 | Opinions and arguments. War. Antisemitism. Elusive hopes for peace. Pride and prejudice. Morality in the crosshairs. What we're about. What we want to be about. What we crave to be about. And back to opinions and arguments, and war, and antisemitism.... Amidst the swirling chaos of the year that's been, and so much hurt still ongoing, what keystones to Jewish spiritual life can secure our foundations? What can help keep our hearts open amidst all? |
By Rabbi David Evan Markus
Note: These remarks touch on current Mideast turmoil. New York's Rules Governing Judicial Conduct ban me from making public comment that might cause my impartiality reasonably to be questioned, including about the Mideast conflict's root causes or the merits of views about it. Instead, I focus on six love-based cornerstones of Jewish life that can secure spiritual foundations even amidst the tumult of war and hate.
Gut yontif on this holy Yom Kippur day that summons our all to face it all – and emerge, we pray, truly renewed in heart and spirit.
Appropriately for Yom Kippur, I begin with my own repentance. One year ago today, on the 50th anniversary of the 1973 Yom Kippur War, I stood at this pulpit and said that if a just and lasting peace comes to the Mideast, it’ll emerge from the Yom Kippur War’s aftermath.
Just days later was October 7.
A U.S.-designated terror group الإسلامية المقاومة حركة (Harakat al-Muqawamah al-Islamiyyah) – whose acronym is HaMaS – invaded Israel, murdered 1,200 innocents and took 252 hostages into Gaza. The attack by Hamas, in power since Gaza’s 2007 civil war, was to Israel like 13 9/11s, the worst one-day Jewish slaughter since the Holocaust. But unlike 9/11 in the U.S., a majority of Israelis knew the victims of October 7, and hits kept coming. The next day, another U.S.-designated terror group حزب الله (Hezbollah), controlling south Lebanon since Lebanon's 1990 civil war, joined the fray; then Houthi rebels, who seized power in Yemen’s civil war; and now Iran.
Wars followed in Gaza between Israel and Hamas, and Lebanon between Israel and Hezbollah – over 40,000 dead, millions displaced, awful carnage. Many of us are triggered by violence there, antisemitism here, and moral ambiguity corroding communities and even families. Jewish hearts here and around the world are bruised and battered.
Given everything since last Yom Kippur, on this Yom Kippur I hear five callings. First, speak to the Jewish soul. Second, uplift our love theme amidst war and hate. Third, fulfill my rabbinic duty to honor diverse views without moral relativism. Fourth, fulfill my judicial ethics duty to honor my civic neutrality. Fifth, revisit my words from last year.
When I reviewed my sermon from last year, however, my comments about peace growing out of the Yom Kippur War's ashes weren't there. I didn't write it, but my longing for a just and lasting peace needed to speak, so I went off script. I apologize that I over-spoke then and that my words are sure to be imperfect now. No community fully agrees on anything. Little about Jewish life is more impassioned than Israel, and ethically I can’t speak publicly on many Mideast issues.
What I can do, and today feel called to do, is explore six cornerstones of Jewish life to secure our spiritual foundation even amidst earthquakes of war and hate:
Note: These remarks touch on current Mideast turmoil. New York's Rules Governing Judicial Conduct ban me from making public comment that might cause my impartiality reasonably to be questioned, including about the Mideast conflict's root causes or the merits of views about it. Instead, I focus on six love-based cornerstones of Jewish life that can secure spiritual foundations even amidst the tumult of war and hate.
Gut yontif on this holy Yom Kippur day that summons our all to face it all – and emerge, we pray, truly renewed in heart and spirit.
Appropriately for Yom Kippur, I begin with my own repentance. One year ago today, on the 50th anniversary of the 1973 Yom Kippur War, I stood at this pulpit and said that if a just and lasting peace comes to the Mideast, it’ll emerge from the Yom Kippur War’s aftermath.
Just days later was October 7.
