The Greatest Threat Facing the Jewish People Isn’t Antisemitism

Based on a talk I delivered at the Aish Legacy Summit in Bal Harbour on February 11, 2026

I want to begin by acknowledging something very important: The people who are here are not professionals. You are not obligated. You took time out of your busy schedules, set aside resources, and made it a priority to be here, to care, and to engage in a serious conversation because you care about Klal Yisrael, the future of the Jewish people.

In my lifetime, this is the most critical juncture to be having this conversation. With so many enemies from without, with so many threats that we face, and with so many concerns about our future, there has never been a more important time for all of us to shift our focus to the Jewish people. That is what I want to talk about in my limited time with you. What it means and looks like to care about Klal Yisrael.

One of the modules and incredible tools created by Aish and shared today focuses on antisemitism. That makes sense, because antisemitism has become the catchword of our age and tragically perhaps the word of our generation. Antisemitism is on the rise and everyone is exploring and suggesting ways to confront it.

I have only gratitude for Bob Kraft for putting his money toward confronting Jew hatred, and I don’t want to be critical of him or the commercial he commissioned that was shown during the Super Bowl. But I want to challenge us to think about this differently. Not focused on what may be wrong with the commercial but what you would have done with that money instead. If you had the resources to buy thirty seconds to be shown during the Super Bowl, if you could put a message in front of a hundred million people, what would it be? What message would best advocate for the Jewish people and our future? Would you focus on being a minority, on bullying, on hate, or the Holocaust? What would you choose?

If I had those thirty seconds, if I could put a billboard on every highway and broadcast one message everywhere, it would be rooted in this principle: There is a danger and a threat far more pernicious, far more penetrative, and far more destructive to our people than antisemitism, and it is called assimilation. If all the antisemites on the planet gathered together at a magnificent conference with top-tier branding and coordination, they could not do the damage to us that we are doing to ourselves. They could not cause our disappearance at the pace we are causing it on our own. Until the middle of the twentieth century, intermarriage never rose above three percent. In 1964 it rose to seven percent. Today, among secular Jews in the United States, the intermarriage rate is seventy percent. In Europe it is fifty percent.

Antisemitism is dangerous and of course we must confront it. We need leaders who will stand with our people and with Israel. We need legislation to protect Jewish students on campus and security funding for our institutions. I am not minimizing it in any way. But if antisemitism becomes the focus of everything we talk about, if it dominates every gathering and every conversation, we allow ourselves to be distracted.

The truth is that the only people who really want to talk about antisemitism all the time are antisemites. It fuels them, elevates them, and amplifies their voices. It distracts us from the conversation we should be having, which is not about them, but about us.

The real conversation the Jewish people must be having is who we are, why we are here, and what difference we are meant to make. Our enemies want us to slow down, to pull over, and to complain about the obstacles they put in our way. But we need to step on the gas, because there is too much work to do to repair and improve this world. Assimilation and antisemitism are different threats, but our response to both is the same. It is not endless discussion of either one. It is the promotion and empowerment of Jewish pride, Jewish practice, and Jewish passion. It is helping Jews of all ages reach into the Jewish soul inside them and ask why the world is obsessed with us and threatened by us. If they want to hate us for being Jews, then we need to find out and shout out what it means to be a Jew.

The Midrash (Bamidbar Rabbah 17:6) gives a metaphor of a person drowning at sea, flailing as the waves threaten to sweep them away. A rope is thrown to them, and they are told that if they hold on, they will survive, but if they let go, they will disappear. The Midrash teaches that tzitzis are that rope, and not only tzitzis, but all mitzvos. For thirty-three hundred years we have held the Tree of Life. עץ חיים היא למחזיקים בה.

We are living in the most prosperous and comfortable era in human history and yet people are more anxious, depressed, and unhappy than ever. Consumerism promised happiness and delivered emptiness. We have the answer. We have been living it for millennia.

The winds and waves are sweeping our people away. Let’s throw the life preservers of Torah, Mitzvos, and uniquely Jewish meaning. Let’s extend the branch of eitz chaim hi for others to hold on to. And so many are desperate to, even if they can’t put it into words.

A recent Harvard study found that over half of young adults (58%) said they had experienced little or no purpose or meaning in their lives in the previous month. In addition, half of young people said that their mental health was negatively influenced by “not knowing what to do with my life.” Those belonging to a religion were more likely to report meaning or purpose. Young adults who said they had little or no purpose or meaning reported more than twice the rates of anxiety or depression than young adults who did feel purpose and meaning (54% vs. 25%, respectively).

At Har Sinai, Hashem told us that we are a mamleches kohanim v’goy kadosh. We are meant to live lives of responsibility, not entitlement. We are meant to wake up each morning asking what our mission is, what our responsibility is, and how we can make the world better today. That question, the one the Ramchal begins Mesillas Yesharim with, mah chovas ha’adam b’olamo, what is your duty in your world, is the foundation of a meaningful life and it is our gift to the world. We are meant to bring light instead of darkness, kindness instead of cruelty, justice instead of corruption, discipline instead of impulse. Judaism is a platform to be a giver, not a taker, to feel a sense of duty, responsibility, not rights and entitlements, and we are meant to teach that to the world.

Haman described the Jewish people as “yeshnu,” asleep, and he was right. We were fragmented and distracted. Mordechai refused to bow, not because he lacked a Halachic justification, but because he understood the moment demanded strength, not accommodation. He stood tall, proud, and unapologetic. And that is why the Megillah describes him as Ish Yehudi haya b’Shushan habirah. One Jew. Not because there were no others, but because he embodied what it meant to be a Jew. That is our calling in this moment.

What happens when Jews stand up for ourselves, when we stand tall and proud and practicing and refuse to bow down physically or spiritually? By the end of the story, the Megillah tells “fear of the Jew had fallen on them and so no man could stand up against them.” Why? Because Mordechai, the proud, unashamed, unapologetic and fearless Jew, “earned the respect of his multitude of brothers, he sought the good of his people and spoke for the welfare of the next generation.”

If I had thirty seconds to broadcast a message to the world, I wouldn’t address the one hundred million non-Jews watching, I would direct my commercial to the Jewish people and tell them – learn about where you come from, who you are part of, know our history, the difference we have made and the destiny we are yet to make. Know the meaning it will bring to your life and with it the happiness and purpose.

I would tell Jews everywhere to know where they come from, to be proud of who they are, and I would tell young people in particular to remember that they are not eighteen or nineteen years old. They are three-thousand, three-hundred years old. Carry that DNA. Embrace that destiny. Stand tall. Practice proudly. Partner with Hashem in repairing His world. And then I would give Jews the tools to do it. I would advertise publicly that any Jew willing to put up a mezuzah, we will send them one. Any Jew willing to wear a kippah, put on tefillin, light Shabbos candles, we will send it to you with a guide on how to do it and an invitation to learn more. Yes, we need to ensure young people on their campuses are safe but we also, as importantly, need to empower them spiritually with anything else that helps them step out of hiding and into the light.

This happens one Jew at a time. One conversation. One invitation. One moment when someone casually asks about Passover or matzah and is really asking to be remembered, to be included, to feel connected. You are not alone in this mission. You have partners like Aish, equipping every Jew with the tools to succeed.

May the Ribbono Shel Olam give us the strength, courage, clarity, and conviction to take responsibility for our people, to be the ish Yehudi of our generation, and to step on the gas toward our destiny together.

