the real world tested me and my art. It’s ironic that when I first started to explore finding inner peace despite the traumas that we all have as individuals, October 7th happened and I had to truly find it within the most painful national trauma that broke us all. I feel that it’s my role as a Jewish female artist (and human being) to explore and share different ways and processes to be happy even through hardship and heavy things that we carry (rocks).”

I had the chance to visit Ronit’s studio and see some of her work before she moved out of the residency. One of her upcoming exhibitions will be with the Jewish Art Salon at the 2023 Jerusalem Biennale (originally in November but postponed to March). I am looking forward to the day when this war will end, the remaining hostages are freed, and Ronit can go back to exploring Jewish happiness through her art.

P.S. For more Jewish art and exploring identity through photography, click here!

Ronit Levin Delgado Ronit Levin Delgado is a New York–based multidisciplinary visual artist and a Fulbright Scholar from Israel. Levin Delgado has won multiple awards and honors, including the most recent and prestigious Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, Artist-in-Residence program for 2023-24, the 2023 Amen Artist of the Week Fellowship, Asylum Arts, Trestle gallery, the Fulbright Scholarship, and is currently serving on the board of directors of Fulbright's Greater New York Chapter, The Jewish Art Salon, ArtKibbutz and the Muslim-Jewish Solidarity Committee as the Art and Culture Advisor. Levin Delgado has had solo and two-person exhibitions, and her multimedia work has been widely shown in international group exhibitions in Israel, Europe and the US, including the Queens Museum, Heller Museum, Art Basel Miami, Spring/Break Art show, Magnan Metz Gallery, Pratt Manhattan Gallery, Trestle, The Border, The Cell, Museum of Russian Art, Grace Exhibition Space (NY), The Frame (PA), Guttman Museum, Hertzelilinblum Museum (TLV), Cardiff, Wales and Leeds(UK). Her most recent upcoming show, Levin Delgado was selected to exhibit her work at the Jerusalem Biennale in November 2023. Her work is featured in both private and public collections.

www.ronitlevindelgado.com @ronitlevindelgado

🦸The Marvels of Jewish Comics

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 15 Dec 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 15, 2023.

Happy Tevet, friends!

The Hebrew month of Tevet is a Babylonian name that connotes “sinking” due to the heavy winter rains this time of year, making the land a muddy swamp. The word shares the Hebrew root with “tov”, meaning good. Try to remember the good during this dark, dreary period, like this cute goat! (And if you can tell me why I included a gif of a goat here in the comments, I’ll give you a genuine, free compliment!)

Now let’s get to the tov stuff… I love uncovering Jewish connections in unexpected places, like those clickbait articles titled, “Fish and Chip’s Surprising Jewish History.”

So when I learned about the Jewish beginnings of the comic book industry and how Jewish the most famous superheroes — Superman, Spider-Man, Captain America — really are, you bet I was tickled.

This interest started last spring, when I came across a comic book seller in Central Park selling a Jewish comic book series called “Israeli Defense Comics.” I was immediately hooked, not only for the spandex suit-clad macho Jewish man fighting terrorists in Gaza (sound familiar?), but how educational and explanatory the issues were. I don’t consider myself an avid comic book reader (I’ve dabbled), but I love the idea of a Jewish superhero with a Jewish background like Marvel’s Sabra, aka Ruth Bat-Seraph, who is both a mutant and a Mossad agent.

Israelidefensecomics.com

What makes a comic Jewish? Is it having a Jewish main character? Centered around Jewish themes like championing justice? A Jewish creator? How about a Jewish illustrator? Is every comic Jewish because the format was pioneered by a Jewish print salesman, Max Gaines? What about all of the above? Would it then be, dare I say, super Jewish?

I wrote a piece for Jewish Unpacked on this sometime ago, diving into the Jewish roots of the comics industry. In this article, you’ll learn why Jews started creating comics for a living, that the most famous comic book artists like Stan Lee were Jewish, and what some scholars say about the Jewish connection of some of your favorite superheroes.

Read the Jewish history of comic books

But wait, there’s more! I then attended the first-ever Jewish Comics Experience (JewCE) here in New York, a day-long festival of diverse Jewish voices in today’s industry. Hosted at the Center for Jewish History, hundreds of enthusiastic writers, illustrators, and readers celebrated and uplifted the People of the Book — the comic book, that is.

