2025 Rosh Hashanah Morning: Israel

There’s an issue that weighs heavily on all of our minds and hearts this morning. It’s a subject that many of us feel passionately about, and we have heated arguments with friends and family who aren’t on the same side as us.

This passion runs deep in our community. It connects to our identity, our values, and our sense of belonging, touching on questions of loyalty and tradition.

I’m speaking, of course, about … Georgia Football.

Sports teach us loyalty. Part of that loyalty is that sports fans have selective vision and cherry-picking focus. I mean, what self-respecting sports fan doesn’t think the other team gets away with too much and that the refs are biased against their team? This is okay because it’s mostly harmless, and for those of us watching in the stands or on TV, the stakes aren’t that high.

Judaism demands more of us. As Zechariah teaches: Speak truth to one another. In Judaism, loyalty must be balanced with honesty.

Since October 7, 718 days ago, I have felt frustrated, sad, and at times angry — not just about the situation in Israel itself, but about how we talk to each other about Israel.

My friend Rabbi Jeremy Barras put it perfectly during a CCAR conference a few months after October 7th. As colleagues presented different viewpoints, bringing forth various facts and history, trying to prove their point, Jeremy shook his head and said: You know what? It doesn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, Israel is my family. And I am not impartial when it comes to my family.

His words struck deeply. We often believe that if they had enough facts, enough history, enough context, we could convince them to see things our way. Because we’re clearly the more educated ones.

When talking, arguing, protesting, writing, thinking, and even praying about Israel, the world has selective vision and focus. I’m not talking only about the United Nations or the Arab League, or governments of European countries or far-left institutions. I’m talking about here in our CCI family — in this sanctuary right now.

A few weeks ago, I asked many of you to take a short survey about how you’re feeling when it comes to Israel after October 7.

Many of you admitted that you intentionally hold back your views from fellow congregants. On average, people rated their willingness to speak openly at a very mixed rate: 44% of you said that yes, you have intentionally held back your political views with other congregants. Think about that: in a synagogue — a place that should be about authentic conversation, debate, and learning — many of us don’t feel safe sharing what we truly think about Israel.

There is ideological intolerance on all sides. Many believe Jewish institutions have been harmed by intolerance toward conservative viewpoints; many also see harm from intolerance toward liberal viewpoints. It’s not only “their” rigidity; it’s also “ours.”

We disagree strongly about the line between anti-Zionism and antisemitism. Some believe most anti-Zionism is antisemitism. For some, Zionism means Jewish self-determination and safety; for others here, the word evokes dispossession and ongoing injustice against Palestinians.

Ultimately, the survey revealed a layered, complicated relationship with Israel. Many of us feel a real responsibility to defend Israel when she is under attack — and many of us also want to hear Palestinian stories with open hearts. It tells us that Jewish identity demands speaking out against Israeli policies, and it also tells us that we must show a steadfast defense of Israel’s security and legitimacy. The problem is, we often don’t speak to or about each other in ways that are deeper than “for” or “against.”

In the last two years, I have heard congregants say about other congregants these kinds of statements… Oh, they don’t know the facts. They’ve never been to Israel. They don’t know anything. They’ve been brainwashed. Oh, they’re just blindly supporting Israel no matter what and don’t care about innocent lives being lost. They’re of that generation. Judaism has failed the younger generation. (PAUSE) I’ve done similarly.

I do believe that there is a double standard when it comes to Israel. Israel is often judged by impossible standards that are not used elsewhere in the world. I am appalled at how much of the world, many in the performing arts community, and people in liberal spaces that I consider myself a part of seem to have simply forgotten about the heinous, tragic, and utterly hateful acts of October 7th and seem to only focus on the situation in Gaza.

But like I said, this is not a they problem. Lest we think we are immune from selective focus…

A good friend of mine — an experienced interim rabbi now seeking his sixth position — has encountered something new in his search. Increasingly, congregations are placing a deliberate emphasis on whether a candidate identifies as a Zionist. I do think that a rabbi should indeed see themselves as a Zionist; others can disagree. But what concerns me is not the value itself, but the way that it has become a litmus test that is possibly elevated above other core rabbinic qualities.

