I want to begin with October 7th — that Shabbat morning.

I woke up to WhatsApp messages from my daughter and from friends and family in Israel. Confusion. Horror. The numbers kept rising.

And suddenly our world was on fire.

I know many of you remember exactly where you were that day.

It wasn’t only shock. It wasn’t only grief. It was the feeling that something shifted.

What you love — what you are proud of — was suddenly treated as something shameful.

And then came another fire.
Antisemitism rising in schools, on campuses, across social media.
Anti-Israel sentiment turning quickly into delegitimization and demonization.

It burned.

The very next day, October 8, I shared a poem at a gathering of solidarity in Los Angeles.
It was written nearly a century ago in Yiddish by Mordechai Gebirtig.
It’s called Es Brent — “It Burns.”

“S’brent, briderlekh, s’brent!
Undzer shtetl brent!”
It’s burning, brothers and sisters — our town is burning.

And then one piercing line:
“And you stand there with folded hands…”

Gebertig is talking to those Jews who think: “Maybe if I’m quiet, it won’t reach me.”

We saw that happen.
People hiding their Magen David necklaces.
Removing mezuzot.
Going silent because it felt safer.

But Gebirtig doesn’t let us stay there.

“Undzer shtetl brent!” — OUR town is burning.
And then he shouts: If the town is dear to you, grab a bucket and put out the fire.

That’s leadership.

And that’s you.

Look at you.
Look at how you’ve shown up.
How you’ve spoken up.
With pride. With determination. With joy.
Standing arm in arm.
Filling buckets.
Cooling what’s burning.
Strengthening one another.

But buckets don’t only extinguish flames.

They water the soil.
They help things grow.

And that is the next stage of Jewish resilience.
Not only putting out fires — but cultivating life.

The Talmud tells a story about Rabbi Ḥiyya.
He feared Torah might disappear in a time of danger.

His teacher said, “If Torah were forgotten, I could restore it myself with my own brilliance.”

Rabbi Ḥiyya said no.

First, I will plant flax.
I will tend to it. I will harvest it and weave a net which I’ll use to trap a deer.
From it, I will prepare parchment and I will use it to write a Torah.
And I will teach that Torah to students —
and they will teach it to others.

That’s how we survive. That’s how we thrive.

He didn’t begin with ego.
He began with planting.

Planting is leadership development.
It’s slow. It’s patient. It’s long-term.

We are not only here to fight fires.
We are here to plant flax.
To grow Torah.
To live it.
To love one another more deeply.
To love Israel more deeply.

But we don’t stop there.

We are commanded in this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim:

וְגֵ֥ר לֹא־תוֹנֶ֖ה וְלֹ֣א תִלְחָצֶ֑נּוּ כִּֽי־גֵרִ֥ים הֱיִיתֶ֖ם בְּאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרָֽיִם׃

“Do not oppress the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 22:20)

Our suffering must not harden us.
Our pain must not erase our compassion.

Jewish resilience is not only standing up to antisemitism.
It is holding fast to the values that define us —
even when it would be easier to contract, to retreat, to focus only on ourselves.

It is choosing to stay rooted.
To stay proud.
To stay joyful.

Being Jewish is not a badge of shame.
It is a badge of honor.

Yes — sometimes it burns.

But you are not the generation of folded hands.

You grab buckets.
You plant flax.
You write Torah with your lives.
You lead.
You build.
You love.

And then — we live.

Am Yisrael Chai.

Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek — Be strong and let us strengthen one another.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoshi