Dear Friends,
There’s a midrash about two brothers—one single, one with a family—who secretly brought grain to each other’s barns, each believing the other was in greater need. One night, they met at the top of the hill, saw what the other had done, and embraced.
The rabbis teach that it was on that very spot—filled with love and compassion—that God chose to build the Temple in Jerusalem.
But history gives us another image of that sacred place.
In the year 70, as the Romans laid siege to Jerusalem, Jews inside the city were at war with one another. Different factions—Pharisees, Zealots, Sadducees—were so consumed with internal conflict that they destroyed their own food supplies and weakened their defenses.
In the end, the Talmud doesn’t blame Rome for the destruction of the Temple. It blames sinat chinam—baseless hatred among Jews.
Having just returned from ten days in Israel, I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.
Since October 7, our community has stood in shock and grief. We’ve mourned lives lost, prayed for the return of the hostages, and wrestled with the unimaginable. But more recently, something equally painful has started to take shape—a growing rift within the Jewish community. What began as a difference in perspective now risks becoming a permanent fracture.
Jews who are rightly horrified by the images emerging from Gaza and the suffering of innocent civilians have begun labeling those still focused on the hostages and the need to disarm Hamas as militant, violent, even extremist.
At the same time, those who are equally horrified but remain focused on the return of our hostages, the threat Hamas still poses, and an Israeli society filled with displaced and traumatized families, look at their fellow Jews and see a lack of loyalty—or even a lack of empathy—for Israeli suffering.
This fracturing is playing out in synagogues, on campuses, around dinner tables, and online. I’ve heard from colleagues around the country: people are leaving congregations because the rabbi is “too supportive” or “not supportive enough” of Israel. People are walking away from one another—sometimes over words, sometimes over silence, and often over assumptions.
And the longer this goes on, the deeper the damage becomes.
Disagreement isn’t new to us. Our tradition celebrates debate. But what we’re seeing now isn’t debate; it’s dismissal. It’s alienation. And it’s dangerous.
Tomorrow night, as Tisha B’Av begins, Jews around the world will sit on the floor and recall the destruction of our ancient home. But if all we do is mourn what was, we’ve missed the point. We must also mourn what’s breaking now—and recommit to building something better.
We need to remember the two brothers. We need to see one another’s internal conflict and pain, even when it’s not our own. We need to hold space for grief and fear—even when we disagree with the conclusions others draw from them. We need to give each other the benefit of the doubt and approach those with whom we disagree with a generosity of spirit that feels all too rare right now. We need to meet in the middle, with compassion.
Because if we don’t… we already know what happens next.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Daniel Cohen