The tumultuous events of the past few years, the quickening pace of ever-more momentous headlines, and the increasing political chaos and antisemitism around the world challenge us to make sense of it all. It has become common to hear, from both rabbanim and ordinary Jews, that we are living in the “end of days,” in the ikvos hamashiach, when the “footsteps” of mashiach can be felt. But how to respond? Some embrace the unfolding miracle that is Eretz Yisrael in our day. However, others decry activism, physical or emotional, for Israel and counsel an anti-Zionist stance as the true path of the Torah. I hope, in this article, to shed light on this split in hashafah.
* * *
Jewish history unfolds amid a
persistent tension between divine promises and lived realities, where prophetic
visions of redemption often clash with the delays and disappointments of human
experience. The prophets of Israel depicted the return to Zion in urgent,
transformative terms: a people ingathered from exile, cities rebuilt, and
justice flowing like a mighty stream (e.g., Isaiah 11:11–12; Jeremiah 31:8–10).
These prophecies originally addressed the Babylonian exiles, anticipating a
swift restoration under Persian auspices. Figures like Cyrus, Ezra, and Nechemiah
appeared as instruments of fulfillment, with Cyrus himself proclaiming, “The
Lord, the G-d of heaven, has given me all the kingdoms of the earth and has
charged me to build Him a house in Jerusalem” (Ezra 1:2). Yet the reality fell
short: The Second Temple rose, but full sovereignty eluded the returnees, and
internal strife and spiritual lapses endured.
Confronting this gap, Chazal (the Sages)
employed what can be termed prophetic reframing – an interpretive shift that
relocated the prophecies from immediate historical events to a distant
messianic horizon. By reassigning biblical promises to an ultimate, future
redemption rather than the Persian-era return, the rabbis safeguarded prophetic
authority while sustaining national hope. Prophecy was not disproved; it was
deferred. Thus, the era of Ezra and Nechemiah was transformed in rabbinic
tradition from a triumphant endpoint to a mere foreshadowing, preserving faith
amid incomplete restoration.
The clearest examples of this
process appear in the prophetic books themselves and in how Chazal later
received them. The haftorah of Chanukah, from Zechariah (chapters 3-4),
describes Yehoshua the High Priest and Zerubavel, the Persian-appointed
governor, as the twin pillars of restoration. The prophet’s vision of a golden
menorah flanked by two olive trees refers contextually to those historical
figures and to the Second Temple project. Yet the rabbis read it as
eschatological (having to do with death, judgment, and the final destiny of the
soul and of humankind) – its imagery transposed to a messianic “Yehoshua” of
the future and a “Zerubavel” who would one day arise again. A text born in the
urgency of Persian Judea became, in rabbinic imagination, a prophecy of the end
of days. Likewise, Isaiah’s words about the wolf dwelling with the lamb (Isa.
11) originally expressed hope for moral transformation within the restored
Davidic polity; later readers spiritualized it into an otherworldly peace, far
removed from human politics. Such reframing preserved continuity but moved
redemption beyond reach.
* * *
This reframing reshaped Jewish
conceptions of time, land, and destiny. It recast the exile-return cycle as a
theological postponement, where true geulah (redemption) would erupt
solely through divine intervention, transcending ordinary history. This
paradigm dominated rabbinic Judaism for nearly two millennia, serving as a
bulwark in exile. It discouraged risky political activism, channeling communal
energies into Torah study, halachic observance, and patient endurance. The
Talmud’s “Three Oaths” (Ketubot 111a), enjoining Israel not to “ascend en
masse” or rebel against the nations, crystallized this quietist stance, framing
survival as a sacred duty rather than self-initiated redemption.
Yet the cyclic nature of Jewish
life is not a rabbinic invention but a Biblical constant. The Torah itself
frames history as an oscillation between exile and return. Deuteronomy 30:1-5
anticipates that Israel will “return to the Lord your God… and He will return
your captivity,” describing a rhythm of sin, punishment, repentance, and
restoration that may occur repeatedly.
Shoftim, the book of Judges,
operates entirely within this cycle: Israel sins, falls to enemies, cries out,
and is delivered through human leaders like Ehud, Deborah, or Gideon – each
redemption temporary, each failure instructive. Even the monarchy follows this
pattern: Destruction under Babylon leads to rebuilding under Persia, which
itself prefigures yet another collapse and longing for renewal. The Bible thus
presents covenantal history not as linear progress but as an ongoing
conversation between divine patience and human initiative, between exile and
homecoming.
