National Scholar Updates

Noah:

The Tower of Babel

The Tower of Babel occupies only nine verses in the Torah, yet it is the only narrative between the Flood and the introduction of Abraham’s family. Its prominent placement suggests that it marks a critical turning point in human history. However, the Torah never explicitly identifies the sin of the builders. What exactly did they do wrong, and why did God intervene so dramatically?

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 109a) maintains that the builders rebelled against God. Some sought to ascend to heaven and wage war against Him, while others intended to worship idols. Rabbi Nathan concludes that all of the builders were motivated by idolatry. This interpretation explains the severity of God’s response, but it is difficult to establish from the biblical text itself. The people simply declare their intention to build a city and a tower reaching toward heaven, thereby making a name for themselves and preventing their dispersion (Genesis 11:4).

Ibn Ezra emphatically rejects the notion that the builders literally intended to ascend to heaven. They were not so foolish as to believe that a tower could reach God’s dwelling place. Rather, they wanted to establish a permanent city, with an impressive tower serving as a landmark and a monument to their achievements. Their desire to remain together, however, conflicted with God’s plan that humanity populate the entire earth (Genesis 1:28; 9:1). According to Ibn Ezra, the builders did not necessarily intend to rebel against God. They simply pursued their own aspirations without recognizing that these aspirations contradicted God’s will.

Other commentators offer variations on these approaches. Radak and Bekhor Shor understand the refusal to disperse as a deliberate rejection of God’s plan for people to populate the earth. Hizkuni and Netziv perceive a more sinister dimension in the people’s insistence on unity, suggesting that their society suppressed individuality and freedom. These interpretations offer important insights into the dangers of human ambition and enforced conformity. Nevertheless, the biblical narrative does not explicitly identify any of these offenses.

The twentieth-century biblical scholar Umberto Cassuto offers a compelling interpretation by placing the narrative within its ancient Mesopotamian setting. His approach enables us to appreciate the significance of details that otherwise seem incidental, while also bringing us back to the Talmud’s interpretation.

Ancient Babylonian cities featured monumental stepped towers known as ziggurats, associated with temples dedicated to their gods. These towers symbolically connected heaven and earth. The Babylonians viewed these sacred structures as symbolic meeting places between heaven and earth, where the divine realm could intersect with the human world. The towers thus reflected a religious worldview in which people sought to establish contact with, and exercise influence over, the divine realm.

The most famous Babylonian ziggurat was associated with the temple of Marduk in Babylon. Its name, Etemenanki, meant “House of the Foundation of Heaven and Earth.” Babylonian traditions attributed the construction of the sacred complex to the gods themselves. The city of Babylon likewise was understood as Bab-ilim, “Gate of the God,” reflecting its inhabitants’ conviction that their city was a center of divine presence.

With this background, several unusual features of the Torah’s account become intelligible. Why does the narrative devote an entire verse to the process of manufacturing bricks? Because monumental construction in Mesopotamia depended upon baked bricks rather than the stone commonly used elsewhere. Why does the Torah emphasize that the tower was built by human beings (Genesis 11:5)? Because Babylonian religious tradition attributed its sacred construction to the gods. Most strikingly, why does God need to “descend” to inspect a tower supposedly reaching heaven? The Torah employs biting irony. No matter how impressive human architecture may be, it cannot bring people closer to God or compel Him to appear. God remains utterly transcendent and free.

Even the name Babylon becomes part of the Torah’s theological critique. The Babylonians celebrated their city as the gateway to the divine realm. The Torah instead associates Bavel with the Hebrew root balal, meaning confusion (Genesis 11:9). What the Babylonians regarded as the center of cosmic order becomes, in the Torah’s account, the place where human unity collapses.

Cassuto’s interpretation thus illuminates the Talmud’s striking assertion that the builders engaged in idolatry and rebellion against God. The Sages expressed their interpretation through the dramatic imagery of ascending to heaven and waging war against God. The ancient Near Eastern evidence suggests that their underlying theological insight was remarkably perceptive. The builders sought to bridge the boundary between humanity and divinity through their own monumental achievements. Their error was not technological innovation itself, but the presumption that human beings could control access to God.

This interpretation also clarifies why the Tower of Babel appears immediately before the emergence of Abraham. Humanity’s attempt to establish a religious center through its own power ends in confusion and dispersion. God then chooses Abraham to begin a different religious journey, one founded upon obedience to God rather than the manipulation of divine power.

“Inclusive Orthodoxy” was Rabbi Sacks’ way of describing how the majority of Jewish congregations operate in Britain and the Commonwealth. In these communities most synagogues are run along Orthodox lines with an Orthodox Rabbi, and some members who are observant. However, most congregants are more traditional than strict in their religious practice. Nevertheless, they are part of an Orthodox congregation, and when the model is working at its best, they feel at home there, are actively welcomed and valued, and they may even grow in their religious commitment. Beyond their commitment to maintaining Orthodox communal standards, these congregations are not part of a dedicated ideological project of any particular variety, but religious communities that seek to provide a home to as many Jews as possible.

That is the model of the United Synagogue in London, similar congregations around Britain, and in other countries including Canada, New Zealand, South Africa, and my own home in Australia. I have been the Rabbi of one such congregation, The Great Synagogue of Sydney, for just over 10 years now. In that time, I have had to reflect on how a Rabbi can and should lead an Inclusive Orthodox community. It is not straightforward, and raises several quandaries. How can the Rabbi uphold Orthodox standards while still welcoming everyone? How can he make everyone feel at home even though they might have very different lifestyles to his own, and very different from a halakhic ideal? How can he promote increased Jewish observance without alienating his congregation?

I cannot claim to have all the answers to these questions, but I think that the bridge that needs to be built may rest on three pillars: Embracing, Exemplifying, and Encouraging. Just as Rabbi Sacks argued that Inclusive Orthodoxy as a whole was not an accommodation, but an ideal, certainly in the context of the modern world as it actually exists, I submit that this rabbinic approach is not just a strategic choice, but is also a religious imperative.

First comes Embracing. It is the job of the Rabbi of any congregation, and especially a congregation where the members are not uniform in their level of religious observance, to embrace each and every person. My young children have a board book called We Go to Shul (by Douglas Florian and Hannah Tolson), which includes the line, “Rabbi greets all those he meets,” which captures this responsibility perfectly. Everyone who wants to come to any activities of the congregation should be greeted, embraced, genuinely welcomed and valued, and they should feel that is the authentic disposition of the Rabbi. This is a different concept to being non-judgmental.  Choosing not to be judgmental implies that I harbor an unexpressed judgement, and I am making the decision not to bring it out, but it exists and I could if I wanted. Embracing puts all that aside, and sees only a person who wants to connect, and celebrating and facilitating that desire. Although, as I will go on to argue, the Rabbi can and should be ambitious for each person’s religious growth, authentic embrace is not a tool to bring about that growth but a fundamental expression of Jewish values in its own right. When Maimonides codified the obligation to love another Jew in Hilkhot Deot 6:3, he did so without qualification: “Each person is commanded to love each and every one of Israel as themselves.” It is not dependent on the level, actual or prospective, of religious observance.

Sometimes this can be difficult, on a personal or a religious level. Some people are difficult, they are prickly characters, or simply have a personality that does not click with the Rabbi’s. Sometimes the Rabbi may feel frustration or disappointment with a congregant’s religious observance. He might feel the congregant could do more, or has even slipped backward. He might feel that his hopes for that congregant have not borne fruit, or that he has poured care and effort without experiencing reciprocity. There are two ways for the Rabbi to address this, and they are both internal work. The first is to try to set all these considerations aside, and return to the core values of universal and unconditional embrace. If that is not immediately or always possible, then it is worth remembering that religious-pastoral relationships play out over a long time. What does not happen this year may happen next year, or in 10 years.