During a time of war, it was so beautiful to hear Jewish voices share their stories, fictional or not. Jewish voices like queer, Sephardic, hippie, Native American, Hawaiian, Iraqi, and more.

Me with a JewCE attendee dressed as Marvel Comics’ superhero, Sabra. I later learned we were already connected on LinkedIn. Endorse me, girl!

The stories were diverse, too: an 11-year-old Orthodox girl who fights trolls (“Hereville: How Mirka Got Her Sword”), a Jewish Chinese superhero with water powers (“The Last Jewish Daughter of Kaifeng”), a 16th century Jewish pirate (“José and the Pirate Captain Toledano”), to name a few.

But you can read about the experience in depth at Jewish Unpacked, where I wrote another article about the magic of Jewish comics and graphic novels!

📖 Shabbat Plot

If you’re interested in comic book history, I recommend The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clayby Michael Chabon. The story of two teenage cousins, Joe Kavalier and Sammy Clay, and the comics they create in 1930s New York is loosely based on the real creation of Superman. The book depicts the Golden Age of Comic Books and beyond through a tale of fame, friendship, love, and tragedy.

I hope your Shabbat is full of art and storytelling,

P.S. Have you figured out the meaning behind that goat yet? 🐐

Hanukkah: The Festival of Might

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 08 Dec 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 8, 2023.

🎉 Mazel tov to the Hannukah giveaway winner: Emily B., who will receive Adeena Sussman’s cookbook, Shabbat!

Note: This will be my second year fully embracing Hanukkah and not celebrating Christmas (except for maybe watching Love Actually). To read about that journey, read my post “The Jew Who Loved Christmas.”

The story of Hanukkah celebrates the Maccabees’ triumph over the Syrian-Greek army in the Land of Israel around 200 BCE.

It’s about the Jews versus Seleucids, ruled by a ruthless, power-hungry king who not only killed Jews but tried to kill Jewish tradition as well. It’s also about devoted Jews versus Hellenized, assimilated Jews, pitted against each other when they should have been united.

Rather than relay the whole history to you, I encourage you to watch this video from Jewish Unpacked which was written by yours truly! It’s my first script with them and I’m so proud of it and excited to write more.

Watch on YouTube

There’s one part in the beginning of the story I’d like to focus on, and that is when King Antiochus captured and desecrated the holy Jewish Temple.

You see, the Jewish people at this time were not united. Some were power hungry and rose in ranks in society, even becoming chummy with the cruel king and bribing him for power (I’m looking at you disapprovingly, Jason).

This is when the king and his men defiled the Temple by turning it into a Greek frat house, Seleucid style. There, they built a shrine to Zeus. They sacrificed pigs as an insult to kosher dietary laws. They destroyed holy books and stole precious items from the treasury. They forced Jews to celebrate pagan holidays and killed anyone who refused. On top of this, he outlawed Jewish practice, like studying Torah, keeping Shabbat, and circumcision.

No wonder the Jews rebelled. They rose up to fight and to preserve Jewish tradition that the Seleucids were trying so hard to quash.

A map showing where the seven battles of the Maccabean Revolt took place. Wow it’s like Jews are from the land of Israel or something! (My Jewish Learning)

On October 7th of this year, Hamas shattered the sanctity of what we once considered our impenetrable temple. No, not a literal Holy Temple — we don’t have one of those anymore (I’m looking at you disapprovingly, Romans).

Over 60 days ago, Hamas broke into our symbolic temple, destroying Jewish lives through murder, rape, and kidnapping in the name of terrorism.

Our temple was one of refuge: homes with families celebrating a joyous holiday, a music festival celebrating life, bomb shelters built to protect. Places and events where Jews typically gather and feel safe, maybe even nosh a little and sing together. A temple.

And now, antisemitism rears its ugly head daily. A mob gathers outside a university library to intimidate Jewish students. A hate-filled person desecrates a Jewish-owned restaurant. A public Hanukkah gathering is cancelled. And a few more, at that.

It was the internal strife in the story of Hanukkah that weakened the Jewish people and caused their loss of autonomy. But if history has taught us anything, it’s that when Jews unite, we can accomplish great things.

