Debunking a False Choice: Jewish Survival and the Good of the World

A recent controversy in Michigan raises an important question about what it means for Jews to care about the future. Michigan Attorney General Dana Nessel, speaking to a Jewish Democratic group about the upcoming Senate election, urged Jewish voters to put the “needs of the world” above their own self-interest, and even “our own survival.” Her comments generated significant criticism, not simply because of the politics involved, but because of the philosophy behind the statement. The suggestion that Jewish survival might have to be placed on one side of a moral equation, with the good of the world on the other, struck many as deeply troubling. Parshat Nitzavim offers a very different framework. At the end of Moshe’s final speech to the Jewish people, he tells them: רְאֵה נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ הַיּוֹם אֶת הַחַיִּים וְאֶת הַטּוֹב, וְאֶת הַמָּוֶת וְאֶת הָרָע... וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ . “I have placed before you life and death, good and evil... choose life, you and your descendants.” Choosing life is not simply a personal decision. It is an intergenerational responsibility. We are commanded to choose a future in which the Jewish people continue to exist, to raise generations, to be ambassadors of Torah and Jewish values, and to carry our tradition forward. The argument that we must choose between Jewish survival and the good of humanity is a dangerous idea and a false choice. We must understand that being Jewish is one of the ways we make the world better. By preserving our Jewish values and teachings, we are able to contribute essential ideas to the world. For instance, the Torah teaches the sanctity of human life, the dignity of every person created in the image of God, justice, compassion, responsibility for the stranger, care for the vulnerable, and the obligation to build a society guided by morality. These are not values that the world would be better off without. They are values the world needs. For thousands of years, the Jewish people have contributed to civilization in ways that extend far beyond our own community. Those contributions can only continue if there is a strong and vibrant Jewish community going forward. We are not the first generation to face the question of whether Jewish life is worth preserving, and we will not be the last. Every generation receives Judaism as a gift and a responsibility. We inherit a tradition that survived because previous generations chose to preserve it, and we have an obligation to make sure that it remains vibrant and relevant to those who come after us. There are many things that we are willing to sacrifice for the sake of others, such as our time, our money, our comfort, and our personal interests. Judaism teaches us to look beyond ourselves and to care deeply about the broader world. But Jewish survival itself cannot be treated as something expendable. It is part of the responsibility we have been given. The world does not benefit from a weaker Judaism or from a Jewish people that is less secure, less confident, or less willing to preserve its identity. The world benefits from a Jewish people that is alive, thriving, and able to contribute its unique voice. The choice, then, is not between Jewish survival and the good of the world. The choice is whether we will have the courage to believe that the Jewish people still have a role to play in making the world better. This is what it means to choose life, for ourselves and for those who come after us.  We choose Jewish life not at the expense of the world, but because we believe that the world is better off with a living, thriving Jewish people. 

The Altalena & Bikkurim: Lessons in Jewish Unity

This week, news came from Israel of the discovery of the wreckage of the Altalena, the ship that sank off the coast of Tel Aviv in June 1948, just weeks after the establishment of the State of Israel. The ship was carrying weapons and fighters for the Irgun, and its arrival created a bitter confrontation between Menachem Begin and the new Israeli government led by David Ben-Gurion. The confrontation escalated into fighting between Jews: three IDF soldiers and sixteen Irgun members were killed. Begin ultimately ordered his followers not to retaliate, warning against allowing the confrontation to become a civil war.

The wreckage was found 1600 feet beneath the Mediterranean, nearly 80 years later. And it is hard not to notice the timing. The discovery has reopened one of the most painful chapters in Israel's history at a time when Israeli society is again deeply divided as they gear up for national elections on October 27. In the days immediately after October 7, 2023 we heard often that a lesson from that tragedy was the importance of Jewish unity- and the danger of Jewish discord. In case this lesson starts to fade with time, Parshat Ki Tavo reminds us on an annual basis. At the center of the Parsha is the mitzvah of Bikkurim. A farmer brings the first fruits of his harvest to the Beit Hamikdash and makes a declaration beginning with the words: אֲרַמִּי אֹבֵד אָבִי “An Aramean sought to destroy my father,” according to the familiar interpretation of Rashi. But Ibn Ezra offers a very different reading. He understands oved not as “destroyed” but as “wandering,” meaning, “My father was a wandering Aramean.” Why does the Torah ask a farmer standing in the Beit Hamikdash, surrounded by the bounty of Eretz Yisrael, to begin his declaration by remembering that Yaakov was a wandering Aramean? Yaakov's family was not simply wandering geographically. It was deeply divided internally. Yaakov's children were fighting with one another, Yosef was sold by his brothers, and the family that should have become a unified nation was fractured by jealousy, distrust and resentment. The consequence was exile. Yaakov's family descended to Egypt, and eventually the Jewish people became slaves to Pharaoh. The Bikkurim declaration therefore begins with a reminder of the internal divisions that helped set the process of exile into motion. We often think about Jewish continuity in terms of the threats that come from outside, including antisemitism. And those threats are real. By Bikkurin the Torah reminds us that there is another danger, one that is potentially even more pernicious because it comes from within. The Altalena is a sobering example. In 1948, Israel was surrounded by Arab armies determined to destroy the new Jewish state. And yet, in the midst of that existential external threat, Jews came frighteningly close to fighting a civil war against one another. The issue was weapons, authority and competing visions for the future of the State, but beneath those issues was the inability of Jews who shared the same dream to maintain their unity when they profoundly disagreed. Begin's decision not to retaliate preserved something greater than a political victory. It preserved the possibility of Jewish unity.

Jewish unity does not mean that we always agree. It does not mean that we stop caring about the issues that divide us, or that we abandon our principles. Unity means recognizing that there are disagreements that can be survived and divisions that can destroy us. By referencing the discord within Yaakov’s family, the Torah is telling us that Jewish disunity is not merely unpleasant. It is a threat to Jewish national survival. The opposite is equally true. Jewish unity is one of our greatest sources of protection and resilience. We have survived enemies far more powerful than ourselves because, at critical moments, we remembered that before we are liberals or conservatives, religious or secular, Ashkenazim or Sephardim, we are Am Yisrael, one Jewish People.

The farmer brought his first fruits to the Beit Hamikdash as an individual, but his declaration told the story of a family becoming a nation. He could enjoy the blessings of the Land only because generations before him had survived exile, slavery and division.

As the Altalena rises from the depths of the Mediterranean into our national consciousness, we should hear its message clearly. There will always be external threats. There will always be serious disagreements among us. But we must never allow those disagreements to become more powerful than the bonds that unite us.

