We have all become experts in missiles and weaponry. We have learned new words: shrapnel, cluster munitions, interception. And in Israel, other words that feel etched into the soul like tattoos: dead, wounded, fear, disaster, sirens… The question arises, almost out of nowhere: what meaning is there in continuing with so much ritual in a world that seems to be ruled by madmen—forcing us to choose between being swept away by terrorist attacks, taking lives in order to survive,

In these days, there is no shortage of reasons to feel uneasy. The month of Nisan begins, the air shifts, the first buds appear, and with them comes that familiar sense of movement—preparing our homes, putting things in order, reconnecting with one another, getting ready for Pesach. Something awakens within us, something that nudges us forward. And yet, at the very same time, we begin reading Vayikra—and the contrast could not be more striking.   We come from Shemot, the book

We come to the end of the book of Shemot. When we finish a book of the Torah, tradition invites us to say together: Chazak, chazak, venitchazek — “Be strong, be strong, and let us strengthen one another.”   It is an ancient formula, but there are moments when these words carry particular weight. Perhaps never more than now do we feel the need to say them with real conviction: to be strong for ourselves, strong for our communities, and strong for a humanity that seems to despe

An ancient Talmudic teaching tells us that in the Ark of the Covenant, not only the second set of tablets was kept, but also the fragments of the first. The whole tablets and the broken tablets traveled together. Perhaps this is because Judaism understood something profoundly human: the history of a people is built not only with what is whole, but also with what was once shattered. This image echoes in many moments of Jewish life. Under the chuppah, when a couple begins thei

There are moments in history when a political decision stops being merely administrative and becomes a spiritual question. Not because it deals only with laws or institutions, but because it touches something deeper: how a people understands the sacred and its own identity.  The recent legislative move spearheaded by Avi Maoz, approved in the Knesset, granting the Chief Rabbinate authority over the egalitarian section of the Kotel and imposing criminal penalties for religious

In this week’s parashah, Terumá, God speaks to Moses with a surprising instruction. Before describing measurements, materials, or structures—even before discussing the sanctuary itself—there is a call directed straight to the heart of the people: "And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the children of Israel, that they take for Me a contribution; from every man whose heart moves him, you shall take My offering."   The Torah doesn’t say “give to Me,” but “take for Me”—v

There are moments in life that lift us up and transform us from within: a prayer that moves us to tears, a song that awakens deep memories, a spiritual experience that restores clarity and purpose. In those moments, the soul seems to open and the world falls into place—if only for a second. But the real question is not what we feel during those intense experiences… it is what we do when they pass. What remains after the echo fades? What changes when we return to the rhythm of

Shabbat Shirah takes its name from one of the most powerful poems in the Torah: Shirat HaYam, the Song of the Sea, which we read in Parashat Beshalach. It is the song that bursts forth after the crossing of the Yam Suf, after the miracle, after salvation. Yet the Torah, faithful to its radical honesty, does not begin with music. It begins with fear.   The people are trapped. Behind them stand Pharaoh and his army; before them, the sealed sea. There is no strategy, no visible

This week we read Parashat Bo, the third portion of the Book of Shemot (Exodus). The text places us at the final stage of Israel’s enslavement in Egypt: the last three plagues—locusts, darkness, and the death of the firstborn—and the immediate preparations for the people’s departure toward freedom, Yetziat Mitzrayim.   Yet to reduce Bo to a chronicle of punishments and miracles would be to miss its deepest message. Bo is not only the story of liberation; it is, above all, a p

This week marks the beginning of the journey toward the redemption of the People of Israel—a beginning still devoid of epic grandeur. There are no visible miracles yet, no victories to celebrate. There are only words, spoken before an exhausted people. Words that are vast, even overwhelming, for those living under the crushing weight of forced labor and daily humiliation:   “I am the Eternal; and I will bring you out from under the burdens of Egypt, and I will deliver you fro

