My Faith Strengthens as My Body Weakens

A number of people have asked me—and I think even more have quietly wondered—what happens to your faith when you’re staring down the barrel of the worst-case scenario: a painful, early death from a brutal disease. In my case, that’s Progressive Supranuclear Palsy (PSP).

I know these words are tough for my family and friends to read. But I need to say them. There’s that old saying: if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. PSP (or some kind of variant we don’t yet understand) is my duck—though it’s a bit of an odd one given my age (50). My cognition might take a hit soon, maybe even very soon. That’s why I’m writing this now—before I lose the chance—though I hope I’ll be writing for many years to come (even if you’re not hoping for quite that many updates).

For those who don’t know PSP, here’s a guide: PSP Guide. It moves fast and there is no treatment. I formally retired a few weeks ago on my doctor’s advice from February. I got a walker three months ago, and now I’m struggling to use it. I’m looking at wheelchairs—resisting, hoping things improve. I’d love for things to turn around, but honestly, that seems unlikely.

The biggest gut punch, personally, came two days ago when I canceled a short trip to Cannes with my wife and closest friends—a weekend that meant the world to us. I decided it was too risky. That hurt deeply, although it was absolutely the right decision.

So, let’s talk about faith. I’m no rabbi or scholar, and I’m not trying to write a religious work. But putting my thoughts down helps me make sense of what I believe, and maybe they’ll mean something to someone else too.

I became religious at 11, growing up in a traditional Jewish home that appreciated Judaism but wasn’t Shomer Shabbat. Why I went that route is a story for another day.

The truth is, my faith is getting stronger every day. Why? Two big reasons:
1. Humility, Trust, and Belief in Hashem’s Plan—not mine
2. Meaning, Purpose, and Hope in His World

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1. Humility, Trust, and Belief in Hashem’s Plan—not mine

I’m not special. Sure, I’ve done some things I’m proud of—raised an amazing family together with my wonderful wife, stood up for Israel in the advocacy world during difficult times, and tried to operate with integrity and run an ethical business. These are things I can say with pride. Hopefully, I’ve been a decent example, at least in some things. But I’m one of billions. I don’t expect Hashem to roll out a miracle just for me. People face worse diseases every day—many of them incredible people. If I can hold onto faith after the Holocaust, after 9/11, after October 7, then PSP isn’t going to shake me.

As it says in Tehillim, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me” (Psalm 23:4). That’s where I’m at. I’m not a prophet or a tzaddik. I’m just a person trying to trust Hashem’s plan, even if I can’t wrap my head around it. His wisdom is way beyond mine, and I’m okay with that. Some people only believe when life’s going their way. That’s not me. I’ve had rough moments, but my faith in Hashem is rock-solid.

You might not see it the way I do, and that’s fine. This is my blog, my heart. All I’m saying is that PSP isn’t a reason to give up on faith—for me—it’s a reason to lean into it. Without faith, this would be a distressing place. With it, I believe there is purpose. I don’t know how I would feel otherwise.

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2. Meaning, Purpose, and Hope in His World

Even with all this, I still find meaning, purpose, and hope. Not the kind of hope where I’m banking on a miracle cure—though I pray for a refuah shleima and wouldn’t say no to being wrong about that. I mean the kind of hope that comes from making the most of the time I’ve got, doing as much good as I can, and leaving behind a family and legacy that continues to do good in the world.

Retiring wasn’t my choice, but it’s given me time to focus on things I didn’t before: my faith, my writing, Israel, the PSP community. Despite the pain and depression—which I acknowledge—I am doing different things and, in my own way, having an impact I wouldn’t have otherwise had.

I recently came across something the Baal Shem Tov taught: every challenge is a chance to serve Hashem with joy. I’m not the ‘happy-clappy’ type, though I respect those who are. But I am trying in my own way to live that way—whether it’s being there for my family, advocating for Israel, supporting others with PSP or Parkinson’s, or just facing each day with dignity. I’m not a big shot, but I believe I’m making a difference. That keeps me going. Mine may not be the classic version of joy, but it is a contentment I didn’t think I would have at this stage.

I know that I still face my challenges religiously. I need to improve my prayer and my commitment to detailed commandments. I have a lot of work to do—especially since some of them are impacted by changes in my physical condition—but I guess we’ll remain people who should strive for improvement and betterment at all times. Being Jewish is a combination of both commitment to ritual and commitment to morals. It is both, and neither is mutually exclusive of the other.

As Viktor Frankl put it, “Those who have a ‘why’ to live, can bear with almost any ‘how.’” For me, that “why” is tied to my faith, my family, and the good I can still do.

Two things stand out as I write this. First, I truly wouldn’t trade my life for anyone’s—past or present. I’ve got a beautiful family, I’ve had the chance to have a meaningful career, and I’ve lived in the land of Israel. I’ve done more than I ever dreamed, and I’m grateful. I also have plans—to give more, to do more—even as I enter retirement and face this disease. But as the saying goes: man plans, and G-d laughs.

That’s reason enough to hold onto faith, to feel even more gratitude to Hashem for what He’s given me and what He might still have in store.

Second, I don’t know how I’ll feel when PSP gets to its final stages, if sadly it does. I hope I can keep this faith, this clarity. I’m writing this for my family and friends: this isn’t something to lose faith over. A miracle might not be what’s right for me, but meaning is. I hope you see that too.

I’m not here to tell anyone how to feel or how to approach their own faith. All I know is that I find strength in a Hashem who cares for all of us, even when we can’t see it. The Holocaust, October 7—these things shake us, but they don’t break the bigger picture. I can’t claim to understand the details, but I trust there’s a plan. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote, “The supreme religious challenge is to see God’s image in one who is not in our image.” That’s the faith I’m holding onto, now more than ever.