Israel. Zionism. Eretz Yisroel. The Holy Land. Jerusalem. Yerushalayim.
They say that the Inuit have endless ways of describing snow in their native language. Something that plays such a constant and critical role in a culture develops nuance—multiple ways of describing what, on the surface, seems like the same thing. The more central something is, the more ways we learn to speak about it.
We know that the Land of Israel has many names. So does Jerusalem. Endless monikers that are used throughout the Oral and Written Torah. And yet, the land that was promised, and the city about which we speak three times a day, seems to have lost its place at the center of the Jewish experience.
Of the 613 commandments that we received, how many are exclusively dependent on being in the Land of Israel? When God took the Jewish people out of Egypt, to which land was He bringing them? When the Temple was built, in which city did it stand? For over 2,000 years of exile, in which direction did we pray? When God made a promise to Avraham, which land did He promise to him and his descendants?
Someone I know recently responded to a comment with the following: “You know, there’s more to Judaism than Israel.”
My heart dropped.
There are few things in the Jewish tradition that are as central to the experience of being a Jew as Israel.
Have we given up? After 2,000 years of yearning, praying, and crying over the destruction, have we forgotten where Jews belong?
Has a relatively short chapter of North American affluence dulled our sense of direction?
It is shocking to hear about communities being built from scratch in new locations across the United States that proudly call themselves “the future of the Jewish experience”—whether isolated on a mountaintop offering an “escape,” or elsewhere offering new and creative ways to take advantage of the vast openness of North America.
Year after year, building campaigns are launched for new campuses, schools, and shuls throughout North America. Glorious, polished buildings with endless resources, continuing to educate new generations on the banks of Babylon. You don’t build a $10,000,000 center of permanence if you truly believe “Next year in Jerusalem.” That is a contradiction that we have learned to live with.
It is difficult to understand how Jewish leadership has, at times, grown comfortable with a Judaism that flourishes in exile without constantly pointing beyond it. How rabbis, educators, and benefactors continue to elevate a version of Jewish life that, while beautiful, is still a narrowed expression of what it was meant to be.
Our sages tell us that when the Jewish people left Israel, all that remained of God’s presence in this world were the dalet amot of halacha. The fullness of the Jewish experience—one where connection to something greater could be found in agriculture, in business, in music and art, in construction and plumbing, in military and in war—was lost.
Exile is, by its nature, a contraction.
Our connection to the world becomes dulled. Our ability to live a fully integrated Jewish life becomes limited. Connection is often found through separation, through stepping away, through creating distance from the world around us. Six days a week we work, hoping that on the seventh we can reclaim a small moment of clarity, a brief sense of who we truly are.
The wandering Jew who no longer feels that he is wandering is one who is truly lost. But perhaps an even greater tragedy is when those who have become anchored stop reaching back to help others find their way forward.
We live in a generation that is witnessing the Jewish people slowly returning to its rightful place. Over the last 75 years, a physical reality has been built—one that allows for the cultivation of a thriving society, where Jewish creativity is no longer constrained but expansive. The exiled Jewish mind has been given the opportunity to stretch, to grow, to roam freely across the landscape of its natural environment.
To work the land is not a curse—it is a blessing.
To build a home is not fleeting—it is enduring.
To serve in the military is not a loss—it is a connection.
To engage in the most mundane is an opportunity to reach the most elevated.
There was once a time when a Jew in exile, contemplating that next step, would ask:
What will happen to my children’s education?
What will happen to my salary?
What will happen to my community?
What will happen to my religion?
It is time to ask those same questions again—but with openness, with curiosity, and with hope.
To ask them not from fear, but from possibility.
To ask them with the understanding that we are living in a moment unlike any other in Jewish history.
We live in a time where it is clear that more is possible than ever before.
Yes—there is more to Judaism than Israel.
But the Jewish future is not abstract. It is not scattered across the map. It is rooted in a place.
And that requires us to recalibrate.
To begin speaking about Jewish communities and institutions in exile not as permanent destinations, but as necessary supports along the way. Not as replacements—but as bridges.
We must stop searching for better versions of exile.
And instead, begin orienting ourselves toward home.
There is much more to Judaism than Israel…
but only when Judaism is where it belongs.