A Full-Page Ad and a Photo Op: Is Ye’s Apology Enough?

This week, Ye, formerly known as Kanye West, took out a full page advertisement in The Wall Street Journal titled, “To Those I’ve Hurt.” In it, he addressed years of publicly documented antisemitic remarks and behavior, admitted that his untreated bipolar type 1 disorder following an earlier brain injury contributed to a period in which he lost touch with reality and made deeply harmful statements, and expressed remorse, claimed commitment to accountability and change, and insisted that he is not antisemitic.

Our tradition most certainly believes in the possibility of repentance and repair. But Teshuva, return, is not merely saying or publishing, “I am sorry.” It is a rigorous and demanding moral process that asks us to confront the damage we caused, accept responsibility, and change our behavior so that the harm is not repeated. What separates a meaningful apology from an empty one is not eloquence, but evidence.

A true apology begins with responsibility without qualification. It must say, “I did this and it was wrong.” It centers the experience of those harmed rather than the internal struggles of the one who caused the harm. In Ye’s letter he frames his conduct through the lens of untreated illness, claiming that his judgment was impaired. Mental illness is real and deserves compassion. But explanation is not the same as accountability. Jewish ethics insists that even when there are contributing factors, the pain inflicted on others must remain at the center of the apology. The harmed are not required to accept context before they are acknowledged.

Our tradition also teaches that, importantly, an apology is not a single moment but rather the beginning of a process. Repair often requires repetition, humility, and patience. These factors matter because this is not Ye’s first apology. There have been previous expressions of regret, including public statements and gestures toward the Jewish community. Yet those apologies were followed by further statements and actions that reopened wounds and reinforced distrust.

Judaism is clear on this point. Teshuva is measured not by how convincingly one apologizes but by whether one acts differently when given the chance.

Words without behavioral change remain words. The Talmud teaches that repentance must be manifested in deeds. In personal relationships, an apology that is not accompanied by change lacks credibility. The same is true on a communal and global stage. When harm has been broadcast to millions, repair must also be visible, sustained, and proportional.

There is also a deeper moral challenge that must be confronted. In his bestselling book “The Sunflower,” Simon Wiesenthal recounts his work camp experience of being brought to a dying Nazi soldier’s bedside. The man turned to Wiesenthal and confessed his crimes and horrific wrongdoings against the Jewish people. He then asked Wiesenthal to serve as a representative of all his victims and begged forgiveness. Wiesenthal describes that he could not grant the soldier his wish because some things are simply too heinous and atrocious to forgive. Wiesenthal describes that the rest of his life, he remained tortured by that request and by his reaction to it.

When harm is inflicted upon an entire people, forgiveness is no longer a private exchange. It becomes a collective moral dilemma.

Ye is not a Nazi soldier, but his hateful words do not exist in a vacuum. His comments, tweets, interviews and music reach millions. His past comments amplified antisemitic tropes, normalized conspiracy theories, and emboldened those already inclined toward hate. That level of harm cannot be undone with a single full-page advertisement, no matter how prominent the platform or how carefully chosen the language. Exposure on that scale leaves scars that linger long after the apology fades from public view.

Repentance and forgiveness are not achieved through optics. A photo op with a celebrity rabbi is not evidence of remorse, just as a full page advertisement is not proof of transformation. Forgiveness cannot be purchased with access, visibility, or carefully staged gestures. It must be earned slowly through sincerity, consistency, and humility. Teshuva does not happen in a moment and it is not secured through symbolism alone. The longer the hate was expressed and the deeper the damage inflicted, the more time is required and the greater the demonstration of change must be evidenced before trust can begin to return.

Performative gestures may create headlines, but they do not heal communities. When repentance is reduced to an image or a moment it risks becoming transactional rather than transformational. What matters is not who one stands next to for a photograph but what one stands for consistently when the cameras are gone.

This moment has produced divided responses within the Jewish community. Some have responded with gratitude, embracing Ye’s apology and implicitly presenting themselves as speaking on behalf of the entire Jewish people in granting acceptance and forgiveness. Others have moved just as quickly in the opposite direction dismissing the apology outright or labeling it opportunistic, insincere, or fraudulent. But perhaps both reactions arrive too early.

There is no single Jewish voice authorized to accept or reject repentance on behalf of all Jews, especially when the harm was global and the wounds unevenly distributed. Forgiveness in such cases cannot be rushed nor can it be crowdsourced in the immediate aftermath of a public statement.

Our sages taught kabdeihu v’chashdeihu, treat a person with generosity while also exercising caution. Judaism allows for optimism without naivety and hope without surrendering discernment. We can acknowledge the possibility of sincerity while remaining appropriately skeptical, especially when the harm was extensive, repeated, and amplified over time.

This is why teshuva demands more than statements of intent. Rather than telling us what he plans to do next, the more meaningful path forward is simply to do it. Let Ye use his influence to advocate consistently and publicly for the Jewish people and for the Jewish state. Speak out forcefully against antisemitism wherever it appears, especially when it comes from allies or audiences that are harder to challenge. Withdraw songs and delete content that spews hate no matter how popular they have become or how inconvenient to eliminate. Support education that exposes the lies of hatred and teaches the real human cost of antisemitism. Stand alongside those targeted, not once, but repeatedly, visibly, and without qualification.

Teshuva is not performed in headlines. It is lived through sustained action over time. Ye himself asks for patience and understanding as he seeks his way forward. Judaism recognizes that transformation takes time and when repentance is genuine we are commanded to welcome it. But welcome does not require naivete. Caution is not cynicism. It is wisdom shaped by experience.

If Ye’s apology is sincere it will be proven not by another letter but by a consistent pattern of behavior that repairs rather than retraumatizes. The longer the hate persisted and the deeper the damage inflicted the longer the road back must be and the clearer the evidence of change needs to be.

Only through time action and demonstrated transformation can the question Wiesenthal posed begin to find its answer. Until then words alone are not enough.

Dancing to the Soundtrack of Antisemitism

On a recent night in Miami Beach, something unfathomable unfolded. Videos surfaced from a crowded nightclub showing a group of controversial online figures, including Nick Fuentes, Andrew Tate, and others, arriving at the venue blasting Kanye West’s antisemitic song “Heil Hitler.” Inside the club, they requested the DJ play the same song. The DJ agreed. What followed was not confusion or discomfort, but participation. Members of the group, and others in the crowd, were filmed singing along and dancing to lyrics praising Hitler and Nazi imagery. Some cheered. Others stood by. What should have been met with immediate outrage instead became a spectacle of moral collapse.

This was not ignorance. It was not misunderstanding. It was the celebration of hatred, of genocide, of an ideology responsible for the systematic murder of six million Jews and millions of others. It was a reminder that antisemitism does not always arrive wearing boots and uniforms. Sometimes it comes wrapped in entertainment, applause, and silence.

The nightclub has since issued statements attempting to distance itself from what occurred. Political leaders have rightly condemned the incident. But statements after the fact do not address the deeper question: how did this become possible in the first place? How did people feel comfortable dancing to words that glorify mass murder? And how did others watch without protest?

This incident should disturb Jews profoundly. But it must not disturb only Jews. It should alarm every American who cares about the moral direction of this country. When Nazi glorification can be repackaged as provocation or “edginess,” when genocidal ideology is treated as spectacle rather than a red line, something far deeper is eroding. This is not merely an attack on one community. It is an assault on the values that sustain a society built on human dignity, moral accountability, and the rejection of evil as acceptable discourse.

