You might remember July 4th, 1976, the Bicentennial of the United States. Two hundred years of American history were being celebrated across the nation. Everything was red, white, and blue.
At that time, I had a little minhag. Since I am a mohel, at every bris I would distribute baby yarmulkes. When the New York Mets were winning, for example, I gave out orange and blue. And in July of 1976, in honor of the Bicentennial, I gave out red, white, and blue.
But that same summer, something else happened; something far more significant than parades and fireworks. An Air France plane traveling from Israel to Paris, with a stopover in Athens, was hijacked. It was diverted to a place most of us had never heard of before: Entebbe, Uganda. The country was ruled by a raving madman who threatened to murder every Jew on board. Non-Jewish passengers were released, and only the Jews remained captive.
Israel was gripped with fear. Everyone knew someone—or knew someone who knew someone—on that plane. And so, a Yom Tefillah, a day of prayer, was proclaimed. It was to be held in the Mir Yeshiva in Jerusalem, the largest yeshiva building available, able to hold a thousand people. Everyone knew who would lead the prayers: the elderly Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Chaim Shmulevitz zt”l.
The Beis Midrash was packed, the tension so thick you could feel it. Rav Chaim emerged from his small apartment across the hall, took one look at the crowd, sensed the weight of the moment, and sat down. And then he began to cry. A thousand people sat in silence, listening to their Rosh Yeshiva weep.
Finally, he gathered himself, walked slowly down the aisle, ascended to the Aron Kodesh, kissed it, and turned to address the crowd. At first, no words would come. His lips trembled, his whole body shaking. And then he spoke one sentence, just one:
“Daven as if it was your father, your mother, your brother, your sister on that plane.”
That was all he said. And then the tefillah began.
That one line is everything. It is how we must approach our davening today. We have been reciting names, saying Tehillim, praying for soldiers and praying for hostages for months and months. And sometimes, when the words are repeated endlessly, the heart grows dull. Rav Chaim’s instruction remains our compass: Pray as if it were your own family.
One article in the Wall Street Journal carried a heartbreaking testimony. When Sahar Kalderon, who was held hostage for 52 days was released, her father remained in captivity. She wrote that when told she was going home, she begged, “Can I see my father one more time?” They allowed her a brief visit. She barely recognized him, though, with his long hair, an unkempt beard and terror in his eyes. They embraced, held each other, and wept. That was the last time she saw him.
Imagine if it were your father. Your mother. Your child. That is how we must pray.
And so, I’d like to share four practical commitments that we can each undertake. These are not my ideas. They come straight from Chazal.
First: Torah.
A few months ago, my grandson, Dani, called me. “Zaidy, could you come to my siyum?” Of course, I thought he meant he was finishing a Gemara. But he said, “No, Zaidy, I’m finishing Tanach.” I was astonished. He explained that he had joined the Nach Yomi program, founded by a man in Toronto, Reb Shaya Hershkowitz.
Years ago, after his father passed away, Shaya decided to do something meaningful l’iluy nishmaso. He began learning one chapter of Tanach every day. If a chapter was long, he split it into two or three. Soon, others in Toronto joined him. First it was a hundred people, then more. Within three to four years, they completed the cycle and began again.
When I saw that my grandson had done it, I joined. And I confess, I’m addicted. Every day I learn a chapter.
Often, Nach is neglected. Men, women and children should learn Tanach, and with ArtScroll, it is accessible, in Hebrew or in English. So let us make this first commitment: More Torah.
Second: Gratitude.
We are all children of Hashem, and when our children are grateful, we long to give them more. Even if they aren’t, we still give; but when they are, our hearts overflow. Do we show enough gratitude to Hashem?
Let me give two examples.
Asher Yatzar. Every day, multiple times a day, we say this bracha. If our body’s openings were blocked or ruptured, we could not live. Let us take nine seconds to stand still and recite Asher Yatzar with kavanah. A woman once pointed out to me that the bracha itself says, “If these systems didn’t work, we couldn’t even stand before You.” So yes, let us stand still, unmoving and undisturbed, and say it with feeling.
Birchas HaMazon. We say three specific words: Hashem sustains us, “B’chein, b’chesed, u’v’rachamim—With love, kindness and mercy.” Why these three?
Chein refers to the appearance of food. Hashem could have made all nourishment gray and bland, like vitamin pills. Instead He gave us beauty: kiwi, chocolate mousse, sushi, whatever delights the eye.
Chesed refers to the taste. Every person has their favorites, such as pizza, steak or even cholent. Hashem could have made food tasteless, but instead He gave us pleasure.
Rachamim refers to the nutrition, the fact that food sustains life.
When we thank Hashem for food, let us remember: He didn’t need to make it beautiful or delicious. That was a gift of love.
Third: Tehillim.
Too often, Tehillim is said by rote, while people are already putting away their tallis and tefillin. But to say Tehillim properly is to channel Dovid HaMelech’s life. He suffered endlessly, with enemies everywhere, two sons who tried to kill him, a king who wanted him dead, siblings who dismissed him, and yet he never despaired. He poured his heart into song after song of trust in Hashem. That is why Tehillim works.
Some schools now assign each student a soldier’s name. When they say Tehillim, they think of that soldier. Others teach one kapitel, such as Shir HaMa’alos mi’ma’amakim (130), with its translation, and have the children say it every day with understanding. This is the model for us too. Don’t just say Tehillim; feel it.
Fourth: Tzedakah.
Shlomo Hamelech tells us: “Tzedakah tatzil mi'maves—Charity saves from death” (Mishlei 10:2). This is true not only with one’s own life, but the life of another.
The Arizal prescribes that when saying the words in davening, “V’atah moshel bakol” as part of the longer verse in Va'yevarech Dovid, “V’ha’osher v’ha’kavod mil’fanecha v’atah moshel bakol—Wealth and honor are Yours, You rule over everything,” a person should place three coins in the tzedakah box. This reminds us that our money is not ours, but Hashem’s. We are merely His trustees. That recognition is itself transformative.
It doesn’t matter if it’s five hundred dollars or three cents. What matters is that each day we perform the act, acknowledging Hashem’s sovereignty over our resources.
And finally, beyond these four commitments, there is one more: love for each other.
A seventy-year-old man who lost his leg in the Six-Day War travels every day to sit among the wounded soldiers, without his prosthesis. Why? To show them life is not over. He remarried, worked, raised children and became a grandfather. Visiting them shows that if he survived and rebuilt his life, they can too. If you have endured suffering and emerged whole, you have an obligation to put your arm around others in pain and tell them, “If I made it, you will too.”
We all know the story of Rabbi Akiva. He saw water dripping on stone, carving a hole, and realized that if soft water can pierce hard rock, surely Torah can penetrate the human heart. But in Avos d’Rebbi Nasan (6:2), the account has two extra words: pam achas—he saw it once. He didn’t pass that brook every day, musing. He saw it once, and in that moment, he made a decision that changed his life.
Sometimes Hashem sends us one story, one Pasuk, one moment. And if we are brave enough to act, everything changes.
