Happy Birthday Israel: You’re Just Getting Started

It’s been a hard birthday.

Last night, I gathered with about 100 young Jews near Union Square in NYC. We told stories of IDF soldiers we had known and lost. We sang, marking the transition from Yom Hazikaron to Yom Ha’atzmaut. We recited Hallel, the ancient prayer of gratitude. We ate falafel. We celebrated our beloved State of Israel.

But underneath it all, there was a heaviness I didn’t feel last year.

Later, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the same sentiment echoed on social media—from Israelis and Americans alike. Last year, we were still inside the shock of October 7. The pain was everywhere, but it was sharp, and it lived alongside a clear sense of purpose. There was clarity in crisis.

This year, the pain lingers. It feels stuck.

Fifty-nine hostages remain in captivity. Israeli society is stretched thin. The consensus in our American Jewish community around Israel weakens by the day. Reserve soldiers are serving longer and longer rotations. And now—almost symbolically—fires rage instead of fireworks on Israel’s birthday.

Which leaves me asking: what does it mean to celebrate Israel right now?

Let me be clear. I don’t question my love for Israel, or my belief that this state—imperfect as it is—is one of the great miracles of Jewish history. My great-grandparents would have traded anything to live with the problems we have.

Still, the question stands: how do you celebrate a country that keeps hurting?

And then—my Israeli WhatsApp groups started buzzing. People were asking where they could volunteer to help those affected by the fires. And I remembered: Israelis are the strongest, most beautiful people I know.

This morning, I came across a Facebook post by Rabbi Ilay Ofran that gave words to what I was feeling. He had just driven through the Jerusalem hills after the fires. He wrote:

“Black, smoking stretches of land. Fields and forests completely burned. And amidst them — small green islands: thriving communities, homes still standing. Thanks to the heroism of thousands of firefighters and police officers, one of the worst fires in the country’s history — in impossible weather — ended without the loss of a single human life. The spirit of the warrior — fierce, driven, committed — showed again that through courage and devotion, love of life can overcome even the fiercest winds that fan the flames of destruction.”

Reading those words, I realized: the burnt hills don’t erase the birthday. They give it weight. Just as Yom HaZikaron gives Yom Ha’atzmaut its depth and meaning, the resilience we’re witnessing now—through fire, through ongoing trauma—grounds the celebration in something real. Amid smoke and ash, we saw life preserved—not by chance, but because Israelis are the kind of people who run toward the fire.

That image brought to mind a story tied to this week’s Torah portions, Tazria–Metzora.

The Torah portions of Tazria–Metzora deal with tzara’at—an affliction often translated as leprosy, but understood in our tradition as a physical manifestation of spiritual disconnection. Those afflicted were sent outside the camp. Their healing required time, ritual, and humility.

And—strangely—tzara’at becomes, in some of our sources, linked to redemption.

One of my favorite examples appears in Sanhedrin 98a, where Rabbi Joshua ben Levi encounters Elijah the Prophet—a figure who occasionally appears to sages to answer the questions no one else can. Rabbi Joshua seizes the moment to ask the most ancient question:

“When will the Messiah come?”

Elijah replies: “Go ask him.”

Rabbi Joshua asks, “Where is he?”

Elijah says: “At the gates of Rome, sitting among the sick.”

Some commentators understand this as a reference to the place where those with tzara’at would gather. I’ve even heard the story told as if the Messiah himself is afflicted with tzara’at.

Rabbi Joshua presses further—how will he know which of the sick is the Messiah?

Elijah explains that the others take off all their bandages at once and rewrap them together. But the Messiah unwraps and rewraps one bandage at a time.

Why?

Because he might be needed to herald redemption at any moment. So he stays ready. Even while wounded himself, he prepares to respond—to act without delay.

That image stays with me.

The Messiah doesn’t arrive in glory. He sits among the wounded. He doesn’t look away. He tends to his own pain with care, but he remains poised to help, the moment he’s needed.

The most radical kind of hope isn’t the one that promises everything will be fine.
It’s the one that insists on making things better. That celebrates life and love—even in the in-between.

That’s Israel’s greatest strength.

If we measure this 77th birthday not by flags or fireworks, but by the people who keep showing up—who keep running toward the fire even when it’s hard—then our celebration might be less lighthearted, but it’s more joyful. And more real.

I read another Facebook post today by an Israeli named Elishav Rabinovich that captured the wonder of this moment. He had been writing about the fires and Israeli resilience. Then he wrote:

“I believe Zionism is the most beautiful, moving, and impressive human project in recorded history. A people who stayed loyal to their land for two thousand years.
Nearly destroyed, but awakened at the last moment. Came from the four corners of the earth to their ancient homeland, overcame enemies, endured staggering challenges, built cities, developed a rich culture, and revived a sleeping language.

Since the Exodus from Egypt and the founding of the United States of America, there has been no project so breathtaking. A very small group of brave and stubborn people built a country here. That’s what I believe about Zionism. What a great privilege it is to be part of this.

And the thing is—we’re still just at the beginning.”

We are still just at the beginning.

What a gift.
What a responsibility.
What a joy.

May we be worthy of Israel.
May we, American Jews, prove worthy of our Israeli brothers and sisters.

Happy birthday, beloved Israel.
We’re still just getting started.