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