Parenting Lessons from the Rebellious Child

 Parshat Ki Teitzei contains within it a discussion of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh the rebellious child. The Torah describes a tween-age child that is gluttonous and rebellious and does not listen to his/her parents. Exasperated, the parents together bring the rebellious child to the judges of that city. The Torah treats such a situation with the utmost of gravity, and such a young person is subject to capital punishment if found guilty.

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 71) is skeptical if such a scenario ever actually occurred. According to one opinion, the Ben Sorrer Umoreh never actually existed in reality, and the Torah was aware of the impossibility of such a scenario. According to a second opinion, there is the hypothetical possibility of a Ben Sorrer Umoreh existing, but the probability of it actually occurring in real life is slim to none. According to both of these opinions, the purpose of the Torah’s introducing us to this rebellious child is “Derosh v’Kabel Sechar”, analyze the case, learn its lessons, and be rewarded for your efforts. What are the lessons of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh, from which we can learn and gain insight?

The Maharsha suggests two important lessons. According to the opinion that the Ben Sorrer Umoreh never could really happen, the reason is because there is an emphasis in the Talmud on the parity between both parents (same voice, same appearance) in order for the rebellious child to be liable. The Maharsha writes that such consistency is impossible, and the child can claim that sometimes the father would warn him and sometimes the mother would warn him, but never both of them at the same time- which is a requirement to be labeled a Ben Sorrer Umoreh.

The Maharsha continues to explain the rationale for the opinion that a Ben Sorrer Umoreh is possible but improbable. Although it is possible for both parents and child to fulfill all of the criteria laid out by the Torah/ Talmud, it is highly unlikely, writes the Maharsha, that the parents would ever tell on their child and bring the child to be punished by the judges of the city. One of the requirements is that both parents bring the child to be disciplined. The Maharsha writes, based on his own observations, that it is more likely that the parents will have an abundance of compassion and tolerance towards their child, and not bring him/her to be disciplined. According to the Maharsha, the parents’ attitude constitutes misplaced compassion and tolerance that is detrimental to both the child and society at large.

As we begin a new school year it behooves us, as parents and educators, to heed well the lessons of the Ben Sorrer Umoreh as taught to us by the Maharsha. First, we must strive to present to our children a consistent message as far as our values and our expectations. To be most effective, the message should be consistent between each parent, as well as between parents and teachers. Children get confused and opportunities are missed when our lessons and messaging lack consistency.  Second, we must understand, as the Rambam teaches, that an abundance of almost anything is dangerous.  Gluttony is one type of overindulgence.  But as the Maharsha explains, there is such a thing as overindulging our children: too much compassion and tolerance for a child’s misbehavior. When we love our children, but do not set limits, we can be doing more harm than good.

If we strive for a consistent message, and love our children while providing for them limits, then we will, B’Ezrat Hashem, be worthy of the reward that is promised to those who explore the meaning behind the Ben Sorrer Umoreh.

Spite May Not Be Nice- But it’s Human

 The Talmud (Brachot 31b) formulates an important idea: Dibra Torah B’lashon bnei adam. Although the Torah is of Divine origin, it was written in “the language of human beings,” in the way people talk.

This concept helps us understand many passages in the Torah. It explains, for example, anthropomorphic imagery, where God is described as having a yad, a hand. Some Orthodox Biblical scholars utilize this concept to show that although the Torah is timeless, it was given to Bnai Yisrael in a particular historical and cultural context. Understanding that the Torah may speak in the common language of its time can help explain certain mitzvot in their historical context of more than 3,300 years ago, such as slavery and levirate marriage. Others point to parallels between the way Hashem spoke to Bnai Yisrael when entering into a brit, such as at Mt Sinai, and the way ancient kings entered into treaties with subservient nations.

The concept of Dibra Torah B’lashon bnei adam can also help us understand an otherwise enigmatic passage in this week’s Parsha.

In Chapter 20, Parshat Shoftim focuses on the laws of Jewish warfare. The first topic addressed is the list of those exempted from the battlefield.

The Torah lists three specific exemptions followed by a more general one:

1. One who built a new house but has not yet lived in it.

2. One who planted a vineyard but has not yet enjoyed its fruits.

3. One who is engaged but has not yet gotten married.

4. Anyone who is yarei v’rach haleivav, fearful and fainthearted.

Obtaining a house, a vineyard, and a wife are important milestones in a person’s life. This becomes evident from the curses in Parshat Ki Tavo (28:30).

The exemptions are understandable. These people are more distracted; their battle instincts may be compromised, which in turn could endanger the entire army and its mission.

What is less understandable is the reason given by the Torah for these specific exemptions:

“Pen yamut b’milchama, v’ish acher yachnechenu, yechallelenu, yikachena.”

The focus of concern is not simply the possibility of death, but the fact that an ish acher, someone else, will come along and benefit from that which the deceased soldier prepared but never had a chance to enjoy. Rashi comments that such a situation causes agmat nefesh, heartbreak. But would these situations be more heartbreaking than many other military casualty? What makes these casualties more tragic than the loss of a soldier who is an only child to his parents, or a married soldier who leaves behind a widow and young children? Is the possibility of an ish acher really the concern to which the Torah should draw our attention? That someone else will get this man’s wife, house, or vineyard after he is dead?

I can’t help but be reminded of a poem by Shel Silverstein that I read as a child, “The Prayer of the Selfish Child”:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray thee Lord my soul to keep

And if I day before I wake

I pray thee Lord my toys to break

So none of the other kids can use ‘em

Amen

The poem speaks to a basic element of human nature: spite. It is the idea that if I can’t have it, then no one can. People can become upset by the prospect of someone else benefiting, even when it does not come at their expense. Spiteful people are willing to lose in order to make sure that others do not gain.

Researchers have tried to understand this phenomenon. Is it an affronted sense of fairness? Envy? Revenge? Or something more sinister? History is littered with examples of leaders who acted out of spite, often with horrendous results.

Spite is a uniquely human phenomenon, evident even among young children. Psychologist Paul Bloom conducted an experiment in which children were given the opportunity to prevent another badly behaved child from receiving a food he liked. Some children ate food that they disliked, like broccoli, simply to make sure the badly behaved child would not receive the broccoli that they loved.

Being spiteful is not something we necessarily grow out of as adults. People will sometimes work to ensure that another person gains no benefit from a situation, even though their own position will not be enhanced as a result. This seems to be the type of human emotion alluded to in our Parsha. The Torah, while at no time condoning these feelings of spite, understands human nature and recognizes that spite is a powerful emotion that needs to be considered. 

Parshat Shoftim is always read at the beginning of Chodesh Elul. One of the well-known acronyms of Elul is Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li. Spite can be a powerful force. We should appreciate the danger of focusing on the ish acher, on what someone else may have, receive, or enjoy, and stop defining our happiness based on other people. As we head toward a New Year, let us not focus on the other but rather on the Ani: our lives, our goals, and our blessings.

