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I was an angry young man with a motorcycle and an attitude and not much else going for me when, left with no alternatives, I moved back in with my folks. They lived on an island that was a Jersey Shore vacation locale for clean suburbanites in the summer, but was almost uninhabited in the winter. Vic was the old guy living down the street from my folks. He must have started life small, and old age made him look like a miniature person, bleached in the sun and ready to blow away. He was easy to overlook, almost as if he was half there and the wind would blow him away. His skin was pearl-white, and you could practically see right through it. His eyes were a washed-out blue that must have changed over the years because I couldn’t imagine seeing it in a young man’s eyes.

He wasn’t much to look at, but waving asd I rode past on my way to work didn’t cost me anything, so it became a ritual for me, giving me a tiny burst of feel good before going to a job I hated. I met Vic just about every day. Whenever I came home from work, he would be out in what he called his garden, a small square of dirt hemmed in by the increase of concrete in the neighborhood. Every year, the sidewalk would get bigger, or someone would build a bigger fence, or one of his kids would need the driveway bigger for his new car. His garden would get smaller, but Vic would be out there; big garden, small garden, it didn’t matter, working away as if his family’s sustenance depended on it.

It was sparse and scraggly-looking, making his daily routine seem pathetic, but I liked watching him anyway, and if I had time, I would stop and watch. After a while, I would say a few words to the old guy, telling him his garden was looking good or commenting on the weather. For some reason, this tiny man with a whispery voice made my anger disappear every time he looked at me. I was a hardcore biker back in those days, and the other neighbors either avoided me, which made me hate them for being snooty. If they weren’t avoiding me, they were cordial, fake friendly, which was even worse. Vic didn’t do either. He was pleasant, not seeming to notice that I was a beefy guy with a black leather jacket and too many earrings, on a bike that was too loud and an even worse attitude. Every time I rode past, I looked over to see him scratching at the dust, and he would look up, smile, and wave, friendly and sweet.

Late in the summer, I found out a little more about Vic. My dad had gotten me a job in the hospital cleaning floors, and the pharmacist asked me if I could drop off a bottle of pills in my neighborhood. It was a strange request since I didn’t think he could just pass the pills along, especially to a guy who looked like me. For all he knew, I would turn around and sell them on the street to some strung-out junkie who didn’t know any better. He said Vic had called, saying he was too sick to make it to the hospital to get his prescription filled. Somehow, Vic knew I worked at the hospital, even though I was pretty sure I had never told him. I was surprised that Vic was sick. I had seen him the day before, hoeing away at his path of dirt. I asked the pharmacist what was wrong with Vic. Maybe he shouldn’t have told me, but he did. Vic had cancer. I asked him what kind, and he just shook his head.

I dropped off the pills, feeling pretty weird. Vic thanked me and invited me in. He asked so sweetly, and, while I was trying to think of a way to say no, he turned and walked into his house. I stood watching the screen door slapping shut, knowing I couldn’t refuse. His home was spotlessly clean but smelled like medicine and old people. The furniture was old but not old enough to be trendy or antique. We sat at his green linoleum kitchen table, sipping cheap beer from cans and talking. We talked for half an hour, him asking about motorcycles, me answering even though I knew he didn’t care about motorcycles but just wanted to hear what I had to say. He spoke a little about himself, mentioning bits and pieces about a deceased wife and kids who had moved on. The strange thing is, I don’t think he said one word about what he did when he was young. He spoke slowly, in a voice that was a little more than a whisper. And he had this way of pausing between sentences, thinking of what to say next, that made it feel okay to jump in and interrupt. I usually don’t talk, but he had an easy way about him that let you know he had nothing else to do, so it was okay if you spoke or didn’t. He just sat there, wearing a smile that said he had all day to hear what I had to say. He didn’t ask many questions, but you knew he was listening. He didn’t get pushy, so I got the feeling that I could stop whenever I wanted to, and it wouldn’t bother him. So I kept talking. I didn’t have any friends so the talking felt good.

After a while, when the beer was almost gone, and the dregs were too warm and skunky to drink, I started feeling pretty spooked, talking to this guy knowing that the clock was running and he had a disease running around inside him, killing him every second he was sitting there. It surprised me when I realized that it bothered me, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all.

A few days later, I stopped my bike to watch him pull weeds, just about the only thing I saw growing in his garden patch. He stood up, taking a break to be neighborly and rehydrate with some more of his cheap beer. He invited me back into his house and handed me a beer. Watching him shuffle around his kitchen made an angry voice in the back of my mind ask if I was ready for another long conversation with this sick old man. Another voice, one that sounded like a younger version of me, said I really wanted it and that pretty soon it might not be an option.

Vic looked up after my first sip of beer, and I was about to say something polite, like ‘Thanks for the suds’, when it just fell out of my mouth. I asked him, “What’s it like, knowing that you’re going to die?”

He could have given me a pseudo-philosophical “We’re all going to die eventually” line, or maybe even gotten uptight about me asking. Most people probably would’ve, but somehow I knew he wouldn’t. Vic didn’t even flinch. He answered as if I had asked him what fertilizer he used on his tomatoes.

He sipped his beer, pursed his lips, and read the label on the beer can for a moment. He answered in his thin, old-man voice. “The way I figure it, when you die, you go live in a town, pretty much like the town you lived in your whole life. It seems to be the nature of people to live this way, you know, together. So I figure it must go pretty deep, deeper than just this world. In the center of town is a park full of trees. In one corner, there’s a playground, and in the center is a fountain for the kids in the summer, and in the corner are a bunch of tables for backgammon and chess. I’ve always been partial to backgammon.”