Patience and persistence are the keys to both a happy and a successful rabbinate. The second pillar is Exemplifying. Yelling at people to do more or do better probably never worked well, and certainly cannot work today. A Rabbi makes clear their standards not by demanding them of others but by living up to them, as much as possible, himself. Again Maimonides points us toward this, when he advises (Hilkhot Talmud Torah 4:1) that however wise a teacher may be, he should only be followed if his behavior exemplifies proper conduct, because teaching ultimately resides in actions more than words. The Rabbi must therefore be scrupulous in how he speaks and what he eats, in timely and reliable attendance at services, visible enthusiasm for the study of Torah, hospitality, generosity, acts of personal kindness. As the Talmud states in Yoma 86a, he should prompt observers to say of him, “how pleasant are his ways, how proper are his deeds.”

This should not make the Rabbi appear angelic, because the Torah was not given to the angels. He can thoughtfully give insight into his struggles because questioning and doubt are inevitable parts of the religious experience, and his congregants should not be misled into believing they alone face these challenges. That would be both dishonest and unhelpful. In a careful way, the Rabbi can share the practical struggles of, say, raising a young family while also attending to religious and communal obligations, or the theological struggles that come from seeing the innocent suffer.

The Rabbi must also demonstrate palpable intellectual integrity and moral clarity. If he feels the need to teach difficult lessons or transmit challenging ideas, he must do so, but not in a way that demands agreement or compliance. The stance of the Rabbi should be: “You have asked me to be your teacher, and that gives me an obligation to teach the truth as I see it. No one is obliged to agree with me, but you have a right to know what I think if I believe the circumstances call on me to tell you.”

That combination of courage and conviction with humility and openness is a contribution in itself and also makes even the hardest messages possible to give and receive without destabilizing relationships. They reveal a Rabbi who might be wrong, and knows he might be wrong, but who is not prepared to be a liar or a coward. Of course, knowing when not to speak, and how not to speak is just as important, and verbal recklessness is no more a quality in a Rabbi than it is in anyone else. What is true, is that with the growth of love and trust, more can be said.

Have I detailed impossibly high standards? Probably. Which means in turn there can be modeling of living with imperfection, honesty about falling short, the need for repair following rupture, and a continual attempt to do better.

The final pillar is Encouraging. The challenge is to nudge without becoming a "noodge." In an Inclusive Orthodox congregation, the Rabbi cannot rely on a shared understanding of the practical binding force of halakha, or on peer pressure and social expectations, but he still wants to see his congregants grow in their religious observance. He is not presiding over what is sometimes called a “kiruv shul,” a place where everyone is consciously and deliberately on a journey toward greater religious observance and where they want the Rabbi to help them on that path. That is probably not the project or the consensus of the membership of an Inclusive Orthodox community. What, then, can the Rabbi do? He can and should encourage. He should engage with his congregants, as Maimonides counsels “patiently and gently” (Hilkhot Deot 6:7). Suggesting to someone who rarely attends services to come, not just more often in general but on a specific occasion, whether Shabbat, Yom Tov, or weekday; offering to take time to learn Torah with them; not just laying tefillin for them, but teaching them how to put on tefillin; teaching them how to read a Haftarah, perhaps the Torah, or lead a service; giving them an active role in services as a shamash or gabbai. This is aside from a role in lay leadership, such as joining the synagogue board; it is about deepening specifically religious activity.

Not everyone will agree to try to do more, some will agree but not follow through, some will follow through for a while and then participation will tail off, but the more and the wider the Rabbi’s encouragement the greater will be the results. This encouragement has to be personal. I have not seen exhortations from the pulpit or appeals in emails have much effect. Success comes most often from personal invitations made in the context of personal relationships. The greatest success for the Rabbi is when, in the case of an individual, he no longer needs to encourage, because that person now attends and participates because of their own internal enthusiasm and not because of an external intervention. Of course, no longer making specific suggestions should never mean the relationship is allowed to atrophy. Anyone can see when the Rabbi loses interest because their presence is taken for granted, is regarded as “in the bag.”  Instead, what starts out as drawing people in can become a warm, close and settled relationship of fellowship and appreciation. No one should feel looked down upon because they do less, but they should feel celebrated when they do more.

While these three pillars represent an ideal rather than a claim of personal achievement, they are perhaps parts of a vision to which an Inclusive Orthodox Rabbi can aspire and strive. They are a route to combining openness with integrity.

Ben Rothke published an excellent review of Rabbi Hayyim Angel's book, The Heart of the Five Megillot.

Jewish Press, September 24, 2026

https://jewishpress.com/the-five-megillot-beyond-easy-answers/

Title: The Heart of the Five Megillot: Tradition, Complexity, and Meaning

By: Rabbi Hayyim Angel

(158 pages)

The Five Megillot are read annually. One could easily mistake these books for being germane only to the time of year in which they are read. In The Heart of the Five Megillot: Tradition, Complexity, and Meaning, Rabbi Hayyim Angel quickly puts that erroneous notion to rest.

The Five Megillot – Song of Songs, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, and Esther – are among the more challenging books of Tanach. Rabbi Angel demonstrates that they are not merely timeless literary and religious classics, but texts that continue to speak powerfully throughout the year. Their themes – love, loyalty, identity, suffering, mortality, meaning, evil, and Divine Providence – are as relevant today as they were when these works were first composed.

Although many of the essays in this volume have appeared previously, readers encountering them for the first time will find Angel to be a writer of considerable depth, sophistication, and clarity. More importantly, he does not treat these Biblical books simply as repositories of inspirational lessons. He takes their literary and theological complexity seriously. That is one of the book’s greatest strengths – rather than forcing difficult passages into convenient answers, Angel allows the texts to challenge the reader.

Song of Songs provides perhaps the clearest example. On its surface, it is intensely sensual love poetry. Yet Rabbi Akiva famously described it as “Holy of Holies,” recognizing a profound theological dimension beneath its apparent surface meaning. Angel explores the longstanding difficulty of determining how the book should be understood. Is it literal love poetry? Figurative language? An allegory of the relationship between G-d and Israel? Rather than dismissing the tension, Angel uses it as an opportunity to explore the text’s remarkable interpretive richness.

Ruth presents a different set of challenges. Angel examines its stories of loyalty, kindness, identity, conversion, acceptance, and belonging, showing how much lies beneath its deceptively simple narrative. His literary approach draws attention to word choice, repetition, characterization, and narrative structure, revealing layers of meaning that can easily be overlooked on a straightforward reading.

He applies the same approach to the remaining three Megillot. In Lamentations, he confronts the agonizing question of how to relate to a G-d who has seemingly abandoned His people. Ecclesiastes wrestles with some of the most fundamental questions of human existence: What is the meaning of life? What ultimately remains after the pursuit of wealth, achievement, and physical pleasure? And in Esther, Angel examines a book in which G-d is never explicitly mentioned, yet Divine Providence can be discerned even when He appears to be absent.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the book is Angel’s ability to bring together two approaches that are sometimes portrayed as incompatible: traditional Jewish interpretation and modern literary scholarship. Rather than viewing them as competing methodologies, he demonstrates how they can complement one another and produce a deeper understanding of the Biblical text. The result is an approach that allows readers to benefit from contemporary scholarship without sacrificing traditional Jewish perspectives or religious integrity.

The word “Complexity” in the subtitle is particularly appropriate. One of the dangers of religious commentary is the temptation to make Biblical texts seem simpler than they really are. A difficult passage becomes a straightforward moral lesson; an ambiguity becomes a certainty; a profound theological problem becomes little more than a sermon. Angel generally resists these temptations.

