My Heart Is in the East |
To my friends and family in Israel—
I write to you from afar, but not from a distance of the heart.
As a Reform rabbi and a proud Zionist living in the United States, I find myself part of a vast and deeply committed network of people and institutions who spend countless hours thinking about how best to support and love Israel. In conference rooms and Zoom calls, in synagogue sanctuaries and classrooms, we wrestle with policy, messaging, education, and advocacy. We speak to our congregants, engage the broader community, respond to misinformation, and confront those who would seek to harm or delegitimize the Jewish state.
It is relentless work. And it is holy work.
But whatever we endure here—it is nothing compared to what you are living through.
We consume every piece of news we can find. Israeli media, social media, WhatsApp messages, updates from friends—we are constantly refreshing, constantly checking, constantly worrying. Our hearts are heavy as we watch you endure what no people should have to endure: nights punctuated by sirens, dashes to bomb shelters, evacuation orders, the grinding uncertainty of what comes next.
And still, we know: this is your lived reality, not ours.
For me, this is not only communal—it is deeply personal. My daughter is studying in Jerusalem this year. Not only is my heart in the East—so is my child. And my younger daughter was in Israel on October 7, 2023. For the past two and a half years, I have been eating, sleeping, and breathing the news from Israel. And yet, even with that constant connection, I know it does not come close to what it means to actually be there.
I am reminded of a moment from the early days after 10/7. In the immediate aftermath of unimaginable trauma, someone was asked a speaker: How does this moment end?
The answer came back from the speaker with clarity and conviction: We win.
Not as a slogan. Not as bravado. But as a statement of necessity.
Because there is no alternative.
And a “win” for Israel is not only about Israel. It is about the possibility of regional stability. It is about the hope for prosperity and dignity for all who live in that land. Israel stands at the center of that fragile, complicated, and essential reality. We do not take that lightly. And our physical distance from the danger of that neighborhood does not diminish our moral proximity to the stakes.
In so many of my classes, I return to a moment in the Book of Numbers. The tribes of Reuben, Gad, and half of Manasseh approach Moses with a request: after all the wandering, on the cusp of entering the Promised Land, they ask to remain on the eastern side of the Jordan. It is a surprising request. But after deliberation, it is granted—on one condition: they must first join their fellow Israelites in securing the land.
They may live outside—but they are still responsible.
That moment, to me, is not just ancient history. It is a blueprint embedded in Jewish DNA. It teaches that even when we dwell outside the Land, we are bound to its fate. We are obligated to its security. We are responsible for one another.
I may not have the privilege of living in the modern State of Israel. But I wake up each morning and go to sleep each night feeling spiritually bound to her well-being.
That sense of responsibility is accompanied by deep gratitude—for those who serve in the Israel Defense Forces, and for those in the United States Armed Forces, who put themselves in harm’s way in pursuit of a more stable and secure world. Their courage is not abstract to me. It is personal. It is sacred.
When I was in Israel in December 2023 on a rabbinic mission, a colleague shared a simple but profound teaching about a verse we know so well:
יי עז לעמו יתן יי יברך את עמו בשלום “May God give strength to God’s people; May God bless God’s people with peace.”
We often focus on the peace. But the verse begins with something else: oz—strength.
Strength comes first.
Because without strength, peace cannot endure.
We pray for peace. We long for peace. But we also recognize that strength—moral, spiritual, and yes, sometimes physical—is what makes peace possible.
More than 800 years ago, the poet Judah Halevi wrote, “My heart is in the East, and I am at the edge of the West.” Those words have never felt more literal. We may be physically here, but our hearts, our thoughts, our prayers—they are with you.
And even as the wider world becomes consumed with the noise of the fringe—with distortion, hostility, and simplification—I remain proud. Proud to be part of a people that has endured. Proud to be part of a community that refuses to fracture under pressure.
Yes, we debate. Yes, we argue. That is not our weakness—it is our strength.
As Ecclesiastes taught:
עת מלחמה ועת שלום There is a time for war and a time for peace.
We do not confuse the two. We do not celebrate war. But neither do we shy away from the necessity of defending life, dignity, and the future.
To my friends and family in Israel: we see you. We are with you. We love you.
May you find strength in the days ahead. May you know that you are not alone. And may the One who makes peace in the high heavens bring peace—to you, to all of Israel, and to all who dwell on earth. עושה שלום במרומיו הוא יעשה שלום עלינו ועל כל ישראל ועל כל יושבי תבל