October 8th – Faith, Resilience, and the Day After
October 8
Reflections on faith, resilience, and the day after
By Rabbi Jay M. Stein, D.D.
For two years, we have lived suspended in time—trapped in the unfolding aftermath of the war in Gaza that began on October 7, 2023. That date is no longer just a point on a calendar; it is a scar, a mark on our collective soul. October 7th has been tattooed on our hearts in the same way the Holocaust was tattooed onto the arms of our ancestors.
Every day since, we have relived the nightmare. For many, it was the day the world stopped spinning—and it has not yet resumed. But now, we have finally arrived at October 8: the after.
If October 7 was the day of loss, October 8 must be the day of rebuilding—the moment when a nation begins to search for its footing once more. The return of the hostages, both living and dead, remains our most sacred obligation. Yet even as we pray for their return, we must also begin the long and painful process of healing—of renewing lives, homes, and spirits that were shattered.
As a pulpit rabbi for more than thirty years, I have spent my life standing beside people in their most fragile moments—grief, illness, loss, uncertainty—and witnessing the quiet resilience that follows. Through countless funerals, counseling sessions, and moments of prayer, I have come to understand how personal suffering shapes not only individuals, but the collective consciousness of a community. These decades of listening and accompanying others through pain have given me a unique perspective on the imprint that trauma leaves on our national psyche.
That understanding is inseparable from my deep personal and professional commitment to the State of Israel, the Land of Israel, and the People of Israel. Israel has never been an idea to me—it has been a heartbeat. From the first time I walked the streets of Jerusalem as a student at Tel Aviv University, to the many visits I have made since as a rabbi and teacher, I have felt the pulse of our people in every stone and every prayer.
But my connection is not only spiritual—it is deeply personal. My brother and his family live in Israel, and my daughter, who made aliyah and served in the Israel Defense Forces, is now building her life there. Their courage, their ordinary acts of daily living amid uncertainty, remind me constantly of the strength and hope that define our people. When I pray for Israel’s safety, it is not only for a land or an idea—it is for the faces I love, for the future we all share.
The State of Israel represents the courage to keep living, even when the world grows dark. Its existence is not just a political reality—it is a spiritual one. My love for Israel, and my sense of responsibility toward it, shape how I see the world and how I serve my community.
It is through this lens—of love, faith, and shared pain—that I write this blog: reflections on the day after. How a people begins again. How a nation heals. And how, after the world stops spinning, we find the strength to turn it once more.