“Everyone has an appointment with God once a week. Some people just sit with him and feed the pigeons. Some play backgammon or chess. The really pure souls splash around in the fountain or play tag. There are even some souls who are so holy that their special job is to push God on the swings when he’s feeling down.”

“I play backgammon with God every Tuesday afternoon. I figure it that way because every Tuesday afternoon I feel kind of lost, like I should be doing something important, but I can’t remember what it is. We each bring a brown bag lunch. I bring the popcorn, and God brings the iced tea. Sometimes, I bring brownies, and sometimes he brings root beer. We sit and play backgammon, listening to the children laugh and talking about whatever comes to mind. Once in a while, I would say something interesting, and God would say, ‘Hey, Vic, I’ve never heard that before. How would you like to check it out and get back to me?’

“So my soul would go looking for a body, and a new Vic would be born in the world to try out my idea. Then I would die, and the next Tuesday, I would sit down to play backgammon with God. We would play for a bit, munching popcorn and sipping iced tea, and after a few games, God would ask, ‘Oh, by the way, how did that idea of yours turn out?’ So I tell him.”

“Some people forget what idea that they came down to check out. Some people even forget they have an appointment to play backgammon. Some people go so far as to go around harumphing and denying that they ever played backgammon at all, or they say there is no park. Can you imagine that? They start to hold on tight to whatever it is they’re doing here, saying that is the only thing. Can you imagine that? All they want is this world.”

Vic shook his head in disbelief. “Kids are beautiful. They just came from the park, so they still live by its rules. They talk to everyone as if they’re talking to God, angels, souls, or anyone they used to meet in the park. Some old people are happy. They are looking forward to Tuesday. They have some really nice things to tell God, some pleasant conversation. They’ve never forgotten which things God likes to talk about. Some old folks look back and worry they won’t have enough to talk about. Others walk around convinced they already have all the answers. They have collected so much stuff and nonsense in this world, and they think that all this is their power and strength, that it will make God care more about them, give them a better spot in the park. Can you imagine? Sitting down in front of God and trying to impress him with your stock portfolio!”

Vic snorted a laugh. He reached back and pulled out his wallet, the cracked black leather bulging, looking enormous in his shriveled hands. He pried it open with his bent, arthritic fingers, leaning forward to show me. It was full of old, faded pictures. Some were even ripped, pasted back together ages ago with a strip of yellowed tape. Nick had all of his treasures in that wallet. It was his kids growing up, his wife’s smile, even a surprising picture of his garden in its heyday. There were a few new pictures of grandchildren, bright and glossy.

The beer was warm, and I had to get to work, so after a few minutes of polite comments about how cute the kids were, I excused myself. I rode with the visor up on my helmet, letting the wind blow through until my eyes started to sting. Vic had just changed my world. In a quiet voice, with a few cheesy pictures and stale beer, he had blown away everything I believed in. He didn’t realize what he had just said. I had always thought that a person should fight death with both hands and that meant fighting for life and everything in it. He got me thinking that maybe I was wrong. Maybe the idea is to hold onto life with both hands, but when the door opens, let go and walk through. And the only way to do that is to live life the way you should, never forgetting where you’re going and where you came from. And to let that guide your actions.

I left home that winter. Vic usually left for the winter too, heading south to his kids and warmer climes. I got a letter from my folks the following summer. They said that when the summer people came back, Vic wasn’t with them. I guess that when the door opened up, Vic got up from his garden, brushed off the dirt, and walked through the door. I’d like to think he didn’t look back.

If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.

If you would like to order my books, they are available on Amazon:

Dolphins on the Moon

The Hope Merchant

The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light

(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers

If you want to help support my writing, subscribe with a donation, or support me through PayPal: adamberkowitz@yahoo.com

You can check out my videos on YouTube

Check out my website (I spent a lot of money on it so …)

I was an angry young man with a motorcycle and an attitude and not much else going for me when, left with no alternatives, I moved back in with my folks. They lived on an island that was a Jersey Shore vacation locale for clean suburbanites in the summer, but was almost uninhabited in the winter. Vic was the old guy living down the street from my folks. He must have started life small, and old age made him look like a miniature person, bleached in the sun and ready to blow away. He was easy to overlook, almost as if he was half there and the wind would blow him away. His skin was pearl-white, and you could practically see right through it. His eyes were a washed-out blue that must have changed over the years because I couldn’t imagine seeing it in a young man’s eyes.

He wasn’t much to look at, but waving asd I rode past on my way to work didn’t cost me anything, so it became a ritual for me, giving me a tiny burst of feel good before going to a job I hated. I met Vic just about every day. Whenever I came home from work, he would be out in what he called his garden, a small square of dirt hemmed in by the increase of concrete in the neighborhood. Every year, the sidewalk would get bigger, or someone would build a bigger fence, or one of his kids would need the driveway bigger for his new car. His garden would get smaller, but Vic would be out there; big garden, small garden, it didn’t matter, working away as if his family’s sustenance depended on it.

It was sparse and scraggly-looking, making his daily routine seem pathetic, but I liked watching him anyway, and if I had time, I would stop and watch. After a while, I would say a few words to the old guy, telling him his garden was looking good or commenting on the weather. For some reason, this tiny man with a whispery voice made my anger disappear every time he looked at me. I was a hardcore biker back in those days, and the other neighbors either avoided me, which made me hate them for being snooty. If they weren’t avoiding me, they were cordial, fake friendly, which was even worse. Vic didn’t do either. He was pleasant, not seeming to notice that I was a beefy guy with a black leather jacket and too many earrings, on a bike that was too loud and an even worse attitude. Every time I rode past, I looked over to see him scratching at the dust, and he would look up, smile, and wave, friendly and sweet.

