It’s never been easy to be Jewish. But this moment is especially daunting.
October 7th, the invasion of Gaza, anti-Zionist campus protests, the surge in antisemitism, the growing isolation of Israel, and the widening gulf between Biden and Netanyahu, are all reasons for Jews to be alarmed. Never in my lifetime have I seen so much pressure and distress thrust upon the Jewish people all at once. Channeling Thomas Paine, it seems fair to say that these are times that try the Jewish soul.
I certainly don’t have a comprehensive solution to these predicaments. But I do have at least a basic idea of how not to respond to them.
First, let’s do our best to avoid extremism. It was extremists who created the conditions of the current crisis to begin with, and it is extremists who are preventing its resolution. Cooler, more reasonable voices have essentially been silenced, which only deepens and extends what is already an insufferable situation. But even closer to home, we have to understand that members of the American Jewish community have different interpretations of our circumstances and there is bound to be disagreement. Applying labels and contemptuously dismissing one another’s views provide little insight into where we are and the practical steps we need to take.
For example, I’ve been a sustaining donor with Save the Children and Doctors Without Borders for many years. Lately, I’ve been making additional contributions to these effective and hard-working charities as they’ve increased their efforts to help sick, hungry and injured children in war-torn Gaza, in conjunction with the humanitarian aid being provided by the US government. I recently discovered that there are rumors circulating on the internet which claim that one or both of these non-profits are working with Hamas. It seems that such remarks have been generated by people who don’t want any aid to reach any Palestinians whatsoever, including children. But claiming that these highly reputable organizations are thus assisting anti-Jewish and anti-Israel terrorists is just as nonsensical as saying that because I’m a Zionist, I support ethnic cleansing and genocide. The suffering of innocent children should be a politically neutral point that focuses our moral resolve. Muddling the issue with these kinds of fact-starved accusations only prolongs the misery of those who least deserve it.
Second, let’s be careful not to succumb to despair, which involves resignation to the worst outcomes that a situation may produce. Instead, let’s commit ourselves to what Nicholas Kristoff of the New York Times calls possibilism. The future belongs to those who are honest about their circumstances and are willing to work for something better. Despair, as well as blind optimism, can paralyze us. To realize a future that’s best for the Jewish people, indeed best for everyone, we must avoid the temptations of these kinds of thinking. In the early and mid-20th century, there was serious resistance to the idea of a Jewish state from the Ottoman Empire, the British government and the Arab countries. Many Jews in Europe and the United States thereby resigned themselves to the futility of the Zionist project. On the other side of the spectrum, some Orthodox Jews have resisted Zionism because they believe that the Messiah will soon come, who will then lead the Jewish people back to their ancestral homeland. The success of Zionism and the establishment of Israel demanded a pragmatic confidence that the Jewish people can surmount their difficulties with a clear-eyed sense of the future and a willingness to achieve it. Neither despair nor blind optimism would have permitted this to happen.
In spite of these internal and external obstacles, over the course of half a century, from the first Zionist Congress to the international recognition of Israel, the Jewish nation was born. Had despair won the day, the hard work necessary to create a homeland for the Jewish people would not have been attempted. But neither did the early pioneers indulge in a naive religious optimism, believing that sooner or later an intervention from Heaven would lead us triumphantly to Zion.
Extremism, whether in thought or action, expresses both too much and too little confidence. It invests too much confidence in a single point of view, while showing too little confidence in the possibility that our own imperfect opinions can be corrected and supplemented by other people who are willing to reason with us in good faith. To be Jewish in the current moment requires that we avoid the extremes of overly optimistic and pessimistic thinking. Instead, let’s join together as possibilists in the belief that our people will endure once again as we have so many times over the course of the centuries.
A number of years ago, I taught a course in our Adult Education Academy called Intro-
duction to Judaism. I fondly recall how lively and well-attended these classes were, both by
members of our own congregation as well as by visitors from local churches.
During one discussion, I tried to convey the richness of Jewishness and the multiple
ways of living Jewishly. I remarked that religious observance is just one among many different
ways that we identify as Jews. To emphasize the point, I added that there are, and probably al-
ways have been, Jewish atheists. While the Jews in the room seemed perfectly comfortable with
this suggestion, the Christians sat and stared at me in silence and amazement.
How can you be both Jewish and an atheist, they asked with incredulity? I acknowl-
edged their concern by agreeing that the idea of a Christian atheist is self-contradictory. But the
notion of a Jewish atheist is not. How, then, do we explain the difference?
To be a Christian, one must embrace a particular religious doctrine about a Savior. To be
Jewish, in contrast, one need not accept any particular creed. Many of us feel Jewish in virtue of
our shared cultural heritage, our ethnicity, a particular understanding of history, or a sense of
allegiance to Israel. None of these modes of Jewishness requires commitment to a theological
idea. One can certainly be religiously observant to live as a Jew, but these other portals into
Jewish life need not involve prayer, ritual, or belief. There are many spokes leading into the
Jewish hub, each with its own meaning and validity.
In some cases, these different modes of Jewishness can be combined in rather creative ways.
It may surprise you to learn, for example, that there are Jewish atheists who regularly attend syna-
gogue and daven during Shabbat and holiday services. Some even put on tefillin. As one Jewish atheist recently explained to me, if you don’t do these things that doesn’t mean you’re an atheist. It means that you’re a goy.
In typical Jewish fashion, then, we can’t seem to agree on what it is that makes us Jewish, but
in some mysterious way, we simply are. Each of us may chart a separate course, but somehow, mirac-
ulously, we retain a distinct Jewish identify that endures throughout the ages.
Though I had coaxed at least some degree of comprehension from the Christian students on
this point, I could see that the depth, richness, and complexity of Jewishness still seemed to elude
them. This is what prompted one of them to ask if I could define Jewishness, or at least analyze and
distill it down to an essential description of some kind.
How was I to respond to such a request? Hesitantly, and not without trepidation mind you, I
suggested the following idea: Jewishness is a shared wisdom born of suffering. It is a wisdom consist-
ing of an intergenerational conversation that offers its own unique resistance to cynicism and despair,
a conversation that has stretched across many centuries and many continents, and shows no sign of
ending anytime soon.
Jewishness, I reiterated is not reducible to a creed or a formula, and what I just offered is not a
definition, I admit. Nevertheless, I do think these words express something essential about who we are
as a people.
When sharing this idea with an orthodox friend, he suggested that I may have missed some-
thing important. Jews, he reminded me, have traditionally waited and prayed for the Messiah, have we
not? This is a hope that is grounded in our scriptures, our holidays, our services, and our rituals. Wait-
ing and praying for the Messiah comes as close as anything we have to a theological doctrine.
I conceded the point, but still, I responded to his suggestion with a very simple question: what
happens to our Jewishness once the Messiah arrives? If waiting for the Messiah is the essence of being
Jewish, then after the Messiah finally comes the waiting is over and this essence becomes obsolete.
What then? Do we stop being Jewish?
My friend’s reply was that Ha Shem will decide this for us at the appropriate time. Yes, I sup-
pose that’s true. But if I were to have my way, I would prefer that even after the Messiah arrives, we
sustain our centuries-long conversation and continue debating what it means to be Jewish. That is the
wisdom I feel we’ve earned from our long history of suffering. And, that is the wisdom that keeps us
away from cynicism and despair. This is precisely why, when the Messiah finally does come, I’d be
very happy if he were to sit down and eat with us and join the conversation.
As the Talmud makes abundantly clear. To discuss, debate, and differ, even about our Jewish-
ness, is precisely what makes us Jews. Surely, the Messiah wouldn’t disagree with this now, would he?