My first grandson was born in Israel on May 18, the same day our community marched here in New York at Israel Day on Fifth. (There are no coincidences!)

And this past Sunday, at his bris in a synagogue in Tel Aviv, my son and daughter-in-law gave him a name that feels perfectly matched to this time in the Jewish calendar and the times we live in: Sinai.

On Sunday evening, we’ll mark the beginning of Shavuot, celebrating the giving of the Torah to the people of Israel at Mount Sinai in the Sinai Desert.

This moment of divine revelation is perhaps the central episode in all Jewish history, when the former Israelite slaves became a nation bound by shared laws and a covenant with God.

Mount Sinai has appeared in our narrative before, and it appears again. At the beginning of the Exodus story, it was where Moses first encounters God in the burning bush. And later, in the Book of Kings, it’s where Elijah encounters the Divine.

Why a desert? Why a rather lowly mountain?

By contrast, Mount Moriah, which sits at the center of the land of Israel and is where the First and Second Temples were built, seems a far more likely candidate for revelation.

According to the Midrash, taller, more majestic peaks lobbied for the honor of hosting revelation. But God chose Sinai precisely because, as far as mountains go, it was unremarkable. 

The desert location was also a deliberate choice. Our sages teach that the desert — a place thought at the time not to belong to any one person or nation — was the perfect place for revelation, as no individual or people could ever claim a monopoly on God's message.

The lesson here is that humility is the essential prerequisite for receiving Torah.

But this still begs the question: If humility was the central virtue, why choose a mountain at all — even a small one?

The answer may lie in reframing what true humility requires. It’s not the belief that you're unworthy. It’s the deeper, more demanding belief that you're not the only one who's worthy.

Sinai’s greatness wasn’t that it denied its own value; rather, it didn’t claim it to the exclusion of others.

To stand at Sinai was to know you belonged there. As Moses. As Elijah. As the Jewish people. We are taught that every Jewish soul — past, present, and future — stood as one at Sinai, worthy of that moment. The experience of revelation became one of complete inclusion.

Which brings us to today.

At a time when fierce, ideological divides increasingly define the state of the Jewish people, what Sinai represents feels more elusive than ever. Instead of inclusivity, too many believe with a rigid certainty that their interpretation of Torah is the only worthy interpretation. 

The consequence? Jewish unity feels more and more like the desert sand, slipping through our fingers.

This is the world my young grandson was born into. But it does not have to be the world he, or we, accept.

I should share that his full name is Sinai Be’eri.

Sinai serves as an aspiration and a reminder — of who we were at that mountain, and who we could be again.

Be’eri embodies memory and resilience.

We will never forget the unspeakable tragedy of October 7, when 101 residents of Kibbutz Be'eri were massacred and 32 abducted into Gaza.

Nor will we forget how just a week after the massacre, the kibbutz reopened its printing press, one of the largest in Israel. And today, more than 96% of its buildings have been restored, a powerful symbol of courage and determination to ensure the Jewish future.

May this young boy embody the humility and inclusivity of the humble mountain for which he is named.

May he show the same resilience and strength as the residents of Be’eri.

May he grow in purpose every day, striving to rekindle the unity that we felt together, standing as one at Sinai.

May we all.

Shabbat shalom and chag sameach from Israel