A Cause Is Not a Credential

What Jewish Tradition Teaches Us About Israel, Loyalty, and the Limits of Power

Over the past several years, I have found myself wrestling with an uncomfortable question: What would a politician have to do before support for Israel was no longer enough?

I ask because Israel matters deeply to me. It is more than a country or a foreign policy concern. It carries the weight of Jewish history, the memory of what happens when Jews have no place of refuge, and the determination that our survival should never depend entirely on the goodwill of others. I understand why many Jews make a candidate’s position on Israel decisive when they vote. I have felt the pull of that argument myself.

But I have begun to wonder whether, in concentrating on what a politician promises to defend, we sometimes pay too little attention to the person making the promise.

I am not asking how other people should vote. I am asking myself what it would take for me to reconsider my support. What evidence would make me pause? What conduct would cause me to look beyond an issue that matters profoundly to me?

These questions are uncomfortable because they force us to examine not only our political judgments but also how we arrive at them.

The Torah offers an important place to begin. In Deuteronomy 17:14–20, the king of Israel is subject to restrictions on his wealth and power. He must study the Torah throughout his life and is warned not to elevate himself above his fellow Israelites. The king may lead the people, but he does not stand above the obligations that govern them.

The book of Samuel I makes the danger more tangible. When the Israelites demand a king, they want someone to govern them and fight their battles. Their desire for security is understandable. Samuel nevertheless warns them about the price they may pay: a king may take their children, their land, their produce, and their freedom (Samuel I 8:10–18).

The people are thinking about what a king can provide. Samuel asks them to consider what they might surrender.

I find that distinction worth remembering. When we feel threatened, we naturally look for someone who promises protection. The danger comes when our need for protection makes us reluctant to question the person offering it.

Jewish scripture does not spare even its greatest leaders from that scrutiny. King David is celebrated for his leadership, yet the Bible recounts how he abuses his power in the matter of Bathsheba and Uriah. The prophet Nathan confronts him directly (Samuel II 12:1–9). David’s accomplishments do not make his wrongdoing disappear, nor does his position prevent another person from speaking against him.

That matters because we can become so attached to what a leader represents that we struggle to distinguish the cause from the individual. We begin by supporting a policy or a promise. Eventually, we may find ourselves defending conduct we would question in someone who stood on the other side of the issue.

Jewish tradition offers another way to approach disagreement. In Eruvin 13b, the Talmud explains why Jewish law follows Beit Hillel rather than Beit Shammai. Among the reasons it gives is that Beit Hillel studied and presented the opposing school’s arguments alongside its own.

They did not regard disagreement as something to avoid. They took the opposing view seriously enough to understand it.

I believe that discipline belongs in our political lives, too. Before deciding that a candidate is indispensable, we should be able to explain the strongest arguments against that candidate. We should examine criticism on its merits rather than dismissing it because we distrust the people making it.

This does not mean that every issue carries equal weight. A Jewish voter may reasonably decide that Israel’s security outweighs other concerns. Nor does acknowledging a candidate’s shortcomings automatically determine how that person should vote. Political decisions involve competing priorities, uncertain outcomes, and judgments on which reasonable people differ.

But support for Israel cannot, by itself, answer questions about a politician’s honesty, judgment, respect for law, or use of power. Those questions do not become irrelevant simply because the candidate agrees with us on something important.

After nearly fifty years as an engineer, I learned that before changing a process, I needed to understand how it worked, why it had been designed that way, and whether the proposed change would solve the problem. The intended result was not proof that the method would achieve it. Good intentions could not replace examination.

I think the same discipline is useful when we evaluate political leadership. A promise deserves attention, but it must also be tested against conduct and results.

I keep returning to my original question: What would a politician have to do before I reconsidered my support? If my answer is that nothing could change my mind, I need to ask myself whether I have reached a considered judgment or adopted an allegiance that no longer permits reconsideration.

Jewish history gives us profound reasons to care about Israel’s survival. Our tradition also asks us to pursue justice, question power, and take responsibility for our judgments. These commitments need not compete.

A cause is not a credential. Supporting Israel is important to me. So is being able to explain why I trust the people who claim to defend it.

That is why I believe the question is worth asking—not only of our political leaders, but of ourselves.