Late in the summer, I found out a little more about Vic. My dad had gotten me a job in the hospital cleaning floors, and the pharmacist asked me if I could drop off a bottle of pills in my neighborhood. It was a strange request since I didn’t think he could just pass the pills along, especially to a guy who looked like me. For all he knew, I would turn around and sell them on the street to some strung-out junkie who didn’t know any better. He said Vic had called, saying he was too sick to make it to the hospital to get his prescription filled. Somehow, Vic knew I worked at the hospital, even though I was pretty sure I had never told him. I was surprised that Vic was sick. I had seen him the day before, hoeing away at his path of dirt. I asked the pharmacist what was wrong with Vic. Maybe he shouldn’t have told me, but he did. Vic had cancer. I asked him what kind, and he just shook his head.

I dropped off the pills, feeling pretty weird. Vic thanked me and invited me in. He asked so sweetly, and, while I was trying to think of a way to say no, he turned and walked into his house. I stood watching the screen door slapping shut, knowing I couldn’t refuse. His home was spotlessly clean but smelled like medicine and old people. The furniture was old but not old enough to be trendy or antique. We sat at his green linoleum kitchen table, sipping cheap beer from cans and talking. We talked for half an hour, him asking about motorcycles, me answering even though I knew he didn’t care about motorcycles but just wanted to hear what I had to say. He spoke a little about himself, mentioning bits and pieces about a deceased wife and kids who had moved on. The strange thing is, I don’t think he said one word about what he did when he was young. He spoke slowly, in a voice that was a little more than a whisper. And he had this way of pausing between sentences, thinking of what to say next, that made it feel okay to jump in and interrupt. I usually don’t talk, but he had an easy way about him that let you know he had nothing else to do, so it was okay if you spoke or didn’t. He just sat there, wearing a smile that said he had all day to hear what I had to say. He didn’t ask many questions, but you knew he was listening. He didn’t get pushy, so I got the feeling that I could stop whenever I wanted to, and it wouldn’t bother him. So I kept talking. I didn’t have any friends so the talking felt good.

After a while, when the beer was almost gone, and the dregs were too warm and skunky to drink, I started feeling pretty spooked, talking to this guy knowing that the clock was running and he had a disease running around inside him, killing him every second he was sitting there. It surprised me when I realized that it bothered me, but it didn’t seem to bother him at all.

A few days later, I stopped my bike to watch him pull weeds, just about the only thing I saw growing in his garden patch. He stood up, taking a break to be neighborly and rehydrate with some more of his cheap beer. He invited me back into his house and handed me a beer. Watching him shuffle around his kitchen made an angry voice in the back of my mind ask if I was ready for another long conversation with this sick old man. Another voice, one that sounded like a younger version of me, said I really wanted it and that pretty soon it might not be an option.

Vic looked up after my first sip of beer, and I was about to say something polite, like ‘Thanks for the suds’, when it just fell out of my mouth. I asked him, “What’s it like, knowing that you’re going to die?”

He could have given me a pseudo-philosophical “We’re all going to die eventually” line, or maybe even gotten uptight about me asking. Most people probably would’ve, but somehow I knew he wouldn’t. Vic didn’t even flinch. He answered as if I had asked him what fertilizer he used on his tomatoes.

He sipped his beer, pursed his lips, and read the label on the beer can for a moment. He answered in his thin, old-man voice. “The way I figure it, when you die, you go live in a town, pretty much like the town you lived in your whole life. It seems to be the nature of people to live this way, you know, together. So I figure it must go pretty deep, deeper than just this world. In the center of town is a park full of trees. In one corner, there’s a playground, and in the center is a fountain for the kids in the summer, and in the corner are a bunch of tables for backgammon and chess. I’ve always been partial to backgammon.”

“Everyone has an appointment with God once a week. Some people just sit with him and feed the pigeons. Some play backgammon or chess. The really pure souls splash around in the fountain or play tag. There are even some souls who are so holy that their special job is to push God on the swings when he’s feeling down.”

“I play backgammon with God every Tuesday afternoon. I figure it that way because every Tuesday afternoon I feel kind of lost, like I should be doing something important, but I can’t remember what it is. We each bring a brown bag lunch. I bring the popcorn, and God brings the iced tea. Sometimes, I bring brownies, and sometimes he brings root beer. We sit and play backgammon, listening to the children laugh and talking about whatever comes to mind. Once in a while, I would say something interesting, and God would say, ‘Hey, Vic, I’ve never heard that before. How would you like to check it out and get back to me?’

“So my soul would go looking for a body, and a new Vic would be born in the world to try out my idea. Then I would die, and the next Tuesday, I would sit down to play backgammon with God. We would play for a bit, munching popcorn and sipping iced tea, and after a few games, God would ask, ‘Oh, by the way, how did that idea of yours turn out?’ So I tell him.”

“Some people forget what idea that they came down to check out. Some people even forget they have an appointment to play backgammon. Some people go so far as to go around harumphing and denying that they ever played backgammon at all, or they say there is no park. Can you imagine that? They start to hold on tight to whatever it is they’re doing here, saying that is the only thing. Can you imagine that? All they want is this world.”

Vic shook his head in disbelief. “Kids are beautiful. They just came from the park, so they still live by its rules. They talk to everyone as if they’re talking to God, angels, souls, or anyone they used to meet in the park. Some old people are happy. They are looking forward to Tuesday. They have some really nice things to tell God, some pleasant conversation. They’ve never forgotten which things God likes to talk about. Some old folks look back and worry they won’t have enough to talk about. Others walk around convinced they already have all the answers. They have collected so much stuff and nonsense in this world, and they think that all this is their power and strength, that it will make God care more about them, give them a better spot in the park. Can you imagine? Sitting down in front of God and trying to impress him with your stock portfolio!”

