Why a Bat Mitzvah?

Drash given on the Friday evening of the weekend my daughter became bat mitzvah.

13 years ago, a parenting blog appeared in the NYTimes by best-selling author KJ Dell’Antonia. I was paying attention because, well, 13 years ago, I was about to become a parent and I had time to care about parenting blogs.

Dell’Antonia wrote a compelling piece on why she and her husband were decidedly NOT raising their child with religion. She presented the idea of two axes of connection - a vertical one that connects a person to their family and history, and a horizontal one, that connects a person to other communities in the here and now. She sees “organized religion” as existing to “sure up” the vertical axis and then makes a case for why people shouldn’t feel badly about abandoning this project. In her words:

“[there is the] fear that without a shared religion, a child will fail to feel a connection to her family and her history…That connection, though, can be found in different places. It can be found in stories of family history and family resilience shared around a dinner table, or in a sport, a hometown or a cause. There are many ways to deepen a vertical connection. What matters is to find and strengthen those things that are important to your family rather than regretting those things that have worked for other families in other times…

…Parents need to release our grip on the vertical and recognize that finding or embracing those horizontal identities is crucial to our children. As important as the family identity is, we need to leave room for the identities — religious or otherwise — that we don’t “give.””

I see what she’s saying. Religion is not the only pathway to tradition and a meaningful life. And I agree that paying attention to the horizontal axis is crucial. We must make room for our children to seek community in places and spaces where one feels most authentically themselves.

But her antipathy toward religion’s impact on the vertical axis bothered me. Her description of religion, or a strong connection to ancestral traditions, felt shallow. Her dismissive note about “what worked for other families in other times,” felt short-sighted. It marks religion as primitive and focused on the past, mired in conservative obstinacy. In our modern world, this is a common accusation against “organized religion.”

As an endorser of organized religion, as a progressive person, as a Jew, I often find myself feeling tremendously misunderstood by these characterizations.

Then I came across a response to Dell’Antonia’s piece by Reverend Nurya Love Parish, an Episcopal priest, that articulated my critique even better and helped me to feel seen:

“Religion, as described by Dell’Antonia, is not a meaning-making language necessary for a full life, not a set of practices for the growth of the soul, not an irreplaceable force for good in the world. Religion is roughly equivalent to “community.” Because Dell’Antonia understands religion as community, it is optional. People can find their way into any community they choose. There is no significant difference between a religious community and any other community.”

“Contrary to Dell’Antonia’s assumptions,” she continues, ““Religion” and ”community” are not synonyms. Religion is a way of making meaning of life. Religions endure because they successfully enable generation after generation to celebrate the beauty and wrestle with the agony of human existence. Religious communities are not an end in themselves. Their purpose is to practice the religion they profess. By the practice of their faith, they seek a depth of soul and connection to the Divine that is impossible to achieve any other way. Religious communities exist to connect human beings with God, the Eternal.”

I’ve sat with these two pieces for 13 years now, and given the events of this weekend - our eldest child becoming a bat mitzvah - I dug them out of my files, drawn by some important personal questions: “why IS this weekend so important to our family?” “why DO we care so much about raising our child in a faith?”

I mean, I’m a rabbi. My husband Mark is also a Jewish professional. It was sort of a given that our children would be enmeshed in a synagogue and attend religious school, and that one day they would become B-Mitzvah (and continue to Confirmation and Graduation). But being a rabbi, being Jews, we, like everyone else, also needed to ask, “but why?!”

I’ll start with a disclaimer: I don’t think a child’s upbringing is “deficient” in any way if they aren’t raised in a faith. I also believe, importantly, that a person should not be burdened or saddled with a faith. We have seen too many examples of where that leads to abuse and emotional anguish. Fundamentalist reads that propagate self-hate, or hatred towards others, or that stifle one’s social, emotional, and physical freedom are problematic.

I do see raising a child in a dynamic, loving faith, however, as a potential gift. It is a gift of a “religious toolbox.” This toolbox contains the vocabulary, experiences, and rituals that help one to experience life's highs and lows, its twists and turns. A religious toolbox includes a vocabulary of gratitude, which promotes emotional and physical well-being.

It provides one with intentional fortitude and motivation to participate in the world, no matter its uncertainty or ugliness. It contains handbooks for survival, promoting determination and grit.

A religious toolbox drives us to act justly, it has tools for empowerment. And while both gratitude and a sense of justice can happen outside the bounds of a religious faith, our faith is what makes it obligatory.

Religious life counteracts feeling adrift. It is about manifesting sacredness by accessing the sanctity around us. When done with intention, integrity, and a strong sense of personal freedom, religion can provide a bedrock in which one can drop an anchor, offering support in the vastness of the human experience. It is the gift of feeling connected to something greater than ourselves.

That “something greater” can be many different things: a body of wisdom, a sense of wonder, a God-concept, or, to come full circle, a community.

So we’re back at the vertical axis, and the pejorative “what’s worked for other families in other times.” We Jews call this Torah. Torah is what’s worked for the Jewish family over time.

