American Exceptionalism: A Jewish Experience
A recent article in The Commentator tackles an issue that is becoming increasingly relevant in contemporary discourse: how should Orthodox Jews relate to the America of today? In the wake of Oct. 7 and the subsequent surge of openly expressed antisemitism, many find that their Shabbos table conversations now revolve around long-term fears and half-serious aliyah daydreams. I’d be hopeful in saying these subjects have usurped the regularly programmed divrei Torah. We’ve all experienced these moments. The mood is anxious, even fatalistic. Plainly, I believe this depressing sense of catastrophic inevitability is as unproductive as it is misguided.
In my view, Jewish Americans relate to America today in one of three ways. The first is the anxious noncommittal type. This is the person who wrings his hands about “what’s coming,” yet does little beyond sighing wistfully about aliyah as a theoretical escape hatch. He is a Jew who happens to live in America, not one who participates in it. The second is the latent Zionist suddenly awakened by the last two years — someone whose ideals have been shaken into action and who has genuinely decided to move to Israel. The third — and the perspective I wish to dwell on — is the aware patriot, the Jew who remains fully cognizant of history and contemporary danger, yet understands the responsibilities of living in America today.
Jewish history teaches that antisemitism is a constant. It adapts to cultures and eras, survives ideologies and reemerges in new guises. No society — however enlightened — is immune. Recognizing this is not alarmism; it is hindsight sharpened by centuries of recurring experience. But acknowledging the persistence of antisemitism does not mean history must inevitably repeat itself in identical cycles. Comparisons to German Jews of the 1920s, which circulate constantly today, often reveal more about contemporary fears than about accurate historical analysis. America is indeed experiencing ideological fractures, but history is not deterministic. We are not condemned to reenact past tragedies merely because we hear echoes of them.
To be clear, from a Torah perspective, Jewish destiny ultimately lies in Eretz Yisroel, not in the Diaspora, as glorious as sweet old ‘Merica’s shores may be. That truth spans the spectrum of Orthodox ideology, Satmar included; three times a day, Jews pray for the ingathering of exiles and long for redemption. Whether or not America remains safe, Jewish tradition does not envision any diaspora — however benevolent — as permanent. Yet the theological reality that we will end up in Israel does not absolve us of responsibility for the place in which we currently live. Our prayers for redemption do not negate our obligations to our neighbors, our civic duties or our gratitude for a country that has protected Jews to a degree unprecedented in all of exile.
This point is too often forgotten amid contemporary anxiety. The writer aptly quoted Reb Moshe Feinstein’s grand description of America as a malchus shel chessed. I’d add an excerpt from Reb Moshe’s 1984 call to vote: “On reaching the shores of the United States, Jews found a safe haven. The rights guaranteed by the United States Constitution and the Bill of Rights have allowed us the freedom to practice our religion without interference and to live in this republic in safety. A fundamental principle of Judaism is hakaras hatov, recognizing the benefits afforded to us and giving expression to our appreciation. Therefore, it is incumbent upon each Jewish citizen to participate in the democratic system which guards the freedoms we enjoy.” Unlike Europe — where Jews spent centuries under repression and, in later times, were welcomed only on the condition of assimilation — America allowed Jews to be fully American and fully themselves. That gift demands more than quiet gratitude; it demands active responsibility.
Recognizing America’s unique blessings, however, also means recognizing what sustains them. The United States is not a finished identity but an ongoing project. Its stability depends on citizens who believe in its underlying principles: liberty, pluralism and equal protection under the law. When these values are undermined — whether by antisemitic activists, extremist ideologues or terrorist-sympathizing mayor-elects — everyone suffers. The correct response is not immediate flight but active engagement. Democratic societies decay when their citizens check out. They strengthen when citizens participate, vote, speak, organize and hold leaders accountable.
What does this mean in practice? It means stop fear-mongering over your cholent. It means being clear-eyed about the challenges we face without surrendering to hopelessness. It means understanding that while everything can change in an instant — if that is the Divine will — we are obligated to do our part today. The Lubavitcher Rebbe’s famous response to novelist Harvey Swados in 1964 captures this duality. When asked whether the Holocaust could happen again in America, the Rebbe replied, without hesitation: “morgen in der fruh” (tomorrow morning). The point was not despair but vigilance — an awareness of harsh reality paired with the mandate to act constructively, not despairingly.
Some interpret rising antisemitism as proof that America is collapsing. But political failures do not constitute a failed nation. When a mayor or elected official embraces extremism, the response is to remove that leader through democratic means — not to declare the system dead. Harmful leadership is a call to action, not evidence of futility.
Jewish history teaches vigilance, yes, but also resilience. Protecting our communities is legitimate and necessary, but panic is not a strategy, and fear is not policy. Every Shabbos, Jews across America recite a prayer for the United States government, asking that it be guided with wisdom, justice and peace. Embedded in that prayer is a profound truth: The well-being of the Jewish community is inextricably linked to the well-being of the nation that shelters it. That prayer is not naive. It is responsible.
So, is there a future for Jews in America? I believe there is — if we choose to build it. The past year exposed how quickly hatred can surface, even in a society as open as ours. But it also revealed how strongly many Americans still believe in the ideals that enabled the most successful Jewish diaspora in history. Acknowledging danger does not require abandoning the blessing we have been given. Our ultimate home may lie in Israel, but that does not diminish our duty to strengthen the country in which we live now.
Fear warns us, but gratitude and responsibility shape what comes next. And if you still prefer to curl up in a noncommittal ball and mutter about America’s impending doom, then yes — if America fails, it will in part be because of that kind of fatalistic disengagement. If you want to make aliyah, wonderful. But if you are staying in America, you carry responsibility — for your fellow Jews and for the country that has, for generations, safeguarded us. America’s future is not predetermined. Neither is ours. The question is not whether there is a future for Jews in America. The question is whether we will help build it.
Photo credit: National Park Service
Photo caption: A newly arrived immigrant family on Ellis Island, gazing across the bay at the Statue of Liberty
