At the recent RIETS dinner, I had the distinct privilege to serve as moderator for a Q&A panel discussion featuring Rabbi Dovid Miller, Rabbi Efrem Goldberg, and Rabbi Yisroel Kaminetsky. It was an honor to facilitate a conversation of such depth and significance. It may be viewed in its entirety here:

Toward the end of the panel, a question was raised that has clearly continued to resonate. In his response, Rabbi Goldberg framed a concern that extended beyond the individual decision of Aliyah to its broader communal implications. In essence, the question becomes: if large numbers of rabbanim and educators were to relocate, what will be with Jewish education and leadership in America? The issue, he powerfully suggested, is not only the individual choice but also the cumulative impact of many such choices.

At the time, I commented that I would have liked to respond but that we had run out of time. As I noted then, it was not the setting for extending the discussion. In the days since, I have received a number of thoughtful follow-ups from people who were curious how I might have addressed that question. I would like to offer a brief reflection.

The concern for the future of Jewish leadership in America is both understandable and important. At the same time, I am not convinced that it should function as a primary determinant in the decision-making process of any individual Rav or educator.

At a fundamental level, there is a distinction between responsibility and the extension of personal obligation beyond what one can realistically affect or foresee. Individuals are obligated to make thoughtful, grounded decisions that take into account their own circumstances, their families, and, where relevant, the communities and institutions to which they are directly accountable. A Rav serving a shul, a mechanech responsible for students, or a leader embedded in a particular institution cannot ignore the real impact of their departure. That is a legitimate and serious consideration (and not the subject of this essay).

At the same time, extending that responsibility to include speculative, large-scale projections about the future of Jewish leadership across an entire country moves beyond the scope of individual obligation. The question of “what will be” if many leaders choose a certain path assumes a level of control and foresight that we simply do not possess. There is a meaningful difference between responsible foresight within one’s sphere of influence and attempting to account for the aggregate consequences of many independent decisions.

Historically and theologically, we have understood that Hashem ensures the continuity of leadership within His people. That does not absolve individuals of responsibility, but it does place limits on the kinds of calculations we are meant to make.

Jewish history reflects a certain humility in this regard. Centers of Torah and leadership have never remained static. They have shifted across continents and generations, often in response to forces far beyond the control of any individual. That reality does not dictate how any one person should decide, but it does suggest that the long-term distribution of leadership within Klal Yisrael has not been shaped through individual attempts to engineer it.

We see a vivid and instructive version of this complexity in the time of Ezra and Nechemiah. When the opportunity arose to return to Eretz Yisrael, the Jewish people did not move as a single unit. A minority returned in waves, while the majority, including many of the greatest Torah scholars, remained in Bavel, where a strong and enduring community continued to develop. The absence of Levi’im in Ezra’s group was so striking that the text records it explicitly: when Ezra assembled the returnees, he discovered that not a single Levi had joined him. He sent recruiters to gather Levi’im, and ultimately, only very few joined (Ezra 8:15–20).

What is notable for our purposes is what we do not find. We do not find a recorded argument that individuals, not the Levi’im, not the Torah scholars, and not the broader community, should remain out of concern that Bavel would be left without leadership if too many departed. There appears to have been an acceptance that Jewish life could develop in parallel centers, rather than requiring preservation through centralized calculation.

It is also worth noting that while this question arises most naturally in the context of Aliyah, given the aspirational desire of many Jewish leaders to participate in what they experience as part of the unfolding geulah, the underlying argument is not unique to that setting. At its core, it asks whether individuals should make decisions based on the projected aggregate impact of many similar choices. That is not something we typically engineer, whether at the local, institutional, or national level. The inconsistency suggests that while the concern is genuine, it may not be the kind of consideration that should ultimately guide individual decision-making.

Ultimately, the question is not whether we care about the future of Klal Yisrael, but how we understand our role within it. We are called to act with responsibility, integrity, and sensitivity to those whose lives we directly shape. But we are not the sole architects of Jewish destiny. The future of Torah leadership has never depended on our ability to calculate its course in advance or to preserve it through collective restraint. It unfolds through a process far larger than any one decision, or even the sum of many decisions. Our task is to lead where we are called, with clarity and with courage, and to trust that the continuity of our people is sustained by a Hand far beyond our own.

Ayatollah Khamenei is dead. Ahmadinejad is dead. The men who stood before the world and called for the annihilation of the Jewish people — who funded the missiles, armed the proxies, built the infrastructure of hatred, and declared openly that Israel must be wiped from the map — did not live to see Purim. Tomorrow is Ta’anis Esther.

We are about to read the Megillah, the story of the Jewish people and Persia locked in existential confrontation. In that ancient world, too, the language of annihilation was not metaphorical. It was written into law. It was signed and sealed. It was backed by state power. The Jewish people stood vulnerable, scattered, and threatened with extinction. And in that moment, history turned.

Now, on the eve of Ta’anis Esther, Persia once again stands in the frame of our story. Once again, the rhetoric of destruction was explicit. Once again, the intention was operational, not symbolic. And once again, those who devoted their lives to our eradication did not survive to see their plans fulfilled. The timing is not incidental. It is staggering.

The Rambam writes at the opening of Hilchot Ta’aniyot that when upheaval strikes a community, and they cry out, they must not dismiss events as a coincidence. To respond by saying, “This is simply how the world works,” he calls achzariyut — a cruelty of the spirit, a hardening that refuses to engage with moral meaning. A fast is not about hunger. It is about clarity. It exists to uproot the illusion of mikreh.

That word lies at the heart of Amalek’s identity. The Torah describes Amalek as אשר קרך בדרך. Chazal hear in that phrase not only an ambush but a worldview. Amalek represents the theology of randomness. History has no Author. Power explains survival. Coincidence explains everything else. The attack is physical, but the deeper assault is philosophical.

That is why the first communal fast in Jewish history appears in the war against Amalek. When Yehoshua fights below, and Moshe stands above with raised hands, Chazal understand that the nation fasted. Fasting was not tactical. It was theological. Amalek says the world is blind. The Jewish response is to declare that it is not.

Purim represents the maturation of that declaration in an age of hiddenness. In the era of open miracles, the Divine Hand was unmistakable. By the time of Mordechai and Esther, prophecy had receded. The Name of Hashem does not appear in the Megillah. The story can be read entirely as a political coincidence: the king happens to depose Vashti; Esther happens to be chosen; Mordechai happens to overhear; the king happens not to sleep; the chronicle happens to open to the right page. Each event alone is plausible. Together they form a pattern too precise to be dismissed.

Haman himself never abandons the language of chance. ויספר… את כל אשר קרהו — everything that happened to him. Even as events close in around him with frightening symmetry, he insists on mikreh. He calls it a coincidence until the gallows stand ready.

Purim trains the Jewish people to discern meaning when the Divine Name is not explicitly written in the text of history. It does not authorize simplistic conclusions or arrogant certainty. It demands that we refuse randomness.

That is why Ta’anis Esther precedes Purim. Before we celebrate hidden salvation, we discipline ourselves to recognize hidden providence. Before we rejoice in reversal, we confront vulnerability. Before we defeat Amalek’s violence, we reject Amalek’s theology.