A U.S.-designated terror group الإسلامية المقاومة حركة (Harakat al-Muqawamah al-Islamiyyah) – whose acronym is HaMaS – invaded Israel, murdered 1,200 innocents and took 252 hostages into Gaza. The attack by Hamas, in power since Gaza’s 2007 civil war, was to Israel like 13 9/11s, the worst one-day Jewish slaughter since the Holocaust. But unlike 9/11 in the U.S., a majority of Israelis knew the victims of October 7, and hits kept coming. The next day, another U.S.-designated terror group حزب الله (Hezbollah), controlling south Lebanon since Lebanon's 1990 civil war, joined the fray; then Houthi rebels, who seized power in Yemen’s civil war; and now Iran.
Wars followed in Gaza between Israel and Hamas, and Lebanon between Israel and Hezbollah – over 40,000 dead, millions displaced, awful carnage. Many of us are triggered by violence there, antisemitism here, and moral ambiguity corroding communities and even families. Jewish hearts here and around the world are bruised and battered.
Given everything since last Yom Kippur, on this Yom Kippur I hear five callings. First, speak to the Jewish soul. Second, uplift our love theme amidst war and hate. Third, fulfill my rabbinic duty to honor diverse views without moral relativism. Fourth, fulfill my judicial ethics duty to honor my civic neutrality. Fifth, revisit my words from last year.
When I reviewed my sermon from last year, however, my comments about peace growing out of the Yom Kippur War's ashes weren't there. I didn't write it, but my longing for a just and lasting peace needed to speak, so I went off script. I apologize that I over-spoke then and that my words are sure to be imperfect now. No community fully agrees on anything. Little about Jewish life is more impassioned than Israel, and ethically I can’t speak publicly on many Mideast issues.
What I can do, and today feel called to do, is explore six cornerstones of Jewish life to secure our spiritual foundation even amidst earthquakes of war and hate:
- We understand less than we think.
- Antisemitism needs no reason but will find one.
- There are real majorities for peace.
- Sometimes war and love must co-exist.
- Zionism is more than Jewish self-determination.
- When our master story crashes, lean in.
First: We understand less than we think. The Mideast features the world’s most complex geopolitics. Places pulse with historical, cultural and spiritual meaning for multiple religions. What's more, each is politically divided, tugged by global powers. News reports are polarized and vary by language: the news we receive in English isn't the same in Hebrew, or Arabic, or Farsi (the main language of Iran). Plus, Israel is tiny in ways that make everything deeply felt. In Israel, there is nowhere far away. Most everything is "local."
So most of us here in the U.S. don’t get what it’s like to live there, whether as an Israeli or as a Palestinian – fear, checkpoints, indignities, vigilantes both Arab and now also Jewish wreaking havoc, a continuing cycle of violence, life lived in the shadow of lifelessness. By age five, Israelis learn words like צבע אדום (red alert), פיגוע (attack) and ממד (safe room). Few Palestinians even have safe rooms.
We can’t understand, yet too often many claim certainty. A land beloved to any people will evoke passion, and love can fuel strong views. We crave a Judaism of love and ethics, yet now every day we see war. Dissonance between pride and grief can overload our circuits. To some, the Mideast is a Third Rail not to be touched. To others, the Mideast must be discussed in order to be true to values and rightness according to one faith, or another, or three. No wonder it’s been so hard – and that's without antisemitism and all the rest.
Opinions and passion help make us who we are, but they’re not real understanding. About the Mideast, we all understand less than we think. Without humility about what we think we know, we risk sacrificing empathy on the altar of false certainty. Whatever our views, excess certainty can dehumanize. Only genuine humility and curiosity – not moral ambiguity or false equivalency, but the mental-emotional discipline of holding complexity and nuance – can keep our tender hearts from hardening.
Which goes to our second cornerstone: Antisemitism needs no reason but will find one. As Ambassador Deborah Lipstadt teaches, antisemitism – treating Jews worse because we're Jews – is the world's oldest and most irrational hate. Some academicians trace it back to Judaism's start among a nomadic tribe often unwelcome, and then to Israel’s geography as a ancient land bridge for conquerors moving between three continents.
