Between the Bomb and the Blessing

I have a confession to make. I both loved and did not love the gift that Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu gave to President Donald Trump on his recent visit to the White House. I know, I wasn’t consulted this time around on official state gifts,maybe next time.

But if you missed it: Netanyahu handed Trump a mezuzah case shaped like a B-2 stealth bomber, reportedly forged from the remains of downed Iranian missiles. Inside, like every mezuzah, was a tiny scroll of parchment with handwritten verses from the Shema Yisrael, the biblical command to love God with everything we have.

The artist who made the piece explained that the scroll was placed precisely in the location where the real B-2 holds its bombs. “It’s the powerful part of both the plane and of the mezuzah,” he said. And I get it. It’s clever. It’s bold. It’s deeply Israeli. The creativity is explosive.

And still, it unsettles me. Not because of the shape. Not because of the symbolism. But because of the temptation it reflects, especially in times of war, to confuse strength with safety. To put our faith in the B-2. Or the man who orders it.

Let me be clear: I am very grateful for Trump. He stood with Israel when it counted. He backed our right to self-defense. He confronted Iran when few others had the courage to. God used him, and I don’t say that lightly. But the mezuzah reminds us of something essential:

Trump is not our king. The B-2 is not our shield. And even the strongest alliance does not guarantee our survival alone. 

The words inside that mezuzah say it all:

This is not a prayer for protection. It is a declaration of allegiance. It says that there is only one God. Not one plus Trump. Not one plus stealth bombers. Just one. And all our might, bechol me’odecha, must be directed toward Him.

The mezuzah is the original counterbalance to military pride. It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t parade. It just hangs quietly by the entrance, whispering a radical truth: that it is not strength that protects us, it is closeness to God.

King David understood this. He was no pacifist, but he never mistook his sword for his salvation. “Some trust in chariots and some in horses,” he wrote, “but we call out in the name of the Lord our God” (Psalm 20:8).

You can feel that tension today. Israel is fighting for its life. Iran is testing us. The world is watching. And into that moment walks Netanyahu, handing Trump a gift that speaks to both power and faith.

But which part do we see first?

Because if the message is “thank you for standing with us,” that’s beautiful. If the message is “you helped strike evil where it breeds,” that’s fair. But if the message is “you are the source of our protection,” then we’ve forgotten the very scroll inside that mezuzah.

We’ve forgotten what Moses warned us before entering the Land:

Even gratitude can become a kind of idolatry when we stop there, when we place our awe in the vessel instead of the Source.

That’s why the placement of the mezuzah is so instructive. It goes on the side of the door, not at the center. It’s not meant to block the way or take the spotlight. It marks the threshold, the place where you pause and remember Who brought you to this moment.

The irony is that while the B-2 bomber and the mezuzah both claim to offer protection, only one asks something of us. The B-2 asks for funding. The mezuzah asks for fidelity. The B-2 is deployed by generals. The mezuzah is installed by people with faith.

And maybe that’s what makes the gift so powerful after all. Because in the end, it’s not about Trump. It’s not even about Netanyahu. It’s about the decision every nation and every person has to make when they walk through the door:

Do I trust the One who gave me strength, or the strength itself?