In a small village in Eastern Europe, long ago, there lived a modest and well-respected rabbi named Reb Shimona. Her town was poor but proud—its people lived by Torah, kindness, and a sense of community that bound them tightly.
One harsh winter, two strangers arrived.
The first was a man named Avner. He was polished, wealthy, and generous. He gave gold to the synagogue, donated warm coats to the children, and paid for a new roof for the beit midrash. The town welcomed him with open arms.
The second man, Yitzchak, arrived days later. He was ragged, rough-spoken, with eyes that had seen too much. He offered no gifts, told no sweet stories—only warnings. "There is danger coming," he said. "A storm of hatred in the world beyond. You must prepare."
But the villagers whispered, “He is bitter, that one. Angry. Suspicious. Perhaps not even truly pious.”
Reb Shimona invited both men to her home, curious.
At dinner, Avner spoke elegantly of tradition, of how charity was a mitzvah, and how he admired the town’s simplicity. But Reb Shimona noticed something: Avner never asked questions—he only gave answers. After finishing his plate, he politely thanked his host and left.
Yitzchak, by contrast, was blunt. He criticized the town’s leaders for ignoring the world outside. He spoke of pogroms in neighboring provinces, and how Jews were being forced from their homes. He begged them to prepare, to seek out trustworthy allies. He listened and counter-argued, and he conversed back and forth with the rabbi deep into the night.
That night, the rabbi dreamed.
She stood before a great scale. On one side stood Avner, golden and glowing, with a smile like honey. On the other stood Yitzchak, dark and burdened, weighed down by sorrow. But when the scale tipped, it leaned toward Yitzchak—not because of weight, but because of truth.
The next morning, Reb Shimona spoke to the town.
“You think good is always soft,” she said. “You think evil is always loud. But listen well: Evil can come dressed in silk, handing you gifts that make you forget how to think. And good can come rough and sharp, forcing you to see what you'd rather not.”
They asked what she meant.
She told them that Avner was a government informer. His "gifts" were bribes to keep the village quiet and complacent, so the authorities could map it, watch it, and later uproot it with ease.
And Yitzchak? A survivor of three destroyed communities—his warnings would eventually save them.
***
Now let me stop you before you get started: there is no specific politician or leader whom I believe Avner represents.
I have no one particular in mind for Yitzchak.
When it comes to campaigning candidates, elected leaders, or just “people in power,” it is foolhardy, and frankly, dangerous, to implement a litmus test for determining “who is good for the Jews” and who isn’t. There is no secret checklist of policies or credentials that can reveal a true ally.
Actually, it takes a willingness to see beyond easy labels; it means ongoing engagement and asking questions. The story urges us to be discerning -
to detect comforting messages that numb us into dangerous complacency and to acknowledge truths that unsettle us, but can lead to important action.
Today, I believe this manifests in the Jewish struggle to balance our need for communal safety with moral integrity. We are currently seeking partners who want to find this balance with us.
It’s feeling harder to find them.
But, more than worrying about any particular person or policy, I am concerned that sometimes we get so lost in the weeds of this deliberation that we forget the lesson the sages and historians have proved time and time again: a weakened society, a crumbling democracy, hurts the Jews just as badly as a direct attack.
Not once in Jewish history have we been able to hole up and just “wait it out” as the storm brews outside; which means advocating for the Jewish good also means advocating for the greater good.
The prophets of old knew that a rising tide lifts all ships. Their vision was not only for Jewish survival, but for the flourishing of society as a whole.
Even this morning, we heard Isaiah’s words: “You shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to live in” (58:12). Basically, through our acts of repair, both internally and externally, we bring about our own redemption and the redemption of the world.
Through the prophet, God declared: “This is the fast I desire: To unlock the fetters of wickedness, and untie the cords of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free; to break off every yoke” (Isaiah 58:6). Isaiah highlights how everyone benefits when systems expand opportunities and barriers are removed.
And it’s not just Isaiah who preaches this message. Nearly every prophet in our tradition advocates for providing oppressed individuals and groups the tools they need to advance their position in society.
And yet I see this principle being tested in our American democracy today, dangerously weakening the fabric of our society. This is dangerous for all people, including Jews.
I believe this is particularly pronounced in the controversy around DEI. DEI serves as a case study of how noble intentions can become complicated in practice, and how the Jewish community is caught up in between.
Let me start with a quick definition, because DEI is one of those terms that has been bandied around and causes all kinds of feelings.
DEI is a conceptual framework - it stands for Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. The framework can be applied in various environments, most notably school curricula and workplaces. DEI, by definition, promotes the fair treatment and full participation of all people, including populations who have historically been underrepresented or subject to discrimination because of their background, identity, disability, etc.