The Torah, we say, is a tree of life - with a strong, robust, vertical trunk that is always responding, always growing. By Jewish standards, the story of our people is a growing, living thing, dynamic and conversational.

The metaphor is rich: the tree's trunk has many layers, formed by the rings inside. There are thick layers for years in which the tree receives more nourishment and support. They become thinner during years of challenge. Rings are lighter in color during significant growth and darker during seasons filled with more comfort and uniformity. So too has our tradition expanded and constricted, made adjustments due to time and place. It has branched out and it has weathered many storms.

This is not a relic that tethers us to the past, but a living framework that has given generations the courage, language, and moral imagination to meet the future.

On Yom Kippur morning, one of my favorite readings ends with,

“The words are old and the language was theirs,
but the call is real and the message is ours:
Take hold of your life while you still have the chance!”

And you better believe we do this in community, sacred community. This is a sacred and human struggle to do what is right - for ourselves and for others. And this is precisely why our daughter will stand on this bimah tomorrow morning and read from the Torah.

She will be given many gifts tomorrow and throughout her life, but the biggest one will be that Torah itself - the skills and stories that motivate her to assert her own worth and insist that she act to assert the worth and dignity of others as well. Her destiny is knit up with others’ from the past, present and future, and knowing that, the decisions she makes matter.

I can’t think of a more empowering gift - the gift of knowing that life is sacred and that she is never, ever alone. We are never alone. We matter. Always.

On Wednesday evening, we had our rehearsal with Cantor Jenna. The cantor took the Torah out of the ark and handed it to Noah, who now, old enough, held it alone for the very first time in her life. That was when I cried.

She’s heard it, seen it, even touched it, but now it is entrusted to her. Why would we hand over the keys to the tradition to a 13 year old? Because the rabbis were keen observers of human development, and they intuitively knew what modern science shows: the pre-frontal cortex of a teen is still forming. In its growth state, it is pliable and ready to choose a path. At this moment of great change and exploration, it is crucial we develop and then hand over the toolbox for meaningful living. It is the gift of empowerment, the gift of dynamic, purposeful connection at a stage of development where one might feel alone and unsure of who they are and what they stand for.

It’s not just connection, it’s not just community, it’s covenant. This covenant is established in this week’s Torah portion in the uttering of the 10 Commandments. Through these laws, rituals, and relationship God says, אַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ (you will be to me a kingdom of priests, a holy nation!), people who know their worth and the worth of others.

Source of Life,
We thank You for the gift of a living tradition—
for words older than us that still call us forward,
for rituals that steady us when the world feels uncertain,
And for a covenant that breathes life into each of us and into Your creation.

On this weekend of my daughter’s bat mitzvah, I am grateful for the sacred gift that I was given, and the privilege and freedom to pass it to her. In doing so, may we continue to be agents of love and life, individually, together, and as a community. Amen.

The NEW Colossus

Lady Liberty - one of the most powerful symbols of our country.

Liberty of course, is her defining feature

Liberty - the hope that was uttered to her in prayer from the incoming migrants

But Emma Lazarus, a Jew, a poet was not so literal. 

Within her poem lies a protest.

Have you ever stopped to think about the TITLE? 

Have you paused on the first couplet before reciting the poem’s most famous lines?

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command…

This statue is NOT Colossus, she says, the brazen giant of Greek fame

The statue of Helios in Rhodes’ harbor, 

built in 280 BC to commemorate the successful defense against military attack.

He stood arrogant, his masculine might exposed, muscle on display

and an earthquake brought him down.

Some records say that the fallen giant was pillaged by Arabs 

and the scrap metal was sold to a “certain Jew”

(You can hear the derision dripping from the pen of the Byzantine historian)

This statue, says Lazarus, is NOT THAT.

She is not here to intimidate - she is here to welcome.

Not cocky, hateful history behind her. 

She looks toward the horizon, 

the moral arc of the universe,

longing.

She is NOT military and conquest,

She is hope, compassion, a MOTHER.

A Mother of EXILES, even.

Not history’s victors. 

If anything, she calls to those who have lost.

Because not all of history’s victors are winners

And its losers are not waste.

In fact, if we follow the horizon, 

the moral arc of history long enough, 

we will see it is the tempest-tossed, 

the tired, the poor, the huddled masses

Who make history,

Who build society,

Who write the poems 

and build the movements.

With her mild eyes, she commands
the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

You know who had mild eyes? 

Our foremother Leah,

The less loved, the rejected

And yet she too birthed our people.

And so now, a new generation seeks 

what so many others have sought,

To build a life of liberty,

To step through the golden door of possibility.

Whether travelling from far beyond our shores

Or already within our borders

May the most vulnerable be met with compassion.

May protest remain a protected right

May the law of our land be upheld with dignity

And should we need to defend, let us defend with dignity

May every official, every enforcement officer, 

Every citizen and every resident

Live each day in such a way that they can hold their head high

Like Lady Liberty does.

