Josh Weinberg

Friday, December 11, 2025 – כ״ב כִּסְלֵו תשפ”ו

I want to begin with a symbol—one that shocked many of us upon first seeing it. For the last two years, so many of us in Israel and the Jewish world have worn a small yellow ribbon pin, a quiet but powerful reminder of the hostages still being held in Gaza. The yellow ribbons were everywhere as a symbol of hope, solidarity, and the unbreakable Jewish commitment to one of our most important mitzvot pidyon shvuyim, the redeeming of captives. The yellow ribbon is a symbol that says: We have not forgotten you. We will not forget you. And it serves as a reminder that wherever we are, we keep those in captivity at the forefront of our minds constantly.  

But this week, a different symbol appeared. With the remains of one fallen soldier, Ran Gvili, still being held in Gaza, instead of a yellow ribbon, the Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, and a handful of his sycophants chose to adorn their lapels with a different pin shaped like a noose. 

A noose.

A symbol recognized worldwide as a tool of terror, lynching, execution, and death. A symbol meant to intimidate and terrorize. 

One symbol pleads, “Bring them home.”
The other threatens, “Beware.” 

This latest visual stunt is also chilling: a pin in the shape of a golden noose, worn by Ben-Gvir on Monday at a Knesset National Security Committee hearing on a proposed death penalty bill for terrorists, is his party’s latest cruel obsession. 

What is most problematic is the fact that the “death penalty for terrorists” defines “terrorism” selectively, both in the case of the perpetrator and the victim. According to the bill, the courts would only be required to impose the extreme punishment on Palestinians in the West Bank who murder an Israeli citizen. 

So, as we head into Shabbat and Hanukkah, I want to ask: What do our symbols say about us?
What story do they tell the world?  

What story do they tell us about who we are becoming? 

This Sunday, we will kindle the first light of Hanukkah, a holiday whose symbols we often take for granted—the Hanukkiyah, the dreidel, the oil, the bravery of the Maccabees. But if we look beneath the surface, Hanukkah, too, is a study in the power and danger of symbolism. 

We teach that the Maccabees were champions of religious freedom. And that is true. They fought the Greek Seleucid Empire and the decrees of Antiochus so that Jews could live openly as Jews.  

The Menorah symbolizes that sacred resistance. 

But the story doesn’t end there. 

After the victory, the Hasmonean dynasty—descendants of those same Maccabees—slid into zealotry and corruption. They expanded territory through coercion and forced conversions. They turned religious passion into religious domination and subjugation. They became, in some ways, what they had once fought against. 

So, Hanukkah carries two symbols:
The pure flame of liberation, and the shadow of unchecked zeal. 

Which begs the question: When we invoke the Maccabees today, which symbol are we lifting up? 

The modern Zionist Movement drew deeply from the Maccabean well. The return to sovereignty, the revival of Hebrew, the building of a state that can protect and sustain Jewish life—all rooted in the ancient struggle for self-determination. 

And yet, the Hasmonean mirror remains before us. Power—long denied to the Jewish people—now rests in Jewish hands. Power is not evil in and of itself. But power must be wielded with restraint, compassion, thoughtfulness, ethics, and responsibility. As Jon Polin, father of slain hostage Hersch Goldberg-Polin, shared this week from a NYC stage, “I am searching for leaders who show both strength and compassion.” 

When a Minister of the Jewish state replaces a symbol of hope for hostages with a symbol of violence and intimidation, we must ask:
Are we honoring the Maccabees… or becoming the Hasmoneans? 

To invoke the Hasmoneans today—especially in the context of our people and the state attaining substantial military power—requires not only pride, but reflection. Are we drawing from the part of the story that champions religious integrity and self-determination? Or from the part that warns of zealotry, excess, and the misuse of power? 

But history complicates that symbolism too. 

The Hasidim of the Hanukkah story—the pious ones who joined the fight—were not warriors by temperament. Many were willing to die rather than violate Jewish law. Some refused to defend themselves on Shabbat until Mattathias and the Hasmoneans declared that it was permitted for their followers to fight on Shabbat to protect themselves from attack. 

The rabbis of the Talmud (the Babylonian Talmud was codified around 550 C.E., but much of its material dates to several centuries earlier) ultimately rejected the Hasmonean dynasty, teaching that the priests had overstepped by seizing political power that did not belong to them. In their view, the downfall of the Hasmoneans was a direct consequence of confusing religious zeal with the right to rule, a cautionary tale about the dangers of merging sanctity with statecraft. 

