The Unity of the Jewish People: Parashat Tetzaveh

Last week, someone wrote on Facebook asking why I didn’t say anything in my Drasha about Iran and the possibility of a new war.

My silence was not indifference. It was honesty.

I didn’t speak because I didn’t know.

Because no one knew.

Because too much depends on factors that were impossible to decipher — among them, what is happening inside the mind of the President of the United States.

Today, we woke up with the breaking news about the Israeli and US attack. All of us want this barbarian regime to end, and free Iran and the whole world from terrorism and fundamentalism.

Am I worried? Of course. I am worried for Israel.

A new war means more death, more pain, more families shattered.

It means my relatives, my friends, my loved ones — all of Am Israel once again living under

threat. And they already had more than enough. Now, all are inside the shelters.

It also means that fear which never fully disappears: that a regional conflict could escalate into something far more severe.

How could I not be worried?

But Jewish history teaches us something uncomfortable and, at the same time, extraordinary:

Nothing and no one from the outside have succeeded in exterminating us.

Empires did not succeed.

Inquisitions did not succeed.

Modern antisemitism did not succeed.

Not even the Shoah.

The deepest danger in our history was never only external.

It was internal.

I thought if share with you or not what I was thinking before this new war started. I asked

myself if this is the moment. But I decided to do so, because I think both messages are

intertwined.

My first message should be clear: I stand with Israel, and I pray for the safety of our brave

soldiers and all the citizens who are facing a new existential challenge.

But there is a second message; the one I was thinking of before Shabbat and before this new operation.

Our sages stated it with brutal clarity: the Second Temple was destroyed because of Sin´at

Chinam — baseless hatred among brothers.

Not by Rome. By us.

Today, Israel is, objectively, stronger than ever. Militarily. Economically. Technologically. We

pray for our soldiers and for the civil population in these moments of anxiety.

And yet, it is not only Iran that keeps me awake at night.

It is something much closer.

It is the possibility that Israel — the most extraordinary political project in modern Jewish

history — could fracture from within.

I am thinking of the legislation connected to the Kotel that has been debated this week in the Knesset. And it is worth pausing to explain this clearly, because we are not talking about a technical detail or a minor issue.

Since 1967, Israel has had the Law for the Protection of Holy Places. That law was designed to prevent vandalism, physical damage, or acts of desecration. No one may destroy, violate, or harm a sacred site. That has never been in dispute.

The recent proposals aimed at something different.

They sought to legally reinforce the obligation to pray at the Kotel exclusively according to

traditional Orthodox practice.

And what would that mean in practical terms?

That actions which are common today — women praying with a tallit, reading Torah aloud,

wearing tefillin, or non-Orthodox movements conducting services — could be considered a

violation of “the custom of the place.”

The proposed penalties can be debated technically. Fines. Even prison sentences that, within certain legal frameworks, could extend for several years.

But the problem was never the exact magnitude of the punishment.

The problem is the principle.

Because when the Jewish State contemplates the possibility of imprisoning a Jewish woman for praying as a Jew, something far deeper is at stake.

This is not only about the Kotel. It is about religious pluralism.

It is about the democratic character of the State.

It is about the relationship between Israel and the overwhelming majority of world Jewry,

which is not Haredi.

And here I want to be absolutely frank. This is how the two topics are linked:

I am concerned about Iran, but I am also concerned about the possibility — unthinkable not

long ago — that Israel could begin to resemble, in its internal logic, that which it struggles against.

I worry about an Israel where religious coercion replaces coexistence.

Where uniformity overrides diversity.

Where faith ceases to be a choice and becomes an obligation.

I worry about Israel sliding toward an intolerant theocracy.

That was never the Zionist dream.

The potential damage here is not minor.

At a time of fierce global antisemitism, at a time when Israel faces real and brutal threats, the last thing Am Israel needs is an internal cultural war.

When we fight among ourselves, history has already shown us how that ends.

This week, I heard the Prime Minister say that in the face of antisemitism, Jews must fight.

As you know, I do not often agree with the Prime Minister, but on this I do: We must fight.

But not only against those who hate us from the outside.

We must also fight against whatever erodes our unity, our diversity, and our ability to live

together within our own people.

Because Israel was never meant to be a religious ghetto.

And here Parashat Tetzaveh offers a surprisingly contemporary teaching.

The Torah devotes page after page to the garments of the High Priest. Minute details. Colors. Stones. Textures.

Why such an obsession with clothing?

Because Judaism understands something fundamental:

Forms matter. Symbols matter.

But only when they serve something greater.

The Mishkan was not built to glorify garments, rituals, or structures.

It was built to allow the Divine Presence to dwell among people.

“Veshachanti betocham” — not “within it,” but “among them.”

Whoever turns form into essence, whoever confuses uniformity with holiness, risks emptying

Judaism of its very heart.

God does not dwell in rigidity.

God dwells in relationship.

God dwells in human dignity.

God dwells in the capacity of a diverse people to continue seeing itself as one family.

Israel faces enormous challenges. Real. Existential.

But Am Israel has already survived impossible threats, and we are confident this will be the case again.

The question is not whether we will survive our enemies.

The question is whether we will know how to survive our own divisions.

Jewish history is not only a history of destruction.

It is, above all, a history of rebuilding.

We argue. We clash. We become angry.

Yet we remain seated at the same table.

We continue praying toward the same place.

We continue fighting for our existence.

We remain one people.

The challenge is not to eliminate our differences.

The challenge is to learn how to live with them without destroying one another.

Because Israel’s strength has never rested solely on military power.

It has rested — and will continue to rest — on something far more fragile and far more

powerful:

The ability of Am Israel to remain united even in the midst of disagreement.

That, perhaps, is the most urgent challenge facing our people today.

On this Shabbat Zachor before Purim, when we don´t forget Amalek, Haman, and the

antisemites of all times, I would like to finish with a verse from Psalm 29:11. Today, this is my

prayer:

“Adonai Oz LeAmo yiten, Adonai yevarech et amo vashalom”

“May God give strength to its people. May God bless its people with Peace."