When Labels Become Shields: Zionism vs Anti-Zionism

Tomorrow I will give a more typical sermon on the Torah portion, but tonight I want to get personal. I’m speaking only for myself, but I hope this opens the door to more conversation.

In contemplating the theme “The Ties That Bind Us,” I naturally think of labels and our self-identification. Labels help us make sense of our world, describe our experiences, and connect with others who are similar to us.

Labels also have drawbacks. As I discussed last week regarding the label of patriot, what happens when people have differing definitions of a certain label? Do we hold onto the label, adjust it with a disclaimer, or abandon it completely?

Another limitation of labels is their potential to create a false dichotomy. Many labels are binary, failing to represent those in the in-between. Often those in the middle will be closer to each other than they are to others within their same label, but because their labels are different, we assume they are not alike.

Labels also evolve over time. Even in our holy texts we see labels change. Our people are called Ivrim, Hebrews, then B’nei Yisrael, Israelites, and finally Yehudim, Jews. As labels we identify with evolve, we must ask ourselves: does the label remind us who we are, or hold us back from evolving along with it?

With so many labels available, I appreciate that Kehila is a community that resists labels. We are non-denominational, or “Just Jewish.” It may not be as descriptive, but it gives us the freedom and autonomy to define ourselves individually. We may choose different descriptors, and that diversity is a good thing.

Another concern with labels is it can be jarring to be mislabeled. I used to believe honesty was the best policy, as a form of integrity. I’m beginning to rethink that.

The year was 2003. I was 14 and just realized I was queer, but I kept it to myself. Although my immediate family was progressive, I was in a deeply homophobic area and didn’t know anyone else who was out as queer.

I was visiting my cousin who had recently moved to Colorado. She had just started at a new school and was being bullied. She had turned down a guy who asked her out, and now the whole school was calling her a lesbian. No one wanted to be seen with her, and she was struggling to make friends.

“But you’re not gay,” I said. “Why don’t you just tell them that and they’ll stop?”

“But what if I was?” she responded. “Then would it be okay for them to bully me? There’s nothing wrong with being gay. If they don’t want to be my friend because they think I’m gay, I don’t want to be their friend either.”

As a closeted queer, that conversation opened my eyes. Here my straight cousin was willing to let everyone think she was gay, because she didn’t want to condone the idea that the bullying was only wrong if it was factually incorrect. The bullying was wrong not because she’s straight, but because it’s wrong to bully someone for being gay.

This was before gay marriage had widespread approval, before we had federal protections. As the question of gay civil rights became more popular, every time I heard someone say, “As an ally I support gay rights,” I thought of my cousin. Perhaps they thought their support for gay rights was even more meaningful as someone who was personally unaffected. But for me it came across as a kind of “no homo” – I support gay people, but please don’t think I am one.

As someone who’s involved in a lot of pro-Palestinian events, people will often say to me, “It’s so nice to see a rabbi who’s anti-Zionist.” I wouldn’t correct them, but it made me feel weird, as if I was being disingenuous.

I asked another Zionist rabbi actively involved in Palestinian liberation, “What do you do when people assume you’re anti-Zionist?” They sighed before responding, “I don’t know, I don’t know. I feel so awkward. I generally don’t say anything, but it feels like lying.”

In late 2023 when I came out in support of ceasefire, I felt compelled to include a disclaimer. No Zionist organization was speaking out, not even those who claimed to be pro-peace. I wanted to show that there were Zionists who were against Israeli aggression. Not wanting to be affiliated with AIPAC-type Zionists, I came up with a new term: Critical Zionist.

But now I wonder if that was my own version of “no homo.” Perhaps part of me was saying, “I’m pro-Palestinian, but I’m not like the other pro-Palestinians who are anti-Zionist. Please don’t think I am one.”

Zionism has different meanings for different people. Some people wouldn’t include me in their definition of Zionism, while others who identify as anti-Zionists would fall under my definition of Zionism. I’m beginning to realize the label does not matter as much as our values, which cannot be defined in a single word.

This question of what Zionism is and whether or not to identify with it has been on my mind for years, but it is especially relevant this year as my seminary and the Reform Movement as a whole are facing a rift. There are prominent leaders in my Movement pushing to exclude anti-Zionists from Reform spaces and bar them from becoming Reform rabbis.

