To Whom It May Concern

I found myself somewhere unfamiliar today: the Garden State Plaza. I had come to get my phone fixed, and as I started walking through the mall, it occurred to me that it’s been a long time—at least five years, probably longer—since I last set foot here. And maybe because it’s been so long, everything felt louder, brighter, more exaggerated than I remembered. The whole experience felt just a bit surreal.

Everything was bright, loud, and carefully curated—designed to attract, entice, and sell. Consumer culture is nothing new, but seeing it so densely concentrated, so polished and choreographed, caught me off guard.

At one point, I passed a sign for something called “Dopamine Land.” For a moment, I thought I might have misread it. But then I remembered my kids had told me about it—it’s a real place. The name says it all: a space built around stimulation and instant pleasure. In many ways, it fits perfectly into the environment that surrounds it.

Walking through the mall, I was struck by just how much of the experience is about presentation—lights, signs, colors, sounds. It’s not just about things—it’s about convincing us that those things are what we’re missing. It’s easy to scoff at that, but the truth is, all of us get pulled in by it in one way or another.

When my kids were younger and I’d take them to the mall, I had this thing I used to say. We’d be walking through, and I’d turn to them and ask, “What do you see?” And they knew exactly what was coming. I’d say, “You see so many people searching for happiness.” That was my line. They’d roll their eyes—there he goes again—but that’s what always struck me. Not as a critique of anyone, just as an observation. There’s something about a mall that brings it out. All around you, there’s this sense that if you just find the right thing, the next item, the right look, it’ll bring happiness. We’re all searching for something. That’s just part of being human.

And that’s what makes this time of year such a powerful counterpoint. We’re in the midst of Sefirat HaOmer, the seven weeks between Pesach and Shavuot. Chazal describe this time as a journey of refinement, a gradual ascent from the rawness of Yetziat Mitzrayim to the clarity and purpose of Matan Torah. When we left Egypt, we weren’t yet who we were meant to be. We were free, but not yet formed. Over these seven weeks, we work on ourselves. Thought by thought, action by action, we try to become more intentional, more elevated, more deserving.

And then comes Shavuot, the culmination of that work. And what do we bring? Shtei haLechem—two simple loaves of wheat bread. After all that growth, all that spiritual effort, the offering isn’t dazzling. It’s not dramatic. It’s bread.

But maybe that’s the point.

Bread is basic. It doesn’t make headlines. It’s not high-tech or trend-setting. But it’s deeply human. It takes effort. It takes partnership, with the earth, with the sky, with the process. Flour from the ground, water from above. A slow, deliberate transformation. And when it’s done right, it nourishes.

That’s the symbol we bring. Not because we couldn’t do better, but because that is better.

And the contrast is even clearer when you remember what we brought at the beginning of this journey. On the second day of Pesach, we offered the Korban HaOmer—a simple measure of barley. Chazal identify barley as animal food. It represents something raw, undeveloped, even instinctual. That’s where we start. That’s what we’re working with.

Seven weeks later, we bring wheat bread. Human food. Refined, processed, elevated. The shift from barley to wheat marks not just a change in grain, but a transformation in who we are. We’ve moved from reacting to responding, from surviving to choosing, from instinct to intention. And the vehicle for that growth isn’t some shiny object. It’s bread.

This time of year isn’t about consuming. It’s about becoming.

That doesn’t mean material things are bad. Judaism doesn’t reject the physical world—it embraces it. But only when it’s grounded in meaning. Only when we understand that gashmiyus is meant to be a means, not an end.

There’s a phrase in Pirkei Avos—one of the 48 ways Torah is acquired: מיעוט סחורה—limiting one’s involvement in commerce and consumerism. It doesn’t mean one shouldn’t work or earn a living. It means that the pursuit of things can quickly become all-consuming, and when it does, it can drown out the still, quiet work of the soul. The more we chase after what’s outside, the harder it becomes to cultivate what’s inside.

That’s what struck me walking through the mall. It’s all so loud. So designed. So urgent. And then I thought of shtei haLechem—two loaves, sitting quietly at the end of seven weeks of growth. No fanfare. Just substance.

We’re not here to dazzle. We’re here to deepen. We’re not here to collect. We’re here to connect.

So yes, I came to fix my phone. But I left with something else—a reminder that the simple, the slow, the sincere—that’s where real growth lives. The mall sells the next new thing. Shavuot reminds us that the oldest things are often the truest.

And the best things in life? They’re not things at all.

What do we call it when the impossible happens, and then we forget about it by morning? Almost exactly one year ago, as families around the world were preparing for Pesach, something happened. Iran launched a barrage of nearly 300 ballistic missiles directly at Israel. These weren’t the kind we’ve sadly grown accustomed to from Gaza—these were long-range, high-speed, high-precision threats, many aimed squarely at densely populated cities. Intelligence officials and military analysts braced for disaster. There were dire warnings. Frantic updates. And then… silence.

Every missile was intercepted. The ones that weren’t landed harmlessly in open areas. It was, in every measurable way, a military impossibility. Afterward, we learned the truth: the systems that protected Israel—Arrow, David’s Sling, Iron Dome—had never been tested like this. They weren’t designed for this. Even in optimal conditions, they were expected to block about 75% of missiles. This time, they blocked 99%. Some say 100%.

