Zion: A New Four-Letter Word in American Politics

A story is told of the Brisker Rav reflecting on the difference between his father, Rav Chaim Soloveitchik, and himself. His father could look at a sapling and recognize the great tree it would become. He lacked that foresight. But, he added, when he saw a tree, he at least recognized it as a tree. Sometimes our greatest challenge is recognizing what stands before us. Familiar assumptions and deeply held loyalties can prevent us from acknowledging realities we would rather not see. America is emerging from an election whose consequences may extend for years. Within the Jewish community, some seem ready to sit shiva. Others continue with bills to pay, children to discipline, and deadlines to meet. In the spirit of the Brisker Rav, we must consider the tree before us. Every election follows a familiar script: convince voters how miserable they are, then insist that only one candidate can solve their problems. But beyond that familiar rhetoric, this election season has raised unsettling questions about the Jewish community’s political home. For many Jews, the growing acceptance of anti-Israel rhetoric on the Left has become impossible to ignore. Accusations of genocide and the treatment of support for Israel as a political liability strike at something deeper than disagreements over policy. This was an election season in which “Zion” increasingly sounded like a four-letter word. In some circles, “Zionist” has become an accusation. Yet Zion represents our eternal connection to our ancestral homeland. For generations, at sacred moments on the Jewish calendar, we have declared, “Next year in Jerusalem.” What is inseparable from our prayers, history, and identity is now something Jews are expected to explain, defend, or disavow. Nor should Jews assume that every danger comes from one political direction. The prospect of American support for Israel becoming expendable on the Right should trouble us as well. Our security cannot depend on unquestioning loyalty to either party. Someone recently told me he was checking that his family’s passports were valid. There is something profoundly sad about that familiar Jewish instinct: after generations of building lives in a country, the question returns: What if we need to leave? We should neither ridicule that concern nor allow it to define Jewish life.In this week’s parsha, Avraham declares, “I am a stranger and a resident among you” (Bereishis 23:4). Which was he? A stranger or a resident? Perhaps Avraham teaches us to embrace the tension. We can be deeply invested in this country, contribute to its flourishing, and feel genuine gratitude for its freedoms. At the same time, we carry an identity and covenant extending beyond its political arrangements. The Jewish people existed long before either American political party. That perspective demands vigilance. We must recognize troubling developments, cultivate allies, advocate for our community, and take sensible precautions. When a tree stands before us, we must recognize it. But vigilance alone is not a Jewish mission. G-d directed Avraham toward the heavens and promised that his descendants would be like the stars (Bereishis 15:5). In that promise, we can also hear a charge: bring light into the world, even amid darkness. We fulfill that mission through Torah, kindness, and connection to our shared heritage. We fulfill it by teaching our children, strengthening our institutions, supporting Israel, and helping one another. We cannot postpone these responsibilities until the political climate improves. Our children are growing now. Our communities need us now. Fear must not consume the energy we need to build. We must not be intimidated into treating our connection to Zion as subject to political fashion. This moment calls us to stand firmly for our most sacred beliefs and values. During a heavy rainstorm, we would prefer to remain inside. Sometimes we have no such luxury. We try to walk between the raindrops. Sometimes we get soaked. We keep walking anyway, carrying the light entrusted to us. Have a Peaceful Shabbos, Rabbi Yaakov Fisch

