Somewhere on 128 the other night, right below Prospect Hill, Lisa Loeb ambushed me.
“Stay” came on. And instantly, I was young again, belting out the lyrics.
And then: “I thought I’d live forever, but now I’m not so sure.”
The goosebumps were immediate; I squeezed my wife’s hand, and hard. Years ago, that sounded poetic. Now it sounds true.
When that song first came out, it sure felt like I would live forever. But of course I thought that; I was 16. The world felt stable, my identity felt indestructible, Jewish life felt secure, and Israel felt eternal. Not because I understood geopolitics, but because I was young and foolish and assumed that things would always just kind of work out. Ahhhh, to be young again.
Adulthood is realizing that nothing is guaranteed. Not your life. Not the Jewish world you grew up in. Not Israel. Not safety. Not continuity.
Nothing.
All those years ago, I probably felt entitled to all of that. At 47, it’s painfully clear the world isn’t going to give us anything for free. Permanence was never part of the package; I just didn’t notice the fine print.
Right after that feeling washed over me, another thought bubbled up. Shocking no one, it was Talmudic.
Rabbi Eliezer in the Talmud (Shabbat 153a) teaches: “Repent one day before you die.” The students ask, “But does a person know the day they’ll die?” And he answers: “All the more so — live as if it’s today.”
The me from the ’90s would have shrugged that off as philosophical. Now, I know he was describing the Jewish condition, because nothing is promised. Not for us as individuals. Not for us as a people. Not for Israel. Not for the future we desperately want our kids to inherit.
And then, to complete this trifecta of wisdom, Moses’ words from the end of the Torah came to mind, as well: Atem nitzavim hayom — “You are standing here today.”
Today. Not forever. Not automatically. Today only.
All of these words of wisdom spur us to act; Jewish survival isn’t passive, and Israel’s existence isn’t a given. They’re not set-it-and-forget-it realities; they endure because each generation chooses to step forward, stay present, and fight for them. Jewish continuity isn’t something that just “happens,” either. It’s not an automatic inheritance. It’s something we shape with intention, stubborn love, and constant action.
That’s why that lyric hit me so hard the other night. Because suddenly it wasn’t only about my own mortality; it was about the mortality of things I once assumed were eternal.
And maybe that’s the whole Torah, embedded in a moment of sudden clarity: forever isn’t guaranteed. Not for me, not for you, not for us, not for Israel, and certainly not for the Jewish people.
But we are standing here today.
And today is where the fight for tomorrow begins.
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