NEWTON, Mass. – In the Hebrew Bible, Moses, the great liberator of the Israelites, only glimpses the Promised Land from afar. After forty years of leading his people through the wilderness, he dies just outside its borders. The moment is both tragic and profound: a symbol of longing, of striving toward justice, yet falling short.
The Promised Land is a metaphor. For my ancestors, America was the Promised Land, the Goldeneh Medina, the Golden Land, a refuge from the perilous existence of Jews in Eastern Europe. It offered not just hope and the possibility of earning a living, but the promise of justice and equality before the law.
Today, that dream feels more fragile. Civil rights, voting rights and protections for minorities are being systematically destroyed.
Antisemitism is often called the world’s oldest and longest hatred, and it is rising yet again. Immigrant families are being torn apart by ICE agents empowered by a hostile administration. We fear we may not live to see justice and mercy restored. Moses couldn’t enter, and we fear we may not reenter the Promised Land.
I was born in the middle of the twentieth century, just five years after WWII and two years after the founding of Israel. My father returned from the war a decorated hero; his body broken, his spirit mostly intact. The war left its mark. My paternal grandmother’s extended family, eighty souls who remained in Europe, were murdered during the Holocaust, a small fragment of the six million Jewish lives extinguished.
We were the lucky ones. Our families had found refuge in America before the doors slammed shut. We went to bed secure in President Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms: freedom of speech, of worship, from want, and from fear. We believed this was our country. Our parents fought for it. My father received the Bronze Star for running messages through hostile territory. Over 550,000 Jewish Americans served in the armed forces.
Israel was central to us. After centuries of ostracism, persecution and deadly pogroms culminating in the holocaust, we had a safe place to go that would take us in. We planted trees, celebrated agricultural and technological achievements, and followed each war that Israel never asked for with worry and pride. In 1948, 1956, 1967 and 1973, and today Israel defends its right to exist against overwhelming odds.
In my twenties, I lived and worked on a kibbutz. I love the country deeply. But like my despair over America’s leadership today, I struggle with Israeli policies, especially in Gaza. I hold both truths at once: love for Israel and deep concern for its actions.
There’s a Jewish story about the Schools of Hillel and Shammai, who debated fiercely for years. A heavenly voice finally declared, “These and those are both the words of the living God.” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b). Judaism teaches that multiple truths can coexist — and must be held with respect. It’s difficult, but not impossible.
People ask me, “How can Israel’s actions be reconciled with Jewish values?”
My answer to this is: Judaism is a religion. It teaches justice, compassion, and care for the vulnerable. It offers a spiritual and ethical framework. But it is critical to recognize that Israel is not a Judaism state. It is a Jewish state founded on the Zionist principle that Jews, like all people, deserve a nation that serves and defends them.
Is that a contradiction? Perhaps no more than calling the United States a Christian nation. Love thy neighbor or turning the other cheek have not been guiding principles for our country. America was built on slavery and stolen land, not biblical love.
In the Torah, the five books of Moses, the heart of a just community is summed up in three commandments: love your neighbor (Leviticus 19:18), love the stranger (Deuteronomy 10:19), and love God (Deuteronomy 6:5). Who can argue with that? Yet the machinery of state rarely runs on divine imperatives.
Today, many older Jewish Americans, including me, are bewildered by many of the younger generations’ disconnection from Israel. They did not grow up with Israel’s founding mythos or existential struggles. They see a country with a powerful military and struggle to reconcile that with Judaism’s call for justice. They are not wrong, but they must remember why Israel exists.
Those with antisemitic views hold all Jews responsible for Israel’s policies. They blame Israel for all the region’s problems, ignoring Iran and its proxies: Hamas and Hezbollah. As a result Jewish college students are afraid to attend certain campuses. Jews are barred from some activist causes. Jews are being attacked and murdered here and abroad. This is why we need Israel.
Like Hillel and Shammai, there are two other truths we must hold: the miracle of Israel and its necessity, born from two thousand years of persecution and the ashes of genocide, and the reality of Palestinian suffering. These truths are not mutually exclusive. Holding them together is painful, but also the path toward integrity.
Like Moses, I hope we will return to the Promised Land of our shared Judeo-Christian values of love, mercy and justice for all including the strangers among us. And may the day come soon when we see Israel living in peace with her neighbors. “And no one will study war any more.” (Isaiah 2:3-4)
Rabbi Lev Friedman calls himself a free-range rabbi. He is mostly retired but writes and teaches on occasion. Lev is also a singer-songwriter and finger-style guitarist. He lives in Massachusetts and summers in the Northeast Kingdom.
