Before anything else, I want to express my sincere gratitude to the Chabad shluchim and shluchos who have welcomed us so warmly during our speaking tour across America. Their hospitality, generosity, and dedication to the Jewish people have been remarkable. Whatever theological differences we may have, I deeply respect the sacrifices they and their families make to reach Jews wherever they may be found. Indeed, it is precisely because of that respect that I believe we must engage in honest and healthy dialogue about an issue central to the destiny of every Jew: Are we working to bring the exile to an end, or have we become so successful at maintaining Jewish life abroad that we have inadvertently made Galus itself desirable?
Beginning in New York at the Kinus HaShluchim and continuing south through Florida, our delegation has addressed hundreds of Jews, from university students to established religious communities, with a simple but urgent message: It is time for the Jewish people to come home. Many have been receptive. Others considerably less so. At one campus Chabad House, some students appeared genuinely confused by our passionate call for Aliyah, seemingly different from what they had heard from their local rabbis. Yet the students themselves were largely receptive. When I suggested to the Chabad shluchos that they, too, should consider returning home, they paused, apparently unsure where I meant, before rolling their eyes as though I had proposed establishing a Chabad House on the moon! Although perhaps that suggestion would have been more warmly received.
What struck me was not merely their reaction, but the theological worldview it seemed to reflect. Consider the verse synonymous with Chabad’s worldwide mission: “וּפָרַצְתָּ יָמָּה וָקֵדְמָה וְצָפֹנָה וָנֶגְבָּה” — “You shall spread out westward and eastward, northward and southward” (Bereishit 28:14). But read it in context. Hashem is speaking to Yaakov Avinu, having just promised him the land upon which he lies. The promise is rooted in Eretz Yisrael, the homeland of Yaakov’s descendants. Chabad has expanded this geographical promise into a spiritual mandate to spread Judaism throughout the world. As a homiletical application, that is inspiring. But spreading Torah throughout the world must not become an excuse for forgetting where the Jewish people ultimately belong.
Consider also the familiar words of Kedushah: “מְלֹא כָל הָאָרֶץ כְּבוֹדוֹ” — “The whole earth is filled with His glory” (Yeshayahu 6:3), and “בָּרוּךְ כְּבוֹד ה׳ מִמְּקוֹמוֹ” — “Blessed is the glory of Hashem from His place” (Yechezkel 3:12). Beyond their familiar universal meaning, there is a geographically specific understanding connecting the former to Eretz Yisrael and the latter to the Makom HaMikdash. Hashem is everywhere, but that does not make everywhere equally holy. Jerusalem is not interchangeable with Brooklyn, and the Makom HaMikdash is certainly not interchangeable with 770 Eastern Parkway.
Even the Midrashic teaching that in the Messianic era the entire world will become like Eretz Yisrael, and Eretz Yisrael like Yerushalayim, cannot simply be taken to mean that all geographical distinctions disappear. If everywhere literally becomes Eretz Yisrael, what becomes of the mitzvot hateluyot ba’aretz, the commandments dependent upon the Land? And if every city becomes Yerushalayim, what becomes of Aliyah LaRegel, the obligation to ascend to the Beit HaMikdash? The prophet Yeshayahu declares, “כִּי מִצִּיּוֹן תֵּצֵא תוֹרָה וּדְבַר ה׳ מִירוּשָׁלָיִם” — “For Torah shall go forth from Zion, and the word of Hashem from Jerusalem” (Yeshayahu 2:3). The entire world may receive its light, but Jerusalem remains its source. Expanding holiness does not mean erasing its geographical center.
I sincerely agree with approximately 98 percent of Chabad’s mission. But that remaining two percent troubles me profoundly. I perceive a subtle but consequential message that remaining in exile is not merely an unfortunate necessity, but an acceptable, perhaps even desirable, long-term Jewish ideal. A shliach may travel to the farthest corners of the earth to find a Jew. But surely the purpose of finding that Jew cannot be to convince him that the farthest corners of the earth are where he belongs forever.
The Torah provides the ultimate mission statement. Hashem promises, “וְשָׁב וְקִבֶּצְךָ מִכָּל־הָעַמִּים” — He will gather you from all the nations. Even if your dispersed are “בִּקְצֵה הַשָּׁמָיִם” — at the very ends of the heavens — from there He will gather you (Devarim 30:3–4). But gather you where? The next verse answers: “וֶהֱבִיאֲךָ ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֶל־הָאָרֶץ” — He will bring you into the Land. The Torah does not envision an eternally expanding network of Jewish communities in exile as the culmination of Jewish history. It envisions their ingathering.
Herein lies the relationship between three essential biblical promises. “וּפָרַצְתָּ” inspires us to spread outward and reach every Jew. “כִּי מִצִּיּוֹן תֵּצֵא תוֹרָה” reminds us that Torah’s universal influence emanates from Zion. And “וְשָׁב וְקִבֶּצְךָ” promises the gathering of our scattered people home. Torah goes outward from Zion while the Jewish people return inward toward Zion. These missions are not contradictory. They are complementary parts of the same divine plan.
But history offers a sobering warning. According to the Midrash, only one-fifth of the Jewish people left Egypt. The remaining four-fifths, who did not wish to leave, perished during the plague of darkness. Imagine that! After generations of slavery and witnessing miraculous plagues, the overwhelming majority, according to this tradition, still preferred the familiarity of exile to the uncertainty of redemption. Their tragedy was not that Hashem had forgotten them, but that they refused to participate in their own liberation. I am not suggesting that every Jew who remains in the Diaspora today faces the same fate. But Galus carries consequences, both spiritual and potentially physical, and the comfort of the familiar can become a dangerous illusion. If our ancestors could witness the miracles of the Exodus and still choose to remain in Egypt, what makes us so certain we won’t make the same mistake?
Of course, not every Jew can pack a suitcase tomorrow. There are genuine personal, financial, familial, and communal considerations. But recognizing the practical difficulties of Aliyah is very different from transforming those difficulties into a theological justification for remaining in exile indefinitely. Redemption demands more than passive anticipation. It demands hishtadlus, our own practical effort to participate in the fulfillment of Hashem’s promises.
Which brings me back to the title. Perhaps “No Jew Will Be Left Behind” requires a qualification. No Jew who genuinely wishes to come home and makes the necessary hishtadlus should be left behind. Admittedly, that doesn’t make for quite as catchy a song title! But we cannot exercise another Jew’s free will. We can only inspire, educate, encourage, and assist. Hashem promises to gather His people, but we must be willing to answer His call.
As our tour continues, I hope this conversation will deepen rather than divide us. We pray three times a day for the ingathering of our exiles. Surely we should be prepared to participate in answering our own prayers. The mission of the shliach is to ensure that no Jew is forgotten in exile. The mission of Geula is to help ensure that no Jew who seeks redemption is left behind. We cannot force every Jew to come home, but we can make certain that no Jew who wants to come home must make that journey alone.
This article first appeared on Rabbi Wander’s Substack