In moments like this, it is tempting to reduce everything to strategy and geopolitics. There will be endless analysis of intelligence operations, military precision, deterrence frameworks, and regional realignment. Jewish self-defense is a mitzvah. Strength is not a contradiction to faith. But if we speak only that language, we concede the deeper battle. A fast day insists that history is not merely the collision of power blocs. It is a moral narrative unfolding under a concealed but deliberate Hand.

The Rambam does not permit us to assign specific heavenly motives to specific events. He does require that we respond with introspection rather than indifference. A fast calls for unity, for tefillah, for moral refinement, for the rejection of cynicism. It demands that we not become spiritually numb in the face of extraordinary timing.

We do not glorify death. We do not romanticize conflict. We do not pretend to decode Heaven’s calculations. But we also do not avert our eyes from the irony written into this moment. On the eve of Ta’anis Esther, those who built careers on the promise of Jewish annihilation have fallen. Not in Shushan. Not in the desert. Here. Now. In our lifetime.

Amalek’s war was always both physical and philosophical. The Jewish response must remain the same. We defend ourselves with strength. And we fast to remind ourselves that strength alone does not explain survival.

Nothing is mikreh. Not in the days of Moshe. Not in Shushan. Not on the eve of Ta’anis Esther. Not now.

Several months ago, I wrote two articles about what appeared to be a steadily growing pattern of sports betting and gambling among teens. At the time, this was already a pervasive problem, yet it was not being discussed openly or receiving the level of sustained attention it seemed to warrant.

In the months since, something has changed. The conversation has accelerated. What was once under-discussed is now being addressed far more directly across schools, communities, and professional settings. Schools that had not touched this topic a year ago are now scheduling assemblies. Guidance offices report marked increases in student self-referrals. Community organizations are adding this topic to their public agenda. The shift is observable, not anecdotal.

Perhaps most striking has been the response from teens themselves. In a recent school program, a guidance counselor received more than 10 student inquiries for help within 20 minutes of the program ending. This was not prompted or staged. These were kids who heard something that helped them make sense of what they were experiencing, and they wanted to talk more. This pattern is not unique. Educators and counselors across multiple schools are reporting similar responses—students reaching out not out of shame, but with a genuine desire to understand what is happening in their brains and to get support.

During a recent prevention program, several teenage boys asked, in very direct terms, whether they might have already permanently damaged their brains. What was striking was what sat underneath those questions. These were not coming from defiance or denial. They were coming from fear, insight, and a clear openness to locate an off-ramp. In many ways, they were not only asking about neuroscience. They were asking whether it was too late for them, and whether change was still possible. The fact that they are asking those questions at all tells us something important: they are seeking reassurance and a way forward. That willingness to ask is a window that may not stay open indefinitely.

What I told them is this: The brain is remarkably plastic. It is built to learn, adapt, and rewire itself. Yes, repeated exposure to high-dopamine, high-risk activities creates neural pathways that make certain behaviors feel automatic. But those pathways are habits, not permanent scars, and habits can be reshaped with awareness, support, and different choices over time. The brain that learned to crave the rush can also learn to find satisfaction in healthier patterns. It takes work and honesty, but it is absolutely possible.

That answer seemed to matter to them. Not because it minimized the seriousness of what they were facing, but because it gave them agency. It told them that they were not broken, and that the next chapter of their story was still being written.

This shift tells us something critical: our kids are smart, sensible, and far more self-aware than we sometimes give them credit for. They do not want to fall into destructive cycles. In my experience, and while this is not entirely new, it feels especially evident right now, kids by and large are not primarily asking adults to fix their behavior. They are asking us to stay connected with them while they try to understand and change it. They want to be able to say, “I think I’m struggling,” or “I may be in over my head,” without immediately triggering panic, anger, or disappointment. They are not asking for approval. They are asking for space to be honest and vulnerable without feeling that they have already lost the relationship.

When that kind of relational safety exists, prevention becomes possible. When it does not, kids often go underground—not because they want to hide, but because they are trying to protect the relationship while still trying to manage something they do not fully understand themselves. The more we can create homes, schools, and communities where honesty is met first with steadiness and curiosity rather than immediate reaction, the more likely it is that kids will come forward early, when change is still far easier.

The Evidence of Change: Cultural and Economic Reassessment

Public conversation is shifting as well. Commentators who previously accepted gambling sponsorships are now publicly reversing course. Matt Walsh recently explained why he no longer allows gambling advertising. Meanwhile, a recent Economist article details how betting platforms routinely restrict users who demonstrate consistent success, revealing these systems are built around predictable loss, not fair play.

What many people have not fully understood: these are not simply games of chance. They are engineered engagement systems designed around predictable human vulnerability. Every element—the interface, timing, and reward structure—is optimized to keep users engaged longer and to encourage more frequent betting. Gambling triggers dopamine, but the brain counterbalances highs with lows, creating a cycle where people chase the next win to escape the drop. Over time, tolerance develops, and the same behavior produces less reward, requiring higher risk or more frequent betting. This is not about weak character. It is predictable brain wiring, combined with platforms intentionally designed to exploit it.

This is why today’s gambling environment is fundamentally different from anything previous generations faced. Access is constant, friction is gone, and sports betting apps are optimized using behavioral science to maximize engagement. Teens describe the pull clearly: the excitement, the rush, the immediacy of smartphone access. Many students report that they do not fully grasp how strongly the odds are stacked against them until they are already deeply involved.

Why This Moment Matters

That receptivity from students signals a significant shift. Historically, addiction conversations began only after habits were deeply entrenched. What we are seeing now is different. Many teens are raising their hands early, asking questions before things spiral out of control. That creates both a responsibility and an opportunity. We can shape habits, awareness, and decision-making before destructive trajectories become fixed.

But the conditions that make this moment possible are not guaranteed to hold. Teen receptivity may fade as the novelty wears off or as peer dynamics shift. Cultural attention is notoriously fickle—today’s urgent issue becomes tomorrow’s background noise. And institutional willingness to act often depends on momentum; once that dissipates, it becomes exponentially harder to justify new counselor positions, parent education programs, or curriculum changes.

What is changing is not only awareness, but tone. Scare tactics or shame-based messaging have not been nearly as effective as approaches grounded in validation and understanding. Kids need to know that feeling the pull of risky behavior is not a moral failing. It is the predictable result of sophisticated science, both in the brain and in the design of these platforms.

The response from students has been extraordinary. They are not defensive. They are grateful. They want adults to talk honestly about what is happening and to provide strategies and support to help them stay in control of their choices.

The lessons emerging from these months are clear: teens are more ready for honest engagement than we often assume, addiction is not a character issue but a wiring issue, and young people are eager partners in change when approached with empathy and clarity. Our kids are not passive recipients of risk. They are signaling that they want knowledge, guidance, and partnership.

The window is open. But windows do eventually close. Students need accessible pathways to get help without stigma. Parents need education sessions that equip them for these conversations. Peer-led support groups need to form while students are already engaged. Prevention programs work when they reach kids before patterns harden into lifelong struggles.

The conditions that make real prevention possible rarely align: student openness, parental concern, and institutional attention all present at once. Right now, they are. In six months, they may not be.

Our kids are asking for help. The question is not whether we should respond. The question is whether we’ll respond while they’re still asking.

