A Question That Followed Me

Sometimes a broken heart sends you on a journey. At thirty-nine, that journey brought me to a synagogue in Boca Raton, Florida, and back to a question I have been trying to answer for years.

Why did you drift away from religion?

It was never really about God. My distance was never from Judaism itself. It was from the leadership that claimed to represent it.

For years I slowly drifted from the rabbinic world. When Rabbi Jonathan Sacks passed away, something in me felt unmoored. He embodied moral clarity, intellectual depth, and humility. Since then, especially after October 7, I have often struggled to recognize the kind of religious leadership that once inspired me.

I was taught that faith encourages curiosity and independent thought. Every Passover, Jewish children ask a simple question: Ma Nishtana? Why is this night different?

Jewish tradition was never afraid of questions. Yet too often the system rewards loyalty and obedience more than curiosity and moral courage.

Many assume people drift away from religion because they stopped believing in God. In my experience, the opposite is often true. What pushes people away is not faith itself, but the institutions that claim to represent it.

Eventually I stopped searching for answers inside the system. When rabbis spoke, I often stepped outside. Not out of anger, but out of disappointment.

And then something unexpected happened.

In a synagogue in Boca Raton, I encountered the kind of spiritual leadership I thought I might never find again.

I arrived there as part of my work with Peace of Mind, a program founded by Dr. Danny Brom at the Metiv Israel Psychotrauma Center in Jerusalem. The initiative connects Israeli combat veterans with Jewish communities around the world, helping them transition back to civilian life after war through therapy and time with the community.

My director, Racheli Brooks, and my colleague Chaim Landau asked me to accompany a film crew from Israel’s Channel 11 that was documenting the soldiers.

What I did not expect was that the most meaningful encounter of the week would not be with the cameras.

It would be with two rabbis.

Rabbi Philip Moskowitz and Rabbi Efrem Goldberg.

Together with host families led by Emily and Sharon, two remarkable Jewish women who quickly became like family to the soldiers, the Boca Raton community opened their homes and their hearts, showing the veterans what hakarat hatov truly looks like.

From the very first moment, they looked at the soldiers at eye level. Equal. Seen. Embraced.

Throughout the week they stood before the veterans. Some religious, some not. Some with kippot, some with earrings and dreadlocks. And they simply said:

Thank you, heroes. We are standing here because of you.

The most special moment for me came on Shabbat morning.

Twenty young Israeli soldiers slowly walked toward the bimah. Some had not stepped inside a synagogue since their bar mitzvah. Some had never been called to the Torah at all. And now they stood there together.

Their bodies are still carrying the weight of war. Their eyes carrying even more.

In the middle of them stood the flag of Yedidia Bloch, who was killed defending Israel while his wife was pregnant.

For a moment the entire synagogue grew quiet. Hundreds of people were watching. Parents. Children. Host families. Volunteers. All looking at these young men standing before the Ark.

Most of the soldiers looked slightly uncomfortable standing in the center of the room and being called heroes. Many of them were raised with humility and carried themselves that way even now.

Then the congregation began to sing:

“May He bless the fighters of the Israel Defense Forces, who stand guard over our land and the cities of our God. And may there be fulfilled for them the verse, “For it is Hashem, your God, Who goes with you to battle your enemies for you, to save you.”

They were blessed. They were thanked. With pain. With faith. And above all with hope.

Hatikvah. Hope. The word that gives our national anthem its name. Because we are a people of hope, no matter how much pain we carry.

And in that moment it felt as if the entire room understood something simple.

These soldiers were not guests.

Only six days earlier things had looked very different. The first barbecue between the host families and the soldiers began politely. Introductions. Small talk. Careful questions.

Eight days later everyone stood in the goodbye circle. Hugging. Crying. Holding hands.

Eight days earlier they had been strangers.

Now they felt like family.

Later that Shabbat I approached the rabbis about something logistical. And suddenly I realized I felt uncomfortable calling them by their first names.

It did not feel right.

And there I was again, thirty-nine years old, standing in front of two men and calling them:

For the first time in years, it felt right.

The Riddle at the Door

Before Shabbat I was invited to record a conversation with Rabbi Goldberg and Rabbi Moskowitz.

I remember walking to the synagogue on Friday morning feeling a little nervous. I was preparing myself for a tough conversation about religion, rabbis, Israel, and the military draft.

I have been on many podcasts before, and a few of them have even blown up in the middle. I tend to speak my mind and say what I believe and feel, and sometimes that can be a bit too much for people.

So as I walked toward the synagogue that morning, I wondered whether this conversation might turn into one of those moments and whether I might unintentionally blow up the atmosphere just a few hours before Shabbat.

But before I even walked in, something small happened that completely changed my mood.

The entrance to the synagogue had a coded lock, and the code was hidden in a little Jewish riddle.

So there I was, standing outside the shul on a quiet Florida morning, staring at the door and trying to solve it.

For a moment I felt like a yeshiva student again, looking at a question and trying to think my way through it.

And I remember thinking to myself: of course. Even the door to the synagogue opens with a Jewish question.

In a place as serious as a synagogue, in times as heavy as these, that small Jewish riddle made me smile. My whole mood shifted.

Inside, the synagogue was beautiful. People were already preparing the Friday night meal. Suddenly the whole place felt warm.

The conversation lasted more than an hour. We spoke about peace of mind and its holy work, about Yiddishkeit, about believing and leading after October 7, about forgiveness, and also about pain.

Because since October 7, we all know how much pain our people carry.

At one point I told the rabbis that before flying to Miami I had visited a bereaved mother I am very close to. She looked at me and immediately saw the pain on my face.

She said something simple and beautiful.

“Yudala,” she said. “A broken heart is also a sign that you know how to love deeply. And that is no small thing in this world.”

For a moment none of us spoke.

We had started the podcast with a polite lechayem. We ended it with a strong hug and a quiet smile.

I walked outside and went for a long walk.

It had not been a battle at all.

Just an honest conversation.

And somehow, I felt lighter.

The great Jewish thinker Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote that Shabbat is a “temple in time.”

That entire week felt like a holy journey.

A circle of young soldiers sitting together, slowly shifting their conversations from the front lines of battle to the quieter battles of returning home.

Host families and volunteers moving constantly around them. Cooking, helping, smiling, and making sure the soldiers felt cared for every moment of the week.

An NBA game that, to be honest, was a bit boring, but where each soldier received a thoughtful gift.

A long and honest podcast conversation with the rabbis.

Photographers who arrived to document the week and ended up becoming part of it were clearly moved by what they were witnessing.

Ben Shapiro stopping by to greet the soldiers, shake their hands, listen to their stories, and thank them with genuine warmth.

And time with my colleagues, who, together with our team back in Israel, work tirelessly to make sure that many more journeys like this will happen for brave veterans and the communities that welcome them.

For a few days, that synagogue felt like sacred time.

A week with Peace of Mind, where Israeli veterans and an American Jewish community celebrate Jewish tradition, unity, and love for the State of Israel.

For a few days, oceans disappear.

And we remember what it means to be one people.

Moments like these feel like drinking water after a long fast.

Sometimes a broken heart sends you on a journey.

And sometimes the road you take to heal brings you home.

In Pirkei Avot we are taught: make for yourself a rabbi.

At thirty-nine, that journey brought me to a synagogue in Boca Raton.

And back to something I thought I had lost.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)