To invoke the Hasmoneans without remembering how quickly their dynasty devolved into extremism and corruption is to romanticize the sword while ignoring the spiritual integrity that first gave rise to the revolt. 

The Hasmoneans thus bequeath us two symbolic legacies: the righteous struggle for self-determination and the later temptation to wield power without restraint. Hanukkah asks us to hold both truths simultaneously—to celebrate the light while remembering how quickly it can be misused. 

Symbols matter. Names matter. They shape character and expectation. 

So, what do our symbols say about us—this Hanukkah, in this heavy moment? 

A yellow ribbon says we are bound to every Jewish soul still in captivity.
A noose says something far darker about our moral depravity.
A menorah says we believe light can pierce even the deepest night.
A Maccabean banner says we honor courage.
A Hasmonean warning says: Beware the corruption of that courage. 

And the Zionist dream—its symbols, anthem, and flag—says that the Jewish people have reclaimed agency. The question is whether we can wield that agency with wisdom, humility, and care. 

Hanukkah challenges us to shine light on ourselves.
To ask which symbols ought we to elevate.
To ensure that the symbols we choose reflect our highest values, not our basest fears. 

As we kindle the lights on Sunday evening, may they remind us of the power of our symbols—
to heal or to harm, to inspire or to intimidate, to uplift or to demean. 

May we choose the symbols that sanctify and inspire, that build community, and that reflect both courage and compassion. 

Hanukkah invites us to choose our symbols carefully. To ensure they reflect humility rather than triumphalism. To remember that Jewish power—new in historical terms—must be exercised with restraint, integrity, and a sense of responsibility toward all who share the land. To insist that our actions honor the original Maccabean fight for spiritual freedom rather than repeat the later Hasmonean descent into coercion. 

Ultimately, symbols are mirrors that reveal not only what we believe, but who we are becoming. The challenge of Hanukkah is to ensure that the symbols we elevate illuminate our highest values rather than casting shadows over them. 

Because the lights we kindle can only reveal what we ourselves choose to bring into the world. 

May the lights of Hanukkah illuminate a path on which our power is guided by wisdom, and our sovereignty by justice—so that the world can look upon our symbols and see, once again, a people committed to life, dignity, and hope. 

Shabbat Shalom and Hag Urim Sameach!  

Friday, December 5, 2025 – ט״ו כִּסְלֵו תשפ”ו

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר שַׁלְּחֵ֔נִי כִּ֥י עָלָ֖ה הַשָּׁ֑חַר וַיֹּ֙אמֶר֙ לֹ֣א אֲשַֽׁלֵּחֲךָ֔ כִּ֖י אִם־בֵּרַכְתָּֽנִי׃ (בראשית לב:כז)

“Then he said, ‘Let me go, for dawn is breaking.’ But he answered, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.'” (Genesis 32:27)

We find Jacob, alone at night on the banks of the Jabbok River, physically wrestling with a mysterious being until dawn. It is a scene of exhaustion, fear, tenacity, and ultimately of transformation. By sunrise, Jacob emerges forever changed. He carries a new name — Yisrael, “the one who wrestles with God” — and a limp that will accompany him for the rest of his life.

This is the story our tradition chooses as the origin of our collective identity. Not an act of triumph, not a moment of clarity, but a struggle. Our peoplehood is rooted in ambiguity, pain, perseverance, and the refusal to disengage even when disengagement would be easier. To be Jewish is not to submit, nor is it always to resist, but to wrestle.

As I look at the current reality of Israel and the Jewish world, I am reminded constantly that Jacob’s night is our night as well. The struggle is not an anomaly in Jewish life — it is the norm. The Zionist Movement was founded to end our struggles. To exist as a “normal” people, free, in our own Land, and to be welcomed into the community of nations like every other nation-state. Yet, we are still struggling today – struggling for identity, to bridge the widening gaps in our own society, and to come to terms with the current reality – which may be a brazen divergence from what Jacob hoped for or wished would be.

Israel today is entering yet another season of deep crisis. Prime Minister Netanyahu’s request for a pardon in his corruption trial has reopened wounds around the rule of law and integrity in leadership. Meanwhile, the contentious fight over the conscription of ultra-Orthodox men is pushing Israeli society toward a crossroads: What does shared responsibility look like in a Jewish and democratic state? Who carries the burden of defense, and who defines the terms of communal obligation?

