Praying with Our Feet

As two of my kids and I lined up for the 5K race at this year’s Jerusalem Marathon—part of a crowd of thousands—I wasn’t expecting to be stopped in my tracks before we even began. Jerusalem Mayor Moshe Lion stood at the starting line and introduced Karina Ariev, a survivor of Hamas captivity. Her words were clear and unforgettable:

“Embrace your freedom,” she said. “And with every step you take today, let it be for the 59 brothers and sisters still in bondage beneath the ground in the tunnels of Hamas.” Then she counted us down: 5–4–3–2–1. The music rose, the sun shone, hands lifted—and we ran.

Some moments in history freeze you. You always remember where you were. October 7th. September 11th. The assassination of a leader. You mark that instant when you think, “I can’t believe this is happening,” and the world never looks the same again.

But there are also moments when the present folds into the past and future in ways that feel spiritual, redemptive. Running through Jerusalem with my children, with a freed hostage blessing our freedom and a city moving forward one step at a time, I felt that. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once said, “I was praying with my feet.”

It was not just a run. It was a moment where personal, political, and spiritual narratives converged: Exodus, liberation, resilience, and the unrelenting imperative both to remember and to act.

This is our history, and it’s not just ancient. We still see the pharaohs of our day—hard-hearted, hungry for power, blind to suffering. And we still see those who rise, who run, who resist despair.

We often talk about history as if it’s safely in the past. But history is also this: A young woman emerging from hell and telling a city to run for those who can’t. A marathon that becomes a prayer. A race that becomes a reminder.

Now, on the eve of Passover, these themes are sharper than ever. Freedom. Memory. Justice. The Haggadah tells us to see ourselves as if we personally were freed from Egypt. This year, that command feels more urgent, painful, and real than ever before.

We must see ourselves as the hostage in the tunnel. As the orphan in Gaza. As the wounded soldier or the Nova Festival survivor whose body or mind will never be the same.

This year’s Passover imperative is the same as it has been for generations—but louder: Free the captives. Relieve the suffering. Run in the shoes of someone who cannot.

If we fail to do these things, we will have failed to understand the very story we are commanded to retell.