Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern Zionism, famously declared: “If you will it, it is no dream.” It’s a memorable line — almost too neat to be true. 

But what if Herzl got it backward? What if the dream comes first — and the will simply follows?

In 1927, J.W. Dunne, a British engineer and airplane designer, published a book called An Experiment with Time. It sent shockwaves through polite scientific circles — and then, just as quickly, vanished beneath the waves of mainstream disdain. 

The book’s key idea was that dreams don’t just recycle our past — they preview our future. And this wasn’t mere idle speculation: Dunne meticulously documented his thesis, offering hundreds of case studies drawn from a broad and diverse group of subjects.

It all started with a nightmare. One night, Dunne dreamt that his watch had stopped — at exactly 4:30 p.m. The next day, his watch stopped. At exactly 4:30 p.m. 

At first, Dunne brushed it off as a coincidence. But then it happened again. And again. He would dream about something — and shortly afterward, what he dreamt about would happen. 

So Dunne began documenting his dreams with scientific precision. Over the next few years, he compiled hundreds of data points — not just from himself, but from friends and colleagues he recruited to do the same. The results were staggering: up to 40% of dreams contained elements of future events, not just recollections of the past.

Dunne’s theory, which he called “Serial Time,” suggested that our conscious minds move through time like a train on tracks — one moment after the next. But the subconscious is different. It floats. In dreams, we catch glimpses of events that haven’t happened yet, paths we haven’t taken, outcomes we haven’t lived. 

The scientific establishment of his day dismissed him as a kook. But Dunne didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, the evidence spoke for itself — and no amount of scorn from the experts could make it any less real.

In one dream, Dunne had seen a volcanic eruption on a remote island — with ash, fire, and mass panic. The next morning, he opened the newspaper only to read about the catastrophic eruption of Mount Pelée on Martinique, with details uncannily similar to his dream. 

On another occasion, a man Dunne studied described dreaming of a specific newspaper headline — which he then saw appear, word for word, a few days later. Bottom line: these weren’t vague premonitions. They were precise, time-stamped echoes from a future that hadn’t yet arrived.

I’ve often thought that if Herzl and Dunne had met, they would have gotten along famously. Because, in a way, Herzl was doing the same thing — drawing on vivid, internal visions to lay the foundation for the Zionist project. 

He, too, had a dream — not the kind you have in an REM cycle, but the kind that burns behind your eyes when you’re wide awake. He saw Jewish soldiers guarding Jewish farms. He saw a Jewish airport, Jewish towns and cities, a Jewish parliament, and a Jewish society. At the time, these images were no less fantastical than Dunne’s dream volcanoes and predictive newspaper headlines.

But Herzl believed — and he dared to look absurd. And because he did, we now live in a world where his once-ridiculed vision became the world’s only Jewish national home: the State of Israel. Which brings us to the Torah readings of Tazria and Metzora — or, more precisely, their Haftorahs, the prophetic passages that accompany them. Both are taken from the Book of Kings, and both center around another man who saw what others couldn’t: the prophet Elisha.

The story goes like this: the city of Shomron is under siege, surrounded by the Aramean army. There’s no food, and the people are starving. Panic sets in. Elisha’s servant looks out at the horizon and sees only doom. But Elisha sees something else entirely. He tells his servant (II Kings 6:16), “Don’t be afraid. Those who are with us are more than those who are with them.” 

Then Elisha prays: “God, please open his eyes so that he may see.” Suddenly, the servant sees what Elisha had already seen in his vision — the hills are filled with chariots of fire, an invisible army of protection.

This is exactly what Dunne discovered. This is what Herzl knew in the depths of his soul. This is what anyone who has ever glimpsed the unseen and refused to look away understands. Elisha didn’t invent the protection — he simply saw it before others could. That’s what prophets do. And it’s what any of us can do if we’re willing to believe it’s possible.

Later in the same story, four men afflicted with tzara’at — the Biblical skin discoloration condition — are camped outside the city gates. Cast out, ignored, and desperate, they decide to do the unthinkable: to enter the enemy camp and beg for mercy, so that they can get some food and survive. 

But when they arrive in the camp, they discover something incredible — the Arameans have gone, and the siege is over. The starving city has no idea. But the exiles, the outsiders, the rejected dreamers — they are the first to know.

I’ve always found it fascinating that the Talmud — the most grounded, rational, detail-obsessed of Jewish texts — devotes pages of Masechet Berakhot to dream interpretation. Some of it is mystical, and some almost comical, but the message is hard to miss: dreams matter. 

And then, just when you think the rabbis are taking a deep dive into ancient superstition, they hit you with the real shocker: “All dreams follow the interpretation.” And if that weren’t enough, the Talmud closes the whole discussion with a bombshell — essentially saying that if you don’t believe in dreams, then none of this applies to you.

Some interpret that as the rabbis quietly rolling their eyes — as if to say, “We’re just humoring the superstitious stuff.” But maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe they were saying what Dunne said 1,600 years later in a different language: don’t dismiss the dream — because that’s where prophecy begins. 

The real danger isn’t in believing too much – it’s in believing nothing. Maybe the prophets among us are still seeing glimpses of what’s coming — but we’re too quick to call it nonsense. So we lose the message. We silence the signal. And the future gets left behind in the dust of our disbelief.

This Shabbat is Yom Ha’atzmaut. The modern State of Israel — vibrant, miraculous, flawed — turns 77. For 2,000 years, Jews dreamed of returning to the Land. Then someone woke up and said, “This dream is real.” And everything changed.

But lately — especially in the wake of the October 7th massacre and the tidal wave of anti-Israel hatred that has followed — I worry we’re losing our edge. We’ve traded vision for pragmatism. We’ve started to scoff at mysticism and to mock prophecy, choosing instead to focus only on what’s immediately in front of us. 

But doing that is more than just short-sighted. It’s a rejection of what it means to be a Jew. The Talmud wasn’t joking when it said that dreams follow the interpretation. What you name, you shape. What you believe is happening is what actually happens. And what you dismiss — you surrender.

Dunne believed our minds were antennas, tuning into frequencies of time we don’t yet understand. Herzl believed our souls were pulling us home — because, on some level, we were already there. And Elisha knew that clarity isn’t about better eyesight — it’s about deeper insight. 

And maybe, just maybe, the next great Jewish chapter is already written — waiting for someone to dream it, so the rest of us will know where to go next.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California. 

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