This evening we learned that U.S. forces had struck Iranian nuclear facilities at Fordow, Natanz, and Esfahan. As a rabbi, I do not write to analyze the strategic dimensions of the mission or the policy calculations behind it. That is not my role. But I do write as a teacher of Torah, as someone charged with seeking the moral pulse of the Jewish tradition at moments of crisis, fear, and moral weight. When the world shakes with violence, our tradition compels us not to rush to answers, but to begin with questions. What does Judaism demand of us in such moments? What must we feel, what must we fear, what must we hope?
The Jewish heart begins with pikuach nefesh—the sanctity of life, the conviction that to save a life is to save an entire world. If the intelligence is correct, and if the threat was indeed imminent, then the preservation of innocent lives—Jewish and otherwise—stands as a sacred imperative. We do not glorify force, but neither do we abdicate the responsibility to prevent catastrophe. The Torah does not call us to martyrdom; it calls us to protect life.
At the same time, Judaism does not permit us to seal our hearts. We are told in the Talmud (Megillah 10b) that when the Egyptians drowned in the Sea of Reeds, the angels wished to sing, but God rebuked them: “My creatures are drowning, and you wish to sing?” Even when an enemy falls, even when a strike may be necessary, our tradition demands restraint, humility, and mourning. War—even a justified war—is a failure of peace. Every missile must carry the weight of this grief.
We say “God willing” not as a flourish of speech, but as a prayer rooted in trembling. We say, “God willing, this operation has preserved Israel’s safety and restored a measure of peace to the region,” not with certainty but with hope. We hope this was necessary. We hope it will prevent greater suffering. We hope this fire might give way to light.
We must also speak of our neighbors. The Iranian regime may threaten us, but the Iranian people are not our enemy. They are also made in the image of God. Many of them yearn for freedom, peace, and dignity. It is a sacred obligation to distinguish between those who wield power and those who live beneath it. When we pray for the peace of Israel, let us also pray for the peace of those across the border who, like us, seek only to raise children, love freely, and live without fear.
This moment echoes with memory. In 1981, Israel struck Iraq’s Osirak reactor in what would later be understood as a decisive act of self-preservation. Then, as now, many decried the action; and then, as now, the principle of rodef—the halakhic permission to prevent an imminent threat—was invoked. Maimonides teaches that if one is pursuing another to kill them, we are commanded to intervene, even with lethal force if necessary. And yet, this permission is never given lightly. It is bounded by cheshbon hanefesh, by self-examination and spiritual gravity.
As rabbis, we are not generals. We do not hold war rooms or write military briefings. But we do hold vigil over the soul of the people. And so we must say clearly: the use of force, however necessary, must always return us to the longing for a world without it. Lo yisa goy el goy cherev—nation shall not lift up sword against nation. This is not a utopian slogan. It is a demand. A vision. A prayer we must work to fulfill, even when we feel it slipping further from reach.
What comes next must not only be security, but soul-searching. We must ask: what will help us build a future where such strikes are no longer needed? Can we imagine a diplomacy that honors dignity as well as safety? Can we build relationships not only between governments, but between peoples? Between Jews and Iranians? Between Israelis and their neighbors?
As a rabbi, I will continue to pray. I pray for the safety of Israel and her people. I pray for the innocent in Iran who had no say in the path chosen by their leaders. I pray for restraint from further violence. I pray that this strike does not become a spark for wider war, but a door toward dialogue. I pray that our children inherit a world where justice is not delivered by bunker-busters, but by bridges.
May the One who makes peace on high bring peace to us, to all Israel, and to all who dwell upon the earth. And may we live to see the day when the world no longer needs its missiles, but only its mercy.