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Strengthened By the Struggle, Blessed by the Moment

A Dvar Torah by a URJ Heller High School student delivered as she became Bat Mitzvah on the
Hebrew Union College Campus in Jerusalem, Israel.
Thursday, December 4, 2025 – תשפ”ו י״ד כִּסְלֵו

In this week’s parasha, VaYishlach, Jacob reaches the Jordan and prepares to meet his brother Esau. After years of estrangement, he is finally ready to face the consequences of taking the birthright and the blessing. Jacob prepares in three ways: he readies for battle, he prepares gifts in the hope of showing goodwill, and he prays.

After sending his family ahead, we read:

“That same night, he arose and taking his two wives…he crossed the ford of the Yabok…Jacob was left alone. And a figure wrestled with him until the break of dawn.”

Commentators suggest that this figure was either an angel sent to test Jacob or the embodiment of Jacob’s own inner struggle.

Our Patriarchs are bound by family ties and by the promise God made to them. 

“I will make your offspring as the sand of the sea, which are too numerous to count.”

Their lives are devoted to fulfilling this promise. Jacob’s journey, both physical and internal, is part of that mission.

Our patriarch’s journey begins with Abraham and the call of Lech Lecha. Commentators suggest that the call is always in the world; however, only a few hear it. I heard it. And in a short last minute scramble this past July I realised my wish and embarked on a journey to come on a semester to Israel.

But the Parasha teaches us that a physical journey alone is not enough. A transformative journey isn’t just the GPS showing us the way from point A to point B. A transformative journey requires a struggle. Like Abraham, who had to reckon with the home, the land, and the people he left behind, when on a journey, we too, examine, evaluate, and reaffirm who we are and who we want to be. 

Step one is taking the journey. 

Step two is the struggle. 

Struggle is not a sign of weakness. It is the very thing that strengthens us, especially in matters of identity and faith.

I grew up with two religions: Catholicism and Judaism.

My entire life seemed framed by one question I alone had to answer. Like Jacob, the need to choose made me feel torn and unsure if I could claim one identity over another, uncertain if I was even allowed to choose. And like Jacob, I struggled not only with the decision itself, but with the fear of choosing “wrong”, of disappointing others, or of misunderstanding who I truly am.

I am here and realise I have a choice to make. This is my struggle, the one that will strengthen me. This step I am taking today is a step of choice, one of creating connection and deepening belonging. 

Part of our faith is learning to face our doubts and questions just as Jacob did. This moment of wrestling the figure/slash/angel is a pivotal moment in Jacob’s development. He has avoided confrontation his whole life, and is now forced to face himself. 

“…he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him” 

Commentators speculate that the angel goes as far as to injure Jacob’s leg to prevent him from running anymore, forcing him to confront. 

Jacob teaches us that struggle is positive and that struggle leads to growth. After struggling until dawn, Jacob tells the figure- “I will not let you go, unless you bless me” Jacob knows this moment is transformative, and embraces it – he demands his blessing and he is blessed “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human and have prevailed” the transformation is marked by the change of name, Jacob is given the name “Israel,” meaning “he who struggles with God”

Jacob’s ability to face the angel head-on shows that Jacob no longer sidesteps controversial moments and instead lets moments that tear him mentally be the moments where he shows strength and resolve

Ever since I came to light about the possibility of choosing one religion, I have attempted to run from the choice and instead hide between the two: never fully committing to just one but dabbling in both. It was not until this year that I felt strong enough to take a stand and choose Judaism, to take a leap of faith and find myself in Israel. 

When Abraham embarks on his journey, God says to him – Lech Lecha… and you shall be a blessing, Jacob is brave enough to face the figure – real or internal, prevails, transforms, demands his blessing, and receives it. 

I have wrestled – and might continue to wrestle, as well as transform. I feel strengthened by the struggle, and blessed by this moment… 

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.