This past week, large parts of the United States experienced significant winter weather. Snow fell across wide regions, altering landscapes, slowing daily life, and reminding many of us how powerfully the natural world can assert itself. Winter storms can range from inconvenience to danger, and their effects are not uniform. But whenever snow arrives in unusual measure, it has a way of capturing attention. It changes how we move through the world and how we experience time itself.

Snow does not announce itself with drama. It settles quietly. It covers. It stills. And because it is both familiar and disruptive, it invites reflection. When something descends from above and reshapes the world below—sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully—it prompts us to think about descent, impact, and meaning.

Today, as many people were still digging themselves out and returning to ordinary routines, we learned of a very different kind of significance. The remains of the final hostage taken on October 7 had been returned to Israel. With that return, a long and painful chapter reached its final accounting. His name was Ran Gvili, a young Israeli police officer killed during the attack, whose body had been taken into Gaza. For more than two years, his family and the people of Israel lived with unresolved absence.

I remember being in Israel several weeks after October 7, when the number of hostages was first assessed and settled at 239. At the time, I wrote about encountering those names not as an abstract number but as individual lives, each one demanding to be held in mind and memory (see my essay “239 Names”: https://larryrothwachs.com/2023/11/05/239-names/). That number quickly became more than information. It was spoken aloud, written on signs, and carried silently in the background of daily life. Over time, the number changed. Some hostages were rescued alive. Some were returned for burial. Many were lost. But the number itself never disappeared. It hovered, unresolved, over the nation.

Now, with the return of the final remains, that count has come to its end. Nothing about this moment feels redemptive. It does not restore life or undo loss. And yet, it marks something real: the completion of a process that unfolded slowly, painfully, and unevenly over time.

Snow falling across the country and the return of a final hostage’s remains belong to different worlds, and they should not be equated. But experienced together, they point toward a shared theological question: how does fulfillment actually unfold, and why does it so often fail to look the way we expect?

That question is already present in the words of the Navi. This past Shabbos, the haftarah included a verse that seemed to speak directly into this moment:

וְאַתָּה אַל תִּירָא עַבְדִּי יַעֲקֹב, וְאַל תֵּחַת יִשְׂרָאֵל,
כִּי הִנְנִי מוֹשִׁיעֲךָ מרחוק,
וְאֶת זַרְעֲךָ מֵאֶרֶץ שִׁבְיָם,
וְשָׁב יַעֲקוֹב, וְשָׁקַט וְשַׁאֲנַן וְאֵין מַחֲרִיד.

“Do not fear, My servant Yaakov, do not be dismayed, Yisrael. For I will save you from afar, and your descendants from the land of their captivity; Yaakov shall return and be tranquil and secure, with none to frighten him.”

The pasuk speaks directly of redemption from captivity, but it does so with notable restraint. Salvation comes, it says—but it comes מֵרָחוֹק, “from afar.” Distance is built into the promise. Redemption is real, but it unfolds across space and time. It does not deny fear, nor does it erase waiting.

That same tension appears in a familiar passage in Yeshayahu, one that explicitly uses the imagery of rain and snow:

כִּי כַּאֲשֶׁר יֵרֵד הַגֶּשֶׁם וְהַשֶּׁלֶג מִן־הַשָּׁמַיִם
וְשָׁמָּה לֹא יָשׁוּב כִּי אִם־הִרְוָה אֶת־הָאָרֶץ
וְהוֹלִידָהּ וְהִצְמִיחָהּ
וְנָתַן זֶרַע לַזֹּרֵעַ וְלֶחֶם לָאֹכֵל
כֵּן יִהְיֶה דְבָרִי אֲשֶׁר יֵצֵא מִפִּי
לֹא־יָשׁוּב אֵלַי רֵיקָם
כִּי אִם־עָשָׂה אֶת־אֲשֶׁר חָפַצְתִּי
וְהִצְלִיחַ אֲשֶׁר שְׁלַחְתִּיו.

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there, but water the earth, making it fertile and productive, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater—so shall My word be that goes forth from My mouth; it shall not return to Me empty, but shall accomplish that which I desire and succeed in that for which I sent it.”

The Navi could have chosen rain alone as his metaphor. Rain is the classic symbol of blessing—visible, immediate, life-giving. But Yeshayahu insists on including snow as well. Both descend from Heaven, both nourish the earth, and both, he says, do not return empty.

The Malbim notes that the pasuk describes not a single act but a process, unfolding in stages: הרוויה — saturation; הולדה — the earth becoming capable of bearing life; הצמחה — visible growth; and finally זרע and לחם — seed for the future and bread for the present. Rain and snow are not redundant images; they play different roles within a single chain of nourishment and development.

From that foundation, a powerful reflection emerges. Rain is experienced as movement and immediacy; snow as stillness and quiet accumulation. Yet the Navi insists that snow, too, waters the earth. Both participate in the same divine work, even when their effects are experienced differently.

So too with the דבר ה׳. Sometimes it arrives like rain—its impact swift and unmistakable. Sometimes it arrives like snow—settling quietly, preparing conditions beneath the surface. From our perspective, one feels like fulfillment and the other like waiting. But the pasuk’s claim is that both belong to the same category of success: לא ישוב ריקם.

This distinction matters when we try to make sense of moments like the one Israel experienced today. The return of Staff Sergeant Ran Gvili’s remains was not a typical rescue. It was not redemption. It did not restore life or undo loss. And yet, it was not nothing. It completed something that had remained painfully unfinished. It allowed mourning to take a different form. It shifted the story, even if it did not heal it.

Over the past two and a half years, there were moments that felt like rain—rescues that brought joy, returns that felt like breakthroughs. And there were long stretches that felt like snow—silence, uncertainty, waiting that seemed frozen in place. The Navi’s promise does not tell us that all divine words arrive as rain. It tells us that even when they arrive as snow, they are still part of fulfillment.

This does not answer the hardest questions or explain suffering. It offers a more demanding claim: that meaning is not measured solely by immediacy. Some nourishment prepares the ground. Some blessings arrive as seed rather than bread. And some forms of fulfillment are only recognizable once a long process has reached its end.

This past week brought both images into view at once: snow descending quietly across the landscape, and today’s news of the final return of a body long withheld. Together, they remind us that the unfolding of divine purpose does not follow a single rhythm. The word of Hashem does not return empty. Sometimes it comes like rain, bringing immediate clarity and comfort. Sometimes it comes like snow, settling slowly, completing what must be completed, and leaving its meaning to be understood only with time.

Over the past several weeks, the communal conversation around sports betting has intensified, reflecting both concern and broader recognition of the issue. Educators, parents, clinicians, and community members have begun speaking more openly about this issue. Some have shared that the initial article reflected concerns they had already been observing. This highlights a crucial point: this is not a narrow issue affecting only a small group of teens, but a broader cultural challenge that has been developing quietly for years and now demands sustained attention.

What has become clearer through these conversations is not only how widespread the behavior is, but also how deeply it is woven into the structure of everyday digital life. Recognizing this complexity should not lead to despair—rather, it leads to a clearer understanding of what we are facing. The forces involved are significant, yet they are not beyond our collective ability to shape, provided we keep this issue at the forefront of our communal awareness.

