One morning, leaving shul after Shacharis, I noticed the familiar tableau: a small plastic container of herring, a few crackers, and a napkin serving as the “signage.” On it, in hurried pen scratches, was a single first name ben another first name. No last name. No context. No relationship. No explanation. Just a lone name, as though the act itself required nothing more.

We all know the scene. It is a minhag, and therefore – by communal reflex – holy, untouchable. And yet, the more one thinks about it, the more absurd it can feel. If a stranger scribbles a name and leaves herring under it in memory of another stranger, what exactly am I participating in? Am I meant to compare this to “today’s learning is l’zechus so-and-so,” where the person is equally unknown to me? As Rabbi Moshe Heineman once asked with admirable clarity: “What’s the zechus?”

Halacha has never been confined to ritual precision or individual piety. From its biblical origins, it presents itself as a comprehensive system designed to govern the entirety of Jewish life: private conduct and public order, personal devotion and communal responsibility. Yet in the modern era, a glaring void has emerged. Vast domains of public policy – such as traffic regulation, building and fire safety, crowd control, and the handling of abuse or internal threats – remain halachically under-theorized and under-legislated. This gap is not a mere a theoretical oversight; it breeds concrete dangers: inconsistent observance and, at times, preventable loss of life. Over time, it erodes trust in rabbinic authority and leads to chilul Hashem.

Moshe’s poignant farewell to a generation poised on the brink of Eretz Yisrael – the parshiyos of Eikev and Ki Savo – confront us with two timeless warnings. They are not abstract theological debates but urgent prescriptions for the human heart, especially in times of abundance. Yet, in our community, these verses have too often been twisted into sources of guilt, division, and misunderstanding. One verse has been weaponized to demand perpetual happiness, as if the Torah were a self-help manual punishing honest sorrow. Another has been deployed to dismiss human effort, as if the chayalim (soldiers), engineers, and innovators who safeguard the Jewish nation were mere puppets on a divine string.

These misreadings are not harmless. They erode the very bitachon they claim to uphold, fostering either toxic positivity or fatalistic passivity. Worse, they divide us – frum from “less frum” – at a moment when Klal Yisrael needs unity more than ever. Let us return to the pshat, the plain meaning of the text, and rediscover the Torah’s elegant balance: profound, joyful gratitude to Hashem amidst the celebration of human achievement. Only then can we build a community that honors both the beis medrash and the beis hachayal – i.e., practical engagement with the world.

The tumultuous events of the past few years, the quickening pace of ever-more momentous headlines, and the increasing political chaos and antisemitism around the world challenge us to make sense of it all. It has become common to hear, from both rabbanim and ordinary Jews, that we are living in the “end of days,” in the ikvos hamashiach, when the “footsteps” of mashiach can be felt. But how to respond? Some embrace the unfolding miracle that is Eretz Yisrael in our day. However, others decry activism, physical or emotional, for Israel and counsel an anti-Zionist stance as the true path of the Torah. I hope, in this article, to shed light on this split in hashafah.