Jews are a tiny population. And yet we keep finding ways to splinter ourselves into smaller factions.

If I could hit the “reset” button for 5778, I’d make a plea for kinder disagreement.

We are split on Israel.
We are split on who is authentically or adequately Jewish.
We are split on whether women can be rabbis.
We are split on the U.S. president.
We are split on refugees.

And worst of all, we are split on whether we can even talk honestly about what splinters us. There has emerged a new taboo — at least in my lifetime: fear of honesty. Which is ironic for a people known for brash candor and hearty disputation. Now we’re afraid to be labeled insufficiently partisan, insufficiently loyal, insufficiently Jewish.

Instead of taking the time to look hard at our teachings and traditions — noticing how they lead us again and again to common ground, we dig in on our differences, insisting that our approach is the only one, neglecting to see how fruitless it is to alienate each other — exactly when we need each other.

When I spent an intensive twelve months learning about — and observing for the first time — every single holiday in the Jewish calendar, (first for the Forward, then for an expanded book version, My Jewish Year), I experienced close-up the radiance of collaboration. Every rabbi and scholar said yes when I requested an interview in order to dissect and animate a particular holiday. All of my willing teachers, regardless of denomination, were eager to help me open up our tradition with fresh eyes, wise words, and unstinting encouragement. I was struck by how the fault lines fell away when we were engrossed in the ancient enterprise of study and dialogue. I don’t want to appear naïve about the possibility of harmony. But I did glimpse it. So I’m stubborn in believing that it’s possible.

Maybe that can be the reset for 5778: a return to our foundational stories, psalms, verses, and yes, Talmudic clashes, because they remind us of how we’ve survived them and been strengthened by them, how our texts are the scaffolding of a people, which hasn’t always been as secure as it is today.

Maybe revisiting our teachings can reorient us from our rifts. Because when debate is venomous rather than vigorous, we chip away at the Jewish future.

I know disunity is a well-worn phenomenon. There have been internecine tensions since the Maccabees. I learned, during “my Jewish year,” about the darker truth of the Hanukkah lore — that, in fact, the ancient war wasn’t just Maccabee versus Antiochus, but Maccabee versus Hellenist — Jew fighting Jew. I also learned, before Tisha B’Av, the concept of sinat chinam — baseless hatred — which was the reason given by the rabbis for why God let the Second Temple be destroyed: God was angry that we were fighting each other instead of the Roman enemy.

That’s an apt metaphor for today. There are real, undeniable foes against us — not only against Jews, but against peaceful, compassionate civilization, and therefore we shouldn’t be wasting time attacking our own family.

My hope for a Rosh Hashanah reboot is that we remember we are one people with one God, one Book, and one mantra: to love the stranger because we were the stranger. That doesn’t mean we will always share one opinion. But our common humanity should outweigh our fissures. We can still engage our differences robustly; but we can’t let them tear us apart.

Abigail Pogrebin is the author of four books, including My Jewish Year: 18 Holidays, One Wondering Jew. Formerly a producer at PBS and at 60 Minutes, she has written for Newsweek, New York Magazine, The Forward, Tablet, and The Daily Beast. She moderates her own interview series at JCC Manhattan and is the current president of Central Synagogue in New York.

This essay is part UJA’s High Holiday publication Hitting Reset: A Fresh Start for 5778.