Dear Friends,
Back in rabbinic school one of my teachers described his approach to Jewish ritual in a way that has stayed with me ever since. There were, he said, the practices he observed and then there were the practices he did not observe… yet.
He pictured the breadth of Jewish tradition as stones scattered along a path he walked each day. Some stones he had picked up, carried for a while, and then gently placed back down. Others he continued to carry with him. Still others remained on the ground-stones he hadn’t yet lifted but might one day choose to. The key, he said, was staying open to the possibility of picking up something new.
I’ve always loved that image. It captures the dynamic, evolving nature of Jewish life. But even so, it never fully answered a deeper question: Why would any of us pick up additional stones? What inspires us to carry more of the weight of tradition along the way?
Last night, unexpectedly, I heard one answer and it came from a self-described secular Israeli.
Eli Sharabi lived on Kibbutz Be’eri with his wife and two daughters. When Hamas terrorists attacked on October 7th, the family sheltered in their safe room. Hours into the assault, ten terrorists burst into their home. Eli surrendered himself, knowing he would be taken hostage, and hoping against hope that his wife and daughters’ British passports might spare them.
When he was released nearly a year and a half later, he learned the unbearable truth: all three had been murdered that day.
Eli was dragged into Gaza, first held by a local family for seven weeks and then transferred into the terror tunnels, where he remained until his eventual release. He and his fellow hostages were beaten daily, starved, humiliated. In the later months they survived on a pita and a half per day. He lost almost half his body weight.
Last night, over one thousand of us gathered for a Greater MetroWest program to hear him speak. It was painful, inspiring, and humbling to witness the resilience of someone who has known pain most of us can barely imagine and who has somehow chosen life.
At one point, Eli shared an excerpt from his book Hostage, describing how he and the other captives marked Shabbat each week with nothing more than a bit of pita and some water:
“I don’t know if I feel God in those moments. But I feel power. I feel a connection. To my people. To our tradition. To my identity. It connects me to my family. To my childhood. To my roots. It reminds me why I must survive. Who I’m surviving for. What I’m surviving for… a white tallit during Shabbat prayers… wine in a goblet… candles on the windowsill… everything that feels so far from here.”
Remember, Eli describes himself as secular. Yet in the deepest darkness imaginable, it was ritual, memory and connection that gave him strength. It reminded him he belonged to something larger than his suffering. It linked him to those he loved, to generations behind him, and to countless others he had never met but with whom he shared a story and a destiny.
I don’t know how often Eli made Shabbat before October 7th. But I do know this: more than fifteen meters underground, in the worst conditions a human being can endure, picking up the stones of Shabbat gave him hope.
As we light Shabbat candles this evening, I will be thinking of Eli Sharabi, of his beloved family, and of the unfathomable strength he somehow carried with him.
And whether or not you typically light Shabbat candles, I want to invite you to pick up that ritual stone with me tonight.
If you have candles, light them.
Don’t worry if the blessing isn’t perfect—God speaks every language, including broken Hebrew offered with sincerity.
And if lighting candles isn’t a stone you’re ready to pick up yet, then simply pause for a moment. Breathe. Reflect on the week that was. Let the sun’s setting mark a gentle shift from the noise of the world to something quieter and more intentional.
Try picking up the stones of Shabbat—however lightly, however tentatively.
You may find, as Eli did in the tunnels of Gaza, that even the smallest ritual can offer strength, connection, and a glimmer of light in dark times.
Shabbat Shalom.
Rabbi Daniel M Cohen