In the last decade, progressive Jews took on the call towards these goals with gusto both inside and outside our community. In Jewish spaces, DEI initiatives have provided more hospitable spaces for Jews of Color, LGBTQ+ Jews, women and folks with disabilities. In pursuing this noble goal, we have broadened and deepened the experience of all Jews.
The Union for Reform Judaism dug in especially, making sure our movement more thoughtfully and authentically speaks to the diversity in our ranks. Our movement also pursued the painful work of exposing the deep misogyny and abuse that has long permeated our seminaries, camps and communal institutions. We haven’t eradicated these injustices completely, but we’ve put them on the run. When we say “all are welcome,” we are closer to actually meaning it.
I’ve been encouraged by these efforts in the public sector as well. Just the other day, my daughter was doing her Social Studies homework. She was learning about our nation’s early history. At the same time she was appreciating the genius of America’s architects, she was also learning about the genocidal violence against America’s indigenous peoples and the lasting effects of our country’s founding on the Native population. The lesson carried the message that we can be proud Americans while also addressing the historical injustice. She was learning how to be a thoughtful reader of history and how to be a proud but conscientious American citizen today.
I notice that because my kids have off school for Diwali, Lunar New Year and Juneteenth, and because they learn about Pride month in school, they are better equipped than I ever was to appreciate others’ experiences. With this deeper understanding, they are primed to be more effective allies, people who know how to listen across lines of difference and demonstrate respect for others’ needs.
So many positive outcomes.
But there have been shortcomings as well.
Many of you have brought forward real-life examples of where the DEI initiatives in your schools and workplaces have excluded Jews or demonstrated ignorance on Jewish issues. More often than not, the pain comes from when Jews feel left out of the conversation or ignored when trying to share the Jewish perspective. There is a lack of understanding on how certain platitudes and symbols act as micro- and macro-aggressions toward the Jewish community.
This has us doubting our allies and our place not just in DEI initiatives, but in justice spaces as a whole. These are spaces we very much want to be helpful in.
According to a study by the Jewish People Policy Institute think tank, the pain the Jewish community is experiencing in this area is a data-backed phenomenon. Shlomo Fisher, a JPPI researcher and one of the two authors of [a study on this topic], said: “[We concentrated] on the inner experiences of American Jews, and especially of young people…in connection with university campuses. And what we discovered was that there was — this is a sort of hackneyed phrase — something of a crisis in identity, or at least an issue, a dilemma of identity among [this population].”
The study showed that the main tension came from respondents’ commitments - or non-committments - to Israel and the Jewish people. This often clashed with the views of fellow progressives.
Fisher articulated the view prevalent among these conflicted respondents:
“I view myself as a persecuted minority who has the moral authority to critique and to promote social justice concerns…and I’m being told that I’m part of a privileged oppressor class that is the very paradigm of colonialism and genocide. So my own self-definition is being contradicted by the outside world, by the other.” “That’s unprecedented,” Fisher reflected, “very unusual.”
This “identity crisis” creates a “get out!” ultimatum: either get out of the justice space or get out of your Jewish space. It’s a false binary, a fabricated fiction that only promotes isolation on all sides.
Let’s be clear: in many cases, I believe we are experiencing benign ignorance. Jews are only 0.2% of the world’s population. Most people simply do not understand Jewish culture, holidays, and the nuanced Jewish connection to Israel. I believe that clear explanations and authentic human connections can clear up many issues. Thoughtful, friendly engagement should always be our first step.
And yet, we cannot ignore the fact that as long as there have been Jews, there have been people who hate Jews for all kinds of perverse reasons.
Whether it’s ignorance or blatant hate, just as folks don’t understand Jews, they also don’t understand anti-Semitism. Thinking about the nature of anti-semitism can help us understand why it so often flies under the radar or gets dismissed, exposing how others can have failed to combat it alongside other forms of discrimination.
Anti-Semitism is a form of hate with its own perverse ideology attached. Anti-Semitism uniquely operates as an insidious lie about Jewish power and control. It is designed to pit communities against one another, erode trust in democratic institutions, and sow societal distrust by fabricating tales about dark money and cabals of vengeful Shylocks.
Anti-semitism is a conspiracy theory that cycles upon itself, especially when there are consequences for anti-Semitic behavior. Journalist Yair Rosenberg explains that, “when an anti-Semite suffers consequences for falsely claiming that sinister Jews control the world, he can then point to that punishment as vindication of his views. For Jews, this is a no-win scenario: If they stay silent, the anti-Semitism continues unabated; if they speak up, and their assailant is penalized by non-Jewish society, anti-Semites feel affirmed. Heads, the bigots win; tails, Jews lose. This is the cruel paradox that has perpetuated anti-Semitism for centuries.”