Meaningful communal change rarely happens quickly. More often, it begins with a conversation that takes time to settle and ideas that require space before communities consider substantive shifts. We have seen this pattern with school phone policies, where quiet concerns circulated for years until schools and parents began exploring coordinated approaches. Sports betting may follow a similar path: keeping the conversation active allows understanding to develop, and solutions, in turn, reinforce ongoing reflection.

With that framing, this piece turns to what has emerged most clearly: the layers beneath the problem and several areas where communities can begin working constructively. What we are seeing is not simply gambling. Rather, it is a layered form of digital dependency shaped by four overlapping forces: the gambling activity itself, the reinforcement loops built into the apps, the central role of smartphones in daily life, and the social dynamics amplified through chats and online platforms. Each element strengthens the others, creating behavior patterns different from those experienced by previous generations. This is amplified by the fact that sports betting today is woven directly into the broader sports culture. Whether watching a game on television, following scores online, or using mainstream apps like ESPN, people are repeatedly confronted with ads, prompts, and invitations to bet, making gambling feel like a natural extension of the sports experience.

The betting apps themselves are designed for immediacy. A wager takes seconds, and an outcome triggers another opportunity. The loop is fast and constant, unfolding on the same device teens use for socializing, schoolwork, entertainment, and communication. They do not need to seek out gambling. It arrives packaged alongside everything else.

This complexity matters because it influences how we respond. This is not merely an issue of willpower or values. The architecture surrounding the behavior has changed. A separate article will explore addiction itself, how these behaviors take root, why signs may be subtle, and which assumptions can hinder effective responses. For now, the focus is on practical steps communities can begin taking.

1. Keep the Conversation Open

Gambling hides easily. It leaves no visible traces and often remains unnoticed until underlying harm has already emerged. When communities create space for steady, age-appropriate discussion—in shuls, classrooms, and homes—they create room for awareness, questions, and guidance.

This does not require dramatic presentations. It requires consistency and a willingness to name what is happening. When the topic is spoken about openly, students are more likely to ask questions, parents are more likely to notice early patterns, and schools are better positioned to set expectations. Silence makes concealment easier.

2. Equip Parents With the Information They Are Missing

Many parents have only a partial understanding of how sports betting functions today. They may recognize the names of popular platforms but know little about how quickly bets can be placed, how the apps are designed to sustain engagement, or how digital money transfers can obscure patterns. Parents are not indifferent. They often lack information. Effective education provides a clearer picture of how the systems work, what early indicators look like, and how to initiate grounded, respectful conversations at home.

In practice, that may mean approaching a concerning incident not with immediate alarm but with curiosity: “Help me understand how this worked for you, what you were thinking, how you placed the bet, what it felt like.” This approach opens the door to honest conversation and allows parents to discern whether they are seeing a one-time decision or the beginning of a pattern.

3. Ensure Leadership Is Adequately Informed

People in leadership positions—rabbis, teachers, mechanchim, coaches, youth directors, and others who interact regularly with adolescents—need a basic working understanding of sports betting and the risks it poses. They do not need expertise in addiction treatment, but they do need enough familiarity to recognize early signs, respond appropriately, and avoid unintentionally minimizing behaviors that may signal deeper concerns. Awareness in this area has improved over the years. I can personally speak to the way RIETS has emphasized training and continuing education on these issues, and there are additional organizations and communal initiatives that have played meaningful roles in raising awareness as well. Still, gaps remain. Strengthening this baseline knowledge allows leaders to guide families more effectively and increases the likelihood that concerning patterns will be identified early, when they are most responsive to intervention.

4. Set Clear Institutional Boundaries

Many high schools (and some middle schools) have begun addressing sports betting in thoughtful ways and deserve credit for doing so. Still, isolated assemblies or single presentations cannot counter the speed and scale of the surrounding culture. Schools and camps may benefit from clearer, more coordinated boundaries. This does not require rigid uniformity, but rather greater alignment: schools within the same community communicating about policies, middle schools and high schools ensuring younger students hear consistent expectations, and administrators checking in periodically to share what they are seeing.

Activities that mirror gambling—fantasy leagues, brackets, prediction contests—may seem harmless, but they rehearse the impulses that underlie actual betting. When schools, especially middle schools, establish clear expectations and consistnetly maintain them, the message becomes stronger than any individual program.

5. Build Quiet Pathways for Support

Families who reached out in recent weeks described a common pattern: by the time a concern becomes visible, it is often advanced. With no physical signs and few obvious markers, gambling can remain hidden for long periods. Communities benefit from confidential and accessible support. Rabbanim, clinicians, and organizations such as Amudim, Relief, and CCSA play important roles. Yet families may not always know where to turn or may hesitate to seek help until the situation has escalated.

When these resources are introduced gradually—through routine parent meetings, quiet conversations with rabbanim, or visible but non‑stigmatizing messaging—families are more likely to reach out early, when interventions can be most effective.

6. Strengthen Financial and Digital Responsibility

For many teens, gambling often begins with unmonitored money. Small digital transfers accumulate unnoticed. Ten dollars here or there may seem insignificant until the amounts start to matter. Teaching young people to understand digital payment systems, track spending, and communicate openly about finances strengthens their sense of responsibility and integrity. This approach also creates natural points at which adults can observe emerging patterns.

7. Re‑Center Torah Values

Gambling encourages a mindset that separates reward from effort and impulse from intention. It works against values that ground a life of avodah—discipline, patience, honesty, and the dignity of earned accomplishment. When these values are woven into regular conversations—not as lectures but as part of the shared language of home and school—they help counter the cultural pressures that make gambling appealing.

And so, we will not eliminate sports betting from the world our children currently inhabit. Technology will continue to evolve, and sports culture will continue to expand, but we can influence the environment in meaningful ways.

At present, our goal need not be to solve the problem outright, but rather to shift the landscape. Greater awareness, clearer boundaries, earlier intervention, and stronger education can meaningfully alter the trajectory of many young people who might otherwise drift into patterns harder to reverse.

That work begins with ensuring the conversation does not fade. Sustained awareness allows ideas to mature and solutions to develop. In the coming weeks, the final part of this series will examine addiction more directly, exploring how these behaviors take root and how we can respond with clarity, compassion, and realism moving forward.

What happens when the emotional needs people bring to their rabbi far exceed what any rabbi is meant or trained to carry? What are the risks when personal struggle, trauma, anxiety, or crisis becomes directed toward a figure whose role is fundamentally spiritual rather than clinical? And how do we protect both rabbis and congregants when the line between supportive presence and emotional dependence quietly disappears?

These questions arise from a growing reality across many communities.

Halacha Headlines’ latest episode, “Sacred Roles, Serious Risks,” confronts these questions directly. I was privileged to join Rabbi Ari Wasserman as we discussed the shifting emotional landscape in which rabbis, teachers, and communal figures now operate: https://halachaheadlines.com/episodes/sacred-roles-serious-risks-when-rabbis-male-therapists-and-kiruv-professionals-work-with-women/

Anxiety, loneliness, and trauma are rising. Many individuals do not know where to turn. In that vacuum, the rabbi feels accessible, safe, and familiar. He may be the only person someone trusts enough to reveal their struggles.

