For as long as I can remember, my life was singularly focused on one dream: working in sports. First, I dreamed of being an athlete, but at 5’8” and without the build of a professional, I quickly realized I wasn’t destined to be a Jewish running back. Then I turned my sights to becoming a general manager – until the thought of law school convinced me otherwise. Finally, I found my calling: sports media. With a natural gift for communication, I poured everything into this pursuit.
While my friends dated and others found faith or meaning in religion, I was laser-focused on my career. I started at my college radio station, launched my own New York Jets podcast for SB Nation, and even worked for Pro Football Focus for minimal pay, solely to build my resumé. I was all in. But even as I dedicated myself to this career path, there were moments – strange, almost unexplainable moments – that seemed to suggest something greater was at play in my life.
At that time, my connection to G-d was tenuous. I didn’t see the Torah as anything uniquely Divine, but leaned on philosophical arguments for G-d’s existence. I began putting on tefillin daily for the first time in nearly five years, more out of a transactional hope – a gumball machine theology – than genuine devotion. I figured if I gave something to G-d, maybe He’d give something back.
But then the coincidences started piling up. At pivotal moments of introspection, my music playlist would shuffle to songs that spoke directly to my thoughts. When you have a playlist with 1,200 songs, each track’s position is pre-determined by the algorithm – yet it’s impossible to predict where your mind will be when a specific song plays. Here are just a few examples:
The Fight: I was dropping off a friend after an argument, thinking to myself, “You know what? He’s a good guy. I shouldn’t let this ruin things.” Just then, “He’s Alright” by Kurt Vile came on.
The Paranoia: One Friday night, I was breaking both Shabbat and my parents’ rules, smoking marijuana in the basement. Paranoid about every little noise, the song “Paranoid” by Kanye West started playing. “Why are you so paranoid?” rang out, perfectly describing my state of mind.
The Rejection: After not getting a job with the NFL in California, I went for a bike ride in Prospect Park, consoling myself by thinking, “California’s a fake place full of materialism and fake people. It’s not for me.” At that moment, “Lost in Hollywood” by System of a Down played, with the lyrics: “You should’ve never gone to Hollywood.”
These weren’t isolated incidents. They happened so often, and with such precision, that I couldn’t chalk them up to random chance. It felt like G-d was communicating with me through the music, offering winks of reassurance.
Reflecting on these experiences, I can’t help but draw a parallel to this week’s parsha, Miketz, and the story of Joseph. Rabbi Dr. Jeremy England points out that in last week’s parsha, Parshat Vayeshev, when Joseph is sold by his brothers and taken to Egypt, the Torah notes that the Ishmaelites transporting him were carrying “nechot u’tz’ri va’lot,” balm, balsam, and ladanum (Genesis 37:25). Rashi points out that this was unusual; typically, they transported foul-smelling goods. This anomaly is seen as G-d’s way of comforting Joseph, a small but poignant reminder that He was present, even in the midst of Joseph’s suffering.
Later on in this week’s parsha, when Jacob sends gifts to the Egyptian viceroy (unbeknownst to him, his son Joseph), he chooses these exact same spices: balm, balsam, and labdanum (43:11). For Joseph, this must have been a striking moment, a divine “wink” connecting his painful past to his present redemption. It was too precise to be coincidence, a reminder that G-d’s hand had been guiding him all along.
This mirrors the iconic psychologist Carl Jung’s concept of synchronicity: meaningful coincidences that are not causally linked but resonate deeply with the individual experiencing them. For Joseph, the recurrence of these spices was a message tailored to him alone, affirming G-d’s presence in his life. Similarly, my playlist moments felt like Divine winks, too specific to dismiss as random.
When I was interviewing for a position at Bleacher Report, I felt confident. I had done everything in my power and was notified to keep a look out for an e-mail on a specific day informing me whether I got the job. That evening, having not received the promised e-mail, I played poker with friends but couldn’t focus. As I drove home, I prayed aloud: “G-d, I’ve done everything I can, both spiritually and physically, to earn this job. I need to know if I’m getting it.”
In a moment of doubt, I added, “Maybe this music thing is just a coincidence. Maybe it’s all confirmation bias.” And then, almost recklessly, I challenged G-d: I shuffled my entire playlist of 1,200 songs. The first song to play was “19-2000 (Soulchild Remix)” by The Gorillaz. The opening lyrics repeat over and over: “It’s the music that you choose.”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. The timing was too perfect, too precise to ignore. My doubt evaporated, replaced by a knowing smile. Whether I got the job or not, I knew in that moment that G-d was real, and He was with me. The next day, I got the job.
After years of striving to break into sports media, working for Bleacher Report and later Sports Illustrated was the fulfillment of my lifelong dream. But it wasn’t enough. That experience, that Divine wink, changed me. I had a new goal: to know G-d.
My journey into Judaism deepened alongside my career. What began as small steps – putting on tefillin, keeping Shabbat, studying Torah – evolved into a life centered around Torah and mitzvot. Looking back, I see how every step of my journey was guided, even the painful ones. Just as Joseph was comforted by the spices carried by the Ishmaelites and later saw their significance in Jacob’s gifts, I now see how G-d was weaving my story.
Some may see these events as mere coincidence, but the Hebrew word for coincidence, mikreh, is an anagram of rak me’H(ashem) – only from G-d. These moments weren’t random. They were Hashem’s way of saying, “I am here.”
I’ve since realized that these Divine winks aren’t meant for everyone else to understand. They’re personal messages from G-d, tailored to the individual experiencing them. And when you open your eyes to the possibility, you’ll start to see them too.
