The Pull of the Land

Last Saturday night was not an easy one. Hezbollah was launching rockets into Israel’s Galilee. Israel was bombing Hezbollah targets in the south of Lebanon – a boiling pot, to use the language of the prophet Jeremiah, spilling over from the north.

It was a tough night for everyone, and for the Cosgrove household tougher still. Some of you may recall that at the end of services last week, I acknowledged the presence of my Israeli niece Nomi in the community. Nomi just finished her year of post high school national service and will be entering the Israeli Defense Forces next month. With six weeks between the two, she decided to spend a month in America, much of it with her aunt and uncle. Nomi is very cute, very smart, and very funny – exactly as you would expect from a niece of mine. Israeli through and through, she is as secular as they come. In spite of her extended family, the inner workings of American Jewry are a mystery to her.

What you also need to know is that Nomi grew up in in a small town outside of Haifa called Kiryat Tivon, in the north of Israel. Her older brother, as I have shared in the past, is presently serving in Gaza. On Saturday night, as the rockets began to fall and the red alerts began to light up her phone, her family WhatsApp messages came alive. A hurried phone call between Nomi and her sisters was cut short as a rocket was directed at their community. We all heard the siren in the background. Nomi’s family hurried into their home’s safe room, but because it is reinforced by concrete, reception there is spotty at best. It was surreal and very scary hugging Nomi in our home, knowing that her family was huddled in the safe room in theirs.

There is no playbook for any of this, so Debbie and I decided to do what any self-respecting uncle and aunt would do in such a situation: stress eating. We took out a plate of Greenberg's black & white cookies and we dove right in. And then, while we were carb loading, Nomi shared two thoughts that I would like to share with you today.

“You know what, Uncle Elliot,” she began, “love is a pretty powerful thing.” It wasn’t the opening line I was expecting as rockets were falling on her hometown.

“Tell me more.” I replied.

“Well,” she said, “I mean, here I am, safe and sound with you guys in New York and rockets are falling in Israel. I should be really glad that I am here and not there. I should feel lucky. But that’s not at all how I feel. I wish I was there with my family. I guess that means that I must really love them.”

“I guess so,” I replied, marveling at how a person so young could be so reflective in such a stressful situation.

As taken as I was by Nomi’s first comment, it was what she said next that has stuck with me ever since and that I would like to talk to you about today. “I think,” she said, “I think I finally get it.”

“Get what?” I asked.

“I think I get what American Jews must be feeling and what you do as an American rabbi. Again, I asked her to explain. “Well,” she replied, “the feeling that I have right now – of being here while my thoughts and heart are in Israel. That’s what American Jews must be feeling. Those are the people you’re leading.”

To be in one place while your thoughts and heart are in another place. It is not the only way to define the heart of American Jewry, but it is a pretty good way to start.

For Israelis like Nomi the connection to the land of Israel is hardwired into their system; it’s second nature. Israel is the land of their birth, youth, history, and destiny. No different than a citizen of any other country, it is a national identity, part of them when they are in Israel and when they are not. By virtue of their love of country, an Israeli who doesn’t live in Israel is still an Israeli. Yordim, as they are called – ex-pat Israelis who have “descended” or “gone down” to live outside Israel – tend to never fully admit that their stay outside of Israel is permanent. There is even an old joke in which an Israeli who is waiting to leave his midtown office hears Hebrew being spoken in the approaching elevator. “Yordim? (Going down?”), he asks the Israelis in the elevator. To which they all insistently respond, “No, no, no, we’re just here temporarily!”

It is a cute joke, but it is a joke that points to a fundamental truth about Israeli identity. In all times, but especially in times of crisis, the Nomis of the world feel the tug to come home. Remember what happened following the attacks of October 7? For what other country would ex-pats drop everything, take any flight they can find, connecting flights, chartering flights, calling in favors, in order get on a plane to come home to enlist. Following the attack, over 300,000 reservists were activated. Not only did they all show up, but over 50,000 others who did not receive a draft order also reported to their bases. To fight. To vote. Even to protest, Israelis feel the pull of the land.