I’m not talking about defeating your enemy using strategic military campaigns (though that works too). I’m referring to the magic that happens when people put aside their differences to come together for a common goal. The power you can reclaim when you care about your Judaism and stand up for what you believe in.

In the story of Hanukkah, the Jews defeated the Seleucids and reclaimed their Temple, restoring their altars and lighting the menorah with the last bit of olive oil that famously lasted for eight miraculous days.

The Roman Jewish historian, Josephus, who gave us the term “Festival of Lights,” said the real miracle was bringing the freedom to be a Jew out of the darkness and into the light.

The Seleucids didn’t want to kill us; they wanted to break our spirit, strip us of our traditions, and assimilate us. Well, it’s time we channel our inner Maccabee. At a time when people are trying to scare us and tell us we’re not deserving of our homeland, we must stand tall, together, in defiance with our Magen Davids, our Israeli flags, our Shabbat practice, our menorahs. Our light.

Something cool I recently learned is that Chanukah has the same Hebrew root as the word chinukh, which means education. We can start by educating ourselves on our history, where our people come from, why they dispersed all over the world, and how after all this time, they still have not destroyed us — in body and in spirit.

Chag Urim Sameach (Happy Festival of Lights),

Recipe Time: Apple Fritters with Vanilla Sugar

Photo: David Leite

Someone generously gifted me Portico: Cooking and Feasting in Rome’s Jewish Kitchen by Leah Koenig, full of Roman Jewish recipes! Besides ancient Israel, Rome has the oldest surviving Jewish community in the world. Its history is 2,000 years old, stemming from the Hanukkah story when Judah Maccabee sent envoys from Judea to seek protection from King Antiochus—and stayed. The Roman Jewish community has lots of olive oil in which to fry food like artichokes, but here’s a spin on classic potato latkes: apple fritters!

Ingredients

For the vanilla sugar

2 vanilla beans
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar

For the fritters

4 large baking apples, peeled
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 cups milk or non-dairy milk
Vegetable oil (such as sunflower or grape seed) for frying

Instructions

1. Prepare the vanilla sugar: Split the vanilla beans and scrape out the seeds; set the pods aside. Put the sugar and vanilla seeds in a food processor and pulse until fully combined. Transfer the sugar to a glass jar, add the reserved pods, cover tightly and set aside. (The sugar can be used right away, but the flavor will develop over time. It can be stored, tightly covered, for up to 1 year.)

2. Prepare the fritters: Using an apple corer (or a melon baller or sturdy metal teaspoon), carefully remove the apple cores and discard. Slice the apples into 1/2-inch-thick rings and set aside.

3. Whisk together the flour, sugar, salt and baking soda in a large bowl. Add the milk and whisk until smooth.

4. Heat 1/2 inch of oil in a large frying pan over medium heat until shimmering. Line a large plate with paper towels and set nearby.

5. When the oil is hot, working in batches of 4 to 5, dip the apple rings into the batter, let the excess drip off and carefully slip them into the oil. Fry, turning once, until golden brown on both sides, 2 to 3 minutes per side. Transfer to the paper towel-lined plate to drain.

6. Sprinkle the fritters generously with vanilla sugar while still hot and serve immediately.

It's here! The 2023 Hanukkah Gift Guide!

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 01 Dec 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on December 1, 2023.

Happy Friday!

Next Thursday begins Hanukkah, or what some incorrectly assume is “the Jewish Christmas.”

This holiday, with a meaningful history of fighting persecution and preserving Jewish tradition (but we’ll get into that next week!), gained cultural prominence in the late 19th century, at a time of large-scale Jewish immigration to the U.S. when many Jewish immigrants embraced American customs in order to fit in. This included ditching their native tongue like Yiddish for English, pursuing higher education and careers, and celebrating secular holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But if you Christmas-ify a Jewish holiday, you kill two elves with one sword, if you catch my violent, metaphorical drift.

And speaking of tradition, last year on The Shabbat Drop I compiled a list of the most ridiculous Hanukkah gifts I could find. Here’s this year’s list!

1. The Banana Menorah

Make sure your loved ones get their extra potassium this holiday season with this $150 menorah. So good it gets its own website. It even comes in stainless steel and travel size! Bonus: Dirty Martini Menorah

2. Curb Your Antisemitism Hoodie

Move over, Anti-Antisemitism Club, hoodie! There’s a new design in town, and it’s prettay, prettaay, prettaaay good.

