Those who stayed in Egypt

A few years ago, at a conference, I listened in outrage as Liel Leibovitz, a prominent writer at Tablet magazine, argued that four out of five American Jews today would likely not be part of the Jewish future.

He was not speaking in theory. He meant real people — some disengaged, others actively harming the community. He argued that we must reconsider who we include in our communal vision.

I was furious. I have wrestled with faith and struggled with God, but my commitment to the Jewish people has never wavered. The idea of leaving Jews behind — 80% of them! — felt like a betrayal of everything I believed.

That was then.

These days, I don’t fully agree with Liel, but I keep returning to grapple with his argument.

Here’s where I’ve landed, and I don’t say this lightly: refusing to acknowledge that some Jews choose a different path risks betraying our own Jewish values.

* * *

After centuries of bitter enslavement, attempted genocide, and a dramatic showdown between God and Pharaoh, the people of Israel finally walk free in this week’s Torah portion, Beshalach. But the Torah describes their exit in an enigmatic way:

“The Israelites went up ḥamushim (חֲמֻשִׁים) out of the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 13:18)

The word “ḥamushim” is typically translated as “armed” and derives from the root Ḥ-M-Sh, which is associated with being equipped or prepared for battle. The Israelites were a free — and armed — people who understood they would have to fight for their survival.

But Rashi, perhaps the most well-known Torah commentator, connects “ḥamushim” to “ḥamesh,” the Hebrew word for the number five. In his non-literal reading, only one-fifth of the Jewish people left Egypt, while the other 80% never made it out. As Rashi, drawing from Shemot Rabbah, explains, they were not worthy of redemption. Other rabbinic interpretations are more ambiguous, leaving room to wonder: maybe the 80% were not unworthy, just unwilling to leave Egypt behind.

The centerpiece of this week’s Torah portion includes the miraculous splitting of the sea, the drowning of Pharaoh’s army, and the eruption of song as the Israelites step onto dry land. It is a tale of wonder and liberation.

But through Rashi’s eyes, those who walked through the Red Sea were a remnant — worthy but diminished — armed with the knowledge that freedom meant journeying with those committed to their mission, rather than staying behind with those still tethered to Egypt.

This is precisely the Jewish source Liel invoked to support his argument — that just as not everyone left Egypt, not everyone today will choose to be part of the Jewish future.

* * *

A few weeks ago, Rabbi Jeffrey Fox from Yeshivat Maharat argued on Facebook that the Jewish community is splitting in two. On one side are the “October 8th Jews” — those whose Jewish identity has strengthened. On the other are those newly alienated by it. He contended that Jewish leaders have spent too much time celebrating the former without acknowledging the latter.

Rabbi Fox is right in identifying these groups but wrong, I believe, in his diagnosis. It is not that those of us celebrating October 8th Jews are oblivious to those who now feel repelled. We see them. We know they exist. And we are coming to terms with the fact that when alienation curdles into something uglier — when disconnection shifts to outright hostility, when they, in his words, begin to “worship at the altar of human rights to the exclusion of Jews and/or Israelis” — we have to let them go.

“Letting them go” does not mean intolerance. This is not about defining who counts as a “real” Jew. Nor am I suggesting that this group is 80% of American Jews. We are talking about a much smaller but vocal minority.

My argument differs from both Rabbi Fox’s and Liel’s, even as it is informed by thinking with them.

For far too long, in the name of inclusion, we have allowed fringe voices to distort Jewish communal priorities. For decades, our community has been obsessed with widening the tent — so much so that its flaps flew off. At times, Jewish institutions diluted pluralism into meaninglessness, accepting everything and standing for nothing. At worst, some have betrayed core Jewish values to accommodate voices on the fringe.

Consider: If a Jewish leader aligns with intellectual forces that provide cover for Hamas, should we still platform them? If a Hillel professional is told that, for some students to feel at home, there must be space for Jewish Voice for Peace, what happens next? If a couple asks a rabbi to remove “Israel” from their wedding ceremony, should the rabbi erase sacred words to make them comfortable? If someone legitimizes antisemites — say, Tucker Carlson — just because they belong to their political tribe, should they still be honored in the Jewish community?

Jewish peoplehood is a covenant, sustained by a tent that is both expansive enough to welcome and sturdy enough to stand firm.

Our tent is magnificent — spacious and diverse. But inclusion cannot mean surrendering our core commitments. A tent without structure collapses.

And for those who choose to return — not by demanding that we change, but by seeking to reconnect — our door remains open.

Always.