But that gravitational pull is felt not just by Israelis, but by all of us. Even having made our homes here, our hearts feel the tug to Israel. As long as Jews have been Jews, our sense of self has been tied to the land. The very first words spoken to Abraham: “Go forth to the land that I will show you.” The dying request of Joseph that he be buried in the land of his forefathers. The promise of this week’s Torah reading, that though dispersed across the earth, we will be brought together again from among all the peoples where God has scattered us. (Deuteronomy 30:3–4). The prayers we pray, the direction in which we pray, the breaking of the glass at a wedding, the pledge “next year in Jerusalem” that ends the Passover seder. Some of us fulfill that pledge, some of us have yet to do so, but no matter where we live, the gaze of our eyes and the devotion of our hearts is directed to Zion. “My heart is in the east, but I am at the edge of the west,” wrote the medieval poet Yehudah Halevi. As with him, so with us. Judaism is a faith, a peoplehood, a practice – all those things, – and also a pull to a place, the land of Israel.

And in crisis, that connection is as strong and important as ever. One, two, three congregational trips to Israel – sold out. The November trip to be led by Rabbis Koffman and Zuckerman – two buses strong with only a few spots remaining. We should, intellectually, be glad that we are here and not there. We should feel lucky. But that is not at all how we feel. We wish we were there with family. Why? Because that is what love is.

The Rabbis of old ask whether conjoined twins should be considered one or two people? Do they both need tefillin? Do they count as one person or two people in a minyan? The Rabbis’ answer is a thought experiment: If boiling water were poured on one, would the other scream? If yes, then they count as one. So, too, American Jewry and Israel. This past year, Israelis have been badly burned, and we, American Jews, have screamed. I have yet to speak about my summer in Israel – what I studied, where I went, and who I saw. I imagine I will do so soon enough. But particulars aside, it was just the act of being there that mattered most, being in the place where so much of our energy, emotion, and devotion has been directed all year. Painful as it was at times, it restored my soul. To be, just to be, in the place where I do not live, but where I belong.

I think this is what Nomi meant when she said that she finally understood me as an American rabbi. The other night I was sitting on a community panel when the moderator caught me off guard by asking me why, if I preach, teach, and talk about moving to Israel so much, why I have yet to do so, and if I intend to do so? It was a bit awkward. I wasn’t prepared for the question and probably fumbled my answer. But having had a chance to catch my breath, I offer this response:

I believe that the litmus test for an engaged Jewish identity lies not in the declarative statements we make, but in the soul-searching questions with which we wrestle. Does God listen to our prayers? How much of the Torah is of human origin and how much divine? Why do bad things happen to good people? Are we commanded by God to do mitzvot? There are no definitive answers to these questions, but to wrestle with them signals that we have skin in the game. As individuals and as a community we struggle with them. The push and pull is what shapes our identity and anchors us as a people. As Heschel taught, “We are closer to God when we are asking questions that when we think we have the answers.”

I believe that the question of whether a Jew today should live in the land of Israel is high up on that list. Not because of fear of antisemitism. But because you and I, all of us, have been born into an extraordinary chapter of Jewish history where the only thing preventing us from living in a sovereign Jewish state is ourselves. For the first time in a really long time, a Jew can actualize the multi-millennial dream of living in Israel. Some may define Zionism as supporting Israel’s right to self-determination and others may hold that a real Zionist lives in Israel. My Zionism lies somewhere in between. Namely, in the belief that every Jew – including every rabbi – and every synagogue openly ask the question whether or not to act on the pull to the land. To adapt the title of our Torah reading, there are Nitzavim Jews who are standing here outside of Israel, and there are Va-yeilekh Jews, Jews who choose to go and live in Israel. And there is a continuum that connects us. As for me and my personal struggle, I soothe myself with the hopeful thought that my present contributions to the Jewish people offer modest compensation for not having hearkened to the call of our people’s history.

Nomi has since returned to Israel. Her flight landed safe and sound. With hostilities on the rise with every passing moment, I wish I could say the same for her and for Israel, but I can’t. In the embrace of her family, I hope Nomi is surrounded by the love of which she spoke last week. I also hope that she knows that while her uncle is not physically there with her, he loves her, he wishes he was there, and his heart definitely is there – with her and with all of Israel.