Worse yet, the ones who wish to excommunicate Jews from our communities are unwilling to engage in conversations about what those labels mean. They make sweeping generalizations based on assumptions. For example, they might assume that someone protesting the settler-violence in the West Bank is not only an anti-Zionist, but one that wants to destroy the State of Israel. They might assume that someone signing a letter supporting ceasefire is not only an anti-Zionist, but one that wants all Israelis to die.

When Ze’evi and I were first applying to clergy positions, we were discriminated against for being transgender. Some communities never offered us interviews, while others explicitly told us or people we knew that they would never hire a transgender rabbi or cantor.

Despite identifying as allies to the transgender community, our colleagues were more than willing to accept jobs in these transphobic communities. When I said that “to ally” with someone is to be in solidarity with them, to put yourself in their position, to accept whatever negative treatment they would have endured, they responded: “These communities need clergy too.” I was frustrated that my so-called allies weren’t willing to risk employment at an unaccepting place.

And then I did the same thing.

I was invited to be a scholar-in-residence in a politically conservative community, where teaching about trans inclusion could really make a difference. As I was being considered for the job, I was asked: “Are you a Zionist?” At the time, I felt that my response was sufficient. I said, “Yes, but I’m also a member of Rabbis for Ceasefire.” While I was conveying my values, I was also validating discrimination against anti-Zionist rabbis. I was not putting myself in their position, accepting whatever negative treatment they would have endured. I didn’t need to lie, I could have simply said, “I don’t see the relevance in the question and I respectfully decline to answer.”

I know many people who have stopped calling themselves Zionists in the past few years. I’m not yet at that point. The Zionist label remains important to me, and I continue to identify with it. I refuse to let AIPAC-types steal the identity from me. But I understand why others are abandoning it.

However, I want to make a formal apology. Not for identifying as a Zionist, but for using that label as a personal shield. I believed I was being honest, but perhaps a part of me, even unconsciously, was hoping to be classified as “one of the good ones.” Perhaps a part of me was afraid of what might happen if I was misidentified as an anti-Zionist.

Despite my self-identification, I probably have more in common with most anti-Zionists than I do with most Zionists. I’m not sure Zionist and anti-Zionist mean much anymore. The spectrum is so wide, it is more helpful to talk about values.

I think back to my cousin. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t gay, what mattered is that she believed bullying gay people was wrong. It doesn’t matter that I’m not an anti-Zionist, it matters that I believe ostracizing Jews for being anti-Zionist is wrong.

I am deeply disappointed in the American Jewish community for creating litmus tests of good Jews versus bad Jews. I’m disappointed in myself for my own participation in these litmus tests, and my alignment as “one of the good ones”. I’m especially disappointed in my beloved Reform Movement for drawing lines in the sand of who is and isn’t included. We are supposed to be the Movement of the Big Tent ideology – why isn’t our tent big enough to hold differing views on Zionism? Why are we not evolved enough to engage in dialogue and discourse?

Thankfully, the President of the Hebrew Union College, the seminary of the Reform Movement, has declared that the school will never discriminate against anti-Zionists. He rightly called the desire to do so a modern-day McCarthyism. Diversity makes the Jewish community stronger, and we have enough to deal with without turning against each other.

Just as Kehila doesn’t identify with a Jewish denomination, we also don’t have an official stance on Zionism. I love that we have Zionists, non-Zionists, and anti-Zionists who have all found their home here. It doesn’t matter how you identify; what matters is where your values lie.

Moving forward, I want to focus on shared values without labels. I want to discuss the settler violence in the West Bank, the ongoing hunger in Gaza, and the segregation and discrimination within the State of Israel. I want to emphasize that violence begets violence, and peace cannot take sides. I want to highlight the growing grassroots peace movements of Jews and Palestinians within Israel working together to create a better future for all.

In this time of making amends, I want to express that I regret my part in creating divisions, and I’m sorry. I will claim my labels if asked, but I will no longer use them as a shield. If we could all let go of labels and have full conversations, I’m certain we would find that we have more in common than not.

May 5787 be a year of unity and solidarity.