Next Year in Jerusalem?

Next Year in Jerusalem? For real?

These days, a question lurks in my mind.

Does staying here make sense?

It’s been quiet, no terrorist attacks, no dead soldiers. Thank G-d a million times over. No, a billion times. No, a trillion times…., No, a bigger number. Also, thank  G-d for the time being, no rockets have headed my way

Trump is negotiating with Iran–that sounds worryingly Obama-ish. If the talks fai,l which seems pretty likely given that the Iranians are not rational people, the fallout may hit us hard. Holiday in our safe rooms?  Stock up on TP, water, and a psalter to pray for dear life.

So why stay?

I’m an American citizen and taxpayer.I can hop on a plane and be out of here–unless Houthis blow up the airport, which is, by the way, their favorite target.

My US passport is up to date.  I can go. So why dont I?

Maybe I’m simply out of my mind, suicidal, or stupidly stoic?

Maybe I ‘m all of the above, but I stay because this is the land where the Shehina resides. By living here, I fulfill multiple mitzvot.  Walking here is a mitzvah. Even our produce is holy and subject to halachic tithing requirements.

And there’s more. This land has exceptional spiritual connectivity. Think of it as the best fibre-optic Wi-Fi ever channeling straight to G-d. Our prayers rise more quickly and directly. Outside of the land, they are weighted down by static. Here, they go up, special delivery—that doesn’t mean they are always answered the way we like, but that’s G-d’s business,not mine.

There are other perks, too. The Talmud tells us that the air of the Land of Israel makes one wise—that sounds like a good deal to me.

But what about the danger?

Missiles, suicide bombers, knifings, car rammings, drive-by shootings–we’ve seen it all.

Why not move to a “better’ neighborhood?

Because this is the best neighborhood. This is where  G-d is closest to us, where we can perform the most mitzvot and hopefully plant permanent roots. And we have certainly seen miracles. Every minute of every day. Pinch yourself. Being alive in this blessed country is a miracle. And look at the hostages, squeezed until their precious Jewish souls came out. Nineteen-year-old Agam Berger, still a chil,  reciting blessings over the stale pitot her captors threw at her, and Keith Segal,, coming out of a year in a tunnel, asking for a Kiddush cup.

In  Paul Simon’s words, “these are the days of miracle and wonder.”

A few months ago, a soldier came straight from Gaza to my son’s kollel. “You study about Hashem,” he told the avreichim. “I saw Hashem.”

I know all of that stuff, but still I am afraid.

That siren stirs up every cell in my body, not in a good way.

The impulse to bolt rises up. Why not get off this bumpy airplane ride and parachute to safety?

Because this is home.

This is still the place where we can lead our best Jewish lives.

Even though the Torah commands us to take extreme caution with our lives, our Rabbis haven’t told us to leave.  Jews have always followed the rabbis–the experts on G-ds law tasked with determining how to apply it in our present circumstances. And the miracles have been coming, missiles landing on a school in the middle of the night–dont the Houthis know how to tell time? Missiles land on a home’s roof while its inhabitants are out on their morning stroll.  Missiles are intercepted before they can reach us.

After the last Iranian attack, in which no one incurred even a scratch, Rabbi Asher Weiss said that our salvation was of Biblical proportions, on par with the splitting of the sea.

We’re not out of the woods.

We could still blow up G-d forbid, but the Angel of Death lurks everywhere. Well, we’ve all got to die, and if we die here for the crime of being Jews, we’ll have died al Kiddush Hashem, which means that we get the best spot in heaven.

That’s not such a bad deal.

Think good and it will be good.

Next Year in Jerusalem.