That instinct is understandable, and it reflects a meaningful relationship that can exist between a rabbi and his community. But it also introduces serious risks. Regardless of how insightful, compassionate, or experienced a rabbi may be, his responsibility is pastoral and spiritual. A therapist’s responsibility is clinical and treatment-focused. These are not simply different skill sets; they are distinct roles, with different goals, expectations, boundaries, and safeguards. This concern applies even to rabbis who hold clinical degrees or advanced counseling training. The core issue is not training but role. The built-in expectations, authority, and ongoing involvement of the rabbi–congregant relationship make it an unsuitable setting for formal therapeutic work, even for rabbis with clinical credentials.

The demands placed on rabbis have fundamentally shifted. It is no longer uncommon for congregants to contact their rabbi frequently, sometimes daily, seeking reassurance, grounding, or help navigating acute emotional distress. Each interaction may seem benign, even positive. Over time, however, these patterns create dependence and mask deeper issues requiring professional intervention. The rabbi begins to assume responsibility not only for halachic or pastoral questions but for someone’s emotional equilibrium. Because rabbis care deeply and want to be responsive, this drift occurs without anyone noticing. This is not a crisis overwhelming every rabbi, nor is it a criticism of rabbis or congregants. It is simply a reality that exists in many settings and therefore needs acknowledgment and clearer management.

When pastoral and clinical roles collapse into one, everyone becomes vulnerable. Most rabbis enter their roles motivated by meaning and service, not expecting to absorb ongoing emotional volatility. Yet functioning in a quasi-therapeutic role without extensive training, supervision, or support quietly accumulates its own toll. I am very familiar with and proud of the great and robust rabbinical training program at RIETS. Still, even with all it provides, there are limits to what any semicha program can prepare a rabbi to handle. Rabbis find themselves responding to crises, trauma disclosures, marital struggles, and complex family dynamics in ways no formal training program was ever designed to address fully. Even rabbis with clinical training face challenges here—the dual relationship of rabbi and therapist creates conflicts that professional ethics explicitly prohibit. Without a framework to navigate these situations, rabbis may internalize pressures that are not theirs to carry, sometimes without realizing the weight they have assumed.

Meanwhile, congregants may not receive the care they actually need. Pastoral wisdom, however valuable, cannot replace clinical treatment for trauma, severe anxiety, or mental health conditions. When someone’s primary emotional anchor is a figure whose role is fundamentally different from a clinician’s, they may miss the intervention that could genuinely help them heal.  The community itself relies on a structure that cannot safely bear the weight placed upon it.

This is precisely why boundaries matter. Clear boundaries are not signs of distance or lack of warmth. They are expressions of responsibility. Boundaries recognize that rabbis and therapists serve different functions, each essential and valuable. They ensure that the right person gives help for the right reasons. They preserve the integrity of spiritual guidance and of mental health treatment. They protect the emotional well-being of those seeking help and the sustainability of those giving it.

In my opinion, our community would benefit profoundly from establishing a basic model of supervision or consultation for rabbis. In the mental health world, supervision is a standard requirement throughout multiple years of training. Even experienced clinicians rely on supervisors to navigate complex situations. Rabbis would benefit greatly from a similar structure—not to turn them into therapists or diminish their authority, but to give them a place to process difficult encounters, recognize situations exceeding their role, and receive guidance on responding responsibly.

There are, of course, settings where less structured versions of this already exist. Some organizations have developed peer-consultation models, and many rabbis consult informally with trusted colleagues. These efforts are valuable and deserve real appreciation. At the same time, peer support is not always a full substitute for structured supervision. Certain situations, because of their emotional complexity or sensitivity, may require guidance that extends beyond what peers alone can provide. This does not diminish the worth of peer frameworks, it simply acknowledges that rabbis may need a range of supports to address the challenges they encounter.

Creating such a model is not a critique of rabbinic competency. It is an affirmation of their humanity and a recognition of contemporary community realities. A structured system, whether within rabbinic institutions or coordinated externally, could significantly improve the well-being of rabbis, congregants, and the broader community.

While the podcast conversation focused primarily on rabbis, especially given the questions raised about boundaries between men and women, it is important to acknowledge that many of the dynamics described here apply to rebbetzins as well. Their roles often place them at the center of emotionally complex situations, and they, too, can find themselves carrying responsibilities that extend beyond what is sustainable or appropriate. This deserves its own fuller discussion, but it should be recognized within the context of this one.

Ultimately, this issue is about all of us. It is about acknowledging the pressures individuals carry and the emotional expectations placed on rabbis, and recognizing the structural gaps that appear when communal needs evolve faster than communal frameworks. For anyone who cares about communal wellbeing, rabbinic leadership, or mental health, this conversation is worth continuing—not to criticize but to understand, and not to assign blame but to build something healthier together.

I encourage you to listen to the conversation with Rabbi Wasserman. Then ask: What would supervision or consultation for rabbis look like in your community? How can we better distinguish pastoral care from clinical treatment? What systems need to be in place so that both rabbis and congregants receive the support they deserve?

These questions won’t answer themselves, but they are answerable.

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Note: While the full episode features multiple perspectives, I stand behind the views expressed in my own interview, which are the only ones that necessarily reflect my perspective.

I appreciate the thoughtful feedback offered by Rabbi Aaron Reichel, published in the Jewish Press, in response to my recent reflections on the mourning process. I am grateful that he engaged the topic seriously and with evident care for halacha, pastoral sensitivity, and communal well-being.

One impression his letter conveyed is that my article suggested a new norm or alternative template for how shiva should be structured. Let me clarify what was evident from the outset: the classic, open, community-oriented shiva remains the ideal halachic model and an extraordinarily valuable one. We should continue to preserve, support, and promote it.

The purpose of the original piece was far narrower. It was to create space for the small but significant subset of situations in which one or more mourners find themselves emotionally, psychologically, or practically unable to participate in a full traditional shiva framework. These cases are not theoretical. They exist quietly in many homes and far more often than we tend to acknowledge. When such circumstances arise, honoring the dignity and emotional reality of the mourner is not a departure from halacha but entirely consistent with it.

The Core Halachic Question

Before addressing the specific concerns raised, it is important to note that the discussion here is not about whether a person is obligated to sit shiva. That obligation may apply in most cases, although halacha does recognize situations in which aspects of aveilus are suspended or modified. The question at hand is altogether different. It concerns whether a mourner is halachically required to receive visitors regardless of that mourner’s emotional readiness. The obligation to observe shiva is not synonymous with a commitment to host a steady flow of visitors. The framework of nichum aveilim is governed by the mourner’s expressed capacity and desire to engage.

What follows is an effort to articulate that point with greater clarity, respond directly to the concerns raised, and ground the discussion in halachic and pastoral principles.

1. Nichum Aveilim is for the Subject, Not the Object

The mitzvah of nichum aveilim is designed to comfort a human being in pain. Halacha defines this interaction with great precision, placing primary emphasis on the expressed needs of the mourner, rather than on what visitors imagine the mourner should need, or on the needs of the visitor.

The Shulchan Aruch in Yoreh Deah 376 states explicitly that visitors should not initiate conversation and that once the mourner indicates that the interaction has reached its limit, even through a minimal gesture, visitors are no longer permitted to remain. These formulations are not suggestions. They are binding halachic parameters that structure the entire experience.

