The Tikvah Podcast

Today's conversation is about a publishing project: the Koren Tanakh of the Land of Israel. The concept of the series is that it takes the books of the Hebrew Bible and sets them back down in the world that produced them—in the Land of Israel, and in the economic, political, theological, and cultural setting of the ancient Near East. Around each verse it gathers what is known about that world: its archaeology and geography, the languages and the treaties and the pantheon of gods of the tribes and nations and empires among whom Israel was situated. In its modest form, the claim behind all this is one almost no one would dispute: to know the world a text came from can help you understand the text better. But a less modest claim is folded inside the modest one. For roughly two centuries, the academic study of the Bible used much of this same material—archaeology, comparisons with other sources from the ancient Near East—to take the text apart: to dissolve it into sources and redactors, to historicize revelation until what remained was an artifact of clumsy human pastiche. This series takes up the same tools and turns them to the opposite purpose. Here the history does not dissolve the text. It mediates the text, and more intimate knowledge of the ancient world carries the reader toward the integrity of the Tanakh, rather than away from it. The instruments that an earlier generation of scholars deployed to disenchant the Hebrew Bible are, in this series, put into the service of reading it with intellectual and religious integrity. And, now that Koren has published all five volumes of the Humash (the Five Books of Moses), as well as the books of Samuel, something else becomes clear. Proximity to the Land of Israel itself helps to open up the meaning of the text. If knowing how a field was watered, or how a city withstood a siege, brings the verse nearer, then the return to the Land of Israel is not only a political restoration. It is also a condition for reading our sacred scripture with greater fidelity. For most of our history, most Jews studied Torah in exile, praying and longing for, but at a great distance from, places in which the story of ancient Israel unfurls. Conversely, the ingathering of the Jews in the land of their fathers can change the way they read the text, so that Zionism itself enhances the learning of Torah. The Koren Tanakh of the Land of Israel is a marvelous accomplishment, and it has been captained by the series's editor, David Arnovitz. Arnovitz joins the Tikvah Podcast this week to discuss the book of Deuteronomy, the series as a whole, and the wager it makes about history, about the land, and about the rediscovery of the Hebrew Bible. This episode of The Tikvah Podcast is generously sponsored by Vicki Phillips in memory of Stanley Bordorf. If you are interested in sponsoring an episode of The Tikvah Podcast, we invite you to join the Tikvah Ideas Circle. Visit tikvah.org/circle to learn more and join.

Recently, Rabbi Meir Soloveichik and Carlos Campo, president of the Museum of the Bible, joined the CEO of Tikvah, Eric Cohen, for a conversation about cherishing and strengthening America's heritage of religious freedom. They were convened by the Levy Forum for Open Discourse, now in its fourth season, an initiative that is sponsored by the American Council of Trustees and Alumni, generously funded by Paul and Karen Levy, and hosted by the Palm Beach Synagogue. More information about Levy Forum programs and video recordings can be found at https://goacta.org. This week, we're sharing a special broadcast of this important conversation, which delves into who we are as Americans, the country's biblical heritage, and what it means to be a covenantal nation. This episode of the Tikvah Podcast is generously sponsored by Steve and Deborah Kleinman in memory of Steve's grandmother, Gittel Fox. If you are interested in sponsoring an episode of the Tikvah Podcast, we invite you to join the Tikvah Ideas Circle. Visit tikvah.org/circle to learn more and join.

On January 26, 2026, after 844 days, the body of Ran Gvili was brought home to Israel for burial. Of the hostages taken on October 7, his remains were the last still kept in Gaza. And when you factor in the hostages taken to Gaza before October 7, Gvili's return marked the first time since 2014 that no Israeli hostage or hostage remains are being held captive, to torture and torment Israelis, in the Gaza Strip. The operation to recover him involved hundreds of soldiers, excavators, and dentists who examined hundreds bodies in a Gazan cemetery. When they found him, the soldiers gathered and sang the song Ani Ma'amin—arms around each other, voices rising together—"I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the messiah, and even though he may tarry, I will wait for him every day." It's a song that Jews sang walking to the gas chambers during the Shoah. But there's something in that song, in its very structure, that speaks to how the Israeli soldiers experienced this moment. Ani Ma'amin contains within it the hope for the eventual coming of the messiah, yes, but also the sober recognition that right now we live in pre-messianic times. Not outside of history, but within it. The soldiers singing that song were acknowledging that the relief and closure they felt was not an escapist delusion that they had suddently entered a new phase of history, or that, with the outbreak of peace, history had ended. No, while we hope one day to be at peace, we understand that this tragedy, and the hard-won deliverance that followed, occurred in history. The end of days is coming—but not yet. It was a note of hope and sobriety uttered by a war-weary army. For two years, yellow ribbons hung from every street sign and telephone pole in Israel. Empty chairs stood at tables in restaurants and homes. The hostages were present in daily Israeli consciousness in ways that are difficult to convey to those who weren't there. What can we learn about Israeli society from the psychic and social attention it paid to these hostages? Where does this commitment to bring everyone home come from? What does it cost? And what does this moment of closure—bittersweet, sobering, deeply felt—reveal about how Israelis understand their obligations to one another and their place in history? To discuss these questions, Mosaic's editor Jonathan Silver is joined by Russ Roberts, president of Shalem College in Jerusalem. An American immigrant to Israel, Roberts has lived in Jerusalem throughout the duration of this war.

On June 22, 2025, the U.S. air force sent B2 bombers to destroy Iran's nuclear sites. Five days before that, on June 17, Hussein Aboubakr Mansour, observing the extent of Israel's military operations inside of Iran and its destruction of Iran's proxy network, published an essay in Mosaic with a counterintuitive argument: Israel's devastating strikes on the Islamic Republic would not lead to an Arab embrace of the Jewish state. Most observers assumed the opposite, that weakening Iran would accelerate normalization and that gratitude and commercial interests would drive the Gulf states closer to Jerusalem. Mansour argued instead that removing the Iranian threat would reduce the incentives for the Saudis to normalize relations with Israel. Seven months later, Mansour has written a follow-up analysis showing that recent events have borne out his thesis—and indeed exceeded his cautious predictions. Saudi Arabia hasn't just declined to normalize with Israel. It has launched an aggressive regional repositioning campaign, weaponizing anti-Zionism as a competitive instrument against the first Abraham Accords signatory, the United Arab Emirates. Mansour's latest piece, published this week in his Abrahamic Metacritique Substack, proposes a new way to grapple with the reality of two major changes that are decisively shaping regional dynamics: first, the dismantling of Iran's axis of resistance, and second, the changing nature of America's role in the Middle East. Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Qatar, Turkey, and Israel now each conduct foreign policy in order to optimize their particular national advantages with neither a dominant common adversary, as Iran was, nor the common umbrella of American leadership. Under these circumstances, Mansour argues, anti-Zionism will remain strategically useful and even grow in its political utility. He discusses all of this with Mosaic's editor Jonathan Silver. This episode of the Tikvah Podcast is generously sponsored by David Bradlow. If you are interested in sponsoring an episode of the Tikvah Podcast, we invite you to join the Tikvah Ideas Circle. Visit tikvah.org/circle to learn more and join.

In 2025, we convened about 40 new conversations, taking up the great questions of modern Jewish life—questions of war and peace, providence and civilization, memory and meaning. This year, Mosaic's editor Jonathan Silver spoke to military strategists, scholars of religion, writers, historians, rabbis, one Catholic priest and two Catholic theologians, and professors whose students have become soldiers. The conversations ranged from urgent tactical questions facing Israeli commanders to the enduring theological debates that have shaped Western civilization. The most dramatic event of 2025 came in June, when American B-2 bombers struck three nuclear sites in Iran, neutralizing the Islamic Republic's nuclear-weapons program in what came to be known as Operation Midnight Hammer. This followed a coordinated Israeli-American campaign that, in twelve days, fundamentally altered the strategic landscape of the Middle East. By October, a fragile ceasefire had taken hold in Gaza, though the questions of what comes next—for the tunnels beneath Gaza, for the Palestinian national movement, for regional order—remained unresolved. The year also brought loss. In April, Pope Francis died after a prolonged illness, prompting reflection on the state of Jewish-Catholic relations and the church's posture toward Israel and the Jewish people. And in December, Norman Podhoretz, the great editor and defender of America and Israel, died at the age of ninety-five. Meanwhile, a disturbing season of anti-Semitic violence descended upon American Jews. Arson attacks, shootings, and other forms of terrorism made clear that the ideological ferment on campuses and in progressive circles had transformed into something more dangerous. Jewish students looked to their institutions for strength and clarity, and the results were mixed at best. Through it all, we asked: what does Israel's war reveal about providence and Jewish history? What does it mean to teach the Iliad to students who themselves are warriors? Can the collapse of a failed Palestinian nationalism open new possibilities for peace? How should Jews understand the resurgence of ancient Christian heresies that seek to sever the New Testament from the Hebrew Bible? Our primary aim has not been to chronicle events but to understand their deeper significance. Now that 2025 has come to an end, we're looking back at a number of clips from the past year in hopes that, as we plan another year of conversations in 2026, you'll return to our archive and listen to some of the most fascinating episodes we've already recorded. This episode of the Tikvah Podcast is generously sponsored by David Bradlow. If you are interested in sponsoring an episode of the Tikvah Podcast, we invite you to join the Tikvah Ideas Circle. Visit tikvah.org/circle to learn more and join.

On the evening of December 14, 2025—the first night of Hanukkah—Rabbi Benjamin Elton was driving home from performing a wedding, looking forward to lighting candles with his family. Then his phone began to explode with messages. There were gunmen at Bondi Beach. His wife and children were in lockdown at a nearby event. Names of the dead were coming through—colleagues, community members. For several terrible minutes, he couldn't reach his wife. And he wondered whether he was going to come home to find that he had lost his family. By the time the shooting stopped, fifteen people were dead, among them two rabbis, an eighty-seven-year-old Holocaust survivor, and a ten-year-old girl. They had been gunned down at a public Hanukkah celebration on one of Australia's most iconic beaches, before a large crowd of Jews who had gathered to light the menorah in the open air—because that's what confident, integrated diaspora communities do. The massacre at Bondi Beach was the culmination of two years of escalating anti-Semitism that the community had been warning about since October 7. Synagogues firebombed with congregants inside. Cars set ablaze in Jewish neighborhoods. Swastikas painted on schools and daycares. Weekly pro-Palestinian marches past synagogues, with chants of "globalize the intifada." A van discovered full of explosives along with a list of the addresses of Jewish institutions. And through it all, a government that offered sympathy and money for security, but never quite confronted the deeper problem. Until, finally, the community's darkest warnings came true. Rabbi Benjamin Elton is the chief minister of the Great Synagogue in Sydney—Australia's oldest Jewish congregation, founded in the 1820s, whose pulpit has traditionally made its occupant a primary representative of Judaism to the wider society. He holds a PhD in Jewish history from the University of London, and before entering the rabbinate, he worked in Britain's Ministry of Justice. He is a scholar of Anglo-Jewish history, a fellow of the Royal Historical Society, and a Sacks scholar, and, just over a decade ago, spent a year in residence as a fellow at Tikvah. This week, Rabbi Elton has been burying his friends. He joined Jonathan Silver, the editor of Mosaic, to discuss the recent trials of his family and community, and the growing threat to Australian Jewish security.