The Jewish calendar is filled with moments of extraordinary emotion. Some are joyous, celebrating our history and traditions. Others, like the Yamim Noraim, bring moments of introspection and reflection. Still others are marked by sadness, reminding us of the painful chapters of our history.
Yet there is one event, not marked on any calendar and never required to take place, that I believe carries some of the deepest emotions in Jewish life: the welcoming of a Sefer Torah into its new home.
Over the years, I have been privileged to participate in these celebrations as a musician, a participant, and even as a sofer. Each time, regardless of my role, I find myself fighting back tears.
A rebbi of mine once explained that these are not tears of sadness or pain. They are tears of the soul. Our neshama has its own language. It listens through music and speaks through tears.
I have carried those words with me for many years.
One Torah, two traditions
Several years ago, on Simchas Torah, I experienced a moment that has stayed with me, particularly as an educator. I was walking toward the Sephardic shul next door, carrying a traditional Ashkenazi Sefer Torah. The singing and dancing with the Sefari Sefarim had already begun when a group of children came running toward me, excitedly announcing, “Look! The Torah is finally here!”
Their excitement was beautiful, but their words troubled me.
How unfortunate that we sometimes fail to teach our children that while our traditions may look different, our Torah is exactly the same. A Sephardic Sefer Torah may be housed in an ornate wooden case, while an Ashkenazi Sefer Torah is dressed in a velvet mantle. Yet both contain the same words, the same kedusha, and the same eternal connection to Har Sinai.
Over the years, I have shared this experience with members of our community, reflecting on the importance of teaching our children to appreciate both the beauty of our differences and the unity that binds us together.
Earlier this year, I had the extraordinary privilege of completing the writing of a new Sephardic Sefer Torah for the Sephardic minyan at Berman Hebrew Academy. It was a deeply meaningful experience, bringing together my work as a sofer, my passion as an educator, and my love for the Torah.
Welcoming the Sifrei Torah into Beit HaLevi
This week, another beautiful chapter unfolded directly across the street from my home.
After years of building a vibrant community, the members of Beit HaLevi celebrated the completion of their new Beit Knesset. With singing, dancing, and tremendous joy, we accompanied the Sifrei Torah into their beautiful new home.
As we danced up the street, I found myself overcome with emotion. My son was dancing beside me, while behind me a group of my talmidim from Yeshiva of Greater Washington sang and danced with incredible enthusiasm. All around us were community leaders, grandparents, parents, and young children, dancing together with a pure and genuine simcha, celebrating the Torah.
Equally moving was witnessing the unity of our community’s Torah leadership. Watching Rabbi Lopiansky, the Rosh HaYeshiva, affixing a mezuzah to the doorway, and Rabbi Eli Reingold, the Rosh Kollel, carrying a Sefer Torah through the streets, dancing with Rabbi Ofer Levy, the Rav of Beit Halevi, was a powerful reminder that the growth of one kehilla is a celebration for us all. Different shuls, different traditions, yet one community united by a shared love of Torah.
And there I was, fighting back tears.
Looking around, I realized that we were celebrating far more than a new building. We were witnessing the growth of a community, one built on generations of dedication to Torah, strengthened by shared values, and united by a common purpose.
A new Beit Knesset is not simply a larger space for a growing community. It is an opportunity for that community to grow even further, in Torah, in tefillah, and in its connection to one another.
Perhaps that is what moved me most. As the Sifrei Torah entered their new home, I was reminded that the true beauty of a Beit Knesset is not found in its walls, but in the people who fill it and the generations who will continue to build upon its foundation.
And sometimes, when witnessing that beauty, the neshama can only speak through tears.
Chanukah is often viewed as the Yom Tov of superheroes. Against seemingly impossible odds, a small group of courageous individuals rose against a mighty empire, reclaimed the Beis HaMikdash, and restored the light of Torah to Klal Yisrael. The Maccabees have become synonymous with courage, strength, and the extraordinary power of individuals to change the world.
Yet, when we look at the small, almost insignificant flames dancing in our windows each night of Chanukah, we are left with an interesting question: What exactly makes someone a hero? And perhaps more importantly, do we still have heroes among us today?
We live in a world that often feels overwhelmed by darkness. The challenges around us can seem far greater than anything we, as individuals, can possibly change. Yet, the message of Chanukah is that even the smallest flame has the power to illuminate the darkness.
One of the things I enjoy most about Chanukah is taking my children for a walk through the neighborhood, watching the little flames dancing in the windows of the homes around us. There is something remarkable about the simplicity of this mitzvah. We place a small flame in our window, facing the world outside, and somehow that tiny light becomes a source of inspiration and hope.
Perhaps the beauty lies in the collective power of an entire community of flames. But I wonder if there is an even greater message hidden within each individual light.
Perhaps heroism is not about extraordinary people accomplishing extraordinary things. Perhaps it is about ordinary people recognizing an opportunity to bring a little light into someone else’s world.
A Hero in the Beis Medrash
Recently, I witnessed a simple interaction that left a lasting impression on me.
One of our talmidim had fractured his wrist and was preparing to leave early in the morning for an appointment with a specialist. Before davening, he was struggling to put on his tefillin. With one arm injured, something he had done independently every morning had suddenly become a challenge.
Before I could even process what was happening, an adult sitting nearby noticed his difficulty, walked over, and quietly helped him put on his tefillin.
That was it.
