My Jewish moms group ousted me because I work for J Street. Is this what communal life has come to?
I’m a Zionist, a partner of a rabbi, and a committed Jewish mom — what threat could I pose to a dedicated Jewish space?
Gatekeeping which kind of Jews are allowed to participate in communal spaces can only end in more alienation. Illustration by Forward Graphics
When I moved to Atlanta nearly a decade ago, other Jewish moms insisted I join the Facebook group Jewish Moms of Atlanta. It wasn’t just a place to trade pediatrician recommendations or ask about summer camps; it was a digital extension of our Jewish communal life. JMOA was where I found everything from ideas for local date nights to support in navigating parenting my four young Jewish kids. It felt like a home.
Last week, I was kicked out of that group, with no warning and no option to appeal. All because — it seems — I work for J Street, a pro-Israel, pro-peace organization that supports diplomacy, democracy and a future where both Israelis and Palestinians can live in freedom and security.
I learned I had been booted from the group after a friend sent me a screenshot of a post from one of its moderators. “Anyone affiliated with organizations that undermine Israel’s security and the Jewish people (JVP, J Street, etc.) should exit the group immediately,” she wrote, adding, “I cannot tolerate supporters/sympathizers of terrorism or those seeking to co-opt our community here anymore.”
I did not post regularly in this group, and typically stayed away from posting anything political. I had not even seen the post before I was removed. This wasn’t a case of two Jewish moms seeing the world differently; it was a public excommunication, delivered in the language of fear, suspicion and moral certainty. And I’m terrified by the message this action sends about the state of Jewish communal life. What does it mean that someone like me — a Jewish educator, a mom raising four Jewish children, the partner of a Conservative rabbi, a lifelong Zionist who has spent years teaching, traveling and organizing for a better future for Israel — is no longer “Jewish enough” for a group of local moms?
In recent Jewish history, there have been all kinds of litmus tests to determine who belongs. Different congregations, denominations and social groups have drawn hard lines over kashrut, Shabbat observance, the role of women in Jewish life, intermarriage, acceptance of LGBTQ+ Jews, and many other issues. The message to many Jews, especially young adults, has been clear: Your choices make you less Jewish, or not Jewish at all.
This instinct to call out, rather than call in, has caused real harm. It has contributed to a decline in Jewish affiliation, and alienated too many engaged Jews — not because they stopped caring, but because we stopped making space for them.
In speaking with friends who are still a part of JMOA, I have been told that anyone who disagrees with the new hard-line policy on attitudes toward Israel has been kicked out of the group. So there are no dissenting voices, either because they have been removed, or because they are simply too scared to speak up.
Since my own removal from the group, I have tried to reach out to the moderators, looking to have a real conversation about this policy. But I have been met with silence. Since the devastating Hamas attack of Oct. 7, 2023, I have seen countless litmus tests just like this one imposed. Jews across the political spectrum have begun to be suspicious of peers whose relationship to Israel does not meet their own particular ideological standards.
In my role working on community engagement with J Street, where I have worked since 2022, I have encountered the same particular kind of suspicion, over and over. I’ve heard from others who were pushed out of Jewish spaces for asking hard questions, for calling for a ceasefire, for grieving Palestinian lives alongside Israeli ones. They are rabbis, educators, philanthropists and college students. Many are wondering if there is still room for them in the Jewish community they love. If we express grief for all innocent civilian victims of this war — Israeli and Palestinian — raise concerns about the occupation of the West Bank, or advocate for peace or diplomacy — even from a place of deep Jewish commitment — we are suddenly seen as being outside the fold.
In the past 18 months of war, our communal discourse has grown narrower, harsher and more deeply entrenched. The pain of Oct. 7 — and the unimaginable trauma of the war that followed — should have brought us together. Instead, it is fracturing us. Grief has hardened into gatekeeping. Fear has curdled into accusation. And political differences, even among people who share deep commitments to Jewish life and Israel’s future, have been recast as betrayal.
I understand that emotions are raw. I understand that we are scared — for our loved ones in Israel and for our safety as Jews in the U.S. But what I don’t understand — and what I can’t accept — is how quickly and casually we are willing to turn on one another.
What are we teaching our children about disagreement? About the strength of our community? About the sacred Jewish tradition of argument “l’shem shamayim” — the idea that argument is valuable, that we productively disagree “for the sake of heaven”?
The rabbis teach us that the destruction of the Temple in ancient Jerusalem — the greatest tragedy in Jewish history — was caused by sinat chinam, baseless hatred among Jews. It wasn’t the Romans who doomed us; it was our own inability to hold difference, to treat one another with dignity, and to maintain our relationships across painful divides.
Today, I fear that sinat chinam is once again threatening to divide and fracture our Jewish community in ways that could take generations to heal.
Jewish identity must not be subject to loyalty tests. It’s a sacred inheritance, shaped by centuries of debate, resilience and moral wrestling. If we narrow our tent to extend only over those who say what we want to hear — if we exile one another over differences — we will lose more than just membership in Facebook groups. We will lose the very heart of our community.
I still believe in Jewish peoplehood. I still believe that we can disagree passionately and stay connected. I still believe that the path forward — for Jews in Atlanta, for Israel and for our global people — must be rooted in empathy, justice and love.
But I’ll be honest: That’s harder to believe when your community kicks you out for working toward peace.
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