But antisemitism needs no reason, and its so-called reasons defy reason. Antisemitism sees no contradiction depicting Jews as vermin and also a cabal running the world – nonsense, but antisemitism has little regard for facts. Or consistency. Antisemitism smears Israel to condemn Jews, while staying silent to the world’s most venal wars of aggression.
Nor is antisemitism just yesterday’s news, a bygone era of the U.S. 1950s or 1960s.
So most of us here in the U.S. don’t get what it’s like to live there, whether as an Israeli or as a Palestinian – fear, checkpoints, indignities, vigilantes both Arab and now also Jewish wreaking havoc, a continuing cycle of violence, life lived in the shadow of lifelessness. By age five, Israelis learn words like צבע אדום (red alert), פיגוע (attack) and ממד (safe room). Few Palestinians even have safe rooms.
We can’t understand, yet too often many claim certainty. A land beloved to any people will evoke passion, and love can fuel strong views. We crave a Judaism of love and ethics, yet now every day we see war. Dissonance between pride and grief can overload our circuits. To some, the Mideast is a Third Rail not to be touched. To others, the Mideast must be discussed in order to be true to values and rightness according to one faith, or another, or three. No wonder it’s been so hard – and that's without antisemitism and all the rest.
Opinions and passion help make us who we are, but they’re not real understanding. About the Mideast, we all understand less than we think. Without humility about what we think we know, we risk sacrificing empathy on the altar of false certainty. Whatever our views, excess certainty can dehumanize. Only genuine humility and curiosity – not moral ambiguity or false equivalency, but the mental-emotional discipline of holding complexity and nuance – can keep our tender hearts from hardening.
Which goes to our second cornerstone: Antisemitism needs no reason but will find one. As Ambassador Deborah Lipstadt teaches, antisemitism – treating Jews worse because we're Jews – is the world's oldest and most irrational hate. Some academicians trace it back to Judaism's start among a nomadic tribe often unwelcome, and then to Israel’s geography as a ancient land bridge for conquerors moving between three continents.
But antisemitism needs no reason, and its so-called reasons defy reason. Antisemitism sees no contradiction depicting Jews as vermin and also a cabal running the world – nonsense, but antisemitism has little regard for facts. Or consistency. Antisemitism smears Israel to condemn Jews, while staying silent to the world’s most venal wars of aggression.
Nor is antisemitism just yesterday’s news, a bygone era of the U.S. 1950s or 1960s.
In 2023, the Anti-Defamation League reported that antisemitism topped ADL records since it began keeping records in the 1960s. In the U.S., one antisemitic incident was reported per hour – one incident per hour – and specifically anti-Jewish crimes ranked as the #1 hate crime for 2023 according to the FBI. Now in 2024, the ADL reports that 42% in the U.S. have a close friend or relative who dislikes Jews or deems it socially acceptable to support Hamas, a terror group. Not Palestinians or a Palestinian state – but Hamas. People in this very room have shared with me that they feel cherished causes and groups growing chilly to them as Jews, that they are less welcome or even unwelcome entirely. The historical bargain that Jewish assimilation would bring societal belonging is being tested.
But let’s be clear: the sky is not falling. The U.S. still is history’s freest society for Jews outside Israel. People of goodwill – of all faiths, colors and creeds – do stand up against hate, though sadly not enough and sometimes not consistently. Let’s also be clear that not all critique of the State of Israel or its government is antisemitic – a label too easily used as a point-scoring sword rather than a legitimate label for prejudice.
What most worries me about today’s antisemitism isn’t prejudice – hurtful and wrong as it is. Antisemitism is as old as Judaism, and as a people we are resilient.
What most worries me about antisemitism is the effect on the Jewish spirit. Persistent pain and prejudice can harden the hearts that receive them. Some Jewish hearts have hardened against God, Jewish community or Judaism: people who might have been here today on Yom Kippur are not here today because it hurts too much to be vulnerable in Jewish community. Other hearts have hardened against Arabs and Muslims as a group: it must be said, and it is utterly wrong. Thankfully not in our community, but I've even heard the Holy Qur’an cited by Jews to "prove" Islamic antisemitism. Nonsense! Besides, Rabbi Jonathan Freirich is correct in his important observation that “good faith partners don’t quote scripture at each other.” In any event, most faiths have texts that in history and metaphor have been (or were interpreted to be) a bit overzealous – including our own beloved Torah.