Beyond the Pocketbook: Three Priorities for the American Jewish Voter

As Americans prepare to head to the polls, much of the political conversation will inevitably focus on the familiar issues that dominate election campaigns: inflation, taxes, healthcare, employment, and the economy. These issues affect every family. However, I believe that members of the Jewish community should also approach elections with a somewhat different set of priorities. We should ask ourselves not only what will benefit us personally, but what will best protect and strengthen the Jewish people’s future. I believe these three issues should be the top priority to American Jewish voters. First, America’s relationship with Israel. The United States has been Israel’s most important strategic ally, and continued American support is essential to Israel’s security. This relationship encompasses military assistance, intelligence cooperation, diplomatic support, and the recognition of Israel’s right to defend itself. Regardless of our views on particular Israeli governments or policies, the security and continued strength of the Jewish homeland should be a central consideration when evaluating American political leadership. Second, the growing threat of antisemitism. Jewish communities across America are increasingly confronted with hostility, intimidation, and antisemitic rhetoric. We have seen it on college campuses, in public spaces, and even directed at Jewish institutions and synagogues. Antisemitism must be confronted wherever it originates, whether from the political left or the political right. We should expect elected officials to recognize this threat, speak out against it consistently, and take meaningful steps to protect Jewish communities. The safety of our children, families, and institutions cannot be treated as a secondary concern. Third, school choice and the future of Jewish education. This issue is especially important to observant Jewish families. Jewish day schools and yeshivas are not simply an educational preference; they are fundamental to preserving our religious traditions, values, and identity for future generations. Yet the cost of Jewish education places an enormous financial burden on families, many of whom make significant sacrifices to provide their children with a Jewish education. Florida has demonstrated how meaningful school-choice policies can make a difference. Through its scholarship programs, eligible students attending private schools receive approximately $8,000 annually toward tuition, with the exact amount depending on grade and location. According to Teach Florida, state scholarships supported approximately $130 million for Jewish day school students during the 2025–26 school year. Florida’s Jewish day school network has also grown from 40 schools in 2007 to 74 in 2023 and includes our local Torah Academy of Jacksonville. Locally, this is several hundred thousand dollars that we do not need to fundraise because of state scholarships. Byron Donalds, the Republican candidate for Governor, has long supported school choice and wants to strengthen and expand the program. His opponent has pledged to roll back school choice. An additional opportunity is on the horizon. Beginning in January 2027, a new federal Education Freedom Tax Credit will allow individuals to receive up to $1,700 in federal tax credits for qualifying contributions to scholarship-granting organizations, and married couples filing jointly will be eligible for up to $3,400. Florida has already elected to participate in this program. This could provide another important source of scholarship funding for Jewish education. None of this is meant to suggest that Jewish voters should automatically support one political party or candidate. These three issues deserve serious consideration regardless of political affiliation. We should certainly care about our taxes, our economy, and our personal financial well-being. But as members of a community with a unique history and responsibility, we should also consider what will strengthen Israel, protect Jews in America, and ensure that our children and grandchildren have the opportunity to receive a meaningful Jewish education. When we enter the voting booth, the most important question may not be what is best for us today, but what is best for the Jewish community and the Jewish future tomorrow. Have a Peaceful Shabbos, Rabbi Yaakov Fisch