Layer onto this the still-searing pain of October 7, the ongoing trauma for Israelis and Palestinians, the polarization in public discourse, and the reality of Jewish communities abroad navigating rising antisemitism alongside growing discomfort — and sometimes moral outrage — about the actions of the Israeli government and the often-double standards applied to the Jewish State.

It feels as though the entire Jewish world is wrestling in the dark.

The Voice of the “Conflictedly Connected”

In a recent essay in Haaretz, author and journalist Joshua Leifer describes a broad but often invisible segment of American Jewry as “the conflictedly connected.” These are Jews who love Israel deeply, who understand its existential necessity, who feel bound to its people and its fate — yet who are also troubled, heartbroken, and at times furious about its policies and political direction.

I recognize these Jews. I often identify as one of them.

They/we are not ambivalent; they/we are engaged. They are not indifferent; they are morally awake. They are not anti-Zionist; they are struggling Zionists — the very inheritors of Jacob, wrestling because the relationship matters too much to walk away.

And yet, the public space has shrunk. Too often, the loudest voices are either ultra-hawkish defenders of every government action or anti-Zionist voices who reject the very premise of Jewish peoplehood and/or Jewish self-determination, and are seemingly deeply uncomfortable with the basic premise of Jewish power. The middle — the struggling, wrestling, morally engaged middle — is drowned out.

As Reform Jews and Reform Zionists, our message to this group is clear: Speak up. Do not retreat. Do not cede the conversation to the extremes.

What Jacob teaches us is that the struggle itself is generative and a model for our communal theology. Our tradition does not worship certainty; it sanctifies engagement. The limp Jacob carries is not a sign of defeat but of endurance. His wound is the price of the relationship, and according to commentators, was always there, but was just noticed once the sun came up.

The rabbis notice something stunning: Jacob names the place פְּנִיאֵ֑ל (P’niel), “for I have seen God face to face,” (32:31) even though the encounter was painful, even though he did not get all the answers, even though blessing came with bruises. Holiness emerges not from escaping conflict but from staying in it.

And that may be our task today.

To love Israel enough to struggle with it.

To love our people enough to challenge them/ourselves.

To love Jewish life enough to risk being uncomfortable.

To love justice enough to demand that Jewish power be exercised responsibly, ethically, and compassionately.

It is tempting, in moments like this, to withdraw — to step back from Israel conversations, or from our communities, or from our own Zionist commitments. But disengagement is not a Jewish response. It is not a Reform response. It is not a Zionist response.

Reform Judaism holds that wrestling is sacred. We are a movement that believes in critical loyalty, in prophetic Zionism, in the marriage of peoplehood and conscience. Our theology reminds us that our covenant is not canceled by disagreement. Our history reminds us that Jewish destiny is shared whether we like it or not.

To stay connected while conflicted is not a compromise; it is a calling.

So, what does it mean, practically, to take up Jacob’s task today?

1. Refuse to abandon the conversation.
   We must model a Judaism that is unafraid of complexity. We must create spaces where grief, anger, hope, and solidarity can coexist.
2. Hold leaders accountable without surrendering our stake in the Jewish future.
   Calling out injustice or corruption is not anti-Israel; it is profoundly Jewish. Enforcing the rule of law, a balance of power, and that each person, whether Prime Minister or Yeshiva student, is equal in the face of the law and is equally bound by it.
3. Invest in Israeli partners who share our values.
   The Reform Movement in Israel needs us — not as cheerleaders but as allies in the struggle for democracy, equality, and a Judaism of compassion. As we wrestle and struggle, we must do it with our partners on the ground. Now is the time to explore further partnerships between our communities and Kehilot.
4. Continue Showing Up.
   We can help our teens, congregants, and families understand that disagreement does not require disengagement. Now is the time to invest in immersive experiences and to make sure that every student in our movement engages in meaningful, significant, life-changing, and fun(!) educational experiences in Israel. Sign up now for Yallah! Israel and for URJ Heller High Semester in Israel.
5. Jacob’s Example:
   Stay in the fight until dawn. Demand blessing even in the dark. Walk forward even with a limp.

On the surface, it appears as though Jacob’s struggle ends with sunrise. The struggle produces clarity, blessing, and a renewed sense of purpose. We are not there yet — not as a people, not as Israel, not as a movement. But the promise of dawn is baked into our story.

To be Jewish is to believe that the dawn will come.

To be Jewish is to wrestle our way toward it.