Vic snorted a laugh. He reached back and pulled out his wallet, the cracked black leather bulging, looking enormous in his shriveled hands. He pried it open with his bent, arthritic fingers, leaning forward to show me. It was full of old, faded pictures. Some were even ripped, pasted back together ages ago with a strip of yellowed tape. Nick had all of his treasures in that wallet. It was his kids growing up, his wife’s smile, even a surprising picture of his garden in its heyday. There were a few new pictures of grandchildren, bright and glossy.

The beer was warm, and I had to get to work, so after a few minutes of polite comments about how cute the kids were, I excused myself. I rode with the visor up on my helmet, letting the wind blow through until my eyes started to sting. Vic had just changed my world. In a quiet voice, with a few cheesy pictures and stale beer, he had blown away everything I believed in. He didn’t realize what he had just said. I had always thought that a person should fight death with both hands and that meant fighting for life and everything in it. He got me thinking that maybe I was wrong. Maybe the idea is to hold onto life with both hands, but when the door opens, let go and walk through. And the only way to do that is to live life the way you should, never forgetting where you’re going and where you came from. And to let that guide your actions.

I left home that winter. Vic usually left for the winter too, heading south to his kids and warmer climes. I got a letter from my folks the following summer. They said that when the summer people came back, Vic wasn’t with them. I guess that when the door opened up, Vic got up from his garden, brushed off the dirt, and walked through the door. I’d like to think he didn’t look back.

If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.

If you would like to order my books, they are available on Amazon:

Dolphins on the Moon

The Hope Merchant

The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light

(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers

If you want to help support my writing, subscribe with a donation, or support me through PayPal: adamberkowitz@yahoo.com

You can check out my videos on YouTube

Check out my website (I spent a lot of money on it so …)

In the prophetic vision of our sages, the path to geula (redemption), the final redemption, requires not only divine intervention but profound human teshuva (repentance), ethical renewal, and the restoration of righteous leadership. Isaiah promises, “I will restore your judges as at first, and your counselors as at the beginning” (Isaiah 1:26). Yet today in Israel, corruption, nepotism, and power struggles among those meant to serve the people and Torah block this vision. Greed and factionalism delay the rebuilding of the Temple, the seating of a true Sanhedrin in the Lishkat HaGazit (Chamber of Hewn Stone), and the arrival of Mashiach (Messiah). Material successes such as Israel’s tech boom and military resilience are Baruch Hashem blessings, but they cannot substitute for moral integrity. They often foster complacency: Why cry out for a Messianic leader when innovation and strength seem sufficient?

The parallels to ancient times are sobering. The Second Temple’s destruction stemmed from sinat chinam (baseless hatred), baseless hatred, and internal rot, including violent factionalism between the camps of Shammai and Hillel (Talmud Shabbat 17a). Priestly nepotism under Roman influence turned sacred roles into political prizes. History warns us: When leaders elevate sons over merit, justice erodes, and redemption stalls.

In contemporary Israel the pattern persists. Long-running political trials for bribery, fraud, and breach of trust highlight how entrenched power blurs lines. Coalition dynamics amplify this: Ultra-Orthodox parties secure yeshiva funding and exemptions, often prioritizing sectarian gains over national good. Recent scandals include allegations of nepotism in rabbinical appointments, where entrenched familial patterns prioritize lineage over merit, prompting High Court interventions over fixed elections and favoritism. The Chief Rabbinate, meant to embody Torah authority, faces accusations of cronyism, eroding public trust. Yesh Atid’s 2025 withdrawal from the World Zionist Organization cited corruption and political cronyism, including reported offers of senior roles tied to family interests. These are not isolated; they reflect a drift from Deuteronomy’s mandate: “You shall appoint judges and officers and they shall judge the people with righteous judgment. You shall not pervert justice; you shall not show partiality” (Deut. 16:18-19).

Current examples underscore the urgency. The 2025 judicial reform law, which altered the Judicial Selection Committee to grant politicians greater control over judge appointments, has been criticized as politicizing the judiciary and undermining democratic checks. This move, passed amid ongoing debates, echoes fears of executive overreach similar to earlier overhaul attempts. Meanwhile, the late 2025 scandal involving the Military Advocate General, Maj. Gen. Yifat Tomer-Yerushalmi, who resigned and was arrested over leaking a video of alleged detainee abuse at Sde Teiman prison, highlights potential cover-ups in military justice. Such incidents, alongside probes into Histadrut labor union bribery networks linked to Likud ministers, reveal systemic issues where public trust erodes under the weight of favoritism and fraud.

Worse, religious communities sometimes discourage accountability. The mitzvah of tochachah (rebuke), (Lev. 19:17), and the command not to stand idly by the blood of your neighbor (Lev. 19:16) demand we call out wrongdoing. Yet fear of being labeled a moser (informer), informer, silences voices, even when halachic authorities affirm reporting serious crimes in democracies. This cultural pressure shields the powerful, inverting Phineas’s zealotry (Numbers 25), where he feared Hashem above all. Where are today’s Phineases, those who illuminate the shadows?

A recent American example offers hope and a model. In late December 2025, 23-year-old citizen journalist Nick Shirley posted a 42-minute video titled “I Investigated Minnesota’s Billion Dollar Fraud Scandal.” Visiting multiple day care centers allegedly receiving millions in taxpayer subsidies through the Child Care Assistance Program, Shirley documented empty facilities, no children, locked doors, despite records showing massive funding. The video exploded, amassing over 100 million views on X, praise from Vice President JD Vance and FBI Director Kash Patel, and a federal freeze on child care payments to Minnesota. Investigations surged, with agents conducting door-to-door checks. Other regions began raising voices almost immediately with the shadows disappearing.