Indeed, one of the book’s most important insights is that ambiguity is not necessarily a flaw in a Biblical text. Sometimes ambiguity is precisely what gives a work its enduring power. Esther’s hidden G-d, Ecclesiastes’ apparent pessimism, Lamentations’ confrontation with suffering, Ruth’s complicated questions of identity and belonging, and Song of Songs’ blending of human and Divine love all become richer when we allow the texts to remain complicated rather than insisting on easy resolutions.

This leads to what is perhaps the most important lesson of the book: The purpose of studying Tanach is not always to eliminate questions. Sometimes it is to learn how to ask better questions. That is an especially valuable lesson in an age in which complex religious and literary texts are often reduced to easily digestible messages.

Despite Angel’s considerable scholarly expertise, the essays are accessible to readers who are not specialists in academic Bible scholarship. He succeeds in maintaining intellectual rigor without making the material unnecessarily difficult or inaccessible.

The Heart of the Five Megillot is ultimately a reminder that these five books deserve to be read not merely as holiday texts or sources of familiar religious lessons, but as works of extraordinary literary, intellectual, and theological sophistication. Rabbi Hayyim Angel brings that complexity back into focus. The result is a thoughtful and illuminating collection that encourages readers not only to understand the Five Megillot more deeply, but to appreciate why these ancient texts continue to speak so powerfully to modern readers.

The Heart of the Five Megillot, as well as The Heart of Joshua, are available in paperback or kindle format at amazon.com. Check them out here:

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The famous Hasidic Kotzker Rebbe commented that God comes where God is invited.  In principle, God should be invited to every daily minyan in every synagogue throughout the world. Each worshiper should feel the presence of God when praying. The services should be conducted with love, devotion, piety…with a genuine desire to experience the Divine. 

Very fortunate are those who attend daily minyan and who indeed invite God’s presence…and feel God’s presence. The spiritual uplift of sincere prayer is of inestimable value.

Regrettably, the daily minyan experience isn’t always like this ideal model. Prayers are often recited quickly, by rote, without evoking much religious emotion.  In some synagogues, even the rabbis don’t attend daily services regularly; and when they do show up, it’s usually late. And then rather than immerse in prayers, they are busy chatting or joking with congregants.

Some attend daily minyan because that’s what Jews are supposed to do. It’s part of their daily routine and is important to them. They are pleased to participate in services, chat with fellow congregants, maybe even have some refreshments after prayers. But whether God is at the center of their concern is a moot point. For many, they sincerely pray to God. For others, God isn’t even on their minds!

Some years ago, my dear and respected friend, Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo, wrote an article about the "relocation" of God. Here is an excerpt from that article.

"Synagogues – whether Orthodox, Conservative or Reform – are no longer His primary residence. Surely some of the worshippers are pious people who try to communicate with their Creator, but overall, the majority of these places have become religiously sterile and spiritually empty. So God is moving to unconventional minyanim and places such as Israeli cafes, debating clubs, community centers, unaffiliated religious gatherings, and atypical batei midrash. The reason is obvious. In some of those places people are actually looking for Him. And that is what He loves; not those who have already found Him and take Him for granted."

While I believe Rabbi Cardozo’s contention is over-stated, it contains deep truth. God has not abandoned synagogues that aspire to holiness, that raise our spirits and nourish our souls. God has not given up on the many pious Jews who sincerely pray in their daily minyanim. But Rabbi Cardozo touches on a serious dilemma…where synagogues don’t seem to be inviting God’s presence, don’t convey a sense of religious yearning and solemnity. If God isn’t experienced in the daily minyan, it means God isn’t really invited. And if God isn’t invited, daily minyan loses its raison d’etre.

The daily minyan, for many, is a spiritual anchor of their lives. They pray quietly, meditatively. They avoid chatter or frivolity in the sanctuary. They conduct themselves as though they are in the presence of God. Ashrei Yoshevei Veitekha…happy are those who dwell in Your house…a house where You are not only invited but are the Host.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Bereishith

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“When Enoch had lived 65 years, he begot Methuselah. After the birth of Methuselah, Enoch walked (vayit-halekh) with God 300 years; and he begot sons and daughters. All the days of Enoch came to 365 years. Enoch walked (vayit-halekh) with God; then he was no more, for God took him” (Bereishith 5:21-24).

In the midst of a routine listing of births and deaths, the Torah includes these unusual verses relating to Enoch.  He is singled out as one who walked with God. 

It is often pointed out that translations do not always capture the meaning of the original. This is true in the verses about Enoch.  The English translation simply states that Enoch walked with God.  But the Hebrew word, vayit-halekh, is in the reflexive “hitpa’el” form. It means more than just walking.  It comes closer to “walking with purpose,” or “walking in righteousness.” Or even closer to “drawing God into himself.”  Vayit-halekh has the connotation of process. Enoch didn’t merely think of God or worship God; he was constantly striving for relationship with God.

The verb form hit’halekh is also used once in connection with Noah, a pure, righteous man who walked with God. This is great praise for Noah; but in Enoch’s case, this verb form is used twice! The Torah is clearly underscoring a unique and praiseworthy quality of Enoch.  Even his death is recorded mysteriously: “he was no more, for God took him.”  The Torah is indicating that Enoch was so absorbed in a Godly life that his death seemed to be a natural translation into God’s spiritual domain.

While various interpretations and legends have arisen about Enoch, the basic teaching is that Godliness/religion is a process.  Ideally, one does not “have” religion as though it is a fixed set of beliefs and rules; rather, one’s religiosity is a constantly developing phenomenon.  Religion is not “having” but “striving.”  God is not “proven” but “experienced.” One “knows God” not by philosophizing about God but by living a Godly life, literally “drawing God into oneself.”

In opening his Mishneh Torah, Maimonides teaches that “The foundation of foundations and the pillar of wisdom is to know that there is a First Being who brings into being all that exists.”  In his Guide of the Perplexed (3:54) he spells out what “knowing” God entails. Human perfection depends on the level of one’s apprehension of God. But this apprehension is manifested in a living relationship with God. “The way of life of such an individual, after one has achieved this apprehension, will always have in view loving-kindness, righteousness and judgment, through assimilation to His actions, may He be exalted.” 

When the Torah states twice that Enoch walked with God (vayit-halekh), it thereby emphasizes that Enoch not only “apprehended” God, but that he actively pursued a Godly life above and beyond others of his times. Enoch set a standard to which all humans should aspire.

If someone asked Enoch if he was religious, he would have answered: “I am striving to be.” When someone asks us: are you religious?  The answer should be, like Enoch’s: “I am striving to be.”

There is a comforting tendency in contemporary discussions of Jewish history to speak of survival almost as though survival itself constituted victory.

I cannot accept that formulation. For me, Jewish and Zionist identity is neither an abstraction nor merely a religious affiliation detachable from history. It is the inheritance of a people whose collective memory has been shaped by exile and return, persecution and creativity, political vulnerability and national renewal—and, above all, by an extraordinary determination not to disappear.

This understanding is intensely personal. Almost my entire family was murdered because they were Jews. The overwhelming majority of the Jewish community from which I come was segregated, dispossessed, deported, and exterminated during the German occupation of the Netherlands. Centuries before that catastrophe, my Sephardic ancestors left the magnificent Iberian Peninsula because remaining openly Jewish had become impossible.

These are not remote episodes in a history book. They form part of the consciousness through which I understand Jewish identity. I speak as a native Dutchman who later became an American citizen; as a Jew by faith, culture, history, memory, and peoplehood; and politically as what has become an increasingly rare creature: an old-fashioned General Zionist.

The Lost Center of Zionism

General Zionism once occupied an important position within the Zionist movement. Historically, it described those Zionists who belonged neither to the socialist-Labor camp nor to the religious parties. Over time important elements of General Zionism became associated with European liberalism, private enterprise, a substantial middle class, constitutional government, civic responsibility, and Jewish national self-determination. That political world has largely vanished.