May we, the “conflictedly connected”, the “Troubled and committed,” and the ones who are courageous enough to stay in the struggle, to love fiercely, critique honestly, connect deeply, and walk forward, wounded but blessed, toward a better future for Israel and for all our people.

Shabbat Shalom.

Friday November 21, 2025 – א׳ כִּסְלֵו תשפ״ו

There are moments in Jewish life when history collapses into the present — when the stories we carry in our hearts suddenly stand before us in flesh and blood. This week, I experienced one of those moments.

Since October 7th, the hostages held in Hamas captivity became, for many of us, part of the very fabric of our spiritual lives. Their names entered our prayers. Their faces looked down at us from posters in our synagogues and community centers. Their stories traveled with us into our Shabbat tables and family conversations. Even our children absorbed their presence — sometimes in ways we could never have anticipated. I once overheard two pre-teens at a convention in Israel ask each other, almost casually, “Who’s your favorite hostage?” Not out of callousness, but from the unfiltered honesty with which children struggle to make sense of the world we hand to them.

The hostages were everywhere — in our hearts, in our rituals, in the ways we tried to hold hope when hope felt impossible.

And then, this week, I had the honor — and the burden — of meeting some of them face-to-face.

A delegation organized by the Conference of Presidents brought several freed hostages and their families to New York on their way to Washington, to the White House, at the invitation of President Trump. I walked into the room expecting to greet symbols, embodiments of our collective yearning. Instead, I met human beings, each carrying a universe of pain, resilience, memory, and quiet courage.

Matan Angerest and Bar Kupershtein — gentle, soft-spoken, shaped by experiences we can only imagine.

Iair Horn — using humor to cut through the heaviness of the room, as if laughter itself were an act of spiritual defiance.

Segev Khalfon — describing the simple joy of drinking a clean glass of water, marveling at a freedom most of us forget to notice.

And Omri and Lishay Miran, alongside Omri’s father, Dani, his long white beard like a banner of survival. Omri told me how he refused to look back as he was dragged away — not wanting his daughter’s final image of him to be the look of terror. He even spoke of conversations he had with his captors about faith, describing them not as believers but as adherents to a deranged cult. He spoke of food, of torment, of endurance. And then, with a sigh that felt older than his years, he said, “Each one and their own personal hell.”

In those encounters, the abstraction shattered. The posters on our walls dissolved into flesh and voice and story — far more painful, far more complex than the symbols we held.

And when these survivors thanked us — thanked us for marching, praying, speaking out, advocating, lighting candles, and refusing to forget them — a deep humility washed over me. Pride, yes — but also a kind of moral embarrassment. I celebrated milestones while they endured nightmares. I prayed for them while they trembled in captivity. Even with our solidarity, we could not carry their burden. We could not bring them home sooner.

Yet in that room, there was no scolding, no resentment. We spoke about unity. About Am Yisrael. About the sacred responsibility we bear for each other. And as we stood together singing Hatikva, the word חופשי — “free” — rang differently. Freedom was no longer abstract; it was standing right in front of us.

A Moment of Holiness — and a Moment of Warning

Holy moments never exist in isolation. They speak into the world we inhabit — and that world is shifting in troubling ways.

As these hostages made their way toward Washington, something else was happening in our country: a rising tide of rhetoric and rage that threatens the safety and dignity of Jews not only in Israel, but right here in America.

Over the last months, we have heard echoes — unmistakable echoes — of the old “America First” ideology, a slogan with a long and dangerous history of isolationism, xenophobia, and antisemitism. Once again, we hear versions of it being revived, repackaged, and mainstreamed. This rhetoric paints global Jewish concerns — and especially Zionism — as something foreign, suspect, or disloyal to America. It is a framework that says, implicitly or explicitly, that Jews and Jewish identity are somehow incompatible with true American belonging.

We cannot ignore what has happened on the streets of our cities. Just days ago, outside a Manhattan synagogue, protesters chanted “Death to the IDF,” and “take another settler out,” turning a Jewish house of worship into a place of threat and intimidation. This wasn’t a debate about Israeli policy. This wasn’t criticism. This was eliminationist language directed at a Jewish communal space — a red line so bright and so dangerous that it should alarm anyone who cares about the future of pluralism and safety in our nation.

This moment lays bare a reality many hoped they would never see: antisemitic anti-Zionism is coming now not only from the far left, but from loud, well-funded, increasingly influential corners of the American right.