We should ask ourselves honestly: would society tolerate a nightclub blasting a song celebrating racism against Black Americans? Would people be permitted to sing and dance to lyrics glorifying lynching or white supremacy? Would anyone defend a venue that encouraged chants calling for the destruction of Muslims, Asians, or any other minority group?

The answer is no. Such incidents would be condemned immediately and unequivocally. The perpetrators would be ostracized, not excused. They would be marginalized, not invited onto mainstream platforms and podcasts. And yet when it comes to Jews, the rules too often change. The outrage softens. The excuses multiply. The silence grows louder. That silence is not benign. It is dangerous.

We must rise to this moment, confront voices of hate, and demand accountability from individuals, institutions, and platforms that enable them. But this moment also calls for honest self-reflection. As we challenge others for their indifference, we should ask ourselves: are there areas where we have grown numb? In speaking about fellow Jews who are different than us or about individuals and groups among non-Jews, is there language we have tolerated that we should have rejected? What lines have we allowed to blur?

Judaism does not permit moral neutrality, neither toward others nor toward ourselves. The Torah is explicit: “Ohavei Hashem sin’u ra,” those who love Hashem must hate evil. Love of God is not measured only through ritual observance or eloquent prayer. It is measured through moral clarity. To love Hashem is to reject evil wherever it appears, especially when it becomes fashionable or normalized. There are moments when intolerance is not a flaw but an obligation.

As we reject hatred directed toward us we should work to eliminate derogatory speech and cruelty towards all. Not because there is moral equivalence, there most certainly is not. But because moments like this demand introspection alongside confrontation. What happens to us also asks something of us. It calls us to grow, to refine our speech, and to recommit ourselves to ethical conduct even under pressure.

That is the call of this moment. Not only in the world’s relationship with the Jewish people, but in America’s relationship with its own moral compass. We must remain maladjusted to antisemitism no matter how common it becomes or how cleverly it is repackaged. We must demand that our leaders, institutions, and fellow Americans refuse to grant it a social foothold.

When people chant Nazi slogans or sing songs praising Hitler, they are not expressing an opinion. They are endorsing annihilation. That is not speech that deserves a platform. It is poison that must be rejected. Silence in the face of such evil is not neutrality. It is acquiescence. A crowd that dances or stands idly by while Nazi chants echo has crossed from passivity into participation.

There is a growing practice on prominent podcasts and media platforms to invite extremists under the guise of balance or debate. But platforms confer legitimacy. Presenting explicit hatred as one side of a conversation is itself a moral failure. Some ideas must remain on the fringes because they violate the basic dignity of human life. Antisemitism is one of them.

To be ohavei Hashem means drawing clear moral lines. It means refusing to normalize what should horrify us. It means teaching our children that hatred toward Jews is not clever or acceptable and neither is hatred toward anyone else.

Shlomo HaMelech taught, “Maves v’chaim b’yad ha’lashon” death and life are in the hand of the tongue. Words chanted, songs requested, platforms offered, and silence maintained are not neutral acts. They shape the moral atmosphere we live in. They can mean the difference between safety and danger, between life and death.

If we love Hashem, we must hate evil. And we must never allow our society to dance while it plays the soundtrack of hate.

To Go Is to Know

I have a confession to make. For most of my life, I bought into a stereotype. Supported by headlines and history, reinforced by wars, terror, and the chilling rhetoric that echoes from too many corners of the Middle East, I assumed that all Muslims and Arabs hate Jews, that deep down they want to destroy us and to eliminate the State of Israel. Then, on a recent trip to Dubai and Abu Dhabi, I discovered how incomplete that belief was. What I thought I knew could not hold up to the reality, the faces, the stories, the friendships, and the genuine feelings that we encountered.

A close friend, Eli Epstein, who has done business in the United Arab Emirates for more than thirty years, had long been urging me to see the reality with my own eyes. The goal would be to meet Emirate leaders to express gratitude for the Abraham Accords and encourage its expansion. Together, in partnership with his non-profit organization, Visions of Abraham, we arranged a small leadership mission of members of our shul, BRS, joined by our dear friends Eli and Shalva Paley from Israel. Eli Epstein’s mantra became our guideline: “To go is to know and to know is to grow.” He could not have been more correct. What we saw and whom we met changed what we know, and what we now know is already changing who we are.

The United Arab Emirates is a young nation, founded in 1971 by its benevolent ruler, Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan on an intentional and courageous vision. From its inception, it committed itself to mutual respect, safety for different religions, valuing peace, and embedding into law a zero tolerance for hate. Today roughly 1.5 million Emirati citizens live alongside more than 10 million residents from around the world. More than 200 nationalities live together there in peace and harmony. This is not coexistence by accident. It is harmony by design.

The modern beauty is breathtaking. The cities are clean, orderly, and meticulously maintained. Crime is extraordinarily low. But the most striking feature is not steel or glass, it is spirit and culture. We are now seeing the third generation raised entirely within this vision, and the values have trickled down from the top. The tone set by leadership is echoed by regular Emiratis. Respect is not performative. It is practiced, expected, and felt.

We understandably generalize that the Arab world is a monolith of hatred. We point to Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran and conclude that the rest must be the same. Yet our own history reminds us otherwise. There are chapters of Jews and Muslims living side by side, golden ages of Jewish life in Muslim lands, including from the 8th to the 12th centuries in Al-Andalus, Muslim Spain, and in parts of the Middle East and North Africa. During that period, Jews thrived as scholars, poets, physicians, and administrators, contributing profoundly to philosophy, science, and literature. In the UAE, we discovered a modern echo of that golden age, made possible by a people who do not merely tolerate us, but who admire and respect us. They share many of our values, ethics, priorities, and even practices. They are deeply committed to their faith, yet they do not seek to impose it on others.

The proof is in their actions. The UAE was the first Arab country to condemn Hamas after October 7. While airlines around the world stopped flying to Israel, Emirates Airlines never stopped once and, during that time, even increased their service.

What moved me most were the stories we heard so often. Despite the message from the leaders, prior to the Abraham Accords and a meaningful Jewish presence in the UAE, many of those we met grew up with stereotypes about Jews, just as too many of us grew up with stereotypes about them. They were taught to feel hate until real encounters rewrote their hearts.

We met with Loay Alshareef, a Saudi-born Egyptian activist who now lives in the UAE. He told us, without flinching, that he hated Jews as a child because that is what he was taught. Then he went to France to study and boarded with a Jewish family. The hospitality he received and the decency he experienced shattered what he thought he knew. Today he is a proud and fearless online advocate for better relations between the Arab world and Israel, with a massive following among young Muslims.

We met a senior leader in the Abu Dhabi Investment Office who said he, too, grew up thinking he was supposed to hate Jews. At the age of six, he traveled with his family to New York. In JFK Airport, he saw a chassid praying and asked his father who it was. His father told him it was a Jewish person.

The boy said, “But he is praying just like us.” His father replied, “Yes, we have much in common.”

That boy grew up to be a diplomat who worked on the Abraham Accords and today is building economic and human bridges between the UAE and Israel. He is eager for Jewish partnership and investment, not as a slogan but as a sincere invitation.

We met a successful Emirati businessman. He went to Cambridge without knowing English and was paired with an Israeli student who also did not know English. He called his father, anxious about studying with an “enemy.” His father answered gently, Jews are our cousins and our friends. That simple truth began a lifelong connection with the Jewish community.