So, was that a miracle? Or was it just good defense?

We don’t have to go far to find a parallel. Every year on Shvi’i shel Pesach, we stand again at the shores of the Yam Suf, watching the sea split. It’s a scene etched into our collective memory: the waters part, the walls rise, and the nation walks through on dry land. But if you look closely at the Torah’s telling, you’ll find something strange. It wasn’t just a sudden split. The Torah tells us, “Hashem drove the sea back with a strong east wind all night.” Not an explosion. Not a thunderclap. A wind. Long. Slow. Natural.

Which one was it? Was it a miracle? Or a meteorological event? The Torah gives us both.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l notices this tension and asks: why would the Torah present both a supernatural and a natural account of Kriyat Yam Suf? Why would it risk weakening the miracle by implying it could have been explained? His answer is as radical as it is beautiful: the Torah isn’t trying to impress us. It’s trying to transform us. In his words, “A miracle is not defined by suspending the laws of nature. A miracle is something that transforms us. That awakens faith. That reveals justice.” It’s not the fireworks. It’s the change inside us.

We often imagine that if we had only been there—standing at the sea, seeing the water rise, hearing the thunder of chariots behind us—we’d never doubt again. But the Torah tells us that just days later, Bnei Yisrael were complaining about water. Weeks later, they were begging to return to Egypt. And we’re not so different.

We experience moments that should awaken us, averted disasters, uncanny timing, near misses that leave us breathless. That job offer coming through right when savings were depleted. The car accident narrowly avoided when you inexplicably decided to take a different route. And yet, just like that, we move on. We explain it away. What happened a year ago, 300 missiles, no casualties, should have stopped us in our tracks. But how many of us treated it like a moment of national Kriyat Yam Suf? And if we didn’t, what would it take? 400 missiles? 500? A casualty or two? Would that finally make us call it a miracle?

In our lifetime, we’ve seen other moments that seem impossible until they happen, just like that night of missile interceptions. The Soviet Union, once the world’s most feared and repressive regime, collapsed not through revolution or war, but quietly, almost anticlimactically. It had imprisoned Jews, crushed religious practice, and cast a long shadow of terror. And then it just dissolved. Was that a miracle? Or just politics? According to Rabbi Sacks, the answer doesn’t lie in what happened, but in how we respond.

The brilliance of the Torah’s dual narrative, the east wind and the water walls, is not in its ambiguity but in its invitation. It says: choose how to see. Choose how to live. If you’re inspired by nature, the Torah gives you wind. If you’re inspired by wonder, it gives you walls of water. But either way, it demands one thing: don’t be passive. Don’t explain it all away. Look up. Ask yourself: did this moment awaken anything in me? Did it stir awe? Did it reveal truth? Did it spark gratitude? If it did, then it was a miracle.

The Ramban, at the end of Parshat Bo, says that open miracles exist only to teach us how to notice the hidden ones—those everyday occurrences we take for granted but are actually divine orchestration. That there is no such thing as “natural.” That the apple is no less miraculous than the splitting sea. You just have to notice. And yet, we live in a world where noticing has become optional. We admire science, and rightly so, but we’ve trained ourselves to ignore the One behind it. Like the man who prays for a parking spot and when he finds one right in front of the building, will casually look up and say, “Never mind, Hashem. I got this.” We all do it.

Rabbi Sacks highlights another layer to Kriyat Yam Suf – divine justice. Egypt’s military might, its chariots and horses, were the most advanced weapons of their time. And yet, it was precisely those chariots that got stuck. Their wheels fell off. Their strength became their weakness. And they drowned. Their very power destroyed them. Justice wasn’t just served, it was seen.

That, too, was a miracle—not just because it happened, but because it meant something. The same can be said for the fall of oppressive regimes, for the attacks that failed, for the quiet acts of preservation that play out in our lives. With those 300 missiles, wasn’t there justice in seeing weapons of destruction rendered harmless, their very purpose nullified? If these events reveal meaning—if they stir faith—they are miracles.

The Rambam in Moreh Nevuchim writes that people who think about Hashem more often experience more hashgacha pratis—divine personal supervision. But maybe that’s not a reward. Maybe it’s simply awareness. The more we think about Hashem, the more we notice Him. The more we look for His hand, the more visible it becomes. The miracles don’t increase, we just stop missing them.

What does it mean, then, to relive Kriyat Yam Suf this year? It means asking: when was the last time the sea split in my life, but I called it wind? It means realizing that we may have lived through one of the greatest miracles of our generation and barely blinked. And it means understanding that Hashem doesn’t always split seas with drama. Sometimes He sends a quiet wind. Sometimes He lets the wheels fall off the chariots. Sometimes He lets missiles fail.

But always, He is present in both the dramatic and mundane. The question isn’t whether miracles still happen—they surround us daily—but whether we’ve trained ourselves to recognize them. The sea splits differently for each generation; sometimes through water, sometimes through wind, sometimes through missile interceptions that defy probability. When we finally understand this, we discover the most profound truth: we have never stopped walking on dry land between walls of water, we’ve just stopped looking up.