* * *
This cyclical consciousness
grounds the covenantal worldview itself. It implies that redemption is not an
eschatological event but a structural possibility within every generation – that
divine partnership is always renewable when history provides the opening. The
Ezra restoration was one such opening; the modern return to the land, many
would argue, is another. To contextualize this development, one must consider
what I have called the Law of Competing Voices (LCV): Judaism as a dynamic,
self-evolving tradition where principles – whether halachic, narrative, or
theological – spawn diverse interpretations shaped by historical and
intellectual conditions. Through a process akin to cultural selection, certain
voices ascend for their adaptive value, providing stability or meaning, while
others recede until revived by new circumstances. Rabbinic quietism exemplifies
a dominant voice, finely tuned to survival in exile by mitigating despair and
averting futile revolts, such as those during the Bar Kokhba era. Yet the LCV
underscores that no interpretation is absolute; each dialogues with
alternatives, ensuring the tradition’s resilience.
The LCV operates organically,
often beneath conscious awareness. Its mechanisms are not decrees but outcomes that
emerge from communal behavior. A halachic example illustrates this: When
electricity entered Jewish life, it posed new questions for Shabbat observance.
There was no single revelatory answer. Rather, competing halachic voices arose,
some analogizing it to fire, others to building, others to no violation at all.
Over time, through rabbinic discourse, social pressure, and communal instinct,
one view gained normative dominance: Electricity on Shabbat became “forbidden.”
The ruling did not descend from heaven; it crystallized from the accumulated
weight of influence, trust, and cultural coherence. Like a living organism
adapting to new stimuli, the halachic process produced equilibrium. We often do
not perceive the individual forces at work – charismatic leadership, publishing
trends, yeshiva politics, lay sentiment – but we observe their collective
effect: a stable communal consensus.
* * *
This same law governs the larger
movement of Jewish history. Prophetic reframing was one voice; cyclical
restoration is another. The LCV ensures that both remain alive within the
tradition’s genome, awaiting conditions that favor one over the other. In times
of persecution, the reframing voice dominates, preserving the people through
inward focus. In times of opportunity, the activist voice reemerges, restoring
national agency. Indeed, the activist model finds its roots in Tanach as well.
The Exodus narrative itself is the archetype of participatory redemption. The
Israelites are commanded to slaughter the lamb, mark their doors, and walk out
– not to wait passively. Later, under Ezra and Nechemiah, divine providence
works through human initiative. Isaiah 45 explicitly names Cyrus, a gentile
king, as “My anointed,” indicating that political actors and natural processes
can serve redemptive purposes. Deuteronomy 16:18 commands the people, upon
entering the land, to “establish judges and officers in all your gates,” a
charge that assumes human organization as a religious duty.
* * *
These two models – deferred messianic
quietism and cyclical activism – embody divergent visions of Jewish national
purpose. The quietist model positions exile as a sanctified arena for witness.
Jews glorify God through moral fidelity and Torah preservation amid
powerlessness, as exemplified by the Babylonian Talmud’s inward focus on law
and ethics rather than politics. Sovereignty, in this view, invites hubris,
echoing warnings against “forcing the end” (Ketubot 111a) and recalling the
moral collapse of the Hasmonean dynasty.
Conversely, the activist model
views national life as participatory covenantalism: The Torah’s ideals – economic
justice (Leviticus 25), compassion for the stranger (Deuteronomy 10:19), and
land stewardship (Leviticus 25:23) – demand collective embodiment in a
sovereign framework. Exile represents incompleteness, not ideal holiness. When
providence opens doors, engagement becomes obligatory. This model critiques
quietism as resignation, arguing that passivity forfeits opportunities to
actualize divine values in history.
Through the quietist lens,
anti-Zionist groups like Satmar logically decry modern Israel as usurpation.
The Satmar Rebbe’s Vayoel Moshe (1959) weaves the Three Oaths with
reframed prophecy to insist on supernatural redemption, viewing the state as a
doomed, secular imitation akin to the Second Temple’s fragility, potentially
inviting divine wrath.
Yet historical adaptation does not
equate to eternal mandate. Per the LCV, quietism thrived in exile but yields to
activist voices in renewal eras. The twentieth-century Zionist resurgence
echoed the Persian context: international mandates (e.g., Balfour Declaration),
internal debates, and the imperative to rebuild post-Holocaust. This revived
the Ezraic model, reintegrating halachic creativity with national agency, as
seen in Israel’s religious courts, agricultural laws, and ethical policies.
From a rational covenantal
standpoint, both models respond validly to their epochs: quietism sustaining
hope in darkness, activism harnessing light in opportunity. The covenant
thrives not in rigidity but discernment: recognizing when to endure and when to
act. This discernment emerges from Israel’s ongoing dialogue with tradition,
where competing voices ensure vitality.
If confined to exilic
consciousness, Satmar’s caution prevails; history remains too flawed for
redemption. But amid renewed Jewish sovereignty – with Hebrew revived, land
cultivated, and institutions built – the Ezraic invitation echoes louder.
Israel’s imperfections notwithstanding, it signifies reentry into covenantal
history, not as prophecy’s end but as its reactivation. The rabbis reframed
prophecy to endure closure; today, we might reframe it to embrace openness. The
covenant endures, its expression evolving through responsible participation. That
is the essence of Israel’s destiny.
Joseph Wetstein is a member of the “Shteible” at
Summerson.
