June 29, 2026|י"ד תמוז ה' אלפים תשפ"ו Who Are We? Finding Our Identity in an Age of Anxiety By Rabbi Jonathan Muskat

Last Shabbat, many of us were riding a rare wave of joy about being New Yorkers – there was something almost electric in the air – like New York at its best. The Knicks had just brought home a championship for the first time in 53 years; the city was celebrating like it was a national holiday; Jalen Brunson had been elevated to near-mythic status; and for a brief, shining moment, it felt like we could say: this is what it means to be from New York.

And then this week reminded us, as New York so often does, that it is a city of emotional swings. We went from championship parade energy to something much heavier.

Over the past week, many Jews have been talking about the results of New York’s Democratic primaries. I have heard from a number of you. I have received texts, phone calls, and spoken with people after minyan. Some of you are worried. Some are disappointed. Some are anxious about what these results might mean for the future of New York City, for support of Israel, for the rise of antisemitism, and for the place of Jews in American society. Parents have asked what kind of world their children are inheriting. My rabbinic colleagues in Manhattan have wondered aloud about the future of their communities.

At the same time, many of these concerns have been amplified by broader global developments we have been following together – especially the memorandum of understanding with Iran signed last week. For many, that too has raised serious questions about regional stability and Israel’s security.

Whether we all interpret these developments the same way or not, the emotions are real. The questions are real.

And I want you to know: I have felt those emotions too. I care deeply about the future of New York, the security of American Jewry, and the future of Israel. I do not stand here detached from those concerns. I carry them with you – and I find myself praying through them as well, often more than I realize.

Many of us are asking:
What does this mean for us?
What does it tell us about where America is heading?

These are legitimate questions.

But this week’s parshah gently, but with real moral force, redirects us to an even deeper question.

Not: What does this mean for us?
But: Who are we?

Because whenever Jews become consumed by the question of “what will happen to us,” the Torah reminds us that there is a prior question that must be answered first: “who are we?”

Before Jews worried about polls, alliances, or political futures, there was another moment in history when the Jewish people became the object of fear.

A king named Balak saw Israel and trembled.

And instead of confronting them militarily, he chose another strategy: he hired Bilaam to define them spiritually.

Because Balak understood something deeply true about human nature: the most powerful way to confront a people is not only through force, but through narrative.

Why did God have Bilaam be the one to define the nation of Israel?

Perhaps because a person cannot fully testify about himself. Self-definition is always partial. It is always vulnerable to distortion. True testimony requires an outsider.

That is why, paradoxically, God chooses Bilaam – not Moshe Rabbeinu – to articulate Israel’s blessing to the world.

Moshe teaches Torah to Israel.
Bilaam defines Israel before the nations.

And when even an enemy is forced to acknowledge your uniqueness, the truth becomes harder to deny.

Bilaam begins with an assumption:
All nations eventually disappear.

Empires rise, flourish, and fade. In the normal course of history, identity is temporary.

So he looks at Israel and says:

“Mai-rosh tuzrim er’enu u’mi’geva-ot ashurenu” — “From the top of the rocks I see it, and from the hills I behold it.”

Rashi explains: these are the Avot and Imahot, the Patriarchs and Matriarchs.

Bilaam is saying:
Yes, they have origins.
Yes, they have Avraham.
Yes, they have a covenantal beginning.

But so did every nation.

And history, he assumes, erodes all beginnings. Assimilation is inevitable. Distinctiveness dissolves.

So if Israel is just another nation, it will follow the same trajectory.

That is not only a curse. It is a prediction.

But God responds to Bilaam’s assumption with a quiet but decisive correction:

Am l’vadad yishkon — Israel is a nation that stands alone.

Israel is not merely a nation among nations - it is a people defined by something deeper than history alone.

“U’va-goyim lo yitchashav”— “it shall not be reckoned among the nations.”

Rav Hirsch explains that Israel does not seek greatness as a nation among nations – measured by power, sovereignty, or political strength. Rather, Israel is defined by what he calls tafkido ha’penimi – an inner mission.

In other words:
Other nations ask: How do we survive?
Israel asks: Why were we created?

Other nations are shaped by geography.
Israel is shaped by revelation.

So “am le’vadad” does not mean isolation.
It means purpose.

But the Netziv hears something even more urgent in this verse.

Not only description, but instruction.

Not only what is, but what must be protected.

“Hen am le-vadad” – if Israel maintains a distinct, self-defined identity – if it knows who it is without needing external validation – then: “yishkon” – it will dwell securely and flourish.

But:

“U’va-goyim” – if Israel begins to define itself primarily through the gaze of surrounding cultures – if external approval becomes the measure of internal worth – then something essential begins to erode.

