Yesterday was June 13. On the secular calendar, it’s just another date at the edge of summer. But for Jews, the number 613 resounds with ancient gravity. It is the number of mitzvot, the commandments that form the sacred architecture of Jewish life.
613 is not a statistic. It’s a covenant. A charge. A burden. A blessing.
And this year, 6/13 came during a week when the Jewish state—beleaguered, exhausted, yet still breathing—fulfilled one of the most painful, necessary mitzvot of all: to defend Jewish life when no one else will.
To act while others debate. To respond while others delay. To say: Not again. Not now. Not ever.
This week, Israel struck into the heart of Iran—not as provocation or revenge, but as a moral act against a regime that arms Hamas and Hezbollah, funds death over life, and has declared its goal to annihilate the Jewish state.
And here we must be honest: I am no apologist for Israel’s current government. I am a fierce critic of many of its policies and its leadership. But moral clarity is not contingent on political alignment.
Netanyahu waited 61 days. And while I rarely find myself defending him, this I will say: how long should he have waited—until Tel Aviv was ash? Until Iranian proxies made good on their threats?
As the Midrash teaches: “If someone comes to kill you, rise early and kill him first” (Bereshit Rabbah 34:13). This is not a call to vengeance—it is a call to moral responsibility.
Jewish blood is not cheap. And those who think it is will learn otherwise—if not through dialogue, then through deterrence.
This week, for the first time in Jewish history, both the Ashkenazi and Sephardi Chief Rabbis of Israel canceled communal services due to credible threats from Iran. Imagine that. In the Jewish homeland—where prayer rose from the ashes of exile—they could not safely gather to pray.
And yet here we are. In Omaha, Nebraska. Sitting in synagogue, unaware of the unfathomable privilege this is. We gather without sirens. Without gas masks. Without children in shelters.
Let us not take for granted what others cannot.
Because prayer is not only what we say. It’s what we do.
We are taught: “Ein somkhin al ha-nes”—we do not rely on miracles (Pesachim 64b). Prayer is not a substitute for action. It is a companion to it.
God may part the sea, but someone still has to walk through it.
And so, the Torah commands:
“Lo ta’amod al dam rei’echa”—Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor (Leviticus 19:16).
Rambam interprets this as an active obligation: if someone is in danger and you can help—you must (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Rotzeach 1:14). And if you don’t? You are complicit in their blood.
Iran is not seeking compromise. It is seeking erasure. This is not conflict—it is a zero-sum war of memory and meaning. And in a world that grows allergic to moral clarity, we must reclaim it, fiercely.
Today, genocide is rebranded as “resistance.”
Terrorists are wrapped in the language of human rights.
And those who fight to save their own people are cast as the aggressors.
But moral clarity comes not from hashtags—it comes from Torah.
And Torah is not silent in the face of evil.
From Avraham—who pursued four kings to rescue his nephew (Genesis 14)—to Moshe—who struck the Egyptian oppressor to save a Hebrew slave—our tradition affirms again and again: to save a life, you must be willing to act.
There is no mitzvah greater than preserving life.
“Whoever saves one life, it is as if they have saved an entire world” (Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5).
And sometimes, saving a world requires force.
Sometimes mitzvot come not with candles and wine—but with uniforms and sacrifice.
The Netziv of Volozhin, in his commentary HaEmek Davar, writes that “when a nation is attacked, even those who dwell far from the battlefield must see themselves as obligated to respond.”
Distance does not exempt us. Safety does not absolve us.
Because this too is a spiritual moment.
To take responsibility for Jewish sovereignty is not a retreat from faith—it is the fulfillment of it.
As Rav Soloveitchik wrote in Kol Dodi Dofek, “The rebirth of Jewish sovereignty is a divine knock on the door of history—a summons to responsibility, to courage, to covenant.”
And here’s the truth we must teach our children:
Strength and righteousness are not opposites.
Defense is not a betrayal of Jewish values—it is the embodiment of them.
The soldier who protects life is not outside the beit midrash—he is living the Torah with his very body.
The Ramban teaches (in his commentary on Exodus 13:16) that public acts of redemption are the highest proof of God’s presence in history. That means Jewish survival, Jewish sovereignty, Jewish resistance—are not political postures. They are theological affirmations.
So what can we do here, far away?
We can pray. For safety. For wisdom. For mercy.
We can speak. The Talmud teaches: “Silence is agreement” (Yevamot 87b). When the world lies about Israel, we must tell the truth. Not because Israel is perfect—but because it is moral. Because it struggles to remain human amid inhumanity.
And we can raise children who know that Jewish dignity is not a slogan—it is a calling. That Israel is not a burden—it is a miracle. That mitzvot are not only rituals—they are responses.
613 is not just a number.
It is a torch handed to each generation.
And now, in our time, we must carry it.
May we be worthy of the mitzvot we have inherited.
May our strength be moral, our courage sacred, our survival unapologetic.
And may Israel’s defense continue to be not only its shield—but our collective inspiration.
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