T

hen something unimaginable happened. My mother, once involved in the fashion industry and as far from observant Judaism as one could imagine, attended an Arachim seminar in Los Angeles and began keeping Shabbat. She urged me to attend a seminar weekend with her. Curious but skeptical, I went along. I figured that at best, I’d hear some interesting lectures, and at worst, I’d be a bit bored but would enjoy good food and time with my mom. What I didn’t expect was that the seminar would open my mind to entirely new possibilities.

I’m analytical by nature and was deeply affected by the logical arguments presented. But simultaneously, I found myself facing an existential crisis — my life as a musician, which comprised my whole identity then, was fundamentally at odds with the Torah observance I was discovering. For a while, I tried to navigate the conflict, studying Torah when I could while continuing to play, but I soon realized that there was a deep void within me that fame, money, and attention wouldn’t fill.

It was becoming painfully clear to me that it wasn’t realistic to stay in the band but also become Torah observant. I also realized that if I was going to make a change, it would need to be quick and sudden, like ripping off a bandage. Otherwise, I would likely never make the change.

It was a tumultuous time; I felt like my soul was being torn in two. During that difficult period, I drew strength from the story of Nachshon ben Aminadav. When Bnei Yisrael were trapped at the sea, Hashem told Moshe, “Why do you cry out to Me? Tell the children of Israel to go forward.” Nachshon understood that to merit a miracle, action was required. He realized he had to show mesirut nefesh and Hashem would do the rest.

I had been in touch with Rabbi Yaakov Bachrach, head of Yeshivas Ohr Yisrael in Monsey, a yeshivah for baalei teshuvah with atypical backgrounds, and then, one early winter morning in 2004, I took the plunge. I called Rabbi Bachrach and told him I was getting on a plane and coming to Monsey to study in his yeshivah. I was supposed to be playing a show that week on Friday night at the Troubadour club in Los Angeles, but I didn’t want to be mechallel one more Shabbat. I also knew I didn’t have the strength to face my bandmates — they were childhood friends, and I knew they’d try to convince me to stay, at least until they found a replacement. They’d have all sorts of logical and reasonable arguments, but I feared that if I waited, I might never find the strength or the siyata d’Shmaya to leave.

So I wrote them a letter, left it in the rehearsal hall, canceled my cell phone, packed only my essentials and tefillin, and flew to New York. As of the next day, I was a 21-year-old yeshivah bochur.

A

djusting was tough, very tough. My family (except for my mother) thought I was crazy. But over time, they saw it was the best decision I’d ever made. After spending some time in yeshivah in Monsey, I moved to Israel, continued my studies, married, and eventually began developing and delivering lectures for Arachim, the same organization that had sparked my own teshuvah journey.

For seven years, I traveled across Israel giving PowerPoint-based lectures — sometimes to hundreds, sometimes to just a handful of attendees. I spoke in almost every city and yishuv in the country, at least four nights a week. Those were some of the most fulfilling years of my life.

But studying in kollel and lecturing don’t usually pay much, and with a growing family, I felt the stress of providing for them. I’d always been told I should be a lawyer — I loved to argue and debate — so I decided to go to law school. I told myself it was for financial security, but in truth, Hashem was guiding me to the next stage.

I excelled in law school, secured an internship at one of Israel’s top international firms, and later passed the California Bar Exam, opening my own family law practice in San Diego.

Slowly but surely, work took over. I lost the fiery passion of that early baal teshuvah who had once been willing to jump into the sea for Hashem and His Torah. I was still keeping mitzvot, but more out of habit — without the same sense of closeness to Hashem, without actively striving for deeper connection. Work began to consume me, and Shabbat started to feel less like a spiritual anchor and more like an inconvenient pause that interrupted all the “important” cases and deadlines preoccupying my mind.

As a family lawyer, you’re often dealing with otherwise good, normative people whose lives are unraveling before their eyes, bringing out their worst behavior. I handled some very difficult and emotionally charged cases — domestic violence, child custody, international move-aways, and contested property divisions. Managing these kinds of high-stakes, emotionally charged cases took a real toll on me over the years.

Hashem had blessed me with great success as an attorney, and parnassah was no longer an issue. But over time, I started to feel again like that young guitar player, missing his true calling.

IN

2021, tragedy struck: My uncle and cousin (father and son) both passed away from COVID-19 within two weeks of each other. As the family attorney and close relative, I handled most of their affairs. Their passing profoundly affected me, reminding me that Hashem didn’t put me on this earth to perform mitzvot mechanically or to chase financial success until my hair turned gray.

I began flying to Monsey a few times a year to reconnect with the yeshivah and study Torah with Rabbi Bachrach. During those visits, we began discussing the ideas that would become my book — Judaism: A Rational Approach. My goal was to frame the Divinity of the Torah and the oral tradition through a cumulative legal test of probability and reason — the same standard people use in their everyday decisions.

Take, for example, the simple act of getting on a flight. Ninety-nine percent of passengers can’t explain the physics of flight or know anything about the pilot’s mental state, yet they get on the plane because life experience tells them it’s highly probable the flight will arrive safely. We make all kinds of decisions in life based on what’s most probable. Historical accounts and the validity of religious traditions deserve the same standard. If the cumulative weight of evidence shows that no human being could have authored the Torah, then accepting its Divine authorship should follow as the most logical conclusion.

When I asked myself why Hashem had steered me from delivering Torah lectures to legal practice, the answer seemed clear: to prepare me to write this book and share these arguments for the benefit of the Klal Yisrael. With Rabbi Bachrach’s encouragement, that’s exactly what I did.

Today, my family and I have moved back to Israel. My law practice now runs in a limited consulting capacity, and I’ve returned to focusing on learning, teaching, and drawing closer to Hashem. The rest of my story is still unfolding, but I pray that, especially in these challenging times for Klal Yisrael, Hashem grants us all the strength to be like Nachshon ben Aminadav — to take the leap of faith and serve Him with true mesirut nefesh.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1089)