This was no riot or chaos, just righteous illumination: on-the-ground evidence, public sharing, and pressure on authorities. Shirley, a Mormon, feared neither backlash nor powerful interests; he acted persistently, sparking scrutiny where official oversight had lagged for years amid broader Minnesota fraud scandals.

Imagine this in Israel: Concerned citizens, rabbis, laypeople, or journalists, documenting questionable yeshiva allocations, rabbinical elevations with nepotism red flags, or budget perks that favor factions. No confrontation needed, just factual videos, public records, and responsible sharing. This aligns with Torah: Start with private rebuke, then escalate for justice. Modern poskim affirm such actions when protecting the vulnerable or public funds, overriding outdated mesira fears in open societies.

To break the cycle, we must reclaim the Torah’s tavnit (blueprint), the blueprint of merit-based, transparent leadership. A practical plan:

1. Restore Ethical Judges: Convene a diverse national ethics council (all respected leaders) with public nominations, term limits, and strict anti-nepotism rules. Use technology, blockchain for asset disclosures, to ensure transparency.

2. Mandate Accountability: Establish a “Torah Ombudsman” for internal whistleblower protections. Honor informants as zealots for God, providing community support against shunning.

3. Rebuild Toward Sanhedrin: Once judges are merit-based, expand via Maimonides’ consensus model (Hilchot Sanhedrin) to seat a legitimate Sanhedrin. Tie Temple rebuilding to ethical groundwork first.

4. Safeguards: Annual public audits (inspired by Temple oversight in Mishnah Shekalim) and yeshiva curricula emphasizing ethics alongside Gemara.

Many religious believe geula arrives through Torah study alone (Sanhedrin 98b), but prophets demand justice too (Amos 5:24). We have strayed far, beyond a Shabbat’s journey, from the Torah’s ideal. Yet teshuva is return. One voice, like Shirley’s, can shift tides.

The time for silence is over. The chains of corruption that block geula can be broken, not through force or politics, but through righteous persistence, as demonstrated in corrupt Minnesota. If one person can illuminate such shadows there, imagine what hundreds of concerned Jews in Israel can achieve here.

We need a Torah Ombudsman today: an independent, transparent body to receive reports of ethical lapses, promote whistleblowing protections under halacha, and demand merit-based leadership, starting with humble, respected voices who embody yirat shamayim (fear of Heaven) and integrity.

Rabbis like Rabbi Yuval Cherlow (Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Amit Orot Shaul and Director of Tzohar’s Center for Jewish Ethics, which since 2015 has shaped a right and just Israeli society through thoughtful halachic engagement on public issues) and Rabbi David Stav (Chairman of Tzohar, Chief Rabbi of Shoham, and a tireless bridge-builder for inclusive, ethical Jewish life) represent the humble strength we seek. Their work through Tzohar, fostering transparency, accessibility, and moral clarity, makes them ideal founding figures for this initiative.

To the people: Seek out these leaders. Reach out to Tzohar or similar forums. Request…no, demand they convene a council now. And yes, you can help launch this outside any political influence. Visit TorahOmbudsman.com to submit reports anonymously, learn more, and support the effort. Share Torah resources on accountability, and build a community of supporters.

One fearless step to spark a movement of teshuva.

Fear Hashem, not man. Illuminate the shadows. Restore the judges of old. Geula awaits those who act in righteousness, today.

In the prophetic vision of our sages, the path to geula (redemption), the final redemption, requires not only divine intervention but profound human teshuva (repentance), ethical renewal, and the restoration of righteous leadership. Isaiah promises, “I will restore your judges as at first, and your counselors as at the beginning” (Isaiah 1:26). Yet today in Israel, corruption, nepotism, and power struggles among those meant to serve the people and Torah block this vision. Greed and factionalism delay the rebuilding of the Temple, the seating of a true Sanhedrin in the Lishkat HaGazit (Chamber of Hewn Stone), and the arrival of Mashiach (Messiah). Material successes such as Israel’s tech boom and military resilience are Baruch Hashem blessings, but they cannot substitute for moral integrity. They often foster complacency: Why cry out for a Messianic leader when innovation and strength seem sufficient?

The parallels to ancient times are sobering. The Second Temple’s destruction stemmed from sinat chinam (baseless hatred), baseless hatred, and internal rot, including violent factionalism between the camps of Shammai and Hillel (Talmud Shabbat 17a). Priestly nepotism under Roman influence turned sacred roles into political prizes. History warns us: When leaders elevate sons over merit, justice erodes, and redemption stalls.

In contemporary Israel the pattern persists. Long-running political trials for bribery, fraud, and breach of trust highlight how entrenched power blurs lines. Coalition dynamics amplify this: Ultra-Orthodox parties secure yeshiva funding and exemptions, often prioritizing sectarian gains over national good. Recent scandals include allegations of nepotism in rabbinical appointments, where entrenched familial patterns prioritize lineage over merit, prompting High Court interventions over fixed elections and favoritism. The Chief Rabbinate, meant to embody Torah authority, faces accusations of cronyism, eroding public trust. Yesh Atid’s 2025 withdrawal from the World Zionist Organization cited corruption and political cronyism, including reported offers of senior roles tied to family interests. These are not isolated; they reflect a drift from Deuteronomy’s mandate: “You shall appoint judges and officers and they shall judge the people with righteous judgment. You shall not pervert justice; you shall not show partiality” (Deut. 16:18-19).

