Following the murder of Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim, Israeli embassy staffers in Washington, Rabbi Ysoscher Katz referenced Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s essay “Kol Dodi Dofek,” which describes dual covenants – fate and destiny.
Yaron’s identity was complex: Israeli, member of a Messianic Jewish community, son of a Jewish father but Christian mother, who served in the IDF and worked for Israel’s foreign service, ultimately murdered as a Jew.
Though some questioned Katz’s interpretation, his point was poignant. Those who may not be recognized halachically should still be considered part of the covenant of fate, especially when external forces dictate it.
Antisemites do not distinguish between Jews recognized by Orthodox Halacha, liberal denominations, or even apostates. Their hatred is blind to these categories.
In Yaron and Sarah’s memory, I examine how we might soften the boundaries of Jewish peoplehood by considering those who choose or are forced into the fate of being Jewish – not ignoring formal definitions, but recognizing that Jewish fate includes many falling outside pure halachic categories.
Ruth’s covenant of compassion
The biblical story of Ruth provides our foundational text for understanding Jewish belonging. Ruth’s famous declaration – ”Your people are my people, your God is my God” – reveals a crucial order: first comes peoplehood, then divine commitment. Ruth’s joining the Jewish people was fundamentally an act of compassion – staying with Naomi in her darkest hour, choosing solidarity over personal security.
This wasn’t mere conversion; it was covenant through compassion. Ruth bound herself to Jewish fate before fully embracing Jewish faith, and through this act of kindness, became the ancestor of King David. Her story teaches us that Jewish belonging can begin with human connection and shared fate.
Death sanctifies the bond
This principle gains special poignancy in extreme circumstances. Those not fully considered Jewish halachically receive a higher status when killed because they are Jews. Alina Plahti, murdered at the Nova music festival on October 7, exemplifies this reality. Though her Orthodox conversion remained incomplete, she was ultimately honored alongside other victims, with the initial cemetery separation corrected by lowering the separating fence.
In 2016, then-defense minister Moshe Ya’alon ended the practice of burying fallen IDF soldiers whose Judaism was questionable in separate cemetery sections. The recognition was clear: if you’re Jewish enough to give your life as an IDF soldier, you’re Jewish enough to be buried with everyone else. When someone dies because of their Jewish identity, that sacrifice sanctifies their connection to our people.
Rabbinic compassion in practice
This approach has rabbinic precedent. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef’s 1973 ruling recognizing Ethiopian Jews’ religious status was crucial in making their aliyah possible. Beyond halachic arguments, Rabbi Ovadia was moved by their loyalty to Jewish identity across centuries of isolation. This became a factor in his halachic decision.
Rabbi Ovadia’s approach to Karaites similarly reflected compassionate pragmatism. Despite their millennium-long rejection of rabbinic authority, he ruled that marriages between Karaites and other Jews could be permitted. This recognized that those maintaining Jewish identity and practice, even in heterodox forms, retained an essential connection to the Jewish people.
Soloveitchik’s covenant of fate
Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik provided the theological framework for understanding this broader conception of Jewish belonging. He developed the idea that Jews are linked by two distinct covenants. The “covenant of destiny” binds Jews through adherence to Halacha – the covenant of Sinai, reflecting acceptance of Jewish law. The “covenant of fate” encompasses the desire or forced circumstance to be part of God’s chosen people, sharing the same fate of persecution and oppression, even without living by or being recognized by Halacha.
This distinction proves crucial for our current moment. As Soloveitchik explained: “The oppressive experience of fate finds its connection in the coalescing of individual personal experiences into the new entity called a nation.” Those who have tied themselves to our nation by decision and fate deserve our respect and compassion. In an era of explosive antisemitism, these bonds hold special value. Since October 8, Jews of all backgrounds are rediscovering they’re part of Jewish fate, whether they like it or not. It is no coincidence that this has become more prevalent with the creation of a sovereign Jewish state, where religious, national, and civic are bound in new ways.
A time for compassion
We live when Jewish identity faces external threats and internal fragmentation. While maintaining halachic standards remains vital, we cannot ignore Ruth-like figures who bind their fate with ours – Russian immigrants serving in the IDF, Ethiopian Jews preserving Jewish identity across centuries, converts-in-process dying to defend Jewish life.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks exemplified this approach. Despite his Orthodox perspective, he inscribed a sacred book for Reform convert Robert Putnam’s grandson’s bar mitzvah, recognizing that being part of the Jewish people is broader than the halachic definition. Judaism is a religion and a nation, but at its core starts as a community – joined by fate, then by destiny. In Putnam’s words, this was an act of love.
Our tradition offers a path forward: recognizing that Jewish identity encompasses both the “covenant of destiny” (halachic observance) and “covenant of fate” (shared historical experience and often suffering). When individuals voluntarily join their fate to ours, especially in times of danger, their choice creates a sacred bond worthy of recognition and honor.
This doesn’t mean abandoning halachic standards or diminishing proper conversion’s importance. Rather, it means acknowledging that Jewish belonging exists on a spectrum. Those who tie their fate to ours – who feel its pain, rejoice with it, fight in its wars – occupy a special place in our community, even when their formal status remains complex.
In an age of rising antisemitism, we need every Ruth who will declare, “your people, my people.” Our tradition must respond to her compassion with our own toward others who choose the Jewish fate.
The writer is founding partner of Goldrock Capital and founder of The Institute for Jewish and Zionist Research. He chairs a number of NGOs, including Leshem, ICAR and ReHome and is a former chair of Gesher and World Bnei Akiva.