Chosen to wrestle: a personal reflection

In a cherished community group that I’m proud to be part of, I was challenged with a thought-provoking question: What does Judaism mean to me on a deeper, personal level?

This isn’t about comparing my Judaism to someone else’s, Orthodox, Reform, or otherwise, but about finding what feels authentic and meaningful to me within this vast and diverse tradition.

Judaism for someone like me – secular, liberal, traditional but also, and way more importantly, uniquely me – might be less about belief in God and more about belonging, tradition, and identity. It’s this evolving thing, part history, part culture, part moral code, that keeps pulling me back because it feels like home, even if I don’t buy into all the rules or metaphysical claims. It’s in the rhythm of holidays, the wisdom of stories, the taste of challah, the weight of shared memory…. It’s about connection to my family, to my ancestors, to a people who’ve wandered and questioned and doubted forever, just like me. You don’t have to be all-in on faith to find meaning in Shabbat as a pause button, or in the haunting melody of Kol Nidre, or in the act of showing up for a bris or a shiva. These things remind me that I’m part of something bigger, something that’s survived exile, argument, and adaptation for millennia. Maybe for me, Judaism is less about answers and more about questions like: How do we live with integrity? What do we owe to others? How do we hold onto hope, even when the world feels chaotic or bleak? Those questions are very Jewish, and living with them can be its own kind of spirituality. So, it’s not about doing it “right.” It’s about doing it in a way that resonates with me, keeping what matters, letting go of what doesn’t, and making space for both tradition and my own truth.

And yes, for God’s sake, it’s about Israel. Suggesting that Judaism and Israel can be disentangled is not only historically unrealistic, it’s a rejection of the profound ways in which our identity has been shaped by that connection. Israel doesn’t define all of Judaism, but it is undeniably part of the story.

In that sense, my Judaism is one rooted in humility and empathy, less about walls and more about bridges. It’s a Judaism that knows the weight of history but refuses to let that history justify arrogance or exclusion. It’s not about saying, “We’re chosen, so we’re better.” It’s about saying, “We’re chosen to wrestle with what it means to be human, to strive for justice, to live in a way that respects the dignity of everyone.”

My vision isn’t about domination or proving who’s right. It’s about creating a shared future where there’s room for both peoples, Israelis and Palestinians, to breathe, to thrive, to mourn, to celebrate. It’s about taking the profound values of tzedek (justice) and tikkun olam (repairing the world) and applying them not just within our own community but across borders, across narratives.

This isn’t weakness, it’s strength. The kind of strength that says, “I don’t need to diminish you to lift myself up. My identity isn’t threatened by yours. My story and your story can coexist.” That’s a deeply Jewish idea: wrestling with complexity, rejecting simple answers, holding tension between past and future, between safety and compassion.

My Judaism doesn’t look for supremacy, it looks for shared humanity. It’s not about denying the history of victimhood and persecution, but about recognizing that we have yet to fully come to terms with our current position of strength and the challenges of wielding power responsibly. Nor is it about pretending history hasn’t been brutal, but about refusing to let that brutality define the future.

That’s not just fair, it’s profoundly sacred.