The old disagreements among General Zionists, Labor Zionists, Revisionists, religious Zionists, and other movements were never merely quarrels among party organizations. They reflected fundamentally different conceptions of the society Zionism ought to create once Jews again possessed political sovereignty.

What should a Jewish state be?

Was Jewish sovereignty merely intended to provide Jews with military and political power after centuries of defenselessness? Or was sovereignty supposed to create something greater: a society in which Jewish national independence existed together with liberty, constitutional restraint, human dignity, freedom of conscience, and civic responsibility?

For me, the latter was always implicit in the Zionist project. Zionism was not meant simply to exchange Jewish powerlessness for Jewish power. Its purpose was the restoration of Jewish political agency: the ability of the Jewish people to take responsibility for their own security, culture, institutions, and future.

But political agency carries obligations as well as rights. When corruption, ideological absolutism, political polarization, or irresponsible leadership weakens democratic institutions, the danger to a nation does not arise exclusively from external enemies. A sovereign people must possess sufficient confidence to examine itself.

Jewish history teaches us what can happen when others possess unlimited power over Jews. Jewish sovereignty should also teach us why unlimited power is dangerous in anyone’s hands. Survival Is Not Victory

The Jewish people survived Babylonian conquest and exile.

We survived Rome. We survived expulsions, forced conversions, massacres, ghettos, inquisitions, pogroms, and centuries in which Jewish existence often depended upon the goodwill of rulers whose protection could vanish overnight.

Then came the destruction of European Jewry. Six million Jews were murdered. Ancient communities disappeared. Families vanished. Languages, schools, synagogues, libraries, traditions, institutions, and entire Jewish civilizations were destroyed.

Three years after the liberation of Auschwitz, the State of Israel proclaimed its independence. That restoration of Jewish sovereignty was among the most consequential events in modern Jewish history.

But sovereignty does not retroactively transform catastrophe into victory. The murdered did not “win” because descendants or survivors lived to establish a state.

That distinction matters. Survival means that the murderers failed to extinguish the Jewish people. It means that after destruction someone remained to say Kaddish.

Someone remained to teach a child the Shemang. Someone reopened a synagogue. Someone wrote Hebrew poetry. Someone argued about Jewish politics. Someone built another Jewish home. Someone raised the flag of a sovereign Jewish state. That is an extraordinary historical achievement.

But it came at an almost incomprehensible human cost. Our great achievement is therefore not that history could not wound us.

History wounded us terribly.

Our achievement is that it could not erase us. Empires that ruled us disappeared. Governments that expelled us fell. Movements that sought to convert us failed. Regimes that attempted to annihilate us were eventually consigned to history.

And still there are Jews. Still Hebrew is spoken. Still Torah is studied. Still our melodies are sung.

Still Jewish children are born. Still Jerusalem occupies its incomparable place in Jewish and civilized consciousness.

And today there exists a sovereign State of Israel in which Jews possess something denied to generations before us: the political capacity to participate directly in determining their national future.

That is not triumphalism. It is continuity. 

The Dutch Lesson: Liberty of Conscience

Yet there is another element of my identity that is equally important to understanding my Zionism. I remain profoundly Dutch.

When I think about political liberty, I think not only about Herzl, Pinsker, Jabotinsky, Weizmann, Ben-Gurion, or the Zionist Congresses. I also think of William the Silent and of the long, imperfect struggle in the Netherlands against religious coercion.

The Pacification of Ghent of 1576 arose from the revolt against Spanish authority and included an end to religious persecution as part of an effort to reunite deeply divided provinces. It did not create modern religious liberty, and its compromises quickly proved fragile. Nevertheless, it formed part of William of Orange’s effort to achieve a measure of religious peace in a society torn apart by confessional conflict. 

The Union of Utrecht of 1579 went further in establishing what became one of the foundational political arrangements of the northern Netherlands. It expressly provided that no person should be persecuted on account of religion, even while the individual provinces retained considerable authority over public worship. It was therefore not yet the American First Amendment, nor was it a modern separation of church and state. But it helped establish a principle of immense historical significance: the state should not hunt a person into the privacy of his conscience.

That distinction matters. The early Dutch Republic did not abolish religious privilege. Public worship was regulated, religious minorities remained subject to restrictions, and full civic equality was far from complete. Yet something revolutionary had begun.

The violent principle that political authority must impose a single religious truth upon every citizen gradually yielded to a more pragmatic conception of society: people of different convictions could inhabit the same political community without requiring one another’s theological submission.

For European civilization, this was no small achievement. It created space in which Jews, Protestants of different denominations, Catholics, freethinkers, merchants, scholars, refugees, and dissenters could coexist—sometimes uneasily, often imperfectly, but with a degree of freedom extraordinary for its time. That environment mattered enormously to Sephardic Jews.  It helped make my home city Amsterdam one of the great centers of Jewish intellectual, commercial, and religious life. The lesson was profound: A state becomes stronger, not weaker, when it ceases attempting to govern the human conscience.

Zionism and Constitutional Liberty

This brings me to an unresolved question at the heart of the Zionist enterprise.

The Zionist movement created institutions, mobilized Jewish communities across continents, promoted settlement, developed political diplomacy, fostered Hebrew culture, and laid much of the organizational groundwork from which Jewish sovereignty emerged. The World Zionist Organization itself was founded at the First Zionist Congress in Basel in 1897, with the goal of securing a recognized Jewish home in Eretz Yisrael.

Yet when Israel achieved independence in 1948, the new state did not ultimately adopt the comprehensive written constitution originally contemplated by its founders.

Israel today possesses Basic Laws based upon Ottoman and British jurisprudence rather than a single codified constitutional document. The Knesset itself acknowledges that the state has no comprehensive constitution and that disputes about Israel’s identity as both Jewish and democratic have contributed to the continuing constitutional debate. That unfinished constitutional project should concern Zionists.

The Declaration of Independence spoke in unmistakably liberal terms. It envisioned a state founded upon freedom, justice, and peace, and promised equality of social and political rights irrespective of religion, race, or sex, together with freedom of religion and conscience. Those principles were not foreign decorations attached to Zionism.

They belong at its center.

Indeed, the World Zionist Organization’s own current constitution describes Zionism as adhering to justice, equality, and democracy and as rejecting discrimination on grounds including origin, nationality, race, gender, and sexual orientation.

The question, therefore, is not whether liberty is somehow incompatible with Zionism. The more difficult question is whether Zionist institutions and the State of Israel are sufficiently determined to defend liberty when doing so becomes politically inconvenient.

Freedom of Speech Is Not a Luxury

Freedom of speech is especially important in a society whose citizens carry radically different memories, religious convictions, political philosophies, and understandings of national identity.

A free society does not protect speech because every opinion is wise. It protects speech because no government, political faction, religious establishment, or ideological movement can safely be entrusted with determining which opinions may be expressed.

Zionism itself could hardly have developed without intellectual dissent. Herzl challenged accepted assumptions about Jewish emancipation. Ahad Ha’am challenged political Zionism. Religious Zionists challenged secular Zionists. Revisionists challenged Labor. General Zionists challenged both socialist collectivism and religious political authority.

Israeli democracy has always contained arguments of extraordinary intensity precisely because Jewish sovereignty returned political disagreement to the Jewish people. That disagreement is not evidence of national weakness. Properly protected, it is evidence of political maturity.

The moment criticism of government becomes confused with treason, or disagreement with religious authority becomes confused with hostility to Judaism, liberty is already in danger.

Freedom of Religion Means Freedom From Religious Coercion  The same principle applies to religion.