At the same time, I’ve heard from folks who say they never felt more Jewish or spiritual than now, that the tumult of this year has reactivated their sense of Jewish identity, that some spiritual switch was turned on. I’ve seen renewed passion for Jewish tools of resilience, community, cohesion and transformation. I’ve heard excitement to visit Israel at the first safe opportunity – and as a community, we will.
Antisemitism need not harden the Jewish heart. Difficult as it may be, we can be like the Israeli sabra, the cactus fruit sometimes hard on the outside but soft on the inside. That means leaning into the love, wisdom and identity of Jewish community that can inspire our best selves. It also means moving beyond our own instinctive reactions.
Which brings us to a third cornerstone: There are real majorities for peace. While I can’t take public positions about ultimate causes and rightness in most Mideast affairs, I can report that reputable polls find that a majority of Israelis, Palestinians, Lebanese and Iranians don’t want extremism or war. Maybe it’s hard to believe amidst so much hurt, anger and fear, but it’s still true.
The problem is that the majorities wanting peace do not control their governments. Hamas, Hezbollah and the Houthis all seized power in civil wars. The Palestinian Authority hasn’t had an election in almost 20 years. Iran is deeply divided, and now so is the State of Israel. It took Israel four elections, one after another, to eke out a bare majority. And as political scientists will readily agree, when power margins are close, extreme voices can hold outsized influence.
But let’s be clear: the sky is not falling. The U.S. still is history’s freest society for Jews outside Israel. People of goodwill – of all faiths, colors and creeds – do stand up against hate, though sadly not enough and sometimes not consistently. Let’s also be clear that not all critique of the State of Israel or its government is antisemitic – a label too easily used as a point-scoring sword rather than a legitimate label for prejudice.
What most worries me about today’s antisemitism isn’t prejudice – hurtful and wrong as it is. Antisemitism is as old as Judaism, and as a people we are resilient.
What most worries me about antisemitism is the effect on the Jewish spirit. Persistent pain and prejudice can harden the hearts that receive them. Some Jewish hearts have hardened against God, Jewish community or Judaism: people who might have been here today on Yom Kippur are not here today because it hurts too much to be vulnerable in Jewish community. Other hearts have hardened against Arabs and Muslims as a group: it must be said, and it is utterly wrong. Thankfully not in our community, but I've even heard the Holy Qur’an cited by Jews to "prove" Islamic antisemitism. Nonsense! Besides, Rabbi Jonathan Freirich is correct in his important observation that “good faith partners don’t quote scripture at each other.” In any event, most faiths have texts that in history and metaphor have been (or were interpreted to be) a bit overzealous – including our own beloved Torah.
At the same time, I’ve heard from folks who say they never felt more Jewish or spiritual than now, that the tumult of this year has reactivated their sense of Jewish identity, that some spiritual switch was turned on. I’ve seen renewed passion for Jewish tools of resilience, community, cohesion and transformation. I’ve heard excitement to visit Israel at the first safe opportunity – and as a community, we will.
Antisemitism need not harden the Jewish heart. Difficult as it may be, we can be like the Israeli sabra, the cactus fruit sometimes hard on the outside but soft on the inside. That means leaning into the love, wisdom and identity of Jewish community that can inspire our best selves. It also means moving beyond our own instinctive reactions.
Which brings us to a third cornerstone: There are real majorities for peace. While I can’t take public positions about ultimate causes and rightness in most Mideast affairs, I can report that reputable polls find that a majority of Israelis, Palestinians, Lebanese and Iranians don’t want extremism or war. Maybe it’s hard to believe amidst so much hurt, anger and fear, but it’s still true.
