My Hallel in My Shelter

After several nights in a bomb shelter — hearing the thundering sounds of the IDF’s anti-missile and anti-drone defense systems, and reading voraciously about every event (though not for the 24 hours of Shabbat, which was torturous) — I woke up this morning (after spending an hour in the shelter at 2 a.m.), and during my morning prayer (private, since the shuls are shut down), I recited Hallel.

Hallel consists of a series of Psalms — generally 113 to 118 — beginning with the word Halleluyah (“praise God”) and often concluding with the same, forming an inclusio that frames a declaration of praise for the miracles God performed for our nation.

Traditionally, Hallel is a response to the Exodus from Egypt, as well as to the miracles of entering the land of Canaan — representing both the yetziah (departure) and the aliyah (ascent). These were the two parts of God’s mission to Moses: Moses fulfilled the first, and then handed the mission over to Joshua to complete the second.

But Hallel is more than a series of psalms. When bracketed by blessings, it becomes a rabbinic commandment, as codified in Masechet Taanit: “On 18 days a year the individual completes the full Hallel—8 days of Sukkot, 8 days of Chanukah, 1 day of Pesach, 1 day of Shavuot (and in ‘the exile’ 21 days as Sukkot, Pesach and Shavuot first days are doubled.)”

In Pesachim, Rav Yehuda says in the name of the great Babylonian Amora Shmuel: “Who said this Hallel mentioned in the Mishna? The prophets among them established this Hallel for the Jewish people to recite it on every appropriate occasion and for every crisis (may it not come upon them), when they are redeemed they recite it over their redemption.

The Gemara continues to cite biblical examples of those who recited Hallel: Moshe, Yehoshua, Devora and Barak when they stood up against Sisera; King Chizkiya when he stood up against Sanheriv; Chanania, Mishael and Azarya when they stood up against Nevechadnezzar king of Babylonia; Mordechai and Esther when they stood up against the evil Haman.

In sum, Hallel is recited at every juncture of biblical history when the victim stands up to an evil bully who aims to destroy them. And what of us? Does the spirit of Hallel still ring true? Does the legal obligation (mitzvah) of Hallel kick in?

A debate ensued.

The traditionalists said if the Gemara said 18 days it’s 18 days; the more liberal position was to understand that those 18 are ironclad but they don’t preclude new days which warrant individual or even collective gratitude to God. These are the same fault lines that were drawn with the advent of Yom Haatzmaut and Yom Yerushalayim.

In the end, for the Modern Orthodox movement, despite the twists and turns, Hallel became a sine qua non on these days — a way of acknowledging the miracles, recognizing that history is unfolding, and pausing to incorporate that awareness into our liturgy.

And what of today? Can we truly dissociate ourselves from the mire of a two-year slog in Gaza? Can we rise above the pain, the loss, the horror, and the internal political strife — to recognize yet another cataclysmic moment in our history, and in the history of the world?

Can we hold two opposing truths at once: the crippling tragedy, loss, shame, and failure of 10/7— alongside the extraordinary success of 6/13, a miraculous vanquishing, a decisive slaying of Goliath with a speed and weight even greater than that of the Six Day War?

(Can we, in the same breath, congratulate the man who planned and executed one of the greatest military operations in our nation’s history — while still wagging our accusatory finger at him for the devastating events he let occur just two years ago?)

And what of our relationship with God? How do we ride this roller coaster of emotions — sensing His absence in Be’eri, yet perceiving His prominence in Tehran? How do we, as Modern Orthodox Jews, navigate the delicate balance between recognizing the Hand of God and honoring the ingenuity of the Mossad, tireless precision of the Air Force, together with the blood, sweat, and tears of the Israel Defense Forces?

With all these thoughts swirling in my mind, this morning I recited Hallel as my answer to the above set of complex questions was an unequivocal yes. I did not presume to recite it with a beracha, recognizing that there is a halachic process to which I adhere. I wait — as many do — for Rav Melamed, Rav Medan, Rav Yoel Bin-Nun, and a handful of other courageous leaders of Religious Zionism to take those giant, history-shaping steps.

I also chose to recite Hallel without its full halachic framework, knowing that the war is still in its incipient stages, despite the sweeping success thus far. But recite the Psalms I most surely did.

But I went one step further.

I noted that Hallel is a direct biblical expression of gratitude for the miracles God wrought: it begins with “Hallelu yah” in Psalm 113 and ends with “Hodu la Hashem” in Psalm 118, forming a laser focused hymn of praise to the One who performed those wonders. Yet I do not believe that today should be portrayed as God’s supernatural feat alone; rather, it was a partnership between Him and us — between those who pray fervently to the God of the Exodus (“I alone, and no other”) and the God of Jericho, whose victory arose from a fusion of divine miracle with the efforts of Joshua’s army, priests, and nation.

My grandfather, Rabbi Baumol, once taught me that we do not recite Hallel merely because of God’s miracles. We recite it because God saw in us a partner—a people worthy of participating in His plan, deserving of a supernatural occurrence because of our willingness to act, to risk, and to believe.

This morning, I added two more Psalms to my personal Hallel—and I believe the psalmist may have intended this as well: Psalms 111 and 112, the two chapters that directly precede Psalm 113. What makes this pair so significant? Without launching into a full analysis, I believe these two Psalms serve as a spiritual prelude. Before one can truly recite Hallel—before one can praise with full heart and mind—one must first meditate on these opening reflections.

Each psalm is an acrostic with nearly the same number of words (73 vs. 78); each begins with the eponymous “Hallelujah”; each contains ten verses forming a complete message; each offers reasons to praise. Both include the phrase “וצדקתו עֹמֶדֶת לָעַד” (“His righteousness stands forever”) and, in verse 4, the attributes “חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם” (“gracious and compassionate”). The word “סָמוּךְ” (“steadfast/reliant”) appears in verse 8 of both. In sum, the two psalms are nearly identical in structure, vocabulary, and spiritual vision.

With one caveat: Psalm 111 praises God, while Psalm 112 praises the servant of God. The first declares, “I will praise the LORD with all my heart” and proceeds to count the ways; the second begins, “Ashrei” — “Happy is the one who fears the LORD” — and then counts the ways.

Did the psalmist, by placing these two nearly identical acrostics side by side as a prelude to Hallel, not mean to teach us that it is both God’s endless righteousness and humanity’s capacity to emulate Him — to fear, serve, and reflect His attributes — that together give us cause to say Hallel?

Absolutely.

And so — despite the complicated days ahead, despite the fact that we are in the midst of a war, and despite the funerals that, heartbreakingly, took place today — I still stood alone in my room and prayed, adding a personal and extended Hallel. I began with Psalms 111 and 112, a reminder of the God-and-Israel relationship — the source of our strength and the reason for miracles — and continued with the classic Psalms 113–118, recited in fervent hope.

Just as our ancestors sang Hallel in celebration of decisive and absolute victories, so too may we merit a swift, history-changing end to this and all wars — a time when we will once again add blessings with God’s great name and majesty, creating yet another new holiday for our great nation.