Israel is My Home-Yom Kippur 2026-9/21/2026
Israel is My Home
This happened at least fifteen years ago. I was leading Friday evening services at my congregation in Adelaide, South Australia. I had just read a provocative article about Zionism and the defense of Israel at a time when Israel’s policies in the occupied West Bank seemed increasingly difficult to justify. I thought my congregation might be interested in the article and that it would be a good idea to share some of the core paragraphs with them. I was wrong. Only about two minutes passed from the time I finished sharing my comments until two members of my congregation were on their feet yelling at each other. I learned in a visceral way that evening that our feelings about Israel lie very close to the surface. We all feel passionately about Israel, but for many of us, those passions go in different directions. They probably even conflict within ourselves. It is for this reason that I tend to avoid speaking about the subject. I’ve seen how quickly the conversation can become not only polarized but bitter and vitriolic.
But Israel is too important to me not to talk about. Although I’ve spent a total of less than two years of my life there, it still feels like home for me. It is meant to be home not just for me but for all Jews. We are Israel, the people who wrestle with God. At this particular moment in history, I think it’s also crucial for use to wrestle with Israel.
I want to acknowledge at the very start how painful these last three years in particular have been both for Israel and for the whole of the Jewish people. It feels as though our world has turned upside down not just once, but over and over again. On October 7, 2023, we saw Israelis brutally attacked and murdered. Starting on October 8, that country rallied to help those in need in unprecedented ways, creating networks of assistance that, within just a few days, was able to provide everything from emergency shelter and clothing to therapy to massages, babysitting, and gourmet meals. Around the world, we closed ranks and mourned our dead, experiencing each loss as one of our own. At the same time, Israel was mobilizing to go to war.
A few months later, I spoke at a rally against anti-Semitism in which I said that I believed completely that Israel was fighting a just war. My understanding of a just war is it is one which must be engaged in because the consequences of not fighting it will be even more dire than fighting. The classic example, especially for us Jews, is World War II. Quite simply, the Nazis could not be permitted to win. And neither could Hamas. But Hamas had been the sole authority in the Gaza strip for nearly twenty years, and it had dedicated much of its energy during that time to turning the entire territory into an armed camp. It built hundreds of miles of fortified tunnels underneath the Gaza strip, but did not build a single bomb shelter for the two million people who lived above-ground. Hamas had made it utterly impossible for Israel to fight a war against the terrorist entity without a horrific number of civilian casualties.
It was only eight months into the war that strategic experts began to whisper that perhaps Israel had achieved as many of its military objectives as it could under these very difficult circumstances. And still the war dragged on. And on. And on. Israelis whom I admired confessed that whatever empathy they might have felt for the suffering of Palestinian civilians was instead focused on the dozens of hostages still being held by Hamas. Israelis proclaimed, over and over, that the war would end immediately if the hostages were released. The hostages were not released. The body of the last hostage was finally returned in January of this year. But now there is a stalemate in which Hamas refuses to lay down its arms and Israel refuses to advance any plan for a future for Gaza, which is almost entirely in rubble.
As the war has continued, it has been impossible to avoid the hard truth that Israel’s rhetoric, and often its actions, have become increasingly brutal. On Rosh Hashanah, a film called Naza opened at the Venice Film Festival claiming that Israel’s armed forces tried to maximize civilian deaths. The claim is demonstrably false. To put it bluntly: If that had been Israel’s goal, there would be no one left alive in Gaza. The film was welcomed with a standing ovation of 25 minutes. Every person in the audience believed that Israel was capable of trying to murder as many innocents as possible. And that’s because, over the last three years, so very many innocent civilians have been killed.
I have found it almost intolerable to read stories describing the human cost of the war in Gaza. Entire families have been wiped out. Tens of thousands of children have died. Hundreds of thousands of people have been driven from one end of that narrow strip to the other, and then back again. A year ago, the IDF took over the responsibility of distributing aid after accusing humanitarian organizations of supporting Hamas. This effort was poorly coordinated and managed, and hundreds of civilians were killed as a result. At that time, I spoke about how I had always wanted Israel to be judged as lightly or harshly as other nations. And by that measure, Israel was failing. It is still failing. The attacks on Palestinians simply trying to live their lives on their ancestral lands in the West Bank are especially terrible. And I, like so many others, am struggling to remain connected to this place which still feels like home.