3. Dill Dough

Alone this holiday season? Don’t get sour! Treat yourself to a Dill Dough. This putty helps you take the edge off and dill with your stress. Slimy and sticky, it fits nicely in the palm of your hand, and smells realistic too! Gherkin’ off with it will make you feel cool as a cucumber. And yes, it even glows in the dark. (It’s a glow-er, not a show-er).

4. Hebrew T-Shirt

A t-shirt with an ancient, wise Hebrew saying from the Talmud. Click on the link above to find out what it means.

5. Summit Ice Apparel

Do you want to sport activewear while supporting Holocaust education? From windbreakers to sweatpants, Jewish Canadian comedian and actor Nathan Fielder’s clothing line can make your dreams come true.

I was reminded of Summit Ice when walking around the Upper West Side the other day and saw a guy wearing a hoodie. It came out years ago, but if you don’t know what it is, Fielder started this nonprofit to combat Holocaust denial when he found out his old windbreaker company paid tribute to a famous denier. But don’t take my word for it!

Watch on YouTube

So Fielder started making his own breakers and donating 100% of the proceeds to the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre. His website even has facts about the Holocaust and the reminder that six million Jews did die in the Holocaust.

BONUS: Hot Jewish Hanukkah Book

A spin on Hanukkah… and I’m not just talking about dreidels here! Cartoonist Danielle Brody and activist Michael Valdes teamed up to make this fun and humorous guide to all eight nights, complete with recipes, their own gift guide, and a — wait for it — Latke Sutra.

Win a Shabbat cookbook!

To express my gratitude to my subscribers (and let’s be honest, to help boost readership), I’m doing a giveaway! If you’re already subscribed, you’re automatically entered to win Adeena Sussman’s Shabbat cookbook, with recipes like spicy butternut squash pasta with crispy sage breadcrumbs, and sweet potatoes with miso tahini butter. You get BONUS entries if you get a friend to sign up (let me know their email address!). The winner will be announced next Friday.

Shabbat Shalom. xx Miranda

Who will repair the chain?

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 24 Nov 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 24, 2023.

“Where we live”

if I am assaulted on the street please don’t sidestep or swipe my jewelry the broken chain pulled from my neck gold star six points my father’s i’m glad he isn’t alive to see the evening news jews in danger on the street where we live

he used to call every other day ask about work share the 5-day forecast for my town weather his biggest worry caution driving in slippery conditions ice is a killer hurricane coming my way

if alive today he’d call at noon and 6 talk about the storm the virus ask if I’d been out worn a mask

he’d mention the star of david always around his neck took it off twice for surgeries not taking it off now wears it under his shirt

if assaulted on the street today his gold glinting off my neck not a collar or noose a link

i hear him cry out who will repair the chain

Maddy Lapides 11/10/2023

Wartime Photography

If you’re following the Israel-Hamas war and you’re on Instagram, you must follow photographer and filmmaker Shahar Dekel (@shahar_dekel). Shahar is a 26-year-old student who was living on Kibbutz Nahal Oz, one of the kibbutzim that was brutally attacked by Hamas on October 7th, and is now in the reserves. He’s been keeping a “war diary" on Instagram, and I feel like these beautiful photos that capture the human side of war will go down in history. But see for yourself!

Shabbat Shalom! xx Miranda

The Secret History of Iran's Mashhadi Jews

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 17 Nov 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 17, 2023.

Salam Aleikum (Peace be onto you)! My name is Nabila Levian and I am a first-generation Iranian Jew.

I work with Miranda and when she asked me to write about my Iranian culture and heritage, which makes up roughly 2% of global Jewry, I was excited to say yes, especially given that November is Mizrahi Heritage Month. Mizrahi Jews are Jews from the Middle East and North Africa.

Jews have been living in what is now Iran since the Babylonian Exile in the 6th Century BCE. Many are from all over Iran — Tehran, Shiraz, etc. My family comes from Mashhad, a city in northeast Iran.

The History

Jews have been living in Mashhad since the 1740s, when the Persian king, Nader Shah, invaded and defeated the Mughal Empire. To develop industry and commerce, he relocated 40 Jewish families, known for their honesty and loyalty, from Qazvin to Mashhad.