We saw the fruits of those connections. There are approximately 500 Jews living in Abu Dhabi and about 2,000 in Dubai. There are daily minyanim, shuls, kosher restaurants, a mikvah, and a Jewish school which we visited. Even our guide, Houda, who wore her hijab proudly throughout the trip, spoke about the kinship she feels with the Jewish community and the many Jewish clients she has guided. She delights in comparing customs, traditions, and practices, in discovering the familiar within the foreign. It is easy to demonize and vilify the other when they remain a stranger. It is much harder when the other becomes a neighbor, a colleague, a friend.

The Hebrew word for “cruel” is achzar, a combination of ach and zar — “but a stranger.” We become cruel when we decide someone is a stranger, when we allow distance to define them, when we insist we have nothing in common. The UAE taught us how quickly cruelty can soften when strangers become familiar.

One of the most moving experiences was our visit to the Crossroads of Civilization Museum for a private tour with its founder, His Excellency Ahmed Al Mansoori, former member of the UAE Parliament. The museum celebrates the contributions of many faiths and cultures, and at its heart stands a powerful Holocaust exhibit. In an era of denial and distortion, standing before a Holocaust exhibit in the heart of a Muslim country was deeply meaningful and appreciated. It was a testament to the UAE’s commitment to truth and to the museum’s founder’s commitment to fight hate against all, including and especially against the Jewish People.

The highlight of the trip was an extended glatt kosher dinner hosted by His Excellency Dr. Ali Al Nuaimi, Chairman of the Defense Affairs, Interior and Foreign Affairs Committee of UAE. He described the UAE dream, an open and inclusive country for everyone, pointing to its multinational population. He reminded us that the UAE was the first country to combat Al-Qaeda and sent troops after September 11 to fight alongside the United States because terrorism is a threat to all humanity.

He spoke with conviction about how peace requires investment in people, not just signatures on paper. In the UAE hate speech is a crime. Hateful comments based on religion, nationality, or ethnicity carry legal consequences. He believes this model of coexistence must become the standard throughout the Middle East. He drew a distinction that has stayed with me. The goal should not simply be normalization, which is cold and transactional. The goal should be genuine human connection, friendships between peoples. The UAE does not want others to follow the old model of peace between governments; it wants to model and promote peace between people.

He also shared a concern born of friendship. Before October 7, he warned counterparts in Israel about the dangers of internal division. If you want to get along with those from without, he said, you must get along with those from within.

That lesson pierced. The same phenomenon of demonizing and vilifying those we disagree with exists within the Jewish community itself. We, too, can be quick to judge Jews who are not like us. The Torah tells us that when Yosef approached his brothers, vayir’u oso mei’rachok, they saw him from a distance and began to conspire against him. Distance breeds distortion. Tensions between brothers, and between fellow Jews, arise when we see each other from afar, when we refuse to come closer. Had they seen Yosef up close, had they spoken and listened, their hearts would have softened. Within our own people, we need to listen, to learn, and to find common ground.

This trip was not about tourist sites or luxury hotels. It was a mission to open hearts and minds and to bear witness to a model of coexistence that is not theoretical but real. There is no doubt it needs work in both directions, as each side is still overcoming stereotypes, deepening connections, reinforcing built bridges and building new ones.

Those bridges should connect us in matters of technology, innovation, economics and more, but as one Emirati pointed out to us, they should also create connection over something even more real, something eternal. He said that when he has visited Israel and when Israeli leaders have come to the UAE, they talk about Israel as the Start-Up Nation and focus on Israeli innovation, while omitting what makes Israel and the Jewish people uniquely special. He yearns to hear about the Israel that is the land of Abraham and the Jewish People that gave the world ethical monotheism and Biblical values.

Listening to him, it became clear that while there is a significant role for government, political leaders and titans of industry to play in deepening connections with the UAE and moderates in the Muslim world, there is a critical role for Torah Jews to play as the ambassadors of the Abrahamic legacy and the representatives of living those Biblical values.

We are not so naive as to assume that what we saw in the UAE reflects the majority or even many in the broader Muslim world. We remain acutely aware of the venomous hate that is preached and practiced and of the dangers posed by enemies of our people. But our conclusion from this mission is clear: The same passion we pour into confronting our enemies in the Muslim and Arab world must be matched by the passion to celebrate and elevate our genuine friends from all worlds.

To go is to know and to know is to grow. The mission of our trip was accomplished. But, the larger mission, building bridges of understanding, trust, and genuine human connection, within the Jewish People and beyond, has only just begun. We all must have the courage to keep going, the humility to keep knowing, and the hearts to keep growing.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1091)

Massacre in Australia: Chanukah in the Shadow of Terror

The light of Chanukah this year is dimmed and diminished even before it is lit. The news of a horrific terror attack at a Chanukah event at Bondi Beach in Australia has shaken us to the core. Ten innocent people were murdered, among them the Chabad Rabbi, Rabbi Eli Schlanger Hy”d. Australia has become a hotbed of antisemitism, met far too often with a grossly insufficient response by government and authorities. Chanukah begins with a painful reminder that when our enemies march to the chant of “globalize the intifada,” they mean it. And they must be confronted.

It is far too soon to truly process or respond to such a heinous crime. But anyone with a sensitive soul cannot avoid the question that rises unbidden in the heart. How do we light candles, gather with family, sing songs of gratitude, spin the dreidel, and eat latkes in the shadow of such devastating loss and tragedy?

Two years ago, six holy hostages held captive by the evil Hamas terrorists gathered around a makeshift menorah fashioned from paper cups to light Chanukah candles. In an act of cruelty meant to compound the suffering of the hostage families, their wicked captors recorded the moment on video. That footage was later discovered by the IDF in Gaza, shared privately with the families, and only recently released in time for Chanukah this year. The video shows each of the hostages thin, weakened, but still alive. Some even smile at the camera. Among them is Hersh Goldberg Polin, missing the lower half of his left arm, blown off by a grenade on October 7.

In the video, almost impossible to comprehend, the hostages can be heard singing the beracha of Shehechiyanu, thanking Hashem for enabling them to reach that moment. Ultimately, all six, Hersh Goldberg Polin, Eden Yerushalmi, Ori Danino, Alex Lobanov, Carmel Gat, and Almog Sarusi, were brutally murdered by their captors in a tunnel in Rafah on August 29, 2024. Their bodies were discovered by Israeli troops two days later.

Released hostages later shared that when they encountered Hersh in captivity, he strengthened them with words of encouragement. He would quote the teaching made famous by Viktor Frankl, that those who have a why to live can bear almost any how. That belief empowered Frankl to survive the Holocaust. Though Hersh was ultimately murdered, it gave him the courage to live each day in captivity, and through it, he helped others survive and return home.

On that recently released video, as Hersh and the others light the menorah, he can be heard likening their circumstance to the Holocaust, saying, “There’s that picture of the Chanukkiah with a Nazi flag above it.”

If six hostages held captive by the evil enemies of our time, tortured and starved, could nevertheless push back the darkness with the light of the menorah, then we too can find the will and the way to respond to darkness with light. If they could smile and sing Shehechiyanu in that moment, then we can not only say Shehechiyanu, but sing it and mean it, more grateful than ever to be alive and present in this moment.