Torah Starts with Looking At Words - But Ends With Seeing Things Differently

 On August 4, 1958, Israel held the first National Bible Contest (Chidon HaTanach), followed by the first International Bible Contest two weeks later.  It was one of the signature events marking the young state's first decade and reflected David Ben-Gurion's belief that the Bible was not merely an ancient text but the foundation of Jewish identity.

Recently on the National Library of Israel website I came across the remarkable story of the contest's first champion, Amos Hakham, and the powerful lesson his life offers. Born with cerebral palsy, Amos faced significant physical challenges. His speech was difficult, his mobility was limited, and the world around him saw his limitations before perceiving his abilities. Unable to find work that reflected his intellect, he spent years in modest jobs while dedicating himself to the study of Jewish texts. His small apartment was filled with Jewish books. While outside people judged him “by his cover”, no judgement impeded his study of Torah. Torah was not only something that he knew; it was something that shaped the way he viewed the world, others, and himself.

When he appeared at the Bible Contest, few expected him to advance far. Yet his profound knowledge and passion for Tanach captivated the country. With his win, Hakham’s life changed completely. He began academic studies for the first time and eventually became an important Bible scholar. He wrote commentaries for several books of Tanachas part of the Da’at Mikra series, which are known for their clarity and thoroughness. Two years after the contest, Hakham married Devora Atas, and the couple had a son, Noah. Hakham quickly became known as a world expert on the Bible and he began receiving inquiries, from fourth graders to major corporations, research institutes and universities. He was even asked to suggest pesukim suitable for decorating the halls of Knesset. Torah did far more for Amos than fill his mind with information. Torah gave him an identity that the world would have never expected. It gave him purpose, dignity, and the sense that he possessed unique gifts that were waiting to be developed. This idea relates to the beginning of this week's Parsha. Moshe begins with a single word: "Re'eh" "See." One might have expected Moshe to begin with "listen." Torah is often transmitted through hearing. Why does Moshe command us to see instead of hear? We all look at the same world, but we do not all see the same things. Two people can experience the same circumstances and walk away with completely different understandings. One person sees an obstacle; another sees an opportunity. One person sees a weakness; another sees potential. One person sees a difficult moment as a reason to give up; another sees it as an invitation to grow. While studying Torah includes looking at words, the purpose of Torah is to teach us how to see things properly. That kind of vision does not develop simply by knowing lots of information. It develops when Torah becomes part of who we are. We live in an extraordinary age of information. Within seconds, we can search vast libraries of Torah. These are remarkable tools, and when used properly they can enhance our learning in ways previous generations could never have imagined. But they remain just tools. Artificial intelligence can help us find a pasuk. It cannot help us absorb that pasuk into our lives. It can locate all of the sources on the mitzvah to love our neighbor. It cannot create the empathy that allows us to see another person with greater compassion. AI can spit out everything ever written about the obligation to judge others favorably. It cannot transform us into people who instinctively give others the benefit of the doubt.  Today, information can be acquired instantly. But knowledge is meant to foster growth, impact and transformation, all of which take time. Torah did not simply make Amos Harkham a person who knew more. It helped him become more. It gave him the confidence to believe that his life had meaning and that his unique abilities were gifts from Hashem to develop and utilize to improve himself and the world around him. Before Moshe asks us to look at our choices, he asks us whether we our using our Torah lenses to see properly. Moshe’s charge of “Re’eh” and the Chidon HaTanach remain as relevant as ever, even in this era of AI. Because the Torah was never meant to remain merely information that we possess. It is meant to become the vision through which we see, grow and impact.

The 97th Anniversary of the Chevron Massacre

They were the first group of American Yeshiva students to go to learn in Israel, but it wasn’t exactly the experience that students seek out and anticipate today. It was the 1920s, and thirsting for an authentic Torah experience, they traveled to the ancient holy city of Chevron from cities as far away as Seattle, Memphis, Philadelphia, and Chicago. It was a difficult journey that entailed various trains, ships, and even donkeys to reach their final destination. There were several dozen of these “Yankees,” with names like Benny and Dave and Billy and Jackie who joined together with the Rebbeim and Talmidim of the Slabodka Yeshiva after it moved from Lithuania to Israel in 1924. Their European-born counterparts were impressive scholars; personalities like Reuven Trop, Yaakov Moshe Leibowitz, Mordechai Schulman, Chaim Zev Finkel, and Yitzchak Varshover (Hutner). Though the American and the European boys came from vastly different backgrounds, Torah was the great unifier and the common language that transcended other differences. So is, unfortunately, hate and destruction. Just five years later the entire Yeshivah, along with the Jewish community of Chevron, was evacuated following a horrific pogrom on Shabbat morning Parshas Eikev, the 18^th of Av (today on the Jewish calendar) 1929, in which 67 Jews were slaughtered and close to a hundred others injured. Of the 24 students of the Slabodka Yeshiva murdered in the massacre, eight of them were Americans. Historians debate the exact beginning of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Some go as far back as the conflict between Avraham’s two sons, Yitzchak and Yishmael. Others start the modern conflict with the founding of the State of Israel in 1948. One event often overlooked is the 1929 massacre of Jews in Chevron. That event is the focus of journalist Yardena Schwartz’s recent book, Ghosts of a Holy War. Schwartz opens her historical narrative with the tragic tale of David Shainberg, an idealistic, 22-year-old American Jew from a secular family who leaves a comfortable existence in his hometown of Memphis in 1928 to study in a yeshiva in Chevron. Access to an extensive set of letters Shainberg had sent home (letters that sat untouched in a family attic for decades) enables Schwartz to vividly describe life in Mandatory Palestine. She details Shainberg’s unlikely journey, his passion for Torah study and his magical time in Chevron until it all crashed down in August 1929. Schwartz spares no details in her account of the grisly Arab attacks on Chevron’s Jewish community and of the belated and poor response of British Mandate officials. She writes, “3,000 Muslim men armed with swords, axes, and daggers marched through the Jewish quarter of Hebron,” killing 67 Jews, traumatizing hundreds and causing the 800-strong Jewish community to flee to Jerusalem.

