From the Rabbi
“Between Order and Disorder”
Life is a constant movement between order and disorder, a delicate balance between structure and chaos, between the expected and unexpected, between moments of clarity and the unknown. This tension is the very essence of our existence — the breath that sustains us and the drama that shapes our journey.
In the midst of the profound pain in Israel and for Jews around the world, Hamas released the lifeless bodies of two young souls, Kfir and Ariel Bibas. The images of this family, once filled with life, had been seared into our consciousness, reminders of innocence stolen and of the deep fractures in our world.
The chaos was supposed to be in order for a minute, when we were promised the body of Shiri, their mother, to be with them. Yet, we find out that even this little piece of final rest turned out to be a disorder and a violation of expectations. It was not Shiri’s body that was returned. She cannot yet be at peace. Order will have to wait.
In our synagogue, we still have the photos of Iair Horn and Romi Gonen hanging by the bimah. We prayed for them during our High Holidays. They are now free. Order seemingly returned to them, but no doubt they will suffer a form of disorder for the rest of their lives.
For me, I was able to step away from these thoughts, just for a moment. A trip to Cartagena, Colombia, for my nephew’s wedding, originally was planned for September 2024 in Israel, but due to the ongoing disordering reality, flights being cancelled for family to arrive from overseas, the wedding was relocated to Colombia. Out of the disorder came order. What was meant to be a celebration in one homeland was reimagined in another, a reminder that while disorder may uproot our plans, the essence of joy and connection remains unshaken.
Even as I celebrated, the weight of the world was never far from me. Yet, even amid grief, we hold space for joy. My nephew’s wedding became a symbol of resilience — a testament to the Jewish spirit that refuses to be broken. It was a weekend of unrestrained celebration, where guests from across the world — South America, the U.S. and Israel — gathered to dance, to sing, and to momentarily exist in a space of light. It was all meticulously organized. A brief sanctuary (chuppah) from the storm.
The colors of Cartagena itself seemed to echo this theme: vibrant, chaotic and alive. The old city was the center of the slavery trade in the southern continent. Now, its streets adorned with a blend of Colonial grandeur and indigenous richness, mirror our own lives — moving between structure and spontaneity, between walking calmly and being interrupted by street vendors trying to push their merchandise, between order and its inevitable disruption.
After the wedding, I flew to the capital, Bogota. From sea level on the Caribbean coast into the 9,000-foot-high tropical Andes Mountains. I found it hard to breathe for the first couple of days. But I also found myself breathless of the sights of another Columbian city, its captivating beauty, its colorfulness, and its stories, letting its history, its soul, and its imperfections unfold before me.
We live in a world where plans change, where joy and sorrow intertwine, where we must carve out moments of stability within the whirlwind. But this is what we do as a people. We embrace the disorder, yet we never stop building order. We mourn, yet we continue to dance. We grieve for the past and even the present, yet we step forward into the future.
May all of us find our own sanctuaries of order, no matter how fleeting, in the midst of the world’s disorder.
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
“A Moment of Silence”
When my sister in Israel mentioned she would stop in New York on her way to our nephew’s wedding in Cartagena, Colombia, she casually noted that her trip coincided with the upcoming inauguration of the returning President, Donald J. Trump. Attending a presidential inauguration had never crossed my mind before. But recognizing how rare and special this moment could be for my sister and brother-in-law, I decided to try to make it happen.
I reached out to our congressman’s office to inquire about tickets to the event, and I was placed on a waitlist. Only a couple of days before the ceremony, I received confirmation that our group would have seats in one of the front sections — on the condition that we arrive early and brave hours in the freezing cold. We were willing. But then, the last-minute news that the inauguration would be moved indoors, to the Capitol’s rotunda, brought mixed feelings. The rotunda, surrounded by statues of presidents and icons of American history, seemed like the natural setting. Yet, something about standing outside, in the open air, witnessing history — even at a distance and in the bitter cold — felt more symbolic and raw.