The Jews of Australia, and Jews around the world, are not the first to confront the challenge of lighting Chanukah candles against a backdrop of darkness. Two years ago, six hostages found a way to light in the darkest of places. Over eighty years before them, in the depths of Bergen Belsen, Jews also found a way to light and to sing Shehechiyanu.

In her Hasidic Tales of the Holocaust, Professor Yaffa Eliach shared the extraordinary story of Chanukah in Bergen Belsen:

Chanukah came to Bergen Belsen. It was time to kindle the Chanukah lights. A jug of oil was not to be found. No candle was in sight. A menorah belonged to the distant past. Instead, a wooden clog, the shoe of one of the inmates, became a menorah. Strings pulled from a concentration camp uniform became wicks, and black camp shoe polish became oil.

Not far from heaps of bodies, living skeletons assembled to participate in the kindling of the Chanukah lights. The Rabbi of Bluzhov lit the first light and chanted the first two blessings in his pleasant voice, the melody filled with sorrow and pain. When he was about to recite the third blessing, he stopped. He turned his head and looked around as if searching for something.

Then he turned back to the quivering lights and, in a strong, reassuring, comforting voice, recited the third blessing. “Blessed are You, Hashem our God, King of the Universe, who has kept us alive, preserved us, and enabled us to reach this season.”

Among those present was Mr. Zamietchkowski, one of the leaders of the Warsaw Bund, a sincere and thoughtful man with a passion for discussing faith and truth. When the ceremony concluded, he pushed his way to the Rabbi and said, “Spira, I understand your need to light Chanukah candles in these wretched times. I can even understand the second blessing, ‘Who performed miracles for our fathers in days of old at this season.’ But the third blessing I cannot understand. How could you thank God for keeping us alive when hundreds of Jewish bodies lie in the shadows of the Chanukah lights, when thousands of living skeletons walk this camp, and millions more are being massacred? For this you are thankful? This you call keeping us alive?”

“Zamietchkowski, you are one hundred percent right,” the Rabbi answered. “When I reached the third blessing, I too hesitated. I asked myself what to do. I turned my head to ask the Rabbi of Zaner and other distinguished rabbis standing near me whether I could recite it. But as I turned, I saw behind me a large throng of living Jews. Their faces were filled with faith, devotion, and focus as they listened to the kindling of the Chanukah lights.

“I said to myself that if God has such a nation, a people who at a time like this, when they see before them the bodies of their beloved fathers, brothers, and sons, when death lurks in every corner, still stand together listening with devotion to the blessing ‘Who performed miracles for our fathers in days of old at this season,’ then I am obligated to recite the third blessing.”

That night in Bergen Belsen, Mr. Zamietchkowski saw only what lay before him, death and unbearable suffering. The Rebbe saw that as well. But he also saw another layer of truth that was just as real. He saw a people who clung to faith and refused to surrender their spiritual dignity even in the most horrific circumstances.

Sadly, we have a long history of Chanukah overlapping with tragedy and loss. But we also have a sacred tradition of finding faith despite circumstance, and of stubbornly insisting on bringing light even when surrounded by darkness.

Our hearts and thoughts are with the Jewish community and all decent people of Australia. We pray for the families of those murdered, for the complete recovery of those injured, and for the healing of all who have been traumatized. As we light candles this year, we are not ignoring the darkness. We are following in the footsteps of those who came before us, responding to it with deeper faith, stronger resolve, and an even greater commitment to spread light.

An Invocation in an America First Moment: Standing for Faith and Principle

When I was invited to deliver an invocation at the America First Policy Institute (AFPI) Summit, I was honored, but I also hesitated. The timing, early Friday morning, was particularly challenging, and there were other considerations as well. After consulting with people I respect and trust, I came to see it as an important opportunity at a critical moment.

AFPI is a relatively new but rapidly growing conservative think tank that promotes a Trump-aligned “America First” agenda. It has limited Jewish involvement and, until now, had never hosted a rabbi to speak or offer an invocation. With several high-ranking members of the administration and prominent conservative leaders present, the invitation created a rare platform: to both express gratitude for those standing firmly with Israel and the Jewish people, and to candidly address the troubling trends and dangerous elements emerging in parts of the conservative world.

In this broader landscape, some institutions have taken divergent paths. Most notably, the Heritage Foundation has not, in recent times, been sufficiently clear or consistent in condemning antisemitism or its purveyors. By contrast, the Hudson Institute has been a steadfast ally of the Jewish community through its long-standing, principled pro-Israel positions. AFPI is currently on the pro-Israel side of that divide, but it is crucial to reinforce and encourage institutions like AFPI to follow the Hudson model rather than drifting toward the ambiguity we have seen from Heritage.

I am grateful to share that the remarks were warmly received. There were several spontaneous rounds of applause, particularly when speaking about unwavering support for Israel. Afterward, many attendees came over specifically to express their strong solidarity with Israel and the Jewish people, and to affirm how deeply the message resonated with them.

I am sharing the text of my remarks below not only for your interest, but also as a resource, a set of talking points and themes you can draw upon and adapt for your own settings, whether addressing a crowd or having one-on-one conversations where these issues arise.

Invocation at the America First Policy Institute

Mar-a-Lago | November 21, 2025

Ladies and gentlemen, honored leaders and dear friends,

We gather today to thank God for the gift of this great nation and to offer our prayers for America: for safety, unity, and for moral clarity and courage.

I stand before you this morning as an Orthodox rabbi, as an unapologetic Jew, and as a grateful and proud American.

If we speak of “America First,” we must also speak of how America first came to be. This country was born from an extraordinary faith, deeply informed by the language and ideas of the Jewish Bible.

When our Founders wrote in the Declaration of Independence that all men are “endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,” they were echoing the first chapter of Genesis, that every human being is created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of God.

When they appealed to “the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God,” they were affirming that there is a moral law higher than any king, any parliament, or any polling data.

When they concluded, “with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence,” they spoke in the language of our prophets, a people placing its destiny in the hands of Heaven.

So if we say “America First,” it must mean America first in fidelity to these founding biblical principles: First in honoring the Creator who endows our rights. First in defending the dignity of every person and their right to practice their faith. First in preserving the moral order that makes liberty possible.

“America First” must not only mean prioritizing American interests; it must mean America first in standing true to the principles, values, and ideals that made her exceptional in the first place.

We now approach 250 years of American history. For nearly a quarter of a millennium, this nation has been a beacon of light and hope to the world. It has understood that being the world’s superpower means wielding not only might, but also moral influence.

This morning, we offer our deepest gratitude and our prayers for the next 250 years. That America remains strong, free, and secure. That her children grow up in homes of stability, in communities of faith and responsibility. That her leaders be guided by wisdom, humility, and courage.

As Jews, we are profoundly conscious of the blessing this country has been. In all of Jewish history, no diaspora land has given us more freedom, more safety, and more opportunity than the United States of America, and for that we are deeply grateful.

I stand here as a rabbi but also as an ordinary Jew to say, “I love America,” not as a slogan or a platitude, but as a heartfelt expression of religious obligation, a fulfillment of hakaras hatov, of gratitude: recognizing the goodness we have received and feeling the responsibility to respond with loyalty and service.

Yet I must also take this moment to speak personally and honestly. We are living in a time when, from the extremes of both the left and the right, a climate is being created in which many Jews feel less safe.

