In his 1993 book The Revealed End and the Jewish State, Professor Aviezer Ravitzky proposed dividing the attitudes of religious Jews toward the State of Israel into three principal approaches.
One group rejects on principle the establishment of a Jewish state through human initiative: it is forbidden to “ascend as a wall.” This view was quite widespread in the early years of the Zionist movement; today it is identified predominantly with Satmar Hasidism.
The pragmatic approach sees a Jewish state as a conventional communal-political framework, without any special historical significance. This approach at first characterized the Mizrachi movement, whose founder, Rabbi Yitzchak Yaakov Reines, consistently emphasized that Zionism possessed no redemptive significance and bore no essential connection to the messianic redemption. In time, most religious Zionists abandoned this approach; to a large degree, it has passed over to the Charedi mainstream. A concise expression of it may be found in the Steipler’s well-known letter, in which he explained that there is no fundamental difference between voting for Agudas Yisrael in the State of Israel and voting for it in Poland: the State of Israel is a state like any other, and Torah Jewry should seek courteous and constructive relations with it, as we did in all the lands of our exile.
The State of Israel is a state like any other, and Torah Jewry should seek courteous and constructive relations with it, as we did in all the lands of our exile.
Opposed to both stands the messianic approach. Already in Ravitzky’s day, most of Religious Zionism saw the State of Israel as reishit tzemichat geulateinu, “the first flowering of our redemption.” The establishment of the State of Israel was viewed as a momentous Jewish-historical event, heralding the imminent end of exile and a concrete step toward the prophetic vision of ingathering of exiles and the restoration of Jewish sovereignty.
Against this background, advocates of the messianic approach often seek to challenge the Charedi world’s wary attitude toward the state, pointing to Zionism’s striking success in realizing the political vision of the prophets. The state that arose bears the name Israel; its language is Hebrew; the festivals of Israel are its festivals; it is already the undisputed center of Jewish life (and Torah study) in the world, and it seems we are drawing close to the point at which a majority of the world’s Jews will live (or already live) within it. The remarkable successes of the IDF are seen by many as a clear expression of siyata diShmaya. Do not all these call for a reconsideration of the Charedi attitude toward the state? Do they not justify a move from a polite handshake to a sincere embrace?
A Fourth Approach: Redemption Without Embrace
The redemptive approach seems to have many persuasive arguments. Yet, I believe one can suggest a fourth position in response: the State of Israel may indeed be a messianic phenomenon, but that does not imply an automatic obligation to identify with it fully. Not every manifestation of redemption demands warmth, trust, or wholehearted embrace. At times, even toward the true messiah, the appropriate stance could be courtesy rather than identification.
It seems to me that this position characterized a number of prominent Charedi rabbanim. From Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe, for instance, his Bein Sheshet Le-Asor conveys a clear sense of seeing the State of Israel as the historical rebirth of the Jewish people—he writes of it with unmistakable excitement—and yet he identified as an opponent of Zionism.
The State of Israel may indeed be a messianic phenomenon, but there remains no obligation to identify with it fully. Not every manifestation of redemption demands warmth, trust, or wholehearted embrace.
The same may be said of Rav Asher (Usher) Freind. On the one hand, it is related in R’ Usher Mipi Talmidav that he was deeply pained by the path taken by the State of Israel. He firmly refused to accept funding from the state, and attributed to its institutions the halachic status of a “mokes haomed me-elav” – an illegitimate tax collector. It is told that on Israel’s forty-seventh Independence Day he cried out over the chilul Hashem involved in the fact that “the heretical state” had outlasted the reign of King David. Yet on the other hand, Rabbi Asher clearly saw in the State of Israel a unique historical potential. He appreciated its achievements and more than once remarked that it would be right and proper “to transfer rule over the Land of Israel into the hands of Jews who keep Torah and mitzvos.” His reservation was not with the what, but with the how.
To illustrate the inner logic of this position, it is worth returning to the days of King Solomon. Solomon was unquestionably a Davidic messiah: the son of David and duly anointed. The Rambam, in Hilchos Teshuvah, describes the messiah as wise like Solomon; in Hilchos Melachim, he describes him as a prophet. Solomon himself clearly fulfills both requirements.
And yet, would we therefore wish to return to the Jewish society of Solomon’s day? Not necessarily. Spiritually speaking, Solomon’s reign was not marked by struggle against idolatry. We do not know exactly what the state of Torah study was in those days, but when all the men spend one month out of every three in Lebanon felling trees, and the rest of their time must be devoted to agricultural labor, it is difficult to imagine that much room remained for Torah learning—let alone for a public culture of collective Torah study of the kind envisioned by Chazal.
The moral stature of that society appears no more enviable. When “the two harlots” came before Solomon, his wisdom indeed illuminated the path to resolving the case of the infant. Yet the story teaches us not only about the king’s judicial brilliance; it also points to a social fabric in which such a reality was sufficiently familiar to appear before the king as an ordinary case. Our modern leadership, both secular and religious, would likely be inclined not only to seek the correct judicial resolution of the specific dispute but also to shape a society in which young women are not driven, from the outset, into moral and economic desperation.
Chazal describe Solomon’s era as sihara bishlemuta—the moon at its fullness. And yet within it were already sown the seeds of deterioration, whose bitter fruit would soon bring about the division of the kingdom. Is that truly the world to which we long to return?