In 1931, 31 Jewish families returned to Chevron and reestablished the community. This effort was short-lived, and in April 1936, fearing another massacre, the British authorities evacuated the community. During the 1948 War of Independence, Chevron was captured by Jordan, and the ancient city remained without any Jewish residents. In 1967 Chevron was redeemed by the IDF in the Six Day War.  On April 4, 1968, a group of Jews registered at the Park Hotel in the city. The next day they announced that they had come to reestablish Hebron’s Jewish community. After an initial period of deliberation, Prime Minister Levi Eshkol temporarily moved the group into a nearby IDF compound, while a new community, Kiryat Arba, was built adjacent to Chevron. The Jewish community in Chevron itself was reestablished permanently in April 1979, when a group of Jews from Kiryat Arba moved into Beit Hadassah. Since then the Jewish community of Chevron has suffered many terror attacks, but through it all they have shown tremendous commitment to never again abandon the City of our Matriarchs and Patriarchs. We had the opportunity earlier this year to hear Yishai Fleischer speak passionately about Chevron, and I encourage everyone who visits Israel to visit Chevron. One easy way to do so is by joining the weekly tour of Chevron that leaves from Jerusalem and is organized by the Hebron Fund. Today, Shabbat Parshat Ekev, the 97^th anniversary of the Chevron massacre is a good time for us to think about how much has changed since then (Jewish State and Chevron now under Jewish sovereignty) and how much has remained the same (murderous hatred of Jews exhibited by Arabs, a world indifferent to Jewish suffering). In Sefer Devarim Moshe reminds us that the arc of Jewish history is long. It includes many detours, roadblocks and trials. But it ultimately leads to a day on which The Jewish People thrive in their homeland. We are grateful for the progress that has been made since 1929, and we pray and do our part towards the fulfillment of Hashem’s promise and of our dreams.

 

Nechama Through Change in Perspecrive

he Talmud in Makkot tells us that Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Elazar ben Azaryah, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Akiva were walking in Jerusalem. Upon reaching Mount Scopus, they saw a fox emerging from the Kodesh Ha-Kodashim. The rabbis were crying while Rabbi Akiva laughed. They asked him, “Akiva! How can you laugh at a time like this? The Beit HaMikdash is in ruins!”

Rabbi Akiva replied, “How can I laugh?! How can you cry?”

They countered, “The Holy of Holies - that could never be entered except by the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur - is now a fox’s den. How can we not weep?”

“That is exactly why I laugh,” answered Rabbi Akiva. “If Uriah’s prophecy of a destroyed and barren Jerusalem can be fulfilled, then I am confident that so, too, Zechariah’s vision of a restored Jerusalem will also be fulfilled.”

The rabbis then declared, “Akiva nichamtanu, Akiva nichamtanu – Akiva, you have comforted us.”

Rabbi Akiva laughed in the face of tragedy because he realizes that consolation will ultimately come. What is difficult to understand is why the rabbis are comforted. What kind of solace is there, when the pain is so intense and so deep, to know that there will be a redemption? For that matter, how does nechama work? We read this morning, “Nachamu, nachamu ami – be comforted, my people.” So begins the shiva d’n’chemta – the seven Haftorahs of consolation that we will read until Rosh Hashanah. They are eloquent and powerful words of encouragement, and they come to strengthen our belief in an ultimate redemption, but how is this supposed to provide comfort?

Nechama is an important concept for Jews. Nichum aveilim, comforting mourners,  is a very important mitzvah. There is an organization called Nechama which is dedicated to sending volunteers to trouble spots to help those who are suffering. But what exactly is Nechama?

A look at the term throughout Tanach and in the story of Rabbi Akiva offers us guidance as to what a Jew can hope for in times of sadness, tragedy, or pain. The very first time it is used is in Parshat Bereishit (6:6):

וינחם ה' כי עשה את האדם בארץ, ויתעצב אל לבו.

If we were to translate this using the word comfort, it would read that God was consoled by the fact that He created man, and His heart was saddened. Rather, we should translate the verse as, “And God reconsidered having made man on earth, and He had heartfelt sadness.”

Nechama is not necessarily about feeling better. Even our usage of the traditional expression of consolation, “HaMakom yenachem eschem besoch she’ar avaylei Tzion vi’Yerishalayim,” which we often translate as, “May God comfort and console you among all of us who mourn for Zion and Jerusalem,” is not only about comfort.

Nechama is about a change in perspective. It represents reaching a place, mentally or emotionally, where the individual recognizes that the current reality cannot be the permanent one. God recognized that his initial creation of mankind required adjustment. We encourage the mourner that she or he should, and hopefully will, find perspective in the aftermath of the loss of their loved one. And Rabbi Akiva did not make the Sages feel jovial. He instead gave them a new perspective on their tragic situation. The Temple may be in ruins, but there is a next chapter still to come. And if there is a next chapter then there is a future, one in which redemption can and will take place. 

In Tribute to Chalutzim

In Parshat Devarim Moshe recalls the agreement he made with the Tribes of Gad and Reuven. These two tribes wanted to settle on the land west of the Jordan. Moshe agreed, with some conditions. One condition was that a part of the tribe of Menashe must also settle there. This was to ensure that there would be ongoing communication and connections between the tribes on both sides of the Jordan (as I discussed in my Dvar Torah last week). Another condition is expressed in 3:18

ה אֱ-לֹֽהֵיכֶ֗ם נָתַ֨ן לָכֶ֜ם אֶת־הָאָ֤רֶץ הַזֹּאת֙ לְרִשְׁתָּ֔הּ חֲלוּצִ֣ים תַּֽעַבְר֗וּ לִפְנֵ֛י אֲחֵיכֶ֥ם בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל כָּל־בְּנֵי־חָֽיִל

"The Lord, your God, has given you this land to possess it; pass over, armed, before your brothers, the children of Israel, all who are warriors.”

Moshe is teaching two important lessons in this verse. First, Moshe makes clear that Hashem is the one that has given the land to the Jewish People. This was the Divine plan, already promised to Avraham. Whether the tribes of Gad and Reuven participate in the battles will not determine whether the conquest is successful. Second, Moshe teaches that even though the outcome is ultimately up to God, the tribes are not exempt from putting in the effort and doing their utmost to be successful in battle. Furthermore, it was important for the tribes of Gad and Reuven to show their enthusiasm by leading the charge in these battles. On one level, Moshe is teaching the need to balance Divine assistance with our own efforts, a lesson that is relevant in all areas of life. At the same time this lesson is especially poignant and relevant as it relates to the Jewish presence in the Land of Israel. Our initial, and ongoing, presence in Eretz Yisrael, requires both Divine assistance and self-sufficiency, while never considering this paradox to be a contradiction.

Moshe refers to those who will engage in battle for the Land of Israel as “Chalutzim”. Here in the pasuk the word is understood to mean “to take up arms”, ie to make the necessary preparations to enter the land. In the 19^th century the term was used to refer to different types of preparations necessary for the return of Jews to Israel. After the Russian pogroms of 1881, a movement arose encouraging young people to move to what was then Palestine to cultivate the land and prepare the way for the less robust populations to make aliyah later on. This movement was called Hechalutz, the pioneer.

