n times of quiet, people live by habit. In times of crisis, people search for meaning. The war shattered routines, certainties, and illusions of control, and in that rupture something powerful emerged. Across Israel, many who had long felt distant from religious life began reaching for it again-not out of ideology, but out of instinct. Soldiers asked for tefillin, asked for tzitzit before entering battle. Tehillim groups formed overnight in workplaces, schools, and living rooms. Shabbat candles were lit in homes where they had not been lit for years. People who rarely entered a shul found themselves praying, looking for connection, protection, and something steady in a suddenly unstable world.
This awakening was not just something people talked about; it showed itself in clear ways. Surveys conducted since the outbreak of the war found that over a quarter of Israeli Jews increased their engagement with religious or traditional practices. Among young adults, the numbers were even higher: about one-third of Jews aged 18-24 reported strengthening their observance, and close to 40 percent said they were praying more frequently. Many spoke of increased Torah or Tehillim learning, greater attendance at shul, and taking on mitzvot they had not practiced before. More than one-quarter said their faith in God had grown stronger. This was not limited to one sector or one kind of Jew; it appeared across backgrounds and communities.
The inspiration was genuine. But the Torah, which understands the human soul, never allows inspiration to stand on its own. It presses a deeper question: what happens after the moment passes?
Shir HaShirim gives language to this tension: “אַל תָּעִירוּ וְאַל תְּעוֹרְרוּ אֶת הָאַהֲבָה עַד שֶׁתֶּחְפָּץ." Do not awaken love until it becomes something real. Chazal are not warning against awakening; they are warning against awakening that remains only a feeling. As long as inspiration stays emotional and undefined, it has not yet entered reality. Only when it takes form-when it becomes a cheftza, something tangible, something one can point to and live with-does it become firm and lasting.
We have been here before.
After Kriyat Yam Suf, the people sang. They witnessed revelation with their own eyes-“רָאֲתָה שִׁפְחָה בַּיָּם מַה שֶׁלֹּא רָאָה יְחֶזְקֵאל בֶּן בּוּזִי." Faith was vivid, clarity overwhelming. And then they came to Marah. The water was bitter, and the people complained. The movement from inspiration to desperation was sudden.
The issue was not ingratitude. It was that the inspiration of the sea had not yet taken concrete form; it had not yet become something real and lasting. At Marah, there was uplift without commitment, emotion without responsibility. Nothing practical had yet been taken upon themselves. Inspiration remained internal and fragile, and when difficulty appeared, it dissolved.
Sinai was different.
At Sinai, the experience was overwhelming, but the defining moment was not what they saw-it was what they accepted. The people said “נעשה ונשמע." They did not rely on feeling alone. They took responsibility. Torah became something lived, structured, and binding. That is why Sinai endured long after the fire and thunder faded.
This is where our moment stands.
What we have seen during the war resembles the crossing of the sea: a shared awakening that reached deep and wide. The danger is not that the inspiration is false. The danger is that it remains unformed-that it never becomes defined in action, habit, or obligation. Shir HaShirim teaches that awakening love before it takes shape cannot last. Inspiration that is not translated into something concrete risks becoming another Marah: sincere, powerful, and temporary.
If this awakening is to endure, it must follow the path of Sinai. Each person needs to find something specific to take upon themselves: regular tefillah, fixed times for Torah learning, consistent mitzvah observance, acts of chesed that repeat and continue. Not dramatic gestures, but steady practices. That is how inspiration becomes a cheftza-something real that remains when the emotion fades.
And the responsibility does not end with the individual. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh. We are responsible for one another. When we see people stirred, searching, or newly inspired, we must do our best to support them-to encourage them, to give them guidance, information, and a welcoming path forward. Many were inspired for a moment; they need help turning that moment into action. Our task is to provide the framework that allows inspiration to become activated and sustained.
That is the difference between Marah and Sinai. At Marah, inspiration passed because it never became real. At Sinai, inspiration endured because it was accepted and lived.
Inspiration that is turned into action survives and becomes a cheftza that remains with us