Many of us have sung the words, “Kol ha-olam kulo, gesher tzar me’od” – “The whole world is a very narrow bridge. And the essential thing is not to be afraid at all.” But I only recently discovered that this isn’t actually what Rabbi Nachman taught. His original words were, “When a person must cross an exceedingly narrow bridge, the most essential principle is that they not create fear within themselves.”
This teaching has become a beacon for me, illuminating the tumultuous events of the past year. Like many of you, I have repeatedly felt myself in a very narrow place, struggling to balance competing values, concerns, and communities. Sometimes it’s impossible not to feel afraid, not to lose hope. It’s not about denying the existence of the narrow bridge — the challenges, the fears, the uncertainties we face. It’s about recognizing our power to choose how we respond to them.
Let’s consider the narrow bridge first. The atrocities of October 7th marked a watershed in American Jewish life. If earlier events in this country, like the march in Charlottesville and the synagogue shootings in Pittsburgh, made us wonder if Jews were really safe here, the Hamas attack forced both Americans and Israelis to ask if Jews were any safer there.
Many of us were raised to think of Israel as a lifeboat, a refuge from antisemitism Generations of Israeli leaders championed this idea, encouraging immigration whenever antisemitic acts occurred elsewhere.
But we have to acknowledge the terrible price Palestinians have paid for the Jewish State. Many in Israeli society, and perhaps the majority of American Jews, have found it easier to look away from the inhumane conditions in Gaza and the West Bank. Perhaps the contrast between those realities and the dream of Israel as our longed-for Jewish homeland was just too painful. The aftermath of October 7th has forced us to open our eyes, challenging us to respond to the question: How do we honor both the dream of a homeland and the ethical imperatives of our tradition? How do we ensure security while we uphold our values? Can we?
The early Zionists grappled with these questions. We are most familiar with the political Zionists, those who like Theodor Herzl, saw the establishment of a Jewish state as a necessary response to rising European antisemitism and as the expression of Jewish nationalism. The Zionist movement, like any human endeavor, was not monolithic. It contained many factions, each with their own vision of what a Jewish homeland should be.
There were cultural Zionists, who sought a renewal of Jewish life without the need for a state. Ahad Ha’am wrote of creating “a great national culture, the fruit of the unhampered activity of a people living by the light of its own spirit.” ( Ahad Ha-Am, “The Jewish State and the Jewish Problem,” 1897)
And there were those, like Martin Buber and Henrietta Szold, who envisioned a bi-national state in cooperation with Palestine’s Muslims and Christians. They believed that the new society we created must reflect Jewish values, not only in relationship to other Jews but with its non-Jewish neighbors as well. After the 1948 War of Independence, when 750,000 Palestinians were displaced, Buber called on the Israeli government to address their plight, asking, “Were we not refugees in the diaspora?” (Martin Buber, “On the Moral Character of the State of Israel,” 1949)
But to understand where we are today, we must also grapple with a different approach to Zionism: Revisionism. Its founder, Ze’ev Jabotinsky, became a controversial figure, organizing self-defense units in response to Russian pogroms. His slogans, “Better to have a gun and not need it than to need it and not have it!” and “Jewish youth, learn to shoot!” reflect a very different vision of Jewish empowerment.
The Revisionist movement demanded an undivided Jewish state on both sides of the Jordan River, where Jews would constitute a majority by whatever means necessary. In Revisionist writings, we see violence portrayed not only as a necessary response to antisemitism but as the hallmark of the liberated Jew. This idea of “muscular Judaism” contrasted sharply with the Revsisionists’ image of Diaspora Jews as weak and timid. The “new Jew” would be an example of physical strength, proudly wearing an army uniform.
Today’s Israel government are the inheritors of Revisionist ideology. Menachem Begin, the first Likud Prime Minister, led the Irgun, a paramilitary organization whose tactics he modeled on the Irish Republican Army. Benjamin Netanyahu’s father, Benzion Netanyahu, an ardent Revisionist, passed on his beliefs to his son, who, has written, “With the founding of the State of Israel, the majority of Jews quickly came to understand the critical importance of military power…” Netanyahu argues that criticism of Israel is not actually based on the actions of the government, but on the fact that Jewish sovereignty exists at all. Gentiles prefer weak and passive Jews and have not accepted strong Jews that act in their own defense.
He goes on to say, “Since the rise of Israel, the essence of [Jewish] aspirations has changed. If the central aim of the Jewish people during exile was to retrieve what had been lost, the purpose now is to secure what has been retrieved.” In other words, the purpose of, not only a Jewish state, but of Judaism itself is security for Jews. (Benjamin Netanyahu, “A Place Among the Nations,” 1993)
But, again, we must ask: Is this the sum total of our aspirations as a people? Is security, vital though it is, the only measure by which we judge the success of our return to Zion? Or do we have a higher calling, a more profound purpose? Our greatest power has always been in our ethical and spiritual teachings, not just in our ability to defend ourselves physically.How do we fulfill this calling in the face of real threats and complex political realities?