Prof. Nechama Leibowitz explains that a chalutz is someone who acts out of idealism, and not for personal gain. Moshe calls Bnei Gad and Reuven Chalutzim because they were being called upon to help conquer land east of the Jordan that they would ultimately not settle.

The modern State of Israel has been developed by multiple waves of pioneers. First chalutzim drained the swamps. Other chalutzim made the desert bloom. During my recent trip to Israel we went to Lod and met a number of idealistic Israelis who want to enhance the Jewish presence in the city while improving it for all of its citizens. Even in the aftermath of the recent riots in Lod, these people remain committed to their vision. They too are chalutzim, engaging in a form of 21^st century pioneering through rehabilitating cities in Israel that have existed for a long time (Lod has been inhabited for over 5,000 years)

The Nine Days leading up to Tisha Bav is a time to recognize that Israel needs to be rebuilt. Let us take a moment to appreciate the role of the Chalutzim that have idealistically worked to develop Israel in the past and those who continue to do so today. 

Nedarim and Aha! Moments

 One of the great mysteries of human growth is why some moments change us forever while others disappear almost as quickly as they arrive.

Scientists have long been fascinated by what they call the "aha!" moment—that sudden flash of insight when something clicks into place. Recent research suggests that these breakthroughs are not random. They are more likely to occur when we step away from a problem, change our environment, encounter new people, or find ourselves in settings where we feel safe, relaxed, and open to new ideas.

In other words, breakthrough moments do not happen only because of what we think. They also happen because of the environments we create.

As I read about this research, I could not help but think of an idea attributed to the Chiddushei HaRim. He explained that the purpose of a neder, taught in Parshat Matot, is to take a moment of inspiration and ensure that it remains potent and finds expression in action. A person experiences a spiritual awakening, a desire to improve, a commitment to grow. The challenge is that inspiration fades. A neder takes a fleeting feeling and translates it into lasting impact. The laws of nedarim teach us that the goal is not merely to be inspired, it is to capture that inspiration before it disappears. Perhaps that is why Judaism places great emphasis on community, sacred time, and sacred spaces. We often assume that growth comes from hearing the right idea. Certainly that matters. But growth also depends on creating the conditions in which those transformative moments can occur. Sometimes an "aha!" moment happens during a shiur. Maybe while participating in a chesed project. Or maybe you feel it at a Shalosh Seudos or Kabbalas Shabbos at shul. Suddenly something clicks. A new appreciation. A deeper understanding. A fresh perspective. Or a clearer vision of the person we want to become. Those moments are precious gifts. But they are also fragile. Those moments need to be validated, nurtured and concretized. When we speak about growth, we are not simply talking about offering more programs. We are trying to create what I would call a "matrix of growth"—multiple pathways through which people can encounter meaningful Jewish experiences and, hopefully, those life-changing "aha!" moments. Each creates another opportunity for a spark of inspiration. But that is only the first step. The next step is helping people leverage those moments into something lasting. If someone discovers a passion for learning, how do we connect them to ongoing Torah study? If someone is inspired by a chesed opportunity, how do we help them make chesed part of their life? If someone experiences a deeper connection to tefillah, how do we help them continue that journey? Inspiration is the spark. Growth is what happens when we build something from that spark. A neder is not all there is to inspiration. There must also be a follow-up decision to ensure that the fleeting moment becomes a lasting reality. The most important question is not whether we will experience moments of inSpiration. Surely we all do. The real question is what we do next. Will we transform an "Aha!" moment into a life of continued growth?

The Legacy of Entebbe

 Today marks the fiftieth anniversary of one of the most daring rescue missions in modern history: Operation Entebbe. On June 27, 1976, an Air France flight traveling from Tel Aviv to Paris was hijacked after a stopover in Athens and diverted to Entebbe, Uganda. The passengers were held hostage by terrorists from a breakaway faction of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Soon after arriving in Uganda, the non-Israeli passengers were separated from the Israelis and eventually released. Besides the Israelis and the crew, all other Jews on the plane were also kept hostage, even if they were not Israeli citizens. The images were chilling: Jews singled out and held captive simply because they were Jews.

Back in Israel, plans for a rescue mission were being devised. The military officer overseeing the planning was Ehud Barak, who would later become Prime Minister. Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin faced enormous pressure to secure the release of the hostages, even if it meant negotiating with terrorists. Ultimately, he gave the order to proceed with the rescue.

The mission itself has become the stuff of legend. Learning that Ugandan dictator Idi Amin would be out of the country, Israeli planners devised an audacious strategy. Four Hercules transport planes would fly more than 2,500 miles to Uganda. One of them would unload a motorcade designed to resemble Amin's own entourage returning from abroad. A black Mercedes was needed to imitate the dictator's vehicle. The Israelis found one—but it was the wrong color. They quickly spray-painted it black.

On Saturday afternoon, a force of more than 200 Israeli soldiers took off for Entebbe under the command of 30-year-old Yoni Netanyahu. Flying extraordinarily low to avoid radar detection, they endured an eight-hour journey into the heart of enemy territory.

The rescue mission succeeded beyond anyone's expectations. All of the hijackers were killed and 102 hostages were freed. Tragically, one Israeli soldier was killed during the operation: Yoni Netanyahu.

The impact of Entebbe extended far beyond that single night. The PLO largely abandoned airline hijackings. Idi Amin would eventually be overthrown. The American commander who oversaw the mission to eliminate Osama bin Laden, Admiral William McRaven, later authored a detailed study of the Entebbe raid. The operation became a model of courage, planning, and determination.

There are many lessons that emerge from Operation Entebbe. Two stand out.

First, Entebbe reminds us that enemies of the Jewish people may be able to hurt us and impede us, but they cannot prevent Jewish destiny from being realized. Reflecting on the rescue shortly afterward, the Lubavitcher Rebbe noted the extraordinary contrast between the ease with which the terrorists succeeded in hijacking the plane and the extraordinary success of the rescue operation itself. Both the crisis and the salvation, he suggested, pointed to the Hand of God.

As David Ben-Gurion famously remarked, "In Israel, in order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles." The same can be said about the ongoing continuity of the Jewish people. The story of Entebbe is a powerful reminder that there is a dimension of Jewish history that cannot be explained by military strength, politics, or demographics alone.

Second, the Entebbe rescue demonstrated the importance of initiative and courageous leadership. As one military analyst observed, the success of the operation itself was not necessarily surprising; the Ugandan forces were outmatched in virtually every respect. What was remarkable was the willingness of Israeli leaders to take the risk, to act decisively, and to do what needed to be done.

Too often we wait for certainty before acting. We hesitate because outcomes are unclear or risks are real. Entebbe reminds us that meaningful achievements often require courage, initiative, and a willingness to move forward despite uncertainty.

