I Am Named for Teachers, Not Warriors — But Sometimes a Jew Must Fight

By Rabbi Shmuley Boteach

There is an accusation thrown at me with increasing frequency, especially on social media, that is as foolish as it is offensive.

“Why are you always being attacked?”

“Why do these confrontations keep happening to you?”

“Do you provoke people?”

“Do you enjoy the fight?”

The insinuation is obvious: if antisemitic abuse keeps finding you, perhaps you secretly want it. Perhaps you manufacture confrontation. Perhaps you are an agitator who needs enemies.

I hate the fights.

I hate the screaming. I hate the ugliness. I hate being recognized in streets around the world by people who despise Israel and then being cursed because I have become a recognizable Jewish and pro-Israel voice in global media and especially in debate. I am one of the few pro-Israel influencers who debate the worst antisemites on earth on international TV which causes me, by default, to inherit all their hate-filled followers, online and in person. I despise what confrontation does to my family. I hate the threats. I hate the time stolen from teaching, writing, Torah, marriage, children, grandchildren, friendship, prayer, and life.

I did not choose to become a fighter.

I was forced to become one.

And perhaps the deepest explanation of that tension is contained in my own Hebrew names: Yaakov Shmuel — Jacob Samuel.

Both names belong to men remembered primarily not as conquerors but as fathers, teachers, prophets, and builders of Israel. Yet both names also teach that there comes a moment when submission becomes surrender, and when a man of peace must stand his ground.

That tension has shaped my life.

“I was named for teachers and patriarchs, not warriors. But the Bible teaches that sometimes the only way to preserve the life of the teacher is to know when to fight.”

Jacob: The Heel Who Became Israel

Begin with Jacob.

Few biblical figures better capture the Jewish struggle between accommodation and confrontation.

His very name, Yaakov, is connected in Genesis to the akev — the heel. He emerges from Rebecca’s womb holding the heel of his brother Esau: “Afterward his brother came out, and his hand was grasping Esau’s heel; so he called his name Jacob” (Genesis 25:26).

There is something almost prophetic in that name.

A heel is low to the ground. It absorbs the pressure of the body. It is stepped upon.

And there are moments in Jacob’s life when he seemingly has to accept being treated like the heel.

When Esau threatens to kill him, Jacob does not challenge him to combat. Rebecca tells Jacob to flee, and he does. He leaves home and runs to Haran (Genesis 27:41-45).

Is Jacob a coward?

Of course not.

He understands something every serious fighter must understand:

Not every fight should be fought.

Sometimes survival requires retreat.

Sometimes courage means refusing the confrontation your enemy wants.

Sometimes living to fight—or build—another day is the greater victory.

Jacob then spends years with Laban, a man who repeatedly deceives him. Jacob endures manipulation, exploitation, and humiliation. He works and builds. He marries. He fathers children. He creates a family that will become a nation.

But Jacob cannot remain the heel forever.

Eventually comes one of the most mysterious and defining encounters in the entire Torah.

On the eve of meeting Esau again, Jacob finds himself alone.

“And Jacob was left alone; and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn” (Genesis 32:25).

Jacob wrestles through the night.

He is wounded.

His hip is injured.

But he refuses to release his opponent without a blessing.

And then comes the transformation:

“Your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men and have prevailed” (Genesis 32:29).

Yaakov becomes Yisrael.

The heel becomes the wrestler.

The man who once fled discovers that there are moments when he must stand his ground.

“Jacob teaches the Jew two opposite lessons: know when to walk away, and know when walking away would mean abandoning who you are.”

That is the balance I seek in my own life.

Jacob is not erased when he becomes Israel.

That is crucial.

The Torah continues calling him Jacob even after giving him the name Israel. Both identities remain.

Because a human being needs both.

There is a time to be Yaakov.

And there is a time to be Yisrael.

There is a time to absorb an insult because the battle is pointless.

There is a time to retreat because preserving life matters more than preserving pride.

There is a time to refuse to give your enemy the confrontation he craves.

But there is also a moment when retreat becomes surrender.

Then the Jew must wrestle.

Jacob ultimately becomes the father of the tribes of Israel, with his sons and his daughter Dinah forming the family from which the Jewish nation emerges.

That is his greatness.

Not that he conquered nations.

Not that he built an empire.

Not that he accumulated territory.

He built a family.

We Jews are literally called by his second name: Israel.

And what an extraordinary commentary that is on Jewish civilization.

We are named after a patriarch who wrestled, yes—but whose enduring achievement was children, covenant, faith, and continuity.

The fighting protected the family.

The family was never created for the fighting.

Jews Do Not Worship War

That distinction is essential today.

Jews are not a warrior civilization.

We do not glorify conquest.

We have never aspired to conquer the world.

Our covenants and historical homeland is tiny.

The State of Israel could fit many times over into numerous countries that routinely lecture it about territorial ambition.

For two thousand years, Jews possessed virtually no armies at all. We survived through Torah, family, scholarship, community, memory, faith, argument, commerce, charity, and an almost supernatural commitment to education.

When Jews fight, historically, it is overwhelmingly because circumstances have forced us to defend Jewish life.

