Imagine this. A man who does not believe in God stands before the world and declares that a piece of land belongs to his people because God promised it to them.
That man was Theodor Herzl. He was not a rabbi, not a prophet, not even a practicing Jew. He was a European intellectual, a journalist by trade, and a political dreamer by instinct. In his private diary, Herzl wrote, “I am completely irreligious and do not feel compelled to hold on to religion for its own sake.” This was not a passing sentiment. It was a core conviction.
Yet Herzl is remembered today as the founding father of modern Zionism, a movement that presented itself as the fulfillment of a divine promise. Zionism clothed itself in the language of prophecy and return. It claimed that Jews were coming home to a land that had been theirs since biblical times. But if the man of the movement did not believe in the God whose promise he invoked, then what was being fulfilled?
This is the central contradiction, one that has been smoothed over by generations of mythmaking. Herzl’s vision was not spiritual. It was strategic. His pamphlet The Jewish State, published in 1896, did not appeal to Torah or divine covenant. It was a blunt and modern response to European anti-Semitism. “The idea which I have developed in this pamphlet is a very old one,” Herzl wrote. “It is the restoration of the Jewish State... I believe I have found the solution to the Jewish Question.” The state was not the outcome of prayer. It was, in Herzl’s eyes, a solution to a political problem.
This pragmatic orientation is further revealed in Herzl’s territorial flexibility. He considered multiple sites for a potential Jewish homeland, including Argentina and, later, Uganda. “We might, for instance, form a Jewish Company for the settlement of the Argentine Republic,” he proposed, noting that it was “one of the most fertile countries in the world.” For Herzl, what mattered was not divine right, but practical opportunity.
Eventually, he settled on Palestine. But even here, his reasoning was revealing. “We should take what is given us, and what is selected by public opinion,” he wrote. “Palestine is our unforgettable historic homeland. This word alone would attract many Jews by the power it has over them.” It was not faith that drove the choice. It was the persuasive power of symbolism. Herzl saw that invoking the Promised Land could stir emotional loyalty, even among secular Jews. He also recognized that it would resonate with Christian Europeans who were steeped in biblical imagery.
Theodor Herzl in Palestine in November 1898
In private, he showed little patience for religious figures who challenged his political vision. “The rabbis who do not want a state should mind their own business,” he wrote. “I want a state. The ideas they are now spreading will be used against us in the foreign press. Therefore we must silence them.” The goal, always, was the state. Religion, if it helped, could be employed. If it got in the way, it would be discarded.
Herzl’s ability to wrap a secular nationalist project in sacred language was nothing short of masterful. He knew how to market political ideas as ancient destiny. He took the raw material of myth and shaped it into diplomatic leverage. In one revealing line, he framed the Jewish state as Europe’s outpost in the East: “For Europe we shall be a part of the wall against Asia. We shall serve as the outpost of civilization against barbarism.” It was not theology he was selling, it was strategy, couched in the language of biblical romance.
This is how Zionism gained its double life. It could speak to Jews as a redemption story, and to European powers as a colonial mission. It was ancient and modern, spiritual and secular, prophetic and pragmatic, all depending on the audience. But this double life has come at a cost.
Zionism’s religious veneer has protected it from criticism. It is not treated as a political ideology like any other. It is treated as sacred history, above reproach. To challenge it is to offend memory, faith, identity. Yet it was never built on faith. It was built on the political calculus of a man who did not believe in the very God whose promise he invoked.
This manipulation continues to shape the discourse. Debates about borders, settlements, and ceasefires rarely touch the foundational narrative. As Noam Chomsky has observed, the media do not tell people what to think; they tell people what to think about. The frame is sacred, and within that frame, Zionism appears inevitable. But once you step outside the frame, the contradictions become glaring.
You begin to see that the “return” was not a return, but a reinvention. The land was not empty. The promise was never universal. The narrative of fulfillment was a carefully crafted sales pitch. And the people who were already living in Palestine, who had their own histories, cultures, and roots, became background noise in someone else’s story.
None of this denies the suffering Jews faced in Europe. Herzl saw that suffering clearly. He rightly recognized the urgency of ensuring his people's safety and dignity. But the method he chose, and the myth he wrapped it in, created a legacy of dispossession that cannot be ignored.
This foundational contradiction has not only shaped the politics of Israel and its treatment of Palestinians, it has also led to deep divisions within the Jewish world itself. Many Orthodox Jews, particularly in ultra-Orthodox and Haredi communities, have long rejected Zionism on both theological and moral grounds. According to traditional Jewish belief, the return to the Land of Israel is to occur only with the coming of the Messiah. Any attempt to reclaim it by secular or political means is considered a violation of divine will.
Groups such as Neturei Karta and large parts of the Satmar Hasidic community oppose the Zionist project entirely. To them, Herzl’s state is not a fulfillment of prophecy but a secular usurpation of it. Their rejection of Zionism underscores what Herzl’s critics have long known: that the movement was not born of faith, but fashioned from expedience.
Zionism was not born in synagogues or study halls. It was born in cafés and editorial offices. It emerged not from scripture, but from nationalism. It used the language of religion to serve a political goal. That goal was achieved. A state was born. But so too was a myth. And that myth has been used, time and again, to justify what would otherwise be indefensible.
Until we confront the original lie, that Herzl’s secular project was ever a fulfillment of divine promise, we will continue to treat this history as something sacred rather than something made. And we will continue to allow injustice to cloak itself in the language of redemption.
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