“As A Jew,” I Love America

(Special 4th of July essay)

These days, when I hear someone begin a sentence with "As a Jew..." I brace myself. Often, what follows is some form of condemnation—of Israel, or of America itself. As a Jew, I cannot abide the ‘genocide’ in Gaza. Or: As a Jew, I can no longer support America...—with the blank filled in by whatever grievance is currently in vogue.

But with the Fourth of July approaching—the date marking the founding of a country that has given more to the world than any other—perhaps it's time to say something different. Perhaps it's time to say something grateful.

As a Jew, I love America.

Aside from Israel, this country has been the most supportive and welcoming place for Jews in all of history. That support hasn't always been perfect or uninterrupted. But look at the arc: America welcomed Jewish immigrants fleeing pogroms, and again after the Holocaust. It gave sanctuary and dignity to survivors. It stood by Israel—more than any other nation. And most importantly, it allowed Jews to speak, dissent, pray, create, and thrive.

When my wife and I moved to New York City for a two-year sabbatical just before COVID, I remember being struck by how few American flags were being flown. I heard people say, the flag has been co-opted by the right. Or: it's regressive, jingoistic to fly the flag of any nation—including the American flag, which represents so much oppression.

I have a friend who grew up in Argentina under the lingering shadow of the Perón years. While he was still young, the country fell into the grip of a brutal military dictatorship—what came to be known as the Dirty War. He remembers adults gathering in hushed mourning for their sons and daughters, university students who had vanished—abducted, tortured, sometimes thrown from helicopters into the sea. They called them The Disappeared. The trauma of that era made patriotism feel impossible to him.

That friend once asked me, “Are you a patriotic American?”

“Yes,” I told him. “I am.”

He was surprised. He wondered how a thinking person could be patriotic toward any country.

I’ve thought about that question for years, and I’m thinking about it again now, as we approach the 249th anniversary of America’s founding.

For many Jews, and others. the idea of flying the American flag now feels unfashionable—even suspect. How can you be proud of a country that elected a monster as president? But here's one answer: in America, you have the right to say that. You can criticize your leaders—in the pages of this magazine, on social media, on street corners, or in private conversations. No one will disappear you for it.

That’s what freedom looks like. And like a heartbeat, it's something we take for granted until it’s gone.

Yes, our institutions are fraying. Yes, our politics are fractured. But is it too late to fix them? I don't believe so. The system may be broken—but the mechanism to repair it still exists.

I’ve traveled to China. I’ve been to the Soviet Union. The freedoms we enjoy—even now—did not and do not exist in those places.

Somehow, it has become fashionable—especially in academia—to distance ourselves from America. The ideology of oppressor vs. oppressed, long used to malign Israel, is now turning against Jews themselves. But the question we should be asking is not: How else can we disparage this country? It is: How can we help strengthen it? How can we unify around its most profound and aspirational principle—one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all?

The Lubavitcher Rebbe—Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson—called America a malchus shel chesed—a “kingdom of kindness.” He believed this nation, founded on the ideal of religious freedom, was a place where Jews could live not only materially, but spiritually. In his words:

“This country is unique in the annals of history in that it was founded upon the principle of freedom of religion... and in practice, Jews have been able to flourish here more than anywhere else in the Diaspora.”

He didn’t idealize America—he believed in its potential. He often encouraged Jews to be engaged citizens, to vote, to write to their senators, and to take part in public life as a form of spiritual service.

And that belief has borne fruit. More than three million Jews found refuge here fleeing the pogroms of Eastern Europe. After the Holocaust, the U.S. opened its doors to more than 400,000 displaced persons, many of them Jews. America was the first to recognize the State of Israel. It is the country where Jewish schools, synagogues, Chabad houses, yeshivot, and kosher pizza shops have flourished in towns and cities across the nation.

Jews weren’t just allowed to survive in America. We thrived—and in the process, helped shape the country itself.

In literature, we had Saul Bellow, Philip Roth, Cynthia Ozick. In science, names like Richard Feynman and Jonas Salk—who helped eliminate polio from the planet. In law and civil rights: Justices Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Felix Frankfurter. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched arm-in-arm with Dr. King. In music and the arts: Leonard Bernstein, Paul Simon, Steven Spielberg, Barbra Streisand. And in business, from Estée Lauder to Sergey Brin.

These aren’t footnotes. They represent a mere fraction of the contributions American Jews have made—each name, a chapter in a much larger story—one that continues to shape the character of this nation.

And for me, it’s always been personal.

My dad was a U.S. Marine—not something many Jews can say. I remember him singing “From the Halls of Montezuma...” around the dinner table. By the time I was four or five, I knew the words. We hung the American flag on the Fourth of July and again on Veterans Day. That wasn’t performative. It was instinctual. Grateful.

Years later, I found myself working with wounded veterans, using music as a tool for healing. Some people were surprised. What’s a musician doing working with the military? But I never hesitated. My pride in being an American gave me no pause. It’s also why I’ve taught at the U.S. Army War College—not despite being a Jew, but perhaps, because of it.

When someone in your family falls ill, you don’t walk away from the whole family. You rally around them. You fight to preserve what’s essential. You believe in helping them get better. America is our home. Our flawed, beautiful, battered, and still-standing home. We don’t need to agree with everything in it to love it.

And we should never be ashamed to say, as Jews (or any American) that we do.