May 31, 2026|ט"ו סיון ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Birkat Kohanim and the Challenge of Internal Criticism By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

In recent months, I have found myself deeply troubled by certain public episodes in Israeli political life. For example, Itamar Ben Gvir publicly celebrated the detention and humiliation of people on a flotilla, using triumphalist messaging and media appearances that presented their capture as a political victory. Equally troubling has been imagery that crosses into mockery and degradation, such as a birthday cake he received featuring a golden noose. Also disturbing was the widely circulated image of an IDF soldier using a sledgehammer to destroy a statue of Jesus on the cross, along with photographs of soldiers posing with humiliating Christian symbols.

Even when such acts emerge from anger, frustration, or the brutal context of war, they risk eroding moral sensitivity and projecting not dignity or restraint, but triumphalism and humiliation. And even when those detained were aligned with hostile political actors, there remains something deeply unsettling about the tone of celebration and public spectacle. This is not the Torah way.

I worry that this dynamic will intensify. With elections approaching in Israel, politicians have incentives to distinguish themselves through increasingly extreme gestures. Provocative acts, media stunts, and inflammatory behavior can become political currency, even if they alienate moderates, because they energize committed constituencies.

At the same time, we need intellectual honesty about politics. Politics is not morality. Coalition politics, especially in Israel, forces alliances among people who do not fully share values. Voters may support a party for security, economic, religious, or judicial reasons while strongly disagreeing with other positions or figures within the same coalition. The same is true in the United States across immigration, taxation, and foreign policy debates.

But there is a difference between political disagreement and moral violation. Some actions are not “policy positions” but public moral failures, especially when carried out by people wearing a yarmulka and speaking in the name of Torah, creating a potential chillul Hashem.

How should we approach public discourse in this environment?

I would not engage with what I see as clearly antisemitic attacks on Israel, such as the recent New York Times opinion piece by Nicholas Kristof. I am not going to evaluate each of its claims one by one. In my view, the article takes a complex reality and turns it into a simplistic moral accusation that serves to delegitimize Israel. Because of that fundamentally one-sided framing, I do not regard it as a serious basis for discussion.

But that refusal is not a refusal of moral responsibility.

When I see clear, publicly visible, morally indefensible behavior, especially when committed by Jews identified with Torah observance, I feel a responsibility to say plainly: this is not me, and this is not who we are meant to be.

At the same time, moral clarity requires humility about what we actually know. We often do not know how widespread a problem really is. Take the issue of settler violence. I do not know its true scope. Rav Yosef Zvi Rimon, the Chief Rabbi of Gush Etzion, told a group of rabbis at the RCA conventionthat, based on his understanding of the situation, the actual perpetrators number only around seventy deeply troubled individuals. If that assessment is correct, then we must be careful not to judge entire communities based on the actions of a very small minority.

But even if the numbers are small, the moral obligation remains. If even a handful of Jews engage in criminal violence, humiliation, or chillul Hashem, we have a responsibility to condemn those actions. We must also speak honestly about anyone who encourages, excuses, normalizes, or romanticizes such behavior.

Part of the challenge is that we do not always know the facts. Is this truly the work of a small number of troubled individuals, or does it reflect a broader phenomenon? We may not know. And that uncertainty itself requires humility. Before rushing to sweeping conclusions, we must be willing to investigate carefully, distinguish between anecdote and reality, and acknowledge the limits of our knowledge. Moral seriousness requires not only the courage to speak when wrongdoing occurs, but also the humility to admit when we do not yet know enough and the resolve to further investigate, if possible.

I also understand why many hesitate to speak this way. Internal criticism is often weaponized to delegitimize Israel itself, collapsing moral critique into arguments against its very legitimacy or existence. That concern is real and grounded.

But silence has its own cost. Not everyone is hostile. Many are trying to assess whether Torah Jews can speak with moral honesty. When wrongdoing is already public, refusing to acknowledge it can imply that loyalty outweighs truth.