There are moments, even in this blessed country, when I step onto certain streets wearing this yarmulka on my head, and for the first time in my life, I hesitate. I feel the stares. I hear the rhetoric. I read the threats. And I find myself unimaginably asking: Are they questioning my loyalty? Do they see me as fully American?

There are voices on the left who demonize Israel and then look suspiciously at anyone who loves and supports it, as if that love somehow disqualifies us from full belonging in American life. There are voices on the right who speak of “real Americans” and “patriots” in a way that can leave Jews and other minorities wondering whether we are truly included in that vision.

To all those voices, I say this, respectfully but firmly: my loyalty to this country is not conditional, not partial, not divided. It is expressed in prayer for its leaders, in gratitude for its freedoms, in service to its communities, and in the raising of children who sing its anthem and uphold its ideals.

And at the very same time and in no way a contradiction, I am a proud, unapologetic Jew and a steadfast supporter of Israel. To love Israel is not to betray America. To stand with Jerusalem is not to stand against Washington.

In truth, to love Israel is to be deeply faithful to America’s own values, because America is founded on values that come from Jerusalem: On belief in one God. On the sanctity of human life. On the rule of just law over mere power. On the conviction that nations are accountable to a higher moral standard.

The Bible that inspired the Declaration of Independence is the same Bible that first gave birth to the people and land of Israel. So when America stands with Israel, America is standing with the very wellspring of its own moral vocabulary.

Let me be clear: to platform purveyors of hate, to provide a podium to promote antisemitism, may be one’s first amendment legal right, but it is not “America First.” In fact, it is not American at all. It is an offense against the very values that America ought to be first in defending. Those spreading vile lies against Israel and the Jewish people on college campuses, outside of Synagogues and even in the halls of Congress do so not only because they hate the Jew. In truth, they hate America, they are not proud Americans, and they are not loyal to how America first came to be or how it must remain first in upholding its values.

We must speak with moral clarity. We must act with courage. And we must continue to express gratitude. We thank God Almighty that on July 13, as a bullet was fired at him, President Trump suddenly turned his head. Turning his head saved his life, and the president has continued to turn his head since then: turning to listen, turning to hear the call of the moment, turning to act. President Trump and his Administration have shown unprecedented loyalty and friendship to Israel and the Jewish people, a steadfast support that we don’t take for granted and for which we will never stop saying thank you.

I close with a brief prayer.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not lack.” Let us never lack in knowing the Lord is our Sheperd.

Master of the Universe, Bless the United States of America as she approaches her 250th year. May she return again and again to the truths written in the Bible and echoed in its founding Declaration—that our rights come from You, and that our greatness lies in fidelity to Your moral law. Bless our leaders, that they may have wisdom to discern right from wrong, courage to choose what is sometimes the harder path. Bless the alliance between America and Israel, two nations that look to Jerusalem not only as a city on a map, but as a source of enduring values. Bless this land so all may continue to walk proudly including those with our yarmulkas visible, our faith intact, and our love for America unwavering

Our Father in Heaven: Give strength, wisdom and courage to President Trump and his distinguished administration to guide our country towards unity, security, and success. Guard the courageous members of the United States military and the Israeli Defense Forces as they guard us and protect freedom and democracy around the world.

Dear God – We ask that you grant peace and prosperity to the United States, to the State of Israel and to the entire world, and let us respond, Amen.

Friends Don’t Let Friends Embrace Antisemites

I still remember a slogan from a well-known public service announcement from my youth: “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.” Simple yet profound, it captured the essence of true friendship: stepping in when someone else’s choices could cause harm.

That slogan came to mind this week in a different context when “friendship” became the excuse and defense for standing by those who platform antisemites and disseminate hate.

Tucker Carlson was one of highest-rated hosts in network news. His shift to independent media has only expanded his global reach and influence, with views for his individual episodes on X often in the tens or hundreds of millions. During that same shift, he has faced repeated accusations of spreading antisemitism, amplifying conspiracy theories, and promoting extremist views.

The controversy reached its peak when Carlson hosted Nick Fuentes, a far-right figure known mostly for extreme antisemitic rhetoric and Holocaust denial. While Carlson framed the interview as an attempt to understand Fuentes’ perspective, it was hard to see it as anything other than giving legitimacy to hate speech and normalizing extremist ideology, particularly as Tucker failed to ask difficult questions, condemn deplorable comments, or challenge Fuentes or hold him accountable for his views.

While for the last couple of years, Carlson flirted with the line of anti-Israel bias and antisemitic beliefs, several recent comments, coupled with the Fuentes episode, have firmly and undeniably put him over the line and raised real questions. Was he always filled with this latent hate, or did his views and opinions change over time? Can he still be brought back, or is he hopeless and irredeemable?

Whatever the answers to those questions, it has become clear that it is time for those who align with him politically to call out and confront Carlson, and that is exactly what Ben Shapiro did last week on a special episode of his podcast. Using clips from Carlson and Fuentes themselves, Ben called Tucker an “intellectual coward” and an “ideological launderer,” someone who softens “hideous ideas” and gives them wider audiences. He did not call for cancellation but instead issued a call for moral clarity and accountability, a line drawn that others had been hesitant to draw.

The episode drew over 36 million views on X, quickly becoming a flashpoint within the conservative world. With moral lines now unmistakably drawn, many praised Ben for his clarity and conviction, while others, especially those aligned with Tucker, Fuentes, and their ideological circle, reacted with hostility. His decision to speak out may appear straightforward and a low bar, but it demanded genuine courage. Speaking out against someone from his own side of the aisle comes with risks that are not theoretical, and challenging powerful figures and entrenched audiences comes at a cost: to one’s safety, reputation, and professional influence alike. In an era when moral equivocation has become the easier path, we should be both proud and profoundly grateful that one of the most visible Jews in public life, a man whose yarmulke is as recognizable as his voice, is using his platform to articulate moral truth when so many others remain silent.

Ben didn’t stop there. In the last few days, he has risked relationships by confronting conservative colleagues and challenging them on their silence surrounding the Carlson-Fuentes episode. Megyn Kelly had Ben on her show to discuss these developments and when he confronted her on failing to speak out against people like Candace Owens, she defended herself by saying, “My position is it’s really none of my business,” and “I’m not mother of the internet.” When pushed on Carlson, Kelly defended her friendship and spoke about loyalty.

I don’t envy Megyn Kelly and others in the conservative world who have been caught between prominent, popular, and highly influential friends. They express that this isn’t their fight, they aren’t responsible to police everything that everyone says or monitor who they host. They argue that when it comes to friends, criticism and reproach should be shared privately, never in the public sphere.

This tension between loyalty and moral responsibility is not unique to public figures, though for them it is a different calculation and conclusion. The truth is we all face these issues in our private lives: friends who make ethical missteps or betray trust, loved ones who engage in harmful or criminal behavior. How far should friendship go? Does standing by someone implicitly condone their actions or associate us with their behaviors? Is silence a sign of loyalty, or a betrayal of our own values?

Certainly, there are differences between public figures and private friends. There are support roles for rabbis and professionals to play and that often differs from how individuals should navigate these complicated decisions.

The Mishna in Pirkei Avos teaches: “Rav Yehoshua ben Perachia taught, make for yourself a rabbi, acquire for yourself a friend and judge every person favorably.” The Rambam notes that it doesn’t say make for yourself a friend or befriend other people. It specifically says “acquire” because when it comes to friendship, one cannot be casual or complacent. We have to bring the same attention, critical thinking and seriousness in searching for a friend who will bring out our best and hold us accountable, that we bring to major acquisitions.

