“I BELONG!”

(For the SoundCloud audio, scroll down)

The modern thinker and social philosopher Brené Brown writes that: “True belonging doesn’t require you to change who you are; it requires you to be who you are.” It’s a powerful idea — that real belonging isn’t about fitting in; it’s about being seen, accepted, and valued for exactly who you are.

In a world where we’re constantly encouraged to edit ourselves, curate our lives, and conform to expectations, this kind of authentic connection can feel rare — even revolutionary.

I’ve spent the last few days haunted by a simple, handwritten note. It wasn’t particularly long and didn’t come from a famous philosopher or great thinker. But it carried more meaning than a hundred speeches ever could.

It came from the backpack of Hillel Nehemiah Ofen, a 20-year-old IDF soldier who tragically collapsed and died during a training exercise last week. The day after Hillel’s funeral, Israeli journalist and author Tsur Ehrlich shared a remarkable discovery on social media: a handwritten note found in Hillel’s backpack.

“This note,” Ehrlich wrote on Facebook, “belongs in the pocket of every Jew. It’s a profound meditation on identity, on life, on what it means to be part of something bigger than yourself. In the midst of a kind of social heatstroke that’s overtaken us, Hillel’s words are like a cool drink of water—reviving, grounding, and deeply human.”

The note began with two powerful words: “Ani Shayach!” – “I belong.”

And it didn’t stop there. Hillel expanded the thought with breathtaking simplicity: “I belong – to my family, to my people, to the land of Israel. I belong to love. I belong to fear. I belong to hope and to disappointment. I belong to joy and to pain. I belong to this moment.”

Who writes like that? It’s profound. The thoughtful words of a soldier in the prime of life, reflecting on his future, somehow channel something timeless — even eternal.

In a world increasingly obsessed with individualism, self-branding, and curating flawless images for public consumption, here was a young man who had peeled all of that away. No filters. No hashtags. Just a raw, honest declaration of connection — to people, to place, to purpose.

And that’s when it struck me: this wasn’t just a private reflection scribbled by a young man on the cusp of adulthood. It was a sacred manifesto — reminding himself, and all of us, that real strength doesn’t come from standing apart. It comes from showing up. For each other. For our communities. For something greater than ourselves.

And as fate (or providence) would have it, this week’s Torah portion, Pekudei, makes precisely that point — in a different register, but no less powerful. Let me explain.

Pekudei is the final portion in the Book of Exodus — and let’s be honest, it’s the part many people skim or skip altogether. It’s filled with endless inventories of materials used in the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary the Israelites built in the wilderness. Gold clasps, silver sockets, blue and purple yarn, lists of beams and curtains — it reads like divine DIY instructions for a holy IKEA project.

But buried in all that detail is something deeply profound. Because the Mishkan wasn’t just a mobile synagogue — it was a collective creation, a spiritual home that every Jew had a stake in.

The wood was donated. The fabrics were hand-woven by members of the community. The silver came from the half-shekel that everyone contributed — rich or poor, no exceptions. Every person was part of it. Every soul was counted. Every Jew belonged.

And here’s the point: God doesn’t need a house. Let’s be honest — the Mishkan wasn’t for Him. It was for them. The people needed it. They needed a place that declared: We are here. We matter. We belong.

Just like Hillel Nehemiah Ofen. His quiet note, tucked into a backpack, was his own small contribution to the broader Mishkan — a deeply personal acknowledgment of his role in his family, his people, and his country. And in making that contribution, he uncovered something essential: “I belong.”

Hillel wrote it without fanfare, without drama — just truth. In doing so, he echoed Pekudei’s deeper message: that belonging doesn’t just happen. It’s not accidental. It’s something we must build and recognize — with care, with intention, thread by thread, soul by soul.

And maybe that’s what we’ve started to forget in our modern world. We’ve built towers of success, of status, of innovation. But somewhere along the way, we’ve stopped noticing the granular, sacred details — the threads and clasps that bind us to one another.

The Mishkan wasn’t about the grandeur of the finished product. It was about the togetherness, the humility, and the shared identity embedded in every piece. It was a space where everyone mattered. A space where everyone belonged.

Hillel saw that – and with his passing, he gave us that message. His note, written for himself, wasn’t just about himself. It was a blueprint, made up of feelings and fears and hopes — with space in it for everyone. It included not only love and pride, but also doubt, pain, and vulnerability. He understood what it meant to be whole and part of something holy.

And here’s the deeper truth: belonging isn’t simply a warm, fuzzy feeling. It’s an obligation. It’s on each of us to make space for others, to invite them in, to say: You are part of this, just like I’m part of this. You matter. You are not alone.

That’s what the Mishkan did. That’s what Hillel’s note does. And that’s what we must do.

So here’s a thought for this Shabbat, as we read Pekudei and close out Sefer Shemot: Let’s ask ourselves — Where is my Mishkan? What am I building that brings people in? That helps others feel seen, valued, and connected enough to say, “I belong” — as Hillel did so simply and so powerfully: “I belong — to my family, to my community, to my people, to this moment.”

We need to remember that we are all architects of belonging. Every kind word, every act of generosity, every moment of presence — these are the silver sockets and golden threads of a modern-day Mishkan.

May we merit to build it with the same love, clarity, and quiet strength that Hillel carried in his heart. And may we all one day look around — at our homes, our communities, our people — and say, in unison and without hesitation: “Ani Shayach.” I belong.