The Importance of Communal Living

I have recently had the honor of becoming president of my synagogue. As such, I have the honor of addressing the congregation on Kol Nidre. Below is the much of the text of my speech that explains my feelings about the importance of synagogue life. Apologies for the length; thank you for indulging me.


Early celebrations of Yom Kippur were much different than today’s. When the Temple stood in Jerusalem, observance was far less participatory. On Yom Kippur, Jews would travel to the Temple where the High Priest would seek repentance from God on behalf of the entire community. The Priest would symbolically confer the sins of the Israelites onto a goat that would be released in the wilderness and then sacrifice another goat as a purification offering.

The High Priests and Temple were the focal points of Jewish observance throughout the First and Second Temple Periods. It was the destruction of the Second Temple that marked the end of this era of Jewish life and the creation of the Diaspora that opened the door for a new kind of Judaism.

Religious practice became more participatory with greater involvement from the individual. The synagogue emerged as an important institution and evolved to become the center of social and religious life. Historians attribute the popularity and portability of the synagogue to the continuity of the Jewish people. Without the synagogue, we would not be here today.

My own relationship with synagogues started at birth. My parents were avid temple goers and the synagogue was the center of not just their religious life, but their social life as well. By age 6 or so, we were living in South Windsor, CT, a small suburb east of Hartford. The town was close to my father’s work, had a decent public school system and a small, but active, Reform synagogue.

In my family, regular attendance at Shabbat services was mandatory. Being that this is Yom Kippur, a confession: I did not always appreciate the joys of going to synagogue. Often, on Friday afternoons, I would complain of mysterious ailments in an effort to be left home. “Friday Night Fever” was my parents’ diagnosis, as they pushed me into the car. However, it did not take long for me to memorize the words, both English and Hebrew, of nearly every Shabbat evening service in the Gates of Prayer. My parents’ faces would be marked by a combination of horror and pride as I would randomly quote prayers, responsive readings or meditations at inappropriate times.

As I started to look ahead to my Bat Mitzvah, I decided that if I was going to spend so much time in synagogue, I might as well make the most of it. I may have known the words in the prayer book, but it was time to learn the meanings. Not just of the prayers, but also of the ritual and practices that were associated with Judaism. It was time to stop reciting and start participating.

Through religious school studies, combined with experiences at Camp Eisner, a Reform Jewish summer camp, I began to develop my own relationship with God and an appreciation for ritual and observance.

I was also absorbing the bigger picture. Judaism was more than ritual and learning. It was about community and, in my town with a small Jewish population, the center of this community was our synagogue. Our group of 100 families celebrated every simcha together. We weighed in on political issues like prayer in our public schools. We adopted a family of Russian Jews and supported them until they could sustain themselves. We walked for Israel and raised funds to support Jewish causes.

And, we came together in times of sadness as well. My own relationship and reliance on the synagogue community was sealed when I was nearly 17 and my father was diagnosed with cancer. While he was ill, the parade of visitors, study partners and friends assured us that we were not alone in this struggle. The day he was diagnosed was the last day anyone in my home prepared a meal for almost 18 months. In the 6 months he was treated to nearly a year after his death, there was always dinner waiting for us on our door step, organized, cooked and delivered by someone from our synagogue.

While that entire period was incredibly formative, it was all those leading up to it that enabled me to survive that experience. At a time when I could have easily turned from God, I was fortunate to have a history and heritage to support me. Embracing what were by then familiar Jewish traditions sustained us all. My father especially, who for the first time in decades was released from work obligations, had the time to study and explore religion and God as never before. The strength and comfort he drew from his faith and community enabled him to come to terms with his disease and set a powerful example.

Modern medical advancements were not enough to save my father from cancer, but primitive thousand year-old Jewish practices and traditions saved the rest of our family. Our synagogue community guided us through months of confusion, loss and pain. And it is that foundation and those feelings have guided and sustained me since.

My story of my relationship to synagogue is likely not that all that different from the ones each of you holds in your own hearts. It often starts with a particular need or an event—God willing, a happy one—but an event that is meaningful and draws you to a synagogue. Maybe even this synagogue.

Perhaps you were seeking a Shabbat service, a rabbi to perform a wedding or a religious school for your child. Maybe you were in the process of choosing Judaism or you read about an adult education class of interest. Or perhaps it was for help in your time of need – a shiva minyan, a counseling session, a funeral.

And we, Rodeph Sholom, were able to fulfill that need. And the way we did it –that sermon, that prayer, that class or even committee meeting, touched you and encouraged you to stay and try something else. And for that, I am grateful.

Because the reality is, our community is only as strong as the people who comprise it. And our ability to help each other, to provide that ritual, education, philanthropic or programmatic experience is 100% dependent on all of us showing a willingness to not only find what we are seeking but also to help others meet their own needs.

There are many who will point to changing demographics, declining percentages of affiliated Jews and growing numbers of individual and even virtual ritual opportunities as proof of the declining relevance of the synagogue.

I could not disagree more. In a time where the world around us is changing rapidly, when technology evolves faster than we can read the accompanying directions, when uncertainty is the only thing that is certain, the presence of a synagogue community—of this synagogue community—can be a lighthouse in an otherwise stormy sea.

This congregation provides an unbroken link between our past and our future. For nearly 170 years, Rodeph Sholom has flourished through its commitment to the deeds on which the entire world stands—study, prayer and acts of loving kindness. Like a three-legged stool, you need all for balance. If you remove the communal aspect of our lives, you are taking away a central obligation of Judaism. We are not just individuals, we are part of a larger people who are ultimately responsible for each other.

Each day, Rodeph Sholom lives that promise. Our buildings may be large, our list of members may seem long, but we are no different from that synagogue of my childhood—we are a network of small, interconnected groups that need and support each other. The examples are numerous: our Congregation Based Community Organizing initiative through which we discovered an overwhelming demand for ritual experiences for families with special needs, the first of which was held last week on Rosh HaShannah, our Young Families Group, Our Young Professionals Group, our Empty Nesters. Those who study torah, participate in Mitzvah Day. Or the group who took care of Davida Bernstein. An elderly congregant with no family in New York City, in her declining years, Davida was never alone. There was someone from Rodeph Sholom to take her to doctors’ appointments, provide meals, or visit. And it was our own Rabbi Levine who took that early morning call from the doctor and later led the congregation in saying Kaddish.

This is Rodeph Sholom—and I am honored and proud to be a part of it. Here, you can meet your own needs, be they are spiritual, educational, philanthropic or communal. But you can, and must, help others meet theirs as well. Be a part of our community, not just because it will enhance and enrich your own life—and I firmly believe it will—but also because it enable the same for others. By attending services, classes or events you are creating opportunities for others to do the same; a sacred and selfless act. And frankly, our world can always use a few more of those.

And yes, your financial support is also important, as well. The ritual services we offer, the religious school, the b’nei mitzvah program, the Shabbat dinners, the adult education, the youth programming, the hundreds of activities that take place here have always been open to everyone regardless of ability to pay. It is part of the very fabric of who we are as Jews and as Congregation Rodeph Sholom. We are committed to keeping that promise and only with your continued generosity can we make sure that we never have to break that sacred vow.

Each of us sitting here tonight has found something in this holy place that touches us; please join me in making sure that we can create that same opportunity for future generations. I look forward to working with you in the coming years to ensure that Rodeph Sholom continues to grow and thrive. On behalf of the entire congregation, thank you for your dedication and commitment.