When Jerusalem fell to Rome in 70 CE, the whole of Jewish civilization faced collapse. As the Temple was leveled and ransacked of its holy treasures, zealots mounted a desperate, doomed defense, and hopelessness seemed the only path forward. Yet the great Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, the progenitor of Rabbinic Judaism, took another course. Smuggled out of the city, he did not plead for vengeance or even survival. He instead asked the Roman general for permission to build a school in the small town of Yavneh.
From the ashes of catastrophe, Yochanan planted seeds that would lead to a Jewish flourishing.
This humble but visionary choice remains one of the most consequential in our history. It was also profoundly counterintuitive: At a moment when violence seemed the only logical response, Yochanan staked the Jewish future on intellectual rigor, creativity and community. He understood that ruin cannot be met with ruin, but by the audacity to build something new.
Today, America faces a similar challenge. In an era of hyper-politicization, too many of us have become addicted to tearing down rather than building up.
Conservatives identify themselves by what they oppose, progressives by what they resist, and even moderates feel disillusioned by the never-ending cycle of outrage. Rather than viewing ourselves as purely good and the other side as purely evil, we must embrace humanization and see that the goal is not dominating the other side, but creating a new, shared society together that can celebrate difference rather than be defeated by it.
The irony is striking. We see demonstrations everywhere, but show little imagination to solve problems. Streets fill with protests, but what animates most of them is aversion, not aspiration. A quick scroll through social media can remind us how civic life has become a theater of reactivity.
I understand the allure of good trouble intimately, having spent many years in the community organizing space registering voters in overlooked neighborhoods, joining picket lines, blocking New York City traffic and speaking in spaces where Orthodox rabbis are not often found, such as churches and mosques. I continue to believe that courage means bearing witness to injustice. But after decades of “fighting the power,” I’ve learned that opposition without construction is merely sophisticated complaining.
To stand opposed but without a plan is perhaps below a bare minimum. It lets us dodge the harder work to imagine what could be, and to forge what will last. Rosh Hashanah this week reminds Jews that creation of the world is not finished, and about our ongoing need to complete the task. The concept of teshuvah — often translated as repentance, though the actual term is more like “return” — offers a model. It’s not about going back to some golden age, but about reorienting toward our best selves and a better world.
First, we must break free from consuming news like junk food, filling ourselves with outrage that leaves us intellectually malnourished. Deep thinking feels pointless when cheap character attacks get all the attention. Politics rushes to fill the vacuum, turning every issue into tribal warfare. Like the zealots of Jerusalem who knew only the sword, we’ve convinced ourselves that every battle must be in either total support or complete opposition with nothing in between.
Recent events underscore this need. A 2024 Gallup poll found that 80% of U.S. adults see deep divisions over core values and don’t see the country as united and as lacking a shared sense of purpose. Rather than screaming the same stale political tropes louder and louder, we might restore a societal discourse about our inner lives with an eye toward rebuilding a more stabilized civic culture of shared values and dialogue.
Secondly, we must restore the bond between character and thought. The Greeks called it ethos: intellect flows from who we are. Today, politics obsesses over positions while ignoring the moral and psychological roots beneath them. Each side demonizes not only rival leaders but also their followers; a grave mistake. Yochanan saw that most people are not driven by malice but by the search for coherence and dignity. Misreading human motives guarantees deadlock.
Most vitally, we need to relearn how to depend on each other. Our thoughts and character don’t develop in a vacuum; they are formed through our interactions with one another. Government agencies, nonprofits and religious institutions should help rebuild connection for social cohesion and spiritual renewal. This is why the loneliness epidemic in America is being significantly felt right now: It’s not just about having friends, but about being recognized.
Individuals yearn to feel important and to be part of something larger. In the absence of that, many seek out extremist groups not due to their beliefs per se, but for a sense of community.
The shofar calls us to return to our best selves, and demands both the humility to question our assumptions and the generosity to imagine that our perceived opponents might have insights we lack. Further in reflecting on the politicians that I feel most repelled by, I see that their vices are ones that we all hold. My external critique presents an internal opportunity.
America today is similarly called to move beyond the cycles of negation and engage in the challenging work of rebuilding shared spaces for dialogue about the common good that can be heated but never violent. Resistance has its place, and it can keep us afloat in rough waters. But only spiritual authenticity and inspired moral originality can carry us collectively to shore. Yochanan didn’t just survive catastrophe; he transformed it into opportunity.
This is what America needs now. The courage not just to fight, but to build.
Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the president and dean of the Valley Beit Midrash and the author of 30 books on Jewish ethics.
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