The problem is that the majorities wanting peace do not control their governments. Hamas, Hezbollah and the Houthis all seized power in civil wars. The Palestinian Authority hasn’t had an election in almost 20 years. Iran is deeply divided, and now so is the State of Israel. It took Israel four elections, one after another, to eke out a bare majority. And as political scientists will readily agree, when power margins are close, extreme voices can hold outsized influence.
Another problem: while majorities want peace, they don’t think peace will happen. Last week, Gallup's annual poll of local views about peace found that two-thirds of respondents in the West Bank, and two-thirds of Israel, both think peace will never come – each side apparently believing the other doesn’t want it.
But the poll found surprises. These results have been roughly consistent since Gallup began asking in 2006, which means, amazingly, this year’s violence did not fuel cynicism. In fact, Palestinians are 11% more hopeful now than before October 7. Israelis who sharply lost hope after October 7 also returned to pre-attack baselines, even with hostages still held in Gaza a year later.
Does it soften our hearts to imagine that both majorities want peace, even if both are unsure how to get there? Does it shift our instincts that the horrors on and after October 7 did not increase cynicism on either side? We understand less than we think we do, and one example is that there are real majorities for peace.
So it's especially meaningful that Judaism insists that we always must pray for peace, as we repeatedly did today, even as Judaism also teaches that we never pray for impossibilities. Judaism insists that a just and lasting peace always is possible, even if hope is lagging. The Jewish soul insists that better always is possible. We must never, ever, give up that hope.
So our fourth cornerstone is key: Sometimes war and love must coexist. Judaism’s great mitzvah is פדיון שבויים (redeeming captives). There is a moral imperative to act for hostages, and a moral imperative to act when public safety and security are held hostage. Torah itself is full of battle: sometimes there is no choice.
And, Jewish tradition also teaches that destroying a life destroys a whole world (Sanhedrin 37a). Tradition commands that in war, one must not destroy the trees (Deut. 20:19), especially trees bearing fruit. Non-combatants are not to be killed if there is a viable alternative. These and other spiritual restraints on war flow from the elemental love and morality at Judaism’s core. Yes, war and love.
I worry that gruesome war tactics can corrode love and risk fueling all-out war out of fury. I’m proud of Israelis who risk themselves to escort aid trucks to Gaza. I’m proud of Israelis who volunteer to drive Palestinians to medical appointments. Love amidst war. I’m proud of every effort by the Israeli Defense Forces to spare innocent life despite great risk. I'm proud of Palestinians who stand up and, whatever the risk, say no to terror and war. I'm proud of Palestinians who summon the courage to see another way forward however difficult. And I still worry greatly – for the Israeli soul and the Palestinian soul, both scarred by ongoing war.
I worry, too, for the American soul: pain and fear can corrode the spirit. It’s why the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached love as his weapon of the civil rights battle, as we saw on Rosh Hashanah and even more on our civil rights mission to the Deep South last spring.
Then there’s Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker.
An unhoused person came to Rabbi Charlie's synagogue. Rabbi Charlie welcomed him, gave him a cup of tea, sat to talk for awhile, and invited him to stay for services. The unhoused person then pulled a gun, and thus began the 2022 synagogue hostage crisis of Colleyville, Texas. The assailant was not unhoused: he only posed as homeless to gain access to the synagogue, and in truth was waging war against Jews as part of a conflagration rooted in the Mideast. Training and quick thinking ended the hostage crisis after 11 hours without loss of innocent life.
But the poll found surprises. These results have been roughly consistent since Gallup began asking in 2006, which means, amazingly, this year’s violence did not fuel cynicism. In fact, Palestinians are 11% more hopeful now than before October 7. Israelis who sharply lost hope after October 7 also returned to pre-attack baselines, even with hostages still held in Gaza a year later.
Does it soften our hearts to imagine that both majorities want peace, even if both are unsure how to get there? Does it shift our instincts that the horrors on and after October 7 did not increase cynicism on either side? We understand less than we think we do, and one example is that there are real majorities for peace.
