October 6th and October 7th

Pekudei and the Habits of the Heart

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Let me be honest: lately, it’s been hard for me to open the news from Israel each morning. Not just because of the war. It's a different kind of dread—heavier, more disorienting. The fear of internal unraveling, sometimes more terrifying than our enemies outside. As Rachel Sharansky Danziger wrote, living in Israel today feels like “October 6th and October 7th together.”

October 6th—a bitterly divided country, torn apart by judicial overhaul protests, where Yom Kippur prayers erupted into fistfights and reservists declared they wouldn’t serve a country they believed was abandoning democracy.

October 7th—brutal enemies who hold our loved ones hostage, who make no secret of their desire to repeat their savage crimes again and again.

Yet another friend’s words have stayed with me too. In response to a despairing FB post about impending civil war in Israel, my friend R’ Joe Wolfson in Tel Aviv wrote simply: “Things are not inevitable. People have agency and we can step back from the brink.” 

I’ve been holding on to his words like a talisman.

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Wherever we live, we can choose not to participate in divisive words or actions that inflame hatred between Jews. We can opt out.

Of course, it’s easier said than done. One of the hardest questions I wrestle with is what happens when unity feels at odds with sacred values. If you believe democracy is on the line, for example, then protesting—even shutting down the country—can feel not only justified, but necessary for the collective good.

Still, even as I acknowledge the complexity, I believe some things remain simple. We can commit to acting from love for the Jewish people. We can choose our words with care, speak with dignity, and resist the temptation to demonize. We can stay focused on a constructive project—not one that seeks to defeat a part of our people, but one that fights for values without discarding family.

This week’s portion, Pekudei, offers the high priest’s garments as a powerful image for that aspiration. On his forehead, a diadem engraved with the words Kodesh laHashem—Holy to God—a reminder he was a servant, not a king. On his shoulders, six tribes engraved on each side. And close to his heart, the breastplate bore the names of all twelve tribes.

I keep returning to this image. It’s not just poetic or symbolic—it’s a statement of priorities: sacred leadership means carrying the names of all our people on our shoulders and in our hearts. Not just the ones who vote like us, pray like us, or post like us.

To be clear, the high priest didn’t act however he pleased. There were boundaries, rules, accountability. This isn’t a kumbaya call to avoid conflict at all costs. It’s a vision of spiritual infrastructure, anchoring us in a shared mission and insisting every tribe belongs.

It’s grueling work. It feels heavy, especially because it’s needed in both Israel and America—the two central homes of the Jewish people today.

Those of us who see this happening—who worry—have to ask the hard questions. How do we protect our shared future without betraying our deepest convictions? How do we fight well—and wisely?

The Torah doesn’t offer a political platform, and we should never reduce it to one. But it does give us a vision—and in times like these, we need that vision.

So wherever you are—whether you have influence in Israeli politics, American Jewish life, or just in your own circles—ask yourself: are you acting like the High Priest, carrying the names of the Jewish people?

You can support or oppose judicial reform. You can loathe Bibi or admire him. You can believe the left or the right is the greater threat to democracy. But wherever you land—fight for a future in which no tribe is cast aside.

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I’ll close with two people who help hold up this vision.

One is Zvi Greenglick, whose son Shaul Greenglick z”l—a gifted young musician—was killed early in the war. I’ve seen videos of Shaul singing, testaments to his joy and heart. Zvi, a bereaved father, wrote (translated from Hebrew):

“I just want to ask: if a civil war breaks out, skip us. We surrender in advance. We've already paid the price. There are about 25,000 like us—fallen soldiers—and several thousand victims of terror and the wounded. We will not participate in this war. I thought of putting a white flag on our house, but not everyone has one. So let’s put up a flag that is both white and blue. And if possible—with a Star of David.”

The other is Rachel Sharansky Danziger. She ended her reflection on her deep worry by returning to the words of Sarit Zussman, the bereaved mother of Ben Zussman z”l—another young soldier killed fighting for our people. At her son’s funeral, Sarit shared a message with the Jewish people: Our story will have a happy ending. These are the words Rachel is choosing to hold onto now, in these days that blur the lines between October 6th and October 7th.

In a time of grief and division, may we carry every name, every soul, and choose the path that binds us—shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart.