why be jewish?

In the old Jewish cemetery in Warsaw, Poland, on Okopowa Street there are more than 250,000 marked graves. Tonight, I want to tell you about two of those graves. 

The first belongs to Ludwik Zamenhof, who, over 130 years ago, invented a language called “Esperanto” which he envisioned as a global language; designed to create peace among people by shared language. Zamenhof was a doctor, a Pole, and a Jew. He grew up in Bialystok, a town divided along ethnic and linguistic lines—it was that division, and that lack of common ground that drove his desire to create a new, and neutral language. 

In 1895, he reflected:

"The place where I was born and spent my childhood gave direction to all my future struggles. In Bialystok the inhabitants were divided into four distinct elements… each spoke their own language and looked on all the others as enemies. In such a town [one] feels more acutely than elsewhere the misery caused by language division. I was brought up as an idealist; I was taught that all people were brothers, while outside in the street at every step I felt that there were no people, only Russians, Poles, Germans, Jews and so on."

Across from Zamenhof’s grave, lies Y.L. Peretz, one of the giants of modern Yiddish literature. Peretz, too, saw a divided world, but through different eyes. He wrote: 

"I am not proposing that we lock ourselves in a spiritual ghetto. We must leave it—but with our own soul, our own spiritual wealth. We must make exchanges. Give and take. Not beg. Ghetto means impotence. Interchange of culture is the only hope for human growth. To take yet continue to be oneself—that is the important thing. Leave the ghetto, see the world—yes, but with Jewish eyes."

Two graves. Two men. Both Jewish. Both responding to the same human struggle: division, misunderstanding, the desire for a better world. And both teach us something profound about the Jewish journey, about why we are here, and why it matters that we be Jewish today.

This question feels particularly live to me right now, at this moment of seasonal and spiritual transition. The start of the school year, the turning of the season from summer to fall. It feels a little different to be here tonight—the first “real” Shabbat of the school year, as we count down to a new Jewish  year. There’s a sense of beginnings in the air…

With all of this new energy around us—it feels fitting to pause and ask a question we don’t always ask aloud: Why be Jewish? Why, in the middle of everything else the world offers, do we choose to invest in this life, these traditions, this conversation?

There’s a saying often attributed to John Gardner— that every story ever written or told is based on one of two archetypes: a person goes on a journey, or a stranger comes to town. Take Percy Jackson, setting out on a cross-country quest to return Zeus’s stolen lightning bolt—or Frodo leaving the Shire to carry the Ring into Mordor. That’s the journey. On the other side, think of Mary Poppins blowing in on the East Wind, or Boo Radley stepping out of the shadows in To Kill a Mockingbird. That’s the stranger who changes everything.

Zamenhof and Peretz are both variations on this theme: a Jewish person goes on a journey. Zamenhof and Peretz lived in the same Jewish world of late 19th- and early 20th-century Eastern Europe, a time when Jews were wrestling with questions of identity, modernity, and belonging. Amid rising antisemitism and rapid social change, some—like Zamenhof—sought universal solutions to human division, while others—like Peretz—turned inward to nurture a distinctly Jewish cultural renaissance. Zamenhof imagined universal peace through a new, shared language. Peretz imagined peace and unity through the particular lens of Jewish language, culture, and ethics. Both saw words as essential, as the building blocks of human connection.

Zamenhof and Peretz show us that every journey—whether toward the universal or the particular begins with questions: Who am I? Where do I belong? Today, in our own time and place, the Hebrew month of Elul asks us to prepare for the new year ahead,  inviting us to step onto that same path of reflection, asking not just who we are and where we’re going, but why we choose to be Jewish, and how that choice shapes the world we live in.

In America, religion is countercultural. We live in the most unchurched era in our history. And here we are—in a Reform Jewish congregation in the Berkshires, far from the synagogues of our grandparents’ youth, gathered in a spiritual home that reflects our particular choices, histories, and values. How did we get here? How did Judaism survive, adapt, and find expression in our lives?

