“Beyond the Rabbit Hole” Rabbi Jacobson’s 8/28/26 Qabbalat Shabbat Sermon

Rabbi Suzie Jacobson | Qabbalat Shabbat, August 28, 2026 | Temple Israel of Boston

View the video recording of Rabbi Jacobson’s sermon

Shabbat Shalom!

As is our cherished tradition, the clergy of Temple Israel are devoting our sermon slots this month to our congregational read, As a Jew: Reclaiming Our Story from Those Who Blame, Shame, and Try to Erase Us, by Sara Hurwitz, who will also join us as scholar-in-residence in October.

I am focusing on chapters 5 and 6, which address issues that are deeply important, widely debated, and often emotionally charged in our world, our Jewish community, and here in our own congregation.

In chapter 5, Hurwitz wrestles with the complex history surrounding the founding of the State of Israel, the longing for Jewish self-determination, and the debates about Israel’s right to exist. In chapter 6, she turns to anti-Zionism and its intersections with antisemitism, tracing her own evolving understanding and reflections. Her writing is deeply personal and historically engaged; she is not presenting a detached argument so much as inviting us into a real-time struggle to make sense of a difficult and consequential topic.

What she offers is not objective truth, as if that were ever easy to define. Rather, one of Hurwitz’s gifts is her ability to present a deeply personal search for meaning as she tries to understand herself, her Judaism, and our collective history. In doing so, she invites us to reflect on our own questions as well.

Tonight, I do not intend to give a full book report or walk through every political argument in these chapters. You will need to read them for yourselves—we have copies available. And when you do, I suspect there will be a wide range of reactions. Some of you may agree with much of what she concludes. Some may disagree strongly, or feel challenged or uncomfortable by parts of her analysis. Many of us will find ourselves somewhere in the middle: agreeing with some ideas, questioning others, trying to hold complexity with honesty. Others may simply feel overwhelmed by a history that is long, layered, and often contradictory. Terms are defined differently by different people, and words that comfort some can wound or alarm others. That, too, is part of the reality of this conversation.

Hurwitz notes that she left Israel out of her first book, Here All Along, because she felt anxious about how it might be received. In this book, encouraged by the response to her earlier work and by readers who want to know what she really thinks, she steps into more difficult and uncertain terrain.

As we enter Elul, our season of reflection, renewal, and courageous self-examination, I am less interested in the content of her political analysis than in the invitation her chapters offer us into complexity. How should we engage contradictory historical narratives? How is our Jewish identity shaped by history and politics? How should we respond when we encounter perspectives that challenge our assumptions? What skills do we need to avoid the rabbit hole of endless, relationship-damaging debate? And how can disagreement become an opening for thoughtful encounter, gracious conversation, and wisdom?

Early on, Hurwitz acknowledges that this work is hard for her. She tells a story from her chaplaincy training, where during an assessment she was told that she could be argumentative and quick “to focus on whether something is right or wrong, fair or unfair, and refuse to let it go.” She admits that when she disagrees with someone, she tends to dig in, convinced that with the right facts she can persuade them. But she recognizes this rarely works—when she digs in, the other person often does the same, and both end up hardened in their positions. In that kind of debate, no one really wins.

And yet, she struggles in these chapters to follow her own advice. She finds herself taking the bait, falling, in her own words, “headfirst down a rabbit hole—many rabbit holes in fact”—and trying to argue her way out. Along the way, she critiques her own frustration, notices her contradictions, and clarifies the ideas and values most important to her worldview. There is value in witnessing her struggle, but the pain in these chapters is palpable.

So what is the alternative to intractable debate, to rabbit holes, screaming matches, or worse, silence and broken relationship?

I believe we have a model in our earliest rabbis, who consciously chose to value intellectual pluralism over the need to be “right.” The rabbinic love of structured argument lies at the heart of Jewish discourse. In a famous Talmudic story, when Rabbi Yohanan mourns the death of his study partner Reish Lakish, the rabbis send Rabbi Elazar ben Pedat to comfort him. But every time Rabbi Yohanan offers a teaching, Rabbi Elazar only agrees with him. Rabbi Yohanan grieves: “When I would state a matter, Resh Lakish would raise twenty-four difficulties against me, and I would answer him, and the halakha would become broadened and clarified.” The tradition teaches us that to truly learn and grow, we must be challenged. Not every disagreement is helpful, but honest disagreement can deepen understanding, sharpen thought, and expand wisdom.

And yet when it comes to Israel, this essential Jewish value is often treated as too dangerous to practice. Our emotions pull us quickly toward a “side.” What would it look like to name our discomfort rather than be ruled by it? If Jews believe deeply in intellectual pluralism, why do we so often set it aside when the subject is Israel?

Hurwitz’s struggle reflects larger tensions in the Jewish community. She finds herself in the middle, believing powerfully in the necessity of Jewish self-determination while also criticizing the actions of the current Israeli government and the military occupation of the West Bank. For those with a strong sense of Jewish particularism, criticism of Israel can feel like abandonment. For those shaped more by universalist Jewish values, defense of Israel’s military actions can feel like a betrayal of moral responsibility. It can seem as though the particularist hears only Hillel’s words, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” while the universalist hears only, “If I am only for myself, what am I?” But this is a false division. All of Hillel’s words are for all of us.

In conversations about Israelis and Palestinians, it is easy to shut down because the stakes feel existential. We have been conditioned to react rather than reflect. But our emotions express only some of our values, not all of them—they are often well-worn ruts formed over years of conditioning. We are far more complex than any easy category used to define us. We can care deeply about moral values and about Jewish safety. We can love our people and still wrestle with the actions of governments, leaders, and institutions.

There are existential threats faced by Jews and Jewish communities everywhere. We have to learn how to name them, and also recognize the difference between violence and disagreement.

This is where things get tricky: there are moments for self-protection, and moments for brave engagement; moments to find our allies and fight for what we believe in, and moments to engage, even uncomfortably, with people who hold ideas we don’t like. A difference of opinion does not essentially mean there’s an existential threat; it can be an invitation to become wiser.

Conflict is not always destructive. In Jewish life, conflict can be essential to learning. Still, we cannot expect ourselves to remain neutral. We must hold considered and well-examined perspectives. Before we argue, we must do the harder work of understanding our own hearts and ideologies so we can meet those who differ from us with respect and curiosity. We can bravely demand to be heard by those we engage with. 

I believe that in valuing pluralism and disagreement as ancient paths toward wisdom, we can bravely step into conversations that are generative, productive, and capable of moving our community forward—even on the most intractable of issues. We can survive hard conversations. We can hear things we disagree with. We can even express our own convictions without the need or expectation that we will change another person’s mind. We ourselves can open ourselves to the possibility of change. 

Let’s pause for a brief moment of conversation – “What helps you stay in relationship with someone when you disagree about something that feels important?”

And perhaps that is one of the deepest lessons of Elul: not that we will resolve every disagreement, but that we can learn to enter them with humility, courage, and care. May this season help us become the kind of people who can hold complexity without fear, share our ideas with bravery, and remain in relationship even when we differ. Shabbat Shalom.