The Mosaic on the Wall: A Community Built Piece by Piece

Since the opening of Esti’s Playground, I often find myself walking past it, drawn in by the unmistakable sounds of children laughing, playing, and simply being children. For me, there is something deeply moving about those sounds, something that makes me pause and take it in. This is not just any playground. It is a meaningful and sacred space. A place where children can explore and play, where values can be learned, where families gather, and where community is alive.

At the formal dedication of the playground, something very special took place. Hundreds of children from our community participated in a meaningful project. Each child was given a single tile and the freedom to decorate it with something fun, creative, or personal. No two tiles were the same. Each reflected the personality, imagination, and heart of the child who created it.

This week, those tiles were formally installed at the playground, forming a beautiful mural lovingly created by the children of BRS. A very special thank you to Lisa Pinkis and Shari Haik for their vision, creativity, and dedication in designing and bringing this extraordinary mural to life.

As the mural was being installed, children naturally began to gather around it. One by one, they scanned the wall, searching eagerly for their own tile. When they found it, their faces lit up. Watching this unfold, it became clear that the mural serves an additional and deeper purpose. It captures the essence of our community.

Our community is one big, beautiful mosaic.

We are not homogenous or monolithic. Our strength and our greatness comes from our diversity. Young and old. Sephardic and Ashkenazi. Chassidic and Chabad. Participants in our outreach programs, or those who come primarily for learning, for chessed, for Israel advocacy, and everything in between. Like Baskin Robbins, it is our many flavors that make us special. Together, we form a tapestry rich with color, texture, and meaning.

And yet, like those children standing before the mural, it is essential that each individual finds their own place within it.

I grew up in a smaller community where a strong “every Jew counts” feeling was simply part of daily life. Sometimes that meant getting a phone call at 6:45 in the morning because the shul was short a few people for a minyan, and you were needed. In a small community, you come to minyan because if you don’t show up, there may not be a minyan. You attend the shul dinner because if people don’t come, there simply won’t be one. Participation isn’t optional; it’s understood. You know that if you don’t give of your time, your presence, or your resources, things just won’t happen.

Boca is different. Being part of a large shul, Baruch Hashem, comes with tremendous advantages. We can offer robust adult education, vibrant youth programming, a menu of minyanim, countless learning opportunities, and meaningful social and communal experiences.

But there is also a challenge that comes with being part of something so big.

The greatest challenge, I believe, is the quiet temptation to say, “Why me? Let someone else do it.” In a large community, it’s easy to assume that if I miss minyan, someone else will make it. If I skip the class this week, others will fill the seats. If I don’t step up or give generously, someone else will surely give more.

But no matter how tempting it may be, “someone else will do it” is not a valid excuse. Because if every individual thinks that way, nothing gets done.

The one common denominator shared by every human being is this: every single one of us is uniquely needed. Each of us was created with a distinct set of gifts, talents, strengths, and abilities. But Hashem did not give us those gifts to keep to ourselves. He gave them to us so that we could contribute, to our families, to our community, and to the world around us.

That contribution takes many forms.

Some people contribute in moments of need, offering help, support, or comfort when it matters most.

Others contribute through consistency, showing up week after week, quietly keeping things running behind the scenes.

Some contribute by creating warmth and belonging, greeting others with a smile, noticing who is new, or making people feel seen.

Others bring energy, joy, and lightness, turning ordinary moments into something memorable.

And some contribute by learning, growing, and striving to become better versions of themselves.

Each of these roles matters and each is a vital piece of the whole.

This idea is especially present in the parshiyos we are now reading. As the Jewish people leave Egypt, they do not emerge merely as individuals who were once enslaved, but as a nation. At Har Sinai, they receive the Torah not because they were identical, but because they stood united. They were twelve distinct tribes, each with its own flag, identity, and mission, yet all bound together by a shared destiny and purpose.

Yet, the goal was never uniformity. The goal was for each Jew to take the Torah and the experience of being part of a people and make it their own. To find their unique voice within it, and to ask: What is my role? What is my contribution?

Over the past few years, in our personal lives, Arielle and I have seen this truth play out in countless ways. We learned that everyone has something to give. Some gave through action, others through presence. Some through sensitivity, others through practical support or simply by being there. The forms were different, but the message was the same: every person matters, and every contribution counts.

That is what makes a community strong.

A mosaic is not beautiful because every piece looks the same. It is beautiful because each piece is different, and each one belongs exactly where it is. Remove even one, and something is missing.

The mural at Esti’s Playground is more than something to admire, it is something to learn from. Step back from the mural and you see something beautiful. Step closer, and you see something even more important: individual tiles, each different, each necessary. That is how communities are built, not from a distance, but up close, piece by piece, person by person.

And standing before it, each of us is gently invited to ask: where do I see myself in the mosaic?