19 May THE LETTERS STILL SOAR

A year ago, the Jewish
world followed the
heartbreaking story of
Tze’ela Gez, Hy”d.
She and her husband,
Chananel, were driving
to the hospital for the
birth of their fourth child when terrorists
opened fire on their car. Tze’ela was critically
wounded and Chananel was injured more
moderately. At Beilinson Hospital in Petach
Tikvah, doctors delivered their baby boy
while fighting unsuccessfully to save his
mother’s life. Tragically, Tze’ela passed
away later that evening.
Before the attack, she had already told her
husband the name she loved for the baby:
Ravid. Chananel hesitated because their
oldest son is named Lavi and the names
sounded similar, but she insisted it was a
beautiful name.
As the baby fought for his life, Chananel
and his rabbanim gave him a name so Klal
Yisrael could daven for him: Ravid Chaim.
That same day, Israeli forces tracked down
the terrorist responsible for the attack. During
the operation, the terrorist opened fire again
and was killed. Afterward, the commanding

officer came to update Chananel. Hearing
that the baby had been named, he asked what
the name was.
“Ravid Chaim.”
The officer became visibly emotional and
stepped away. A few moments later he
returned and quietly said, “My name is Ravid
Chaim.” Chananel embraced him.
In a devastating continuation of tragedy, baby
Ravid Chaim passed away after fighting for
fifteen days. At the funeral in Yerushalayim,
his father sang HaMalach HaGoel.
In moments like these, we struggle to
understand what remains after so much
has been shattered. There are moments in
Jewish history and in Jewish life when grief
feels unbearable and destruction appears
complete. Yet the Torah teaches us that even
when something sacred is broken, something
deeper and more enduring survives.
When Moshe Rabbeinu descended Har Sinai
carrying the luchos and saw the Jewish people
worshipping the eigel, he threw the luchos
from his hands and shattered them beneath
the mountain. Chazal explain that at that
moment the holiness had already departed.
באויר פורחות אותיות. The letters had flown

from the stone. The luchos shattered, but the
letters endured.
That striking phrase appears one other time
in Chazal. The Gemara in Avodah Zarah
describes the martyrdom of Rabbi Chanina
ben Teradyon during the Roman persecution
of Torah study. Despite the decree forbidding
Torah learning, he continued teaching
publicly. The Romans wrapped him in a
Sefer Torah and set him ablaze, surrounding
him with wet wool to prolong his suffering.
As their rebbe burned before them, his
students asked, “Rebbe, what do you see?”
At first glance, the question seems strange.
What was there to see? But perhaps they
were asking something much deeper. What
becomes of Torah when its enemies try to
burn it? What remains of the Jewish people
after destruction? What will be with us now?
Rabbi Chanina answered with words that
have echoed throughout Jewish history ever
since.
parchment The .גוילין נשרפין ואותיות פורחות”
burns, but the letters soar.”
Torah always has two dimensions. There is
the parchment and there are the letters. There
is the physical form and there is the eternal
spirit within it. The parchment can burn
and the stone can shatter, but the letters,
the ideas, values, faith, and covenant they
contain, cannot be destroyed.
Perhaps this is one of the deepest
messages of Shavuos. Kabbalas HaTorah
was never only about receiving stone
tablets or parchment scrolls. It was about
receiving eternal letters. The Torah can
be written on stone, parchment, paper,
or screens, but its essence lives beyond
the material that contains it. The physical
form may change or even be attacked, but
the Torah itself continues to soar through
generations of Jews who carry it within
them.
That is the story of the Jewish people.
Empires have tried to erase us. They
destroyed our Batei Mikdash, burned
Batei Midrash, expelled communities,
and murdered generations. Yet the letters
continued to soar.
Perhaps Rabbi Chanina himself drew
strength from Moshe Rabbeinu. Moshe
understood that although the luchos
could shatter, the letters would survive.
The essence of Torah was never confined
to stone.
Rav Asher Weiss notes that Chazal
compare every human being to a Sefer
Torah. We rise for both. We mourn
both. Both possess sanctity beyond their
physical form. A person too contains
parchment and letters, a body and a soul.
The body may perish, but the letters
endure.
The word פורחות does not only mean “to
soar.” It also carries the sense of blossoming
and growth. The letters do not merely survive
destruction. They continue onward. They
take root elsewhere. They create new life.
That is true of Torah. It is true of the Jewish
people. And it is true of those we have lost.
Chananel Gez described his wife by saying, “I
was married to an angel.” He spoke about the
countless people she helped through therapy,
trauma counseling, anxiety treatment, and
emotional support. Then he said something
extraordinary. “We’re still learning from her
after her death. We’re getting strength from
her. We’re learning how to cope with tragedy
from her.”
The terrorist destroyed Tze’ela’s body, but
her letters still soar. Her kindness, her faith,
her courage, her voice, and her impact on
others were not buried.
At the heartbreaking funeral for Ravid
Chaim, his father said it was time for the
newborn baby to go back to his mother.
He spoke of the unbreakable spirit of the
Jewish people and their belief in God. After
the burial, surrounded by grieving family,
friends, and even strangers, Chananel began
singing HaMalach HaGoel, the song parents
sing to their children before sleep.
On Shavuos we celebrate not only that Torah
was given once, but that it continues to live
within us now. Every Jew who learns Torah,
lives Torah, teaches Torah, and transmits
Torah becomes part of those eternal letters.
These past years have been filled with war,
loss, and rising antisemitism. Our enemies
have attacked the parchment of the Jewish
people. They have destroyed bodies, homes,
and even communities. But they cannot
destroy the letters.
The letters continue to soar even in hospitals
and certainly in batei midrash, through
soldiers and mourners, through parents
singing HaMalach HaGoel at unimaginable
moments of loss. They soar through every
Jew who still believes, still learns, still builds,
and still sings.
That is the promise of Torah and that is the
story of the Jewish people.