Photo Credit: CJ Mays

As I stand at the gate of ordination, preparing to step into the sacred responsibility of being a rabbi, I find myself wrestling—deeply, painfully, and honestly—with what it means to be a spiritual leader in a time of profound crisis and division, particularly around Israel and Palestine. This internal wrestling is not separate from my rabbinic calling; rather, it is central to it. The role I am stepping into demands both courage, compassion, vision, and vulnerability. And nowhere is that more evident than in my relationship with the State of Israel.

I have always felt a yearning connection to Israel. It is the land of our ancestors, the birthplace of Jewish spiritual imagination, a place where Hebrew is spoken not just in prayer books but in grocery stores and street corners. It is the place I felt spiritually at home after my journey to Judaism as an adult. As a student and lover of Torah, I have also long held a vision of Israel as or l’goyim—a light unto the nations. A beacon of justice, of compassion, of dignity for all. But the truth is, especially in recent years, that vision has felt increasingly difficult to reconcile with the reality on the ground.

The war in Gaza, the ever-tightening grip of right-wing religious extremism in the Israeli government, and the ongoing marginalization of non-Orthodox Jewish communities have all weighed heavily on my heart. These are not abstract political issues; they strike at the core of my values as a Jew, as a future rabbi, and as a human being. I find myself asking: What does it mean to be a Zionist when the Israel I was taught to love seems so distant from the values I hold dear? Can I still claim that identity without turning a blind eye to injustice? How can I convince myself that Israel is bigger than any one government currently in charge when all I feel is heaviness and uncertainty? 

A pivotal moment in my evolving relationship with Israel came during my rabbinical school trip in the summer of 2022. As part of our curriculum, we spent time with an organization called Ir Amim, which means “City of Peoples.” The name itself holds deep theological and moral resonance. Amim is plural, acknowledging that Jerusalem, this sacred city of longing and history, is not the sole inheritance of any one person. Jews, Palestinians, Christians, Muslims all carry deep roots in this soil, and all have a claim to this “home.”

What I saw with Ir Amim shook me. We walked through Jerusalem’s Jewish neighborhoods, where the streets were clean, the infrastructure robust, the parks lush and green. Then, mere minutes away, we entered Arab neighborhoods marked by crumbling sidewalks, overflowing trash, and homes with water tanks perched precariously on rooftops. I learned that these tanks weren’t there by choice; they were there because the city often arbitrarily shuts off water to Arab neighborhoods. It was more than a contrast—it was a moral indictment.

Standing there, I felt my heart break. And not in the poetic sense—my heart literally ached with the weight of the injustice. How could the city that holds our holiest sites, the city I had dreamed of in prayer, be so deeply scarred by inequality? How could a Jewish state, founded in the shadow of the Holocaust with the hope of never again allowing human dignity to be trampled, be complicit in such systemic discrimination?

I remember looking up at one of those water tanks and thinking: This is not the Israel I want to support. And yet, I also remember feeling—powerfully, confusingly—that I could not turn away. That even in my disillusionment, or perhaps because of it, I had to stay engaged. My Zionism may be cracked and weathered, but it is not gone. If anything, it is maturing, growing deeper, more honest, more accountable.

I do not want to abandon Israel. I want to love it fiercely and hold it to its highest ideals. I want to be part of the chorus of voices insisting that our love must be demanding—that to love Israel does not mean to excuse its failures, but to push it relentlessly toward justice. That is what I believe our prophets would have done, and I want to walk in their footsteps.

As I prepare to enter the rabbinate, I see myself stepping into a role that demands I be a bridge-builder. Our communities, both Jewish and beyond, are marked by division, fear, and misunderstanding when it comes to Israel and Palestine. I have seen firsthand how easy it is to retreat into echo chambers, to caricature the “other side,” to use our pain as a weapon instead of a bridge. Just open social media for a quick example. 

Now more than ever, I believe we need spiritual leaders who can hold the complexity, who can invite dialogue without demanding uniformity, who can create spaces where grief, fear, hope, and even anger can coexist. We need leaders who can remind our communities that the work of peace is not a betrayal of our people…it is an affirmation of our highest values.

One of the most powerful expressions of this bridge-building work for me has been my involvement with “Days of Dialogue,” a series of facilitated conversations in my rabbinical school internships and broader Jewish community. These gatherings are grounded in mutual respect and a deep commitment to listening. They are not about debating who is “right” or “wrong,” but about opening ourselves to the stories, the history, and the pain that are woven into this conflict.

In those circles, I have sat with Jews who are grieving for loved ones lost in terror attacks and worried about Israel, and with Jews who fear the ongoing occupation and dehumanization of Palestinians that has crept into our spaces. I have seen tears fall from the eyes of people who, until that moment, had never been truly heard. I have felt the quiet hum of transformation that happens when someone’s humanity is fully recognized. We cannot have dialogue if parts of our communities feel silenced. 

These conversations are not easy. They require courage—the courage to confront uncomfortable truths, to examine our own biases, to sit with the possibility that our narratives are not complete. But they are also deeply holy. I believe that dialogue, when done with integrity and empathy, is a form of prayer. It is a way of honoring the divine image in every person, even those whose stories challenge our own.

As a rabbi, I know I will carry the responsibility of guiding my community through these treacherous waters. I will not always have answers. I will not be able to resolve the conflict. But I can promise this: I will create space. Space for questioning, for wrestling, for tears, and for dreaming. Space where all voices can be heard—not just the loudest or the most aligned with the status quo.

And I will continue to hold Israel in my prayers…not as an idealized utopia, but as a very real place, full of beauty and brokenness, history, and hope. I will pray not just for its safety, but for its soul. For an Israel that lives up to the deepest teachings of our tradition.

As I become a rabbi, I do so with a heart that is bruised but not broken. A spirit that is tired but not defeated. A vision that is imperfect but still fired up with hope.

This piece was written by CJ Mays, a 2024-25 Elissa Froman Social Justice Fellow and rabbinical student at Hebrew Union College.