Here, too, a deeper theological question arises concerning the very idea of redemption: is it truly reasonable to expect redemption to appear, from the outset, in a utopian form, free of all moral, spiritual, and social failing? Our sources do not seem to require such a picture. The days of David and Solomon themselves, the paradigmatic model of Jewish kingship, were not days of simple perfection. They were days of sovereignty, power, hashra’at haShechinah, and historical advance—but also of sin, strain, and fracture.
It may therefore be that historical redemption does not appear as a direct leap into the end of days—into the vision of “the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid”—but specifically as a return to the political life of Israel, with its grandeur and its dangers.
It may therefore be that historical redemption does not appear as a direct leap into the end of days—into the vision of “the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid”—but specifically as a return to the political life of Israel, with its grandeur and its dangers. If so, the fact that a given process is redemptive does not mean that it is already utopian. It means, rather, that it bears potential and direction.
To Your Tents, O Israel
I once heard a Torah lecture lamenting the Charedi public’s ambivalent attitude toward the State of Israel, accusing it, as it were, of repeating the cry of Israel in the days of Rechavam: “What portion have we in David? We have no inheritance in the son of Yishai. To your tents, O Israel!”
Yet, it is worth recalling to the context in which those words were uttered. The prophet makes clear that the cry was provoked by Rechavam’s own conduct: he abandoned the counsel of the elders, consulted the youths, and “the king did not listen to the people.” The impression left by the text is that Israel’s refusal to cleave to the House of David did not stem from rejection of the principle of Davidic kingship, but from the moral and political failure of its bearer at that moment.
And from there to the matter of the State of Israel. When we ask whether the institutions of the state are worthy of support, it is not enough to ask whether they realize a prophetic historical vision. The decisive question is whether they realize a worthy vision.
When we ask whether the institutions of the state are worthy of support, it is not enough to ask whether they realize a historical vision. The decisive question is whether they realize a worthy vision.
I am reminded of the response of Rabbi Chaim of Sanz, the Divrei Chaim, to Rabbi Kalischer’s call, in the middle of the nineteenth century, to renew the sacrificial service. Many of the leading rabbanim of the generation held that the halachic obstacles were too weighty and did not permit such a step. But the Divrei Chaim remarked that even were those halachic obstacles surmountable, “we did not suffer for two thousand years in exile in order to offer sacrifices under Ottoman rule and through the benevolence of Sir Montefiore.”
Can one recoil from a redemptive-prophetic message? Chazal offer hints that, under certain circumstances, the answer may be yes. In Yoma (69b), we are told that at the beginning of the Second Temple period, the Sages of Israel sought to nullify the yetzer for idolatry, declaring, “We want neither it nor its reward.” Rabbi Tzadok HaKohen argues (Sichat Malachei HaSharet, Hosafot, Tanchuma, end of Mishpatim) that in doing so, the Sages effectively abolished prophecy from Israel—“the quality of prophecy was removed from the prophets.” They chose instead to rely on the stature of the sage, for “a sage is greater than a prophet” (Bava Basra 12a).
Likewise, Yoma (9b) states that although Ruach HaKodesh had departed from Israel, “they still made use of a bat kol.” Yet in a later generation, Rabbi Yehoshua declares (Bava Metzia 59b) that “we pay no heed” even to a bat kol, for “it is not in Heaven.” Rabbi Yehoshua did not deny that a Divine message had supported Rabbi Eliezer’s position, nor did he necessarily reject the very possibility of recourse to such a message. What he insisted upon was that such a message must be judged according to the tools and criteria entrusted to the Sages of Israel.
It is difficult, in my view, to deny the historical-redemptive dimension of Israel’s restoration in recent generations. But that dimension alone still does not obligate an attitude of warmth and encouragement toward the state. A regime may bear a genuinely messianic promise, as did Rechavam’s, and yet the proper response may still be: “To your tents, O Israel.” The central question is not only who carries the historical banner, but what kind of society arises beneath it: is it more just, cleaner, more worthy? Does it protect the vulnerable? Does it cultivate a life of Torah and mitzvos? Does it shape a moral public sphere?
The central question is not only who carries the historical banner, but what kind of society arises beneath it: is it more just, cleaner, more worthy? Does it protect the vulnerable? Does it cultivate a life of Torah and mitzvos? Does it shape a moral public sphere?
I suspect that the apparent tension in the attitudes of rabbanim such as Rabbi Wolbe and Rabbi Freund toward the State of Israel was rooted in a sincere concern over the path the state was taking. For that reason, they called on the faithful to return to the tent of Torah. They felt obliged to stand on the sidelines of evidently redemptive events, while endeavoring to steer them in a positive direction by means of the tools entrusted to the Sages of Israel.
The State of Israel Today
I would add that, in my view, the State of Israel does in fact meet these standards in impressive fashion. It possesses one of the finest public healthcare systems in the world and an effective social safety net, such that it is rare for economic pressure to drive the poor into immoral acts. Organized prostitution is illegal; abortions are approved only sparingly. Torah education enjoys broad public support, and even yeshivos and kollelim receive funding on a scale unknown in the Diaspora. A broad public norm still prevails of closing workplaces on Shabbat and festivals, and anyone seeking non-kosher products generally has to go looking for them in designated places.
In my view, the question of how fully one should celebrate Israel’s independence, and how warmly one should embrace the institutions of the state, is determined less by the extent to which the state fulfills the prophets’ historical vision than by the extent to which it fulfills their moral vision. And to that question, my answer is that although much still remains to be repaired, taken as a whole we are witnessing a form of Jewish moral progress that walks hand in hand with historical progress. I can accept, at the same time, that others beg to differ.
Photo: Nano Banana
