Almost thirty years ago, my childhood rabbi, Rabbi Cary David Yales, may his memory be a blessing, gave a High Holy Day sermon that riled people up and got them talking. It was not the only sermon he gave over the years that sparked controversy, but it was the one that spoke to me. You see, I wasn’t riled up by his words – I was inspired.
One of the things that Rabbi Yales was known for was teaching about the Holocaust. He taught a class that every 9th grader in the synagogue took on Tuesday nights at Hebrew High. There was required reading, tests, and report cards. His class was serious business. But that Rosh Hashanah, Rabbi Yales stood on the bimah and gave a sermon proposing that the American Jewish community spent too much time focused on the Holocaust. People were up in arms. They complained, “how could he say such a thing in front of survivors and their families? How could he minimize the single greatest tragedy in the history of the Jewish people?”
But when I heard the sermon, I did not hear him downplay our history. I heard him advocating for me and my peers, and his ideas had me nodding my head and sitting up in my seat. As the rabbi spoke, I was oblivious to any mounting tension in the room. His words just made so much sense to me. Rabbi Yales’ sermon was not an argument against Holocaust education. Rather, it was a proposal that the Jewish community needed to spend more time making Judaism relevant for the present. He cautioned us that our feelings of obligation toward the past suffering of the Jewish people was leading us to overlook Judaism’s role in our present and future.
Enough people raised concerns about the rabbi’s sermon that a few weeks later, the clergy opened the topic up for discussion at a Shabbat service. I wasn’t ready for what people had to say, their faces etched with hurt and disappointment. Their words seemed to imply that the memory of the Holocaust was the key to Jewish continuity – that children would not remain Jewish unless we understood the true horror of the Holocaust.
As the comments went on, I could feel my shoulders tensing and the heat rising to my face. And then my hand shot up. I spoke up to defend Rabbi Yales’ words and the Jewish experience of my entire generation. I assured the congregation that I knew about the Holocaust. Not only had I aced the rabbi’s class, but I had a personal stake in remembering the Holocaust because my grandfather had escaped Germany in 1938. But at the same time, I told them, my Judaism could not be defined solely by my grandfather’s experience. Jewish life in a small German village just didn’t apply to my life in suburban Boston. If we wanted to make sure that my generation continued to identity as Jews, we had to make sure that we were being given opportunities to experience how Judaism could bring us joy, how Judaism could help us navigate difficult decisions, how Judaism, and our Jewish community, could serve as a constant support in our lives.
Looking back now, after having studied the American Jewish experience in graduate school, I am not surprised that many people were upset by the rabbi’s sermon. They were worried about Jewish continuity, fearful that the slow march of assimilation was leading to Judaism’s demise. The National Jewish Population Survey of 1990 had shown that the American Jewish community was aging, and that the rate of intermarriage was skyrocketing. People were panicked and looking for solutions that would make Jews remain Jews. They wondered, was it possible that Judaism could survive the outside forces of hatred only to fall to the internal forces of assimilation and apathy?
Too often though, the Jewish community’s fears about continuity came out as statements that piled on guilt or sounded like threats: “You have to be Jewish so that the millions of Jews who died in the Holocaust didn’t die in vain. You have to marry a Jew so that we can prove that Hitler didn’t win. You have to raise Jewish children because your Jewish ancestors suffered so that you could have a better life.” These statements exert so much pressure and judgment. But I don’t think they succeed in creating the Jewish community they envisioned.
After all, none of these emotional statements actually speak to a reason to engage with all that Judaism has to offer us. These statements might be motivation to label ourselves as Jewish or, an invitation to preserve our people’s history, but they do not give us a compelling reason to live Jewish lives. Rabbi Arthur Hertzberg wrote, “A community cannot survive on what it remembers. It will persist only because of what it affirms and believes.”1 Ultimately, the purpose of Jewish continuity cannot be the mere existence of the Jewish people on a population survey. Rather, Jewish people should exist because Judaism has something to offer. The Jewish people should remain vibrant because Judaism can bring meaning to our lives and give us purpose. Judaism has lasted for thousands of years not because of the myriads of people who have hated us, but because of Judaism’s inherent worth.
Ambassador Deborah Lipstadt, Special Envoy to Combat and Monitor Antisemitism for the United States government speaks to this truth. In her book, Antisemitism: Here and Now, Dr. Lipstadt laments that with the current climate of antisemitism, “what is done to Jews becomes far more significant than what Jews do… It leaves many Jews…aware of what to be against but not what to be for.”2 Last Rosh Hashanah, just three weeks before the attacks of October 7, Lipstadt published an opinion piece in the New York Times. She wrote that even someone like her, whose professional life is dedicated to fighting antisemitism, “must be motivated far more by our love for the insights, wisdom and joy embedded in Jewish culture than by the fight against those who harbor an insane hatred of it.”3 She challenges us to prioritize proactively embracing Judaism over reactively fighting back against antisemitism. Her statements reinforce my conviction that the key to Jewish continuity is found in the joy and not in the anger. Add to this, the lesson from my rabbi’s sermon three decades ago: the key to Jewish continuity is found in the present and not in the past.