Nader Shah helped the Jews there prosper and invited their extended families from Qazvin, Kalat, and Sabzevar to join them. Nader Shah had many enemies though. In 1747, the king was assassinated. As a result, the Jews lost their primary support in the government. This was when things took a turn for the worse and they were openly mistreated by the local Muslims.

The Jewish Quarter

After Nader Shah’s death, Jews were only permitted to live right outside the city wall. Some years later, they allowed the Jews to buy land just inside the wall. This section became known as the Jewish quarter, Eidgah.

A Mashhadi Jewish Family (The Times of Israel)

Much like during the times of World War II, the Jews had to wear identifying marks on their clothes to distinguish them from the general public. They weren’t allowed to enter holy places of the Muslims, nor use public bath houses. They had to pay high taxes and had many other restrictions. In addition, they were often attacked in the streets for no reason other than being Jewish. They were not allowed to defend themselves in front of judges and in the courts of law either.

The Shiite Muslims resented the prosperous Jews and on March 27, 1839, initiated a devasting pogrom on the Jewish community three days before Pesach. During the mob attack, 400 Jews were attacked, approximately 36 Jews were killed, and 7 Jewish girls were abducted to become Muslim child brides. Sefer Torahs were desecrated.

Two Faiths, Two Cultures

To save their own lives, some Jews converted to Islam in what was called Allah-Dadi (God’s Judgment). Officers were assigned to watch over them to make sure they didn’t practice their old faith. Jews who returned to their old faith received the death penalty.

That didn’t stop them from practicing Judaism, though. Much like in the story of Hanukkah, people smuggled in Sefer Torahs and gathered secretly in basements. People risked their lives studying in secret schools, keeping Hebrew and Judaism alive in the community. They had secret Brit Mila ceremonies, Mikvehs, and even baked matza in secrecy so as not to eat chametz on Pesach. This secret double life lasted nearly 100 years.

Their situation improved in 1925, when Reza Shah, the head of the Pahlavi dynasty, ascended the throne and became the new Shah of Iran. He implemented modernizing reforms which greatly improved the lives of the Jews. Religious freedom was granted to all minorities which lead to great rejoicing in Eidgah.

Chaos Once Again…

However, Pesach of 1946 brought a second blood libel that befell the Jews of Mashhad. A fanatical mob, inspired by Nazi Germany, accused the Mashhadi Jews of using Muslim children’s blood to make their matzah. Realizing they were no longer welcome in Mashhad, the Jews relocated to Tehran. By 1956, approximately 2,000 Mashhadi Jews had settled in Tehran. Some left Iran completely and emigrated to Israel instead.

Life in Tehran

Shah Mohammed Rezah Pahlavi succeeded his father as king and treated the Jews respectfully, allowing them to practice their faith freely. The Jews thrived once again, establishing synagogues and working in the importing/exporting of rugs, textiles, and jewelry, some of which the king purchased from Jews for his wife.

By the late 1960s, the king modernized Tehran, establishing shopping centers, and no longer forcing women to wear “chadors” (traditional head coverings). It would have been easy for Jews to assimilate then, but they made sure to maintain their religion and customs.

Power of Evil: Iranian Revolution of 1979

In the late 1970s, a group of Islamic Revolutionists began to emerge in Tehran and were forcefully against the modernization of Iran. In 1979, just as the Mashhadi Jews of Iran had finally become financially established, religiously comfortable, and outwardly proud of their traditions, the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Revolutionists, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini (a Shia cleric), decided to take matters into his own hands and started dangerous, violent, and often very deadly attacks in the streets of Iran.

Islamic fundamentalists believed that the Shah of Iran was responsible for the modernization of their country. As a result, he was officially overthrown from his kingship on January 16, 1979. The Shah and his family fled from the country they had once brought peace and justice to, never to return. As Shah, he had recognized the State of Israel – something that was uncommon in those days, especially in that region.

After the Shah was overthrown, Ayatollah Khomeini and his followers sought to destroy other minority groups as well. In a matter of what seemed like a few short days’ notice, the Jewish community had to leave immediately. They had to leave in such a rush, that most families were forced to leave behind their properties, cars, businesses, jewels, family heirlooms, and other monetary and sentimental valuables, such as beloved synagogues and cemeteries.

