The Name That Emerged from Crisis
The term “Judaism” itself was born from crisis. In biblical times, there was no such term. People identified as am Yisrael (the people of Israel), bnei Yisrael (children of Israel), or Yehudim for the inhabitants of the southern kingdom of Judah or Israel for those living in the northern kingdom of Israel. These were ethnic and geographical names, not religious categories in our modern sense.
The word “Judaism” (Ioudaismos in Greek) first appears in 2 Maccabees (2:21) in the second century BCE, precisely when Hellenistic culture threatened to absorb Jewish identity. Hellenism – the spread of Greek culture following Alexander’s conquests – proposed a comprehensive worldview: Greek philosophy challenged Jewish theology, gymnasium culture with its nude athletics conflicted with Jewish modesty, polytheism threatened monotheism, and the Greek language began replacing Hebrew in daily life. Many Jews, especially from the elites, adopted Greek names and customs. Some even underwent surgery to reverse circumcision to compete in Greek games. The fear was real: Judaism might dissolve entirely into this new dominant civilisation.
Jews fought Jews over their understanding of the Jewish tradition. The Maccabean wars began with a Jew killing another Jew (1 Maccabees 2:27). The term “Judaism” emerged specifically in opposition to “Hellenism” – marking identity under threat. This linguistic shift reveals a profound truth: existential challenges forged Judaism as a concept.
The pattern would repeat. After Rome destroyed the Temple in 70 CE, what had been Israelite religion centred on sacrifice transformed into Rabbinic Judaism, a portable, text-based religion, capable of surviving without territory. Each subsequent crisis forced redefinition. “Judaism” became large enough to contain mystics and rationalists, Bundists and Zionists. The name remained while its content evolved.
This matters now. If Judaism has always been a process rather than a product, if crisis has always catalysed transformation, then today’s crisis may signal the start of a metamorphosis.
When Diversity Works, When It Destroys
Jewish tradition has never been monolithic. The Talmud itself preserves disagreement, teaching that “These and these are the words of the living God” (Eruvin 13b). This multiplicity can be a strength. When it functions as an argument, it is robust and passionate but not poisonous.
The schools of Hillel and Shammai disagreed on nearly everything, yet married into each other’s families (Yevamot 14b). Their disputes were “arguments for the sake of heaven” (Pirkei Avot 5:17). But when difference becomes delegitimisation, catastrophe follows. The Second Temple fell, the sages taught, not from Roman might but from sinat chinam – baseless hatred among Jews (Yoma 9b). Zealots burnt food supplies of fellow Jews. Factions murdered each other’s leaders. Internal hatred accomplished what external enemies could not. Sometimes, we are our worst enemies.
The pattern is clear: diversity thrives with mutual recognition. It becomes destructive when it denies the Other’s place in the Jewish conversation.
Today’s Unprecedented Crisis
We face perhaps the gravest Jewish crisis since the Shoah – not only from external threat but also from internal fracture. The State of Israel, envisioned as the answer to Jewish vulnerability, has become a focal point of division within the Jewish people.
I write this with a heavy heart, as someone who loves Israel deeply. My attachment runs bone-deep – to the Hebrew language reborn, to the ingathering of exiles, and to the miraculous flourishing of Jewish culture in our ancestral land. When I walk Jerusalem’s streets, I feel the presence of generations. When I see Israeli innovation and creativity, my heart swells with pride. This is my people, my family.
Yet precisely because of this love, I must speak honestly about what brings me pain. For decades after 1948, most Jews saw Israel as redemption realised. Early Zionists spoke of creating an exemplary society. The Declaration of Independence promised “complete equality of social and political rights for all its inhabitants, irrespective of religion, race, or sex.”
From its birth, Israel faced existential challenges. Many Arab states and Palestinian leaders rejected its very existence. Wars in 1948, 1967, and 1973 threatened annihilation. Suicide bombings terrorised civilians. Rockets fell on schools. The dream of acceptance and normalisation remained elusive as Israel’s legitimacy was constantly questioned in international forums, on university campuses, and in media worldwide. Today, Israel stands more isolated than ever, condemned in the UN, boycotted by activists, and demonised in ways that no other country faces.
October 7, 2023, marked a horrific turning point. The Hamas massacre – the deadliest day for Jews since the Holocaust – shattered illusions of security and normalisation. The brutal murder of civilians, the taking of hostages, and the sexual violence, all broadcast on social media, reawakened primordial Jewish fears. For many Israelis and diaspora Jews, it confirmed that no amount of military might could guarantee safety and that hatred of Jews remained genocidal in intent.
Living under such pressure changes a society. What began as occupation for security became something more permanent. Each war, each terrorist attack, each failed peace process pushed Israeli society rightward. Fear, that most understandable emotion given the threats, gradually displaced other considerations. The Gaza war following October 7th accelerated this dynamic exponentially. The scale of Palestinian civilian deaths, the destruction of entire neighborhoods, the humanitarian catastrophe, all defended as necessary in the name of security, forced Jews worldwide into impossible positions.
I watch with anguish as the distance grows between the Israel I love and the Israel I see. When I hear ministers speak in ways that dehumanise Palestinians, when I see policies that remind me of dark chapters in history we swore to never repeat, when young soldiers are put in impossible moral positions, my heart breaks. Not because I love Israel less, but because I love it more. The state meant to embody Jewish values now forces Jews worldwide to choose between ethics and ethnic loyalty.