We have watched as President Trump repeatedly elevated voices like Nick Fuentes — a man whose ideology drips with fascism and Holocaust admiration. We have watched Tucker Carlson drift from conservative support for Israel into conspiratorial attacks on Christians who support Zionism, calling their beliefs a “brain virus.” We have watched Nick Fuentes himself argue that Zionism proves Jewish dual loyalty and that Jews are inherently unassimilable — the oldest poison in the antisemitic bloodstream.

This is not a disagreement over policy.
This is not a debate over geopolitics.

This is antisemitic anti-Zionism.[1]
It denies Jewish peoplehood. It delegitimizes Jewish belonging.
It frames Jewish sovereignty as a threat to America — and to the world.

And it must be named clearly.

The Moral Challenge Before Us

We stand now between two realities: The profound holiness of encountering freed hostages.
And the profound danger of rhetoric that seeks to undermine the freedom of Jews everywhere.

We must celebrate miracles — and confront threats.
We must hold hope — and refuse naïveté.
We must strengthen unity — even as the world fractures around us.

For what is Zionism if not the simple, profound belief that Jews have the right to live as a free people in our land?
And what does it mean that this belief is now being attacked from the very places many once assumed were safe?

The freed hostages taught me that freedom is fragile.
Freedom must be guarded.
Freedom must be held in community.
Freedom must be defended with clarity and courage.

“להיות עם חופשי בארצנו” — to be a free people in our land — was never meant to be a passive aspiration. It is a right and a responsibility. It obligates us to protect one another, to name danger when it emerges, and to refuse the normalization of rhetoric that seeks to strip us of dignity or belonging — whether in Gaza tunnels, on American streets, or in the halls of political power.

In this moment — with survivors of unspeakable darkness walking toward the White House, and new forms of darkness rising in our own public square — we are called to moral clarity.

To honor the hostages, both those returned and those still in captivity, we must recommit ourselves to the safety and dignity of Jewish life everywhere.
We must confront Hamas — and also confront the American voices who now echo the same conspiracies Hamas relies upon.
We must hold tightly to unity, even when the world tempts us toward division.

And most of all, we must remember:

To be a free people is not a privilege.
It is a right and a responsibility.
One we must carry with vigilance, solidarity, and an unwavering hope that light — even fragile light — can still overcome the deepest darkness.

Shabbat Shalom and Hodesh Tov!

[1] I will go into greater detail on the issue of when anti-Zionism crosses the line into antisemitism, and I did address the issue in a previous column here.

Friday November 14, 2025 – כ״ג חֶשְׁוָ תשפ”ו

In the Old American West, before the rule of law took hold, justice was often delivered at the end of a rope or the barrel of a gun. Vigilantes claimed to act in the name of order, but their “justice” was really about power. Whoever was the strongest, quickest, or most feared decided what was right and wrong. It was a world where the institutions meant to protect were frequently absent, corrupt, or complicit, and where morality often gave way to might.

Tragically, echoes of that “Wild West justice” can now be heard in parts of the West Bank, where extremist Settlers have taken the law into their own hands, acting with impunity while vulnerable communities live in fear. This past Wednesday’s headline said it all:  “Footage shows dozens of masked settlers gathered on hillside as factory, trucks burn below; IDF says it detained several suspects, troops later attacked by group of settlers nearby”

As Reform Jews, we have always understood that the moral fabric of the Jewish people cannot be separated from the ethical imperatives of our tradition. When injustice is carried out in the name of the Jewish state or in the name of Zionism, it demands our moral resistance. To remain silent is to become complicit. It is from that conviction — born of Torah, sustained by our prophetic heritage, and sharpened by our experiences in Israel today — that we must speak out against the rising wave of Settler violence. On November 4, Israeli volunteers and Rabbis from Israel and America accompanying Palestinian farmers in Qarawat Bani Hassan were attacked by a settler’s drone, and a soldier (who was later dismissed from his service from the IDF for his conduct) fired a shot in their direction.

MK Rabbi Gilad Kariv explained:

“Their goal is to ignite a third intifada, which will bring the IDF to operate in a way reminiscent of the operation in Gaza. This move will cost the lives of hundreds of Israeli soldiers and civilians and thousands of Palestinians.”

The situation is not simply “getting out of control” — it must be regarded as a Hillul HaShem, a desecration of God’s name. Settler violence is antithetical to the Zionist ethos, just as the actions of the Ku Klux Klan were antithetical to the American ideal. Of course, many Jewish residents living across the Green Line are law-abiding and peace-seeking; many of their neighborhoods would likely remain part of Israel in any future agreement. Yet these are not distant or theoretical concerns — they are visible and devastating realities we encountered personally in the village of Umm Al-Kheir.