On this point, I agree with Rabbi Reichel’s statement that the Rabbis knew exactly what they were doing in shaping the mourning process. My argument does not challenge rabbinic wisdom. It applies it. The halachic model does not expect mourners to perform emotional availability. It expects visitors to respect the emotional boundaries that the mourner actually expresses. This is not a contemporary therapeutic insight. It is the halachic framework itself.

For this reason, when a mourner finds conversation overwhelming or when the presence of visitors becomes emotionally difficult, accommodating that reality is not a leniency and not a concession. It is part of the halachic structure of the mitzvah itself.

2. Overwhelm, Not Just Withdrawal

Rabbi Reichel correctly notes that unmitigated withdrawal after loss can have harmful long-term consequences. That is true. But the cases I addressed are not primarily cases of withdrawal. They involve overwhelm. There is a profound difference between depressive avoidance and the inability to manage constant emotional stimulation while still in shock, trauma, or exhaustion.

For some mourners, an open-door shiva does not alleviate isolation; it increases distress. Contemporary pastoral literature notes that many mourners fulfill and benefit from shiva through quiet presence rather than conversation. Silent companionship is often the most authentic expression of nichum aveilim.

3. Alternatives Are Helpful, But Not Always Sufficient

Rabbi Reichel suggests several strategies as preferable to private shiva, such as limiting hours, restricting topics, waiting for cues, or stepping out when needed. These approaches are useful in many situations.

However, they do not address cases in which the flow of visitors itself is destabilizing or emotionally unsafe. Suggesting that a mourner repeatedly exit, redirect, or manage boundaries places the entire burden of emotional regulation on someone already in acute pain.

Halachic authorities caution against overburdening mourners, and many contemporary guides acknowledge the legitimacy of firm visiting hours or limited access based on the mourner’s needs. Yet even these measures do not always suffice. There are situations in which a more structured and private environment is necessary for the mourner’s well-being.

4. Shiva Within a Family Is Not a Referendum

Rabbi Reichel raises thoughtful questions about families with differing needs. Must every member of a household conform to one mourner’s preference? What if another family member wants visitors? What if a minor needs support or a sibling requires a more traditional expression of comfort?

Halacha acknowledges that grief is an individual experience, not a collective one. Different family members may have vastly different emotional needs. Accommodations need not be all or nothing. Staggered visiting times, separate spaces, or individualized plans are all possible. The goal is never to close doors for those who seek traditional comfort. It is to avoid forcing someone, often the most emotionally fragile mourner, into an environment that may cause harm.

5. The Mitzvah Belongs to the Mourner, Not to the Visitor

Rabbi Reichel notes that visitors derive meaning and spiritual benefit from offering comfort. This is true. Many visitors experience connection and elevation through the mitzvah of nichum aveilim. And yet the halacha is clear that the mitzvah is oriented toward the mourner’s comfort, not the visitor’s fulfillment.

Visitors fulfill the mitzvah even in complete silence. Remaining silent until the mourner chooses to speak is part of the halachic structure itself. Silent presence, brief presence, or restricted presence all count fully. The visitor’s desire to offer comfort cannot override a mourner’s emotional boundaries. The mitzvah exists for the mourner.

6. Personal Anecdotes Cannot Be Universalized

Rabbi Reichel’s story of a rabbi who initially resisted visitors and ultimately drew strength from them is moving and entirely valid. I could offer many similar stories of my own. There is no question that for some individuals, the shiva process can prove deeply cathartic and profoundly healing. At the same time, I can also share personal accounts of mourners who, long after the week ended, had to recover not from the loss of their relative but from the emotional pain they endured through the shiva process itself.

The point is not to compare stories. Personal anecdotes, no matter how powerful, cannot establish a rule. They illustrate the range of human experience, but they do not determine what should be expected of every mourner in every circumstance. Our responsibility is to meet each mourner where that person truly is, guided by halacha and by genuine sensitivity, not by assumptions drawn from the experiences of others.

7. Preserving the Classic Model, Making Space for the Exceptions

Nothing in my original article advocated moving away from the classic shiva framework. The vast majority of shivas should remain exactly as they have always been, open, communal, comforting, and centered on shared grief.

My intention was far more modest: to acknowledge that for a minority of mourners, the standard model is not emotionally sustainable and that in those cases, halacha itself provides flexibility, and compassion demands it. A shiva that honors the mourner’s stated needs, whether full, partial, or limited, is not a diminished shiva. It is a faithful one.

Conclusion

Rabbi Reichel concludes with the assertion that “there are no limits to the benefits that accrue from traditional public shiva visits.” I understand the sentiment behind this line, but it is simply not supported by the experience of many mourners. There are, in fact, limits to those benefits, and for some individuals, the limits are quite pronounced. In certain situations, there can even be emotional harm. I was aware of this long before writing the original article, but the responses I received afterward from individuals in a wide range of circumstances only reinforced it. Some described distress, anxiety, or retraumatization that arose not from their loss but from the nature or volume of the shiva experience itself. These accounts do not detract from the immense value of a traditional shiva for those who find it comforting. They do, however, remind us that its benefits are not universal and that our communal practice must be broad enough to recognize and support those for whom the standard model is not emotionally safe or sustainable.

I am grateful to Rabbi Reichel for his engagement and his genuine concern for preserving the integrity and power of the shiva experience. On that goal, we are aligned. My hope is not to alter communal norms but to ensure that within those norms we recognize and dignify the lived reality of all mourners, including those for whom the standard structure is overwhelming.

We honor the mitzvah most fully when we remember that it was designed not to protect a structure but to uplift a human being.

We have a serious problem and, as far as I can tell, nobody is talking about it.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve been hearing from rabbinic colleagues, mental health professionals, educators, and families about a growing pattern that can no longer be ignored.  Gambling and sports betting, most often through phone apps, have quietly become among the fastest-spreading addictions in our community.

Almost always, it occurs in secret. Yet, at the same time, it’s hiding in plain sight. Conversations about “the spread,” casual bets on a fantasy team, constant comments about parlays – they’re happening in shuls, yeshiva dorms, and high school lunchrooms. What may seem like harmless sports talk is, in many cases, something much more serious.

In almost three decades of public life in communal leadership, I cannot recall another issue with such a dramatic gap between the scope of the problem and the absence of public conversation.

If you’re reading this, you fall into one of two groups. Either you already know exactly what I’m talking about, you’ve seen it, heard about it, maybe even dealt with it up close, or you think I’m overstating the case. If you’re in that second group, just ask. Ask a rebbe, a guidance counselor, a camp director, a college student, or a teenager. Trust me, you won’t have to ask twice.

The spread is real, the harm is real, and the silence is deafening.

Since the Supreme Court lifted federal restrictions on sports betting in 2018, gambling has exploded across the country. In 2024, Americans wagered nearly $150 billion, the highest total ever recorded. Thirty-eight states now allow sports betting, and most permit it online. Gambling no longer takes place mainly in casinos; it happens at home, in schools, or anywhere your phone can locate a signal.

A landmark multi-year survey of 19 yeshiva high schools in the New York tri-state area, encompassing thousands of students, found that Orthodox teens gamble at higher rates than their peers in the general population, with sports betting leading the way. The research, first highlighted several years ago and since replicated, reveals something deeply consistent: this is not a marginal issue. It’s a sustained trend, a uniquely persistent problem in our community.

