Life in Israel over the past few weeks has developed a strange new rhythm. Usually, there is a warning - a loud, crackling sound on the phone that projectiles may be coming your way - and then, sometimes, minutes later, the siren cuts through the ordinary sounds of the day. Conversations stop mid-sentence, children are quickly gathered, and we step outside and make our way down the street to the public shelter, some of us into our protected rooms.
The shelter door closes behind us, and for a few minutes we sit together waiting for the all-clear. Sometimes it is only a single siren, and a few minutes later everyone returns home. Other times, another siren follows, and then another, and we remain there longer than expected, listening, waiting, and checking our phones to see what may come next.
The first time this new rhythm became real for me was on a recent Shabbat morning. We were standing in shul listening to the reading of Parshat Zachor, the Torah’s command never to forget Amalek - the embodiment of cruelty without conscience and hatred without restraint. Every year, we hear those words on the Shabbat just before Purim, the holiday when we recall how the Jewish people once again faced destruction at the hands of Haman in Persia, another descendant of Amalek, and how that threat was ultimately overturned.
The message of that reading is that there are forms of evil that cannot simply be ignored or wished away. They must eventually be confronted and defeated.
And as we stood there on Shabbat thinking about those ancient struggles, the sirens suddenly began to sound. In that moment, the world of the Torah reading and the world outside the synagogue seemed to collide in a way none of us had expected.
Since that Shabbat morning, that rhythm has continued. Sirens come and go. People enter the safe rooms in their home or workplace, or make their way down the street to the public shelter, wait together for a few minutes, and then return to their routines. At first, moments like these are unsettling; when the siren sounds, the mind instinctively turns toward danger and uncertainty.
But something else has been happening as well. People have begun adjusting. The routine becomes familiar. Neighbors exchange a few quiet words. Someone cracks a joke. Someone checks on an elderly neighbor who needed help getting there. Someone hands a small child a piece of candy to distract them from the noise.
And then, a few minutes later, the moment passes. The all-clear comes. People step back outside, and life resumes as though nothing unusual had happened.
Except that something important has happened.
In those brief moments underground, something unexpected takes shape. A group of neighbors becomes a small community. People who normally pass one another on the street with a quick nod suddenly find themselves sitting together for a few minutes, sharing a space and sharing a moment. Perhaps the most striking thing about these moments is the mood. Instead of despair, most people are remarkably upbeat. There is a widespread sense that, despite the tension of the moment, Israel is moving toward a stronger, safer future. The progress of the war, whatever its remaining challenges, has given many people the feeling that history itself may be turning in a better direction.
Recently, I noticed something that gave this experience an unexpected resonance. The IDF military operations underway is referred to as “Sha’agat HaAri" - Roaring Lion. The phrase immediately evokes strength and awakening. The Navi Amos once asked, “Aryeh sha’ag mi lo yira?" - when the lion roars, who is not stirred? A lion’s roar does more than frighten; it awakens people and tells them that something powerful is unfolding.
In a strange way, the sirens themselves function like that roar. They interrupt ordinary life and remind us that we are living through a moment that matters - a moment in which courage, patience, and faith are all being called upon.
And that experience - of strangers suddenly becoming a community - kept reminding me of the opening words of this week’s parasha.
Parashat Vayakhel begins when the Torah tells us, “Vayakhel Moshe et kol adat Bnei Yisrael." Moshe gathered the entire community of Israel. Only after the people are gathered does the work of building the Mishkan begin. Coming after the painful rupture of the Golden Calf and the long process of forgiveness that followed, the Torah’s first step is not construction but community. Before anything can be built, the people themselves must come back together. The rebuilding of the nation begins with a gathering.
The Mishkan will not emerge through miracles alone. It will be built through the contributions of ordinary people - men and women bringing what they have, artisans offering their skills, and an entire nation rediscovering its shared purpose. Perhaps that is why those moments in the shelter feel so familiar. When the siren sounds, everyone arrives carrying something invisible: a bit of fear, a bit of courage, a bit of faith. For those few minutes, we sit together quietly aware that we are part of something larger than our individual worries. In a small way, it is a moment of Vayakhel - a gathering of the community.
ParashatPekudei continues the story by describing the careful accounting of the Mishkan’s materials. Every contribution is counted. Nothing is dismissed as insignificant. Every piece given by the people becomes part of the structure that will house the Divine Presence. The Torah is teaching something profound: even small contributions matter. Even ordinary acts can become part of something sacred.
In times of uncertainty, this message becomes especially powerful. Checking on a neighbor, helping someone reach the shelter, offering a calm word to someone who is frightened, keeping a sense of humor when tension fills the air - these small acts form the invisible framework that holds a society together.
Parshat HaChodesh, which we also read this week, introduces the mitzvah of the new month as the Jewish people prepare for Pesach. Before the Exodus has even occurred - before redemption has fully revealed itself - the Jewish people receive their first national mitzvah: “HaChodesh hazeh lachem." Even while still in Egypt, they are told that they will determine the calendar of their future.
It is a remarkable message. Hope appears before redemption is visible.
Perhaps that explains something about the mood in Israel right now. People are living in uncertainty, yet they are already speaking about the future. Conversations in shelters often drift toward what lies ahead - a safer Israel, a stronger Jewish people, perhaps even a region beginning to change in ways that once seemed impossible.
Jewish history often unfolds exactly this way. First comes the gathering - Vayakhel - when people draw strength from one another. Then comes the careful accounting - Pekudei - when every small act becomes part of something lasting. And finally comes the declaration of the future - Hachodesh - when even before redemption arrives, Jews begin preparing the calendar of the world that will follow.
In the meantime, when the siren sounds, we step outside and make our way down the street to the shelter once again. We sit together for a few minutes in a small concrete room. Neighbors talk quietly, children fidget, someone tells a story or makes a joke, and then the moment passes. We step back outside and return to our homes - and in ways both large and small, we keep building.
Rabbi Yehuda L Oppenheimer was formerly Rav at several congregations in the United States, lives in Afula, Israel and is an educator, writer, and licensed tour guide. He blogs at libibamizrach.blogspot.com and can be reached at lenopp@gmail.com.