I am a rabbi and an unapologetic Zionist and supporter of Israel, though I have been very critical of the current Israeli government. I have been critical of Israel precisely because I am a Zionist and supporter, as being critical of Israel is part of being a loving partner with my Israeli brothers and sisters. However, if I am only critical, and don’t also acknowledge the beauty, genius and generosity of Israel, I would just be an abusive partner.
Then came the horrors of Oct. 7, 2023. On Oct. 8, it occurred to me that I would have to give a sermon to my community the following Shabbat, and I’d have to address what happened.
I’d been around long enough as a rabbi and a supporter of Israel to know what would happen next: Israel would respond with force. We’d all be inundated with tragic scenes of suffering of innocent Palestinians. Then, predictably, the world would begin to pressure Israel to a cease-fire, coupled with accusations against Israel for ethnic cleansing, apartheid and genocide from journalists, politicians, the United Nations and NGOs.
From then on, I’d have to decide how I would speak from the pulpit.
I could speak with support for Israel, while simultaneously qualifying it with my compassion for the Palestinians — or I could focus on recognizing the suffering of my own people. I could focus on the grieving families both in Israel and here who have loved ones being held hostage in terror tunnels. I could sympathize with the tens of thousands of displaced Israeli children and families. I could align myself with my cousins, friends, friends’ children and even my own congregants who support the war and the defeat of Hamas so that they won’t return as a political and military threat, while bravely and tirelessly agreeing to return to one reserve duty stint after another.
The answer was clear. I was going to be fully supportive of Israel and expose my Zionist heart.
I was still sympathetic for the innocent Palestinians, but I’d reserve those sentiments for educational settings in which people could express themselves freely in dialogue.
From the pulpit, I would provide a safe space for Jews and their families to have at least one place where they wouldn’t have to “both-sides” the war and could simply feel supported in their pain and outrage within the embrace of their community. In fact, I find it cruel to force Jews and Israelis to constantly pass a moral hygiene test by needing to qualify their feelings and thoughts with, “But I also recognize the Palestinian suffering.”
My decision did not come without risk.
I could have faced backlash — because recently I did. At a communal Oct. 7 commemoration event, I gave a five-minute talk strongly supporting Zionism and Israel. While I was flattered that over half of the room gave a standing ovation, I was later privately messaged that my talk was “offensive,” “triggering,” “polarizing” and “political.”
I don’t understand why. If it’s because those folks see Israel as a white supremacist, colonialist project, well, that simply doesn’t compute for me. Zionism is a movement for Jews to return to their ancestral homeland with self-determination after two millennia of wandering, persecution, expulsions and pogroms. As Jews, we mark time and seasons by Israel time, we face toward Jerusalem in prayer, Israel saturates our prayer book and sacred literature — and we just ended Yom Kippur declaring “l’shanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim — next year in Jerusalem.” Moreover, Jews returned to their homeland from 60 different countries as refugees with nowhere else to go, with no mother country, most of whom are not white-skinned Ashkenazi. That’s not colonialism.
As for those who said my talk was “political,” I believe that speaks to how our domestic politics are no longer confined to our own borders. Some countries, such as Ukraine, are now coded as blue. Israel is now unfortunately politically coded, as well — and its color is red. Therefore, it seems that expressing anti-Hamas, anti-Iran and pro-Israel views now carries some sort of political subtext, even in Jewish circles.
This leads me to this week, when I read a new op-ed from the Forward (republished by J.) by one of my Bay Area colleagues, Rabbi Amy Eilberg, titled “Why I couldn’t pray this Yom Kippur.” In it, Rabbi Eilberg delivers what I can only describe as a slap in the face to American Jewish leaders who have supported Israel.
Well, I’m one of those leaders. According to her, I’m complicit in supporting Israel’s government and I should awaken to “the demonstrated reality that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is prioritizing his own political survival over the needs of the 101 hostages still in Gaza.” The confidence of the phrase “demonstrated reality” over such a heavy charge is quite a stretch, even for us Netanyahu critics, given that it’s speculation about someone’s internal motivations.
Rabbi Eilberg characterizes many of her fellow Jews — including me, my family, friends and congregants, as well as millions of Israelis who not only support finishing this war but are also actively fighting in it — as sinners who owe repentance.
Despite continued rocket fire into Israel and terrorist attacks, she states that the war is beyond defense and deterrence and says that I need to review Yom Kippur’s litanies of sins, such as “sins we committed by ‘hardening our hearts,’ [by] ‘resorting to violence,’ ‘through arrogance,’ ‘through condescension’ [and] ‘through ego.’”
I read the sins she listed and recalled that I was always taught that only God sees into the hearts of humanity.
Supporting Israel is not about supporting a particular political ideology or particular prime minister or national identity. It’s a religious endeavor, it’s a part of our prayers, it’s a part of our history, and it’s a core part of our collective narrative and our lives as Jews.
Yes, Jewish tradition authored the teaching, “If I am only for myself, what am I?” But let us also remember the sentence that precedes that one: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?”