
One of the most challenging and misunderstood ideas in Judaism is the concept of being the "Chosen People." It’s a phrase that has been twisted, misrepresented, and weaponized, and sometimes, I struggle with it too. What does it really mean to be chosen? Today, as I was reflecting on this question, a new understanding came to me—a way to hold this idea that feels authentic, deeply meaningful, and alive.
Being chosen isn’t something static or passive. It’s not about being set apart by divine fiat and then sitting back while the world unfolds around us. It’s not a crown or a medal.
It’s an action. A process. It’s about being the choosing people.
Judaism introduced something radical into the world: the idea that human beings are created btzelem Elokim, in the image of God. Unlike the rest of nature, we have free will. We can choose. That capacity, the ability to discern, decide, and direct the course of our lives, is part of what makes us human. But for Jews, it goes deeper than that. To be part of this people is to be in a relationship with God—a covenant. And like any relationship, it is not one-and-done. It’s dynamic. It requires constant renewal, daily recommitment, and endless small and large choices.
We choose God every time we act with kindness or integrity. We choose Torah every time we pause before speaking or think about the impact of our actions. We choose Judaism every time we embrace Shabbat, say a blessing, or wrestle with a mitzvah that feels inconvenient or hard. To me, this is what it means to be chosen. It means we are the people who choose—and we keep choosing.
As a convert to Orthodox Judaism over 25 years ago, I’ve had the unique experience of making this choice explicitly and publicly. But over time, I’ve realized that every Jew—born into it or not—has to make the same choice. Every. Single. Day.
We live in a world that often feels hostile to this choice. There’s no shortage of reasons to walk away. The pressures of modernity pull at us; the dangers of antisemitism make it feel, at times, almost reckless to stand up and say, "I am a Jew." Even our successes can be seductive, lulling us into forgetting the vulnerability and shared history that bind us together. And yet, we endure. We endure because we keep choosing.
This idea came into sharp focus for me when someone recently asked why I advocate so strongly for the Jewish people, rather than for other groups or people who are suffering. I understood the question was coming from a place of care, but it struck a nerve. My answer came from both my heart and my head. Meaning it’s both a practical answer, but also a plea.
Who else will fight for us? There are billions of people advocating for Christians, Muslims, and countless other causes. But we are so small. We are unique in our vulnerability, our history, and our destiny. If we don’t choose ourselves—our people, our covenant, our future—who will? As I used to tell my bat mitzvah classes when we discussed tzedaka: It’s common for Jewish people to support causes that aren’t specifically Jewish, but it’s rare to see non-Jewish people supporting Jewish causes.
That doesn’t mean I don’t care deeply about the suffering of others. I do. I pray every day for peace, for safety, for healing—for everyone. But I know that my primary responsibility is to my family, my people, and my God. To be Jewish is to understand that our loyalty to one another is not exclusionary—it is the foundation of our strength.
Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks z”l once wrote, "Faith is not certainty. Faith is the courage to live with uncertainty… an engagement, a constant making and remaking of a relationship." That’s exactly what being Jewish feels like to me.
I find so much hope in this. Because when you strip away the fear, the noise, the narratives imposed on us from the outside, what remains is so simple and so profound. To be Jewish is to be in a relationship—with God, with each other, with the world—and that relationship is built on a million acts of choosing.
We are chosen because we choose.
We have to keep choosing to be the chosen people. It’s not a title bestowed upon us for all time, nor a static identity that persists without effort. It’s something we actively create and sustain every single day. To remain Jewish is to continually affirm, in thought, word, and action, that we belong to this covenant, to this people, to this extraordinary journey.
What strikes me most about this is the profound resilience it requires. For millennia, the Jewish people have faced unimaginable challenges—persecution, exile, dispersion, and relentless attempts to erase us from history. And yet, we remain. Not by accident, not by default, but because generation after generation has chosen to remain Jewish. Each person, in their own way, has made a choice to hold on: to keep Shabbat, to study Torah, to raise Jewish children, to identify as a Jew even in the face of danger or hatred.
I find this idea especially moving because it means that being chosen isn’t only about exclusivity or privilege—it’s about responsibility and commitment. Its an invitation to live with purpose, to hold ourselves to a higher standard, and to remain in relationship with something much larger than ourselves.
For me, this also reframes what it means to be a tiny people. Our smallness is not a weakness but a testament to the power of choice. Despite being just a fraction of the world’s population, we persist because those who remain Jewish have chosen to be Jewish. And this choice is made in the face of a world that often gives us every reason not to. Whether it’s the allure of assimilation, the challenges of antisemitism, or the sheer exhaustion of swimming against the tide, the pull to step away can be strong. And yet, we stay. We endure. We choose.
This, I think, is the essence of Jewish identity. It’s not inherited like a piece of property, to be passed down without thought or effort. It’s inherited like a torch, carried forward only by those willing to keep the flame alive. And that flame, once chosen, illuminates not just the Jewish people but the entire world.
So, in the end, being “the chosen people” isn’t something we are—it’s something we do. It’s a verb, not a noun. It’s a process, not a prize. And it’s a legacy that continues only because we continue to choose it.
Even in the hardest moments, even when the world feels against us, every act of choosing Judaism is a declaration: I belong.
This realization is as humbling as it is empowering. Every time I choose, I am part of a long, unbroken chain of choices made by those who came before me—by Abraham and Sarah, by the Jews who sang as they crossed the Red Sea, by the generations who held onto Torah in exile, by those who rebuilt after destruction, by my own ancestors, and by everyone who continues to choose today.
May we always have the strength to choose wisely, and may our choices bring blessing—to ourselves, to our people, and to the world
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