I’m getting ready for my 50th High School Reunion—a milestone that’s given me a special role: helping organizers track down our classmates. In this process, I reconnected with Robyn, a friend from second grade, now living in Upstate New York. (And, in classic New York fashion, let’s remember that for those from the city or Long Island, everywhere else is just “upstate.”)
Robyn wrote me recently: “Congratulations on your work! And wondering where you stand with starvation in Gaza? Is the Jewish Studio doing much work on that front? It’s so sad and sickening. Hope you are lending your voice!”
Her questions echo what many have asked me: Will I speak about Israel? And if so, what will I say about the war?
I am not a politician. I am neither a political scientist nor a diplomat. I’m not here to declare who is right and who is wrong, or to give a timeline of blame, or to label who is saint and who is sinner.
My role is to help prepare each of us, even in some small way, for the future through the lens of our Jewish tradition. If I can offer a piece of wisdom, a story, or a tradition from Judaism to steady and guide us, then I’ve done my job. Because as much as I love Israel, the turmoil in the world clarifies one thing: American Jews—Jews in America—need resources to sustain us mentally, spiritually, and, if God forbid it comes to that, to survive.
My connection to Israel runs deep. My first plane trip, in 1971, was to Israel—a journey that changed my life and began a lifelong bond. Jodi and I are tied: 18 visits each. I have clients, relatives, and friends in Israel. Some of my most meaningful moments have happened there—Bar Mitzvahs, study retreats, hikes through the wilderness.
I also have a history with Zionist organizations. Years ago, I was active in the Zionist Organization of America—back when it was still a mainstream organization. I attended AIPAC policy conferences with the crowds. But as support for Israel grew increasingly polarized—left against right, right against left —I found myself without a comfortable organizational home.
I love Israel deeply, and I grieve the attack by Hamas on October 7. Period. I know you know what happened—perhaps you’ve seen the Nova exhibit in Washington, New York, or Miami.
And I also object strongly to the current Israeli Prime Minister and the cabinet members whose intolerance grieves me deeply. I imagine I am not alone in that.
I am heartsick over what’s happening in Israel and Gaza. I am heartsick over the young lives lost at a music festival, over families murdered in their homes.
But I am not heartless. My grief extends to tens of thousands of Palestinians who’ve died. Compassion does not disappear at the border.
While I am devastated by the destruction in Gaza, I fully support Israelis who simply want to live in safety and peace.
For me, the image of a heart with many chambers is powerful. My heart is divided. Perhaps the chamber that holds my love for Israel and the Jewish people is the larger chamber, but there is always a chamber that holds space for love of the stranger, for offering help, for grieving all human life.
My heart sometimes feels broken—especially for Israel—but though I am heartsick, I am not hopeless.
I would like to focus on two urgent issues: the splintering of our community and the moral core of our collective identity. My hope is to inspire all of us to stretch our hearts to truly embrace—not just tolerate—each other. Especially now, in this time of peril, we need each other deeply.
The war in Gaza has widened old divides. Our community was already segmented, but now risks fracturing, like an ice field cracking under pressure. We’ve always had differences—rabbinic debates are a hallmark of our tradition. The Talmud’s pages overflow with arguments.
We are also split into denominations representing theological and political differences. An odd bit of history: In the 1930s, Reform rabbis advocated for a Jewish state, while many Orthodox rabbis opposed it. Now, progressive rabbis are often critical of Israel’s government, while unwavering support is more common among the Orthodox. We have disagreed about Israel before.
Yet, Israel has long been a source of hope: the prayers that express our dream of a homeland and exiles gathering. For many, it remains a model—a vision of strength, innovation, and resilience. For me, Zionism is hope, HaTikvah. That dream must not die, nor become a nightmare.
But something feels different now. Anger about Israel erupts everywhere: college campuses, neighborhoods, even family dinners. Others are fiercely supportive, more than just volunteering in Israel, donating money, and lobbying for Israel’s safety. I’ve sat at too many Shabbat tables where someone disagrees with Israel’s handling of the war and gets berated.
No topic divides us more than Israel. For American Jews, it’s the third rail—touch it and tempers flare. Friendships break up. Families argue. Communities split.
But there is a hard truth: the less we listen to each other, the more we splinter. And the more we splinter, the weaker we become.
