I call it a social experiment.
Others call it brave.
Some call it naive.
I just call it necessary.
Since launching Rabbi On Demand, I’ve set up a simple sign in public spaces: “I’m a Rabbi. Come over and ask me a question.”
I’ve done this in seven locations so far:
☀️ Bondi Beach
🌊 Maroubra
🎓 Sydney University
🌄 The Blue Mountains
🌉 Princes Bridge in Melbourne
🌍 The India Gate in Delhi (on a four-hour layover!)
🌴 And most recently—Tel Aviv Beach
Just me. A small table. A chair or two. And the invitation: Let’s talk. About anything.
And people do talk. Hundreds have stopped by; Jews. Christians. Muslims. Hindus. Atheists. Locals. Tourists. Students. Seekers.
Some want to know what a rabbi thinks about Israel. Some ask about God. About pain. About why bad things happen. About whether there’s hope.
One man asked me to explain the meaning of life in under five words. (I won’t spoil my answer.)
Another—a Jewish student at Sydney Uni—unleashed a tirade of self-loathing and rage while I was quietly speaking with a group of non-Jewish students. And in a strange twist of grace, it was the non-Jewish student who turned to me and said: “I’m so sorry. That was uncalled for.” That moment opened the door to an even deeper conversation, about belonging, about identity, about fear and dignity.
At Sydney Uni, I was asked to leave by security. My presence, they said, might be “provocative.” Meanwhile, hundreds of tents stayed standing—festering with hate, unchecked.
And yet, I keep showing up.
Because for every aggressive encounter, there are ten more filled with light.
Like the Pakistani man who came over to thank me. His father, he told me, was being treated at Tel HaShomer hospital in Israel. He was deeply grateful.
Or in Delhi, where I stood melting in 45° heat, wearing my kippah in front of the India Gate. There, I became a curiosity. Then a symbol. People from every faith came to shake my hand, take a photo, and say: “Thank you for standing proud.”
Or in Tel Aviv, where the questions gave way to hugs. We didn’t need to say much. We just held each other. Because whether we’re in Australia, India, or Israel, we’re one people. We feel it in our bones.
- I started this project with a hunch:
- That the silent majority of Australians are decent.
- That they reject the horror of October 7.
- That they believe in decency, dignity, democracy.
- That they want to understand, not accuse.
And you know what? I still believe that. Because I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it. One conversation at a time.
This isn’t about being right. It’s about being human. It’s about trying. About refusing to give up on dialogue.
About showing up vulnerably, visibly, Jewishly and saying: “Let’s talk. Really talk.”
Because if we can sit together ask, listen, wrestle with truth maybe we can begin to heal something.
That’s why I do it. That’s why I’ll keep doing it.
And those conversations? They stay with me.