Israel did not build one of the world’s formidable militaries because Jews dreamed of tanks.

Jews dreamed of Jerusalem.

We dreamed of planting trees, building universities, raising children, reviving Hebrew, curing diseases, developing technology, studying Torah, and living without asking permission to exist.

But history taught us that dreams require protection.

“The Jewish soldier is not the purpose of Jewish civilization. Rather, he or she is a necessity. The Jewish child who can sleep safely because the soldier stands guard is the purpose.”

Moses Our Teacher

This is why I believe the greatest Jewish title may be one of the simplest:

Rabbeinu. Our teacher.

Our greatest leader is not remembered principally as Moses the fighter.

He is Moshe Rabbeinu — Moses our teacher.

Moses certainly knew confrontation.

He stood before Pharaoh.

He battled tyranny.

He confronted Amalek.

He smashed the tablets when Israel worshipped the Golden Calf.

But Jewish memory did not immortalize him as Moshe the General.

Not Moshe the Conqueror.

Not Moshe the Warrior.

Moshe Rabbeinu.

Our teacher.

That tells us everything.

I believe deeply that among the most important roles in Jewish life is that of the teacher.

And I know something about the joy of that life because I lived it.

For eleven years I served as rabbi at Oxford University. We built the Oxford University L’Chaim Society into the second largest student organization in Oxford’s nearly 1000-year history. I spent my days and nights teaching and engaging students at perhaps the most impressionable stage of their lives.

What could be more important?

A student at 18, 19, 20, or 21 is deciding: Who am I? What do I believe? Is there a God? What is love? Whom should I marry? What is my responsibility to humanity? What does being Jewish mean? What am I going to do with the brief miracle called life?

I loved those conversations.

I still do.

I wrote Kosher Sex, which became an international best seller, because I wanted to strengthen intimacy and marriage. Over the decades, people have told me that my teachings and books helped save countless marriages.

Give me that over street battles any day.

Give me a room full of university students asking questions about God over someone screaming abuse at me in the street.

Give me marriage counseling over fighting antisemites.

Give me Torah over Twitter.

Give me teaching over combat.

Every single time.

Samuel: The Name I Wanted to Live

Then there is my second name.

Shmuel. Samuel.

Shmuley is derived from Shmuel.

Samuel was a prophet, judge, and spiritual teacher of Israel. His calling begins not on a battlefield but with listening for the voice of God: “Speak, for Your servant is listening” (I Samuel 3:10).

Samuel travels among the people, judges them, admonishes them, prays for them, and leads them spiritually.

He is a maker of kings rather than a king.

Samuel anoints Saul.

Later he anoints David.

And David becomes the archetypal Jewish warrior-king.

David fights because his generation demands fighting. He confronts Goliath. He fights Israel’s enemies. His life is filled with war.

Yet even David’s wars are not presented as Judaism’s highest ideal. When David wishes to build the Temple, he is told that this task will fall to his son Solomon, whose reign is associated with peace (I Chronicles 22:8-10).

The message is profound.

Sometimes David is necessary.

But the goal is Solomon.

Sometimes the warrior must defend civilization.

But civilization exists so that teachers, prophets, parents, builders, and children can flourish.

I wanted to be Shmuel.

I wanted to teach.

Life has too often forced me to play David.

“I want to be Samuel. Circumstance keeps demanding David. But David’s sword must never become more sacred than Samuel’s voice.”

“Why Does This Keep Happening to You?”

Which brings me back to the idiotic accusation made online whenever I am publicly confronted or attacked.

“Why does this always happen to you?”

“Maybe you provoke them.”

Think about the logic.

I would never remotely compare myself to the greatness or moral stature of my great hero Martin Luther King Jr. But the logic of the accusation is analogous to asking a highly visible civil-rights leader: Why are racists always confronting you?

Because he is visible.

Because he marches.

Because he speaks.

Because television cameras show his face.

Because those who hate his cause know who he is.

Why am I recognized by antisemites?

Because for years I have appeared constantly on television defending Israel and the Jewish people.

Because I publicly debate some of Israel’s fiercest and most dangerous opponents. Because I refuse to fear or be cowed by them.

Because I organize and participate in public demonstrations, like the enormous celebrations of Jewish pride and the state of Israel that we regularly organize in the heart of Manhattan in Times Square.

Because I have stood before thousands in Berlin, Amsterdam, and Sydney  defending Israel and demanding action against antisemitism.

Because my face and my views are publicly associated with Israel advocacy.

The surprise would be if antisemites didn’t recognize me.

To suggest that being repeatedly targeted proves that the target is provoking the abuse is morally backward.

It shifts scrutiny from the person screaming hatred to the person receiving it.

I do not provoke people into antisemitism.

I expose the antisemitism that is already there.

Katzti B’Chayai

There are days when I think of the anguished words of our matriarch Rebecca:

“Katzti b’chayai” — “I am weary of my life” (Genesis 27:46).

I understand something of that exhaustion.

I hate fighting darkness.

I hate being recognized in streets around the world by people who despise Israel and despise me by default.

I hate knowing that another confrontation can erupt simply because somebody recognizes my face.

