We Are Not Alone

I have had more conversations than I can count this week with people who are worried. Not mildly concerned, or simply disappointed by an election result, but genuinely unsettled about where things are heading for Israel, for American Jewry, and for the relationship between the two.

I was in Israel last week as the country voted and produced no clear governing majority. Then this week, here in America, Democrats won both houses of Congress. There is no question about it: Israel is becoming a political problem not just for parts of the progressive left, where we have grown used to hearing it, but also for parts of the populist right. Anti-Israel positions, or at least a desire to distance America from Israel, are moving closer to the mainstream in both parties. Which is a good reason for us to be nervous.

And when Jews get nervous, we have a particular historical reflex. We reach for the 1930s. I understand it. We are the children and grandchildren of people who learned, often at terrible cost, that when you ignore warning signs, you do so at your peril. Nobody should stand up in a synagogue, and definitely not the rabbi, and tell Jews not to worry about antisemitism, or not to notice when Israel becomes a convenient explanation for everything people are angry about. It would be foolish, irresponsible and tone deaf.

But there is another danger too: becoming so imprisoned by the past that we stop seeing the present clearly. History is useful when it teaches us what to look for. As you all know, I love using history as a tool to unlock the present. But history becomes dangerous when we use it to decide in advance how the story ends. And that is why I do not believe the right response to this week is to say, "This is the 1930s all over again."

There are things we must take seriously, but the strategic position of the Jewish people today is radically different from ninety years ago. In the 1930s, there was no Jewish state. There was no Jewish army, air force or navy, and no intelligence service with the reach and sophistication Israel possesses today. This week we had IDF soldiers with us for Thursday night's FIDF event. They represent the single most profound change in Jewish history in two thousand years: Jews are no longer entirely dependent on the goodwill of others for our physical survival. October 7 taught us, painfully, that sovereignty and having an army do not abolish danger. But it does change the equation.

We also have Ambassador Gilad Erdan here with us this Shabbat, in connection with his leadership role in Magen David Adom. Most of you will remember his four glittering years representing Israel at the United Nations, particularly after October 7, defending Israel unyieldingly in an institution where hostility towards the Jewish state can be overwhelming. Whatever one thinks of the UN, and I'm no fan, it takes a certain kind of stubborn Jewish confidence to stand in that chamber, day after day, when so much of the room is against you, and nevertheless say: no, you do not get to tell our story for us.

In any event, if history is what you want, why should it be the 1930s? I want instead to spend a few moments talking about King David.

We tend to remember David after the editing has been done. Dovid Hamelech. The sweet singer and poet of Israel. The conqueror of Jerusalem. The ancestor of Mashiach. But if you actually read Sefer Shmuel, King David's life is almost absurdly unstable. Saul wants to kill him. He spends years on the run. And at the height of his reign, his own son Avshalom turns against him.

I know you will find this shocking — but the greatest enemies of the Jews are, you guessed it, the Jews.

Avshalom wins support. Achitofel, one of David's most brilliant advisers, defects to him. David is forced to leave Jerusalem. He walks out of his own capital humiliated and uncertain whether he will ever return. There is something particularly painful when people you instinctively think of as "your own" look at the same reality and reach conclusions you simply cannot understand. Some of the unease I have heard this week is about exactly that. One survey of Jewish early voters in Michigan found that 60 percent voted for Abdul El-Sayed. Whatever else one says about that result, it is sobering.

King David knew something about that feeling. But David did not confuse a terrible moment with a final verdict. When he learned that Achitofel had joined Avshalom, he prayed that God should frustrate Achitofel's counsel — and then he sent Chushai back to Jerusalem to help make sure that happened. It is such a Jewish combination. David believes in prayer completely, and then he gets to work.

There is another moment in Tanach that I have been thinking about all week. Eliyahu HaNavi has just achieved one of the most spectacular victories imaginable on Har HaCarmel. Fire comes down from heaven, the prophets of Baal are defeated, and the people cry out, "Hashem Hu HaElokim." And almost immediately afterwards, Izevel threatens to kill him and Eliyahu runs for his life. Eventually he says to God, ואוותר אני לבדי ויבקשו את נפשי לקחתה — I alone am left. And now they are seeking to take my life.

