We often make assumptions in our lives. Each one of us. Most of the time, these assumptions are founded on the evidence we see and experiences we have, so that even when something is not explicit, we can infer an outcome, an explanation, or a solution which often turns out to be correct.

I believe that many of us have gone through our Jewish lives doing exactly that. In recent months, I’ve come to recognize and challenge one of those assumptions. It may at first sound a bit controversial but I ask that you bear with me and hear me out.

Released hostage Bar Kuperstein recounted a conversation that took place while he was held captive by Hamas between his mother and a Hamas terrorist seeking to intimidate her.

He displayed a bracelet his mother wore, bearing the inscription "My son is always in the hands of the Creator," and recalled, "During the period I was held captive, one of the terrorists called my mother and told her she was not doing enough to free me and that if she wanted to see me again she needed to go out, file complaints at The Hague and really fight."

"He tried to frighten her with psychological warfare and expected her to answer stammering or in fear," Kuperstein described the call, "and she simply told him the following sentence: 'My son is not in your hands but always in the hands of the Creator - and you are also in the hands of the Creator'."

Kuperstein said the terrorist was stunned by the reply. "There was a moment of silence because the terrorist did not know what to answer and then he replied, 'Well done, madam.' Since then that has been the slogan that accompanies us."

I immediately thought of the passage in Devarim (Deuteronomy) 30:12, where our Torah is described in terms of ‘Lo Bashamayim Hi’ - It is not in the heavens. It is accessible to everyone, even 50 meters below Gaza, in a cage.

I have seen entire platoons of IDF soldiers, mostly secular, begin to wear tzitzit; Israeli singers and songwriters write and cover intensely spiritual and scripture-infused songs and lyrics, if not simply including prayers in their live performances; I’ve read and listened to released female hostages like Liri Albag speak of reciting kiddush from memory and observing Pesach even in the depth of their dungeons; I listen to family after family, child after child, widow after widow and reservist after reservist frame their service, sacrifice and experience through the lens of love of the Jewish people, the land of Israel, Zionist ideals and deep faith in the God of our forefathers.

And it fills me with wonder.

These sisters and brothers of all of us have not only claimed and demonstrated their place in the annals of our people and our history. They have gone far beyond the perimeter of peoplehood and have begun to reclaim their system of faith and practice. They have done it on their own terms, finding the Almighty in the ‘aphelah’ the darkness of a Hamas tunnel, singing selichot prayers at 1 AM along with thousands at the Kotel, or in wrapping tefillin over their tattoos.

And it is not in Israel alone that this is happening. They are singing ‘V’Hi SheAmda’ from the Seder liturgy (20,000 strong!) at an Omer Adam concert in Madison Square Garden. They are Congressional representatives who have begun wearing Kippot, and they are the women and men who have come to temple and synagogue in numbers not seen since Covid if not much before.

My assumption was that many of us had ceded influence, guidance, and motivation for faith and practice to those we perceive as authorities in it. Indeed, well we should, much of the time. There is knowledge, experience, and compassion we expect from our Rabbis. There is piety, textual precision, and daily observance of fundamental issues or halachic minutiae we have perceived as the domain of our more observant neighbors. But what I have been seeing growing in the last two years is clear: Individual Jews of all kinds are asserting their ownership and their love for their faith, completely in step with their love for their people.

As someone who grew up in an Orthodox home in the diaspora, and developed an understanding of peoplehood while immersed in an upbringing of Torah observance, my experience was different. Yet I came to see clearly that Jewish religious identity and Jewish peoplehood were inextricably intertwined, and had been artificially pulled apart, by history and circumstance. Now I see Am Yisrael grabbing those two threads and weaving them together with the strength of loss, tears and suffering, but also with the courage of service, sacrifice, and love.

Yesterday, Jerusalem was the site of a massive demonstration by those who refuse to do military service. Without rancor (I haven’t earned a right to publicly voice a personal, subjective opinion on the details of the issue) and as a Zionist in the diaspora, while I deeply respect commitment to Torah values, I understand and support the need to engage everyone in military or national service.

But it is not my intention to go into the details of the issue today. No, I bring it up to illustrate an important point. As I watched so many young people passionate about saying ‘No’, I thought about the hundreds of thousands, even millions, who are shaping their Jewish identity by what they say ‘Yes’ to. I see what observance and learning they seek out, what rituals they hold on to, what intense spiritual experiences they own, and I see a wellspring of enormous strength and purpose.

Jewish identity and Jewish religious practice are not the exclusive domain of any particular part of our people. They are the legacy of all of our ancestors and the birthright of all of our descendants. Our sisters and brothers in Israel and around the world are choosing to embrace these and knot them together.

I say ‘Yes’. I hope for the day when every single one of us says ‘Yes’, each in our own way, lifting and holding each other up. It is what our bright future will be built upon.