To respond, we must acknowledge the changing landscape of American Jewish identity and its relationship to Israel. Many of us were raised to view the State of Israel as both necessary for the survival of the Jewish people and as the fulfillment of the dream of Jewish self-determination. Those of us who remember the 1967 Six Day War – that brief but pivotal conflict in which Israel defeated the armies of Egypt, Syria, and Jordan – were part of a generation for whom pride in Israel became central to our Jewish identity. As Joshua Liefer writes in his book Tablets Shattered, “In a matter of days…the meaning of American Jewish identity was redefined. Israel now stood at its center.”
But in the years that followed, some American Jews began to challenge the military occupation of the West Bank and Gaza. They questioned the morality of a Jewish state denying basic rights to another group. They were early supporters of a two-state solution, long before the idea became accepted by the mainstream, and were denounced as a threat to Israel and Judaism. Yet over time, progressive Zionist organizations, including the Reform movement, moved from the fringe toward the center of American Jewish life.
Today, we see a spectrum of responses within our community. There are those who maintain unwavering support for Israel’s policies, those who support Israel while opposing the occupation, and those who challenge the very nature of Israel as a Jewish state. Young Jews, in particular, have been at the forefront of movements calling for a radical reevaluation of our relationship with Israel. They’ve learned earlier than many of us about the contradictions at the heart of Israel’s identity as both Jewish and democratic. They’re asking hard questions about the stories we’ve told and the values we claim to uphold.
This generational shift has profound implications for the future of American Jewish identity and its relationship with Israel. It suggests a growing rift between legacy Jewish institutions and a younger generation that prioritizes universal human rights over particularistic ethnic loyalty.
We must create space for these diverse perspectives within our community. We must listen to our young people, even – perhaps especially – when their words challenge us. We must be willing to engage in difficult conversations, to question our assumptions, and to imagine new possibilities for what it means to be both Jewish and pro-peace in America.
This is not an easy task. But I believe that this is precisely what our tradition calls us to do. As Jews, we are heirs to a heritage that values questioning, debate, and the constant reinterpretation of our sacred texts and traditions in light of new realities. We are a people who have always found strength in our diversity of thought and our willingness to wrestle with difficult truths.
As we stand on this narrow bridge, let us have the courage to engage in these challenging conversations. Let us listen to each other with open hearts and minds. And let us work together to envision a future that honors both our Jewish identity and our commitment to justice for all people.
We must confront the events of October 7th, 2023, and their aftermath. On that day, Hamas militants launched a devastating attack on residents of Israel, killing over 1,000 people and taking hundreds of hostages. Israel’s subsequent military response in Gaza has led to unprecedented levels of destruction and loss of life. The suffering has been immense, and as Jews, we find ourselves in an agonizing position. Our hearts break for the Israeli victims and hostages, and we fear for the safety of Israelis. At the same time, we cannot ignore the disproportionate suffering of those in Gaza. Whether you believe the Palestinian casualties are in the tens of thousands or, like the British medical journal, The Lancet, in the hundreds of thousands, the destruction in Gaza has forced American Jews to see, in a way many did not before, the terrible impact of Israeli policy on Palestinians. Our hearts cannot help but be softened and pained by the anguishing images and stories coming from Gaza, the West Bank, and, now, Lebanon, as well.
Almost immediately after October 7th, American Jews were faced with either/or demands on our loyalty. Legacy Jewish organizations proclaimed “We Stand with Israel,” while progressives chanted “Two, four. six, eight, Israel is a terror state.” Where was the space to say we stand with both Israelis and Palestinians, that we yearn for freedom and security for all who live between the river and the sea? As one Israeli poignantly wrote, “This is not football. We are not rooting for our team. This involves precious human lives, not sides in a game.”
We must also confront troubling developments within Israel itself. There is a governmental assault on democratic institutions, including the courts, schools, and the press. Since October 7th, in actions we might associate with Putin’s Russia, activists, dissenters, and those who merely raise objections to the war on social media have been arrested, dismissed from their jobs, had their homes ransacked, and otherwise targeted. Those arrested at demonstrations include family members of hostages being held in Gaza, who were calling for the government to do more to release their loved ones. Avraham Burg, a former speaker of the Knesset, has called this “a clear and immediate democratic emergency.” (Yona Roseman, “Israel’s Far-Right Government Is Suffocating Domestic Dissent,” https://jacobin.com/2023/11/israel-far-right-government-suffocating-domestic-dissent-palestine-solidarity)
At the heart of this crisis lies a fundamental question that has existed since the beginning of the Zionist movement: Is the purpose of Israel to be a state for Jews, or a Jewish state? Is the essential thing to provide a haven for Jews, or to create a society rooted in and acting upon Jewish values? These questions have taken on new urgency in the wake of recent events. Is the purpose of the State of Israel to protect Jewish life, regardless of the cost? Or has a Jewish State lost its way if its continuation is rooted in ongoing oppression and the loss of countless civilian lives?