Her torch’s flame possesses lightening

But the lightning is never dispatched. It is restrained.

Because it is not a weapon but a beacon.

It is light.

Light, held—not hurled.

Light that beckons

Light that leads the way.

Dignity, life, shining.

The Start of the Exodus, 2026

"How it started vs. how it's going" is a popular social media trend. You post two contrasting images - one showing the beginning state of something, and one showing the current state of the thing, usually to show a decline or funny change.

The book of Exodus starts off in this manner. How’d it start? Jacob’s family is reunited. They migrate to Egypt to survive famine. They thrive. They multiply. “The land was filled with them,” the text says (Exod. 1:7).

And how’s it going? Well… “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” He fears the Hebrews. He sets taskmasters over them and oppresses the Hebrews with forced labor. They’re forced to build garrison cities for Pharaoh. Life is made bitter and harsh.

So…bad. It's going badly.

But while Exodus opens with a brutal ‘how it started, how it’s going,’ we know the Torah never freezes. We’ll follow our enslaved ancestors out of Egypt and they will begin their desert journey. 40 chapters from now, we will witness them build the Tabernacle, the portable sanctuary where God’s presence dwells among the people.

This is the “how it started, how it's going” we really want to pay attention to. Think about it: Exodus begins with Egyptian oppression, the Israelites being forced to build garrison cities. By the end of the book, they’re still building. But this time, though, they’re not constructing military cities for an egomaniacal king. No, they’re building the Tabernacle. The Mishkan is a dwelling place for the Divine, where the Ten Commandments will rest, where communication with God will occur. The Israelites are building this sanctuary with their own free will and talents. God asks that everyone involved in the construction donate “as their hearts are so moved.” It’ll be made of precious metals and curtains and wood; wildly different from the brick and mortar slave-built cities of these first few chapters of Exodus.

And because the Mishkan is a communal project of authentic love, God’s presence will come to dwell in it - a beacon of light and hope in the midst of the camp. The last line of Exodus is: “For over the Tabernacle a cloud of יהוה rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the House of Israel throughout their journeys” (Exodus 40:38).

This is God’s emanance appearing to guide the journey. And not just this Exodus journey that we are about to embark upon, but all the journeys our people will take.

The book of Exodus has many morals, but tonight, here at the start of 2026, it is important we highlight the Torah’s insistence that we have the power to shape the future for the better. No matter how terrible this particular moment may seem, bitterness can give way to holiness. Yes, miracles may move the story along, but redemption ultimately begins in our hands.

The book of Exodus is a polemic against futility. You may be chained and beaten, but you need not accept that as an eternal fate. Indeed, the only thing eternal is God.

The Talmud (Sotah 12a) presents a story about these early days in Egyptian slavery. Pharaoh decrees that when the midwives “deliver the Hebrew women, look at the birthstool: if it is a boy, kill him; if it is a girl, let her live.” When the midwives righteously refuse, Pharaoh tries again: charging all his people to make sure that every Hebrew boy that is born shall be thrown into the Nile.

In response to this state-sanctioned terror, a man named Amram, a well respected leader in the Hebrew community, decides the only way to avoid the decree is to stop producing children. He therefore separates from his wife, Yocheved. Others follow his lead, giving into the futility of the situation.

But Miriam, Amram and Yocheved’s young daughter, confronts him. She argues that Amram’s choice is more devastating than Pharaoh’s edict. Pharaoh targeted only boys, she explains. Amram’s decision erases all future children. Pharaoh’s decree threatens life in this world alone; Amram’s forecloses both this world and the world to come. And while Pharaoh’s decree may change or fail, a righteous person’s despair, once acted upon, is certain to shape reality.

Moved by her words, Amram reunites with his wife, the people do the same, and the future of Israel is restored—setting the stage for redemption to begin with Moses’ birth.

Miriam’s logic not only saved our people then, but it can inspire us now. Miriam is called a prophetess, not necessarily because she can see the future, but because she speaks and builds it into being.

Later in the story, when the Israelites flee through the parted Sea of Reeds, Miriam and the women will sing and dance with their timbrels. We have to ask: of all the things they brought, why their timbrels? They didn’t even have enough time for their dough to rise but they had enough time to grab their handrums?

They did this, the rabbis say, because they knew there would be a miracle. They knew there would be a time to celebrate. Miriam and the women knew they’d be singing songs of praise, so they put their timbrels at the top of liberation’s packing list.

So how about we do the same?

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote: “One of the most important distinctions I have learned in the course of reflection on Jewish history is the difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is the belief that things will get better. Hope is the belief that, together, we can make things better. Optimism is a passive virtue, hope an active one. It takes no courage to be an optimist, but it takes a great deal of courage to have hope.”

It’s the beginning of the book of Exodus, it’s Jan 2026. How’s it starting? It’s a mixed bag. Where’s it going? Well, that’s up to us. Let’s be brave, let’s make it not just a year of wandering, but a year of wondering, of dreaming, of building a sanctuary of well-being for ourselves, our families and all humankind. Amen.