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Watching Ishay Ribo perform at Madison Square Garden this past Sunday was extraordinary. It’s not every day you see a religious Jew, tzitzit hanging out, singing God’s name on one of the world’s most iconic stages.
And yet, there he was, the first-ever Israeli artist to perform at the Garden back for the second time, leading thousands of Jews from every background in song, prayer and moments of unity that felt almost impossible to imagine.
It was beautiful — from the merging of Sephardic and Ashkenazi traditions to guest performances from iconic Israeli stars Eviatar Banai and Idan Raichel. It was striking to receive bracelets with an admonition not to speak lashon hara (evil speech) and see t-shirts for sale featuring the high priest’s breastplate stones. Ribo’s earnest sincerity was obvious. He wasn’t just performing music; he was on a mission to bring us closer to God and each other, especially now in this month of repentance.
Yet in this year since Oct. 7, the experience felt singular in an entirely new way. How do we gather for joy when pain and loss are so fresh? How do we let our hearts dance when they’re still so heavy?
These days, before every large gathering of Jews, I wonder how the leaders will hold space for this moment in Jewish history, where joy and grief live so closely side by side. Everything about Ribo’s concert felt both right and strange. It was powerful — and jarring — to see thousands of visible Jews gathering at a time when anti-Jewish hate is surging. It felt surreal to watch reunions of young immigrants to Israel and their loved ones, including lone soldiers who hadn’t seen their families since the beginning of the war against Hamas.
My heart ached when the cameras focused on the parents of Omer Neutra, an American hostage currently being held in Gaza. Every moment after that, I felt their presence in the crowd, their grief quietly echoing through the arena. Ribo sang of mourning, challenges and the light we pray will come, while the crowd interrupted with cries of “Bring them home.” It felt so right, but also so singular to this moment, to honor soldiers and families of the fallen and to hear the call for unity over and over again.
I had to do some considerable logistical gymnastics to attend the concert, and part of me wondered beforehand if it was worth all the effort. But the moment the performance started, I knew I needed to be there — not just for Ribo, but for the crowd he draws.
I waited for those sacred moments that did come — 15,000 voices singing “Am Yisrael Chai,” 15,000 voices calling out “Barukh Shem Kevod Malkhuto” (Blessed be His name, whose glorious kingdom is forever and ever). I imagine all of us at the Garden felt the utter rightness of being surrounded by people who understood both the depths of our grief and the heights of our joy. It wasn’t just a concert; it was a spiritual awakening, a moment of Jewish pride when so many of us feel the need to shrink and hide our commitments.
This week’s Torah portion is Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8), and every year I approach it with a bit of trepidation. It’s part of Moses’ final speech to the Israelites, right before his death and their entry into the land of Israel. The blessings are beautiful — for children, wealth, security. But the curses are terrifying. And long. They stretch out, longer than the blessings, like shadows of everything we fear. The weight of these curses isn’t just in their words, but in the knowledge that they have all come true in some form in Jewish history.
This is where I wrestle with God. How do I hold my love for the Jewish people and my reverence for God alongside the harshness of Ki Tavo? How do I reconcile these two truths? How do we read these curses in the year after Oct. 7?
In these moments when I can’t find the answer, I borrow a page from Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berdichev, the great Hasidic master known for defending the Jewish people before God. I imagine that if he were alive to witness thousands of Jews gathered at Madison Square Garden within a year of the worst massacre of the Jewish people since the Holocaust, singing of their love for God and their yearning for unity, he would turn to God and say:
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Master of the Universe, look at Your people. See their resilience, their love, and their courage. Watch how they refuse to hide, how they gather together even in these times. Do not hide Your face from them. In this month of Elul, as they seek Your presence, show them Your favor and compassion. Do not turn away when they cry out for the return of their hostages, for the protection of those risking their lives to defend Your people. Let them gather only for joy and celebration. As we approach the High Holidays, may the sounds of our people’s unity and devotion rise up to You like the shofar’s call, awakening Your mercy and ushering in a year of redemption and peace.
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