“Shalom! I would love it if you can help me. I’m trying to say this … but I’m crying, sorry. In my entire life, I have never lit Shabbat candles, I have never kept Shabbat. I don’t even have candles in my house. I’m in the house now with my daughter and it isn’t safe to leave. Do you have a way to help me, perhaps? To bring candles to my home? I have never done it in my life … I’m saying this and I’m crying …”
“Where are you from?”
“Ashkelon.”
“Send me a text with your address and I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Uh … can you also bring me what I’m supposed to read or say? I just honestly… I never do these things ...”
“With great pleasure; I’m inspired!”
I’m witnessing a movement. An awakening.
In Israel and abroad, Jews who have not felt strongly connected to Israel or the Jewish people, and those who have not practiced mitzvot, are suddenly feeling pulled to do more (and more) mitzvot.
As volunteers deliver much-needed supplies to the front lines, as well as food and sweets to cheer our soldiers, they are being told that what the soldiers really want are tefillin and tzitzit. Thousands of pairs of tefillin have been donated. Tens of thousands of women worldwide just lit Shabbat candles, many for the first time.
People who have not stepped foot in a synagogue in decades are now showing up for services.
And let’s talk about the unity. People who just two weeks ago couldn’t see eye-to-eye religiously or politically are now hugging each other on the streets.
After practicing their military maneuvers and checking their weapons, soldiers dance at their bases to the upbeat, joyous tunes of Am Yisrael Chai. Songs of faith, hope and optimism. Songs of connection to G‑d, and to the Jewish people.
They all say that they are doing this for Israel. For our soldiers. For the hostages.
As I witness this outpouring of people taking on mitzvot, clamoring to do mitzvot, I honestly wonder, why? Why has atrocity caused this spiritual awakening? Why does suffering create such an expression of unity, and dare I say, even optimism?
With all the evil that we’ve witnessed—the unspeakable, heinous acts of barbarism—over the agonizing days since the outbreak of this war, you’d think there might be a feeling of dejection. Worry. Fear. Anxiety. Anger (yes, even against G‑d!) And while of course, these are all normal and justified emotions that we’re all experiencing, underneath those feelings, what is emerging stronger than ever is an awareness that we are the Jewish people.
Despite all that we’ve been through, we are and remain connected to G‑d, to each other, and to our homeland.
You see, at a time of such appalling heartbreak, suffering squeezes us to the depths of our being. It crushes all the external layers, and what emerges is our essence.
The Jewish soul has five different parts, the lowest three (nefesh, ruach, and neshama) are the functional, emotional, and intellectual dimensions that inform and inspire us, hopefully on a regular basis, to choose to manifest our higher, best self. But the highest levels of the soul (chaya and yechidah) are the subconscious and transcendent faculties that we aren’t usually in touch with.
This part of the soul isn’t often evident, but this is the deepest level of our essence. It expresses a love that isn’t dependent on whether our closeness to G‑d, or to our fellow Jew, is beneficial for us. But it is a love and connection that despite any distance, is always present.
What we are witnessing right now is the Jewish soul screaming, G‑d, I want to connect with you.
The trivial things that were taking up so much of my energy have just been crushed. The curtain has been pulled open, and the façade of our reality has crumbled. All those things that felt like a priority, were actually a distraction from the essence of who I am.
So, I do an extra mitzvah, because G‑d, You are the only eternal truth. I connect with my fellow Jew, because no matter how much we quibble or disagree, we are one. I know this not because I have read or studied it, not because I can even express it in words, but because my soul intuitively understands.
And even while my tears flow and my heart aches, a strength and a joy from deep within is peeking through. I feel optimistic knowing that we are the People of G‑d. We are the People the Torah has written about for thousands of years—with all the good and bad. We are the prayers that have been written through our blood and tears. These ancient prayers are engraved on our hearts and souls, and eerily sound like they were written this past week.
Because right now, deep down, we feel—no, we know!—with certainty, that we are the People whom G‑d promised will succeed in transforming the evil and depravity of this world to usher in the greatest light, morality, and peace for all humanity.
So why am I taking on an extra mitzvah? Why are we uniting with our fellow Jews? And why do we join with the joyous singing and dancing of our soldiers on the frontlines as tears roll down our cheeks?
Why?
Because we’ve been squeezed to the depths of our being, all the externalities have been obliterated, and what is emerging is unparalleled clarity: We are G‑d’s people and He is here with us.
We don’t just believe it. We know it.
It’s who we are.
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