During the ceremony, which we ended up watching on TV at the hotel, there occurred an unplanned moment of silence. It was a brief, yet profound interruption amidst the tightly choreographed and meticulously rehearsed proceedings. The microphones had stopped working, and just for a minute, everything went silent.
That unexpected moment of silence reminded me of the silence we allow during the Shabbat prayer services in our synagogue. On Friday nights and Saturday mornings, after completing the silent Amidah, I always pause, allowing each congregant to finish at his or her own pace, before we continue praying aloud. It’s a simple but intentional moment — a chance for everyone to catch up, to reflect, to breathe.
Silence is a profound and humble teacher. It invites reflection, presence and unity. In that stillness, we are reminded of our shared humanity. I can’t help but think that this is exactly what our country, and perhaps the world, desperately need right now: a collective moment of silence — a time to pause amidst the clamor and chaos, to catch our breath, and to allow one another the opportunity and the space to catch up.
As we marked Martin Luther King Jr. Day, we were reminded of his enduring message of justice, compassion and unity. Silence, too, can be an act of justice. It can be a reset, a gesture of humility and hope, an interlude in which to make a place for the voices of others and to reflect on our shared path forward.
May we find the courage to embrace moments of silence, not as interruptions but as opportunities — moments to heal, to reflect, and to breathe together as a nation.
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
“Being on the same page with Israel”
Given the high cost of airline tickets to Israel and limited flights as a result of the current situation, rather than traveling there to present at a conference, I opted to stay closer to home and send a recorded presentation I had given at Columbia University a week earlier.
Instead, I headed to Washington, D.C., where I’ve been invited each year to participate in a bipartisan Hanukkah celebration at the Library of Congress. This year, as in previous years, my friend and colleague Laurence Bazer lit the Hanukkiah. However, this year’s gathering was different. It included the presence of two families whose loved ones are still held hostage in Gaza: Romi Gonen’s sister and Aviva Seigel and her family. Aviva, was herself a hostage for 50 days before her release, while her husband Keith remains captive.
On my way to D.C., I stopped in Gettysburg, the site of the largest and most decisive battle of the U.S. Civil War. That battle symbolized America’s commitment to its charter — to be the land of the free. Standing there, I reflected on the parallels between Jewish and American values. That same Shabbat, we read the story of Joseph who was sold into slavery by his brothers — a defining moment of internal division in Jewish history. As highlighted in the Talmud, this act of betrayal has become the ultimate symbol of the sin between man and man — selling our own into slavery. In fact, the story of Hanukkah itself is a tale of liberation from both religious and physical oppression. The observance serves as a poignant reminder of the values we share with Israel and the importance of standing united. The story also brought to mind the current reality of hostages still held in Gaza and the shared conviction by Israel and America that no one should ever be enslaved. Both countries are willing to fight — and even die — for this cause.
The events of October 7 and their aftermath have further underscored the need for unity with Israel. For years, Jewish communities in the Diaspora have debated whether to continue observing the second day of holidays, a ritual not followed in Israel. In many congregations, including ours, services are held only on the first day, yet the second day is still fully honored as a holiday. Others have abandoned the practice altogether, given that the original purpose of the second day — allowing time to notify communities about the new moon — has been rendered obsolete by our fixed calendar.
As someone born in Israel, I have never objected to the two-day observance. I view it as a gift — an extra holiday to cherish. What does disturb me is that observing two days puts us out of sync with Israel. At times, this has led to us reading different Torah portions or observing holiday rituals while Israel had already returned to weekday life. After October 7, it has become even clearer to me that there should no longer be any “daylight” between Israel and the Jewish Diaspora. What happens in Israel affects us here immediately, and vice versa. I propose that our congregation consider adopting the practice of observing one-day holidays in alignment with Israel, allowing us to be on the same page both literally and figuratively. This idea has been discussed at Ritual Committee meetings, and I would like to bring it forward at the next congregation meeting in March 2025.
Wishing you a Happy Hanukkah, and hoping that in 2025 all of us can all be on the same page of freedom.
—Text and photo by Rabbi Gadi Capela
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