So it's especially meaningful that Judaism insists that we always must pray for peace, as we repeatedly did today, even as Judaism also teaches that we never pray for impossibilities. Judaism insists that a just and lasting peace always is possible, even if hope is lagging. The Jewish soul insists that better always is possible. We must never, ever, give up that hope.
So our fourth cornerstone is key: Sometimes war and love must coexist. Judaism’s great mitzvah is פדיון שבויים (redeeming captives). There is a moral imperative to act for hostages, and a moral imperative to act when public safety and security are held hostage. Torah itself is full of battle: sometimes there is no choice.
And, Jewish tradition also teaches that destroying a life destroys a whole world (Sanhedrin 37a). Tradition commands that in war, one must not destroy the trees (Deut. 20:19), especially trees bearing fruit. Non-combatants are not to be killed if there is a viable alternative. These and other spiritual restraints on war flow from the elemental love and morality at Judaism’s core. Yes, war and love.
I worry that gruesome war tactics can corrode love and risk fueling all-out war out of fury. I’m proud of Israelis who risk themselves to escort aid trucks to Gaza. I’m proud of Israelis who volunteer to drive Palestinians to medical appointments. Love amidst war. I’m proud of every effort by the Israeli Defense Forces to spare innocent life despite great risk. I'm proud of Palestinians who stand up and, whatever the risk, say no to terror and war. I'm proud of Palestinians who summon the courage to see another way forward however difficult. And I still worry greatly – for the Israeli soul and the Palestinian soul, both scarred by ongoing war.
I worry, too, for the American soul: pain and fear can corrode the spirit. It’s why the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached love as his weapon of the civil rights battle, as we saw on Rosh Hashanah and even more on our civil rights mission to the Deep South last spring.
Then there’s Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker.
An unhoused person came to Rabbi Charlie's synagogue. Rabbi Charlie welcomed him, gave him a cup of tea, sat to talk for awhile, and invited him to stay for services. The unhoused person then pulled a gun, and thus began the 2022 synagogue hostage crisis of Colleyville, Texas. The assailant was not unhoused: he only posed as homeless to gain access to the synagogue, and in truth was waging war against Jews as part of a conflagration rooted in the Mideast. Training and quick thinking ended the hostage crisis after 11 hours without loss of innocent life.
Days later, Rabbi Charlie held a press conference followed by a healing service. He described throwing chairs at the right time to distract the assailant. And, incredibly, everyone wore love buttons – LOVE with a Star of David instead of the letter "O" – L✡VE. Even amidst trauma, especially amidst trauma, the community leaned into love. At the press conference, Rabbi Charlie quoted Torah, which 36 times tells us to “Love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” And he quoted Dr. King: “Only love can transform enemy into friend.” “Darkness cannot dispel darkness: only love can do that.”
A reporter asked Rabbi Charlie if he’d still invite strangers into synagogue for tea. Absolutely, he answered, “because we can’t live in fear”: otherwise, elemental love becomes a casualty of war. He said it again before the Senate Judiciary Committee, describing both the urgency of love and the urgency of protection. Love amidst war.
Sometimes war is inevitable: sometimes one must fight. If we are physical combatants in battle, love is commanded even then. And if we're not physically fighting, there's a different kind of combat that needs us: we must feed the hungry, comfort the grieved, and have courage to love – even if we are afraid, always guided by our core values.
Hence our fifth cornerstone: Zionism is more than Jewish self-determination. Zionism is that, to be sure, but historically Zionism’s key feature was returning Jewish self-determination to the Land of Israel. With a State of Israel in place, is Zionism now to mean just staying there and preserving what is?
Judaism is more than preservation: Judaism also tries to forge a better future. Moments ago we prayed ותחזינה עינינו בשובך לציון ברחמים (May our eyes behold God’s return to Zion in love). Thus, Zionism must mean something more than being and holding onto the Land of Israel.
To my teacher Rabbi Bonna Devorah Haberman, founder of the gender equality group Women of the Wall, Zionism means not only going to the Land but also “going deeper into the Land.” Rabbi Bonna saw in the 3,500-year arc of Jewish history a “Zion Cycle” of exile and return that, according to Judaism's prophetic writings, depended on whether Israel lived its creed fully, justly and for all in the Land.
