Given the dominance of Israel in the news and in our minds over these past months, it is impossible to leave that weight outside the shul’s doors. In my conversations with many of you, this anxiety has emerged as a central, recurring theme. The British political climate shifts, public discourse becomes increasingly hostile, and the pressure follows us into our workplaces, our children’s schools, and our dinner tables.
Maybe there is a temptation on Rosh Hashanah to pull down the shutters. To treat this space as a shelter from the world, or to dismiss our anxieties about Israel as mere politics that have no place on the bimah.
However, our relationship with Israel is not a distraction from our Jewishness. It is central to it. And how we approach it matters.
When I was growing up, my father talked about the Bagel Theory of Jewish identity. (BAGEL/BAIGEL?)
He observed that a bagel is different from a standard bread roll because of the hole in the middle. He suggested that the hole represents the traits carved out by external pressure: the centuries of antisemitism, discrimination, politics, and the relentless demands of the outside world pushing in on us. For a long time, that worked as a reasonable sociological insight.
Today, I see it as a double-edged sword.
If we allow the outside world to define our center (or lack of), our Jewish identity becomes entirely reactive. We define ourselves only by what attacks us, what excludes us, or what confuses us in the daily news cycle. We become hollow. A Jewish life built only around reacting to external hostility is fragile. It exhausts our children, erodes our dignity, and robs our heritage of its richness and vitality.
We are not defined by the empty space.
Our tradition does not begin with an enemy, adversity, or a headline. Today is Rosh Hashanah: היום הרת עולם Hayom Harat Olam, the birthday of the world. We mark the moment human moral agency and responsibility were born into creation. Our foundation is a rich inheritance of Torah, mitzvot, memory, and an unshakeable commitment to human dignity.
That internal anchor is what gives us the footing to confront our hardest realities. And nowhere is that footing tested more severely than in our relationship with Israel.
I will not use this bimah to direct your political choices or suggest foreign policy. That is not a rabbi’s role.
For those of us living here in Britain, Israel occupies a complex space. It is a sovereign state with a government, elections, and an army, operating in the harsh reality of Middle Eastern geopolitics and answerable first to its citizens. Yet it is also the historic homeland of the Jewish people, bound to our sacred texts, our liturgy, and our global destiny which leads us to confront a deeper question: How do we, as British Jews, navigate our bond with Israel? And for some of us, that may reach further, how do we navigate that bond when the actions of its leaders and citizens have created a chilul hashem (desecration of God’s name) and those actions are carried out in the name of our tradition and religion.
Public discourse constantly tries to force us into a false binary: either offer unconditional defense of every state action, or sever ties and walk away completely.
Our tradition thankfully rejects that shallow choice.
Our greatest ancestors were defined by moral struggle. When Abraham stood before God regarding the fate of Sodom, he dared to ask: Hashofet kol ha’aretz lo ya’aseh mishpat? “Shall the Judge of all the earth not act justly?” When Jacob wrestled in the dark with an angel until dawn, he was bruised and limping, but he refused to let go. That night, his name was changed to Yisrael: one who wrestles with God and with humanity.
Wrestling with power, demanding justice, and refusing to look away are not foreign ideas borrowed from the secular world. They are the native language of the Jewish soul.
Just last week, in Parashat Nitzavim, we read Moshe’s words at the boundary of the land: “Not with you alone do I make this covenant, but with those who are standing here today, and with those who are not with us here today.” Rashi explains that this includes every generation of the Jewish people yet to be born. Moses bound us into a chain of mutual responsibility, that transcends geographic borders and political eras.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks drew a crucial distinction between a contract and a covenant. A contract is a transaction, built around temporary interests. It lasts only as long as both parties find it convenient; when the terms become embarrassing, painful, or costly, you tear it up and walk away.
A covenant is not a transaction; it is a relationship. It is a bond of mutual responsibility, shared destiny, and enduring loyalty. You do not walk away from a covenant simply because the relationship is in crisis.
Crucially, a covenant is not blind obedience. Love does not demand silence.
A contractual relationship says: “If you fail my expectations, I am done with you.” A covenantal relationship says: “We belong to one another. Our fates are bound together. Therefore, I will not look away, I will not abandon you, and I will demand that we live up to the ethical calling of our shared heritage.”
Criticism rooted in covenant is not betrayal. It is an act of deep commitment.
So how do we live with this tension today?
We begin by refusing to allow external noise, social media vitriol, or political despair to dictate our Jewishness. If we want our center to be solid, we cannot leave it empty. We must fill it through active, deliberate choices.
When the political landscape leaves us feeling helpless or alienated, our response must be agency. To strengthen our tradition from within. To own and feel confident in our skin. I think it matters less whether our identification is more cerebral, experiential or a combination. I’d suggest to take on a practice not out of social conformity, but out of specific intention. Open a Jewish text. Light Shabbat candles. Create a home where disagreement is handled with generosity. Give tzedakah with fierce focus to causes that protect human dignity. Fill our identity, identification and Jewish-ness with agency, content and direction.
We do not build Jewish resilience by waiting for headlines to become easier. We build it by living lives of substance, ethics, and of course, community.
Being Rosh Hashana, the start of the year, we begin to contemplate a response to this tension. This isn’t the whole answer, but it is a foundation and starting point to develop further.
Not all heroes wear capes! You are my heroes.
In an era when keeping your head down or quietly detaching feels like the path of least resistance, you chose to walk through these doors today. You chose community over isolation. You brought your families to mark this holy day. That is not a passive habit; it is an act of quiet, grounded commitment. Which we can choose to grow over the coming year, with intentionality.
Tomorrow morning, we will hear the sound of the shofar. The shofar does not speak in political rhetoric or easy slogans. It begins with a whole sound, shatters into a broken cry, and resolves into one long, unbroken blast: Tekiah Gedolah. It acknowledges our grief, it honours our brokenness, and it calls us back to our collective strength.
May this new year be one where we reclaim our authentic voice, refuse the false choices, and stand firmly in the dignity of our covenant.
Shana Tova U’Metuka.
Rabbi Michael Rosenfeld & Tracey Schueler