This week, like so many across Israel, I found myself running to a shelter.

It is a strange experience — one that compresses time. In seconds, the noise of daily life disappears, replaced by urgency, instinct, and a quiet, shared tension among strangers and family alike.

And then, just as suddenly, there is silence.

It is in that silence that a deeper question emerges:

This Shabbat, we read Tzav and mark Shabbat HaGadol — and it feels as though the Torah is speaking directly into this moment.

At the center of Tzav is a simple yet profound command:

“A continuous fire shall burn on the altar — it must not go out.”

In quieter times, this may feel like ritual detail. Today, it feels like instruction.

For much of my life, I have understood this idea through the discipline of sport.

In karate, where I began my international journey as a young Australian athlete at the Maccabiah and then after years of training in Japan,  there is a deep emphasis on repetition — on showing up, day after day, to train, refine, and strengthen both body and mind.

There is no applause in repetition.

But that is where resilience is built.

And that is what leadership looks like.

The Kohanim in Tzav were not leaders because they commanded armies. They were leaders because they maintained the fire — consistently, quietly, without fail.

That idea feels very real today.

Leadership is the parent who sits in a shelter and manages to remain calm for their child.

It is the neighbor who checks in on others.

It is the quiet strength of a society that continues to function, to care, and to hold itself together under pressure.

In my work over the years — bringing people together across cultures, faiths, and borders — I have often spoken about the power of human connection.

That real, lasting change does not come only from political agreements or military strength, but from relationships. From shared experiences. From the courage to see the humanity in the “other.”

And yet, in moments like these, it is easy to question that belief.

Standing in a shelter, you could ask:

Does any of this still matter?

The Torah’s answer, I believe, is yes.

Because the fire must not go out.

Not the fire of anger — that is easy to ignite.

But the fire of purpose. Of responsibility. Of humanity.

It is also this inner fire that equips us to confront a different kind of threat — the spread of disinformation, and the rise of antisemitism and hate that have taken root in universities and across social media. In a world where narratives are distorted and truth is often obscured, leadership demands clarity, courage, and moral steadiness. It requires good, level-headed people to speak with integrity, to challenge falsehoods, and to uphold truth even when it is uncomfortable or unpopular.

Just as we protect our physical lives in moments of danger, we must actively protect the integrity of our story, our values, and our shared humanity.

At the same time, it is impossible to ignore what is happening beyond our borders.

Inside Iran, many ordinary people, especially the younger generation, continue to show courage in the face of repression, speaking out for dignity, rights, and a future shaped by their own voices.

To the people of Iran:

Your courage is seen. Your fire must not go out!

From here in Israel, from a people who understand deeply what it means to struggle for identity and freedom, there are many who stand with you — not in conflict, but in hope.

Hope that one day, our region will be defined not by fear and missiles, but by connection, culture, and shared humanity.

Shabbat HaGadol adds another dimension to this moment.

Before the Israelites left Egypt, before freedom arrived, they took a bold and risky step. They acted as free people while still surrounded by uncertainty.

That is what made this Shabbat “great.”

Not the miracle that followed, but the courage that came before.

And that is the leadership lesson of this moment.

We cannot always control the reality around us.

But we can choose how we show up within it.

We can choose to remain grounded.

We can choose to care for one another.

We can choose to continue building bridges — even when it feels difficult, even when it feels fragile.

Because if we wait for the perfect moment to lead, we will wait forever.

Real leadership happens in imperfect moments.

In the quiet decision to keep going.

This Shabbat, we are reminded of something deeply human:

A shelter protects the body.

But it is our inner fire — our values, our discipline, and our humanity — that protects the spirit.

The Torah does not promise us a world without fear.

But it does ask something of us:

To keep the fire burning.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)