Therefore, Zionism means living the core of Torah that we uplift in this afternoon’s reading (Lev. 19:18): ואהבת לרעך כמוך (“Love another as yourself”). Zionism means deeply living Judaism’s love and morality, including Rabbi Hillel’s words (Pirkei Avot 1:14): “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I?” Zionism means justice for everyone in the Land – Jews, Muslims, Christians, Bahá’í and Druze. It’s a tall order when communities define justice differently, but true Zionism and therefore Judaism require best effort nonetheless.
Which leads to our sixth and final cornerstone: When our master story crashes, lean in. This teaching comes from another of my teachers, Rabbi Benay Lappe, who delivered a now famous TED talk about it. It goes something like this. Judaism’s master story – the narrative foundation of who we are and who we’re called to be – has crashed several times in our 3,500-year history. One crash came in the year 70, when Rome leveled the Temple in Jerusalem and exiled most Jews from the Land of Israel. Everything we knew as Judaism had revolved around a central Temple, so now what?
Rabbi Benay taught that the "crash" of a master story gives us exactly three choices:
A reporter asked Rabbi Charlie if he’d still invite strangers into synagogue for tea. Absolutely, he answered, “because we can’t live in fear”: otherwise, elemental love becomes a casualty of war. He said it again before the Senate Judiciary Committee, describing both the urgency of love and the urgency of protection. Love amidst war.
Sometimes war is inevitable: sometimes one must fight. If we are physical combatants in battle, love is commanded even then. And if we're not physically fighting, there's a different kind of combat that needs us: we must feed the hungry, comfort the grieved, and have courage to love – even if we are afraid, always guided by our core values.
Hence our fifth cornerstone: Zionism is more than Jewish self-determination. Zionism is that, to be sure, but historically Zionism’s key feature was returning Jewish self-determination to the Land of Israel. With a State of Israel in place, is Zionism now to mean just staying there and preserving what is?
Judaism is more than preservation: Judaism also tries to forge a better future. Moments ago we prayed ותחזינה עינינו בשובך לציון ברחמים (May our eyes behold God’s return to Zion in love). Thus, Zionism must mean something more than being and holding onto the Land of Israel.
To my teacher Rabbi Bonna Devorah Haberman, founder of the gender equality group Women of the Wall, Zionism means not only going to the Land but also “going deeper into the Land.” Rabbi Bonna saw in the 3,500-year arc of Jewish history a “Zion Cycle” of exile and return that, according to Judaism's prophetic writings, depended on whether Israel lived its creed fully, justly and for all in the Land.
Therefore, Zionism means living the core of Torah that we uplift in this afternoon’s reading (Lev. 19:18): ואהבת לרעך כמוך (“Love another as yourself”). Zionism means deeply living Judaism’s love and morality, including Rabbi Hillel’s words (Pirkei Avot 1:14): “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I?” Zionism means justice for everyone in the Land – Jews, Muslims, Christians, Bahá’í and Druze. It’s a tall order when communities define justice differently, but true Zionism and therefore Judaism require best effort nonetheless.
Which leads to our sixth and final cornerstone: When our master story crashes, lean in. This teaching comes from another of my teachers, Rabbi Benay Lappe, who delivered a now famous TED talk about it. It goes something like this. Judaism’s master story – the narrative foundation of who we are and who we’re called to be – has crashed several times in our 3,500-year history. One crash came in the year 70, when Rome leveled the Temple in Jerusalem and exiled most Jews from the Land of Israel. Everything we knew as Judaism had revolved around a central Temple, so now what?
Rabbi Benay taught that the "crash" of a master story gives us exactly three choices:
Option 1 builds walls around the master story so it won’t crash again. Option 1 is untethered from reality and leads nowhere: pretending the Temple still stood in Jerusalem would be useless. Option 2 ditches the crashed story for new one, but there's a different problem: all master stories crash because life always overflows our narratives and defenses, so Option 2 means an endless cycle of crash and new, with no center to hold. That’s how peoples fade.
