Shabbat Shalom,
Last night I had a beautiful—and disturbing—dream, one I don’t think I would have had a few years ago.
In the dream, I was moving from one dorm room to another on a university campus. As I carried my things down the hall, a student I didn’t know emerged from a nearby room. He greeted me, and by his accent, I could tell he was Israeli.
I spoke to him in Hebrew.
His face lit up.
I made sure he saw the necklace I wear for the hostages. The piece of tape I keep over my heart, counting the days they’ve been held in captivity. My Israeli flag shoes. He smiled—broadly—and then threw his arms around me in a warm embrace.
Earlier in the evening, in real life, Jacqueline and I met our cousin for dinner in Calabasas. At the ice cream shop afterward, a middle-school aged boy came up to me and said, “Am Yisrael Chai,” proudly showing me the Jewish star on his necklace.
He needed to be seen. He needed to connect with another Jew in a public setting.
So many of us are carrying around a sense of isolation right now. A loneliness that runs deep.
We feel vulnerable and abandoned at this moment.
And we feel a deep sadness—for the hostages, for the soldiers, for our homeland that has been through so much and, yes, also for innocent civilians in Gaza who continue to suffer the horrors of war.
We are tired and anxious.We are still experiencing the shock of the 12-day war with Iran, with more than two dozen Israeli lives lost, buildings destroyed, an entire nation sleeping in bomb shelters.
We worry about what’s ahead—for Israel and for us here in America. This week’s mayoral primary in New York is just one of many political moments triggering concern in our community.
We lie awake at night.
We check the news before our eyes have even adjusted to the light of day.
Here’s what my mother, of blessed memory, would call the emes—the truth:
We Jews can carry a great deal. And it seems we will have to carry even more.
The emes is that this is not ending soon.
The trauma, the worry, the anxiety—they will surely be with us for a while longer.
But there’s another, more hopeful emes—an emes that gives us strength, one we can find inspiration in:
We have each other.
We are not alone.
We are part of a people that has always known how to survive—and more than that, how to hold on to hope.
We have a tradition that teaches resilience—not just how to endure, but how to keep rejoicing, keep singing, even through our tears.
We have true allies—friends, neighbors, communities—who stand with us.
And we have our faith, the belief that, just as we have before, we will get through this once again.
The last words of the Adon Olam prayer, words many of us know by heart, say:
Adonai li, v’lo ira.
God is with me. I will not fear.
On this Shabbat, may that promise echo in our hearts.
May our rest be real.
May our hope be renewed.
And may we remember this emes, this truth:
In our waking moments—and even in our dreams—we are not alone.
Am Yisrael chai!
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yoshi