No dramatic moment. No extraordinary sacrifice. No applause or recognition. Just one person noticing that someone needed help and doing the obvious, decent thing.
At first glance, hardly an act worthy of an article. Or perhaps, that is precisely why it is.
We often imagine superheroes as people with capes, extraordinary strength, or remarkable abilities. But perhaps the greatest superheroes are simply those who notice what needs to be done and do it.
A Leap Across the Years
This past Pesach, as the war in Israel disrupted travel and left countless passengers stranded, my daughter found herself among those whose flights had been canceled. Through an unexpected series of events, she ended up sharing a Yom Tov meal with a family in Yerushalayim whom she had never met.
As the meal began, the hosts went around the table asking their guests to introduce themselves. When my daughter shared her name, both the husband and wife looked at each other in surprise.
“Did your parents used to live in Houston, Texas?”
What followed was a story that reached back many years, to a time when I taught at a Jewish day school in Houston.
Both the husband and wife had grown up in nonreligious homes and had been my talmidim when they were in fourth grade. They remembered an incident from those years that I had almost entirely forgotten.
During lunch one day, a student began choking. As a trained EMT, I immediately recognized the danger and leaped across the tables to reach the child and help him.
For me, it was simply what needed to be done. I had the training, I recognized the situation, and I acted. Once the emergency had passed, I thought little more about it.
But for those fourth graders watching the scene unfold, the experience was something entirely different.
As they described it to my daughter, they had watched a superhero fly across the room, my jacket fluttering behind me like a cape as I leaped over the tables to save their friend.
It was an image that had remained with them for decades. But even more remarkable was what they shared next.
They explained that witnessing that moment had changed the way they viewed the world. Seeing their rebbi respond without hesitation to help another person inspired them to think differently about the power of chinuch and the impact a rebbi can have on the life of a talmid. They described that moment as a turning point, one that began their long journey toward dedicating their own lives to chinuch and helping others.
Today, both are involved in harbatzas Torah in Eretz Yisrael, inspiring and teaching talmidim of their own.
I was struck by the realization that a moment I had almost entirely forgotten had helped shape the direction of two people’s lives. What I viewed as an ordinary response to a situation had become an extraordinary example of what it means to care for another person.
The Superheroes Among Us
The more I reflect on these moments, the more I realize that we are surrounded by superheroes. They are not always the people whose names we recognize or whose accomplishments make headlines. Often, they are the people quietly giving of themselves so that someone else can succeed.
They are the individuals who dedicate time each week to learning Torah with someone else, the mentors who patiently encourage and guide, the neighbors who recognize a family in need, and the countless volunteers who give their time and energy to acts of chesed. They understand that helping another person is not an interruption to their day, but an opportunity to make that day meaningful.
Through my involvement with Simcha Without Borders, I have had the privilege of witnessing the remarkable dedication of its volunteer staff. I am continually moved by the young men and women who give so freely of themselves to bring happiness, comfort, and hope to children and families facing extraordinary challenges. What may appear to be a small act of kindness—a conversation, a game, a visit, or simply being present—can be life-altering for a child who desperately needs that light.
Similarly, in my work as a crisis interventionist with Chai Lifeline, I am privileged to work alongside individuals who are truly real-life action heroes. These are people who step into some of life’s most difficult moments, offering strength, compassion, and support when families need it most. Their dedication, often behind the scenes and without recognition, is an extraordinary example of what it means to be there for another person.
The same spirit is evident in the remarkable work of Camp Simcha and countless other organizations and individuals who dedicate themselves to bringing light into the lives of others.
There is something that fills me with tremendous pride when I see these individuals, especially so many young volunteers, choose to give of themselves in this way. They may never fully appreciate the impact of their seemingly ordinary actions. Yet, for the children and families whose lives they touch, these individuals are genuine superheroes.
The Power of a Single Flame
Perhaps this is the deeper message of the Chanukah lights.
The Maccabees did not set out to become superheroes. They recognized that something was wrong, that something precious was at risk, and that someone needed to act. Faced with an overwhelming challenge, they chose to do what they could.
Most of us will never be called upon to lead a revolution or reclaim the Beis HaMikdash. Our opportunities for heroism are far quieter. They appear in a Beis Medrash when a boy needs help with his tefillin, in a classroom when a talmid needs encouragement, in a hospital room when a child needs a smile, or in the countless ordinary interactions that fill our days.
And often, we will never know the impact of those moments.
The small flame in our window does not illuminate the entire street. It does not eliminate all the darkness. It simply shines, offering whatever light it can to the world beyond.
And perhaps that is enough.
When we light the Chanukah candles, we are not only illuminating the world outside. We are also bringing light into our own homes. Perhaps the same is true of heroism. Every time we choose to help another person, we strengthen something within ourselves as well.
This Chanukah, as we watch those small flames dancing in our windows, perhaps we should reflect on the superheroes in our own lives. Who are the ordinary people whose seemingly simple actions have inspired us, supported us, or changed the direction of our lives?
But perhaps there is an even more important question.
Who are we superheroes to?
Whose life have we touched through a simple act of kindness, a moment of encouragement, or something we did without giving it a second thought?
We may never know the answer. After all, the greatest superheroes rarely recognize themselves as heroes.
Perhaps that is the message of the small Chanukah flame. We do not need to illuminate the entire world. We simply need to recognize the opportunities before us to bring a little light into someone else’s.
And we may never fully appreciate just how far that light will travel.