Steven Starr’s article “Now Is Not the Time to Say, ‘Now Is the Time to Move to Israel’” offers some noteworthy concerns about Jewish advocacy within the U.S. While I have what to say regarding several of his arguments, I have specifically chosen not to engage in a point-by-point debate. Instead, I would prefer to focus on a different, seemingly neglected, question: if not now, then when?

Starr argues that now is not the time for the American Jewish community to focus on the promotion of aliyah. Rather, American Jews should focus their efforts on advocacy within the U.S. to ensure continued support for Israel and to combat rising antisemitism. While this is indeed a valid suggestion, it begs the question of whether there ever was, or will be, a “right” time to encourage American Jews to make aliyah.  Historically, there have been various waves of immigration to Israel prompted by different circumstances, such as the aftermath of the Holocaust and the collapse of the Soviet Union. These were times when the urgency and need were undeniably clear. Are we to believe that such dire conditions are the only catalysts for making aliyah?

Looking forward, do we foresee a future scenario that would make aliyah more favorable or necessary? If so, what would that look like? Would it be based on geopolitical shifts, economic factors, or an (even greater) rise in antisemitic incidents? If so, what thresholds would need to be met to deem it the “right” time? In other words, what specific conditions would need to be present for one to say, unequivocally, that now is indeed the time for American Jews to move to Israel?

If the answer is that there has never been a right time in the past nor will there be one in the foreseeable future, then it seems we are left with the conclusion that aliyah is never appropriate. This stance raises further questions. Is the ideal of aliyah, then, a concept perpetually deferred, relevant only in theory but not in practice?

Additionally, Starr’s argument appears to rely on the assumption that American Jews can continue to effectively combat antisemitism and advocate for Israel indefinitely. This assumption is optimistic but may not align with the lived realities of many Jews experiencing increasing hostility and feeling marginalized in their own country. For some, the desire to move to Israel is not merely an escape but a proactive choice to live in a society where Jewish identity is the norm rather than the exception.

Moreover, while advocacy within the U.S. is crucial, it does not preclude the possibility of making aliyah. Many individuals and families balance both commitments, contributing to their communities in the diaspora while also establishing roots in Israel. This dual commitment strengthens the global Jewish community and provides a more nuanced approach than the binary choice he suggests between staying and fighting antisemitism or moving to Israel.

Finally, while I respect Starr’s call for continued advocacy and engagement within the U.S., I find it disappointing that his argument does not address the theological perspective on aliyah nor consider the relevance of the words of the prophets.  I respect that this was not the intended focus of his article, as he aimed to lead a very pragmatic conversation about the current realities facing American Jews. However, I believe that this omission is, in and of itself, a matter worth noting. As we know, God’s stated plan is for the ultimate return of the Jewish People to the land of Israel, a theme that reverberates throughout Tanach. As stated in Yirmiyahu 30:10: “But as for you, do not be afraid, my servant Jacob; do not be dismayed, Israel,’ declares Hashem. ‘I will surely save you from a distant place, your descendants from the land of their exile. Jacob will again have peace and security, and no one will make him afraid.’”

This theological viewpoint is crucial because it frames aliyah not merely as a reaction to external pressures but as a fulfillment of divine will and historical destiny. Ignoring this dimension of the discussion seems particularly shortsighted at a time when Jewish history and identity are under significant stress. While we cannot predict exactly how and when theological prophecies will unfold, dismissing aliyah as a viable option without considering its religious and historical significance is a missed opportunity. It suggests a permanent deferral of aliyah, which contradicts the intrinsic part of Jewish identity and survival tied to the land of Israel.  Engaging in this conversation without incorporating the theological perspective risks doubling down on the position of remaining in the diaspora indefinitely.  

In this context, it may be helpful to consider the thoughts of Rav Yissachar Shlomo Teichtal hy”d. In his monumental work, “Eim Habanim Semeicha,” written from within the fires of the Holocaust, he reflects a profound understanding of the necessity for Jews to return to their ancestral land, not just in times of crisis but as a proactive fulfillment of their destiny. He repeatedly emphasizes that the “right” time for aliyah is not merely a matter of external pressures but an intrinsic part of Jewish identity and survival. Indeed, for many Jews today, their connection to Israel is deeply personal and transcends political or economic considerations. It reflects a historical perspective and religious aspiration, a sense of belonging to a place that is intrinsically tied to their identity. To dismiss this as simply a reaction to external pressures is to overlook a fundamental aspect of Jewish life and thought.

In conclusion, while I respect Starr’s call for continued advocacy and engagement within the U.S., I question the premise that there is a definitive wrong time to encourage aliyah. Without clear criteria for when the time might be right, the argument against aliyah risks becoming a permanent dismissal rather than a temporary caution. For thousands of years, the Jewish people have survived and, at times, thrived by balancing resilience in the diaspora with a deep connection to Israel. So, rather than declaring that “Now Is Not the Time to Say, ‘Now Is the Time to Move to Israel’”, perhaps we should ask the question: if not now, then when?