In June 2025, the world watched with unease as the United States joined Israel in striking Iranian nuclear facilities. These events, though dramatic and immediate, are part of a much longer story.
At first glance, the rationale seems strategic: eliminate a nuclear threat, counter regional destabilization, and reinforce longstanding alliances. But just beneath the surface lies something older, something that cannot be measured by radar or satellite imagery.
This conflict has theological currents, historical wounds, and symbolic echoes that stretch back not just decades but millennia. What we are witnessing today is not only a regional power struggle; it is a modern retelling of ancient narratives.
The Newest Flashpoint
The most recent escalation began not with the United States, but with a surprise offensive by Israel. In mid-June, Israeli forces launched a coordinated assault on Iranian nuclear infrastructure, using a mix of drone warfare, cyber sabotage, and targeted bombing. These strikes hit deep, physically and politically. A few days later, the United States followed with its own wave of airstrikes, focusing on hardened underground facilities that Israel could not destroy alone.
The official justification was straightforward: prevent Iran from acquiring nuclear weapons. Iran, in turn, vowed retaliation, calling the attacks acts of war. U.S. and Israeli officials emphasized that these actions were not about regime change, but national security. Still, the symbolism was unmistakable. America had stepped squarely into a war that Israel had initiated, reaffirming a strategic partnership that stretches back generations.
What complicates this further is Iran’s support for Palestinian militant groups such as Hamas and Islamic Jihad. These alliances make Iran not only a nuclear risk but also a backer of forces that frequently clash with Israel on its borders. To Washington and Jerusalem, Iran is not merely an adversarial state; it is a node in a broader network of opposition that includes armed groups, religious ideologies, and anti-Western sentiment.
The Roots of Modern Israel and the Western Alliance
To understand how we arrived at this moment, one must go back to the formation of the modern state of Israel in 1948. After the horror of the Holocaust and centuries of anti-Semitic persecution in Europe, the world’s powers, especially the United Kingdom and the United States, supported the idea of a Jewish homeland. The decision was framed as both humanitarian and geopolitical. A secure Jewish state would not only offer refuge to a persecuted people but also act as a stable ally in a region increasingly defined by instability.
But this foundation was not built on empty land. Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were displaced, leading to what they call the Nakba, or catastrophe. Generations of Palestinians have since lived under occupation or in exile, while Israeli identity became increasingly tied to the memory of survival and the necessity of self-defense.
This historical rupture created two contrasting narratives. For Israelis, 1948 is a story of rebirth and return. For Palestinians, it is a story of loss and betrayal. Western powers, particularly the United States, have largely aligned themselves with the Israeli version of events, offering military aid, diplomatic cover, and ideological support. Over time, this alignment has hardened into something like a moral partnership, one that persists regardless of the political winds.
Religious Zionism and Its Secular Counterpart
At its origin, Zionism was a secular nationalist movement. Thinkers like Theodor Herzl envisioned a modern Jewish state based not on religious prophecy but on the political logic of self-determination. But as the state took shape and wars mounted, a religious version of Zionism gained ground. In this version, the land of Israel is not merely territory; it is sacred inheritance. Settlements are not political tools; they are acts of obedience to divine will.
This belief reshapes how many Israelis see the conflict. If the land was promised by God, then compromise becomes not just difficult, but almost heretical. This makes diplomacy harder, particularly when dealing with land deemed historically or scripturally significant.
Interestingly, not all religious Jews agree with this vision. Some ultra-Orthodox groups argue that the state of Israel should not exist until the coming of the Messiah. They see the secular establishment of the nation as a human intrusion into a divine timeline. This tension between secular and religious Zionism adds an internal complexity to Israel’s identity; one that is rarely visible to outsiders, but which profoundly shapes its politics and self-perception.
Evangelical Christianity and the American Compass
Perhaps the most surprising pillar of modern Israeli support comes not from Jewish communities, but from evangelical Christians in the United States. For many of them, the return of Jews to the land of Israel is a sign of prophecy fulfilled. They believe that the events of the 20th century are part of a divine timetable leading to the return of Christ.
