RH Day 5785
When I arrived in Macon, Georgia, to begin my first job as a rabbi, I said hello to Fay, our 71-year-old receptionist who had been with us for over a decade, and I sat in my new office. More than anything else, the one thing I remember from that first day wasn’t that I didn’t know what I was doing. Or the new city I was living in, where I knew not a single soul. In the words of Simon and Garfunkel, “It was the sound of silence.”
After years of working at preschools, summer camps, Sunday schools, Confirmation Classes, Weekday Hebrew High Schools, and Jewish day schools, I imagined a Jewish job that included the sound of children playing. I imagined working with kids of all ages. There was a deep sadness felt in my soul that very first day, knowing that each morning for the next three years, I would come into a Jewish spaceue that was absolutely silent. And while I learned an incredible amount about what it meant to be a rabbi, something was missing. Not only was I a single man in his 30s living in a town of (maybe) two hundred Jewish families, but I was also jealous of the social media posts of my colleagues with their students.
It was then that I promised myself that my rabbinate would ensure that I demarcate and include space for children in my life, both personally and professionally. Now, if you have not heard the good news already, my beautiful wife, Wendi, is pregnant with our first child—a girl due to arrive in late January. Through this process, professionally and personally, I’ve learned that including children means making space for them.
Let’s be honest. Okay, there are two types of homes: where kids live and where they don’t. And trust me, folks, these places look different. Porous marbles, sharp corners, and delicate fabrics aren’t exactly designed for the hands and coordination of a toddler.
I remember the day we started talking about moving out of our apartment in Las Olas because, after all, there would hopefully be more humans in our house. Nowadays, Wendi and I find ourselves in the middle of painting, wallpapering, and furnishing a room for a soon-to-be human baby. And let me be clear. It doesn’t just happen. All of this was intentional. Women biologically and physically make space for children in their own bodies.
From the discussion of when we wanted to get pregnant to where we would house this child, where they would go to school, the environment they would grow up in, their name, Hebrew name, and how we would afford this new human. It was all entirely intentional. We have carved out a space in our home for this baby. Because that is precisely what it means to include children in the lives of adults. We have to create space for them. Intentionally.
As someone without kids, those of you who have little ones of any age will agree. Children and making space for them don’t just happen out of thin air. Car seats, pack-and-plays, clothes, medications, and particular doctors, babysitters, and families don’t just pop up without thought and premeditated action. And money. Let’s not forget. Children aren’t free. Neither are babysitters, preschool, or fitness programs. Even getting pregnant can sometimes cost as much as a new Mercedes. We pick our paths wisely and with consideration. We are non-teenagers, semi-adults who are semi-responsible and semi-mature. Notice a lot of semis.
I remember visiting Hollywood and watching our preschool kids make noise through the halls. Marvin Luterman did a great job of introducing me to the staff. I remember hearing about my presence in classrooms and the available opportunities with students. It was then that I knew “I’m right where I need to be.” Part of my role in life is to live by the Torah, which also means passing it down from generation to generation. It’s part of my personality and who I am as a Jew and rabbi.
But to be Jewish, to live as a Jew, means making space for the next generation. No matter how difficult that may seem. No matter how hard it may be. It is incumbent upon us as Jews to think ahead. As quoted in Psalms 135:
יְהֹוָה שִׁמְךָ לְעוֹלָם יְהֹוָה זִכְרְךָ לְדֹר־וָדֹר
“Adonai, May Your name endure forever, Your greatness and power, Adonai, through all generations. L’dor V’dor.” Or, as we say in the Amidah prayer:
לְדוֹר וָדוֹר נַגִּיד גָּדְלֶֽךָ וּלְנֵֽצַח נְצָחִים קְדֻשָּׁתְךָ נַקְדִּישׁ, וְשִׁבְחֲךָ אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מִפִּֽינוּ לֹא יָמוּשׁ לְעוֹלָם וָעֶד
“From one generation to another, will continue to declare Your greatness, and for all eternity proclaim Your holiness. Your praise, O God, shall never depart from our lips.”
We often say that the future of not only our congregations but also our communities and our people lies in the hands of our children. We pray that they may enjoy the sweetness of Torah on their lips by drenching any apple we can find in honey. We pray as Jews that our children will continue to grow in heart and that the stories of our people inspire them. The truths of our Torah guide them.
From the day they are born until their Bar Mitzvah, we ask them to be a link in a chain of goodness as they repeat the prayer of their ancestors. We put the Torah in their arms and tell them that holiness is their heritage, and may our tradition live on in them.
As we are commanded in Deuteronomy: “Set these words which I command you today upon your heart. And teach them faithfully to your children… when you lie and get up” (Deuteronomy 6:6).
And while this is all well and good, if we don’t create space, if we don’t allow our children to feel noticed, mentioned, and cared for in sacred spaces, all of these words are simply superfluous or, even worse, falsehoods that we say and don’t really mean.
To ensure that the children who engage with Judaism don’t feel out of place and unwelcome. Because we can all imagine times when that was the case as children. Everyone can recall a time when they were scolded, reprimanded, or shouted at in adult spaces for doing something wrong or simply for being there.
