April 21, 2026|ד' אייר ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Gevurah in Our Time: Strength and Sovereignty on Yom Ha’atzmaut By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

What is the secret to Jewish strength and courage?

At first glance, the answer seems obvious. The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot teaches: “Eizehu gibor? Hakovesh et yitzro” – who is strong? One who conquers his inclination. Strength, in this classical sense, is internal. It is discipline, self-control, the ability to live with restraint and moral clarity.

But that is only part of the story.

There is another language of strength in our tradition that Moshe told Yehoshua shortly before Moshe’s death: “Chazak ve’ematz!” – be strong and courageous. Not inward, but outward. Not restraint, but action. The courage to step into battle, to confront enemies, to defend what matters.

For most of Jewish history, that second dimension of strength was largely absent. For thousands of years in exile, the Jewish people had no army, no sovereignty, no ability to fight back. Strength was therefore defined almost entirely as inner strength – faith under pressure, commitment under persecution, identity under threat.

But with the creation of the State of Israel, something fundamental changed. Strength no longer meant only surviving – it also meant defending. It meant the courage to fight, to protect, and, when necessary, to defeat those who seek our destruction.

This tension can be seen even in how we remember the past. When Yom HaShoah was first conceptualized, it was called Yom HaShoah u’Mered HaGeta’ot – a day to commemorate not only the destruction, but the heroism of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Secular Zionists were uncomfortable with a narrative of passive suffering; they wanted to highlight the Jew who fought back. But the deeper truth is that Jewish strength has never been one-dimensional. It has always meant faith and endurance – and resistance and defense.

Religious Zionism embraces both.

We believe in the gevurah of Pirkei Avot – the discipline to master oneself. And we believe in the gevurah of Chazak ve’ematz – the courage to defend Medinat Yisrael.

Chanukah captures this duality beautifully. The Chashmona’im were warriors who rose up against the Syrian-Greeks. But they were also spiritual heroes who were willing to sacrifice their lives rather than abandon their faith. Their strength was not only military – it was moral and religious.

And we see that same combination today.

Our soldiers in the Israel Defense Forces embody extraordinary physical courage, placing their lives on the line to defend their people and their homeland. But just as striking is their spiritual strength – the quiet, resolute ways they hold onto their identity even in the chaos of battle: soldiers wrapping tefillin before a mission, wearing tzitzit under their uniforms, making Kiddush on Friday night in staging areas, forming makeshift minyanim in the field, studying Torah in whatever free moments they can find, or whispering Tehillim in moments of uncertainty. There are those who, even after loss, continue to speak in the language of emunah and purpose. Strength, in its deepest sense, is not only about power. It is about identity.

Which raises a deeper question: What is the source of this strength?

Why is it that our brothers and sisters in Israel seem to possess such resilience – such clarity of purpose – even in the face of profound hardship?

The answer may lie in a phrase we know well from the Haggadah: “Matchil b’gnut u’mesayem b’shevach” – we begin with the negative, and we end with the positive.

Judaism does not tell a simple, triumphant story. It tells a complex one.

In 2020, Dr. Daniel Gordis wrote an article entitled “How America’s Idealism Drained its Jews of their Resilience,” and it helps explain this dynamic. Gordis argues that traditional Judaism does not present a one-dimensional, overly optimistic vision of life. It weaves suffering into the fabric of Jewish experience – through our calendar, our rituals, and even our daily prayers. Alongside the festivals of redemption, we observe days like Tisha B’Av and Shiva Asar B’Tammuz, and in Tachanun we cry out, “Al tit’shenu b’yad oyvenu limchot et shmenu” – do not abandon us into the hands of our enemies.

This is not incidental; it is formative. By integrating pain into our collective memory, Judaism shapes a people who are not disoriented by hardship, but strengthened by it. When tragedy comes, it is not outside the story – it is part of it. And precisely for that reason, we know not only how to mourn, but how to move forward.

This is why Judaism insists on memory – not only of redemption, but of pain.

We do not merely celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut. We first commemorate Yom HaZikaron.

We do not only celebrate Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot. We also fast on Tzom Gedaliah, Asarah B’Tevet, Shiva Asar B’Tammuz, and Tisha B’Av.

In a powerful sense, then, October 7th did not only prepare us for Tisha B’Av. Tisha B’Av prepared us for October 7th.

Of course, after October 7th, we no longer needed to “work” to feel the sadness of Tisha B’Av. The themes of destruction, loss, and vulnerability were no longer distant or historical – they were immediate and painfully real. The tragedy of that day gave new, visceral meaning to the kinot we recite and the grief we try to access each year.

But the relationship runs deeper. Long before October 7th, Tisha B’Av had already given us a framework – a language, a structure, a religious and emotional grammar – for responding to catastrophe. It taught us how to mourn without losing ourselves, how to sit with grief without surrendering to despair, and how to remain connected to faith even in moments of profound darkness.

In that sense, when tragedy struck, we were not spiritually unprepared. We had been here before – not in the specifics, but in the structure of the experience. Tisha B’Av had already formed within us the capacity to grieve, to reflect, and ultimately to rebuild.

But remembering pain is not only about preparation. It is also about meaning.

When we confront the difficult moments of our history, we are forced to ask difficult questions: Why have we suffered? Why do our enemies hate us? What does it mean to be chosen? What is our mission as a people?

Pain does not just test us – it shapes us.

It moves us from history to purpose. We stop asking, “What happened to us?” and begin asking, “What does this demand of us?”

Our suffering clarifies who we are, what we stand for, and what we are living for.

And yet, Judaism does not stop there.

We do not only remember darkness – we celebrate light.

We celebrate Yom Ha’atzmaut, Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot because strength is not only the ability to mourn. It is the ability to believe in redemption.

Judaism teaches us to hold both: zecher l’churban – the memory of destruction – and zecher l’geulah – the memory of redemption. We carry Tisha B’Av and Yom Ha’atzmaut together.

That balance is what creates true gevurah.

We celebrate not because we are naïve, but because we remember. We have been here before. We know that darkness is not the end. God has been with us in the past, and we believe He will be with us again.

That is not optimism. That is faith rooted in memory.

And that brings us full circle.

Gevurah is not just the ability to fight battles or to control impulses. It is the ability to live with identity and purpose. It is knowing who we are, remembering where we come from, and carrying that forward into how we live.

And that brings us full circle.

If gevurah is about identity and purpose, then its message is not abstract – it is deeply personal.

We are not just inheritors of a story; we are participants in it. The strength that sustained the Jewish people across exile and into sovereignty is now placed in our hands. It asks something of us.

It asks us to be clear about who we are.
It asks us to live with intention and commitment.
It asks us to carry memory not as a burden, but as a guide.

To remember is not simply to look backward – it is to shape how we move forward. The experiences of our past, both painful and redemptive, are meant to inform the choices we make and the lives we build.

Judaism’s enduring strength lies in its ability to hold complexity – to grieve and to hope, to confront darkness and still believe in light. That balance does not weaken us; it defines us.

On Yom Ha’atzmaut, then, we celebrate more than independence or military success. We affirm a deeper kind of strength – the strength to remain rooted in our identity, to draw meaning from our history, and to continue building a future with faith and purpose.

That is the gevurah of our time.