What could possibly bring 125 rabbis—across denominations, political views, and every corner of the American map—together in one room?
The answer, quite simply, is Zionism.
But before I get into that gathering, I need to mention another one.
Next week, the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR)—the professional organization of Reform rabbis—will host its annual conference. I’ve been before. And to be candid, I won’t be going this time.
Not because the company is bad. Quite the opposite. It’s a reunion of sorts—familiar faces, old classmates. But the conversations there often feel fragmented, disjointed. We’re all supposed to be “on the same team,” and yet the disconnect—ideological, emotional, spiritual—is palpable. More often than not, we leave disagreeing on more than we ever agreed on to begin with.
Now compare that to what just happened in South Florida.
I found myself surrounded by rabbis from across the Jewish spectrum—Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Renewal, non-denominational—all united in one shared purpose: to talk about Zionism. And not just to talk about it, but to engage with it, wrestle with it, and reclaim it.
The name of the gathering was Zionism: A New Conversation. But to be honest, it wasn’t a new conversation. It was a return to an ancient one. A reminder that this single word—Zionism—is a thread strong enough to hold together an entire people. I left that conference not only with new colleagues, but with a sense of camaraderie and shared mission I rarely experience in rabbinic circles.
Let me be clear about what I mean when I say Zionism.
Because I know—the word has become controversial. In some circles, even radioactive. And yes, there are people who proudly declare themselves anti-Zionist. I want to acknowledge that. But I also want to suggest that we may be talking past one another—using the same word to describe entirely different things.
When I speak about Zionism, I’m not speaking about government policies or political parties. I’m talking about Ahavat Yisrael—a deep and abiding love for Israel. A spiritual connection that has spanned 2,000 years. A longing, encoded in our DNA, to return to the land of our ancestors. A homeland where the Jewish people can thrive—culturally, spiritually, and religiously.
That’s what Zionism means to me.
In February 2023, I stood in Tel Aviv protesting judicial overreach. In November, I stood in the same square demanding the return of Israeli hostages taken by Hamas. Both moments were profoundly Zionist. Because loving Israel means holding it accountable. It means dreaming of what it can become—and never ceasing to fight for that dream.
Zionism is not a modern invention. The term may have been coined in 1890, but the concept is as old as our people. Open a siddur, and you’ll find line after line that reveals our longing for Zion:
“Gather us from the four corners of the earth.”
“Rebuild Jerusalem.”
“Shine a new light upon Zion.”
Even the Psalmist wrote, by the rivers of Babylon: “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither…”
That’s Zionism—whether or not we called it that.
Zionism has been the thread—sometimes frayed, but never broken—that has held Klal Yisrael, the collective people of Israel, together throughout history. And it still can.
When we talk about building Jewish community, there are easy ways to start. Rainbow cookies and pickled herring come to mind. But if we’re serious about creating community that endures—across time zones, denominations, and generations—we need shared purpose. Zionism, I believe, is one of the most powerful shared purposes we have.
Some will disagree. That’s okay. Dialogue is essential. But I will never be ashamed to call myself a Zionist. I will never let the extremists—from Neturei Karta protesters to online trolls—define what that word means.
Zionism isn’t racism. It isn’t apartheid. And it isn’t colonialism. It’s the belief that the Jewish people have the right—and the responsibility—to live in and love the land of our ancestors.
This fall, the 39th World Zionist Congress will convene in Jerusalem. Think of it as the Jewish people’s parliament—founded by Theodor Herzl in 1897. And right now, elections are open. Your vote matters.
It costs $5 to vote. And that vote helps determine how $5 billion will be allocated across Israel over the next five years. That’s not hyperbole. That’s the budget the Congress oversees. And that funding affects everything—from support for progressive synagogues to the protection of democratic values.
In Israel, Orthodox synagogues receive government funding. Progressive ones do not. Non-Orthodox rabbis can’t legally perform weddings or funerals. That’s a problem. And your vote is one small but meaningful way to fix it.
I’m honored to be a delegate in the upcoming Congress. I’m running on the Vote Reform platform because its values align with my own. But whatever party you connect with—vote. Find the platform that reflects your vision for Israel. Or, if you trust me, vote for the platform I’m on. Either way, vote.
Zionism is not a dirty word. It is our shared heartbeat. It is the lifeblood of Jewish peoplehood. And it’s one of the core values we hold dear at the Jewish Center of the Hamptons.
Yes, I’ve been called terrible names on social media for saying that. I delete most of the comments before you see them. But still, they come: Nazi. Baby killer. Apartheid apologist. And worse.
And still, I stand tall.
Because I know what Zionism really is. I know what it means. And I believe, in my soul, that it has the power to bring our people together again.
So go vote.
And more than that: be proud. Be unapologetic. Be Zionist.
That, I promise you—I always will be.