Temple Beth El’s new Mission Statement, created as part of our strategic plan process, reflects these two ideas: To cultivate connected, proud, meaningful Jewish living that inspires change in our world. “Connected, proud, meaningful Jewish living,” – I love this phrase. First, I love that it says “Jewish living” and not “Jewish life.” For me, “Jewish life” is something to be studied or described from the outside. But “Jewish living?” “Jewish living” is active, engaging, and messy. “Jewish living” puts us in the middle of all the experiences.
I also love the word “meaningful.” It captures the idea that Jewish living should not be done purely out of obligation – either to God or our ancestors. Jewish living should be done because of the positive effect it has on our well-being.
My rabbi’s sermon came to mind this year because of the events of October 7 and the continued rise of antisemitism in our country. I share the urge that so many of us have felt to wear my Jewish star necklace and publicly affirm my Jewish identity. I understand the satisfaction of seeing crowds of Jews come together and thinking, “Take that, antisemites! We are still here. We are not going anywhere!”
But at the same time, it crushes me that we have to spend time processing antisemitism with our students – time that could be spent, should be spent, on so many other things. Imagine the positive Jewish experiences we could have together in a fraction of the time that is taken up remembering the darkest moments of our history and standing up against antisemitism. Memory and advocacy have a place, but so does vibrant Jewish life.
As a Jewish educator I constantly agonize over what to include in our Religious School curriculum. We are at the beginning of the year 5785 – all those years…that is a lot of history, stories, values, rituals, and beliefs to fit into a couple hours of Religious School each week. So what makes the cut? Topics that bring meaning – concepts that can shape who we are, how we understand our lives, how we interact with, and impact, the world around us.
And I want to assure you, that focusing on what brings meaning does not negate the importance of Jewish history, but allows our history to impact our present and future. History is at the very core of what it means to be Jewish. For thousands of years, Judaism has been a dialogue between the past and the present. We draw values from the struggles and actions of our biblical ancestors, we bring the opinions of rabbis across centuries into debates over the important issues of our time, we transform and adapt ancient rituals to meet the spiritual needs and life experiences of today.
Helping our community hone in on how Judaism can bring meaning to our lives also doesn’t mean that we are ignoring the dangers of antisemitism. Instead, it motivates us with a better understanding of what we are fighting for; it arms us with the language of Jewish values that teach us that all peoples are made in the image of God and have the right to feel safe; and it comforts us with the strength of a caring community.
But the question remains, how do we know what makes Jewish living meaningful in the year 5785? Am I suggesting that we all need to start following every commandment? Definitely not. Am I suggesting that each of us needs to master the Hebrew language or study the Talmud daily? Also no. “Meaningful Jewish living” is subjective…and personal. We are each invited to approach Jewish living with curiosity and a willingness to engage with Jewish values, stories, and rituals; an openness to discovering how Jewish living might add meaning to each of our lives.
A story4 is told of Reb Yissachar Dov, an early Chassidic leader. Reb Yissachar was a respected teacher of Torah, surrounded by a group of dedicated disciples. And yet, he felt he was missing something and wasn’t quite reaching his students. He began to doubt himself so much that he left his village and his students to travel to see his teacher, the Great Seer of Lublin. When he finally stood before his teacher he asked him, with a hint of defeat in his voice, “Please Rebbe, tell me, what is the single best way to serve God?”
The Great Seer did not even allow a moment of silence to pass before answering: “What makes you think there is one way? Are people all the same that a single practice would fit them all?”
Reb Yissachar, frustrated that his teacher had, like so many times before, answered his question with a question, questioned him back: “How can I teach people to serve God if I don’t know the best way to do it?”
The Seer replied, “That is not what it means to be their teacher. One person might serve God through study, another through prayer, another through ritual, another through service to others. Your job is to teach them to carefully observe the ways of their own hearts, to see what stirs their passion for God and for godliness, and then to do that thing with all their heart.”
The Seer of Lublin would have no idea what to make of Reform Judaism today, but I hear our values in his message. We believe deeply that Judaism can bring meaning and purpose to our lives. We see evidence that Jewish tradition can help us navigate the ups and downs, the natural cycles of life. We find inspiration from our sacred texts to take responsibility for strengthening our community and our world. And like the Great Seer of Lublin, we know that meaningful Jewish living can take many forms. There is no single path – each of us must find our own. When approaching our spiritual lives, Rabbi Rami Shapiro urges us to “not fall for ‘one size fits all.’” “Find your size,” he says, “and wear it proudly.”5
Almost thirty years ago my rabbi urged my congregation to prioritize making Judaism relevant to our modern lives. That sermon, and my reaction to it, moved me a step closer to knowing that the rabbinate was my path. So now I stand before you as a rabbi, encouraging each of us to take the time needed to see how our sacred tradition might bring us joy and wonder, comfort and courage, meaning and purpose. If we continue to cultivate meaningful Jewish living, the future of the Jewish people will be bright – not as an opposition to hate, but as an affirmation of love – a love for Judaism, for God, and for the Jewish people.
Kein Yehi Ratzon, May this be God’s will.