New Beginnings in New York

By 1980, the Mashhadi Jews escaped Iran and dispersed all over the world. Some moved to Europe (London, Germany, Italy, Belgium) and Israel. Most moved to Queens, NY because they knew they could practice Judaism freely there.

They initially rented out the basement of an Ashkenazi synagogue in Kew Gardens. Many were uncomfortable because they felt that they were leaving behind their own unique history and heritage.

In 1983, the Mashhadi community obtained a property in Kew Gardens and built their very own Sephardic synagogue, Congregation Shaare Tova, and also purchased a very large section of Montefiore Cemetery, where community members were buried and continue to be buried there at present time.

Mashhadi Community Present Day

By the ‘90s, the Mashhadi community had adapted to their new environment. As businesses stabilized, and they experienced religious freedom, families decided to move to the suburbs and moved to Great Neck on Long Island. Today, the Great Neck community consists of approximately 7,000 individuals. We have three synagogues in Great Neck: Shaare Shalom, Ohr Esther, and Shaare Rachamim.

My Family’s Story

In the 1960-70s, Iran’s economy was doing well, and the country was thriving thanks to the Shah (the king, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi) at the time. My maternal grandfather, like many Iranian Jewish businessmen at the time owned his own jewelry business and was often selected by the advisors, closest to the king – to present jewelry to be purchased for the queen (Farah Diba).

When the Islamic Revolution had violently begun in 1979 and the Jewish families living in Tehran (and in other cities) realized that they were no longer safe, my grandfather (and many other men) decided to send his family ahead to America while he stay behind to close his businesses.

During this time, his competitors had told the Islamic Revolutionists about his business dealings with the Shah. On the very last day, when my grandfather was finally able to leave Iran (he headed to the airport with a bag of loose Jewels in his pocket), eagerly looking forward to reuniting with his family in New York, he boarded the plane, only to hear an announcement over the loud speaker that the plane would not take off until he would de-board the plane for some questioning by the authorities.

My grandfather knew it at that moment that he would soon experience his demise. He asked to use the restrooms in the airport before being detained, where he hid his bag of jewels, hoping to retrieve them again someday. My grandfather was beaten and arrested for life in prison for the mere reason that he was Jewish businessman who had sold Jewelry to the Shah & Queen of Iran.

A few other Jewish men who had stayed behind to close their businesses heard of my grandfather’s arrest and several weeks later, they dug him out from underneath his prison cell. In the dark of night, they had arranged for camel nightriders to take him into Turkey, where he was later able to fly to America and reunite with his family.

Unfortunately, many families experienced similar situations and trauma as a result of having to flee from the peaceful country they once knew & loved, under the regime of Shah Pahlavi.

Iranian Cultural Foods

Now onto the fun stuff! We make a delicious dessert for Purim (where the Purim story took place, as Esther & Mordechai are buried in Hamadan, Iran).

Authentic Persian Halva

This dish is often made for those who are breaking a fast, such as the Fast of Esther – it is very sweet and is used to replenish the body’s lack of energy while fasting. Served best with a cup of tea.

• 200g/7oz Whole wheat flour

• 110g/3.8oz Dark brown sugar

• 1/2 cup Rose water

• 1tsp Ground saffron

• 100g/3.8oz Water

• 100g/3.8oz Clarified butter

• A handful of almonds & pistachios for decoration

Make the syrup: Place the sugar and water in a saucepan and bring it to a simmer. Cook for 15 minutes. Add in the bloomed saffron and rosewater and cook for 3 more minutes. Turn the heat off and set the syrup aside.
Toast the flour: Heat a large pan over medium heat and toast the flour for 20 to 25 minutes until it smells nutty and the color is light to medium brown.
Butter and oil: Add in the butter and oil to the toasted flour and cook for 15 more minutes. This will form a roux that's smooth and has no lumps.
Syrup: Slowly add the syrup and stir well using a wooden spoon until the halva comes together. The mixture will be sticky.
Final mix: Set the spoon aside and start shaking the pan and tilting the halva from one side to the other until it separated from the pan and forms a roll.
Plate and serve: Transfer to a plate and smoothen the top with an oiled spoon. Top with ground pistachios, desiccated coconut, edible rose and slivered almonds

Shabbat Shalom! Nabila

Miranda here: If you would like to share your family’s Jewish story or heritage, reply to this email and we can make it happen!