Chesed Without Boundaries: When Compassion Becomes Self-Destructive

One defining characteristic of the Jewish people is chesed, or loving-kindness. The Talmud teaches that Jews are distinguished by three traits: compassion, modesty, and kindness. This legacy begins with Avraham, whose extraordinary generosity and concern for others established a model for generations. Yet an important lesson is sometimes overlooked: chesed must be balanced by gevurah—the strength to set boundaries. Loving-kindness sometimes requires judgment, setting limits, and saying no. Compassion without discernment can produce consequences opposite to those we intended. In his discussions of “suicidal empathy,” psychologist Gad Saad challenges forms of compassion that ignore consequences, overlook genuine threats, or sacrifice a community’s long-term well-being. His concept raises an important question: Can empathy become destructive when it is exercised without judgment? The Torah offers a powerful framework for considering this challenge. Avraham was the embodiment of chesed. Nevertheless, in Parshas Lech Lecha, tensions arose between Avraham’s shepherds and Lot’s. Recognizing that their continued association was no longer working, Avraham proposed that they separate: “Let there not be strife between me and you.” Avraham did not abandon his commitment to loving-kindness. He understood that kindness did not require him to ignore a difficult reality. Sometimes, preserving peace requires boundaries. Consider an everyday example. Someone encounters a homeless person and wants to help. The impulse is admirable. But if there is good reason to believe that giving cash will enable a destructive drug habit, potentially harming the recipient and others, is handing over money necessarily an act of kindness? Providing food, shelter, or access to treatment may be a more responsible expression of chesed. The goal is not to withhold compassion, but to provide help that genuinely helps. The same principle applies to immigration. A society can show compassion toward people seeking a better life while insisting that its immigration policies protect public safety, uphold the law, and preserve the institutions that enable society to flourish. Credible threats of violence or deliberate efforts to undermine those institutions cannot simply be ignored. Compassion does not require a nation to abandon its responsibility to protect its citizens. This challenge is particularly relevant to Jews today. We can feel genuine sympathy for innocent Palestinian civilians suffering during war while unequivocally condemning Hamas and rejecting the celebration or justification of violence against Jews. Concern for human suffering should never require us to abandon the distinction between innocent civilians and those who perpetrate or endorse terrorism. These examples share a common question: Must compassion require us to ignore the foreseeable consequences of our actions? It does not. Gevurah—the strength to set boundaries—is not cruelty, just as chesed is not weakness. Chesed without gevurah can become indiscriminate accommodation; gevurah without chesed can become callousness. We need both. As descendants of Avraham, we must never lose our capacity for loving-kindness. But we must not mistake an inability to say no for a virtue. True compassion requires us to distinguish between helping and enabling, between understanding and endorsing, and between welcoming others and abandoning our responsibility to protect our community. The goal is not less chesed, but wiser chesed—loving-kindness guided by judgment, strengthened by gevurah, and committed to the well-being of those entrusted to our care. Have a Peaceful Shabbos, Rabbi Yaakov Fisch

It's the Jews Fault

With the political ground zero currently centered in Michigan, the expression of “the ground is shifting under our feet” feels more apt. Abdul El-Sayed campaigns for the U.S. Senate in Michigan; he has repeatedly argued that American tax dollars sent to Israel should instead be spent addressing problems at home. In discussing healthcare, he says that the military aid to Israel can be redirected to Americans so it can afford the so-called “Medicare for All” program. Rising healthcare costs in the United States frustrate most people. Beyond higher premiums, rising out-of-pocket costs strain many budgets. El Sayed promises a panacea that will supposedly solve everything: “Medicare for All.” The claim is that we would be able to afford this expensive program if only America discontinued aid to the Jewish state. In other words, one of the biggest challenges in American life of our generation is that the world’s only Jewish state is milking U.S. taxpayers. There is so much to unpack here that it is hard to know where to begin. Firstly, it’s important to understand the numbers. Although it’s hard to know exactly what “Medicare for All” would cost taxpayers, many estimates put it at about $4 trillion annually. The staggering figure would be added to the federal budget. America provides $3.3 billion in aid to Israel. Although that is a lot of money, it comes to 0.075% of the proposed Medicare for All cost. Israel also spent nearly $60 billion in 2026 on military needs alone. While America contribution is very significant, it represents about 5% of Israel’s military budget. This should give someone pause the next time one hears that American taxpayers are financing the war in Gaza. For thousands of years, citizens across many countries have been told that the reason for their suffering is because of the Jews. In 2026, in Michigan (and other places), Americans are being told that the reason for debilitating healthcare costs and rising gas prices is because of the Jewish State. Let that sink in. For decades, American Jews had thought that the hatred and bigotry towards our people were in the rearview mirror. We need to internalize this changing landscape and lean into our identity and heritage in more substantive ways. We study the Book of Bereishis at the beginning of the Jewish calendar to remember our story, how G-d created th e world, and how He chose Avraham as the father of His chosen people. One cost of being chosen is that not everyone likes us because of it. That might make us uncomfortable, but as we learn from our Patriarchs and Matriarchs in Bereishes, it sometimes requires walking between the raindrops. Have a Peaceful Shabbos, Rabbi Yaakov Fisch

