From the Rabbi

The period between Purim and Passover, two festivals that are deeply intertwined, is a journey of connection to our innermost identity. Both tell stories of danger, courage, and redemption. On Purim, we wear masks; on Passover, we remove them.  We deflate not only our bread but our egos. We strip away the disguises we wear in exile.

Between the two holidays, I’ve been immersed in reading Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove’s recent and compelling book, For Such a Time as This. The title echoes the words spoken by Mordechai to Queen Esther in the book of that namesake as he urges her to act with courage to save her people: “Who knows whether it was for such a time as this that you attained royalty?”  It is a call to seize the moment — to recognize the divine hand in history, and also the human responsibility within it. It calls for a leap of action, not merely of faith.

Rabbi Cosgrove, a colleague, serves as the rabbi of Park Avenue Synagogue. He wrote the book in the wake of October 7, a day that shook the Jewish world. His reflections weave together Jewish history, theology and contemporary urgency, offering not just an account of how we arrived at this moment, but a roadmap for how we must respond — to our adversaries and, perhaps more importantly, to ourselves.

Reading his words felt like a conversation across continents and perspectives.  There are areas where we see eye to eye, and others where we diverge. He and I were born in the same year, he, coming from the West, was raised in the United States and came to Israel at a young age; I was raised in Israel to an Eastern family and came to the United States early in life. Our experiences flow in opposite directions, and yet, we converge in many of our conclusions.  I plan to write a full review of the book and hope to invite Rabbi Cosgrove to engage in a panel discussion, but for now, here are some highlights that resonated with me, especially between Purim and Passover.

Our initial reactions to the tragedy of October 7 were shaped by our different upbringings. Rabbi Cosgrove describes being shocked.  I, perhaps because of my Israeli background and long involvement in Israel, was less surprised — but no less affected. The deeper question, though, is not how we reacted, but what we do now.  Do we circle the wagons or build bridges?

Passover offers a powerful metaphor. The Israelites ventured into the desert, separating themselves in order to define who they were. Sometimes, we do need to circle the wagons — to retreat, to protect, to be with our people. The desert, then, is not just a place of isolation — it is a place of transformation.

In that sense, both Rabbi Cosgrove and I agree: Now is the time to educate and empower our people, to strengthen the internal bonds of community. Like the fourth child in the Haggadah who does not know how to ask, many in our community lack the vocabulary, the knowledge, or even the confidence to affirm their identity.  We, as rabbis and leaders, must teach them how to ask — and how to answer.  Rabbi Cosgrove quotes the late Eugene Borowitz, from The Mask Jews Wear, many of us in America publicly affirm our Jewish identity, but live disconnected from its source.

One point of divergence between Rabbi Cosgrove and me concerns 1948.  He sees it as the pivotal moment when “a landless people with a land-centered faith” were reborn in its homeland. I find that framing too simplistic, as there were many Jewish communities over the centuries that kept their physical connection to the land. Still, I wholeheartedly agree with him that Israel’s establishment altered the condition of Jews across the globe. Whether we view Israel as a Jewish state or a state for the Jews, there is no denying that the pull toward the land of Israel continues to shape the hearts and hopes of our people.

We can debate whether we are a religion, a people, a nation, or all of the above. We can also debate whether Israel as a Jewish state and, at the same time, a liberal democracy are always compatible. There are many tensions, and those tensions must be acknowledged. But ultimately, Rabbi Cosgrove and I both arrive at the same conclusion: Jews are, first and foremost, a family. A complicated, diverse, sometimes quarrelsome family, but a family nonetheless. And like Esther, even the most assimilated among us are called upon to act when our family is in danger.

The power of For Such a Time as This lies not only in its intellectual rigor, but in its heartfelt urgency. It challenges us to find our place in this unfolding story, to step forward, like Esther, with courage and clarity. Not just for ourselves, but for our people. For such a time as this.

Happy Spring,

—Rabbi Gadi Capela

I am writing this message on March 20, the 20th day of Adar. Exactly 30 years ago on this very day on the Jewish calendar, I was on my way to Jerusalem to register for architecture school. Little did I know that God had a different plan for me. It was a moment of transition — my final week after four years of army service. I had chosen not to extend my service again.  I had given my time to my country, including an extra year as an officer. But now, I was free to move on. And I did not look back.

As it so happened, on that same day, an event of immense gravity had unfolded. The great rabbi of the generation, Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Auerbach, passed away. His funeral brought between 300,000 and 400,000 mourners from across the world, arriving within just 24 hours to accompany him on his final journey.

I found myself moving against a tide of men dressed in black, all flowing down the wide Bezalel Street like a vast river. Their eyes reflected not only grief but something brighter — a light.  They were free — free of doubt. These mourners embodied the wisdom of mitzvot: “Do not call it Charut (engraved),” the sages teach, “but call it Cherut (freedom).” The commandments are not meant to be seen only as a rigid law or as an unchanging script, but rather as the source of liberation. That was the look in their eyes — the free-flowing fire of faith and Torah. They did not look back.

Approaching Passover, we are reminded: “You shall not see Egypt again.” Never look back. When the Israelites stood trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the Sea of Reeds, some longed to return to Egypt — a hesitation, a doubt, the natural pull of the familiar. But as a people, they moved forward. They stepped into the water, proving their faith, and the sea split before them. God provides. Even in the wilderness.

When a Hebrew slave is offered release, he must make a choice: Embrace freedom or remain a servant for life. There is comfort in captivity, security in the known. The Hebrews in Egypt had grown accustomed to the garlic and the pots of meat. But God does not wish for His people to be comfortable in bondage. Freedom is not about ease; it is about movement, about stepping into uncertainty with faith.

Freedom is like the Year of Jubilee, when debts are forgiven, land restored, and slaves set free. What does it truly mean to return to one’s own? Freedom must be embraced wherever life leads. Unlike the wife of Lot, who looked back — and in doing so, lost her freedom — she remained frozen in place, never to move forward again.

When my parents left Yemen, they were pushed out, but they also wanted to leave. Perhaps that push was necessary, propelling them toward their destiny, into their freedom. They never looked back.

Today, we are witnessing powerful moments of freedom. The Israeli hostages being released from Hamas captivity — what does their first breath of freedom taste like? Even the astronauts returning to Earth after months aboard the space station — what is it like to feel gravity again?

Freedom often means walking through a desert. But on the other side, there is a promised land, our own individual Promised Land, where there are no doubts, no looking back.

            Wishing all of us a Happy Passover,

—Rabbi Gadi Capela