And how does God respond? God does not tell him the danger is imaginary. On the contrary. Izevel is real. Achav is real. The spiritual collapse around him is real. What God simply tells him is that his picture is incomplete. והשארתי בישראל שבעת אלפים — there are seven thousand in Israel who have not bowed to Baal. Eliyahu could see Izevel and Achav, and the assassination squads out to kill him, but in his despair he could not see the seven thousand who remained loyal to God.

And perhaps that is the most important thing for us to remember this week. When we become frightened, the thing frightening us fills the entire screen. We see the election result, we see the incendiary speech, we see the horrific social media post, we see the poll, we see the hostile crowd — and suddenly it feels as if that is all there is. But it is never all there is. There are always the seven thousand.

There are serious people in both political parties who understand the value of the U.S.-Israel relationship. There are Jews who are engaged, organized, influential and determined, Christians who stand with Israel, soldiers sitting in this room, and Magen David Adom teams who run toward danger. There are Israelis in every field who have spent the last three years showing extraordinary resilience, courage and fortitude.

So I am not asking anyone to pretend there is nothing to worry about. Instead, I am asking us to refuse to allow worry to become our entire worldview. Jewish history is full of tragic moments, and it would be foolish to deny them. But it is also full of astonishing moments of recovery and triumph.

And we do not even have to leave this week's parsha to find the model. Sarah has died. God has promised Avraham the whole land, and yet he does not own enough of it to bury his wife. God has promised him descendants like the stars, and he has one unmarried son through whom that promise is supposed to continue. If Avraham had wanted to despair, he had material to work with. Instead, he buys one field. Then he finds Yitzchak a wife. One piece of land. One marriage. Two practical steps toward a future he cannot yet see.

That is the Jewish model. Not optimism in the childish sense that everything will work out and we should not worry. And certainly not complacency. It is the much harder discipline of refusing to allow fear to paralyze us. The opposite of fear is not optimism. The opposite of fear is responsibility.

So yes, we need to pray. We need to pray for Israel, for America, for wise leaders, and for the wisdom to distinguish between genuine threats and the noise that accompanies every political upheaval. But then we have to do what David did after he prayed. We have to act. We have to strengthen Israel rather than merely worry about it. We have to strengthen Jewish education so that the next generation understands why Israel matters before somebody on TikTok explains why it does not. We have to build and, where necessary, rebuild relationships across the political spectrum, rather than deciding that any part of the political arena is permanently lost to us. We have to support the institutions that protect Jewish life — the IDF, Magen David Adom, our schools, our shuls, our advocacy organizations — and speak about Israel with confidence, intelligence and moral seriousness.

And above all, we must not become addicted to despair. Despair can feel sophisticated because it allows you to say, "I saw it coming." But despair is also addictive. And once you are addicted to despair, every piece of bad news becomes proof that you were right, while every piece of good news is dismissed as temporary.

Avraham bought a field when he had been promised a country. David sent Chushai back to Jerusalem when his throne appeared lost. Eliyahu discovered that he had never been as alone as he thought.

We do not have a crystal ball. None of us do. We never have. But we have Tanach. We have Chazal. We have Jewish history. We have the State of Israel. We have an army, a navy and an air force. We have intelligence capabilities that Israel's enemies take very seriously indeed — including those who despise Israel and despise Jews. We have influence. We have institutions. And most importantly, we have one another.

So … do not focus only on Avshalom. Do not focus only on Achav and Izevel. Focus on the seven thousand who stand quietly with us, faithful to God and faithful to the future of the Jewish people.

The road ahead may be rocky. In fact, I think we should assume that it will be rocky. Some assumptions about America and Israel will have to change. Some relationships will need to be rebuilt. Some battles will have to be fought more intelligently than we have fought them until now. And that is fine. Jews know how to walk rocky roads. The question is whether we will meet the future frightened and passive — or alert, prayerful, strategic and confident.

Avraham's answer was to buy the field. David's answer was to pray and to send Chushai. Eliyahu's answer was to discover that even in the moment he felt most alone, there were seven thousand standing with him.

Our answer will have to be ours. But whatever it is, it has to begin with refusing to say, "I alone am left. And now they are seeking to take my life." Because we are not alone. And the story is far from over.