A Jewish state has every right to express Jewish history, Hebrew civilization, the Jewish calendar, Jewish national memory, and the relationship of the Jewish people to Eretz Yisrael. But the Jewish character of a state cannot depend upon compelling belief. Faith imposed through political power ceases to be faith and becomes coercion.

Freedom of religion necessarily includes several liberties simultaneously: the freedom to believe, the freedom to practice, the freedom to change one’s degree of observance, the freedom to belong to a different religious tradition, and the freedom not to believe at all. Those liberties protect religious Jews as much as secular Jews. They protect the Orthodox Jew from a hostile secular majority. They protect the secular Jew from rabbinic coercion.

They protect Sephardim whose religious traditions differ from Ashkenazi establishments. They protect Reform and Conservative Jews. They protect Christians, Muslims, Druze, Baháʼís, and others. And they protect the individual human conscience.

A government powerful enough to impose somebody else’s religion upon you today is powerful enough to suppress your religion tomorrow.

Jewish history should make us particularly sensitive to that danger. 

The Seduction of Religious Extremism

Religious extremism becomes dangerous when theological certainty acquires political power.

This danger is not unique to Judaism, Christianity, or Islam.

It is a danger inherent whenever human beings become convinced that disagreement with them constitutes rebellion against God.

Once political opponents cease being fellow citizens and become heretics, traitors, infidels, apostates, or enemies of divine purpose, ordinary democratic compromise becomes morally suspect.

From there, persecution becomes dangerously easy to justify.

Jewish civilization knows the consequences of such thinking because Jews have repeatedly been its victims.

We therefore carry a particular responsibility not to reproduce the logic that persecuted us. No rabbi, priest, imam, minister, politician, or ideological movement should possess authority over another person’s conscience. No government should determine which interpretation of God every citizen must accept. And no political majority should imagine that electoral victory gives it ownership over the spiritual life of minorities.

The Jewish State Must Not Fear Liberty

Some believe that more religious coercion makes Israel more Jewish.

I believe Jewish history suggests precisely the opposite question should be asked: What kind of Jewish society requires coercion to remain Jewish?

A civilization confident in itself does not fear freedom. Judaism survived Babylon, Rome, Christendom, Islam, the Inquisition, emancipation, secularism, communism, fascism, assimilation, and modernity. It does not require a policeman standing behind the synagogue door. Nor should secular Israelis fear Judaism.

The Bible, rabbinic civilization, Sephardic philosophy, Jewish law, Hebrew language, liturgy, poetry, historical memory, and the experience of exile constitute a civilizational inheritance vastly larger than any contemporary political party or religious institution.

A genuinely Jewish and democratic state ought therefore to protect both Jewish civilization and personal liberty. The two need not be enemies.

From Survival to Responsibility

The Jewish people have accomplished something remarkable.

We survived.

But after 1948, survival alone could no longer be the complete Zionist program.

A sovereign people must ask not merely whether its state exists, but what kind of state it wishes to become.

That is the transition from survival to responsibility.

Jewish history imposes upon us an obligation to defend Jews against persecution.

But that same history ought to make us defenders of the persecuted.

Jewish history teaches us the danger of statelessness.

But it should also teach us the danger of unrestricted state power.

Jewish history teaches us to cherish our religion.

But it should therefore also teach us that religion is most precious when freely embraced rather than politically imposed.

And Jewish history teaches us the value of having a national voice.

It should therefore make us reluctant to silence the voices of others.

The Netherlands of William the Silent did not instantly create modern liberal democracy. Neither did the American Revolution, the French Revolution, or any other historical transformation produce perfect liberty overnight.

Political liberty developed slowly, through struggle, contradiction, compromise, and repeated correction.

Israel’s constitutional journey remains similarly unfinished.

Perhaps that unfinished work constitutes one of the most important Zionist tasks of our generation.

We must preserve the Jewish state.

But we must also preserve the kind of liberty that makes a Jewish state worth preserving.

We must defend Israel against those who seek its destruction.

But we must equally defend its democratic institutions against those—whether religious or secular, right or left—who would subordinate individual conscience to ideological power.

And we must remember that Jewish sovereignty was not restored merely so that Jews could survive behind stronger walls.

It was restored so that after centuries of living at the mercy of others, the Jewish people could build a society worthy of its history.

Am Yisrael does not exist because history was kind to us.

We exist because generation after generation Jews chose to remain Jews.

The challenge of sovereignty is greater still:

to remain Jewish without becoming intolerant;

to remain strong without worshipping power;

to remain faithful without coercing faith;

to remain national without denying human dignity;

and to defend the State of Israel without surrendering the freedoms that give democratic sovereignty its moral meaning.

Survival brought us here.

Liberty, responsibility, and constitutional restraint must help determine what we become.

I also changed the historical formulation about the Dutch Republic slightly. The Pacification of Ghent and Union of Utrecht were major milestones toward liberty of conscience, but not modern church–state separation; Article 13 of the Union allowed considerable provincial control over public religious practice while establishing that individuals should not be persecuted for their religion. That nuance actually strengthens your comparison with Israel because it shows constitutional liberty developing gradually rather than appearing fully formed. 

Let me finish with the motto of my native country:

Je maintiendrai!

(I shall maintain)

With the holidays coming toward an end, Rabbi Hayyim Angel will be resuming his classes, many of which are available to members of the Institute.

On Mondays October 12, 19, and 26, from 1:15-2:15 pm Eastern, Rabbi Hayyim Angel will give the next installments of his series over Zoom on the history of Biblical Interpretation (Rabbi Yitzhak Abarbanel, Rabbi Ovadiah Sforno, and the 16th-19th century commentators). It is hosted by Lamdeinu, and registration is required. 

https://www.lamdeinu.org/donations/monday-the-parshanim-their-methods-and-contributions/

On Tuesday, October 13, from 8:00-9:00 pm Eastern, Rabbi Hayyim Angel will give a class on the Tower of Babel: Classical interpretation and the Ancient Near East. It is over Zoom and is hosted by The Ben Porat Yeshiva Day School in Paramus, NJ. Free and open to the public. Here is the link:

https://us02web.zoom.us/j/83206895741

Beginning Monday, October 19, from 12:15-1:00 pm Eastern, Rabbi Hayyim Angel will resume teaching at the Beit Midrash of Teaneck. Classes are free live at the Jewish Center of Teaneck (70 Sterling Place, Teaneck NJ). They are also available over Zoom. Classes meet on Mondays and Wednesdays at that time, and we are in the middle of the Book of Exodus/Shemot.

For more information on schedule and how to sign up for Zoom, please contact Mrs. Leah Feldman:

[email protected]

Looking forward to learning with you!

The Jewish story we tell ourselves is not complete. Essential parts of it have been preserved outside the written canon, within the rhythms of life itself, and especially in the voices of women. For the Jewish story to continue, it must also include what has been preserved beyond texts, the wisdom carried through women’s tradition.

In his influential work The Jewish Way, Rabbi Professor Irving Yitzhak Greenberg offers a profound and compelling interpretation of Jewish time in the modern era. His writing, which integrates theological depth, historical sensitivity, and a deep commitment to the Jewish future, has helped shape contemporary Jewish thought in the aftermath of the Holocaust and the founding of the State of Israel.

Alongside his contribution, the work and presence of Blu Greenberg have also deeply influenced me. Their home in Riverdale was, for me, a generous space of encounter, conversation, and inspiration, where I was invited to present my work on women’s prayer.

It was precisely this deep appreciation that I found myself pausing at the margins of his book, in an appendix titled “Outside the Historical Path.” There, among what were described as “minor holidays,” appeared Rosh Hodesh.

Perhaps it is within such a broad framework that we are invited to ask not only what is included in the story, but also what has remained outside it, and what can now be brought back. In a moment of fracture within Jewish life, this question is not only historical, but existential.