And what about the murky swamp at the intersection of anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism? JCPA gives us the honest deal: “Post-October 7th, antisemitic conspiracy theories have surged. Lies about “Jewish” or “Zionist” control have proliferated, continuing to animate broader hate and reinforce democratic erosion.”
JCPA then creates an important distinction: “While critique of Israeli policy is not only fair but important to our democratic discourse, holding Jews collectively responsible for the actions of the Israeli government is antisemitism – period.”
As I see it, DEI initiatives and justice spaces are not inherently anti-Semitic, but people can be ignorant of how they sometimes operate that way.
This isn't the only quagmire, though. The rise in anti-Semitism is also attributed to the scourge of White Christian Nationalism, which unabashedly hates Jews. This is a group that is feeling emboldened in their campaign for American dominance.
This is where we need to be particularly vigilant about a related danger that’s lurking. I’m speaking specifically about the curtailing of civil liberties or the dismantling of DEI that is done, ostensibly, in the name of protecting the Jewish community and/or Israel. Using Jews as the scapegoat does little to save us from anti-Semitism. In fact, it just feeds into the vicious anti-Semitic feedback loop.
This is what keeps me up at night. I worry about Jewish safety. I worry about the moral fabric of America. I worry that sometimes those two things seem at odds with one another.
Which leads to a larger, core question to consider: can we financially support, advocate alongside, and/or collaborate with individuals and groups with whom we share some values yet profoundly disagree with on others? What does allyship, partnership, coming into coalition, mean in these fraught times?
Allyship and partnership cannot mean perfect agreement or unconditional loyalty. Rather, they mean careful discernment — knowing when shared goals justify collaboration, and the clarity about setting boundaries when our dignity or safety is compromised.
Deliberate decisions are vital, because if we rush to run into the arms of one group or another, or tout a particular candidate as “for or against” the Jews, we risk compromising our integrity and/or our security.
Classic Jewish texts grapple with similar issues. For most of history, being a Jew meant being a minority trying to succeed among the majority. Sometimes the governments were favorable, more often they weren’t. Our sages therefore instituted laws to keep us safe - dividing lines that kept us apart and under the radar. Yet they also understood that we had to work with others to ensure our success.
Avot d’Rabbi Natan embodies this point: “Do not trust in the ruling power, for they draw one close only for their own needs; but nonetheless, seek their welfare, for without them people would swallow each other alive.”
The sages knew from experience that rulers often welcome Jews when it suits their political agenda, but their embrace is self-interested and temporary. Be vigilant, the sages say, but don’t disengage entirely. Work pragmatically for the health of the society, because that is the only way to guarantee the safety of our people.
Jewish texts clearly prioritize taking care of our fellow Jews first, but our tradition also urges us to look outside of our own community, seeking the welfare of all citizens as not just a way to stay safe, but as part of fulfilling our greater moral obligations as Jews.
The mishna teaches (Gittin 61a) that we should allow the poor of all nations access to the corners of our fields, just as we are commanded to do for our own community. The sages similarly taught that, “One sustains poor gentiles along with poor Jews, and one visits sick gentiles along with sick Jews, and one buries dead gentiles along with dead Jews.” All this is done on account of the ways of peace,” that is, to foster peaceful societal relations. This is known as “darkei shalom.”
“Darkei Shalom” is a halachic principle that refers to good relations among neighbors. It is conflict avoidant at the same time it provides a proactive recipe for a harmonious society. Jews are obligated to not only work with power players, but to also create systems of compassion and equality within our society, which is, in fact, the Jewish mission at its core.
I still can’t tell you who’s Avner and who is Yitzchak. If anything, they represent the false binary of who or what “is good or bad for the Jews.” As I preached on Rosh HaShanah, now is not the time for absolutism. Now is the time for thoughtful engagement. As you consider political candidates, as you involve yourself in local government and town initiatives, as you consider school budgets and workplace policies, weigh the values and needs of the broader community along with your own.
This isn’t about choosing the side that flatters us most or frightens us the least. It’s about who wants to build the same future we want to build. It’s about true friendship, which demands honesty and compromise.
Not every partner will be perfect. Not every coalition will be easy. Yet if we cultivate darkei shalom—if we insist on peaceful coalitions built on justice and mutual responsbility—then we will not only protect ourselves, but help stitch a fabric of society strong enough to shelter us all.
Ken Y’hi Ratzon, may these words be worthy of coming true.
Closing
On this Yom Kippur, as we speak the Ashamnu from A to Z, we admit that even if each of us did not commit every wrong, together our community has carried them all. So too, the work of repair cannot rest on one voice alone, but on all of us, standing side by side.
May this day sharpen our discernment, recognizing allies who seek true partnership, resisting those who would use our fears for their gain. Let’s keep our eye on the prize though, showing sincere effort to join with others in building a society where justice and peace shelter us all.
Amen.
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