(Delivered October 17, 2025)

We begin again. The cycle of the year has had its way with us: we have celebrated; we have examined our deeds, confessed and atoned; we have made space for weeping and grieving; we have taken to the moonlight in our trembling sukkot; we have rejoiced with Hallel and danced with the Torah and even then made space for weeping and grieving.

We begin again.

The sense of new beginning is ripe in the air, as we absorb the astonishing news that after more than two years, the remaining living hostages who were taken on October 7 have returned to the embrace of their families. 

For much of that time, many of us were counting the days. Following the model of the extraordinary modern-day prophetess Rachel Goldberg, Hersh’s mother, we kept track and tried to keep the world accountable by publicly wearing the number of days somewhere on our garments. Many displayed a piece of masking tape on their shirts with that number; some used numbered beads on a safety pin. Some posted every day on social media how many days had passed; some programmed automated counters on their websites to show the same. However, we did it, the point was to keep the hostages ever at the front of our minds, and perhaps to spark questions and awareness for those who found it too easy to forget.

Psalm 90, the only psalm credited to Moses, teaches us:

לִמְנוֹת יָמֵינוּ כֵּן הוֹדַע וְנָבִא לְבַב חָכְמָה׃
Teach us well to number our days
that we may bring about a heart of wisdom.

Jewish tradition often turns to counting days: we count the days of the Omer as we transition from being a quavering flood of refugees—free, but just barely—into a people ready to receive the teaching that will define our lives and our history. Some women keep the practice of niddah, counting the days of our cycles, to know when it’s time to visit the mikveh. We use candles to count the days of Hanukkah as we commemorate our unlikely triumph over those who would destroy us.

Counting and counting and counting the days of the past two years, grounded us in the reality that we faced. We hoped and prayed it would help us in our search for wisdom of heart. Surely, if we kept the hostages in mind, surely if we kept reminding the world, this is happening to our people, we could bring about some kind of resolution. Surely we weren’t entirely powerless. Counting our days gave us at least the illusion that we were in it with them, that thousands of miles away, we were pulling for our hostages—and we did begin to think of them as our hostages—to be rescued, to come home. We were, of course, powerless to end the nightmare, but at least we counters kept Hersh and Kfir and Eden and Omer and Itai and Gali and Shiri and all the rest present with us. 

So it seems fitting that as we begin again, as we scroll the Torah back around to that first parsha, we start by counting.

God looks at the watery mess and says יהי אור there will be light. And separates light from darkness. There is evening, there is morning, one day. יוֹם אֶחָד. But it isn’t really counting until there’s a second. Having the context and the contrast is what gives form to our narrative.

And still, the Torah only really counts the first six days. There’s no וַיְהִי־עֶרֶב וַיְהִי־בֹקֶר—there is evening, and there is morning—for the seventh day. The seventh day isn’t really created so much as it’s implied. It just is. And once the pattern of six and one, six and one, six and one, is set in motion, the Torah stops counting. The implication is: the cycle will continue, life will become normal. We’ll get into a routine.

And so we begin again.

The Torah doesn’t actually tell us what happens after the first Shabbat, a day for God to rest. The eighth day is not specified, at least not directly. But there’s a hint and maybe a warning in the ellipsis. We do get the teaching of Parshat Shmini, that on the eighth day the sacrifices begin. Aaron and the Kohanim take up their work. And no sooner do they start—just one chapter in—than it all goes wrong. Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, come too close, bring too much fire, take the priestly process for granted and are consumed in the very fire that animated them. 

Another eighth day comes in Parshat Emor, where it says:

שׁוֹר אוֹ־כֶשֶׂב אוֹ־עֵז כִּי יִוָּלֵד וְהָיָה שִׁבְעַת יָמִים תַּחַת אִמּוֹ
וּמִיּוֹם הַשְּׁמִינִי וָהָלְאָה יֵרָצֶה לְקָרְבַּן אִשֶּׁה לַיי׃
A newborn ox or sheep or goat remains with its mother seven days;
on the eighth day and after, it can be accepted as a fire offering to God

Another eighth day, another child separated from parent.

Although the story of Creation makes nothing explicit, pausing after the first seven days, the Torah hints darkly by these examples that the eighth day and following can be dangerous, especially to children. Returning to routine is soothing in a way, but complacency is a minefield. The lull of the everyday opens us to take the routine for granted and find ourselves consumed in the very fire that animates us.

After the elation of the high holidays, after the excitement of the hostages coming home—and perhaps a raw glimmer of hope that this brutal war might end—comes the routine, comes the everyday, comes the real work. A ceasefire is not peace, and homecoming in and of itself is not healing. 

If we look at the events of the past week and say, Right, it’s finished now, more and more children will be consumed. After our heart rates return to normal and the flush of sheer relief settles, there are things we must reckon with if we want the fragile peace to be sustained, if we want to move beyond the hateful patterns that keep repeating themselves. 

It isn’t only that Hamas must never be allowed to hold any power, although that would be a very good start. Such catastrophic failures of leadership must never happen again. The hostages themselves will need care in order to reintegrate into society. And we must come to understand and accept—in our bones—that the Palestinians exist, that they have a plausible claim to the land, that, like the Jews, they are not going anywhere. Indeed, Parshat Breishit teaches us that each and every human being is created in the precious, complicated image of God.

Breishit begins by counting days; Psalm 90 elevates the counting of days to לְבַב חָכְמָה—linking heart and mind. Matters of great importance require great attention. Teach us well to number our days: to keep trying, to keep searching. Teach us well to bring heart and wisdom to the urgent work of making peace. 

We begin.