A recent piece written by Rabbi Efrem Goldberg, Senior Rabbi of the Boca Raton Synagogue, touched a nerve in Jewish communities around the world. His subject: the "aliyah snob," the person so convinced of the righteousness of their choice to move to Israel that they have stopped being inviting. Telling others that they are traitors or the reason Mashiach hasn't come yet is anything but inspiring. It is completely alienating, and it doesn't work.
So if guilt and condescension don’t work, what does? Rabbi Goldberg recommends sharing the richness and joy of life in Israel and offering people a vision of what their lives could become.
While I agree that these are necessary things to share, it’s not enough. I believe there is a secondary failure, quieter than the aliyah snob's arrogance, but just as consequential. And it belongs to those of us who are already here in Israel.
We haven’t built what we need to build.
We celebrated the holiday of Shavuot just a few weeks ago. Our sages, says the Kedushat Levi, call the holiday atzeret, which means to seize, hold on to, and to stop inspiration from escaping. So often in life, we experience moments of spiritual clarity. We hear an idea about geulah, about building Torah, about shaping a greater Jewish future, and for a brief moment, we believe in it completely.
The problem is that inspiration dissipates. Reality interrupts dreams, everyday life emerges with all its difficulties, and discouragement sets in.
In his commentary on Shir HaShirim, the Ramban explains that when the soul is awakened, that inspiration must become a desire but also a vessel. Inspiration alone is not enough. If one’s vision is not concretized into action, structure, sacrifice, and commitment, it will evaporate. Spiritual life challenges us to transform those fleeting moments into enduring realities.
This was precisely the challenge when the Torah was given at Har Sinai. We stood on the mountain, overwhelmed with revelation and longing, but we had not yet received a practical framework to translate that inspiration into our daily lives. Holiness cannot remain abstract ecstasy; it must eventually descend into the world of action, responsibility, and boundaries. That is the meaning of atzeret: to capture the uniqueness of the moment and turn it into a future.
The same principle governs the question of aliyah in our time.
The conversation about aliyah tends to focus on the Diaspora: Why aren't they coming? What are they afraid of? What do they not yet understand?
I believe this narrative lets the Israeli Torah community off the hook.
Ask a young Torah-observant family in New Jersey what’s stopping them from making aliyah, and they’ll give you reasons that are not necessarily theological or even materialistic. Their concerns are practical and very legitimate: Is there a community where we will actually belong? Where will my kids go to school? Will they thrive in yeshiva there or fall through the cracks? What if my child has special needs? Can my husband build a career? Can I?
These are real questions from people who are genuinely wrestling with aliyah, who are looking for concrete answers to help them make the move. Yet too often we can’t provide those answers.
Rabbi Goldberg observes that nobody embraces Shabbat because a rock was thrown at their head. They embrace it because they were lovingly invited to experience it, shown its beauty, and given a place at the table. The same principle applies to aliyah, but that table has to actually exist. The meal has to be prepared, and the seat has to be there for them.
There is a haunting parallel in Shir HaShirim. In chapters 3 and 5, the commentators understand the narrative as reflecting the cycles of exile (galut) and redemption (geulah) throughout Jewish history. In chapter 3, the guardians (shomrim) help guide and protect. Yet in chapter 5, those same shomrim strike and wound. Rashi explains that they cannot be the same people. The guardians of chapter 3 are Moshe and Aharon, while those of chapter 5 are Nevuchadnezzar and his forces.
But perhaps there is another possibility, one that is more painful precisely because it feels so familiar.
Perhaps they are, in fact, one and the same.
Sometimes, the very mentors, teachers, and communities that initially encouraged aliyah, idealism, and sacrifice become fearful when the struggle becomes real. When challenges emerge, the voices change. “Come back;" “Why are you doing this?" “Maybe this dream was unrealistic." etc.
If those of us in Israel have not built the communities, schools, and support systems families need to stay and thrive, then we risk becoming precisely those guardians. People who first inspired the journey, and through our failure to prepare for it, made it impossible to complete.
The aliyah snob wounds with words. But a community that cannot house, educate, or employ its newcomers wounds just as surely, only more quietly.
The Torah community in Israel has accomplished remarkable things. We have yeshivot and seminaries of extraordinary caliber. Neighborhoods pulse with Jewish life. A growing critical mass of English-speaking olim has paved the way. None of this should be minimized.
But building for the next fifty years, for the wave of aliyah that is both possible and necessary, requires asking and answering some hard questions: Are we creating communities where young families can genuinely thrive? Not just survive the difficulties, but build lives of meaning and stability. Housing costs in established Torah communities have become prohibitive. Young couples who would move are priced out before they begin. What solutions are community leaders, philanthropists, and developers working on together?
Are our educational institutions cultivating both greatness and resilience? The Israeli yeshiva system has produced Torah giants. It has also, at times, failed students who didn't fit the mold, those who needed more support. Families considering aliyah often have children who thrived in smaller, more individualized environments. What can we offer them?
Are we preparing young olim to live independent lives? The ability to support a family with dignity is not a concession to materialism. Parnasah is a prerequisite for sustainable life in Israel. A community that cannot house and employ its members will not retain them.
Are our rabbis, educators, and leaders thinking beyond the sermon? It is easy to speak about building the future of Torah in Israel. It is harder and more important to ask what a family needs in year one, year three, and year ten. Who is responsible for providing it? What must we build?
Rabbi Goldberg closes his essay with a call to be an inspiration rather than a critic. It is a beautiful formulation, and he is correct in that aliyah advocacy must begin there. But inspiration without infrastructure is a promise we cannot keep. When we invite someone to our home for Shabbat, we prepare. We set the table and make sure there is enough food and enough room. The invitation alone, without the preparation, is not true hospitality.
Families in Boca Raton, Teaneck, and London who are genuinely wrestling with aliyah don't need to be guilted or shamed. They need to see that we have built something worthy of the sacrifice they are considering. They need to know that their children will be educated well, that their elderly parents will be cared for, and that their community will hold them through the hard years that follow any major move. They need shomrim who do not merely inspire people to dream, but who help them remain when the dream becomes difficult.
If we can show them in the actual texture of life here, then the “aliyah snob" becomes irrelevant. And the invitation becomes irresistible.
The struggle is real. Building Medinat Yisrael and strengthening Jewish life in Eretz Yisrael was never meant to be easy. Redemption is not built through inspiration alone. It requires institutions, communities, teachers, support systems, economic vision, and spiritual courage. It requires individuals who do not merely inspire people to dream, but who help them remain when the dream becomes difficult.
The future isn’t something we passively wait for. Every generation receives moments of inspiration but very few are given the opportunity to transform those moments into history. Our generation has been given that opportunity. What a zechut it is to live in a period where one can partner with Hashem in the rebuilding of Jewish destiny.
Tthis is not an attack but just a reality check. We are a young country and the dynamic changes are a part of our own geula, redemption unfolding in real time. Atzeret teaches us that inspiration alone is not enough. We must seize it, hold it, and concretize it into enduring reality.
The geulah of the next fifty years will not be built merely by dreamers. What a zechut to be the builders, being a part of that process in concrete, practical ways.
Rabbi Ari Cutler is a Jewish educator, community builder, and leadership strategist who serves as the Senior Educator and Leadership Initiative Manager at Just One Chesed. Known for his focus on character development and community responsibility, he previously spent over two decades as a Senior Rabbi and Director of Development at Yeshivat HaKotel in the Old City of Jerusalem.