It diminishes your freedom. It can get you attacked or killed.

It intrudes upon your family and ruins your children’s lives, which is what the antisemites intend.

It steals time from the people and things you love.

But what is the alternative?

Silence?

I have sworn an oath before God that, to whatever extent my voice and actions can make a difference, I will never acquiesce in another Holocaust in my lifetime.

Never again cannot be a museum slogan.

It must impose obligations on the living.

Every Jewish life is infinitely precious.

And because Judaism teaches that humanity is created in the image of God, every innocent human life is infinitely precious.

That is precisely why evil must sometimes be confronted.

“Never again is meaningless if it means only mourning dead Jews. Never again must also mean defending living Jews.”

The World Does Not Always Give Us a Choice

The world does not always give us the luxury of choosing our role.

Jacob wanted family.

He was forced to wrestle.

Moses was a teacher.

He was forced to confront Pharaoh.

Samuel was a prophet.

He lived in an age that required kings.

David wanted to build God’s Temple.

His life was consumed by wars.

And the Jewish people?

We wanted to come home.

We were forced to build an army.

I wanted to teach.

I have been forced to fight.

But being forced to fight must never make us fall in love with fighting.

That is the danger.

The moment battle itself becomes the objective, we have forgotten why we entered the battle.

We fight so that one day our children will not have to.

We confront antisemitism so that Jewish students can study.

We defend synagogues so Jews can pray inside them.

Israel maintains an army so Israeli mothers can put their children to sleep.

We defeat terrorists so children can become teachers, doctors, poets, scientists, rabbis, musicians, entrepreneurs, mothers, and fathers.

Life is the goal. The fight is merely the terrible price sometimes demanded for protecting it.

Yaakov and Yisrael

So I return to my name.

Jacob Samuel.

Yaakov Shmuel.

I want to live as Shmuel, the teacher listening for God’s voice.

I want to live as Yaakov, building family and continuity.

But there are moments when Yaakov must become Yisrael.

There are moments when the heel must stop allowing itself to be stepped upon.

There are moments when Shmuel must anoint David because somebody has to face Goliath.

The wisdom lies in knowing which moment is which.

Not every insult deserves an answer.

Not every enemy deserves our time.

Not every fight is worth having.

Sometimes walking away is strength.

Jacob taught us that too.

But when Jewish life is threatened, when antisemitism is normalized, when murderers are glorified, when Israel’s destruction is openly demanded, and when Jews are intimidated into silence, there comes a point when walking away ceases to be wisdom.

It becomes abandonment.

And I will not abandon my people.

“There is a time to be Jacob and a time to be Israel; a time to walk away and a time to wrestle until dawn. Jewish courage consists in knowing the difference.”

I do not fight for glory.

I do not fight for conquest.

I do not fight because fighting gives my life meaning.

I fight because sometimes history gives Jews no choice.

But I pray for the day when the fighting is no longer necessary.

I pray that my grandchildren inherit my books rather than my battles.

I pray that Jewish children grow up knowing antisemites primarily from history books.

I pray that Israel’s greatest heroes will be its teachers, scientists, rabbis, doctors, poets, parents, and builders.

Because that is ultimately who we are.

We are the children of Jacob.

We are Israel.

We know how to wrestle.

But wrestling is not why we exist.

We wrestle so that we may live.

We fight so that we may teach.

We defend ourselves so that we may build families.

And I will continue to fight whenever Jewish life demands it—not because I love the battle, but because I love what lies beyond the battle infinitely more.

I want to be Shmuel.

I want to be the teacher.

But when history demands Yisrael, I will wrestle.

Not for glory.

Not for victory.

Not for conquest.

But for life.

L’Chaim!

Rabbi Shmuley Boteach is the international bestselling author of thirty-eight books, translated into more than twenty languages. He has been hailed as “the most famous rabbi in America” (The Washington Post, Newsweek), “arguably the most famous Orthodox Jew on earth” (The New York Observer), and named one of the fifty most influential Jews in the world (The Jerusalem Post).

A fearless public intellectual and one of Israel and Jewry’s most eloquent defenders, Rabbi Boteach has appeared on virtually every major television network and media platform across the globe—from the United States to Europe to Asia to Australia—bringing his unapologetic voice to hundreds of millions.

His groundbreaking 1999 classic Kosher Sex transformed the global conversation on intimacy, teaching that passion and sanctity must be orchestrated into an indivisible whole. It remains one of the most influential works on relationships and sexuality published in modern times.

Oprah Winfrey anointed Rabbi Shmuley as her sexuality and marital relationship expert and gave him his own daily show alongside Maya Angelou, Gayle King, and Dr. Oz.

For eleven years, he served as Rabbi at Oxford University, where he founded the L’Chaim Society and built it into one of the largest student organizations in the university’s history, mentoring future leaders and shaping a generation of thinkers.

Rabbi Boteach is the only rabbi ever to receive the London Times Preacher of the Year Award, and remains the competition’s record-holder.

He lives in New Jersey with his Australian wife, Debbie, and together they have, thank God, nine children and twelve grandchildren.

Follow him on Instagram and X @RabbiShmuley.