The Israel I inherited, the Israel I wrestle with

I inherited my love of Israel. Nobody told me that one day I might have to work out what that love requires of me.

Growing up, Israel was woven into the Jewish story I knew before I understood politics. My grandparents spoke of it with reverence. Our prayers returned us to Jerusalem. The Torah connected our people to this land through Abraham’s journey, Jacob’s struggle, and the prophets who demanded that Israel live up to its responsibilities. For generations, Jews ended the Passover seder with the words “Next year in Jerusalem,” carrying a longing across centuries of exile.

Israel represented more than a place on a map. It meant memory, refuge, Jewish self-determination, and the possibility of a future in which Jews would no longer depend entirely on the goodwill of others for their safety. That inheritance remains precious to me.

Yet an inheritance can be cherished without being exempt from examination.

Over time, I noticed that I could no longer move as easily from love of Israel to confidence in the decisions made in its name. My connection had not disappeared, but the picture I carried within me no longer seemed sufficient to explain the country I was encountering. I began asking questions that once felt unnecessary. Was I losing something essential, or was I finally taking responsibility for what I had inherited?

I have come to see two ways to betray an inheritance. One is to reject it without understanding what it has given us. The other is to preserve it so carefully that we refuse to examine what it has become. The first risks losing the connection. The second risks turning a living inheritance into an untouchable memory.

I want neither future for my relationship with Israel.

Jewish tradition offers a way to understand this tension, beginning with the name of our people.

In Genesis 32, Jacob wrestles through the night with a mysterious figure. He emerges injured yet receives a blessing and a new name: Israel. The Torah connects that name to his struggle with God and with human beings. Jacob carries the wound into the morning. The blessing does not erase it, and the new name does not make the encounter easy to explain.

What strikes me is that Jacob’s struggle becomes part of his identity. He does not have to pretend the night never happened to move forward.

I do not believe this story means that every argument is virtuous or that persistence makes us right. We can question carelessly, cling to our assumptions, and mistake anger for moral clarity. Wrestling is not a guarantee of wisdom. But Jacob’s story suggests that belonging and struggle can coexist. A relationship need not be uncomplicated to be enduring.

The prophets offer another lesson. In II Samuel 12, Nathan confronts King David over his abuse of power. Nathan does not excuse the king because of his position or abandon Israel’s story because its leader has failed. He insists that David remains accountable to obligations greater than himself.

That is not disloyalty. It is a demand that power answer to principle.

The Jewish connection to Israel is real and enduring. So is our responsibility to consider the consequences of decisions made by those who govern it. Supporting Israel’s existence and security does not require endorsing every government policy. Questioning a government does not require abandoning the country or dismissing the dangers its people face.

Those dangers matter. Israel lives with genuine security threats, and criticism that ignores the circumstances of Israeli life will rarely produce understanding. We should be careful about our judgments, willing to learn what we do not know, and honest about the difference between evidence and assumption.

But context cannot settle every moral question. Security concerns do not eliminate responsibility, just as moral criticism does not eliminate the need for security. The challenge is to hold both in view, even when doing so prevents us from reaching the easy conclusion we would prefer.

Our public conversations often reward the opposite. One side may demand unquestioning defense; another may treat disappointment as a reason to dismiss the entire enterprise. Each offers a way to escape the harder work of judgment. Neither requires us to sit with uncertainty, examine competing obligations, or reconsider our own assumptions.

I do not want to exchange the idealism of my childhood for cynicism and call it maturity. Nor do I want nostalgia to shield my convictions from reality. I want to understand Israel as a living country, shaped by people making consequential choices, rather than demand that it remains the symbol I first encountered through prayer, family, and history.

Perhaps that is what it means to inherit a living tradition. We receive a story, but we also accept responsibility for how it continues. We cannot control every chapter, and we cannot resolve every conflict. We can decide whether our attachment makes us more willing to pay attention or gives us reasons to look away.

Jacob crossed into the morning wounded and changed. His struggle did not spare him its consequences. It became part of what he carried forward.

I inherited my love of Israel. I must decide, continually, what that love asks of me.

For me, it asks for more than defense and more than disappointment. It asks me to remember why Israel matters, to take its security seriously, and to retain the freedom to question its direction. It asks me to care enough to examine what I would rather not see.

An inheritance is not honored merely by preserving it. It is honored by accepting responsibility for what it becomes.

So, I return to the question that matters more to me than whether everyone agrees with my conclusions: How do we remain faithful to an inheritance without becoming unwilling to examine it?

I suspect that each of us must answer in our own way. But I hope we can ask the question together, without treating disagreement as proof that the connection has been broken.

The Israel I inherited taught me to love. The Israel I wrestle with is teaching me what that love requires.