Each year on the Fourth of July, Americans commemorate a revolution not only of politics but of principle. The Declaration of Independence proclaims that all men are created equal, endowed with unalienable rights, among them life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But for American Jews, this day carries a unique resonance. For us, the fireworks and flag-waving are not only celebrations of civic pride—they are reminders of a covenant, not unlike the one at Sinai, that promised a new kind of belonging in a land that sought to give bigotry no sanction and persecution no assistance.
No document better captures this sacred American promise to the Jewish people than the 1790 letter from President George Washington to the Hebrew Congregation in Newport, Rhode Island. In it, Washington affirms that the fledgling government of the United States “gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance,” and he offers a blessing that still stirs the Jewish soul more than two centuries later: “May the children of the stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the goodwill of the other Inhabitants; while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and there shall be none to make him afraid.”
It was a revolutionary statement—not only politically but theologically. For centuries, Jews in Christian Europe were tolerated at best, and often reviled. Their presence was precarious, conditional, and shadowed by fear. In contrast, here was the leader of a new republic not merely tolerating Jews but recognizing them—publicly and with dignity—as children of Abraham, as citizens, as equals. To be named as descendants of Abraham was to be seen not merely as individuals but as a people with sacred lineage and enduring purpose. Washington’s letter drew from the prophetic imagination of Micah, envisioning a future of security and peace, not only for Jews but for all. In doing so, he affirmed that religious freedom was not a gift from the state but a right inherent in human dignity.
Judaism has always held a complex and sacred understanding of freedom. Our foundational narrative is not about political revolution, but divine liberation. When we speak of freedom, we return not to 1776 but to the Exodus. We were slaves in Egypt, and God brought us out with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. But the Jewish story does not end at the sea. Our liberation was not complete until we stood at Mount Sinai, where we entered into a covenant—not of self-expression, but of sacred responsibility.
This is a key distinction between American and Jewish notions of freedom. In the American liberal tradition, liberty is often defined as freedom from interference—the right to think, speak, and act as one chooses, so long as it does not infringe on others. In Jewish tradition, freedom is not merely the absence of oppression, but the presence of purpose. The rabbis teach in Pirkei Avot (6:2), “Ein lecha ben chorin ela mi she’osek baTorah”—“There is no free person except one who occupies themselves with Torah.” True freedom, in the Jewish worldview, is not doing whatever one wants; it is the ability to choose what is right.
Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch wrote that the Exodus was not a moment of emancipation in the modern sense, but a transformation from being servants of Pharaoh to being servants of God. “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6) was not a declaration of autonomy, but of mission. We were not freed from slavery to live for ourselves, but to carry a vision of justice, compassion, and covenantal living into the world.
This tension—between liberty as autonomy and liberty as responsibility—defines the American Jewish experience. The United States granted Jews unprecedented religious freedom and civic equality. And in response, American Jews brought to public life a moral vocabulary shaped by Torah: a commitment to social justice, care for the stranger, and the dignity of every human being. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once wrote, “Judaism was the first religion to see freedom not as the absence of power but as the presence of self-restraint. A free society is a moral achievement.”
The prophet Micah’s vision—“each man under his vine and fig tree, and none shall make them afraid”—echoes in both George Washington’s letter and in Jewish liturgy. It is recited in the Grace After Meals on festivals: “May He who makes peace in His heights make peace for us and for all Israel.” This vision of peace is not merely the absence of war, but a world in which every person has security, dignity, and the ability to thrive.
Yet freedom, whether American or Jewish, is never self-sustaining. It must be nurtured, renewed, and defended. The Exodus, we are reminded every year at the Passover seder, is not a story of the past—it is a blueprint for the present. The Torah insists, no fewer than 36 times, that we must love the stranger, “for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” Memory becomes mandate. Gratitude becomes obligation. Our liberation must become a force for the liberation of others.
The Fourth of July offers us an opportunity not only to celebrate the freedoms we enjoy as American Jews, but to reflect on the sacred responsibilities those freedoms entail. It calls us to remember that liberty, in both traditions, is not an end in itself, but a path toward justice. That dignity is not a solitary achievement, but a shared covenant. And that being “children of the stock of Abraham” means carrying forward a legacy that began long before America was founded—a legacy of moral vision, prophetic courage, and relentless hope.
So this year, as we gather beneath the glow of fireworks and sing songs of freedom, let us give thanks for the blessings of this land and recommit ourselves to the values that have sustained our people through exile and emancipation alike. Let us remember the words of George Washington—not as relics of the past, but as a call to build a future in which every person, of every faith and background, can sit peacefully beneath their own vine and fig tree, with none to make them afraid.
Amen.