As we mark the fiftieth anniversary of Operation Entebbe, we remember not only a remarkable military achievement but also the enduring lessons it teaches. We must never underestimate the role of God in the unfolding Jewish story. At the same time, we must be prepared to act boldly, take responsibility, and do what needs to be done. If the Jewish cause sometimes seems more complicated and the Jewish dream more distant, Entebbe reminds us that nothing can stop Jewish destiny from being realized

Who Will Tell Us?

 One of the challenges of childhood is that adults are constantly telling you what to do. Parents, teachers, coaches, and rabbis all seem to have opinions about how you should behave and what you should change.  One of the challenges of adulthood is that very few people tell you what you need to hear.As children, we often resist correction. As adults, we rarely receive it. Most people are understandably reluctant to point out someone else's mistakes. Nobody wants to appear judgmental, intrusive, or condescending. And most of us are not particularly eager to hear criticism. We become defensive. We explain. We justify. We tell ourselves that everything is fine. As a result, adults can spend years moving in the wrong direction without anyone, or anything, successfully getting them to stop and reconsider.

I think this is one of the powerful lessons of Bilam's story in Parshat Balak. When Balak's messengers arrive and invite Bilam to curse the Jewish people, God does not immediately force Bilam to abandon the idea. Instead, God asks what appears to be a simple question: "Who are these men with you?" Of course, God already knows the answer. The question is not for information. It is an invitation to reflection. We find this pattern elsewhere in the Torah. After Adam and Chava sin, God asks Adam, "Where are you?" After Kayin murders Hevel, God asks, "Where is Hevel, your brother?" In each case, God knows exactly what happened. The question is not meant to uncover facts; it is meant to create self-awareness. It is a final opportunity for the person to stop, reflect, and choose a different path. God's questions sound remarkably similar to the way people who care about us sometimes speak. "Are you sure you want to do that?" "Have you thought this through?" "Is this really the direction you want to be heading?" God preserves human dignity and free will. But He requires the listener to be willing to hear what is being said. Bilam is unable to do this. Even after warning signs begin appearing, he refuses to see them. The irony of the story is that Bilam, the great prophet, cannot see what his donkey sees clearly. His ambitions and desires blind him. He becomes so committed to his course of action that he loses the ability to recognize that he is headed in the wrong direction. Eventually, Bilam finds himself trapped on a narrow road with nowhere to turn. That image is not only Bilam's story; it is often ours as well.

Poor choices rarely trap us overnight. More often, they slowly narrow our options. A bad habit becomes harder to break. A strained relationship becomes harder to repair. A spiritual weakness becomes more deeply ingrained. The road becomes narrower and narrower until we wonder how we got there. Parshat Balak challenges us to ask: Who are the people in our lives who can ask us the difficult questions? Who has permission to tell us what we need to hear, not merely what we want to hear? And perhaps even more importantly, are we willing to listen? The greatest tragedy in Bilam's story is not that he received warnings. It is that he ignored them. The Torah reminds us that growth begins with the humility to hear a question that challenges us. And no matter how narrow the road may seem, as long as we are willing to listen, it is never too late to change course.

There’s No Chazakah When It Comes to Machloket

 It doesn't take long for many of us to form opinions about people. After enough interactions, we convince ourselves that we know exactly who someone is. We know who is generous and who is selfish. Who is easygoing and who is difficult. Who is reliable and who is not. And once those impressions become firmly established, they can be remarkably difficult to shake. Sometimes those assessments are accurate. Patterns of behavior and our experiences matter. If someone has acted a certain way for years, it is reasonable to expect that they will continue to do so. However, Parshat Korach reminds us that while Judaism recognizes patterns, it cautions us against turning them into permanent irreversible verdicts. As Korach's rebellion reached its climax, Moshe made one final attempt to reconcile and restore. The Torah tells us that he sent for Datan and Aviram, two of the instigators, hoping to engage them in dialogue. Their response was unequivocal: "We will not come" (Bamidbar 16:12). Rashi comments that Moshe's actions teach us an important principle: ein machzikin b'machloket”, we should not perpetuate conflict. Even when a dispute appears hopeless, one should make every effort to pursue peace. The Chasam Sofer suggests that the word machzikin can be understood through the halachic concept of chazakah. A chazakah is an established presumption. When something has consistently been true in the past, we assume it will continue to be true until proven otherwise. According to the Chasam Sofer, ein machzikin b'machlokes means that we must never create a chazakah of conflict. No matter how long-running ill will may be, we should never assume that discord is the permanent reality of their relationship. What makes this lesson so powerful is the identity of the people involved. This was not the first conflict for Datan and Aviram. Chazal portray them as long standing rabble rousers whose opposition to Moshe stretched back years. Time and again they challenged, complained, tried to start trouble and unrest. If any pair could be assumed to never change from their cantankerous and argumentative ways it would be Datan and Aviram.  Yet Moshe refused to make that assumption. He approaches them with the hopes of reconciliation. Moshe's efforts ultimately fail. Datan and Aviram do not reconsider. They do not accept his overture. Instead, they double down on their rebellion and ultimately suffer a tragic fate. Had they changed their minds, the lesson would have been clear: Don’t give up on people because people can change. But perhaps the Torah is teaching us here something more profound: Judaism does not require us to believe that people will change. It requires us to believe that they can change. Life teaches us that change is difficult. Yet unlike in the natural world, human beings are endowed with free will and the capacity to change. A person can reflect, mature, and choose differently tomorrow than they chose yesterday. That possibility may not always be realized. But as long as it exists, we are not allowed to dismiss another person's capacity for change. That is the meaning of ein machzikin b'machloket. We never assume we know with certainty what a person will do. We can be realistic about human behavior without losing faith in human potential. While it is true that Datan and Aviram never changed, Moshe refused to assume that they couldn't. And perhaps that is one of the Torah's most enduring lessons: never confuse a person's past performance with their future potential.

Believing Is Seeing

 Parshat Shelach begins and ends on the topic of sight. The Parsha opens with the episode of the spies. Moshe sends ten distinguished Jewish leaders to tour the Land of Israel (perhaps the first Jewish leadership mission to Israel): ַיִּשְׁלַ֤ח אֹתָם֙ משֶׁ֔ה לָת֖וּר אֶת־אֶ֣רֶץ כְּנָ֑עַן  “Moses sent them to scout the Land of Canaan.” The mandate was clear: go and see the land firsthand and report back to the people 1) the beauty/bounty of the land and 2) strategies for victory in the anticipated wars with the current inhabitants. Moshe continues: “וּרְאִיתֶ֥ם אֶת־הָאָ֖רֶץ מַה־הִ֑וא וְאֶת־הָעָם֙ הַיּשֵׁ֣ב עָלֶ֔יהָ הֶֽחָזָ֥ק הוּא֙ הֲרָפֶ֔ה הַמְעַ֥ט ה֖וּא אִם־רָֽב: “You shall see what [kind of] land it is, and the people who inhabit it; are they strong or weak? Are there few or many? The plan here is in line with the expression “seeing is believing”. Moshe’s hope was that by seeing the land, the spies would believe in the goodness of Hashem’s plan. The power of seeing something is well documented within Jewish tradition. At Har Sinai the nation saw a manifestation of God unlike anything in history. Right after the Ten Commandments, Hashem says:

אַתֶּ֣ם רְאִיתֶ֔ם כִּ֚י מִן־הַשָּׁמַ֔יִם דִּבַּ֖רְתִּי עִמָּכֶֽם: “You have seen that from the heavens I have spoken with you.”