Rosh Hodesh: Not at the Margins, but at the Center

Rosh Hodesh is far more than a date on the calendar. It marks renewal, a new beginning, a moment of looking forward. In Jewish tradition, it has long been associated with women, with the waxing and waning moon, with cycles, with quiet wisdom, with hope, and with the ability to begin again.

For me, for the women in my family, and for many women across generations, Rosh Hodesh was never marginal. It was never an appendix. It was part of the path itself.

My grandmother, Hannah Mashiach of blessed memory, born in 1900 in Balkh, Afghanistan, who immigrated to Jerusalem in the early twentieth century, carried with her a living world of tradition. In Jerusalem’s Bukharan Quarter, a vibrant communal space filled with prayer, faith, and shared life, embodied a tradition that was both simple and profound.

She knew prayers by heart, like many women of her generation. She would often say, in her simple wisdom:
“We must learn how to live together.”

Each Rosh Hodesh, she dressed in festive clothes, lit a candle, refrained from work, and joined other women in prayer.

Across Jewish communities, similar practices emerged. Women refrained from certain forms of labor, gathered, prayed, and created spaces for reflection. In Ashkenazi communities, the eve of Rosh Hodesh was sometimes called Yom Kippur Katan, while in Sephardi and Middle Eastern communities it was known as Mishmeret Rosh Hodesh.

Despite geographical distance, a shared pattern emerges women, across cultures, preserved a distinct time for reflection, connection, and hope. And yet, despite its centrality in women’s lives, this world is largely absent from the written Jewish narrative.

A Partial Story

When I encountered descriptions of Rosh Hodesh as a “rediscovery” in 1970s America within feminist circles, I welcomed the awakening. Yet I also felt a deep dissonance. For many women, Rosh Hodesh was never rediscovered. It had never disappeared.

When I later asked Greenberg how such a living tradition could be placed “outside the historical path,” he responded candidly:
“I am an American Ashkenazi Jew. That is the world from which I write.”

This is not a mistake, but a perspective. Yet perspectives shape reality.

The Jewish story, even when expansive and thoughtful, is written within the limits of experience, language, and memory. Not exclusion, but human boundaries.

And so, the question remains: What other voices have remained outside the story we tell ourselves?

 The Missing Layer

Jewish tradition carefully preserves the written canon. Yet alongside it exists another world, rich and expansive, a world of women’s prayers, rituals, customs, and lived practices.

We have three daughters and a son. Only with our youngest did we celebrate a Zeved HaBat (celebration of the birth of a daughter), after I discovered an ancient text from Italian Jewish tradition. During the ceremony, my father-in-law, David Lavie of blessed memory, stood and said, “We also have a prayer for the birth of a daughter.” In an old family siddur from Tripoli, we found it.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” I asked.
“You didn’t ask,” he replied.

This is how women’s Jewish knowledge often appears: not lost, but unasked.

This knowledge has often been labeled “folklore,” marginal or secondary. But in truth, it is a complete system of meaning, resilience, and hope, born out of life itself. And it does not belong to women alone. It is a resource for the Jewish people.

Not a New Creation, but a Living Return

In recent years, a quiet yet clear movement has emerged. Women are returning to these spaces, creating circles, rituals, and practices.
This is not invention; it is return. Not imitation, but awakening. Not nostalgia, but a living movement from past to future. It is not only a response to crisis, but an awakening already unfolding. This return does not seek to import meaning from outside, but to uncover what has long existed within Jewish life itself.

A Crisis Searching for Language

We are living through a profound crisis of Jewish identity. Rising antisemitism, internal divisions, and exhaustion from ongoing struggles are accompanied by a deep search for meaning and belonging. Many are no longer asking only, “What obligates me as a Jew?” but “What does being Jewish mean to me?”

The answer may not lie only in expanding existing knowledge, but in restoring layers of wisdom that have been preserved differently.

From Fracture, Hope Emerges

This was the first Passover after October 7.

A festival of freedom, while hostages were still in captivity and many were once again called to reserve duty. Many told me they could not read the Haggadah this year. How can one speak of freedom when reality feels so distant from the words?

I found myself returning to the same question: what did Jewish women do in times of rupture, and how can this wisdom be brought into the present moment? I found testimonies of women in labor camps who refused to give up the Seder. They held it in their imagination, imagining matzah and charoset, lighting candles, reciting Kiddush, and singing “Next year in Jerusalem.” Others reconstructed rituals and recipes even under the harshest conditions.

I brought texts from times of crisis, from the Inquisition and beyond. I read from a Haggadah I compiled, Od Nachzor HaBayta (We Will Return Home), printed copies, and distributed them.

Among the pages, I shared a tiny Haggadah, six lines long, written in Auschwitz on toilet paper, the size of a matchbox, by Toby Trackeltaub of Munkatch:

Pesach, 5705, Auschwitz

Toby Trackeltaub

We long to celebrate, but we cannot.
We yearn to believe, and that is the one thing we still possess, the one thing they cannot take from us: memory.
Only this can give us hope for a better and more beautiful future, a future we hold in our minds without lowering our heads.

And just as God redeemed our ancestors from Egypt,
so too will He save us from our bitter bondage
and restore us to the land of our ancestors.

These words opened hearts.

This is what hope looks like in Jewish tradition: not a simple promise, but an act.

Not an escape from reality, but a refusal to surrender meaning within it. Perhaps it is precisely in such moments that we understand how the knowledge preserved in lived experience, and especially by women, is not marginal at all, but a living source of resilience and continuity.

A Source of Hope

Restoring women’s Jewish knowledge to the center is not only a correction of the past, but a possibility for the future. It expands our language at a moment when it is narrowing.

This knowledge offers another path, not to erase differences, but to connect across them.

 For me, this is not only a scholarly question. It is a life mission. Over the years, in encounters with women and men in Israel and across Jewish communities worldwide, I have repeatedly seen how knowledge preserved by women, in prayers, customs, and memory, carries a quiet yet persistent wisdom, one that sustains life even in times of uncertainty.

It has the capacity to repair, not as theory, but as a way of life: to heal fractures of identity, to reconnect individuals to tradition, and to bridge distances between people.

From this understanding, the Women’s Prayer Project (TfilatNashim.com) emerged, a cultural-spiritual initiative that brings women’s voices back into the center of Jewish life.

It is a living space of Jewish identity, where ancient prayers, customs, and stories rooted in Jewish life meet contemporary experience, offering tools for leadership, resilience, and meaning. Not nostalgia, but future.

This is not only a story to be told, but a voice to be encountered. Those who wish to listen more closely are invited to enter this living space, where these voices continue to speak, be shared, and be renewed.

The Jewish story will not be written only through what is preserved in books, but through the voices we choose to restore, and the ones we choose to hear.

The B’nai Mitzvah “Minimum”

As a social worker, special education teacher and disabilities inclusion specialist in the Jewish community, I receive many calls each year from parents of children with disabilities who worry their children will not be able to “get” bar or bat mitzvah-ed. Perhaps they are not members of a synagogue and have no idea how to meaningfully mark this rite of passage. Or, if they are members of a synagogue, they are aware of the high bar of expectations which may involve reading from the Torah, chanting the Haftarah, leading the congregation in prayer, and delivering a devar Torah. They “know” their children can’t do these things and wonder if there might be other options. As they are about to give up, they call for guidance.

The first thing I do is validate their concerns and frustrations—and suggest they discuss it with their rabbi. I then reassure them that their son will become bar mitzvah automatically when they turn 13 years, and their daughters will become bat mitzvah in the same way at age 12. I explain that bar mitzvah is not a verb and that their child won’t “get” or even “have” a bar mitzvah. To further make my point, I playfully take it to the “absurd” and explain that their child’s status will change from Jewish child to adult even if they stay in their pajamas, under the covers, on the day they turn 13 on the Hebrew calendar.