My Jewish Gratitude List Pt. ii

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 10 Nov 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 10, 2023.

This week’s post is dedicated to Rose Lubin z”l, a 20-year-old lone soldier from the Atlanta area who served as a border police officer in the Old City of Jerusalem and was stabbed to death this week by a terrorist while defending the Holy City. Rose made aliyah in August 2021 and in March 2022, she drafted to the border police. She defended her southern community on October 7th. She was joyful and loved life and Israel.

“I’m not going to wait for the world to do something great for me. I’m going to do something great for the world.” -Rose Lubin, Bat Mitzvah speech

Around this time last year, I wrote a Jewish gratitude list that was inspired by a colleague’s social media challenge called #NoMarinthisCheshvan, where she posted one thing she’s grateful for each day of the month of Marcheshvan.

The challenge is named for the month we’re finishing up, Marcheshvan, a month known to be “bitter” (mar) since there are no holidays and it’s when our matriarch, Rachel, died.

Since then, a year has passed, and now the Jewish people are at war. I say the Jewish people because the Jewish nation is in a literal war, and global Jewry is fighting a war against hatred.

Because of recent events, it’s more important than ever to find light in our daily lives. It’s easier said than done while we may feel overworked, overwhelmed, in mourning, and/or stressed while we lose sleep, sob, argue, doom scroll, etc.

That is why I choose gratitude, and this Shabbat, I invite you to think about what it is you’re grateful for in your Jewish life. Or not Jewish! Can’t forget my non-Jewish readers, for whom I hold extra gratitude. Here’s my part two.

Jewish books. There’s a book for anything you could possibly be interested in: Holocaust fiction, memoirs of interesting lives, humor, philosophy, tradition, history. Lately, I’ve been reading non-fictional books about partisans during WWII. I’m currently reading The Light of Days:The Untold Story of Women Resistance Fighters in Hitler's Ghettos byJudy Batalion (what a fitting last name!). It’s obviously not an easy read, but I am inspired by the strength and bravery of these women. It also serves as a reminder that no matter how hopeless these days we’re in may feel, I feel personally lucky to not have lived in Europe during the Holocaust. I like to think I would have had the courage to fight back against the Nazis but I just don’t know. On that happy note, what’s your favorite Jewish book or the last Jewish book you’ve read? Answer in the comments below!
Supportive non-Jewish friends. I have had three non-Jewish friends reach out to me during this time asking if I was okay. At the time, I was grateful for their thoughtfulness in asking, but was even more grateful when I posted about it and got so many replies from Jews to the tune of, “I can’t believe you had three non-Jewish friends reach out. I have had zero non-Jewish friends reach out and I am so hurt.” Henry, Mario, and Florent: thank you for supporting Jews at a time when many of us feel like people don’t.
WhatsApp. So many Israelis use this app, it’s practically Jewish! As much as I find WhatsApp to be annoying, the support groups I’ve been a part of during this time have been a godsend. Or a Metasend? It’s how I’ve been learning of rallies and events and volunteer opportunities. It’s where I hear of local antisemitic incidents before they’re on the news. It’s where I go to vent to strangers who listen. I can’t wait for this war to be over just so I can leave these groups, though. It’s too many notifications. (Dark humor. Joke. Chill.)
My work. Aside from doing amazing work like providing educators with resources to teach their learners about Israel and antisemitism and being a support system for educators nationwide, my organization has been so supportive during this time. I can’t imagine working for a non-Jewish company right now. I hear stories from friends of lack of support from their places of work. But what does my work do? Set up spaces to talk, have a good cry, learn, pray. Tell me, “Hey, I know it’s a rough time right now. Take all the time you need.” Charter a bus to a rally. It’s been busy but incredibly supportive, and for that I am thankful. We also have a scholar in residence who inspired the No Mar in this Cheshvan challenge, and I actually have a call with her today to help answer some of my questions related to Talmud and war.
Jews connecting to their Judaism. There’s nothing I love more than people connecting to their Judaism and going deeper. I think I was a rabbi or a naggy grandmother in my past life. It makes my day when someone texts me and asks how they can be more connected, what Judaism says about a certain topic, or what organizations I recommend they join. This doesn’t happen too often, so when it does, it feels special and important. Like the antisemites lose because they fail to realize they’re only making our Judaism stronger. In fact, there’s a global tefillin shortage because so many Jews are returning to their faith. We love to hear it!
Bonus: Supportive Jewish friends. You think I was going to mention non-Jewish friends and NOT mention Jewish friends? Get outta here! Just kidding, please stay. The beauty of this dark time is the unity I’ve experienced within our resilient community. So I’d like to acknowledge those whose friendships have only strengthened during this war. Whether you’ve sent memes or articles, vented, let me vent, hosted me for Shabbat, answered questions, or stood beside me at a rally, just know I’m grateful for you. I hope you feel equally supported.

