Rabbi Menachem Creditor
*in memory of Shlomo Monsour z”l, a beloved soul, one of the hostages we had prayed to see returned home to his family
Yitro is the Torah portion of reunion. When Yitro, Moses' father-in-law, hears of all that God has done to liberate the Israelites, he rejoices. But what did the Israelites look like after 210 years of enslavement? What does a people, newly freed, truly look like? What does freedom feel like after unthinkable suffering? And when we look at the faces of our brothers, our sons, our daughters, our mothers, still in captivity—what will they look like when they come home?
In this moment of chaos, we turn to Torah for light. Our hearts might be broken, but they are beating. And we, my friends, are called to keep them beating.
Why does revelation matter? Why does Sinai matter? Is Torah about kashrut and ritual observance alone? Or is it about bringing ourselves into attunement with the universe, about responding to a world in deep need of repair?
There is a famous midrash about the moment of Revelation. God lifts the mountain over the people's heads and declares: “Accept my Torah, or this will be your grave” (Mechilta). Coercion? Perhaps. Or maybe it is the shock of encountering infinity—the overwhelming, trembling moment when mortality meets the Divine.
The rabbis connect this to a verse in Psalms: "You caused sentence to be heard from Heaven; the Earth feared and was silent. (Ps. 76:9)" The Earth feared—and then was silent. Fear and silence, trembling and stillness, exist together. Creation itself was conditional:
“The Holy Blessed One established a condition with the act of Creation, and said to them: ‘If Israel accepts the Torah, the world continues. If not, it returns to chaos.’ (Shabbat 88a)"
We are called, as Jews and as human beings, to make moral choices because the world depends on them. Every decision is a decision upon which the world’s existence depends. Whether we are under a mountain or facing the sea, whether we are fighting for the return of our captives or protecting the dignity of the vulnerable, we cannot remain silent. That is not the way to live. That is not life.
Yes, we Jews have our own beautiful and particular path, but Torah teaches that all people have a place around the mountain. There are as many paths to the Divine as there are souls in this world. And no matter what we have endured—210 years of slavery, 494 days of captivity—we must remain true to our tradition. We must raise our voices. We must hold fast to what makes us us. If we do this, then not only are we free, but the world itself stands a chance.
Life itself is resistance.
May we, in moments where the world’s existence feels shaky, remember that we always stand at the mountain. We stand together. We stand for life. And we are called to do no less—no matter what, no matter when.
Life is resistance.
