Jewish Americans and supporters of Israel gather at the National Mall in Washington, DC on Nov. 14, 2023 for the “March for Israel” rally. Photo: Dion J. Pierre/The Algemeiner

While Israel and the US have been fighting against Iran side-by-side over the past few months,  I heard the story of an Air Force cadet that inspired me.

The Air Force graduate in question, Joel Usher, appeared in a TikTok video and stood at attention during his graduation ceremony, knowing no family was coming. No friends either. In the military, when you complete basic training, someone has to physically “tap you out” at the end of the ceremony. It is a moment of recognition, a moment of arrival. And Joel had no one.

Then a fellow trainee found him in the crowd and stepped forward. He tapped him out.

Joel said he felt “proud, relieved, and grateful all at once.” He could barely hold back the tears. Millions of people saw that video and understood exactly why.

I watched it and immediately thought of shul.

How many times have you walked into a synagogue you did not know and stood there feeling invisible? You look around, and no one looks back. You do not know when to turn the page. You do not know the melodies. You are standing in the middle of a celebration that was not built for you, at least not on that particular morning. Then, if you are lucky, someone walks over. They hand you a siddur open to the right place. They say, “Do you have somewhere for Shabbat?”

That small gesture is a “tap out.” It is someone saying, “You belong here, and I am going to make sure you know it.”

The problem is that it does not happen nearly enough.

Our observant communities have grown enormously in recent years. Walk into almost any Orthodox or traditional shul on a Shabbat morning, and the room is full. But a room full of people does not mean a room full of connection. A crowded room can still be a lonely room if no one reaches beyond their own circle.

And right now, the stakes could not be higher.

So many Jews today are searching. They are rattled by the world outside, by the antisemitism that has exploded in ways many of them never expected to see in their lifetime. They are watching what is happening in Israel and feeling something stir inside them that they do not have words for yet. They are close, many of them. They are standing right at the edge of something real.

And we know them. They are our doctors, our accountants, our neighbors, the people we see at our kids’ games on Sunday morning. They are Jewish. They are family. They just have not had someone tap them out yet.

That is what family does, actually. Family does not wait to be asked. Family notices when someone is struggling. Family knows when something is wrong before the person says a word. Family shows up.

Being Jewish means being part of a family that stretches across continents and centuries. That is the whole idea. And a family that only shows up for people inside its immediate circle is not really living up to what family means.

So here is my question. What are you actually doing with that? When you walk into shul and see someone standing alone, looking lost, do you cross the room? When you sit next to a Jewish colleague who never grew up with any of this, do you ever think to send them something worth reading — a Shabbat thought, a piece of Torah that might actually speak to them? When Passover is coming, do you pick up the phone and say, “You should be at our table”?

Joel’s friend could have assumed someone else would handle it. He could have told himself it was not his place. Instead, he walked over.

The most powerful moments in a person’s life are rarely the grand gestures. They are the quiet ones. The siddur passed across the aisle. The invitation that was extended without waiting to be asked. The text message on a Friday afternoon that says, “Thinking of you, here is something I found beautiful this week.”

We are all surrounded by Jews who need to be tapped out. The only question is whether we are paying enough attention to notice them standing there, waiting.