Goldy arrived in our home just before Pesach.

Not a grand guest. A goldfish.

My daughter—no longer five years old, but a respected teacher in a prestigious girls’ high school—walked in carrying a small tank. “It’s the class fish,” she explained. “The school is closed—for the war, for Pesach. Someone had to take responsibility.”

My first reaction was practical: Where do we put it? What do we do with it? In the end, the bathroom became Goldy’s temporary home.

And slowly, unexpectedly, Goldy began to grow on me.

But more than that—Goldy made me pause.

We eat fish. We eat meat. It is normal, part of life, part of halacha. Yet when a fish is staring at you, quietly, almost personally, something shifts. It is no longer abstract. It becomes real.

I found myself thinking: how do we eat what we eat? What do we take in—physically, and beyond that, spiritually?

Just after Pesach, I was already planning a healthier diet. Then comes Parshat Shemini, detailing the laws of kosher and non-kosher animals. And I began to wonder: is there a connection between what we eat and who we are becoming?

Pesach is the festival of freedom. But modern language has reduced freedom to something deeply individual—my rights, my choices, my self-expression.

That is not the freedom of Pesach.

Pesach is the birth of a people. It is the covenant forged at the Exodus—not with isolated individuals, but with a nation charged with carrying God’s presence and moral purpose into history.

Freedom, in Judaism, is not just about being released from something. It is about being bound to something greater.

That idea struck me again reading a reflection on the Haggadah: Moshe Rabbeinu is absent. The redemption is not attributed to a heroic individual. It is a Divine act, shaping a nation.

We are not redeemed as individuals alone. We are redeemed as a people—with responsibility.

And that thought led me somewhere uncomfortable.

Have I, in my writing, become too reactive? Too focused on negativity? Too consumed with responding to Palestinianism, to global hypocrisy, to the noise surrounding Israel and the Jewish people?

If the world is obsessed with us, must we be obsessed with responding to it?

Pesach suggests otherwise.

We are not defined by Egypt. We are defined by Sinai.

Our identity is not built on reaction, but on covenant.

This came up in a conversation in shul with a friend, Bill. We were discussing Rabbi Sacks’ interpretation of the “wicked son”—that he may represent Jews in history who distanced themselves from their people, aligning instead with dominant cultures.

I suggested that today, perhaps, this reflects Jews who loudly distance themselves from Israel in the name of being “pro-Palestinian.”

Bill pushed back. “Being pro-Palestinian does not automatically mean being anti-Israel or anti-Jewish.”

He may be right. The reality is more nuanced.

We didn’t finish the conversation.

But again—Goldy made me pause.

Because perhaps the deeper question is not only what others believe, but how we define ourselves.

Parshat Shemini teaches us that not everything is fit to be consumed. Kashrut is not only about health; it is about discipline, identity, and consciousness. It is about drawing boundaries around what enters us.

And then, on Shabbat of Pesach, we read Shir HaShirim—the Song of Songs—and it reframes even this small moment with Goldy. But Shir HaShirim is not a straight-line love story. It is a story of searching, distance, and return. “On my bed at night I sought the one I love; I sought him but did not find him.” Love here is not simple—it is tested, strained, and sometimes feels lost. That is the reality we are living today.

Israel, war, identity—these are not abstract ideas. They are lived, painful, and deeply moral realities. And the language of being “pro-Palestinian” has, in too many cases, become a way not of compassion, but of distancing—from Israel, from truth, and at times even from our own people. It is presented as nuance, but often masks a deeper confusion or moral retreat.

Shir HaShirim speaks directly into this tension. Even when there is distance, the bond remains. Even when the relationship is strained, it is not abandoned. “Ani l’dodi v’dodi li—I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” This is not a conditional relationship. It does not dissolve under pressure from the surrounding world.

We are not just a nation bound by covenant; we are a people in an enduring relationship with God—and with each other. That relationship demands loyalty, clarity, and the courage not to lose ourselves in the noise of others.

And then comes the counting of the Omer.

Too often, it risks becoming mechanical—counting days, marking time. But in truth, it is the continuation of Pesach. If Pesach is the moment of freedom, the Omer is what we do with that freedom. It is a structured journey of personal growth, where each day carries an inner attribute—chesed, gevurah, tiferet—inviting us not just to count time, but to refine who we are.

It is, in many ways, a national pause.

Not a passive pause, but an active one. A period of reflection that forces us to confront memory and identity. Within these days, we pass through Yom HaShoah, where we face the depths of loss and the consequences of a world that lost its moral compass. We stand in Yom HaZikaron, carrying the weight of sacrifice and the cost of Jewish survival. And then we arrive at Yom HaAtzmaut—not just celebration, but the fragile, miraculous re-emergence of Jewish sovereignty.

And this year, that journey sits inside a reality we cannot ignore—living in Israel, and in my case Jerusalem, in what often feels like a perpetual war.

Not always visible. Not always constant. But always present.

Jerusalem carries this in a unique way. A city of prayer and longing, yet also a city of tension. Holiness and conflict live side by side. You can walk its streets in peace, and yet feel how fragile that peace can be.

And then we arrive at Yom Yerushalayim.

Not just a political milestone, but a moment of meaning.

Yom Yerushalayim represents return—not only to a place, but to a center. A return to something essential in the Jewish story. Jerusalem is where history, faith, and identity converge. It is where the physical and the spiritual meet.

The prophets envisioned it as a house of prayer for all nations.

And yet, Jerusalem is not simple. It is contested, fragile, and charged with tension. Precisely because it matters.

Yom Yerushalayim therefore is not just about celebration. It is about responsibility.

What does it mean to hold Jerusalem? What does it mean to be worthy of it?

And that question leads directly into Shavuot.

Because Shavuot asks: after returning, after rebuilding, after reclaiming—what are we doing with it?

And perhaps nowhere is this felt more deeply than in Jerusalem itself.

Shavuot has taken on a different meaning for many people. It has become a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

The streets fill. The night is alive. People walk—quietly, purposefully—toward the Old City, toward the Kotel, toward Kever David. Haredim flock there. Others take different paths. But all are moving upward.

It is more than tradition. It is instinct.

We are drawn to Jerusalem not because it is simple, but because it holds our story.

We remember those first visits after the Six Day War, when Jerusalem was reunified—when people came with awe, with tears, with a sense that something had been restored. A unification not only of a city, but of soul and nation.

And so we walk again.

Not because everything is resolved. Not because we have clarity.

But because we remember. Because we belong.

And at Kever David, that belonging becomes personal.

David was not perfect. His life was marked by struggle, failure, and return. But he left us Tehillim—words that have carried the Jewish people through uncertainty, through exile, through war. Words of longing, faith, and hope.

Perhaps that is what Shavuot is asking now.

Not only what we received—but what we are becoming.

What kind of Judaism do we seek? What kind of Israel are we building?

One that retreats? Or one that remains connected—to its people, its purpose, and its calling?

And in the end, it comes back to Goldy.

A small fish, quietly swimming in a bathroom, interrupted my routine just enough to make me pause. And in that pause, a chain opened—Pesach, freedom, covenant; Shemini, discipline; Shir HaShirim, relationship; the Omer, growth; Jerusalem, return and responsibility; Shavuot, becoming.

Jerusalem asks if we are worthy. Shavuot asks who we are becoming.

Not everything needs to be dramatic to be meaningful.

Sometimes growth begins with a small disruption. A moment of stillness. A quiet awareness that we are part of something larger—that we remember, that we belong, and that we are still being called to build.

Goldy did not change my life.

But Goldy made me pause.

And perhaps, in a world that rarely stops— that pause is where belonging begins.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)