This fundamental question is being grappled with in various ways across the American Jewish spectrum. Conservative organizations like AIPAC continue to prioritize Israel’s security above all else, while progressive groups like IfNotNow are calling for an immediate ceasefire and an end to the occupation. Meanwhile, centrist organizations like J Street are trying to navigate a middle ground, supporting Israel’s right to self-defense while also advocating for Palestinian rights and a two-state solution. These divergent approaches reflect the deep soul-searching occurring within American Jewish communities as we struggle to reconcile our concern for Israel with our commitment to human rights and Jewish ethical values.
I cannot provide easy answers to these painful questions. But I can urge us to approach them with the full depth of our Jewish ethical tradition. We must find a way to ensure Jewish safety that doesn’t come at the cost of our moral compass. We must strive for a vision of Jewish empowerment that doesn’t require the disempowerment of others. It requires us to hold the pain and fear of our own community alongside our ethical obligations to all of humanity. It demands that we listen to voices we might prefer to ignore, and question assumptions we’ve long held dear.
But I believe that we, as a community and as individuals, have the resilience to walk this difficult path. Our tradition has always called us to wrestle with difficult truths, to question even God, and to strive for justice even when it’s uncomfortable. Now, more than ever, we must live up to this legacy.
I now return to the wisdom of Rabbi Nachman. He taught us that the most essential principle is that we not create fear within ourselves. Crossing the bridge is hard enough; we don’t have to exaggerate the dangers.
How do we do this in the face of such challenging times? First and foremost, we must rid ourselves of the notion that disagreement is a threat. Especially the idea that Jews who disagree with us are dangerous. Listening to opposing opinions, especially on topics as volatile as Israel and Palestine, can be difficult, even physically painful. Centuries ago, Jews had to police each other, lest a transgressive action or word brought down punishment on the whole community. We had reason to be afraid of what someone might say. But we no longer live in ghettos or under the rule of an arbitrary authority. We won’t die from hearing a different opinion.
In fact, listening – truly listening – is one of the most powerful tools we have. Through organizations like The Compassionate Listening Project, I’ve learned the transformative power of hearing others without immediately formulating a response. This practice frees us from the need to control everything and opens up the possibility of genuine connection.
We must also seek out diverse sources of information. In our current media landscape, it’s all too easy to become trapped in echo chambers that reinforce our fears and biases. Just as my teacher, Rabbi Lionel Blue, taught me that it’s the prayers we don’t like that force us to think, I believe the same applies to news and politics. We grow when we engage with perspectives that challenge us.
Remember, we are never alone on this narrow bridge. Our strength lies in our community, in our ability to support each other through difficult times and challenging conversations. You might not realize how exceptional our Temple Emanu-El community is in being what is called an “Open Congregation” a rare and precious space where we strive to value diversity of opinion and practice respectful disagreement. Out of 845 Reform congregations in the United States, only three define themselves this way. This is the essence of Jewish community – a place where we can be our authentic selves, especially in hard times and difficult conversations.
As we enter a new year, we do so without a resolution to the conflict in the Middle East, and likely without resolution to our own inner conflicts. How might we direct our prayers in this moment? Jewish tradition teaches us that we do not pray for the impossible. Instead, as Rabbi Edward Feinstein reminds us, “Real prayer, prayer that works…doesn’t change the world; it changes us….We can only ask…for the wisdom, strength and courage to change [things] ourselves.” (Rabbi Edward Feinstein, Tough Questions Jews Ask)
Wisdom, strength, and courage are required of all of us in this moment. I pray that we encourage these qualities in one another and ourselves. As we move into this new year, let us remember that our greatest strength lies not in our certainty, but in our willingness to listen, to learn, and to walk together, even when the path ahead seems precarious. In doing so, we honor the deepest wisdom of our tradition and create the possibility for a future that includes all of us. Together, we can navigate this narrow bridge. Together, we can hold onto both our connection to Israel and our commitment to our Jewish values. Together, we can be a force for compassion, justice, and peace.
Shanah tovah – may it be a good year. And may we, through our actions and our openness, help to make it so.