Still, most parents and educators react with disbelief. We assume “our kids” are immune. We imagine that structure, spiritual grounding, and a close-knit community will protect them. Yet the very privacy that defines modern life, the screens, the apps, and the individual accounts, creates the perfect cover. Gambling doesn’t need rebellion to thrive, only secrecy. And while the concern often centers on teenagers, the problem extends well beyond them. Rabbanim and therapists are now hearing similar stories from adults, parents, professionals, and even community leaders quietly struggling with the same behaviors. It is not only a youth issue but a communal one, and like all addictions, it preys on the very values we often admire: energy, competition, and social connection. It takes what feels normal and turns it into a compulsion.

Some might argue that casual betting is harmless, a few dollars on a Super Bowl pool, a fantasy league among friends. But the line between playful and destructive is thinner than most realize. The same mechanisms that make these games exciting, risk, suspense, reward are the same ones that drive addictive behavior. For an increasing number of people, what starts as entertainment becomes a dependency.

Technology has accelerated that shift. Gambling apps are built for speed, privacy, and constant engagement. Teens can fake birth dates, use prepaid cards, or tap into shared family accounts. With Venmo, Apple Pay, and digital wallets, money moves instantly and invisibly. A generation ago, a teenager might have asked for twenty dollars in cash, and by the third time that week, a parent would start asking questions. That safeguard is gone. The transactions are quiet, seamless, and easy to miss, until the losses start adding up.

This is no longer a potential problem waiting on the horizon. It is already here, unfolding in front of us, whether we choose to look or not. The data, the stories, and the steady rise in concern from educators and therapists all point to the same conclusion: our community is facing an emerging addiction crisis that we are barely acknowledging.

Before we can begin to address it, we need to say it plainly: gambling has entered our homes, our schools, and our culture. The first step is to stop pretending it hasn’t.

I have intentionally paused here. In a follow-up piece to be published shortly, I plan to share some thoughts on what we as a community can begin to do, practically, responsibly, and with care, to address this growing issue. But first, we need to confront it honestly, to acknowledge and name the problem before we can talk about solutions.

Awareness alone won’t solve this, but silence guarantees that it will grow. A community that looks away while addiction spreads in its midst cannot call itself healthy. The question isn’t whether gambling has reached us—it has. The only question is how long we’ll keep pretending it hasn’t.

Private shiva? Whoever heard of such a thing? Isn’t that almost an oxymoron? Shiva, by its very definition, is public. The mourners open their homes, welcoming visitors who allow others to step into their grief and share the burden with them. That is the ritual we all know.

Recently, a situation in our community gave rise to this very question. A family requested a private shiva as a way of observing their mourning in a more personal setting. What prompted me to reflect was not the request itself, but some of the reactions it generated. A few expressed feeling disappointed at not being able to fulfill the mitzvah of nichum aveilim. Others wondered aloud why a family would choose to do this. Those responses revealed a genuine confusion about the nature of comfort and provided an opportunity to explore a perspective that, while familiar to some, might be less intuitive to others.

And yet, for some, the very fact that such a request could be made felt confusing, even objectionable. After all, isn’t there a mitzvah of nichum aveilim? Aren’t we commanded to visit and to comfort? Some even felt denied an opportunity, as if they were robbed of a mitzvah. Others, despite hearing the request, couldn’t resist the urge to reach out, to ask why, to insist on being present anyway. In several cases, these reactions were not shared privately or in passing conversation, but were directed to the mourners themselves, people in the midst of their own grief, now faced with the additional burden of justifying their choices. But this reaction misses something fundamental about what comfort actually means.

Nichum aveilim is indeed a mitzvah, but it is not like eating matzah or shaking a lulav, where the mitzvah is fulfilled through contact with an object. Matzah and lulav are objects; they have no will, no preferences, no capacity to refuse our interaction with them. Nichum aveilim centers on a person, a subject with feelings, needs, and agency. A person who can say yes or no, who has inner experiences we cannot access, who may need something entirely different from what we assume.

Our rabbis teach us that even in the traditional setting of shiva, the mourner leads. The halacha directs us not to begin speaking until the mourner speaks first. Even when we are sitting in the same room, the mitzvah unfolds on their terms, not ours. When we treat a mourner like an object for our mitzvah fulfillment, something we act upon to discharge our obligation, we have fundamentally misunderstood the nature of comfort itself.

When the Torah describes our duty to give assistance, it doesn’t simply command us to “give.” It teaches dei machsoro asher yechsar lo (Devarim 15:8) — meaning provide whatever is sufficient to meet that need, nothing more and nothing less. Our rabbis explain that this could mean food, clothing, or shelter. It might also mean restoring dignity or purpose, even through something that others might view as a luxury. The Torah’s concern is not with what appears objectively necessary but with what this specific person truly needs. The focus is on the subject, not the giver, and the sensitivity to what he or she may require to begin healing.

Nichum aveilim operates by the same logic. Sometimes a mourner needs the warmth of community surrounding them. Sometimes they need people to simply sit in silence. And sometimes, perhaps more often than we realize, what they need most desperately is space to grieve without performance, without explanation, without the exhausting weight of hosting others’ good intentions. To honor that request is not to abandon the mitzvah. It is the mitzvah.

Why would a mourner ask for privacy? From the outside, I admit to some hesitation even in answering that question. To do so almost undermines the very point being made — that the reasons belong to the mourner and are, in truth, none of our business. Even so, there are countless possible reasons, each valid in its own right and beyond our right to question. The relationship with the deceased may have carried its own wounds and pain, and the idea of revisiting it with others could intensify the grief. The mourner may be carrying wounds that outsiders can’t see. Sometimes the pressure of re-telling the story, again and again, feels unbearable. And sometimes the person simply lacks the strength to host, even well-intentioned visitors can feel overwhelming. In all of these cases, the responsibility of chesed is to trust the mourner’s voice. Not to question, not to speculate, and certainly not to push back.

When someone shares only part of a medical journey, or hints at family struggles, they are choosing what to disclose. The mitzvah is not to press for details, not to probe for more, but to respect the boundary they have set. True chesed often means resisting our curiosity, silencing our questions, and accepting that we are not entitled to know everything.

Even after shiva concludes, the spirit of that request remains. A family that asks for a private shiva is also, by implication, asking for privacy in the weeks that follow. It was shared with me that even long after the mourning period had ended, well-intentioned people still reached out with comments that began, “I know you wanted a private shiva, but…” Those words, however kindly meant, miss the same point. When someone has set a boundary, revisiting it later does not honor their healing — it reopens what they have asked to protect. Respecting privacy is not a temporary courtesy; it is an ongoing form of compassion.

Ultimately, the lesson extends far beyond mourning. In moments of loss, illness, or struggle, the truest kindness is not measured by presence alone, but by the sensitivity to discern when presence is welcome and when space is sacred. To offer that space is to affirm another person’s dignity, to trust their process, and to show that love need not always arrive at the door to be felt.

We often assume that chesed is measured in what we do, our presence, our words, our actions. But sometimes the truest chesed is measured in what we hold back: the questions we don’t ask, the visits we don’t make, the speculations we don’t voice. When a family requests a private shiva, honoring that request is not missing the mitzvah. It is fulfilling the mitzvah in the most honest way possible.