Current examples underscore the urgency. The 2025 judicial reform law, which altered the Judicial Selection Committee to grant politicians greater control over judge appointments, has been criticized as politicizing the judiciary and undermining democratic checks. This move, passed amid ongoing debates, echoes fears of executive overreach similar to earlier overhaul attempts. Meanwhile, the late 2025 scandal involving the Military Advocate General, Maj. Gen. Yifat Tomer-Yerushalmi, who resigned and was arrested over leaking a video of alleged detainee abuse at Sde Teiman prison, highlights potential cover-ups in military justice. Such incidents, alongside probes into Histadrut labor union bribery networks linked to Likud ministers, reveal systemic issues where public trust erodes under the weight of favoritism and fraud.

Worse, religious communities sometimes discourage accountability. The mitzvah of tochachah (rebuke), (Lev. 19:17), and the command not to stand idly by the blood of your neighbor (Lev. 19:16) demand we call out wrongdoing. Yet fear of being labeled a moser (informer), informer, silences voices, even when halachic authorities affirm reporting serious crimes in democracies. This cultural pressure shields the powerful, inverting Phineas’s zealotry (Numbers 25), where he feared Hashem above all. Where are today’s Phineases, those who illuminate the shadows?

A recent American example offers hope and a model. In late December 2025, 23-year-old citizen journalist Nick Shirley posted a 42-minute video titled “I Investigated Minnesota’s Billion Dollar Fraud Scandal.” Visiting multiple day care centers allegedly receiving millions in taxpayer subsidies through the Child Care Assistance Program, Shirley documented empty facilities, no children, locked doors, despite records showing massive funding. The video exploded, amassing over 100 million views on X, praise from Vice President JD Vance and FBI Director Kash Patel, and a federal freeze on child care payments to Minnesota. Investigations surged, with agents conducting door-to-door checks. Other regions began raising voices almost immediately with the shadows disappearing.

This was no riot or chaos, just righteous illumination: on-the-ground evidence, public sharing, and pressure on authorities. Shirley, a Mormon, feared neither backlash nor powerful interests; he acted persistently, sparking scrutiny where official oversight had lagged for years amid broader Minnesota fraud scandals.

Imagine this in Israel: Concerned citizens, rabbis, laypeople, or journalists, documenting questionable yeshiva allocations, rabbinical elevations with nepotism red flags, or budget perks that favor factions. No confrontation needed, just factual videos, public records, and responsible sharing. This aligns with Torah: Start with private rebuke, then escalate for justice. Modern poskim affirm such actions when protecting the vulnerable or public funds, overriding outdated mesira fears in open societies.

To break the cycle, we must reclaim the Torah’s tavnit (blueprint), the blueprint of merit-based, transparent leadership. A practical plan:

1. Restore Ethical Judges: Convene a diverse national ethics council (all respected leaders) with public nominations, term limits, and strict anti-nepotism rules. Use technology, blockchain for asset disclosures, to ensure transparency.

2. Mandate Accountability: Establish a “Torah Ombudsman” for internal whistleblower protections. Honor informants as zealots for God, providing community support against shunning.

3. Rebuild Toward Sanhedrin: Once judges are merit-based, expand via Maimonides’ consensus model (Hilchot Sanhedrin) to seat a legitimate Sanhedrin. Tie Temple rebuilding to ethical groundwork first.

4. Safeguards: Annual public audits (inspired by Temple oversight in Mishnah Shekalim) and yeshiva curricula emphasizing ethics alongside Gemara.

Many religious believe geula arrives through Torah study alone (Sanhedrin 98b), but prophets demand justice too (Amos 5:24). We have strayed far, beyond a Shabbat’s journey, from the Torah’s ideal. Yet teshuva is return. One voice, like Shirley’s, can shift tides.

The time for silence is over. The chains of corruption that block geula can be broken, not through force or politics, but through righteous persistence, as demonstrated in corrupt Minnesota. If one person can illuminate such shadows there, imagine what hundreds of concerned Jews in Israel can achieve here.

We need a Torah Ombudsman today: an independent, transparent body to receive reports of ethical lapses, promote whistleblowing protections under halacha, and demand merit-based leadership, starting with humble, respected voices who embody yirat shamayim (fear of Heaven) and integrity.

Rabbis like Rabbi Yuval Cherlow (Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Amit Orot Shaul and Director of Tzohar’s Center for Jewish Ethics, which since 2015 has shaped a right and just Israeli society through thoughtful halachic engagement on public issues) and Rabbi David Stav (Chairman of Tzohar, Chief Rabbi of Shoham, and a tireless bridge-builder for inclusive, ethical Jewish life) represent the humble strength we seek. Their work through Tzohar, fostering transparency, accessibility, and moral clarity, makes them ideal founding figures for this initiative.

To the people: Seek out these leaders. Reach out to Tzohar or similar forums. Request…no, demand they convene a council now. And yes, you can help launch this outside any political influence. Visit TorahOmbudsman.com to submit reports anonymously, learn more, and support the effort. Share Torah resources on accountability, and build a community of supporters.

One fearless step to spark a movement of teshuva.

Fear Hashem, not man. Illuminate the shadows. Restore the judges of old. Geula awaits those who act in righteousness, today.

And when the good lord comes to take me away

Wrapping me in his gentle white wings of holiness

And he leans close to whisper in my ear

Asking me if I drank of his goodness while on his blessed earth

I shall smile and whisper

I greeted every man as your son and messenger

Searching his face for the message he brought from the king

I gazed upon every child

Seeing the glow that remained upon the one so recently in your presence

And when you painted the sky at sunset with the brush of creation

I stopped to praise your handiwork

Laughing as the clouds danced their shadows across the hills

Neither did I forget to treasure my tears

Sent to ease my pain and water my dreams

“Yes, my lord.”

