Birthdays, in modern culture, have become exercises in celebration, affirmation, moments of recognition, gifts, and reflection. But in Jewish thought, a birthday carries a more demanding meaning, than just joy. It is not simply the anniversary of existence; it is a reminder of purpose. It is a day that asks not what one has received, but what one is meant to give.
There is a widely circulated teaching, rooted in hassidic thought and often associated with the worldview of Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, that “a birthday is the day on which God decided that the world cannot exist without you.” Whether or not that formulation is textually exact is almost beside the point. Its underlying logic is unmistakable: existence implies necessity; presence implies purpose.
The question Israel must confront at 78 is deceptively simple:
Do we still agree on why we are here?
For much of its history, Israel’s founding narrative provided a relatively coherent answer. The state existed as a refuge for the Jewish people, as an expression of national self-determination, and as a democratic framework through which that identity could be governed. These elements were not without tension, but they were broadly understood and, more importantly, broadly accepted.
Today, that coherence has significantly eroded.
And yet, to understand why that erosion matters, it is worth recalling that birthdays were not always seen as moments of uncomplicated celebration. In many earlier traditions, a birthday was understood as a moment of potential vulnerability. It was believed to be a time when a person stood more exposed, when the boundary between stability and uncertainty was thinner. The rituals we now take for granted, candles, gatherings, light, even noise, emerged not merely as festive customs, but as forms of protection. They were designed to surround the individual with presence, to reinforce them at a moment when they were thought to be more susceptible.
The birthday, in that sense, was never only about celebration. It was about awareness.
Jewish thought does not reject that vulnerability, it reframes it. Rather than seeing exposure as a weakness, it treats the day as one of heightened potential. A birthday becomes a moment of alignment, a point in time when clarity is more accessible and responsibility more immediate. The question is not how to shield oneself from the moment, but how to rise to it.
Israel at 78 should be understood in precisely that light.
On the surface, Israel is strong, militarily, economically, technologically. But national strength is not only measured in capabilities. It is measured in coherence: the degree to which a society understands itself, its purpose, and the principles that bind it together.
It is here that Israel today appears less certain.
The debates that dominate Israeli life are no longer limited to policy. They have moved into more foundational territory, questions of legitimacy, authority, and identity. Elections produce outcomes, yet those outcomes are often treated as provisional. Institutions act, yet their mandates are questioned. The language of democracy is invoked constantly, but its meaning is increasingly fragmented.
This is not merely an internal Israeli issue. Israel is not a typical nation-state with a closed circle of stakeholders. Alongside its citizens stands a global Jewish community, diverse, engaged, and deeply invested, that sees Israel not only as a country, but as a central component of its collective identity and future. For millions of Jews around the world, Israel is not foreign policy. It is personal.
That reality complicates, but also enriches, the question of cohesion. The conversation about Israel’s purpose is not confined to its borders. It extends across continents, communities, and generations. Any attempt to reestablish coherence must account for this broader stakeholder reality.
My own perspective on this is shaped by choice.
As a third-generation American, the descendant of a family that came to the United States in the aftermath of the Civil War, and with a grandfather who served as a decorated soldier in the American Army during World War I, I was raised with a deep appreciation for what America represents. My decision to make Aliyah was not a rejection of that. It was a choice: a decision to see Israel not simply as an idea, but as a responsibility, to my ancestors to make it the home for myself, my children, and future generations.
That choice carries weight.
It is one thing to be born into a reality. It is another to choose it, knowing its complexities and challenges, and to commit to it nonetheless. That is why, when I ask what I owe Israel on its birthday, the question feels less symbolic and more personal.
And it is also why my answer cannot be superficial.
There is, however, another dimension to Israel’s current moment that is worth acknowledging, one that is somewhat paradoxical.
For much of its history, Israel’s cohesion has been reinforced not only by its achievements, but by the threats it has faced. The memory of the Holocaust, combined with the reality of hostile neighbors and repeated wars, created a shared understanding of existential risk. That understanding, in turn, fostered cooperation and a degree of internal alignment. The presence of a clear external threat can, at times, simplify internal dynamics.
Which is why the current situation presents a subtle challenge.
If one of the most significant existential threats, such as the prospect of a nuclear-armed Iran, is reduced or removed from the equation, the immediate effect is, of course, positive from a security standpoint. But paradoxically, it can also expose internal divisions that were previously muted by the urgency of survival.
To be clear, Israel does not lack for adversaries. It remains in a region where its legitimacy is contested, and at a time when antisemitism is once again on the rise globally. The external challenges are real and persistent.
But the paradox remains worth noting: when survival is no longer the only unifying principle, a deeper question emerges.
Are we here only to survive? Or are we here to do something more?
This is where the birthday metaphor returns with greater force.
If, as that hassidic teaching suggests, existence implies purpose, if the very fact of being born means that something unique is expected of you, then the same can be said, at least metaphorically, of a nation. The rebirth of the State of Israel was not only a historical event. It was, in a deeper sense, a statement: that the world, at that moment onwards, could not continue without it.
Not only as a refuge. Not only as a symbol. But as a contributor.
In Jewish terms, that contribution is often framed through the concept of tikkun olam, the responsibility to repair, to improve, to bring something of value into the world. That idea does not replace the need for security or sovereignty. It builds on it.
And it brings us back, finally, to the question of the birthday gift.
What do you give a country that you have chosen, that you believe in, and that you are helping to shape?
For me, the answer is a mirror.
Not a mirror meant to criticize, but one meant to reflect. To show us who we are, clearly, honestly, without distortion. Not who we imagine ourselves to be, and not only who we once were, but who we are now.
A mirror does not provide solutions. It does something more fundamental. It severely limits the ability to look away.
It reveals strength, but also strain. Achievement, but also fragmentation. Passion, but also polarization.
It also reveals something deeply encouraging: a society that still cares enough to engage, to argue, to take responsibility. The challenge is not apathy. It is alignment.
A birthday, in its deepest sense, is not about comfort. It is about clarity.
And clarity, especially at a moment of vulnerability, is not a luxury. It is a necessity.
As Israel marks 78 years, it has every reason to celebrate what it has built and what it has endured. But celebration alone is not the gift this moment requires.
The more meaningful gift is the willingness to look, to confront the questions of purpose, identity, and cohesion with honesty and with responsibility.
A mirror, in that sense, is not passive. It is an invitation.
An invitation to remember not only that we exist, but why we exist, and what that demands of us going forward.
Nations, like individuals, are not defined by how they celebrate their birthdays, but by how they respond to the clarity those moments provide.
At 78, Israel has earned the right to celebrate.
Now it must also choose to look in the mirror with pride, concern, and compassion.
The writer is an experienced global strategist.