Israel is an extraordinary country. On Rosh Hashanah, I spoke about how there is no place like the United States for living a Jewish life. The same is true of Israel, but in an entirely different way. Israel is the only country in the world where Jews are the majority, and that is an amazing thing. There is remarkable diversity in Israel, but much of it is Jewish diversity: Jews from the US, from Russia, from South America, from South Africa, from Yemen, Morocco, Iraq, India, Ethiopia. In a little over a hundred years, Hebrew has gone from a dead language to a language which is more alive than you can possibly imagine. Hebrew Book Week is practically a national holiday, with hundreds of thousands of people patronizing outdoor book fairs held throughout the country. Israelis purchase the largest number of books of poetry of any nation. They record beautiful, lyrical songs and create ground-breaking television shows and movies.
They also have transformed Judaism in a particularly Israeli way. If you go to Israel expecting to find Jewish practice that looks just like what we have here in the US, you’ll be disappointed. Israel is decidedly different. On a recent episode of my favorite podcast, “The Promised Podcast,” host Noah Efron chronicled the incredible variety of pre-Rosh Hashanah celebrations taking place in Tel Aviv. There was a community tashlich observance at the beach, accompanied by live music, dancing, and games for the children, craft workshops, a showcase of opera singers, a Rosh Hashanah wine festival, a children’s play about a queen bee, a concert of traditional Rosh Hashanah liturgical poems, raves and dances, plus a 5 and 10K race, a full-day Rosh Hashanah party at the Tel Aviv port, and a Rosh Hashanah-themed bird watching tour. Shofars would be sounded at 80 different locations around the city on Rosh Hashanah itself so that everyone would have an opportunity to participate in the mitzvah of hearing the ram’s horn. It is no wonder that I feel at home in Israel in a way that feels different from how I feel at home in the United States. I once heard someone speak about Israel as a warm, cozy blanket for Jews, and I completely agree. It is deeply precious to me.
In just a few weeks, Israelis will go to the polls in what many consider to be the most consequential election in the history of the country. Under consideration is whether Israel will choose the path of fear or that of hope, continued war or the possibility of peace. I’m grateful to have the opportunity to chime in at least a little bit by signing my name to a letter currently being circulated by ARZA. You are welcome to visit their website and add your signature as well. Here is an extended quote from the letter:
“Before there was a State of Israel, there was a people bound together by covenant. From Sinai through the generations, that covenant found expression in the teaching: כל ישראל ערבים זה בזה — Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh — all Jews are responsible for one another (Shavuot 27b). That sacred responsibility has carried our people through exile and return, persecution and renewal, grief and celebration. It reminds us that we share a common fate, destiny, and purpose.
As Israel prepares to choose its next government, we are reminded of a simple truth: We are meant to strengthen one another. We in the Diaspora pray for Israel’s safety, mourn its losses, celebrate its achievements, and teach our children that Israel is central to the unfolding story of the Jewish people.
As Reform Jews, our Zionism is rooted in the conviction that Israel must be unapologetically Jewish and firmly democratic. In the spirit of our ancestors, this moment calls each of us to say Hineni—here I am.
For Israeli voters, Hineni means meeting this moment by choosing leadership that strengthens democracy and the rule of law; protects Jewish religious pluralism and recognizes Reform and Progressive Judaism; confronts racism and discrimination; upholds the dignity and rights of all citizens; and works toward a future in which Israelis and Palestinians pursue a vision of shared society and work towards reconciliation.
For Reform and Progressive Jews throughout the Diaspora, Hineni means refusing to retreat from Israel because our conversations are difficult or reducing our relationship to politics alone. It means deepening our engagement, investing in Israel education, strengthening people-to-people partnerships, visiting Israel, and supporting those working to build a more just and inclusive society.
Israel needs a vibrant, engaged, and committed Diaspora. Diaspora Jews need a secure, democratic, and pluralistic Jewish state.
Our destinies remain intertwined. Together, we inherit both the extraordinary privilege and the profound obligation of writing the next chapter of the Jewish story.”
I’m not going to pretend that reading these words is going to fix everything or anything. The pain is still there, as is the anxiety for what the next chapter might look like. I also appreciate that there is so much that I haven’t touched on today, including how the words and actions of the Israeli government impact on us here in the Diaspora. But, as in every committed relationship, I cannot walk away when times are hard. The letter I signed ends with the words, “With love, hope, and an abiding commitment to our shared future.” We remain one people. May we continue to wrestle with one another in love. Shana tova!