The Weaponisation of Memory
The attachment to Israel runs deep for understandable reasons. For Jews who lived through the Holocaust or its immediate aftermath, Israel represents the difference between powerlessness and agency, between having nowhere to flee and having refuge. For Mizrahi Jews expelled from Arab countries, Israel was literal rescue. For Soviet Jews, it meant freedom. The visceral fear – “What if we need somewhere to run?” – isn’t paranoid but learnt from centuries of expulsion and genocide. When your grandparents were turned away at every border, the existence of one state that must take you in feels like oxygen.
This emotional reality makes certain conversations nearly impossible. Yet we must also acknowledge how genuine traumas can be weaponised in ways that silence necessary discourse. When the International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance’s definition of antisemitism includes “denying the Jewish people their right to self-determination”, it can conflate political positions with racial hatred. When criticism of Israeli policies is automatically labelled antisemitic, we lose the ability to have crucial conversations within our own community.
The pattern serves conflicting purposes: when we cry wolf about antisemitism, we undermine our ability to fight genuine hatred. Real antisemitism exists and is rising, such as synagogue shootings, cemetery desecrations, and conspiracy theories about Jewish power. When we conflate political criticism with this authentic hatred, we lose credibility precisely when we need it most.
Israel’s Possible Futures
The tragedy deepens because most Jews remain attached not to what Israel has become but to what it promised to be. They hold in their hearts the Israel of the Declaration of Independence, with its commitment to “freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel”. They mourn the distance between that vision and current realities.
This creates a peculiar form of grief: loving something while watching it move in troubling directions. This grief manifests among Israeli friends who march weekly against their government, who refuse to serve in certain territories, and who agonise over their children’s military service. It appears equally among diaspora Jews who cancel subscriptions to Israeli newspapers they can no longer bear to read and who avoid conversations about Israel because the pain is too great.
Some cling to hope for course correction, pointing to Israel’s protest movements, its Supreme Court, its vibrant civil society. The hundreds of thousands who took to the streets to defend democracy show that Israel’s soul remains contested. Others see darker trajectories and wonder whether fundamental change is needed.
The existential question for Israel is: Can Israel fulfil its founding vision while maintaining security? Can it be both a Jewish homeland and a democracy for all its citizens? These aren’t questions asked by enemies but by lovers – by those of us who want Israel not just to survive but to thrive as a light unto nations.
Drawing from Tradition for Wisdom
Our tradition provides resources for navigating these seemingly irreconcilable tensions. The Torah’s “Justice, justice shall you pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:20), the repetition teaching that means must match ends. “Love the stranger, for you were strangers in Egypt” (Leviticus 19:34) suggests that memory must create empathy, not entitlement. Genesis teaches humans are created b’tzelem Elohim, in God’s image (Genesis 1:27), without ethnic distinction.
The prophets spoke truth to power with love. Isaiah condemned those who “join house to house and field to field” (Isaiah 5:8) not because he hated his people but because he loved them too much to watch them err. Jeremiah wept as he criticised, earning the title “the weeping prophet”. Their model shows how to combine loyalty with moral courage.
The Talmud preserves complexity. The teaching about saving a life in Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5 appears in two versions. The Jerusalem Talmud states, “Whoever destroys a single life is considered as if he destroyed an entire world, and whoever saves a single life is considered as if he saved an entire world.” The Babylonian Talmud adds “from Israel” – limiting it to Jewish lives. That our tradition preserves both versions – allowing each generation to wrestle with the implications – teaches us that tension itself can be holy.
The Path Forward
Where do we go from here? How do we heal divisions while remaining true to our values? How do we love Israel while speaking honestly about our concerns?
First, we must model a different discourse, one that holds complexity. We can defend Israel’s right to exist while questioning specific policies. We can support Israeli security while advocating for Palestinian dignity. We can celebrate Jewish sovereignty while insisting it be exercised ethically. These aren’t contradictions but mature love.
Second, we must create spaces for honest conversation within our communities. Synagogues should be places where people can express both their love for Israel and their moral concerns without being labelled traitors or naive. We need to trust that our bonds are strong enough to survive disagreement.
Third, we must support those in Israel working for the vision we cherish: the human rights organisations, the peace movements, the journalists who report difficult truths. They aren’t Israel’s enemies but its prophets, calling it back to its best self.
Finally, we must remember that Jewish history is long and Jewish creativity is boundless. The Judaism that emerged from the Temple’s destruction was unimaginable to those who knew only sacrifice. The Judaism that will emerge from our current crisis may be equally transformed. Our task is to ensure that transformation moves toward justice, not away from it.
Choosing Life
Jewish history reveals patterns: periods of creative diversity, followed by hardening divisions, followed by transformation. We stand now in that dangerous middle phase, but history suggests this too shall pass and transform.
The choice before us isn’t between supporting Israel and abandoning it, between Jewish particularism and universal ethics, or between security and justice. These are false binaries that serve no one. The real choice is whether we’ll have the courage to hold multiple truths: that Israel faces real threats and must be held to ethical standards, that Jewish safety matters and so does Palestinian dignity, and that we can love fiercely and criticise honestly.
As Moses taught at another crossroads, “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life” (Deuteronomy 30:19). Choosing life means choosing the difficult path of nuance over the easy path of extremes. It means loving Israel enough to want it to live up to its highest values. It means trusting that Judaism is strong enough to contain our arguments and wise enough to transform through them.
The work is difficult, the outcome uncertain. But as Rabbi Tarfon taught, “It is not upon you to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it” (Pirkei Avot 2:16).
In this spirit, with love and anguish, with hope and determination, we continue the eternal Jewish conversation about how to be a people that brings blessing to the world.