I tipped back my cup and drank of every moment

Shouting out a toast to your greatness

Until the final sweet drop slid through my thirsty lips

If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.

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And when the good lord comes to take me away

Wrapping me in his gentle white wings of holiness

And he leans close to whisper in my ear

Asking me if I drank of his goodness while on his blessed earth

I shall smile and whisper

I greeted every man as your son and messenger

Searching his face for the message he brought from the king

I gazed upon every child

Seeing the glow that remained upon the one so recently in your presence

And when you painted the sky at sunset with the brush of creation

I stopped to praise your handiwork

Laughing as the clouds danced their shadows across the hills

Neither did I forget to treasure my tears

Sent to ease my pain and water my dreams

“Yes, my lord.”

I tipped back my cup and drank of every moment

Shouting out a toast to your greatness

Until the final sweet drop slid through my thirsty lips

If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.

If you would like to order my books, they are available on Amazon:

Dolphins on the Moon

The Hope Merchant

The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light

(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers

If you want to help support my writing, subscribe with a donation, or support me through PayPal: adamberkowitz@yahoo.com

You can check out my videos on YouTube

Check out my website (I spent a lot of money on it so …)

Watcha gonna do
When the beast is running wild
Don’t you feel stupid
With the key in your hand
Give him a kick, tough guy
See if he don’t bite yer leg off
He didn’t seem so big
Lying there asleep
When the door was shut, the cage was lkocked
You were gonna just let him out
Take him for a walk

Yo, college boy
You can throw away that leash?
Better buy yourself a gun

Whatsa matter?
Thought you had it under control?
He was your friend
Your pet
Every once in a while you’d throw him some scraps
You laughed at how he snatched up those bones

Don’t look now
He just ate the steak right off your plate

Watcha gonna do
When he starts sniffing at your leg?

Last time he got out
He ripped up the neighbor’s yard
Scared their kids up a tree
Damn near got one of them by the leg
The time before that, he pissed all over the rug
Guests still wrinkle their noses at the smell

One time, you even thought you had him trained
You taught him how to sit
You taught him how to shake hands
But that was in your backyard on a leash
He always seemed to forget whenever people came around

He was cute when he was younger
So frisky and full of life
If he ate your new shoes, it was mischief
When he barked, you would laugh
Now he’s bigger and slower
And he’s learned not to eat your shoes

Even so,
Why’d you build the cage?

Don’t look now
He’s checking you out
And he doesn’t look like he wants to make friends

Hey, asshole
You’d better wise up
See that look in his eyes?
You’ve seen it before
You forgot already?
That figures
After all you drank
Did you forget the fight?
The loudmouth drunk at the bar?
You got a black-eye and don’t remember the cab ride home
You were checking out your black-eye in the mirror
Remember that look in your eyes?

It’s okay now
He’s back in the cage and snoring away
You can take your time locking the cage
It looks like he’s had enough for a while
He’s so cute
Sleeping like a baby
You reach in and pet him before you lock the cage
You feel good
Dontcha?
Everything is back to normal, and you’re in control
Yeah
That’s right, college boy
Smile and kick back
But before you pop that beer
Maybe you want to check the neighbor’s yard
And help the kids get down from the tree

If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.

If you would like to order my books, they are available on Amazon:

Dolphins on the Moon

The Hope Merchant

The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light

(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers

If you want to help support my writing, subscribe with a donation, or support me through PayPal: adamberkowitz@yahoo.com

You can check out my videos on YouTube

Check out my website (I spent a lot of money on it so …)

Watcha gonna do
When the beast is running wild
Don’t you feel stupid
With the key in your hand
Give him a kick, tough guy
See if he don’t bite yer leg off
He didn’t seem so big
Lying there asleep
When the door was shut, the cage was lkocked
You were gonna just let him out
Take him for a walk

Yo, college boy
You can throw away that leash?
Better buy yourself a gun

Whatsa matter?
Thought you had it under control?
He was your friend
Your pet
Every once in a while you’d throw him some scraps
You laughed at how he snatched up those bones

Don’t look now
He just ate the steak right off your plate

Watcha gonna do
When he starts sniffing at your leg?

Last time he got out
He ripped up the neighbor’s yard
Scared their kids up a tree
Damn near got one of them by the leg
The time before that, he pissed all over the rug
Guests still wrinkle their noses at the smell

One time, you even thought you had him trained
You taught him how to sit
You taught him how to shake hands
But that was in your backyard on a leash
He always seemed to forget whenever people came around

He was cute when he was younger
So frisky and full of life
If he ate your new shoes, it was mischief
When he barked, you would laugh
Now he’s bigger and slower
And he’s learned not to eat your shoes

Even so,
Why’d you build the cage?

Don’t look now
He’s checking you out
And he doesn’t look like he wants to make friends

Hey, asshole
You’d better wise up
See that look in his eyes?
You’ve seen it before
You forgot already?
That figures
After all you drank
Did you forget the fight?
The loudmouth drunk at the bar?
You got a black-eye and don’t remember the cab ride home
You were checking out your black-eye in the mirror
Remember that look in your eyes?

It’s okay now
He’s back in the cage and snoring away
You can take your time locking the cage
It looks like he’s had enough for a while
He’s so cute
Sleeping like a baby
You reach in and pet him before you lock the cage
You feel good
Dontcha?
Everything is back to normal, and you’re in control
Yeah
That’s right, college boy
Smile and kick back
But before you pop that beer
Maybe you want to check the neighbor’s yard
And help the kids get down from the tree

If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.