And a few weeks ago, Charlie Kirk was murdered in a heinous act of political violence. In addition to my grief over our continued political polarization, I was shocked to see the reactions of some colleagues, colleagues who value LGBTQ rights, gun control, and sensible and humane immigration policies. In the aftermath of this tragedy, some distilled his values to one and only one thing: he was a supporter of Israel.

We cannot collapse the beautiful, complex tapestry of Jewish identity into the Israel issue. For all that I am deeply in love with the land and people of Israel — and I am — it does not encompass my Jewish identity. Am Yisrael is bigger than the country of Israel, even though there is overlap between them. If our public voice speaks loudly on the conflict in Israel but whispers on everything else, we are not living out our Torah.

Religion is autobiography. Ahavat Yisrael (love for Israel) was instilled in me at a young age. I made the connection that the Sh’ma contained the word Israel, and it was probably in elementary or middle school that I looked forward to the end of Passover to proudly declare Next year in Jerusalem. Israel is inexorably intertwined with our liturgy, our holidays, our culture, and our hearts.

I feel strongly about Israel continuing to survive and thrive as a Jewish state.

But just as my viewpoint is part of my autobiography and part of my identity, it isn’t the only one, and it certainly isn’t the right one. It just happens that I can’t be impartial when it comes to my family.

For many Jews, 1948 is remembered as the miraculous year of independence when a three-thousand-year-old dream was realized and the State of Israel was born. But for many Arabs, and especially for Palestinians, that same year is remembered as the Nakba, Arabic for catastrophe. This refers to the more than 700,000 Palestinians who fled or were expelled from their homes. Families who had lived in the land for generations became exiles and refugees.

Where one people saw return and redemption, another experienced loss and dislocation. Both of those memories are true, and both still shape the way the conflict is understood and felt today. The cycle of violence and misunderstanding started way before 1948, and it will tragically continue through this High Holiday season. Quoting the Israeli historian Benny Morris, it is a history of righteous victims.

I can be a Zionist and love Israel and have empathy for Palestinians. I can be a Zionist and utterly condemn the expansion of settlements as well as some of the murderous tendencies caused by settler violence. I can be a Zionist and long for a future where both peoples live in dignity and security. I can be a Zionist and demand fair treatment of liberal Jews within Israel, especially women who want to learn Judaism, study Torah, and pray at the Western Wall without fear of being spit on or slapped by the Orthodox Jewish establishment. I remain inspired by the hundreds of thousands of Israelis who continue to protest their government in Tel Aviv and elsewhere. And when they do protest, their symbol is the Israeli flag. This is the Zionism that I aspire to.

And one more: I can be a Zionist and believe that the conflict cannot be distilled down to chants of Am Yisrael Chai against those of Free Palestine. They can coexist. I might even say that they must coexist.

I’ve come to believe that the word Zionism has become a volatile shorthand — not because of what Zionism actually means, but because of the gulf between what someone intends when they use it and what others think we mean when they hear it, Jews and non-Jews alike.

Those who identify as pro-Palestinian often miscategorize what many mean by Zionism. Conversely, we often caricature the positions of those who are non-Zionist or even anti-Zionist.

Cognitive scientists call this the Perception Gap.

The Perception Gap Project studies the distance between what we think the other side believes and what they actually believe. They do this by asking people to guess the percentage of their opponents who agree with specific statements and then comparing those estimates to the other side’s own answers. For instance, participants estimate how many from the opposing party would agree that I believe in sensible gun control measures or I am proud to be an American. Again and again, results show that we routinely overestimate extremism on the other side — across issues like climate change, gun control, abortion, immigration, and more. These misperceptions are fueled by media that amplify the loudest voices, by social media echo chambers, and by our own certainty that we already know what others think.

It gets worse: the more engaged we are with an issue — the more we know, the stronger we feel — the more likely we are to misunderstand those who disagree with us.

That insight mirrors our own challenge as Jews when we talk about Israel: too often, we assume the worst about one another’s positions rather than listening for the depth and nuance in each other’s stories.