According to the Talmud, only eyewitness testimony can be accepted by Beit Din. As to why hearsay cannot be accepted by a court, the Talmud explains: “Eino Domeh Shemiya L’Re’iya”, seeing is much better than hearing. My family and I will, please God, be going to Israel this summer. I am excited about our itinerary, and the potential it has to foster in us an enhanced Chibat HaAretz, a love for the Land of Israel, through the sites that we see. As much as we read an hear about it, nothing beats being in Israel and seeing the Land firsthand.

And yet we all know that our eyes can deceive us. Obi-Wan Kenobi was right when he told young Luke Skywalker, “Your eyes can deceive you, don’t trust them.” Neuroscience has shown that “People rely on their eyes for most tasks, yet the information provided by our visual sensing system is often distorted, unreliable and subject to illusion.”  This is what actually happened with the spies. Because of their fears/ low self-esteem/ ulterior agendas, the spies twisted what they saw into an evil report- leading to catastrophic results.

At the very end of the Parsha; we find a phrase that we read as part of the third paragraph of Shema. In it we are warned: וְלֹֽא־תָת֜וּרוּ אַֽחֲרֵ֤י לְבַבְכֶם֙ וְאַֽחֲרֵ֣י עֵֽינֵיכֶ֔ם אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּ֥ם זֹנִ֖ים אַֽחֲרֵיהֶֽם “and you shall not wander after your hearts and after your eyes after which you are going astray.”

Rashi notes that the same word is used here and by the spies, hinting at the fact that the sin of the spies, like many other sins, occurred by allowing our eyes to deceive us.

Seeing is not always believing. However, I think the inverse is true much more often: Believing is indeed seeing. What we believe, our assumptions, perspectives and disposition, will greatly impact how we perceive people and relate to events around us. Barry Neil Kaufman in his book Happiness is a Choice tells the story of a young girl named Katie. Katie had severe disabilities, and after years of medical testing had been brought by her parents to Kaufman’s institute in a last-ditch effort for help.  Instead of discussing Katie’s history with his staff or showing them her thick file, Kaufman told the staff to make their own assessment and recommendation, basing themselves primarily on their first-hand interactions with Katie.  At the end of the day, one of the staff members was reviewing her notes with Katie’s parents. She mentioned that she had held one of Katie’s favorite puppets at arm’s length, and encouraged the child to come and get it. “She took almost five steps to reach me,” the staff member said. “She’s a real plugger.” Katie’s father leaned forward aghast and said, ‘But my daughter doesn’t walk.” ‘Oh,’ the staff member said respectfully, ‘I didn’t know…..”

While we should never judge someone until we’ve been in their shoes, it appears that this man viewed his daughter’s limitations as an unalterable fact. The father’s limited perspective became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it did not reflect reality. Katie had the ability to walk, but her father had difficulty seeing this on his own, because he was unable to perceive that possibility. Believing profoundly impacts what we see. Let us develop the necessary attitudes that will enable us to see the good and great blessings and potential in our lives, in our community, and all around us.

The Fire-Cloud Model of Life

 In Parshat Behaalotecha we learn about the DPS that guided the Jewish People through their journey in the Midbar. Not a Global Positioning System, but a Divine Positioning System. The Torah tells us: "On the day the Mishkan was erected, the cloud covered the Mishkan... and in the evening there was over the Mishkan the appearance of fire until morning." In order to know when to travel and where to travel, Bnei Yisrael followed a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. Whenever the cloud / fire moved, they moved. Whenever it rested, they camped. Interestingly, the Torah highlights this Divine Guidance System at three pivotal moments: at Yetziat Mitzrayim, at the inauguration of the Mishkan, and here in Behaalotecha as the nation embarks upon its journey toward Eretz Yisrael. The cloud and the fire accompany the Jewish People throughout their nation-building journey from Egypt to Israel. What is the significance of these two elements, fire and cloud, as the Jewish People’s navigation system? First, both clouds and fire possess a duality. On the one hand, they are life-giving. Fire provides warmth, light, and energy. Clouds provide shade and rain. Civilization could not exist without either of them. Yet both can also be destructive. Uncontrolled fires devastate communities. Torrential rains and flash floods can bring damage and loss. Utilizing these two elements to guide us through the Midbar was Hashem’s way of teaching us that growth requires the courage to confront and engage with powerful forces. Follow the cloud. Follow the fire. Learn to harness their energy and their potential for good. Yes, powerful forces can be dangerous. But that is true not only of fire and clouds. It is true of religion. It is true of business. It is true of leadership. It is true of love. Anything powerful has the potential to create and to destroy. The challenge of life is not to avoid powerful forces. Our task is to respect them, channel them, and maximize their positive impact while hedging against their destructive potential. The cloud and the fire taught Bnei Yisrael not to fear greatness, but to follow it responsibly. But there is a second lesson. You cannot touch fire because it burns. You cannot touch a cloud because it is ethereal and elusive. Fire represents passion, inspiration, and idealism. It reaches upward. It excites. It energizes. Clouds provide shade, comfort, and protection. They create a sense of security. The Jewish People had recently stood at Sinai. They had witnessed revelation. They understood the importance of fire. They knew what it meant to be inspired. But Hashem reminds them that inspiration alone is not enough. A person cannot live forever on spiritual highs. We cannot sustain passion without also feeling safe. We cannot remain inspired without also feeling loved.

Many years ago, someone approached Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook with a painful question. He had raised his son with a strong Jewish education and a committed Jewish home. Yet the son had drifted far from Judaism. He no longer observed the commandments and barely identified as a Jew. "What should I do?" the father asked. Rav Kook responded with a question of his own. "Did you love him when he was religious?" "Of course," answered the father. "Then now," Rav Kook replied, "love him even more." Rav Kook understood that fire alone is not enough. Conviction, ideals, and inspiration matter. But they can only endure when accompanied by the cloud; the experience of protection, acceptance, and unconditional love. Hashem did not guide us with fire alone. The journey to the Promised Land required the cloud alongside the fire. The same is true of our own journeys. We all need fire in our lives: passion, purpose, ambition, and spiritual aspiration. But we also need clouds: relationships that sustain us, communities that embrace us, and families that make us feel safe. The lesson of Behaalotecha is that the Divine Positioning System consists of both. Fire may inspire us to move forward, but it is the cloud that allows us to keep going. Fire can lead us, but only when it travels together with the cloud.