With this week’s parashah, Shemot, one era comes to a close and another begins. Yaakov, Yosef, and their brothers have passed from the world, and a new king rises in Egypt. This is more than a change of government; it is a shift in paradigm. Power no longer recognizes history, gratitude, or humanity—it chooses the path of oppression and dehumanization of the people of Israel.   It is in this dark landscape that the Torah first presents us with the figure of Moses, our teacher

As we started the new week, we started reading Parashat Vayechi, the final portion of the Book of Genesis. With it, the great narrative of beginnings comes to a close: families that are formed, relationships that grow strained, wounds that do not always heal, partial reconciliations, promises passed from generation to generation—and silences that linger in the air.  Vayechi places Jacob before us at the end of his life. He gathers his children not to distribute possessions, b

Hanukkah is already behind us. We have extinguished the candles—but not their light. Because the real question was never how brightly the ḥanukkiyah burned, but what kind of Jewish light we are capable of carrying with us once the festivals end and the unadorned season begins.  This week we entered the month of Tevet—an austere month, without celebrations, that confronts us with history stripped bare. In Tevet there are no visible miracles; there is memory. On the 10th of Tev

We continue to live through days marked by loss, fear, and an uncertainty that seems relentless. We keep trying—without fully succeeding—to make sense of the violence directed against identity, today against the Jewish people, even as we know that this logic of hatred never stops with one name and ultimately threatens every form of difference. And yet, even in the depths of pain, something refuses to be extinguished.  The day after a brutal attack, while grief still burned in

This Shabbat, Parashat Vayeshev brings us once again the story of Yosef—a story where inner light coexists with betrayal, and where light ultimately confronts the deepest darkness. And this year, as we prepare to light the first Hanukkah candle on Sunday night, that contrast between light and darkness takes on an even more urgent meaning. We are not just reading an ancient text; we are reading the world.  Lighting the Hanukkah lights is both a spiritual and political act. It

There are moments in life when the past comes knocking on our door—not with violence, not necessarily with pain, but with the quiet insistence of what remains unresolved. This is how our parashah Vaishlaj begins. Yaakov, after years away from home, returns to face Esav, the brother he had deceived, the brother he had fled from, the brother who once swore to kill him.   It is no coincidence that the Torah begins the story with the verb “vaishlaj”—“and he sent.” Yaakov sends me

Vayetze is a parashah of departure, but not an easy flight. Yaakov leaves his home with fear, guilt, and a heart in turmoil. He departs broken. And perhaps that is precisely why, in that moment—when nothing seems stable—he dreams. A ladder connects heaven and earth. Not to erase what has happened, but to tell him: your path is not disconnected. Angels ascend and descend. Movement. No promise of stillness, but a promise of presence. Yaakov sleeps on a stone, and yet, the heave

There are moments in the Torah that feel as if they were written to be watched like a scene on a stage. Parashat Toldot is one of them. We are not only witnesses to the birth of Esav and Yaakov, nor merely to the passing down of blessings; the Torah invites us into that “in–between” moment —that unsettling stretch of time when Rivkah feels the turmoil inside her womb, the struggling of the children within her— and she utters a question that still echoes through the generatio

This week’s Parashah opens with a statement that, far from being a biographical detail, is an existential manifesto: “And the life (the lives) of Sarah was: one hundred years, twenty years, and seven years—these were the years of Sarah’s life.” The Torah repeats “the life of Sarah” at the end of the very first verse, almost as if to remind us that her death is not the end—that her presence keeps pulsing in those who remember her, who speak her name, who walk in the path she c

In the beginning of Parashat Vayera, Abraham interrupts his reflections, and some comentarist say even a moment of connection with the Lord, to welcome three strangers who appear in the heat of the day. It’s a brief yet decisive moment: the encounter with the ineffable —with God, for the believer— is revealed in the encounter with another human being, in our ability to see the other even amid our own pain and worries. Our sages teach that God appeared to Abraham while he was