By Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel
CHULA VISTA, California — Imagine a man in a bustling restaurant, savoring a steaming bowl of soup. He pauses mid-bite, looks up, and calls, “Waiter, come taste this soup!” The waiter, flustered, asks, “Is something wrong with it?” “Just taste the soup,” the man says, calm but firm.
“Too salty?” the waiter ventures. “Please, just taste it,” the man repeats, a glint in his eye. “Too cold, perhaps?” the waiter presses. “Will you just taste the soup?” the man says, barely hiding a grin. “Fine, I’ll taste it!” the waiter huffs, reaching for the bowl. “Wait—where’s the spoon?” The man leans back, triumphant. “Aha!”
This playful tale carries a sharp lesson: sometimes, the truth is glaringly obvious, but we’re too caught up in overthinking to see it. The waiter, lost in guesses about the soup’s flaws, misses the simple fact that there’s no spoon.
The Aha moment is a call to pause, observe, and cut through assumptions to find clarity.
This Aha tale didn’t simmer in a kosher kitchen alone. History is full of such moments.
In the year 333 BCE, Alexander the Great faced the Gordian Knot in Phrygia—a tangled rope prophesied to be undone only by Asia’s future ruler. Countless others had wrestled with its complexity, mired in intricate attempts to unravel it. Alexander, with a single, decisive stroke of his sword, sliced through the knot, solving the puzzle and claiming the prophecy. His bold, direct action teaches us that sometimes, the simplest solution unravels the most daunting challenges.
The “Aha moment,” or epiphany, signifies that electric instant of breakthrough when the mind vaults over fog into luminous understanding—a soul’s sudden dawn, rewarding the spark of connection. In the timeless tale of Archimedes, the ancient Greek genius tasked by King Hiero II to detect fraud in a gold crown without damaging it, the puzzle gnawed at him for days. Legend has it, one fateful afternoon in 3rd-century BCE Syracuse, he slipped into his bath, watching water overflow as his body submerged. Suddenly, the displaced volume principle clicked: the crown’s water displacement would reveal its true mass versus pure gold’s. “Eureka!” he cried (meaning “I found it!”), leaping from the tub to race through the streets—the raw thrill of insight overriding all decorum.
But not all Aha moments are pleasant discoveries.
713 days ago, we experienced a seismic Aha moment, born from the horrors of October 7, 2023—whether we feel rage, sorrow, numbness, or resolve in its wake. On that day, Hamas terrorists unleashed a brutal assault on Israel, murdering over 1,200 innocents, kidnapping hundreds, and searing our collective Jewish soul with unspeakable violence.
The ongoing war, as Israel defends its existence, has exacted a devastating toll—on lives, on hope, on our sense of safety. Here in America, the aftermath has been a chilling wake-up call: the Anti-Defamation League reports a 360% spike in antisemitic incidents since that day. Synagogues vandalized, Jewish students harassed on college campuses, protests laced with rhetoric that recalls the darkest chapters of our history—these are not just news stories, but wounds to our community.
This moment has been our shofar blast, sounding before Rosh Hashanah itself. For many American Jews, raised in the comfort of the “goldene medina,” antisemitism felt like a relic—something for history books or distant shores. But October 7 shattered that illusion.
Aha! The hatred was never gone; it was simmering, waiting for a spark. This awakening has revealed our Jewish identity as more than a cultural accent—it’s an unbreakable bond to Am Yisrael, the people of Israel, spanning time and space.
But for many of us, the Aha moment became a moment of clarity. It helped Jews—young Jews and old Jews alike—to rediscover their identities.
Take Sarah, a young professional in our congregation. She once saw her Jewishness as “bagels and lox”—a light, cultural touchstone. But after October 7, she was stunned by social media posts from trusted friends, some vilifying Israel, others questioning its right to defend itself. “It was like waking up in a stranger’s world,” she confessed. Her Aha moment spurred action: volunteering at our JCC, studying Jewish history, and wearing her Magen David necklace with newfound pride.
She’s not alone.
Across the country, Jewish organizations report unprecedented engagement—record event attendance, soaring donations to Israel-related causes, and a surge in demand for Jewish education. Our shul reflects this: new families joining, teens coming back to the synagogue for worship, adults packing Torah study sessions. And globally, Jewish mutual aid networks—from emergency funds to solidarity missions—have woven threads of resilience far beyond Israel’s borders.
This moment demands we embrace our Jewishness, not shrink from it, even when surrounded by voices—on campuses, in public squares—that echo the hatred of October 7, with some students, as reported in campus protests, chillingly vowing to “make every day like October 7th.”
It behooves us to remind the world that Jew-hatred is not just a Jewish problem.
The phrase “canary in the coal mine” originates from the historical practice of miners bringing canaries into underground shafts. These birds are highly sensitive to toxic gases like carbon monoxide and methane; if a canary showed signs of distress or died, it served as an early warning of danger, prompting miners to evacuate before the threat affected humans. In a societal context, this metaphor describes an early indicator of broader, systemic problems—something that signals impending decay or collapse if ignored.
Rosh Hashanah, Yom HaDin, the Day of Judgment, amplifies this call to clarity. The shofar’s cry—tekiah, shevarim, teruah—pierces our complacency, urging teshuvah, a return to our truest selves. October 7 has made this urgent: the pain in Jerusalem is our pain; the resilience in Tel Aviv is our resilience.
Yet, this Aha moment brings challenges. It’s exposed divides within our community. Younger Jews find themselves attacked by non-Jewish peers who castigate them for being Jewish, from friends who align with Hamas’s rhetoric.
Instead of referring to Jew-hatred as antisemitism, it must be identified for what it is—Jew-Hatred. Its presence ought to invoke from us an Aha moment. Perhaps it’s been here all along, and we just didn’t notice it.
Older generations, haunted by memories of the Six-Day War or Yom Kippur War, see existential threats reborn.
True, these tensions are raw, but Rosh Hashanah calls for cheshbon hanefesh—a soul-accounting that bridges divides. We see hope in interfaith coalitions combating hate—from Christian allies to progressive and Reform-oriented Muslim partners and civil rights groups—Jewish federations partnering with them, and bipartisan efforts in Congress to strengthen protections against Jew-hatred.
Rosh Hashanah is a time for us to affirm our relationships with these interfaith communities, whose strength can help us defeat Jew-hatred together.
The Aha moment of clarity ought to fuel our action: advocacy for hate crime laws, enhanced security at Jewish institutions, and pushes for Holocaust and Jew-hatred education in schools. It’s a call to engage civically, vote with purpose, and forge alliances with other communities to protect the vulnerable.
As we dip apples in honey, praying for a sweet year, let’s carry this Aha moment forward. Let it inspire us to live Jewishly with intention—lighting Shabbat candles, celebrating our holidays, teaching our children the stories of our ancestors. Let it deepen our solidarity with Israel, affirming its right to exist and thrive in peace. Let it drive us toward tikkun olam, repairing a fractured world, even amid darkness.
In the words of Isaiah, read during these High Holy Days: “Arise, shine, for your light has come.” October 7 cast a long shadow, but from it emerges a clarifying light—an Aha that rekindles our spirit. May this New Year bring strength, unity, and peace. Shanah Tovah U’Metukah—a good and sweet year to us.
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Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista. California.