This plays out in normal life in ways little and big, and all sad:

Just a few weeks ago, two concertgoers were randomly called up to the stage and asked to introduce themselves. Chris Martin of Coldplay asked where they were from, and they tentatively said Israel. The crowd booed. This isn’t debate; it’s humiliation. Jewish students put up posters of kidnapped Israelis on their campus, and they are often torn down. This isn’t policy critique; it’s erasure of Jewish pain. A colleague of mine, a Reform rabbi, was uninvited from a peace rally because he is a Zionist. A PEACE RALLY!

We are confusing boundary-making with bridge-burning.

We have traded dialogue for slogans. We have disregarded the need for context and story. We’ve reduced one of the most complex, historically interwoven realities in the entire world to the same kind of yelling we would do at a football game, but with so much more at stake.

We are so caught up in questions of who is Zionist enough or whether a person is antisemitic or not that we forget these simple labels do not and cannot hold the depth of people’s stories, identities, or pain. Without context and nuance, the labels only divide us further. We need to trade labels for stories.

I am a Zionist and love Israel. But those two labels don’t tell you that I can cherish a Jewish homeland and still challenge its government; grieve for Israelis and Palestinians at once; condemn terror without excusing collective punishment; reject antisemitism while hearing real claims for Palestinian dignity. They don’t capture the nights I spend torn between pride at Israel’s resilience and fear for its soul. Labels cannot hold the mix of loyalty, lament, responsibility, and hope that any of us might carry.

The Talmud makes a distinction between two Jerusalems: Yerushalayim shel Ma’alah — the heavenly Jerusalem, and Yerushalayim shel Matah — the earthly Jerusalem. The first reflects an aspirational vision of Israel. It’s the Jerusalem that we think of when we say Next year in Jerusalem. The other Jerusalem is the all-too-real, complex geographical location with human beings, politics, frailty, imperfection, and conflict.

We must not be so fixated on the Israel of our highest ideals that we become blind to what is actually happening — and we must not be so consumed by critique and judgment, or even disdain for Israel’s sitting government, that we lose sight of the Israel of our prayers and aspirations. Let us hold both truths at once: a steadfast commitment to the Jerusalem “in the heavens” that inspires us, and an unflinching awareness of suffering and wrongdoing that demands our moral attention.

This year, as the conflict in the Middle East widens, as antisemitism grows, and as slogans, protests, chants, labels, and litmus tests too often dominate our discourse, I implore us to make room in our convictions to hear the stories of others — starting right here with other Jews, and then, God willing, to the greater community. People who disagree with you about Israel are likely not misinformed, naïve, or so-called self-hating Jews. Each of us carries an autobiography, and our chapters on Israel are not the same. As Maimonides taught us, we must accept the truth from whoever says it. And as Pirkei Avot teaches, Who is wise? One who learns from every person.

During the past 29 days of Elul, we have been reading about the Jewish concept of a machloket l’shem shamayim — an argument for the sake of heaven. It’s time to put it into practice.

This is not about agreeing. We don’t need to agree about Israel or Zionism or the aftermath of October 7th, or Netanyahu, or any of it. I’ve shared some of my personal opinions here, and you may totally disagree. The aim of this sermon is not for you to have the same beliefs about Israel as I do.

The goal is for each of us to hold on to our autobiography, our feelings, our convictions, and our loyalties and really listen to each other — even anti-Zionists. Or Zionists. Or Palestinians, or whoever it might be. I know that we can.

Israel brings out questions of love and loyalty and the blind spots that come with them. Our tradition gives us a better way. Between the heavenly ideal and the complex reality, we must practice machloket l’shem shamayim. That means refusing slogans in favor of stories, resisting litmus tests in favor of learning, and widening our circle of concern to Israelis and Palestinians while staying rooted in ahavat Yisrael — love for our people Israel.

I am hopeful that we can see the wide, beautiful, and complicated path that exists between the Israel shel Ma’alah and the Israel shel Matah.

It’s funny that the Hebrew expression is sometimes translated as an argument for the sake of heaven, as if God cares about our squabbles. But that’s exactly what God cares about. We must change our discourse, for the sake of our community, for the sake of our people, for the sake of Israel, and — for the sake of heaven.