Option 3 is the Jewish way. When our master story crashes, lean in. The story isn’t over, we’re resilient, we can adapt, and time will tell how. Once there was no Temple, Judaism adapted. Judaism was still tethered to Torah, but now everywhere could be the Temple, including right here. Judaism’s love core adapted to find new ways to flow, as an ethical tradition of tikkun olam in a troubled world.
The Holocaust was a crash. European Jews believed that assimilation would ensure safety, to unspeakably tragic effect – and yet again our people leaned in. Now there’s a State of Israel, and Jewish life can evolve and thrive once more.
October 7 arguably was another crash. The State of Israel’s master story was that Zionism will ensure Jewish safety by invincible military might. It too crashed. Now what?
Option 1 would pretend otherwise, double down and not address why October 7 happened or what it means. Option 2 would opt out: roll over or leave – options that also lead nowhere.
Option 3 is where we are now. We lean in, with deep love and clear-seeing pragmatism. If the master story crashed, it’s far from over. After a crash there can be a surge of energy, a post-traumatic growth syndrome fueled by deep care, deep learning and moral intuition.
Now is that moment.
Will we be openly proud Jews, or quiet or indifferent ones? What is the next turn of the Zion Cycle? What is Judaism’s next frontier? What will Israel be in a Mideast of shifting alliances after the Cold War?
You get to help decide. In our hands is a priceless moral, spiritual, intellectual and emotional inheritance that connects us as a people around the world. There may be bigotry, even war, but there also is profound love at our core: our master story continues.
Humility to what we think we know. Empathy for victims of hate whoever they are. Keeping our hearts soft even if we must self-defend. Not letting war claim love as collateral damage. Standing up for righteousness. Leaning into the crash. These are cornerstones of our peoplehood, our compass points, with love in the center.
In their merit, may this sacred Yom Kippur day inspire for us and all our loved ones a year of goodness, courage, renewal of spirit and most of all the love that is our eternal birthright.
Option 3 is the Jewish way. When our master story crashes, lean in. The story isn’t over, we’re resilient, we can adapt, and time will tell how. Once there was no Temple, Judaism adapted. Judaism was still tethered to Torah, but now everywhere could be the Temple, including right here. Judaism’s love core adapted to find new ways to flow, as an ethical tradition of tikkun olam in a troubled world.
The Holocaust was a crash. European Jews believed that assimilation would ensure safety, to unspeakably tragic effect – and yet again our people leaned in. Now there’s a State of Israel, and Jewish life can evolve and thrive once more.
October 7 arguably was another crash. The State of Israel’s master story was that Zionism will ensure Jewish safety by invincible military might. It too crashed. Now what?
Option 1 would pretend otherwise, double down and not address why October 7 happened or what it means. Option 2 would opt out: roll over or leave – options that also lead nowhere.
Option 3 is where we are now. We lean in, with deep love and clear-seeing pragmatism. If the master story crashed, it’s far from over. After a crash there can be a surge of energy, a post-traumatic growth syndrome fueled by deep care, deep learning and moral intuition.
Now is that moment.
Will we be openly proud Jews, or quiet or indifferent ones? What is the next turn of the Zion Cycle? What is Judaism’s next frontier? What will Israel be in a Mideast of shifting alliances after the Cold War?
You get to help decide. In our hands is a priceless moral, spiritual, intellectual and emotional inheritance that connects us as a people around the world. There may be bigotry, even war, but there also is profound love at our core: our master story continues.
Humility to what we think we know. Empathy for victims of hate whoever they are. Keeping our hearts soft even if we must self-defend. Not letting war claim love as collateral damage. Standing up for righteousness. Leaning into the crash. These are cornerstones of our peoplehood, our compass points, with love in the center.
In their merit, may this sacred Yom Kippur day inspire for us and all our loved ones a year of goodness, courage, renewal of spirit and most of all the love that is our eternal birthright.
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