“Lo yitchashav” is not only “not counted.”

It is the loss of inner weight, of significance, of clarity of purpose.

The danger is not rejection by the nations. It is slowly forgetting who we are when no one is rejecting us anymore.

And I find myself thinking about this often.

Not only whether the world understands us, but whether we begin to understand ourselves through the world’s eyes.

I worry less about whether we are applauded, and more about whether we are raising children who know that their Jewish identity is rooted in something deeper than public opinion – rooted in Torah, in covenant, and in the voice of God.

So the question shifts again:

Not what do the nations think of us?
But what do we think of ourselves?

In an article in Hadassah magazine published last year, Yossi Klein Halevi writes about the “October 6 Jew” and the “October 8 Jew.”

After October 7^th, something awakened across the Jewish world: a deeper sense of belonging – to Israel, to one another, to a shared story we suddenly realized we were inside.

Belonging.
Peoplehood.
Shared destiny.

Something deep in the Jewish soul was reawakened.

But Halevi’s deeper point is that belonging is never the end of the story – it is only the opening of a question we now have to answer.

Because the real question becomes:
What do we do with this belonging?

What kind of Jewish story are we now choosing to live inside?

Does it lead to Torah, tefillah, chesed, Israel, Jewish education, and communal responsibility?

Or does it remain primarily emotional – deeply felt, but not yet shaped?

Because identity that is only felt, but not formed, will not endure.

I have seen something beautiful in the aftermath of October 7.

Jews returning to shul.
New conversations about Israel becoming conversations about Judaism.
Young people asking questions they had not asked before.

And I find myself hoping – not only that this becomes a moment of Jewish solidarity, but that it becomes something quieter and deeper: a moment of Jewish growth.

That pride in being Jewish becomes a deeper commitment to living as Jews.

This question is especially sharp in the Modern Orthodox and Religious Zionist world.

Because we live with a double commitment.

We refuse isolation.
We refuse assimilation.

We believe Torah can speak in the university, the courtroom, the hospital, and the public square.

We believe in full engagement with society without surrendering to it.

This is the legacy of Rav Hirsch.
It is the vision of Rav Kook.
And it is articulated with extraordinary clarity by Rav Soloveitchik.

In one of his seminal essays entitled “Confrontation,” Rav Soloveitchik rejects interfaith theological dialogue, insisting that different faith communities cannot fully translate their deepest theological languages into one another’s categories.

But he also insists on something equally important: there can be meaningful dialogue in the realm of shared human responsibility – cooperation in alleviating suffering, defending human dignity, and building a just society.

There is, or at least there was, a shared moral grammar.

And perhaps one of the deepest anxieties of our moment is not only disagreement, but the fear that this shared moral language itself is fraying.

When moral categories collapse into slogans…
When suffering is filtered through ideology rather than ethics…
When we are no longer sure we are even speaking the same moral language…

We are not only debating politics.

We are experiencing disorientation at the level of meaning itself.

Bilaam begins not with Israel’s destiny, but with its origins:

“Mai-rosh tuzrim er’enu u’mi’geva-ot ashurenu.”
And Rashi tells us what he sees: Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, and Leah.

He does not see a political entity.

He sees a family.

Balak sees politics.
Bilaam sees the covenant.
Balak sees the present.
Bilaam sees eternity.

And that changes everything.

Because a people that remembers its beginnings is never fully defined by the moment.

It is anchored in something deeper than the moment.

And that is why it endures.

I began by speaking about the emotions many of us have felt this week. Just days ago, we were celebrating as proud New Yorkers. Then, almost overnight, many of us found ourselves anxious about what the future might hold – for New York, for American Jewry, and for Israel.

Those concerns are real. I share them.

But this week’s parshah reminds us that politics can never answer our deepest questions.

The question is not: What will become of us?
The question is: Who are we?

Because when we know who we are, we know how to face whatever history brings.

We cannot control elections.

But we can shape our homes.

We can strengthen our community.

We can raise children whose Jewish identity is deeper than the headlines they read.

My hope for our community is not that we become less engaged with the world. Quite the opposite. I hope we continue to be active citizens, thoughtful neighbors, and passionate advocates for Israel and for justice.

But I pray that our confidence will never rise and fall with elections.

And I pray that when our children ask, “Who am I?” the answer will come not from politics or social media or the approval of others – but from Torah, from covenant, and from the generations who carried it before us.

Because governments change.
Cultures change.
Headlines change.

But the covenant endures.

As long as we remember who we are, we will never lose our way – or our hope – in who we are becoming.