During our recent mission to Israel, thirty-five members of our delegation to the World Zionist Congress spent a day in Umm Al-Kheir, a small Palestinian village in the South Hebron Hills. There, we witnessed the painful consequences of unchecked aggression by extremist settlers. We met with Khalil and Eid Halatheen, brothers of Awda, who was wantonly gunned down by Yinon Levy — a known settler leader, previously sanctioned by the Biden administration — for no reason other than his work as a peace activist. The killing was caught on video, yet justice remains elusive.

Around the village, we saw newly placed “caravans” — makeshift mobile homes — perched on the edge of a playground and community center. Just that morning, far-right MK Tzvi Sukkot had joined settlers in laying a cornerstone and stretching barbed wire fencing, further restricting Palestinian movement. Amid this heartbreaking reality, we met two young Reform Jewish women spending the year living out their vision of Zionism — a Zionism rooted in justice, equality, and love for Israel. One told us how painful it was to see settlers take over part of the playground to set up a makeshift synagogue, singing familiar Kabbalat Shabbat melodies not in the spirit of prayer, but as an act of provocation.

Three days after our visit, orders were issued for the demolition of dozens of Umm Al-Kheir homes (listen to this message from Khalil Halatheen). There is no reason for these demolitions, other than to make life difficult for those villagers and to eventually get them to leave, making it possible to expand the hilltop settlement of Carmel.

As it is now, residents live under threat, not knowing whether the next attack will come at night or in broad daylight. Nearby, we saw ancient olive trees — uprooted and burned — a desecration made all the more grotesque by the symbolism of the olive branch, which has long been the world’s emblem of peace. To destroy the olive harvest is to reject the very ideal of peace, to trample upon the vision of coexistence at the heart of our Jewish and human values.

This week’s Torah portion, Chayei Sarah, centers on the story of our ancestors purchasing the Cave of Machpelah in Hevron — a sacred site to Jews for millennia. Yet, each year on this parasha, thousands of right-wing Jews make pilgrimage to Hevron not to honor our shared history in reverence, but to assert dominance through violence and intimidation. The dissonance is striking. What should be a moment of reflection on our spiritual roots has too often become a dizzying display of desecration and dominance, of intimidation and fear.

Those of us who love Israel dare not to look away.

It is on us to care enough to demand better. We must insist that the dream of a Jewish and democratic state must never be built upon fear, displacement, or inequality. Those who hesitate to criticize Israel out of love or loyalty must remember that silence in the face of Jewish violence is not devotion — it is desecration. When Jews commit acts of terror and brutality, they profane God’s name and defile the moral foundation upon which the State of Israel was built. This violence undermines the moral, spiritual, and political foundations upon which Zionism was built. If we want others to join us in condemning Palestinian/Hamas terrorism, then we must be emphatic in our condemnation.

To speak out, then, is not to weaken Israel but to strengthen its moral core.

The recent deportation of Jewish activists who were volunteering with the Palestinian olive harvest deepens our moral alarm. The State of Israel must protect freedom of conscience, not punish it. We also recognize and applaud efforts like Representative Jerry Nadler’s “West Bank Settler Violence Prevention Act,” which seeks to ensure accountability and uphold human rights consistent with America’s enduring support for Israel’s security and democracy.

To reject the growing danger and threat of Settler violence and Jewish terror is not to reject Zionism; it is to defend its essence — the aspiration to build a Jewish State that is not only strong, but righteous; not only sovereign, but just. Our Reform Zionism, rooted in the Jewish values of justice and compassion, compels us to defend that truth wherever it is threatened. In North America, we are not strangers to the accusations that Zionism is a supremacist and racist movement. Just this week, we marked the 50^th anniversary of the farcical UN resolution that claimed “Zionism = Racism”. It is upon us all to stand up to those whose actions bring truth to that stereotype and who are denigrating the reputation of Zionists, Israelis, and Jews everywhere.

In solidarity with our partners in the Israel Movement for Reform and Progressive Judaism (IMPJ), we reaffirm our vision for an Israel that embodies the best of Jewish ethics — one that safeguards all who dwell within its borders. To speak out is to protect not only the dignity of others, but the soul of Israel itself.

May our words and actions restore the meaning of the olive branch — and may peace, justice, and compassion once again take root in our shared land.