The answers are never simple. To say we are Jewish because of ancestry or certificates, or because we share the same beliefs, would be untrue. To say we are here simply because it is what our neighbors or families do would be a greater falsehood. And yet, we are here.

The question “Why be Jewish?” has been answered in different ways across history. In the past, the answers might have been covenant, chosenness, historical memory—even survival itself. Judaism as a response to persecution, to memory, to a promise made at Sinai or tested through the Holocaust. But those answers do not always resonate today, especially as younger generations seek relevance, meaning, and belonging.

And yet, this generational tension and turnover is not new either. Zamenhof sought unity through Esperanto, imagining that communication itself could heal divisions. Peretz sought the same unity, but through the particularity of Jewish words, culture, and ethics. Both recognized that words matter—that language, conversation, and the stories we tell shape the world. And Judaism is nothing if not a conversation: a set of texts, prayers, rituals, and practices that guide us in the most basic and profound of human activities—how we speak to one another, and how we live in the world.

Rabbi Larry Hoffman offers a definition I want to hold onto this Elul: “Religion is the practice of speaking in a register that does justice to the human condition.” He writes:

"When people say they follow football 'religiously,' when they re-experience Beethoven’s violin concerto or Barber’s Adagio for Strings and call it 'practically a religious experience,' when they get angry at organized religion because it is negative, exclusive, hierarchical, and judgmental—in all these ways, they bear testimony to what religion really is, or ought to be. Needing another term, they choose 'spiritual'—we all seek spirituality. Religion is primarily a conversational practice."

Judaism, then, is its own particular conversational practice. It gives us the vocabulary and metaphors to engage the human condition with dignity, depth, and care. The human condition is unique: we are conscious, we reflect, we wonder about love, suffering, justice, and beauty. Judaism insists that these questions matter.

This is what makes us countercultural. Being religious means we can ask and discuss the difficult, essential questions of life: Where are you at home? Who is part of your community? To whom are you responsible? For what purpose were you born into this world? There are fewer and fewer spaces in the world to have these conversations. Jewish life provides them.

Prayer is one vocabulary, offering words for the feelings that are too complex for ordinary speech. Text study, ritual, and mitzvot—the acts of justice and loving-kindness—are others. Together, they create a conversation that is at once particular and universal. They teach us how to speak, how to act, and how to listen in a world that often fails to honor human dignity.

This conversation is not abstract. It is lived. There’s a famous YL Peretz’s story called “If Not Higher,” which illustrates this beautifully. In the month of Elul, a rabbi disappears each Friday. A curious townsman follows him and discovers that he has gone to help an elderly, sick woman by bringing her wood for her stove and lighting her fire—acting in kindness, anonymously, with humility. Later, as the sun sets on the evening of Kol Nidre, the rabbi is missing again, and someone wonders aloud if the rabbi has actually gone to heaven. The curious townsman quietly replies: “If not higher.”

To be Jewish is to participate in this conversation: to speak, to act, and to elevate the words into deeds. To care for justice, for mercy, for truth, and for beauty. To act “if not higher.”

And this is the question for us this Elul: How will we enter the conversation in the coming year? How will we speak, act, and elevate our words and deeds? For some, it will mean listening deeply, soaking in the wisdom around us. For others, it will mean speaking up, acting boldly, and shaping the conversation with courage.  Our Jewish tradition gives us ways in: through dialogue, action, in the pursuit of justice, mercy, and meaning. Whether it is prayer, study, social justice, or acts of everyday kindness, we engage in the conversation. Zamenhof and Peretz remind us that both universalist and particularist visions have value. The world is made better when we speak, act, and listen in ways that honor both the human condition and our own particular identity. 

So this year, I invite you to pull your chair closer to the table.Engage in the Jewish conversation, in all its complexity, beauty, and depth. Speak words that matter. Act with care. Seek justice. Celebrate beauty. Be present to those in need. 

May this Elul awaken us to the power of words, the necessity of action, and the joy of meaningful conversation. May we elevate ourselves, and one another, if not higher.

Shabbat Shalom.