In April 2025, 36 members of the Board of Deputies of British Jews signed a letter that was published in the Financial Times that criticised the Israeli offensive in Gaza. This sparked months of internal feuds and an inquiry from the Board, and ultimately resulted in 31 members receiving a “notice of criticism”, while five were suspended. In my view, this represents the latest episode of an ongoing issue within the Jewish community and beyond: how do we deal with opposite views, and how do we approach dissent. This weekly parasha, Korach, brings some possible answers to this conundrum.
Our Torah portion begins with these words: “Vayikach Korach” – “And Korach took.” The problem is, the Torah never tells us what exactly Korach took. It doesn’t seem to be a specific object, rather an attitude to life, a way to see the world. Perhaps what he seized was the dangerous certainty that complex problems have simple solutions, that being technically right is the same as being righteous.
This oversimplification today is probably one of the gravest dangers we are facing. We have a binary way of seeing the world, us versus them, and at the same time, some refuse to see that there is an overarching narrative that includes all of us, a sense that, regardless of our differences, our fates are intertwined. This lack of complex thinking and this lack of common identity have led to attitudes and responses that are far below what is needed today: a bold, creative approach to the issues we are facing and a deeper empathy towards all human beings.
The Jewish community, like the wider world, faces deep divisions. You may have followed the turmoil caused by the open letter signed by 36 deputies of the BoD and the way the Board responded this week. They issued a notice of criticism against the signatories to this controversial letter, insisting their response was purely legal—a matter of proper channels and constitutional procedure— but I believe it fell short of the kind of leadership we need now. For me, the main question is, how do we handle dissent in fractured times?
The Torah presents us with a perfect example of the complexity of leadership during crisis. When Korach challenges Moses with the claim that “all the congregation are holy”, Moses doesn’t immediately invoke his authority. He falls on his face, a moment of genuine anguish and humility. He tries reasoning, reaching out separately to different factions, proposing tests. Only when all dialogue fails does the earth swallow the rebels.
But let’s be honest about the Board’s dilemma. They represent Jews who were genuinely appalled by the letter alongside those who signed it. They represent Jews from a very wide spectrum of views and attitudes towards the Jewish tradition. They’re not prophets but an organisational body with legal constraints and fiduciary duties. When parts of the community demand action, doing nothing also makes a statement. Perhaps their legalistic response was actually an attempt at neutrality, as if they wanted to say, “We’re noting a procedural violation, not making a moral judgement.”
Yet in our current context, with rising antisemitism, a traumatised Jewish community after October 7, and deep divisions about how to respond, this legalistic approach feels insufficient. Jewish law recognises “lifnim mishurat hadin”, going beyond the letter of the law. The Talmud (Bava Metzia 83a) provides such an example. Rabba bar Bar Hana’s porters broke his barrel of wine. According to a strict reading of the law, he could have withheld their wages, but his colleague Rav advised him to pay them anyway, citing the verse, ‘that you may walk in the way of good people’ (Proverbs 2:20). Sometimes strict legal adherence to the law can produce harm. The Talmud reminds us also that the Second Temple fell because of sinat chinam, baseless hatred, despite the people knowing Torah and following halacha.
The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot (5:17) distinguishes between arguments “for the sake of heaven”, like those between Hillel and Shammai, and those “not for heaven’s sake”, like Korach’s. The difference isn’t disagreement itself – Jewish tradition is built on debate. Hillel and Shammai’s schools disagreed on almost everything yet attended each other’s celebrations, and their children intermarried. What held them wasn’t consensus but commitment to shared struggle.
So what could healing have looked like? Even within their constraints, imagine if the Board had said:
“We acknowledge the deep pain and division within our community. We’ve received strong responses across the spectrum. As your representative body, we note procedural concerns while recognising they reflect deeper disagreements about conscience and Jewish values. Rather than deepen divisions, we commit to establishing forums for difficult conversations, commissioning studies of how other communities navigate similar tensions, and ensuring every voice is heard with respect.”
This raises another important question: In an age of polarisation, can overarching structures still represent such diversity? Perhaps they need to reimagine their role, not just as unified voices but as guardians of productive disagreement. What if Jewish institutions modelled something counter-cultural and yet profoundly Jewish: how to disagree well?
The Torah offers a powerful image. After Korach’s rebellion, a plague breaks out. Aaron doesn’t stand on ceremony or cite regulations. He rushes into the dangerous middle ground, standing “between the dead and the living” (Numbers 16:48) to stop the plague. He enters the space between competing truths and creates the possibility for healing and life.
I think of a Hasidic teaching: A student came to the Kotzker Rebbe distraught about community divisions. The Rebbe replied, “You’re looking with one eye. Try looking with both: one to see the division, one to see the divine spark in each person.”
Our institutions today need this binocular vision, one eye on necessary procedures, one on the deeper wounds requiring healing. Not because rules don’t matter, but because community matters more. In times of crisis, being legally correct isn’t enough if the ground is opening beneath us.
Can umbrella organisations still work? Only if they embrace their role differently. The Jewish people survived everything history threw at us not through uniformity but through our ability to argue and remain family. Our institutions must model what respectful disagreement looks like, not to end arguments but to ensure we’re arguing in ways that strengthen rather than shatter us.
The parashah ends with Aaron’s staff flowering overnight with almonds blooming from dead wood. True authority doesn’t come from institutional power but from the ability to bring forth new life. Perhaps our fractured moment requires leaders brave enough to admit that being legally right isn’t always enough and that our deepest divisions require our deepest wisdom.
Young Jews especially are watching. If our institutions cannot evolve and instead choose enforcement over engagement and decree over dialogue, they will become irrelevant to young Jews. Something precious is lost when we abandon the difficult work of communal cohesion. When the centre collapses, everyone suffers, and in the end, radicals win.
But there’s still time. Jewish institutions could acknowledge that legal responses, while correct, are insufficient for this moment. They could convene listening sessions, publish diverse perspectives, and create ongoing forums for difficult conversations. They could prove that shared frameworks can hold differences, that passionate disagreement does not mean communal dissolution.
Korach took certainty. But certainty isn’t a Jewish virtue. Wrestling is. As we face our own communal challenges, may we choose the harder path: standing between the living and the dead, between competing truths, creating space for life to flourish. May we remember that sometimes the ground shifts not to swallow us but to teach us we need deeper roots, roots that can hold us even as we wrestle, even as we argue for the sake of heaven.
The earth swallowed Korach’s certainty. Let’s not let it swallow our community, either.