At 77: Struggling for Israel’s soul

As Israel marks 77 years of independence, we stand at a profound crossroads. Despite incredible victories, war still rages. The sorrow of victims and fallen soldiers fills our streets. And yet — the old dreams persist: battered, stubborn, but very much alive.

What kind of Israel are we striving to build?

Over a century ago, Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook (1865–1935), the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Mandatory Palestine, described the soul of the Jewish people as pulled by three powerful and often conflicting forces:

“Three great forces struggle within the soul of the nation:
the force of the Divine (haKodesh),
the force of the Nation (haUmah),
and the force of Humanity (haAnshiyut).
These three must work together, rising and being refined, and through them the light of God will be revealed in the world.”
(Orot HaTchiya, ch. 18)

Judaism — Torah, mitzvot, and faith — has long been championed by the ultra-Orthodox world. Many in the Haredi sector maintain a strained relationship with the state. Some see Israel as a spiritual obstacle or at best, a temporary necessity. Many refuse to serve in the army or participate in broader civil society — and yet demand full state funding and representation.

Nationalism — the vision of the Jewish people as a sovereign nation — often finds its most passionate adherents in the religious Zionist (dati leumi) community. This group sees the Land of Israel as central to redemption, supports settlement throughout the territory, and often views military service as both civic duty and sacred mission.

Liberalism — the commitment to democracy, individual rights, and inclusion — is rooted in the secular Zionist ideal of Israel as a state for all its citizens. Yet some in this camp would prefer a state with little Jewish identity at all, one that mirrors Western liberal democracies even at the expense of the “Jewish” in “Jewish and democratic.”

As Rav Shagar taught in Brit Shalom, these forces do not naturally harmonize. They collide. And we’ve seen them do just that — in the streets, in the courts, and in our communities:

• Protests over judicial reform.

• Controversies over the Nation-State Law.

• Heartbreaking debates over hostages, war goals, and exemptions from military service.

Each of these struggles raises the same question: What kind of state do we want Israel to be?

This year’s Yom HaAtzmaut is shadowed by grief.

Fresh graves were dug just before Yom HaZikaron.
Families are shattered.
Communities are still displaced.
Protesters on Kaplan Street demand the hostages be brought home, while others riot over fears of Haredi conscription.
Peace — both external and internal — seems more elusive than ever.

And yet — even now, especially now — there is hope.

This Friday, the Daf Yomi cycle completes Tractate Makkot. Jews around the world will study one of the most poignant Talmudic stories — Rabbi Akiva at the ruins of the Temple.

I am deeply honored to be both learning and, for the first time, teaching Daf Yomi a few times a week. Together, our group will complete the tractate with its final story that feels achingly timely.

After the Temple’s destruction, Rabban Gamliel, Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, Rabbi Yehoshua, and Rabbi Akiva ascended Mount Scopus. When they reached the site of the Holy of Holies and saw a fox emerging from the ruins, the first three rabbis wept. Rabbi Akiva laughed.

When the rabbis asked why he laughed, Rabbi Akiva pointed to a puzzling verse in Isaiah (8:2): “And I will take to Me faithful witnesses to attest: Uriah the priest and Zechariah son of Jeberechiah.”

These two prophets lived in vastly different eras — Uriah during the First Temple period, and Zechariah during the Second. Why would the verse mention them side by side?

Rabbi Akiva taught that this juxtaposition reveals a deeper connection: the prophecy of Zechariah’s redemption is dependent upon the fulfillment of Uriah’s prophecy of destruction.

Uriah had foretold that “Zion shall be plowed like a field,” and Zechariah had promised that “Old men and women will once again sit in the streets of Jerusalem.”

Now that the prophecy of desolation had come true — with foxes roaming the ruins — Akiva could fully believe that the prophecy of redemption would also be realized.

Rabbi Akiva’s laughter was not denial. It was faith.
A belief that even in the rubble, redemption begins to stir.

We, too, must be Rabbi Akiva’s students.

We see the devastation.
We mourn the fallen.
We feel the raw tearing of our people’s pain.
We witness the strife between competing visions of the future.

And still — we believe.

We believe that Israel’s story is not finished.
That from ruin, renewal will come.
That we can build a better country.

Israel at 77 is not perfect.

It is fractured, wounded, and wrestling with its soul.

We have not yet resolved the internal tensions between faith, nationalism, and democracy — between settlers, Haredim, secular liberals, and the protesters on Kaplan Street.
Nor have we resolved our conflict with the Palestinian people — whose suffering, even amid our own agony, we must acknowledge with courage and compassion.

And yet, stepping back from the day-to-day, one sees that Israel remains a miracle — a living fulfillment of dreams carried through two thousand years of exile.

We still wrestle with Rav Kook’s three forces.
Perhaps we will never fully harmonize them.
Perhaps we are not meant to.

As Rav Kook taught, redemption comes not by erasing differences, but by elevating them into a higher unity.

The soul of Israel is not found in easy slogans.
It is found in the sacred, painful, hopeful work of building a better future — for our people and for all peoples.

Perhaps every sector of Israeli society will need to sacrifice part of its vision:

• Haredim may need to serve and integrate into the workforce.

• Religious Zionists may need to accept painful territorial compromise and uphold democratic norms.

• Secular liberals may need to accept that this democracy is — by necessity — also a Jewish homeland and sanctuary.

This will not be easy.

But the founding of the state was never easy.
It demanded vision, courage, and imagination.

The stakes are too high for failure.

When others see only ruins, we turn to Rabbi Akiva — and we laugh through the tears.

His vision took time. But he was right.

We are living through the greatest Jewish renewal in 2,000 years.
We have returned. We have rebuilt. We endure.

Israel was born from a dream — and it is our belief in a better future that will carry that dream forward.

Happy 77th, Israel.