by Rabbi Yisrael Rutman

What is the difference between living in the Land of Israel and living anywhere else?

The question arises from time to time. When there’s news of rockets landing in Sderot, or the Israeli army in Gaza, the answer seems fairly obvious: that this is the only country permanently at war with its neighbors. The only country to withstand 41 UN Security Council resolutions condemning it in the past three decades (and suffered no sanctions only because the U.S. vetoed them).

But from the point of view of Jewish tradition, which predates the modern state of Israel by over three millenia, the land of Israel was always different. True, the ancient Jewish state also had its enemies; but that was not the source of its uniqueness. What has always made this small parcel of earth different is its role as the spiritual homeland of the Jewish people. This is the place of which it says in the Torah that “the eyes of God are upon it from the beginning of the year to the end of the year.” It was the land promised—and delivered—to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and their descendants. It was the home of prophecy and the Holy Temple. And in the messianic era will be home to the in-gathering of all the Jews of the exile.

Those are the facts. Besides the meta-historical checklist, however, there is the relationship between the Jew and his homeland. There is the feeling, cherished over centuries, and prized in the present, as well, that a Jew can have for this land.

I recall a few years ago, when a friend’s father came from England to attend his son’s wedding in Jerusalem, and remarked on the difference, that in Israel he felt somehow, inexplicably, closer to God. It was as if a barrier had been lifted. He was not religiously observant. Conventional Jewish practice meant little to him, but he felt it. Not everyone has such an awareness, not everyone is sensitive to it, even among some of the most observant Jews. This is what is meant by the statement of the Talmud (Ketubot 110), “Whoever lives in the Land of Israel, it is as if he has a God; whoever lives outside the land, it is as if he has no God.” Of course, one can believe in God anywhere; but He is more accessible in Israel.

Rabbi Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler, articulated his feeling for the land from the perspective of a Torah scholar. After moving from England to Israel, he said that preparing one of his now-classic essays on Jewish philosophy and ethics took him significantly less time than it used to. It was confirmation of the sayings of the Sages that “the air of the Land of Israel makes one wise” (Bava Batra 155b), and “There is no Torah like the Torah of the Land of Israel” (Sifri, Ekev).

The special relationship to the Land finds expression in esoteric ways too. In Jewish tradition, the right side represents the inclination to do good (yetzer hatov), the left is associated with evil (yetzer hara). Preference is therefore given to the right. In the Temple service, the kohanim (priests) would always move in a rightward direction. We hold the lulav in the right hand, put on shoes right shoe first. The mystics are careful to place right hand on left during prayer, and other times, as well. In blessing the children on Sabbath Eve there is a custom to place the right hand on the left on the child’s head.

Some years ago, Rabbi Zalman Brizal, who had moved from Israel to New York, was asked if he had noticed any difference living outside the Land? Yes, certainly, he answered. When pressed to say if he himself felt this difference in some way, he said that whereas in Israel he had always been careful never to cross his left leg over his right when sitting, he had several times caught himself unintentionally doing so since coming to New York (Aleinu L’Shabeiach, Shmos, Pp. 220-1).

As for me, I make no claim to esoteric knowledge. Nor have I had the kind of Divine assistance experienced by Rabbi Dessler. One thing I can say, though. Once, my wife and I were contemplating moving back to the United States, and the decision proved exceedingly difficult. We sought rabbinical guidance, and were told it was a decision only we could make for ourselves. We discussed it and discussed it, turning over the various aspects of the problem, but no solution was in sight. Until, finally, I went for a walk around the little town in northern Israel where we were living, and decided that I simply could not leave such a beautiful place.

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