Fear masquerading as concern traps children in exile; courage demands aliyah, sacrifice, struggle, Jewish destiny.
Come Home: Why the Excuses Have Run Out
The question has been asked again—this time with blood still fresh on the pavement. After Sydney, after the podcasts, after the whispered conversations in Brooklyn and the shouted debates in Lakewood, the truth refuses to stay quiet: Should Orthodox Jews in America make aliyah now?
The familiar excuse rises immediately, polished and rehearsed: “What about the children? What if they go off the derech?”
So, to “protect” them, we condemn them to the slow suffocation of exile. This is not caution. It is a tragic inversion of reality.
You fear spiritual danger in Eretz Yisrael, the land watched by God from year’s beginning to year’s end—but feel secure in America, a civilization built on material worship, endless appetite, and the Golden Dollar? That logic only survives in galut.
Let us speak plainly. Staying in America is no longer a risk—it is a certainty.
A certainty of spiritual erosion.
A certainty of identity diluted by comfort.
A certainty that Judaism becomes lifestyle branding instead of covenantal fire.
Look closely at the frum world in America. The velvet yarmulke, the polished Gemara skills, the strictest kashrut—yet inside, the air of the street dominates. Success is measured in square footage, luxury cars, and social prestige. The heroes paraded weekly are not builders of destiny, but collectors of wealth. Even pleasure is repackaged as “glatt kosher”—gambling cruises, luxury vacations, indulgence with rabbinic seals.
This is ritual without soul.
A Judaism stacked like a deck of cards—tall, impressive, hollow. No foundation. No mesirus nefesh. No willingness to sacrifice without guarantees.
Judaism was never built on guarantees. Avraham Avinu received none—and asked for none. A Judaism demanding certainty in income, safety, or children’s outcomes is not ancient faith; it is plastic imitation. History has already judged such communities before—and it was merciless.
The tragedy is not only those who leave observance openly. It is the quiet collapse: mouths praising Gedolim while hearts bow to Gevirim. This is spiritual off-the-derech, unfolding in real time.
Then comes the final refuge: “My Rabbi didn’t tell me to go.”
Do not outsource courage. Rabbis teach law, not inner fire. They cannot command sacrifice; that burden belongs to the individual Jew. You want someone else to own the risk—so you can assign blame if it’s hard.
But Judaism does not work that way. Freedom requires responsibility.
Do not hide behind the dead to justify comfort among the living. Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l told Jews plainly: “Go to Israel.” Is that inconvenient to hear?
Learn Ketubot. Learn Rebbi Zeira. He fled Babylon against his teacher’s opposition because he understood something eternal: better to be small in Eretz Yisrael than great in exile. He became the Torah giant of his generation precisely because he listened to the scream of the Jewish soul over the calculations of comfort.
Yes, Israel is hard. Yes, it demands struggle.
That is the point.
Judaism is not insurance. It is not safety worship. It is covenant through effort—Ratzon Hashem pursued through burden and responsibility. Our very name, Yisrael, means to struggle with God. That struggle is not a flaw; it is our calling.
Stop demanding guarantees.
Stop worshiping comfort.
Tear down the deck before history does it for you.
Come home—to responsibility, to sacrifice, to destiny.
Stop being Americans who practice Judaism.
Start being Jews who live it.
