Do We Jews Know Our Why?
Ekev and the Strength to Walk Forward
Amid the noise and headlines of this past week, one moment stood out. On Monday night, Rabbi Tamir Granot officiated the wedding of Roni—the former fiancée of his son Amitai Zvi z”l, who fell in battle.
Like many, I have followed Rabbi Granot’s leadership since October 7th, recognizing in him a greatness of spirit and a rare capacity to heal rifts in Israeli society.
I was fortunate to attend some of his Torah classes when he visited the States, and I was struck by his earnestness and idealism.
But the nobility he displayed on Monday night felt almost superhuman: he celebrated, sang, and brought joy to the bride and groom, all while knowing that in another life—one not shattered by his son’s tragic death—he would have stood there as the father of the groom.
In an interview on Israel’s Channel 14, Rabbi Granot was asked how he could do it. He explained that at the funeral, he and his wife told Roni to live her life—and he wanted her to know they truly meant it.
More than that, he said, this was how to honor Amitai’s sacrifice: Amitai had chosen to serve out of love for life and a desire for the Jewish people to live. By Roni marrying, and by him officiating, they were living the why behind Amitai’s choice.
I have been thinking about that ever since. I feel humbled—and, more than that, commanded. There is something in naming a why that can give us the strength to do what feels impossible.
It is a question Jews everywhere must ask as we face new and direct challenges: Do we have a why strong enough to carry us through?
This week’s Torah portion feels like Moses’ desperate attempt to give the Jewish people their why. I imagine him standing before the Israelites, the Jordan River within sight, the desert wind at his back.
For Moses, the urgency is sharpened by private sorrow: he will not cross with them. He will bless them for a future he will never personally enjoy, entrusting to them the mission for which he has given his entire life.
Like Rabbi Granot under the chuppah, he is urging them to walk forward without him, sustained by the truth they have received.
Ekev revisits familiar Deuteronomy themes: if you listen to God, you will be blessed; if you turn away, you will be met with consequences. Moses reminds them that the land of Israel is not a guaranteed gift—it must be earned.
He warns that their enemies will always be strong, and that the most dangerous moment may come not in war, but in peace—when abundance breeds pride, when full storehouses dull the memory of Who filled them, and when ego convinces a people they are the sole authors of their own success.
Lose that memory, lose that why, and the nation’s moral foundation begins to crack—leaving them vulnerable not just to enemies at the gates, but to collapse from within.
One set of verses brings this home beautifully. Moses contrasts the land of Israel with the land of Egypt:
“For the land that you are about to enter and possess is not like the land of Egypt from which you have come. There, the grain you sowed had to be watered by your foot, like a vegetable garden. But the land you are about to cross into—a land of hills and valleys—is watered by the rains of heaven. It is a land on which the Lord your God always keeps His eye, from year’s beginning to year’s end.” (Deut. 11:10–12)
Life in Egypt was predictable; the Nile’s waters could be channeled with a foot-operated pump.
In Israel, survival depends on rain—on providence—and will require a relationship with God, begging God for rain every year.
The very land itself will train the Israelites to look up, to root their lives in the One who brought them here.
A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend about the role of Jewish learning at a time when we face so many battles—political, cultural, existential. Should we prioritize learning, or fighting antisemitism? Jewish identity, or political action?
Of course, all of it matters. But my friend suggested that Jewish learning is what helps us discover our why. And once we have that, we can face anything.
The real test—the one Moses foresaw and Rabbi Granot now lives—is whether we can name our why and hold it fast before the moment of trial.
That why cannot be vague. It must live in specifics, and it must carry the strength of commandedness: why we pray. Why we learn. Why we care for our fellow Jews. Why we show up for each other in joy and in grief. Why we raise our children to carry a story older than any empire and still unfinished.
In times of comfort, that why keeps us humble. In times of pain, it gives us the strength to walk forward—even when those we love can’t walk beside us. And in all times, it reminds us who we are and what we are here to do.
Shabbat Shalom,
Mijal
Another inspiring and meaningful essay in these tough times. Similar to the teachings of Viktor Frankl who wrote “Those who have a 'why' to live, can bear with almost any 'how' " in his book: 'Man's Search for Meaning'. This helped him survive Auschwitz. Thanks.
The Why for me, which I take to mean the core, heart, and vision of our Jewish people, is how one tiny people in ancient Egypt acted on the idea that there was something bigger than their own oppression.
Moses may have been disappointed because he couldn't enter the Promised Land but we learn from this that the future of the Jewish people is way bigger than Moses. The story was never about Moses even when it was about Moses.
We learn from this wonderful Rabbi who lost his son, that he sees beyond his own tragic circumstances, to a future, a path ahead for continuing the richness of life and deep connections in which he could still play at least a small role in its hopeful possibilities. Even while his role would soon fade in deference to the future of this new couple.
I pray that our fragmented Jewish world strengthens our Whys. Certainly we will need them going forward.
Shabbat Shalom!