Typically, I rely on the example of a museum/China Shop versus a playground/jungle gym when considering what kind of Jewish environment we want to reflect on. Or work towards. Or be known as. Are we a place that wants to be awake, alert, engaged, collaborative, and alive - a Jewish space that is about experimentation and invention? Or one who is too afraid to experiment and innovate out of fear of breaking something? Namely Judaism. Or angering those looking to fulfill their idyllic “traditional” sense of Judaism.
As an adult, I went to the MOMA in Manhattan and was scared to take my hands out of my pockets around those considered “holy” artifacts and paintings. Let alone talk too loudly. Or go in the wrong direction. Or get too close even to a work of art. That’s precisely why Children’s museums are labeled exactly as such. Because they can look at and touch it without fear of admonishment.
So, the question arises: What does it mean to intentionally create space for children in Judaism? What are those spaces? What do they look like? And how can we, as a Jewish community, do more to make our next generation feel more at home? How do we create conditions, settings, and spaces where Judaism can flourish, meaning where children are welcome?
Let’s start with Passover. Probably the easiest and most impactful, not only on adults but on all Jews. According to Pew Research Center studies, it’s easily the most widely celebrated holiday. And that’s in part because Children play a part. They have a role. Not just to eat, dress up, or put on a show for the adults, but because they’re a part of the service itself. The Seder is literally for them.
In Exodus, we read: “Seven days you shall eat unleavened bread, and on the seventh day, there will be a festival... And you shall explain to your child on that day, "It is because of what Adonai did for me when I went free from Egypt.”
It’s not an adult but a child who chants the four questions. Why? To involve the children. On Passover, we celebrate Judaism and are responsible for answering the children’s questions as they challenge or respond to their religion.
Modern-day educators understand that children are individuals and learn differently from each other. To teach effectively, a teacher must figure out what the student wants to learn, how they learn best, and where they are emotionally, and adjust their instruction accordingly. Hence, in the middle of the seder, we arrive at the Four Children (sometimes called The Four Sons)—the wise, wicked, simple, and one who doesn’t know how to ask.
And finally, right there, on page 70 in our own Haggadah, used by Jews all over the United States, it clearly says in italics: “A child or children are sent to open the door to the outside.” As the door is opened, we say: “Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet, and he will turn the hearts of the parents to the children and the hearts of the children to the parents before the coming of the great and awesome Day of God.” (Malachi 3:23-24).
Rabbi Dr. Michael J. Shire, in his article, “The Jewish Religious Nature of the Child,” explains that “Invoking the prophet Elijah, harbinger of the Messiah, [either during the seder, at a circumcision, or naming] demonstrates that each child has the potential to change the world and bring it to completion and perfection
Further, he says, “Children are considered a great gift in Judaism. Parents who have children are considered blessed. They are regarded as the hope for the future because they have been entrusted to us as a Divine gift.”
This is also echoed in the story of Samuel, who is indentured to the High Priest in the Temple by Hannah, his mother, in thanksgiving for his long-awaited birth.” The Haftorah story that is read on Rosh Hashanah.” Samuel becomes the paradigm for the child’s potential…teaching others through wisdom and moral conscience as he grows and develops.
He even says, “Judaism understands childhood to be both formative and lifelong and indeed a paradigm for the holiness and moral purpose of life, symbolic of the human–Divine relationship itself.” As the Torah writes: “You are children of your God. For you are a people consecrated to your God Anoni, your God chose you from among all other peoples on earth to be a treasured people.” ( Deuteronomy 14:1-2)
Dr. Rabbi Shire explains that “The description of the covenanted people in Jewish literature as ‘the children of Israel’ places these views of childhood on a theological plane. Even though the People of Israel are often depicted as failing in their duty to fulfill God’s mission, their status as children of a Divine parent is never questioned. This concept emphasizes parents' unconditional love for children.
Thus, “Childhood becomes a state of being to be cherished and nurtured, on which a lifetime of insight and formative perception is built.” As such, “These Jewish conceptions of childhood encompass a powerful potential to grow in wisdom and goodness.”
Families in countless Jewish homes, on Shabbat and Festival evenings, engage in the custom of “birkat habanim”, also known as “birkat yeledim,” the Blessing of the Children. The practice is described in many early modern siddurim published as early as the mid-18th century.
While there are many variations of the ritual, the traditional text of the blessing remains the same after a preamble based on Jacob’s deathbed blessing for his grandchildren Ephraim and Manasseh. A version for daughters cites the matriarchs Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah. The parent then recites the threefold blessing, also known as “birkat kohanim,” the priestly blessing. Typically, the parent or parents place their hands on a child's head, mirroring the priestly gesture.
The type of Jewish space I want to be involved with is one where children are seen and heard. In fact, on an occasional Friday night, you can find a toddler or even a baby making their way up to the bima and hanging out beside me. And thus, this year, we will bring in the New Year with a new kind of Shofar blowing. Tomorrow morning, at the end of services, instead of one or two adults performing our T’keyah G’dola, every single one of our Religious School students will be given their own Shofar, which sounds eerily similar to a kazoo, to help bring in the new year as they stand proudly on the bima in front of their community with their clergy.