But today, debate devolves into toxicity. “Zionist” and “anti-Zionist” are used as insults. Critics of Israel’s government are called “self-hating Jews.” Calls for “free Palestine” and “from the river to the sea” demonize Israel and reveal the hollowness, if not hypocrisy, of protestors who focus on Israel, the Jewish state, while ignoring wider, brutal conflicts around the globe.
On the other hand, we have Ultra-Orthodox voices blaming Israel’s problems on gay rights and women’s rights. They justify intolerance for foreigners on biblical sources.
These divides are modern zealotry—devotion that squeezes out nuance, empathy, or respect; advocacy that dehumanizes both protestor and victims.
The consequences are real. Those supporting harsh actions in Gaza and the West Bank risk turning Israel into a pariah state. Western nations voice outrage, some recognize Palestinian statehood, the EU considers sanctions, Democratic voters in America show weariness, and boycotts loom.
Where are the protests for victims of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, or the many ongoing wars in places like Myanmar and the Congo? Radical violence in Africa goes nearly unnoticed. Civil wars in Syria and Sudan killed hundreds of thousands. Even wars waged by the United States left devastation, we are responsible for the death of hundreds of thousands in Iraq and Afghanistan —yet we do not see tent cities on campuses protesting our country’s hostilities.
I am confused when I see those protests on the news: who is standing up and for whom? Many who march for Palestinian rights—feminists, queer activists—would not be welcome with those same rights in much of the Arab world.
How do we repair these divides? It’s hard work. It means listening—even when it’s painful. As much as I believe in the dream of Zion, I have to listen to friends who call themselves anti-Zionist. As much as I reject extremists, I need to keep relationships with those who passionately disagree with me.
Why? Because left, right, progressive, conservative, observant, secular—if we let our divisions ossify, we will not have the strength to meet today’s challenges.
Here’s an example to inspire you to listen. In November, we are previewing the movie Holding Liat about a hostage and her family. Despite her being held hostage, Liat expressed curiosity about the Palestinian people. She described how she asked questions and then listened to the stories of life in Gaza told to her by her abductors. Well, if Liat could have civil discourse with her captors, can’t we figure out how to talk to each other in the safety of our homes and restaurants here?
We are deeply challenged—intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually. We’re trying to hold onto normalcy while flinching at every headline. Fear, anger, grief—they swirl through our conversations. Can we recognize where our reactions come from? What is fear, what is morality, what is just heartbreak?
Another approach: deeper conversation. Ask questions. Follow up with more questions, with: “Oh? Really? Tell me more.” Invite reflection—on hopes, fears, frustrations—so we understand not only each other’s positions, but the emotions underneath.
Many of us have taken tikkun olam—repairing the world—as a mission, sometimes at the expense of ahavat Yisrael—love of our people. But one cannot exist without the other. As Rabbi Eugene Borowitz taught: Universal concern without devotion to our people is self-destructive. Passion for our people without involvement in wider humanity contradicts the message of the prophets.
Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik offered another metaphor: the Jewish people are a being with many heads, speaking many languages, wearing many clothes, living in many lands. The test is this: when one head hurts, do the others cry out? If so, we are still one people.
Our diversity should be our strength. Unity does not require uniformity. We can argue, disagree, even debate fiercely—but always with respect, humility, and the reminder that we are bound together by fate.
Let’s stand strong for one another. Let’s show the world that Jews can disagree without dividing, argue without splintering, and debate without destroying.
Because if we are not for ourselves, who will be for us? But if we are only for ourselves, what are we?
Let’s be sorrowful when we need to be but never cruel. Let’s be heartsick, but never heartless.
Kol arevim zeh l’zeh—every Jew is responsible for one another.
Unity—not sameness, but solidarity—is our greatest strength and our greatest gift to those who come after us.
“Hinei ma tov u’ma na’im, shevet achim gam yachad.”
“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is when brothers and sisters dwell together in unity.”
“Bless us, Holy one of Blessings, kulanu ke’echad, all of us as one, with the light of Your face.”
“Baruch Atah Adonai, oseh shalom u’me’ached et amo Yisrael.”
“Blessed are You, Eternal One, who makes peace and unites the people of Israel.”