Perhaps with the choice of that word, our rabbis also intended another subtle message about friendship. K’nei, acquire also has the same root as l’sakein, to repair. Real friends reproach and seek to repair one another. Real friendship is not loving someone so much that you let anything they do slide. It is caring so much that you are willing to confront and call out when you are concerned your friend has lost his way.

Perhaps it is time for a modern update to my childhood PSA: “Friends don’t let friends embrace antisemites.” Antisemitism, like any form of hate, clouds judgment, endangers others, and corrodes the soul. Standing by those who embrace it is not friendship, it is enabling. Moral courage, even at the cost of discomfort or confrontation, is the highest expression of care.

Friendship, loyalty, and ethics intersect in complex ways, but one thing is clear: love and loyalty do not absolve hate. True friends hold each other accountable and protect the moral health of their community and of their movement.

Standing on the Other Side—Without Turning Our Backs

In the last week, more videos have emerged demonstrating New York mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani’s obsessive hatred of Israel. During a panel at the 2023 Democratic Socialists of America’s national convention, he said, “We have to make clear that when the boot of the NYPD is on your neck, it’s been laced by the IDF.” Additionally, in an effort to blame the problems of his city on Israel, he said, “You have so many opportunities to make clear the ways in which that struggle over there (Israel), is tied to capitalists interests over here.” He has defended suicide bombers as soldiers, repeatedly refused to condemn the violent and threatening phrase, “Globalize the Intifada,” falsely accused Israel of genocide, and announced he would attempt to have Prime Minister Netanyahu arrested as a war criminal if he came to New York. His hateful preoccupation with Israel has been well documented and rises to the level that many Jews in New York are concerned they will be less safe if he wins.

Recognizing the danger, over 1,000 rabbis signed a letter opposing Mamdani. Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove of the Conservative Upper East Side Park Avenue Synagogue gave a sermon that went viral in which he said, “To be clear, unequivocal, and on the record: I believe Zohran Mamdani poses a danger to the New York Jewish community.”

And yet, despite what should be obvious, polls ranging from as high as 43% (and on the low end, 21%) show that Jewish voters in New York intend to vote for him. Prominent Jewish actors and media personalities have unabashedly endorsed Mamdani. This week, a campaign video produced in partnership with the organization “Jews for Racial and Economic Justice” was released, which includes four self-described rabbis (three women and a transgender rabbi) expressing open support for Mamdani.

In the best case scenario, these Jewish poll responders, celebrities and these rabbis seem to be putting their liberalism and progressivism ahead of their Jewish identity and loyalty to Israel. They are prioritizing being part of a socialist movement over the safety and preservation of their own families and their people. In the worst case scenario, they are not making a choice between two things (progressive politics and Jewish identity) they embrace, rather they substituting one for the other, rejecting their Jewish identities. Either way, it is deeply troubling.

This segment of our people failed to learn the lesson of Avraham, who in our parsha is referred to as Ha’Iviri. While the literal translation means Avraham “the Hebrew,” our rabbis share another layer of interpretation. Ha’ivri meanis mei’eiver, on the other side. When the whole world took one position and stood on one side, Avraham had the courage to stand out, remain true to the vision and to the will of the Almighty. He had the courage and confidence to stand on the other side, even if it meant standing alone.

This mayoral election is hardly the first time members of our people chose to stand with their own haters. Nor did this behavior begin with the many Jews who tragically donned keffiyehs and spent two years protesting against Israel’s right to defend itself. When after over two centuries of slavery and persecution, our people were redeemed from Egypt, the Torah tells us that 80% stayed behind, wanted to remain part of the very society and culture that had oppressed them. They chose to stay attached to their oppressors, comfortable in their captivity, unwilling to walk toward freedom.

It’s hard not to look at those Jews for Mamdani, look at Jews who join “Free Palestine” rallies, and be disheartened and say, “This is our generations 80%. They are choosing Egypt over Israel, Socialism over Judaism, they are irredeemable and hopeless.” But that would be to neglect another part of Avraham’s legacy.

Avraham didn’t just stand apart, he also reached back. When his nephew Lot, who had already parted ways with Avraham, was taken captive, the Torah describes Lot as achiv, Avraham’s brother, even though Lot was not actually his brother. Avraham didn’t say, “Lot made his bed, let him lie in it.” He didn’t cancel him, mock him, or write him off. He felt the responsibility to his brother and went to rescue him.

And maybe as this election approaches, that is a lesson for us. We have to follow Avraham Ha’Ivri and stand proudly, courageously, on the side of Torah, of Israel, of truth. But we also have to be like Avraham the uncle—the brother—the one who never gives up on family.

Those Jews supporting Mamdani are still part of our family. They are misguided, confused, maybe even lost, but they are ours. The goal isn’t to shame or scorn them; it’s to love them back into the light. We can disagree deeply while still caring deeply. We can hold firm to our principles without hardening our hearts.

Avraham teaches us that being on the other side doesn’t mean turning our backs. It means standing strong for what’s right while still extending a hand to bring others along.

That’s our challenge, and that’s our calling, to stand where Avraham stood, with unrelenting conviction in one hand but compassion in the other.

One More Conversation with Rabbi Hauer z”l

Coming off a joyous Simchas Torah, the excitement of the Yom Tov heightened with gratitude for the return of the twenty living hostages, I turned on my phone after Havdalah, eager to see more pictures of reunions and read stories of courage and resilience. And then, like so many others, I was stunned: my dear friend and mentor, Rabbi Moshe Hauer z”l, had suddenly passed away. It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t process it.

In the days since he was so abruptly taken from us, one thought has played over and over in my mind. If I had known that he would no longer be here on Motzei Yom Tov, I would have called him on Erev Yom Tov. I would have finished our conversations, told him what he meant to me, thanked him for all I had learned from him, and sought his guidance on how to continue the work he began.

I first met Rabbi Hauer many years ago, at a gathering organized by a mutual friend who brought together people he felt should know one another. There was no particular agenda, it wasn’t hosted by any organization, and it was such a success that for years, our group met annually to share, be vulnerable, brainstorm, collaborate, and inspire one another.

At the first gathering, we were strangers: guarded, cautious, and formal with one another. Rabbi Hauer sensed a need to break the ice and I vividly remember when he said, “Let’s get comfortable, let’s be real. Enough with formalities. I am Moshe, not Rabbi Hauer,” and he proceeded to take his tie off, something I wasn’t under the impression he did often. At each gathering, his presence and participation contributed enormously. With great humility and impeccable middos, he didn’t speak the most, and certainly not the loudest, but when he spoke he was a fountain of wisdom, thoughtfulness, insight. He was sensitive, complimentary, authentic, genuine, and driven.

What impressed me most over the years was that Rabbi Hauer was a true Ben Torah in every sense. As he built his shul and guided his community, he never left the Beis Midrash, never closed the Gemara. He remained growth-oriented, always striving, always climbing higher, and always inviting us to climb alongside him. Every conversation he had, every initiative he supported, was framed by a deep care for Klal Yisrael, for the community at large, and for each individual within it.

He was rare: proud and unapologetic about his hashkafa, his rebbeim, his principles, and his values, yet effortlessly and seamlessly connected with people of all backgrounds. He found common ground and common cause with everyone, and saw the Godliness in each person, developing genuine bonds while always remaining true to himself.