The Blessing of Encouragement

 In Parshat Nasso, before Birkat Kohanim is introduced, the Torah uses an unusual phrase: “דַּבֵּר אֶל־אַהֲרֹן וְאֶל־בָּנָיו לֵאמֹר… אָמוֹר לָהֶם” — “Speak to Aharon and his sons saying… say to them.” The words “Amor Lahem” seem unnecessary. The Torah already told Moshe to speak to Aharon. Why repeat the command to “say”? Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev explains that the word “amor” does not only mean “say.” In another context, the Torah uses the same root in the pasuk: “אֶת־ה׳ הֶאֱמַרְתָּ הַיּוֹם” “You have exalted Hashem today.” The word can mean to uplift, distinguish, or make something special. By repeating the word “Amo”r Hashem was not merely instructing the Kohanim to recite words of blessing. He was commanding them to elevate the people, to make them feel valued, cherished, and uplifted. The role of leaders is not only to teach and guide, but to instill confidence and hope. It is not surprising that this lesson of the importance of encouragement is taught specifically to the sons of Aharon. Before Birkat Kohanim, the Kohanim recite a blessing referring to “קדושתו של אהרן” the sanctity of Aharon. What was unique about Aharon? Chazal describe him as someone who loved people, pursued peace, and helped others grow. He strengthened relationships and encouraged people to put past ill will behind them to become better versions of themselves. The Kohanim bless the nation in the spirit of Aharon because true blessing begins with encouraging people, and making people feel valued. Everybody needs encouragement. The Smithsonian Institute has on display the items President Abraham Lincoln was carrying on him the night he was assassinated. Among those items is a worn newspaper clipping praising his accomplishments and calling him one of the greatest statesmen of all time. Even the United States President, arguably the most powerful human on the planet, held onto words of encouragement. A psychology professor once observed that discouragement may be the hardest emotion to deal with alone. Anger and fear contain energy and can rile a person up. While discouragement drains away one’s energy and leaves us deflated. When someone is discouraged, they may need to “borrow” strength from an encouraging friend. The very words themselves tell the story:

“Dis-courage” means to take courage out of someone.
“En-courage” means to place courage into someone.

Most of us can remember years later a casual comment that deflated us and took the wind out of our sails, even if it was a remark that the person barely remembered making. Most of us can also remember a simple word of kindness or belief that restored us when we felt empty. John C. Maxwell once recounted a conversation with the founder of a national restaurant chain. During dinner, the man asked him, “Do you know how to tell when someone needs encouragement?” Maxwell said no. The man answered, “They’re breathing.”  As a Mamlechet Kohanim, a kingdom of priests, this responsibility to encourage and lift others up does not belong only to Kohanim. It is incumbent upon each of us. There are plenty of people in the world prepared to criticize, diminish, and point out faults. The Torah calls upon us to counter that negativity by actively encouraging one another. Mark Twain once said, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.” Words have the ability to carry a person farther than we can imagine. Parshat Naso reminds us that blessings are not only things we receive from Hashem. Sometimes blessings begin with the way we speak to one another. When we choose to uplift rather than discourage, to strengthen rather than diminish, we fulfill our potential as a Kingdom of Kohanim. In so doing we become worthy partners in the Priestly blessing and in making the world a better place.

BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA A PROCLAMATION

This year’s Presidential Proclamation for Jewish American Heritage Month is unique and noteworthy. How fortunate are we that we celebrate Shabbat every week and we celebrate our Jewish identity every single day!

~ RYW

This Jewish American Heritage Month, we honor the countless contributions of Jewish Americans throughout our Nation’s 250 glorious years of independence, and we celebrate their unwavering commitment to the values that make our country great — faith, family, and freedom.

In his letter to the Hebrew Congregation in Newport, Rhode Island, in 1790, President George Washington beautifully said, “May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid.”  Since the earliest days of our Republic, Jewish Americans have helped build the cause of liberty and sustain the greatness of our Nation.  Among them was the iconic Haym Salomon, an early supporter of the war for independence.  As stories tell us, Salomon was instrumental in the success of our Continental Congress and Founding Fathers, and rallied support for freedom.  He was a zealous advocate against tyranny, and even after imprisonment by the British Crown, he continued his work in defense of freedom.  In the end, he gave everything to the success of the American Revolution.  Like so many Jewish Americans who follow in his footsteps, Salomon’s legacy stands as a testament to the unshakable belief in the American promise.  

In the same letter to the Hebrew Congregation at Newport, President Washington proclaimed that the United States “gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance.”  Under my leadership, we are aggressively fighting the violence against Jewish Americans that increased under my predecessor, prosecuting hateful criminals to the fullest extent of the law, and working to end the scourge of anti-Semitism throughout our institutions, especially on college campuses.  As President, I will never stop fighting to protect our birthright of religious freedom — a sacred right that continues to guide our Nation, drawing us closer to the Almighty each and every day.

Throughout this historic year, we rejoice in the triumph of the American spirit and rededicate ourselves to the cause of liberty and justice for all.  In special honor of 250 glorious years of American independence and on the weekend of Rededicate 250 — a national jubilee of prayer, praise, and thanksgiving — Jewish Americans are encouraged to observe a national Sabbath.  From sundown on May 15 to nightfall on May 16, friends, families, and communities of all backgrounds may come together in gratitude for our great Nation.  This day will recognize the sacred Jewish tradition of setting aside time for rest, reflection, and gratitude to the Almighty. 

This month, we celebrate the contributions that Jewish Americans have made to our way of life, we honor their role in shaping the story of our Nation, and we remember that religious devotion, learning, and service to others are enduring pillars of a thriving culture.  Through every trial and triumph, the contributions of Jewish Americans have shaped our past, have strengthened our communities, and will continue to inspire American greatness for generations to come.

NOW, THEREFORE, I, DONALD J. TRUMP, President of the United States of America, by virtue of the authority vested in me by the Constitution and the laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim May 2026 as Jewish American Heritage Month.  I call upon Americans to celebrate the heritage and contributions of Jewish Americans and to observe this month with appropriate programs, activities, and ceremonies.  I further call on all Americans to celebrate their faith and freedom throughout this year, during this month, and especially on Shabbat to celebrate our 250th year.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this fourth day of May, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-six, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and fiftieth.

DONALD J. TRUMP