Back to the Beginning

In the days after October 7, 2023, which was also Simchat Torah, while Jewish families were still burying their dead and the hostages were still in Gaza, crowds gathered in cities around the world. In some places, the massacre was minimized, excused, or openly celebrated. On university campuses, in public squares, and online, we heard “Free Palestine” used not as a plea for the suffering, but as a verdict that Israel has no right to exist. And we heard the chant: “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.” Those who use it often say they mean freedom and equality for all. But the river is the Jordan, and the sea is the Mediterranean; between them lies the State of Israel. For Jews, who heard the phrase from those who had just carried out a massacre, it sounded like the erasure of Israel and its people. Criticism of Israeli policy is legitimate, and Jews themselves practice it vigorously. Denying that the Jewish people belong in their ancestral homeland at all is something else. Both in the physical and online arena, many Jews were being gaslit for the audacity to believe in the Jewish claim to its ancestral homeland. Rashi, the famous commentator, addresses this timely issue in his first comment on the Torah. Citing Rabbi Yitzchak, Rashi asks: since the Torah is primarily a book of commandments, why doesn't it begin with the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, “This month shall be for you the first of months”? His answer comes from Tehilim/Psalms 111:6: “The power of His works He declared to His people, to give them the inheritance of the nations.” If the nations ever tell Israel, “You are robbers, for you conquered the lands of the seven nations,” Israel can answer that the entire earth belongs to the Holy One, blessed be He. He created it and gave it to whomever He saw fit. By His will, He gave it to them; by His will, He took it from them and gave it to us. Rashi wrote nearly a thousand years ago, yet the accusation he anticipated is the one we hear today. He might have been addressing the UN at one of its many forums, denying the Jewish connection to the Land of Israel. Rashi is communicating a few things. First, our claim has a source, and it begins at the beginning. Our relationship to the Land does not rest on a treaty, a war, or a moment of political fortune. It rests on a Torah that opens by declaring that the world has a Creator, and that He gave this land to Avraham’s descendants. We need not apologize for this foundation, and we should not let others define us as outsiders in our own story. Second, the claim comes with responsibility. The same Torah that tells us the land was given also tells us we can lose it. Our claim is not a license; it is a trust. The Torah warns that the Land will “vomit out” those who defile it. Standing firm in our right to be there goes hand in hand with striving to be worthy of it, through justice, compassion, and holiness. Rashi’s answer is addressed to believers. It will not persuade everyone, and it was never meant to. Its purpose is to give us clarity and confidence, so that when others deny our legitimacy, we do not begin to doubt ourselves. This Shabbat Bereishis, as we begin the Torah again, we remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice on October 7. We also recommit to the story that opens with “Bereishis.” The entire earth belongs to G-d. Our task is to live on it and in the Land He gave us, so His gift becomes a blessing. No matter where a Jew lives, he must always remember this important comment from Rashi. Have a Peaceful Shabbos, Rabbi Yaakov Fisch

Shelter in the Sky

For the last couple of days, I've been thinking about a plane I was never on. On Wednesday, during Chol HaMoed, I read that flydubai Flight 1073, bound from Dubai to Tel Aviv (I have flown flydubai on that route before), with 174 Israelis aboard, had nearly been brought down. According to reports, one pilot stabbed the other and tried to crash the aircraft. Brave passengers and crew subdued him. The wounded pilot opened the cockpit door so they could help, and the plane landed safely in Saudi Arabia. As I suspect was the case for many others, I was juggling a few emotions. I will admit my first feeling wasn't joy. It was a shudder. A plane carrying a load of Jews was nearly hijacked, and the trauma of 9/11 and its consequences triggered deep worry. At the same time, it was nothing short of miraculous on so many levels that this plane and its passengers were spared from horrible tragedy. It didn’t escape me that this happened during Sukkos, the season the Torah calls a time for happiness. The Torah describes Sukkos as the time of harvest. The farmer has finally brought it all in, and he is told to rejoice. For years I read that as being about grain and grapes. This week I read it differently. The harvest is everything we're handed and rarely notice: a breath, a phone call from our children, a plain Tuesday that ends the way we expected. That is why we sit in a sukkah. The roof lets in the stars, and the walls shake in a strong wind. King David writes in Tehillim/Psalms 27 (we have recited that in the daily tefila since the beginning of Elul), I will be sheltered in God’s sukkah on an evil day.” During Sukkos we practice what the passengers on that plane learned in minutes: that our security was never in walls. ​ Our tradition insists that gratitude is an obligation. The Mishna teaches, drawing on Tehillim 107, that those who cross the sea, travel the desert, recover from illness, or are freed from captivity must give thanks. I wasn't on that plane, but I felt a little of what those passengers must have felt: shaken first, then grateful, then more awake to what I have. ​ So here is my wish for all of us as the Yom Tov draws to a close: may we say thank you more often than we think we need to, may we count the blessings we cannot see, and may we remember that true Guardian of Israel shelters us even after Sukkos ends. Have a Peaceful Shabbos and Yom Tov, Rabbi Yaakov Fisch