It is telling that in the days since his passing, tributes have come from a staggering variety of sources, including politicians and “plain” people, organizations like the OU and Agudah, the ADL, yeshivas and rabbis across denominations, and even the Catholic Bishops of New York. Rabbi Hauer’s reach was profound because his relationships were real, never performative, transactional, or forced.

Professionally, he shaped my rabbinate in countless ways, in ideas and practices I emulate, in how I see myself and my responsibility, in how I dream for Klal Yisrael. He stood with me when I needed support, spoke honestly when I needed feedback, and always did so with love. Personally, his loss is devastating. I find myself replaying voice notes he sent, each beginning with the affectionate, “Yedidi Rav Efrem.” In one, he said, “This message will have four points: Firstly, I haven’t spoken to you in ages, which I don’t like. Secondly, thank you for all you do,” before moving on to practical matters.

Here is the thing. I know I am far from the only one. Rabbi Hauer had this warm, affectionate, complimentary, close connection with countless shul members, talmidim, colleagues, friends, and community leaders. His love for us was real, it was genuine, and it nourished our souls and warmed our hearts.

When he became the Executive Vice President of the OU, a leader and spokesperson for Klal Yisrael, his title and sense of mission changed but his character and personal conduct remained the same.

When the Torah describes how Moshe and Aharon went to confront Pharaoh it says (Shemos 6:27):

הֵ֗ם הַֽמְדַבְּרִים֙ אֶל־פַּרְעֹ֣ה מֶֽלֶךְ־מִצְרַ֔יִם לְהוֹצִ֥יא אֶת־בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֖ל מִמִּצְרָ֑יִם ה֥וּא מֹשֶׁ֖ה וְאַהֲרֹֽן׃

It was they who spoke to Pharaoh king of Egypt to free the Israelites from the Egyptians; these are the same Moshe and Aaron.

What does it mean these are the same Moshe and Aharon, as opposed to different ones? Rashi explains, it means despite their rise to greatness, their high profile, prominence, even power as spokespeople of Klal Yisrael, they were unchanged as people, they remained humble and mission driven.

The same can be said about Rabbi Hauer. הוא משה, he was the same person, as Rashi says,

בשליחותם ובצדקתם מתחלה ועד סוף, with a sense of mission from beginning to end and with righteousness.

Rabbi Hauer set the bar for his colleagues and friends. We strived to be like him and now he is gone. Reflecting on our unfinished conversations, I am reminded of the Gemara (Shabbos 153a) which advises we should do teshuva one day before we die. How can anyone know that day? The answer is profound: live each day as if it could be your last, and strive to be your best. We can’t speak to everyone as if it’s our last chance, but we can ensure that the people who matter most know how much they mean to us.

One of Rabbi Hauer’s favorite insights, which he shared with me several times, is from the moment when Hashem visits Avraham after his bris, and three travelers appear at his doorstep. Avraham interrupts his conversation with Hashem to greet and host them. Rabbi Hauer would ask: how could he do such a thing? Wasn’t it disrespectful to Hashem? He explained that in that moment, Avraham had a choice: to continue speaking with Hashem or to act like Hashem by showing kindness. The greater tribute, Rabbi Hauer suggested, was the latter.

Rabbi Hauer has been taken from us. We can no longer speak to him directly, but we can strive to be more like him: genuine, compassionate, thoughtful, and concerned about Klal Yisrael. In doing so, we offer a tribute he would have considered even higher than words.

Who is Sitting Next to You?

Our hearts were broken by the news that two evil terrorists indiscriminately opened fire on a crowd of innocent people waiting at a bus stop in Yerushalayim earlier this week. The lives of the family members of the six beautiful souls (in addition to 4 precious solders) who were murdered will forever be different, and the futures of the twelve people who were wounded—six of them seriously—are forever changed.

The scene was horrific, filled with panic, dread, sadness, and grief. The wicked terrorists who perpetrated the atrocity, and the organization and society that sent and applauded them, were successful in casting a shadow of darkness not only over that intersection, but in truth, over all Israel. The central victims of this event were of course the kedoshim who were murdered, those injured, and those directly in harm’s way that day. But in truth, all of Israel became victims of terror that day and beyond. The goal of terrorists and terrorism is to terrorize. Two of my daughters in Israel called me that day, worried about taking the bus. They, and nearly ten million people, are now (or, in some cases, once again) looking over their shoulders, increasingly mindful of their surroundings, braced for what to do if an attack occurs.

If you look at that scene, you see darkness, hate, and evil. But if you look closer, you can also find light, love, and goodness. Naturally, countless people ran away from the scene, fleeing for their lives. But, as is often the case in Israel, several ran toward the gunmen, risking their lives in an effort to protect total strangers. Indeed, many lives were saved because an IDF soldier from Chashmonaim and an armed civilian were successful in neutralizing the perpetrators before they could claim more lives. While understandably most people were focused on saving themselves, one particular taxi driver could be seen ignoring bullets being shot mere steps from him while helping an elderly woman exit his cab and get out of harm’s way.

A day after the attack, I saw a message from someone who lives near where the attack occurred that left me deeply moved:

People will sometimes refer to themselves as “stam a Jew, just a simple Jew.” There is no such thing as “just a Jew.” Every person you encounter carries an entire world within them, a unique mission, an irreplaceable neshama, and a story, a history, and a destiny only Hashem fully knows. If you knew that in the coming year the person you were sitting next to would be murdered, would you not cherish him a bit more? If you knew that in the coming year the person you were sitting next to would display heroic courage and save countless lives, would you look at him the same way?

As we prepare for the Yamim Noraim, it’s natural to become absorbed in ourselves—our situation, our status, our tefillos, and our success. We open our selichos or machzor, look down at the words, and focus on our personal struggles, our hopes, our fears. These are important concerns that deserve our heartfelt prayers. But the Yamim Noraim are not meant to be experienced in a silo. They are not private retreats of the soul; they are communal pleadings of Am Yisrael standing together before our Father in Heaven.

The great Rosh Yeshiva of the Mir Yeshiva, R’ Nosson Tzvi Finkel zt”l, was once asked by a student on Rosh Hashana what he should prioritize in his davening. Success in Torah? Good health? A proper shidduch? What is the most important thing to daven for? The Rosh Yeshiva answered him with two words: “Someone else.”

When you sit in shul this Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, take a moment—not to interrupt your davening, but to expand it. Look around. Who is sitting next to you? Who is behind you? Who is in front of you? Don’t assume you know their story. That elderly man may have carried the weight of unimaginable suffering and still comes faithfully to minyan. That young father may have risked his life to protect others. That quiet neighbor may be enduring an invisible struggle you can’t see.
The person beside you is not “stam a Jew.” He or she is a precious child of the Ribbono Shel Olam, with infinite worth and unique greatness.

So as you pour out your heart in prayer, include them. Daven not only for yourself and your family, but for the family sitting two rows behind you, for the widower across the aisle, for the single struggling mother, for the child fidgeting beside you. And just as importantly, trust that they are davening for you, too.

This year, may we enter the Yamim Noraim with the awareness that there is no such thing as “stam a Jew.” Every Jew is extraordinary. Every Jew is worth knowing, worth caring about, and worth davening for. And when we recognize that—when we see the greatness and holiness in each other—then perhaps Hashem will see the greatness and holiness in us all, and inscribe us together for a year of blessing, health, and peace.

Join Our Community