Over Shabbat, another Israeli soldier was killed protecting the people of Israel.
Captain Maoz Israel Recanati was only twenty-four years old. A Golani commander. Quiet, disciplined, deeply loved. The kind of young man who did not need to announce his greatness because everyone around him already knew it. His rabbis described him as humble and God-fearing. His family described him as joyful, modest, and full of life. One relative said his smile “reached the heavens.” In another universe, this week would have looked very different. Maoz was supposed to marry his fiancée, Rani, next month. The two met while studying in Itamar. He learned in the yeshiva, the traditional Jewish study hall, and she studied in the women’s seminary connected to it. They were not only planning a wedding. They were preparing to build a home. Instead, Israel buried another son. After his death, one of the images that began circulating was a copy of their wedding invitation. It is almost unbearable to look at. The date. The names. The promise of joy. The life that was supposed to be waiting just around the corner. And then there was the verse they had chosen.
In Israel, many young couples place a verse from the Hebrew Bible on their wedding invitations. Usually there is a watercolor of Jerusalem, a soft scene of the hills of Israel, or delicate Hebrew lettering that gives the whole invitation a sense of holiness and hope. Maoz and Rani chose a verse from Ezekiel 16. Not Song of Songs. Not Psalms. But Ezekiel 16.
Ezekiel 16 is not an easy chapter. It is one of the most emotionally intense chapters in the entire Tanach, the Hebrew Bible. The prophet describes Jerusalem as an abandoned infant, cast aside and left to die. God rescues her, raises her, clothes her, gives her beauty and dignity, and enters into covenant with her. Then comes betrayal, destruction, humiliation, and heartbreak. And yet near the end of the chapter comes this astonishing promise:
Why would a young engaged couple choose that verse for their wedding invitation?
Maybe because they understood something our generation desperately needs to relearn. Real love is not fragile. It does not disappear the moment life becomes complicated. It remembers. It returns. It remains. It stands in the wreckage and says: We are still bound to each other. That is true in marriage. And it is true in our relationship with God.
Lately, I have been thinking about this a lot as a parent as well. For a long time, when my children were emotionally overwhelmed, I would to tell them things like: “You are having a hard time, but you are not a hard kid.” A lovely and meaningful sentiment, and honestly, I still believe that is true. Children are not defined by their worst moments. Human beings are not reducible to their failures. The Bible rejects that idea from beginning to end. But I eventually realized that those words alone were not what actually calmed my children down. What regulated them was this: “I’m here. We are going to get through this together. You are not alone.”
That is the message underneath Ezekiel 16. Yes, the chapter contains rebuke. Yes, there is accountability. The Hebrew Bible does not romanticize bad behavior. God does not pretend betrayal is holiness. But the final message is not abandonment. The final message is covenant. I will remember you. I will not leave. We will rebuild.
That is how healthy people are formed. That is how healthy families are formed. Not through empty slogans about self-esteem, and not through rage disguised as discipline. People are built through truth, responsibility, and the knowledge that someone strong is still standing beside them. Children do not learn love from lectures. They learn love when they fall apart and discover that the adults in their lives are still there. Firm. Clear. Unafraid. Present.
A young Israeli couple put that truth on their wedding invitation before the groom went out to war. Their hope, and blessing for themselves, was that their life would be bound on this eternal covenant with one another. After Maoz’s death, the verse reads differently than it did before. It is no longer only a beautiful line chosen for a wedding. It is a charge to the living. An eternal covenant is not a promise of a life without pain. It is a promise that even in pain, we remain responsible for one another.
In memory of Captain Maoz Israel Recanati, may God avenge his blood, who fell defending the national home of the Jewish people just weeks before he was meant to build a home of his own.
