Sometimes faith is reality colored by unrealistic expectations. I have maintained faith that Israel will not only be a safe place for Jews but also a “light unto the nations.” That faith has been challenged, shaken, and fractured. God’s promise of security in the land was conditioned upon our observance of laws, and our people’s way of comporting with that condition has become a test of my faith.
God’s conditional promise of security in Israel is recalled at Leviticus 25:10, “You shall observe My laws and faithfully keep My rules, that you may live upon the land in security.” I’ve recited that line, taught it, trusted it. And then I look at our world, at Israel, at Palestinians, at the endless cycle of violence done in the name of “security,” and my faith in people starts to fail. Are we faithful to the laws and rules sufficient to earn that promised security? I doubt that we are.
Excessive violence taken in the name of security defies the terms of God’s promise. The Torah does not permit destruction without warning, collateral damage, or the stealing of your neighbor’s property. And yet some say Israel is more secure than ever. My faith, colored by reality, leaves me with unrealistic expectations of both God and people.
The story of Israel we tell begins with the insecurity of victimhood. We have been attacked, expelled, and massacred. Hebron in 1929. The War of Independence. 1967. 1973. Suicide bombings. Rockets. Knives. Tunnels. No people could walk away from that history unmarked. So when Jews say, “Peace for Israel means security”, “we keep us safe,” and “never again,” I understand it in my bones. There is a mitzvah to guard life. There is nothing holy about letting yourself be murdered.
And yet.
Somewhere along the way, “security” became a magic word that silences questions. If we call it security, then checkpoints, bombings, home demolitions, and expulsions all become inevitable, regrettable, but necessary. We say, “We had no choice,” as if history and fear have closed all doors but one. I hear that, and the central word from the verse whispers and reverberates in my ear.
The Hebrew says, v’yishavtem al ha’aretz lavetach. We usually translate la’vetach as “in security.” But betach is also “sure.” Certain. Confident. To live la’vetach is not only to be safe; it is to be sure. And that’s where my faith‑fueled angst tightens. What, exactly, are we so sure of?
Are we sure that our story is the only one that matters? Are we sure that more force will finally bring the quiet we crave? Are we sure that God’s promise of dwelling “in security” was meant to authorize whatever we decide to do to feel less afraid?
I hear the verse in other ways. Perhaps “you shall live upon the land in security” is not a guarantee of calm borders, but an invitation to a different kind of certainty. Not certainty in our own righteousness, but certainty that the land is not ours to do with as we please. Certainty that in the Land, God’s laws of justice, welcoming the stranger, caring for the poor, the image of God in every face, do not get suspended when someone says, “security concern.”
I find myself caught between two truths. One: Jews have real enemies, real trauma, real reasons to defend ourselves. Two: In defending ourselves, we are fully capable of wounding others and ourselves in ways I believe the Torah does not sanction. God’s promise and our practice don’t line up.
I wish I could say that there exists a policy that will rebalance Torah and security in the Land. Yet, I refuse to accept as “Torah” every act of power in the name of safety. And I have a lingering hope that God’s promise of betach is not only about perfect safety. Rather, as Israelis thrive in the Land, the pursuit of security is also sure to be answerable to Jewish values inspired by holiness.
Rabbi Evan J. Krame
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