In 2016, 2020, and again in 2024, a familiar storyline took hold in Jewish communal life: President Trump was tearing the Jewish community apart. To some extent, that narrative held truth. Trump’s presidency exposed and intensified longstanding tensions among American Jews—over Charlottesville, over embassy moves, over antisemitic dog whistles and dinner guests with swastika-laced social media. To many, he was a defender of Israel; to others, a threat to democracy and decency. But here’s what we rarely said out loud: the divide didn’t start with Trump, and it won’t end with him either.
The real fracture in Jewish life today isn’t between Republicans and Democrats, or conservatives and liberals. It’s between Zionist Jews and non-Zionist Jews. Between those who view the State of Israel as essential to Jewish identity, and those who see it as optional, inconvenient, or even immoral. This is the divide we need to talk about. Because it’s growing. And because it may ultimately matter more than anything happening in Washington.
This rift didn’t begin on October 7, 2023. That day revealed the divide in its rawest form—but its roots go back much further. They stretch through elite college campuses where “Zionist” has become a slur, through Jewish studies programs that dissect Israel with moral skepticism, and yes, through some of our own pulpits, where Jewish universalism has long outshined Jewish particularism. Over time, a quiet narrative took hold: that Zionism was a political stance, not a spiritual or historical one; that the Jewish story could be told just as well without a homeland.
The Pew Research Center’s 2021 study of American Jews revealed this shift in stark terms. While 82% of Orthodox Jews say caring about Israel is essential to their Jewish identity, only 33% of Reform Jews and 23% of Jews with no denomination say the same. Among Jews under 30, that connection to Israel drops even further. The message, unspoken but internalized, has been: you can be fully Jewish without Israel. You can care about justice without borders. You can light Shabbat candles and still protest the Jewish state.
I’ve met Jewish teens who had never heard of the Yom Kippur War or the Second Intifada. College students who didn’t know Israel had ever been attacked before October 7. Adults who admitted, in whispers, that they had felt uncomfortable with Israel for years but didn’t know how to say so. For many, Israel became a backup plan—a place of refuge, just in case. A country with great food and complicated politics, better left unspoken at Shabbat dinner.
But for others—especially those of us raised with a deep sense of peoplehood—Israel was never just a place. It was an anchor. October 7 didn’t create that belief; it confirmed it. The massacre of 1,200 people and the abduction of more than 200 others was not just a security failure. It was a reminder that Jewish vulnerability is real. That the Holocaust isn’t ancient history. That “Never Again” was always aspirational, not automatic.
And yet, even as we mourned, we saw the fracture widen. Some Jews stood in solidarity. Others stayed silent. A few even joined protests that blamed Israel for its own dead. We are no longer having the same conversation. One group says: “We need to reckon with Israeli power and Palestinian pain.” The other says: “Can we please bury our dead first?”
This isn’t just a political split—it’s a fundamental disagreement about what it means to be Jewish. Some of us see Judaism as a people, a family, a global collective bound by fate and history. When Jews are under attack, you show up. You grieve. You defend. Others see Judaism primarily as a religion, a set of ethics, or a cultural heritage. Zionism, for them, is a political choice, not a covenant.
In Parashat Bamidbar, the Israelites camp around the Mishkan, each tribe with its flag, each with its placement. The camp is not just an ancient map—it’s a statement of belonging. Every Jew had a place. What happens when Jews no longer want to pitch their tents together?
Ahad Ha’am once wrote, “More than the Jews have kept the Sabbath, the Sabbath has kept the Jews.” In our time, it may be just as true to say: more than Jews have kept Israel, Israel has kept the Jews. Even for those who have never visited, Israel has been a spiritual home, a source of pride, a symbol of resilience. When that symbol is cast aside, what remains?
Let me be clear: criticism of Israel is not the problem. It never has been. Jews argue. We always have. Some of our holiest texts are arguments. But rejecting Zionism outright—that’s not an argument, it’s an exit. And if too many Jews take that exit, we will be left with two Jewish communities: one that believes in peoplehood, and one that doesn’t.
That’s the conversation we need to have—not because we want to shame or exclude, but because we need to understand what’s at stake. The Jewish future depends not only on what we say to the world, but what we say to each other. Can we teach the next generation that Zionism isn’t about perfection—it’s about protection? That it’s not about nationalism in the chauvinistic sense, but about belonging, survival, and spiritual rootedness?
There’s a Midrash that teaches when God spoke at Sinai, each person heard the divine voice differently, according to their own capacity. Maybe we’re still standing there now—hearing different messages, seeing different futures. But we’re still at the same mountain. Still part of the same people. Let’s not forget that. Not now.
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