True nichum aveilim requires us to recognize that the mourner, not the visitor, sets the terms of comfort. Sometimes they need us near, sometimes they need silence, and sometimes they need distance. Real chesed is not about easing our own conscience. It is about giving the mourner what they ask for, even when what they ask for is nothing at all.

(Summary of drasha delivered at Congregation Beth Aaron on Sukkos, 5786)

Yesterday was October 7, a date forever seared into our collective soul. It has become a tragic landmark of loss and resilience, a day that reshaped Jewish memory. And yet, by a painful twist of the calendar, the holiday of Sukkos is now bound to that day. The secular date, of course, will not always coincide with Sukkos, but the Hebrew date—the day of Shemini Atzeres—always will. The horror that unfolded on that holy day has fused itself permanently with the festival’s conclusion. And so the question inevitably arises: can we ever celebrate Sukkos again in an unshadowed way? Can Zman Simchaseinu, the “Season of Our Joy,” remain pure when so much trauma is now tied to these very days? Or will our joy forever carry the faint sound of heartbreak?

Even before October 7, Zman Simchaseinu was always a mysterious phrase. Every other chag defines its joy. Pesach is Zman Cheiruseinu, the time of our liberation. Shavuos is Zman Matan Toraseinu, the time of the giving of the Torah. Even Yom Kippur, though somber, is remembered by Chazal as one of the most joyous days in our calendar, because it is a day of forgiveness and renewal. But Sukkos offers no explanation. The Torah simply commands us to rejoice. There is no explicit cause, no stated reason, no narrative of redemption or miracle. If you ask a child why we celebrate Sukkos, they might answer, “Because we sit in the sukkah.” But that’s not an explanation—it’s a description. The sukkah itself becomes the setting for joy, not its source. So what exactly are we happy about?

Perhaps the answer lies in how we understand joy itself. Most people experience happiness as something reactive. I’m happy because I received good news, because something good happened to me, because a blessing came my way. That kind of joy is conditional—it depends on external circumstances. But there is another kind of joy, one that is deeper and more enduring. It is not tied to events but flows from within, a quiet sense of stability and faith. This kind of joy is not the thrill of celebration but the calm of trust. It is the serenity of knowing that life, with all of its uncertainties, remains guided by the hand of Hashem. It is the peace that comes from being anchored, even when the winds around us are unpredictable.

There is a remarkable passage in the Gemara (Berachos 60b) that reveals the essence of this kind of joy. When one recites the blessing Baruch Dayan HaEmes upon hearing tragic news, the Gemara says it must be said b’simcha—with joy. On the surface, that sounds almost impossible. How could a person in mourning feel joy? But Rashi there explains: “לברך על מדת פורענות בלבב שלם.” To accept suffering b’simcha, says Rashi, means to bless Hashem even for measures of affliction, b’levav shaleim—with a complete heart. This is not the joy of laughter or celebration. It is the experience of serenity, of inner tranquility, of an equanimity that flows from faith. It is the calm assurance that life, with all its pain and uncertainty, remains held by the One who knows.

In this sense, simcha is not exuberance but balance — not the absence of sorrow but the presence of peace. It is what the Serenity Prayer, recited in countless rooms of struggle and renewal, calls the courage “to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” That timeless plea captures the essence of b’levav shaleim — a heart that, though broken, remains whole. To say Dayan HaEmes b’simcha is to affirm that even in the face of loss, I still trust that there is meaning, that Hashem is just, that even when I do not understand, I can rest in His care.

If that is the meaning of simcha, then Zman Simchaseinu takes on new depth. It is not the time when everything is perfect. It is the time when we learn to feel anchored even when nothing feels certain. The sukkah itself is a living expression of this truth. It is the most fragile structure in halacha—its walls sway in the wind, its roof is loose and porous, its protection minimal. Yet that fragility is precisely the point. The sukkah forces us to let go of our illusions of control. When we leave our solid homes and step into this temporary dwelling, we symbolically acknowledge how little in life we truly control. And paradoxically, that very recognition becomes a source of comfort. The halacha that exempts a person who is mitzta’er—one who is suffering—from the sukkah, is not merely a technicality. It reflects the spiritual core of the mitzvah: the sukkah is meant to restore calm. It invites us into a space of faith, a place where fragility itself becomes protection. Beneath the open sky, surrounded by light and shadow, we learn that our security does not come from the walls we build, but from the trust we cultivate.

In the days following the attacks of October 7, I had the privilege to visit Israel, including many of the cities down south—the communities that were struck so brutally by terrorists that day, among them Sderot and other towns near the Gaza border. The streets were filled with the evidence of what had occurred—shattered glass, twisted metal, and shell casings scattered along the sidewalks. Buildings were scarred, cars burned, and signs of destruction and carnage were everywhere. And yet, in the midst of it all, the sukkot were still standing. These structures, meant to have been dismantled, remained upright—empty, brittle, and ghostlike in their stillness, yet hauntingly alive in their defiance. They stood as mute witnesses to tragedy and as testaments to endurance. I later described that scene in Look Who’s Standing. The image of those sukkot refusing to collapse became, for me, a metaphor for our people themselves. They bore the weight of history and pain, yet they still stood. Those sukkot were more than wood and s’chach; they were statements of faith. They seemed to say, wordlessly, that even when everything collapses, something must remain standing.

That image has remained with me ever since. I can still picture the quiet stillness of a neighborhood after Sukkos—the chairs folded, the walls left standing, the branches dry and brittle but still reaching upward. It is impossible not to think of our people in that image—the collective sukkah that somehow, through all the storms of history, remains standing. Those sukkot in Sderot became more than remnants of a holiday. They became sacred symbols of resilience, fragile yet unbroken, witnesses to the enduring shelter of Hashem.

And perhaps that is why October 7 and Sukkos are now bound together. On the surface, it seems we must find a way to reconcile joy and grief, to somehow celebrate despite what happened. But maybe the truth is that we celebrate because of what happened—not because suffering itself is good, but because it reveals what is unshakable. The sukkah was always meant to teach us that joy is not found in permanence but in presence, not in certainty but in surrender. When everything feels unstable, and yet we are still able to sit beneath the stars, under the open sky, surrounded by family and friends, to invite guests and to sing, we experience something profoundly real. Coming as it does after the Days of Awe, when we have achieved a rare clarity of perspective, Sukkos allows us to seize that clarity—to capture it and to live within it. That is the essence of Zman Simchaseinu: to dwell in the sukkah and to feel the peace that comes from knowing we are held, protected, and never alone.

This year, as we step into our sukkos, we do so differently. We carry the memory of October 7 with us. We remember what it means to lose, to fear, to ache. But we also remember the sukkah that still stands, the fragile shelter that somehow holds steady against the wind. Our joy this year is quieter, more reflective, but perhaps deeper than ever before. It is not naive joy but steadfast joy. Not a joy that forgets pain, but a joy that grows out of it. Zman Simchaseinu this year is not about being happy because all is well. It is about being at peace because, even when all is not well, Hashem is still with us. In the fragile shelter beneath the open heavens, we rediscover what it means to stand.