When the Roof Comes Off: Sukkos in an Age of Economic Anxiety

For much of this past year, Americans have absorbed a confusing story about their own economic security. The 10-year Treasury yield, what the U.S. government itself pays to borrow, has hovered near 5%, reaching 5.009% in mid-September 2026, up from 4.28% a year earlier. Overall inflation has held stubbornly around 3.4%, well above the Fed's target, driven largely by energy costs that are up double digits year over year. Within that broader picture, observant Jewish families are absorbing something sharper still: kosher food businesses report that their narrow pool of specialty suppliers, combined with tariffs and an ongoing meat shortage, has amplified price increases far beyond the general grocery rate—even as nationwide grocery inflation sits near 2%. Keeping a kosher home, already a more expensive proposition than the general market, has gotten more expensive, faster. For a country that has spent eighty years building the most materially secure Jewish community in our history, this feels unfamiliar: the ground beneath the house is not as solid as it looked. Which is exactly what Sukkos wants us to feel. The Mitzvah of Sukkah itself is jarring. The precise language the Torah uses to describe our Sukkah experience is teishvu, or dwell. The language is precise, and it is clear that the Sukkah is not supposed to be just visited. The Mitzvah is for us to now dwell in a temporary structure for seven days and be subject to all the whims of the weather season. The Mishna rules that the sukkah's covering, known as Schach, must not be unfit for ordinary construction and must be built from natural overgrowth and not good construction material. The point is that no one could mistake it for permanent shelter. If that undermines our sense of security, that is the point. The Talmud records a dispute about what the sukkah recalls: R' Eliezer says literal huts our ancestors built in the desert; R' Akiva says the ananei kavod, the Clouds of Glory that surrounded and fed them. Either way, the sukkah commemorates something we did not build and could not have sustained ourselves, our homes, or our tables. The Zohar calls it tzila d'mehemnusa, "the shade of faith." The sukkah isn't shelter from weather; it's a structure whose whole function is to teach that the roof, and the food beneath it, were never really ours to secure alone. ​ This isn't a call to indifference toward earning a living. It’s important to distinguish between faith and passivity. Trust in G-d doesn't replace the effort to earn a livelihood. Faith displaces the illusion that we personally engineered our comfort. It’s an illusion easiest to hold when the grocery bill is predictable, harder when yields are near 5%, and the kosher aisle keeps outpacing the rest of the store. King Solomon authored the sobering Koheles, and in it we learn about the unsparing catalog of how wealth dissolves into vanity.It is read specifically on Sukkos. Sitting exposed in a temporary hut enacts its conclusion after all the accumulation; what remains is faith in G-d and fidelity to the mitzvos. ​ A year of rising yields, rising energy costs, and an even steeper kosher grocery bill is a fair occasion to ask Koheles question honestly: what in our sense of security was ever really ours? Sukkos gives us seven days sitting in a structure that cannot lie to us about the answer, then sends us back to our tables at home, still remembering what we felt outside them. Have a Peaceful Shabbos and Sukkos, Rabbi Yaakov Fisch