Do I Still Belong Here? Jewish America After the Midterm Elections

Parashat Chayei Sarah 2026

Often, we think of rabbis for their sermons. I’m even teaching a class on how to give sermons. But throughout the centuries, perhaps the most impactful thing rabbis have done is answer questions. In Jewish terms, we call them Teshuvot. Jews in far-off places who didn’t have rabbis would write letters to scholars in the centers of Jewish life, like Babylonia or Germany, with questions. Some of them had to do with halachah, but often, it was about how we live as Jews when we are persecuted, or when the majority population wants to force us to convert to their religion. 

Today, I want to share a question I’ve received this week, but the person shall remain anonymous: 

“I’m hoping you can offer me some words of wisdom and encouragement regarding yesterday’s election. It seems that antisemitism is growing and getting out of hand. It’s getting frightening to admit to being Jewish. I just read that on November 8 there is a planned attack on Jewish businesses in Philadelphia reminiscent of November 9, Kristallnacht. I see history repeating itself. Apparently, being antisemitic is the “in” thing right now. I’m hoping for some words to calm my fears.”

I wish the question was about the laws of Kashruth, or Shabbat - much easier to answer than this question. This person was asking me: am I still safe and welcome in the country I thought was my home? How can I keep living with hope when I cannot know what comes next?

I will get to my answer in a little bit. But first, I want to learn about how our ancestors dealt with this question. In this week’s parashah, Chayei Sarah, we begin with something quite mundane, yet at the same time one of the most important stories in Jewish history: the purchase of the Cave of Machpelah by Abraham to bury his wife Sarah. 

Abraham knows God promised him the land, yet he also knows he must act on that promise in the world as it is. And the first words he speaks to the people of the land are:

גֵּר־וְתוֹשָׁב אָנֹכִי עִמָּכֶם…

I am a resident alien among you; sell me a burial site.” (Genesis 23:4)

In other words: I am a stranger.

Considering how suspicious people often are of outsiders, why would Abraham introduce himself this way?

Rashi says he is simply stating the truth: “I have come from another land, but I have settled among you”—I’m a stranger now, but I intend to become a neighbor. The midrash, however, imagines Abraham’s internal calculation: If you sell it to me, I’ll treat myself as a stranger and pay. But if not, I’ll claim it as my legal right because God already promised it to me.

In that reading, Abraham is always confident. But the plain meaning lingers: I am a stranger. Abraham lives in the tension between God’s promise and human insecurity—between absolute belonging and the fear of not being accepted.

That tension has followed us through Jewish history. Yet a moment in our American story shifted how Jews understood themselves in this land. In 1790, President George Washington, in only his second year in office, responded to a letter from the Jewish community of Newport, Rhode Island. Moses Seixas had written to Washington, expressing deep gratitude that the new Constitution granted “liberty of conscience” and made people of every nation “equal parts of the great governmental machine.”

President Washington wrote back:

“The Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance…”

And then the line that still gives me chills:

“May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the goodwill of the other inhabitants; while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree, and none shall make him afraid.”

What is astonishing is that Washington did not imagine Jews as strangers at all. He did not merely tolerate us. He envisioned us as full citizens, still Jewish, still ourselves, and also wholly American. We didn’t have to leave anything behind in order to belong.

That vision became a promise American Jews would repeatedly ask this country to fulfill. But since October 8th, 2023, that sense of security has been shaken. The explosion of antisemitism has made many of us ask, again, what Abraham asked: Am I a stranger? Am I safe? Can I bring my full Jewish self into this land?

So what does it mean to be Jewish Americans today? How do we hold onto pride in who we are while living within a pluralistic society that needs us to show up, not hidden, not diluted, but fully ourselves? Do we still belong here? 

We learn from Abraham, the first Jew. He carried two truths at once: pride in who he was, and a willingness to engage the world around him with dignity and clarity. He arrived as a stranger, but he did not erase himself to be welcomed. He brought his identity with him. 

What troubles me about Philadelphia is the message being sent to these Jewish business owners: you don’t belong here. Whatever their views on Israel, they should not have to pass a political test to be accepted as neighbors. We can disagree about a government’s policies. But telling Jewish business owners that they have no place in their own city crosses a line. 

This is not the America that I believe in. The America I believe in is an America where neighbors get to know each other, where they look beyond the label and see the person. We should not have to leave part of ourselves behind to belong.

And that is a reminder for us, too. We know how painful it is when someone makes assumptions about us without knowing us. We have a responsibility to approach our neighbors with the same care we ask of them: to get to know them, listen to their stories, and respect their identities. Our right to belong is already ours. Building a society that recognizes that right in one another is work we share.

So what was my teshuvah, my answer to the person who wrote to me?

First, I cannot take your fear away with facts. I understand why you are afraid. When you see Jewish businesses being singled out, especially so close to the anniversary of Kristallnacht, it touches something deep in our collective memory.

But remembering our history also means recognizing the differences. In Nazi Germany, the government organized the persecution of Jews. In Philadelphia, the mayor has condemned the targeting of Jewish businesses, and police are preparing to protect public safety. It does not erase the antisemitism, but it reminds us that we have people standing with us. We need to hear their voices, too.

On Rosh Hashanah, I said that the future of the Jewish-American story is still being written. I believe that. We must stay vocal, stand up for our community, and demand safety from our elected officials. We are Americans, and asking our country to uphold its promises is part of being American.

But what do we do with the fear that remains?

One saying that has always kept me going is, “This too shall pass.” It reminds me that the way things feel today is not necessarily how they will feel forever. I cannot tell you when this anxiety will pass, or what will come next. Neither could Abraham. In our parashah, he takes his destiny into his own hands. God promises him the land, but he doesn’t wait for God to hand it to him; he buys it. God promises that he will have offspring as numerous as the stars, but when he sees Isaac in his 30s without a wife, Abraham sends his servant Eliezer to find one so his future offspring will move from dream to reality. 

In all these acts, Abraham committed to his family’s future, and we must do the same. Every time we teach our children, gather as a community, stand beside someone who has been targeted, or invite another person into Jewish life, we are investing in a future we cannot yet see.

I still believe hope is the Jewish people’s secret weapon. Abraham gave his hope a place in the ground. Our task is to give ours a place in our lives. Israel’s national anthem is HaTikvah for a reason. Through generations of uncertainty, our people kept hoping, and we gave that hope expression by teaching, building, and taking responsibility for one another. That work continues with us.

So this is my teshuvah, my answer, to the person who wrote to me, and to anyone here carrying the same question: I hear your fear. You do not have to carry it alone. And we still have a future to build together.