Families are incredulous at first. They (usually fathers) reflect on their own experience of preparing for and marking becoming a bar mitzvah—which is oftentimes not a positive memory. They are convinced that their child needs to publicly recite the Torah blessings, read from the Torah and chant the Haftarah; otherwise, “it doesn’t count.”

If they still don’t believe me, I bring forth the example of girls.  I remind them that, not too long ago, women didn’t celebrate becoming bat mitzvah, yet they somehow managed to became Jewish adults. 

Once they finally buy in to the fact that the status changes automatically, I begin a conversation about creative synagogue options they may have never witnessed before. I encourage them to dream of ways to mark their child’s special day in a way which is meaningful, special and appropriate—whether they are a person with autism, anxiety and other mental health issues, visual impairments, deafness, are non-speakers or have minimal speech, mobility issues, or deal with learning disabilities. 

I encourage them to think about the many options available. There are non-Shabbat morning and non-synagogue options which include making the bar/bat mitzvah on other days of the week, conducting the ceremony at a Jewish summer camp, in a restaurant or in one’s own backyard.

Our new book, A DIFFERENT SPIRIT: Creating Meaningful B’nai Mitzvah for Children with Disabilities, edited by myself and Ilana Trachtman—the filmmaker who told the story of the bar mitzvah of Lior, a young man with Down Syndrome in her 2008 award-winning film, “Praying with Lior”—includes a range of contributors including clergy, educators, psychologists and people with disabilities (among them a deaf rabbi and an autistic professor of special education). It is designed to help clergy and families navigate creating meaningful and inclusive celebration for everyone. 

The book’s chapters and essays include inspiration and practical guidance on planning celebrations, managing accommodations and settings, and teaching children with a wide range of disabilities, as well as personal stories and an exploration of the concept of inclusion.

Beyond the “Standard” Shabbat Morning B’nai Mitzvah 

One reason most families of children with disabilities cannot imagine their child marking becoming b’nai mitzvah at all is that they have only seen or attended b’nai mitzvah which take place on Shabbat (Saturday) mornings, in the context of a service which is long, formal, packed with attendees and where the bar or bat mitzvah student is expected to “do” a lot of the service.

In most synagogues, the student is expected to learn the complete Haftarah or selections from the Haftarah (weekly prophetic portion), prepare one or several aliyot from the weekly parashah[ja1]  (Torah reading) which will be chanted from the scroll (with no vowels, punctation or musical notes) on the actual day, lead parts of the service and write and publicly deliver a devar Torah. Young women may prepare to read Torah in a woman’s tefillah group, though they more commonly mark their becoming bat mitzvah by learning a text or subject in depth and preparing a devar Torah or conducting a siyyum (celebratory conclusion) of a biblical or rabbinic book.

This process of preparation is rigorous and challenging for many learners—especially those with a wide range of learning challenges.  

For those learning to read Torah, the teacher usually begins by teaching the system of biblical cantillation or “trope,” which requires learning a system of musical notation. In general, the key to successful Torah reading is good auditory and visual memories and the ability to decode Hebrew. For students with deficits in any or all of these areas, the learning process can be very challenging.  

Even for those who master the learning, public performance—especially in front of a large crowd on a Saturday morning—can also be challenging and intimidating.

Non-Shabbat Morning B’nai Mitzvah Options, Why They Aren’t Offered More Often, and the Issue of Equality versus Equity

Synagogues may have understandable reasons for only offering b’nai mitzvah on Saturday mornings. In many communities, this is the big day or only day for the community to come together.  

Some synagogues offer a Shabbat afternoon and havdalah service—which is a relatively short service featuring three short torah readings. While marking b’nai mitzvah at this much shorter, less formal service may be a good option for some learners, some synagogues worry that it is not “fair” to offer this option as this would mean that these students would prepare much less than those celebrating b’nai mitzvah on Shabbat morning.

This raises an important issue of equality versus equity. While it may seem admirable to treat everyone equally or “the same” when it comes to setting expectations for b’nai mitzvah, equity means treating people differently based on their specific needs and circumstances.  Equality assumes everyone starts at the same place and equity acknowledges individual differences. B’nai mitzvah options should reflect differences among learners.

Other less stressful, non-Shabbat options for marking bar or bat mitzvah include Mondays and Thursdays (days when the Torah is traditionally read), Rosh Hodesh (the new Jewish month), or holidays (Hanukkah, the middle days of Sukkot, Purim, etc).  All of these options also allow for the use of technology (microphones, Power Point, Dynavox augmented speech) and musical accompaniment as there are no Sabbath-observance restrictions on using electronics on these days. 

In my 40-plus years of working with families to find suitable options and preparing students and in many cases, officiating such services, and in a lifetime of visiting synagogues of all sizes and denominations around the world, I have seen many creative solutions that were “just right” for each student and family. 

Max, a minimally verbal student with autism, marked his bar mitzvah on the Sunday of Sukkot. He did not recite Torah blessings, but spent the service on the bimah, next to the cantor, banging out rhythms on a drum. He was very comfortably dressed in clothes which did not upset his sensory issues. A very small brunch followed in his New York City apartment.

Adam celebrated his bar mitzvah on the Sunday of Hanukkah. The rabbi wisely pointed out that the Torah reading for that day follows a repetitive and predictive pattern; once Adam learned “the pattern,” he was able to master the entire Torah reading. A festive brunch followed in the synagogue.

Ruby did not want to mark his bar mitzvah on Shabbat morning in his synagogue. He eventually agreed to read the maftir, the final three lines of the Torah reading. Not having to face the congregation was a big help. He refused to deliver a devar Torah as this was too “scary.” Instead, he was happy to push “play” on the computer at the Sunday brunch reception, where guests were treated to a very thoughtful 10-minute pre-recorded devar Torah.

I have worked with several students who celebrated bar or bat mitzvah on Purim evening—they were able to learn a few verses of the Purim megillah (scroll) which they recited in costume, with all guests clad in costumes as well—this helped keep the day relaxed and festive.

Many years ago, I attended morning minyan in a Manhattan shul on a Thursday morning. A 13-year-old boy and his father, new immigrants from Russia and not well-versed in Hebrew, prayers or traditional Jewish practice, came to minyan. The boy was called to the Torah to recite the blessings before and after the reading of the third Torah aliyah. The rabbi congratulated him on becoming bar mitzvah. None of the regular minyan goers were expecting to attend a bar mitzvah and therefore did not have candy for showering the boy with their warm wishes—they simply congratulated him with the singing of “Siman Tov u’Mazal Tov.”

Beyond Alternative Days and Dates: Alternative Venues, Service Formats and Non-Service B’nai Mitzvah

Some synagogues are sensitive to just how intimidating the “big shul” can be for some students and may offer a chapel bar/bat mitzvah or, in “extreme cases,” a rabbi’s study bar or bat mitzvah. Many years ago, Corey marked his bar mitzvah with his divorced parents, the rabbi and me in the rabbi’s study. Corey had mental health and behavioral issues, and this was the right venue; while it would not accord with the traditional practice of being called to the Torah in the presence of a minyan, it was the perfect option in his situation.

For other families, out of synagogue b’nai mitzvahs are the best option. They include one’s backyard, a beach or country house, a small conference room at a hotel, restaurant, or out in nature.

Our book shares the story of Lisa, a Jewish Day School student with learning disabilities and anxiety and amazing artistic ability. Lisa marked her becoming a bat mitzvah literally without saying a word. 

Lisa spent the year leading up to bat mitzvah studying Jewish texts and illustrating and painting scenes of scenes which she found meaningful. Her art served as interpretation and commentary of her understanding of these stories. The bat mitzvah—held in an art gallery—was an opportunity for her guests to view her art and read her explanations while sipping wine and eating d’oeuvres.