Shabbat Prompt ✍️

I want to know what YOU are grateful for in your Jewish life. It could be anything. Let’s hear it. Comment below, Shabbat babes.

I know we will overcome this.

Miranda Lapides — Fri, 03 Nov 2023 00:00:00 GMT

Originally published on The Shabbat Drop by Miranda Lapides on November 3, 2023.

I wear a Magen David (Star of David) necklace hanging around my neck. I’ve worn this necklace mostly every day since 2018 when I bought it in Jerusalem during the year that I was living and working for a Jewish humanitarian organization in Israel. I’ve only taken it off a few times—one of those times being in 2021 when I was traveling during the most recent war, prior to the one occurring in this very present moment.

I was raised as a reform Jew. I don’t keep kosher and I don’t keep Shabbat. But I wear this necklace as a daily reminder of my commitment to the values and teachings of Judaism, as a commitment to my Jewish community, and as a commitment to myself.

I am scared to be Jewish right now. I’m scared to be living in public wearing a symbol of Judaism, my Magen David necklace. I’m scared that people around the world have called to “Gas the Jews.” People have said, “Israel is worse than Nazi Germany.” People have denied the atrocities of October 7th and are even tearing down posters of those still being held hostage, almost three weeks later. Some people have called for Intifada, an armed uprising to target the killing of Jews.

I am so sad. I am so sad that the world is silent. I am so sad that Holocaust survivors are having to relive this horror again, just 78 years later. I am so sad that we have to defend our right to defend ourselves.

October 7th was the largest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust. The percentage of antisemitic incidents in the United States has increased a striking 400% since the horrific and barbaric attacks committed by Hamas on October 7th.

On college campuses around the United States, Jewish students have been both physically and verbally attacked and harassed. Protests around the world have called for the total destruction of Israel. A professor at UC Davis threatened Jewish journalists and their children in a tweet she posted. Students have been told they should have burned in an oven.

After hearing and seeing these horrible antisemitic incidents over the last few weeks, I have thought about taking my necklace off. I’d likely be safer if I did so. But I’m wearing it so tightly around my neck. I pick up my Magen David pendant between my fingers as a daily reminder of the resilience and strength of the Jewish people.

I remind myself how grateful I am to be Jewish, how grateful I am to be a part of a people who value love more than hate, and to be part of a rich tradition that promotes deep introspection and reflection and has incorporated values of Gemilut Hasadim (bestowing kindness) and Tikkun Olam (repairing the world).

As Shabbat draws closer this week, I am choosing to take pride in my identity. I will light the Shabbos candles. I will continue to do Mitzvot (good deeds). I choose to continue leading my life driven by love, compassion, and kindness. I will do what I can to bring light into this very, very dark world.

I know we will overcome this. Because we have persisted every single other time the world has tried to destroy us.

—Melanie E.

Links of Love

Miranda here. These links have all been vetted or have been started by friends of friends. Do something kind this Shabbos!

Blossoms of Hope: Fill out this form to send flowers to suffering Israeli families.

Just One Thing: Get matched with an IDF soldier and take on a mitzvah in their honor! I am committed to keeping kosher in honor of a soldier named Achiya.

Free Shabbos candlesticks: For Jewish women new to the candle lighting game!

Free tefillin for men: Always wanted your own tefillin? Fill out this form and get more spiritual with who else… Chabad!

Friends of Givat Haviva: Donate to a peace center for Israeli Jews and Arabs in a northern Israeli community in honor of Israeli-Arab fallen soldier Awad Darawshe who was killed by Hamas while treating wounded victims at the Oct 7th massacre.

Shabbat Shalom

xx Miranda

Connect with me on Instagram @theshabbatdrop.