Can We Mobilize Jewish Normies?

Mattot-Masei and the 2.5 Tribes

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The Normie Problem

Over the past few months, I've become increasingly interested in understanding the dynamics of organizing upwardly mobile, largely liberal Jews in New York City around political engagement.

These are people who care deeply about justice, pluralism, and the safety of minority communities—including our own. Yet I keep encountering the same barrier.

In a recent conversation, I mentioned "activism" to a friend. She winced. "It just feels… icky," she said. "That's for extremists. I vote—but I'm not an activist."

How do we mobilize the large majority of Jews who hold mainstream values, who want both security for American Jews and a reasonable approach to Israel—but who don't see political engagement (beyond voting) as their role?

These aren't the Jews canvassing or sparring on podcasts. They're building careers, raising families, volunteering for charities. They care—but they don't organize politically, don't know city government, and rarely show up where their presence could make a difference.

This is what I've come to call the normie problem. And it may be one of our biggest strategic challenges.

"Normie" loosely refers to someone who avoids ideological extremes—people with mainstream values, stable routines, and little patience for political drama. By that standard, I'm somewhere in between. I can hold my own with culture war jargon, but I'm wary of spaces where partisan politics take over all conversations.

To be honest, the normies in my life often seem healthier and more grounded. They're living the lives we say we value: rooted, deeply invested in family and community, more fun.

But when battles that shape our communal future arise—whether in school boards, city council races, or conversations about Israel and antisemitism—normies are too often absent.

Sometimes from apathy, sometimes because they don't realize their presence is essential.

The Two and a Half Tribes

This week's Torah portion, Mattot-Masei, offers a powerful lens through which to view this dynamic.

The tribes of Reuven, Gad, and half of Menashe approach Moses with what seems like a pragmatic request. They've identified rich pasture land east of the Jordan River—ideal for their cattle—and ask to settle there instead of continuing into the Promised Land. "The land is good for livestock," they explain, "and we have livestock."

It's hard not to hear echoes of today's normie logic in their reasoning. We're not abandoning the project, they suggest—we're just making a rational choice. Let others handle the tough ideological fights, the grand national battles; we'll focus on building wealth and raising families.

But Moses hears something deeper and more dangerous. His response is swift: "Shall your brothers go to war while you stay here?"

It isn't betrayal, but it is abdication—the absence of those who should be present, of those with the means and ability to fight, who choose comfort over commitment.

Moses then zeroes in on their language. The tribes say: "We will build sheepfolds for our livestock and cities for our children."

Moses flips the order in his reply: "Build cities for your children and sheepfolds for your livestock." Family before assets.

And he asks them to consider fighting to conquer the land even if they will not live in it. Collective responsibility before private security.

Eventually, the 2.5 tribes agree to fight alongside the rest of Israel before returning east. They strike a balance—joining the struggle, then resuming the work of building their lives.

But their initial hesitation lingers as a warning: normie logic is seductive.

Crossing the Jordan

Moses's message is as urgent now as it was then: you can live a grounded, flourishing life—but not at the expense of showing up when your people need you. The issue isn't normie values. It's normie absence.

I admire the balance, the priorities, the refusal to live in outrage of so many normies I care for. But I worry when that balance turns into disengagement. When those with the most to protect act as if someone else will protect it for them.

So what does it mean today for normie Jews to "cross the Jordan"?

It doesn't mean abandoning your career, your family, or your sanity.

It means making one phone call to a city council member. It means making sure your friends and families are registered to vote.

It means showing up—even just once a year—to a town hall, a board meeting, a political forum where the presence of everyday Jews makes a difference.

Our politics won't be saved by the loudest voices or the most extreme. They'll be shaped by those who persistently choose presence over absence.

So to my normie friends: keep your mental health. Keep your brunches, your book clubs, your balance. But when the moment demands it—and it does demand it now—let’s cross the Jordan.

Together.

Shabbat Shalom,

Mijal

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P.S. Especially to my New York readers: I encourage you to support voter registration efforts with the nonpartisan Jewish Voters Unite. We need a strong Jewish community that’s civically engaged at every level.