There is an entire chapter in the book “By a Lake or in a Tree: Celebrating in a Camp Setting” which shares the how’s and why’s of holding b’nai mitzvah at a summer camp. This relaxed, outdoor option is perfect for some students and families.

I worked with a family who made b’nai mitzvah for triplets at their beach house—close to where the mother and father spent their childhood summers. Another family rented a Torah and marked their only child’s bar mitzvah in the living room of their large Manhattan apartment, overlooking Central Park. Another family used the large outdoor property of their country house in Western Massachusetts.

More About Why “A Different Spirit” May Be Useful in Creating Meaningful B’nai Mitzvah for Children with Disabilities

When Ilana and I set out to write our book, we imagined a book for families, clergy and teachers which would offer guidance on how to navigate creating meaningful and inclusive celebrations for everyone.  The book would provide inspiring essays and practical guidance on planning celebrations, managing accommodations and teaching children with a range of support needs.

The first two essays demonstrate how inclusion elevates and creates a sense of belonging, and how b’nai mitzvah affirms the essential tenet of Judaism of being created in God’s image.

Part I, which has 10 chapters, looks at creating inclusive communities, building supports along the journey, dreaming and imagining and planning, the role of siblings, an essay on invoking the arts in the b’nai mitzvah process, b’nai mitzvah in summer camps, and a very thoughtful dialogue on if/when b’nai mitzvah should be off the table. 

Part II offers specific tools to teachers including multi-sensory approaches to teaching Hebrew, using Braille, and teaching students who are deaf and hard of hearing. These latter two chapters are written by people with disabilities including a bat mitzvah student who is blind (along with her mother who is a clergy member), and a chapter by a deaf rabbi and his hearing sister. There are also chapters on learning disabilities and mental health challenges and references to speech impairments and mobility challenges. An essay in this section, “What if I bark on the bimah?” is by Jewish educator and comedian Paula Schuller. She speaks openly and with humor about having Tourette’s Syndrome. 

A Final Word: Why A Book About B’nai Mitzvah and Disabilities Just Might Revolutionize B’nai Mitzvah for EVERYONE!

The intended audience for our book is the Jewish disabilities community. Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, members of other faith communities are finding the book useful—while life cycle events vary, the issues faced by people with disabilities in houses of worship are similar.

We are also finding that parents of non-disabled students are excited that there may be options for marking b’nai mitzvah that they had not considered in the past.  Perhaps a less stressful, non-Shabbat morning, outdoor bat mitzvah in nature is just right for their daughter?!

We are all familiar with the history of curb cuts on public sidewalks. They were initially intended for users of wheelchairs and other mobility assist devices. Once the curb cuts were built, parents with strollers and delivery people with carts found them to be useful as well. So with “non-traditional” b’nai mitzvah.

We hope and pray that synagogues and temples will begin by offering non-Shabbat b’nai mitzvahs to students with disabilities, and that they will see the benefit of this offering for all students. Some families will favor Shabbat morning in the main synagogue; others will enjoy Havdalah in the chapel and others will love the Monday, Thursday, Rosh Hodesh or holiday option. There is no downside, since, after all, everyone becomes b’nai mitzvah regardless of what they do to mark it and when they choose to mark it!

I grew up in Tampa, Florida. It is a wonderful place. I was raised in a secular family with a strong sense of Jewish identity, but I did not understand what that identity meant or why being Jewish was something distinct. From a young age, my public-school classmates told me, “You’re not white. You’re Jewish.” I didn’t quite grasp this. It created a sense of otherness, but it also felt like something special, even precious. While I thought I looked like most of my classmates, they saw something else. There were not many of us Jewish students, and we were all told the same thing, very matter of factly. It was simply accepted, along with whatever difference it meant to be Jewish.

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observed, if you do not define your identity, others will define it for you and not always kindly. My experience at the time was benign and I did not yet appreciate what being Jewish meant, but the world had already begun to tell me. 

Before I came to understand Judaism, I came to antisemitism. I learned how Jews were seen long before I understood who Jews were. That is not a stable way to build identity. It would be many years before I began to internalize what it means to be Jewish and observe our practices. I remember hearing phrases like “Jewish values,” but I did not know what those values were. I was fortunate to have strong history teachers, and we learned about World War II and the Holocaust, but I had no real sense of the thousands of years that came before. Years later, I encountered Tanakh, tefillot, and mitzvot, along with the teachings of Rabbi Sacks and other giants. I began to see the difference between an identity shaped by others’ hatred and one rooted in knowledge, practice, a tradition of strength, and most importantly a connection with HaShem.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks warned that Jews would be defined by others whether they chose it or not. This has been the pattern for centuries. Antisemitism has taken many forms, a dynamic hatred that adapts to the weaknesses of each society in which it takes hold. The writer Vasily Grossman, who witnessed both Nazi and Soviet brutality, understood something essential about antisemitism. It is not simply hatred of Jews. It reveals something about the society that produces it and the individuals who perpetuate it.

It often presents itself in acceptable, even noble terms, cloaking hostility in the language of morality, whether as opposition to a religion, a race, or, as we see today, a country in the popular form of anti-Zionism. It is all too easy for a sacred religious identity to become defined in response to hatred, rather than grounded in its own inheritance. When those who hate you define you, the result is an unstable and uncertain identity. It pulls you away from the stable foundation laid millennia before and fills the space of faith and practice.

I thought I could recognize propaganda. I thought it was something obvious, something you could spot and reject. But over time I came to see that it is often far more subtle. It does not always announce itself. It adapts. It shifts language. And when it comes to Jews, it has done this for centuries. Antisemitism has followed a familiar pattern throughout history. Whatever a society fears or resents, Jews are blamed. This is why the accusations can be contradictory. Jews are cast as outsiders and, at the same time, as wielding hidden influence. Too weak and too powerful. The claims do not need to make sense. They only need to serve a purpose. When identity is shaped in response to those claims, it becomes unstable and uncertain, dependent on those who deny your place and, at times, your right to exist. The contradictions do not cancel each other out. They coexist. That is part of the point. I experienced this firsthand recently.

I ran for the Teaneck Board of Education this past fall. It was an all-consuming experience for myself and my family. My running mate and I ran on a platform of accountability, community, and excellence and we ran a campaign of integrity. We expected a tough race. What we did not expect was the level of personal attack. There were six candidates. I was the only one identified by religion. I was labeled a “Jewish activist.”  While I don’t object to the term, it was not how I would describe myself. More importantly, it immediately marked me as different. Throughout the campaign, I encountered a familiar contradiction: I was cast simultaneously as an outsider and as someone connected to powerful groups exercising insider control. My running mate, who is not Jewish, was also targeted. He was portrayed as having compromised himself by aligning with the Jews.

This is part of the power of antisemitism. Some dismiss it as politics, a dirty sport if there ever was one. But these attacks went beyond policy or disagreement. They became personal and drew on popular tropes. On election day, a box truck drove through town with a large screen displaying the message “Stop the non-public school takeover.” The message reduced complex public issues to a simple threat and the messaging was effective. I did not win, though the race was close. My running mate came even closer. I accept the result. What I do not accept are methods that moved beyond policy and into something more personal and troubling.

The challenges we face today are new in form but familiar in substance. The language and setting change, but the pattern remains. A grounded Jewish identity, shaped by our sacred texts, faith, practices, and history, and strengthened by our families and communities, provides stability where none exists in the accusations of others. It is not a shield against hatred, but it allows us to withstand it without being defined or destroyed by it. That kind of identity does not emerge on its own. It must be taught, learned, and lived. It is the responsibility of each individual to embody it with gratitude and strength, of parents to teach it to their children, and of each generation to pass it on.