I didn’t become a rabbi during the golden age of American Judaism, though I grew up believing in that shining era. No, I took on this role precisely because I saw that era slipping away—because I realized our unity as a Jewish people was fraying at the edges, becoming something we talked about nostalgically rather than something we practiced passionately. I became a rabbi to remind Jews everywhere that our story, our connection to each other and to Eretz Yisrael, isn’t just worth preserving; it’s essential to our survival.

Our sustenance as a people has always come from Torah. Yet the Torah itself reminds us that it is not just study but also action that defines us. We haven’t just been sustained by divine teachings; we’ve survived through an eternal bond to one another and to the land of Israel. Amos, hardly known for his optimism, still promises us in vivid terms: “I will restore My people Israel. They shall rebuild ruined cities and inhabit them…I will plant them upon their soil, nevermore to be uprooted from the soil I have given them” (Amos 9:14-15). Amos knew something fundamental—that peoplehood is inseparable from the land, and from a sense of shared destiny.

Today, however, our remarkable story is increasingly told not by rabbis, teachers, or parents, but by TikTok influencers and antisemitic memes. We outsource our children’s Jewish education to algorithms and social media echo chambers, hoping somehow that these digital environments will instill identity, pride, and resilience. This is negligence, pure and simple. Judaism insists we teach our children to swim; it is time we recognize that this commandment applies not only literally but metaphorically. Our children must navigate dangerous cultural waters armed with clarity, pride, and knowledge of their heritage. That responsibility lies with us alone.

Leon Pinsker, in his prescient pamphlet “Autoemancipation,” wrote starkly, “What a pitiful figure do we cut! We do not count as a nation among the other nations, and we have no voice in the councils of the peoples” (Pinsker, 1882). Pinsker understood in even his pre-Herzl moment that unless Jews themselves claimed their story and agency, no one else would. Our virtue—our genuine desire for universal justice—has ironically become our defect. We sublimate our own needs, our own narrative, to intersectional demands, awkwardly muttering “Islamophobia” each time we dare to mention antisemitism, as if the pain of others validates our own suffering. This dilution of our identity weakens us, even as antisemitism surges anew.

The uncomfortable truth is that the prophets who inspire our universal values were not themselves universalists. Their messages were directed specifically to Israel, rooted in the particular experiences, sins, and destiny of our people. Amos, Jeremiah, Isaiah—they spoke of justice, yes, but also of self-respect, sovereignty, and national restoration. Universal truths spring most powerfully from particular stories; our refusal to tell our particular story dilutes the universal message itself.

To reclaim our dignity, we must reclaim our narrative. Self-respect comes only from self-knowledge, and freedom of the soul emerges only when we confidently assert our right to define ourselves. Pinsker again provides clarity: “The proper, the only solution, is the creation of a Jewish nationality, of a people living upon its own soil” (Pinsker, 1882). While Pinsker envisioned Jewish autonomy specifically within the land of Israel, the underlying call was even broader—to claim unapologetically our identity, our history, and our destiny.

We stand at a crossroads, faced with an ancient choice in modern form. We must choose courage over comfort, authenticity over assimilation, and responsibility over passivity. This is our story. We must tell it ourselves, and we must tell it now.