In this theological frame, Israel must exist. Its enemies must be overcome. And Jerusalem must be restored as a center of divine activity. This belief is not marginal. It animates millions of American voters and deeply influences U.S. foreign policy, particularly among Republican leaders who rely on evangelical support.
This explains, in part, why American presidents often adopt a tone of moral clarity when it comes to Israel. It also sheds light on why policy decisions, such as moving the U.S. embassy to Jerusalem or approving massive arms deals, carry a sense of religious urgency, not just strategic calculation.
What emerges is an alliance that is not just political but spiritual. For evangelical Christians, supporting Israel is a form of faithfulness. For Israeli politicians, that support is indispensable, even if the theological motivations behind it diverge from their own.
Philistines, Palestinians, and the Echoes of Scripture
The psychological landscape of this conflict is shaped not only by prophecy but by myth. In the Hebrew Bible, one of the most iconic enemies of Israel is the Philistines. Goliath, the towering warrior defeated by David, was their champion. These ancient people lived along the southern coast of Canaan, in what is now largely known as Gaza.
While there is no ethnic or historical continuity between the Philistines and today’s Palestinians, the symbolic overlap is undeniable. Gaza is again the site of violent conflict. Once more, a small people feels encircled and under siege. And again, the narrative of existential struggle fills the air.
For many Israelis, especially those shaped by religious education, these patterns are not coincidental. They feel like the return of a timeless story. And for American evangelicals, the identification is even stronger. The people of Israel, standing against the enemies of God, replay the drama of scripture on a modern stage.
This doesn’t mean the conflict is caused by ancient texts. But it does mean that many of those involved interpret today’s events through ancient lenses. The past is not past. It is the language through which meaning is made.
Isaac, Ishmael, and the Story of Division
Beneath all these narratives lies the oldest story of all: the family of Abraham. According to tradition, Abraham had two sons: Isaac, born of his wife Sarah, and Ishmael, born of her maidservant Hagar. In the Bible, Isaac is chosen as the heir of the covenant. Ishmael is sent away, though also promised that he will become the father of a great nation.
In Jewish and Christian tradition, Isaac represents the chosen line. In Islam, Ishmael is honored as a prophet and ancestor of the Arab peoples, including Muhammad. The two brothers are the starting point for two civilizations. Their story, though filled with pain and promise, has become a symbol of division.
Today, that division is often mapped onto modern politics. Jews trace their identity through Isaac. Muslims trace theirs through Ishmael. And Christians, though technically aligned with Isaac, often align politically with modern Israel because of eschatological beliefs.
This turns what could be a story of shared origin into a symbol of estrangement. A single father, two sons, and a world divided not only by borders but by inheritance. It is a story that still breathes in the minds of many, quietly, powerfully, and often unconsciously.
Sacred Narratives and Secular Impasses
What makes this conflict so intractable is not just history or strategy or resources. It is story. It is belief. It is the sense that one’s role in the world is defined by forces larger than any negotiation can contain.
Peace treaties can draw lines on maps, but they cannot erase archetypes. Diplomacy can manage behavior, but it struggles to change identity. When political leaders speak of existential threats, they are often echoing ancient fears passed down through sacred text, folklore, and memory.
That’s why the violence keeps recurring. Not just because of bad policy or failed leadership, but because the story has not changed. For many, to compromise feels like betrayal, not of national interest, but of divine destiny. That is not easily undone by a summit or a ceasefire.
Beyond the Myths We Inherit
We live in a world shaped not only by technology and trade but by sacred memory. The conflict between Israel, Iran, and the Palestinian people is not simply a contest over land or weapons. It is a confrontation between histories, identities, and theologies.
But stories, even sacred ones, can change. They can be reread, reinterpreted, and even reimagined. Perhaps the real work of peace lies not only in diplomacy, but in storytelling. In learning to see Isaac and Ishmael not as rivals, but as brothers. In remembering that Goliath is not always who we think. And in resisting the pull of prophecy when it makes us blind to the humanity of the other.
The missiles may stop. The alliances may shift. But until the sacred fault lines are acknowledged and softened, the ground beneath will remain unstable. Peace will come not when we forget our stories, but when we find a better way to tell them.
Image by IrinaUzv
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