If you would like to order my books, they are available on Amazon:

Dolphins on the Moon

The Hope Merchant

The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light

(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers

If you want to help support my writing, subscribe with a donation, or support me through PayPal: adamberkowitz@yahoo.com

You can check out my videos on YouTube

Check out my website (I spent a lot of money on it so …)

Okay, Mister Gonna-be-a-Rabbi man. I’m not gonna get into no contest about who ate more pork, did more drugs, went to more concerts, who used to be more cool, so today he really does know better, just to prove that what I’m doing now is holy, holy, holy. You got the words pouring through your mind from some Holy Yid who was hooked up to God’s light, but that doesn’t mean that if I listen to you, I’m gonna feel any better about feeling worse. I’m out on the edge on my own, and I’m leaning way out with no net to search for the last little crumbs of my soul that might have gotten left behind. Are you gonna help me, or are you just using me to inflate your soul/ego so that you can float on home to Kansas to get a fat job and a nice suit? There’s only enough room under your hat for you, and I can’t wear polyester pants ‘cause they get messed up when I roll around in the mud. I don’t need a fashion change or a cookbook or a list of restaurants that make me better than the next guy. I’M OUT HERE ON THE EDGE FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE, AND YOU’RE TELLING ME WHICH BRAND OF CHICKEN TO BUY!!!!!

I need the real stuff. The only problem is that I keep blowing it. Maybe that’s the only way I can get anywhere that isn’t here, is by heading down another wrong path. Maybe I don’t want to be right. I don’t want to be the paragon of Jewish manhood. I don’t want to be the man. I don’t want baal tshuva groupies hanging on my every holy word. I need truth, and I need it to be real, and I need it now. That means that yesterday is yesterday, and that means that I need to be hanging out over the edge, and I need a buddy who is hanging way out over the edge, too. The problem with being out on the edge, with searching when I know that I don’t know, is that sometimes I blow it. If I never blow it, then I wasn’t really at the edge. I don’t want to have what someone else wants. I want to know what I need to get closer. So get out of my face unless you’re willing to take the chances and hold my hand when one of us felt something real that maybe hurt, maybe felt good, but definitely came from the heart.

I don’t need you because you’re too damn right all the time. I need a wise man to show me the way, but you ain’t wise. You know the right words, you know what wise sounds like, but you never took the chance that would let the words sink in. You never killed yourself for wisdom, so inside of your wise words is a nasty little child waiting to pinch me when I get the answer wrong and watch me scream. I need a holy man to stick his foot in the door and keep it open so that I still have a chance to make it one day. Holy men are the real deal, and they keep the world alive. But I ain’t no holy man and I ain’t never gonna be no holy man. I hate to break it to you, but you may have a closet full of white shirts and a nice supply of black shoe polish, you may have a shelf full of books with all the small print underlined, but you ain’t no holy man neither. You can’t be because there’s too much of you and not enough of anything else. You’re such a great man that when you walk in the room, God has gotta stand up and give you his seat. But what you could have been, what I need, is a friend. I need someone who is close enough to me, down here in all the mud and filth, so he can lend me a hand, and pull me up when the mud gets too deep. To do that, he’s gotta be down there deep in the mud, standing right beside me. He doesn’t mind my smell, and I don’t mind his. We’re gonna drag each other through until both of us make it, until we can jump into the mikveh together and play like little children at the water hole. And then, together, we’re gonna walk on up the mountain, light a fire, and burn our sin offerings together.

Dear Eliyahu,

You wrote this almost twenty years ago, when you were in Yeshiva. It was true when you wrote this. You were bitter and angry in a way we now regret. You came to Yeshiva to yell at God in the forest, for prayer and meditation, for predawn plunges into ice-cold natural springs. After half a lifetime of frustration in school, you loved the learning. While Bat Ayin Yeshiva was unconventional in many ways, it was built on the bass note of traditional Orthodox Jewish institutions, and, in an unspoken agenda, the better students were expected to return to the US to pursue careers as professional Jews. We are natural anarchists and prefer not to lead or teach. We prefer to marvel at how each individual has a unique life and reveals God in their own way. As the saying goes, ‘Many ships cross the ocean, but they cannot lead or follow because they don’t leave trails.’

And having barely managed to escape exile in the USA, going back out into the darkness was not an option.

The men in the Yeshiva were amazing. You truly believed they could change the world and bring Geula. You were already old and weary, and thought that while they were young and shiny with the potential to change the world, they were settling for a career in institutional religion.

You were wrong. Just like you, they were confused and lost in life, seeking a way home. The worst thing the Western educational system has done is reward successful students, teaching them that success in tests, doing their homework, is what life is all about. But a man who only succeeds is only half a man. After acing their final exams, they went out into the world, and many of the gentler souls got battered and tossed in ways their education never prepared them for. And I watched as they fixed the world by loving God through the hard times in their lives.

I feel honored to have seen that, become a witness to a part of that process. Prayers are never lost or fruitless. Sometimes, the point of the prayer is to give something to the man standing next to you who needs to hear that he is not alone. That amazing group of young men did that for me, and I thank them.

That said, you wrote this because you were troubled when a sweet young soul was rebuffed in his search for his path back to Hashem, a path not aligned with what we saw as “the way.” He limped away, battered and hurting, but I am happy to say, he remained true to his inner voice. I am pleased to say that he is still a friend.

If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.

If you would like to order my books, they are available on Amazon:

Dolphins on the Moon

The Hope Merchant

The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light

(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers

If you want to help support my writing, subscribe with a donation, or support me through PayPal: adamberkowitz@yahoo.com

You can check out my videos on YouTube

Check out my website (I spent a lot of money on it so …)