Still, we must distinguish moral criticism from moral weaponization. Criticism is necessary, but it must be proportionate, responsible, and rooted in ahavat Yisrael, not identity reflex or political performance.

We have seen this tension before. In 1982, during Sabra and Shatila, when Lebanese militias killed civilians while Israeli forces controlled the area and failed to intervene, there was deep moral anguish within the Jewish world. Rav Yehuda Amital, Rav Soloveitchik, and others articulated moral responsibility while remaining fully committed to Am Yisrael.

So we are left with tension.

Silence feels morally unacceptable. Speech risks misuse. We have seen how internal criticism can be weaponized against Israel as a whole.

Yet silence also misleads. When behavior is already public and widely discussed, refusing to name moral failure can suggest that tribal loyalty overrides moral truth. This is the danger of identity politics. The Torah rejects that instinct.

Parshat Naso gives a framework.

We move from the idealized camp arrangement in Parshat Bamidbar to a series of difficult sections in this week’s parsha, impurity, theft, sotah, and nazir, and only then to Birkat Kohanim. I might have expected that after the description of the camp arrangement, the Torah would move directly to the Kohen’s blessing of that camp. But it does not.

Because Birkat Kohanim is not built on the denial of societal breakdown. It is the ability to confront that breakdown without losing love.

The Kohen embodies this. He oversees the sotah process — exposure, shame, fracture — and immediately afterward blesses the people b’ahavah. The same voice that confronts failure becomes the voice of blessing.

The Torah’s model is clear: we may confront wrongdoing within our community only while remaining committed to its dignity and blessing.

Criticism is only legitimate when it emerges from love that still seeks the other’s good, not distance, contempt, or withdrawal.

That is the test.

If we speak about moral failure within our community, the question is not only what we say, but who we are when we say it.

Are we Kohanim — who bless even as we confront?

Or partisans — whose outrage mirrors identity politics?

Because once criticism detaches from ahavat Yisrael, it is no longer Torah criticism.

That does not mean silence.

It means responsibility.

We speak carefully.

We avoid what can be distorted.

We do not surrender moral clarity to fear.

And only then does birkat Kohanim appear.

A community is not blessed because it is perfect.

It is blessed because it can confront imperfection without losing love.

Because it can reject wrongdoing without rejecting its people.

Because it can speak truth without leaving its own camp.

Birkat Kohanim is not a reward. It is a demand.

It requires ahavah – tested by disagreement and moral tension.

So where does this leave us?

We do not pretend things are fine when they are not.

We do not excuse chillul Hashem because it comes from “our side.”

We do not abandon morality for identity.

We also don’t want to criticize our own community just to signal virtue or to present ourselves as morally superior.

We speak as Kohanim.

With moral clarity without hatred.

With honesty without self-righteousness.

With truth without abandoning ahavat Yisrael. 

Because only a Kohen who can expose and bless is worthy of standing at the center of the camp.

And only such a people can receive Birkat Kohanim.

For those critical of the political right, the challenge is not to stop speaking, but to examine why we speak. Criticism must not become identity-driven or reflexive. It must be rooted in ahavah, a genuine concern for moral integrity and for the Jewish people. Speak when something is wrong, but in a way that seeks repair rather than distance.

I am critical of hilltop youth who engage in violence not because they are strangers to me, but because they are my brothers. I care deeply about them, about what they are becoming, and about the Torah they represent. If our criticism is not accompanied by that sense of connection and concern, then we should ask ourselves whether it is truly l’shem shamayim. The test of Torah criticism is not only whether it is true, but whether it emerges from love.

For those on the political right, there is a parallel responsibility. When people on your side engage in immoral behavior or create chillul Hashem, silence is itself a moral stance. Loyalty cannot mean indifference. At times it requires clear, public, and uncomfortable speech that says: this does not represent us.

That is the balance the Torah demands.

Not silence in the name of loyalty.

Not criticism in the name of identity.

But responsibility in the name of ahavat Yisrael.