Every Passover, at the heart of our Seder, we teach our children that asking questions is sacred. The very structure of the night revolves around the “Ma Nishtanah”—the child’s brave questioning. Embedded in this ritual lies the powerful wisdom that Judaism flourishes when we encourage questioning, dialogue, and personal ownership.
But let’s be honest. Somewhere along the way, our communities have struggled to genuinely live this truth. I think often of our Conservative movement—founded with a vision of navigating precisely this tension, balancing tradition with thoughtful adaptation, old and new. It was meant to be Judaism’s most profound embodiment of flexibility and authenticity.
Yet, something has broken along the way.
We intended to create a Judaism that spoke directly to our people’s changing lives, deeply rooted yet vibrantly contemporary. But in practice, our institutions often grew rigid, cautious, and distant from the lives of real Jews. We spoke of flexibility, but many felt we delivered rigidity instead—rigidity masked as authenticity or caution. We lost many families who quietly concluded Judaism wasn’t flexible enough to hold their complex, modern identities. We lost teens who found rigidity suffocating rather than sustaining.
In short, despite our best intentions, the Conservative movement struggled to fulfill the very promise it offered. Now we find ourselves, rabbis, educators, parents, community leaders, picking up the pieces—holding both grief and hope, trying to recapture the flexibility and warmth we know Judaism has always possessed.
And yet, even amid these struggles, I passionately believe in Judaism’s core strength—its adaptability. Judaism survived two millennia of exile, persecution, and radical change precisely because it adapted brilliantly to changing circumstances. After the Temple fell, Judaism reinvented itself around text, prayer, and community. Throughout history, rabbis and teachers boldly wrestled with tradition, courageously adapting Torah into something relevant, compelling, and real.
Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook famously taught: “The old must be renewed, and the new must be sanctified.” Flexibility isn’t weakness—it’s Judaism’s greatest strength. When we insist on rigidity, especially for our teens, we risk alienating the very generation who must carry Judaism forward.
Our teens today navigate immense pressures—academic stress, social anxiety, mental health struggles, and digital isolation. Amidst these tensions, Judaism can either feel like yet another burden or become a source of meaning and joy. But for Judaism to become meaningful, it must feel authentically theirs—not something imposed upon them, but something they can shape and hold.
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once wrote, “We are closer to God when we are asking questions than when we think we have the answers.” Do we embody that wisdom? Do our communities genuinely encourage our teenagers to question? Do we embrace their uncertainties and skepticism as sacred conversations, or do we rush to shut down their doubts out of fear they’ll abandon Judaism entirely?
I’ve witnessed many heartbreaking moments when teens, frustrated by what feels like inflexible rules, quietly disengage. Yet I’ve also witnessed transformative moments—families sitting together, parents courageously telling their children, “It’s okay to question. Tell us more.” In those spaces of flexibility, I’ve seen Judaism flourish.
Recently, parents told me about their teen’s resistance to fasting on Yom Kippur. Initially, the parents feared compromise meant spiritual failure. But after genuine dialogue, they reached a flexible solution: partial fasting combined with thoughtful reflection and discussion. Instead of weakening their teen’s Jewish identity, this approach strengthened it, transforming obligation into meaningful choice.
This kind of flexibility doesn’t weaken Judaism—it makes it resilient.
Our Conservative movement’s initial dream was precisely this flexibility. Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan envisioned a Judaism both rooted and responsive, eternally relevant because it courageously engaged with change. Somewhere along our journey, we lost our nerve, fearing that flexibility might fracture tradition.
But now, it’s precisely this flexibility that our teens desperately need—and we have a chance to reclaim it. We’re tasked with picking up the pieces and building anew—courageously crafting communities where questioning isn’t feared, but honored; where uncertainty is welcomed, not suppressed; and where Judaism can be authentically theirs, rather than merely inherited.
The Lubavitcher Rebbe famously said, “Do not despair if your children reject tradition; perhaps they reject your way of practicing tradition. Help them find their own way.”
We must ask ourselves honestly:
- Are we courageous enough to create spaces where our teens can truly make Judaism their own?
- Can we encourage them to voice their doubts and questions openly?
- Will we trust them enough to adapt rituals so that Judaism feels authentically theirs—not rigidly imposed, but freely chosen?
This Passover, let’s return to the essential lesson of our Seder. Judaism’s survival hinges upon our willingness to embrace questions and flexibility. We’re reminded explicitly by the Haggadah: “In every generation, each person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally came out of Egypt.” Judaism must become personal—felt and chosen.
As we continue to pick up the pieces, let us recommit ourselves to building resilient Jews—not by rigidly insisting upon tradition, but by trusting its flexibility. Let’s create Jewish communities spacious enough to hold our teens’ complexities and rich enough to help them make Judaism meaningfully their own.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught, “Freedom means the ability to live with questions.” May our teens inherit precisely that freedom. May they discover a Judaism so alive, vibrant, and personally meaningful that they choose it for themselves—not because we demand it, but because it genuinely speaks to their hearts.
The Conservative movement’s promise was always flexibility. Now, in this crucial moment, let’s courageously reclaim it.
It’s our deepest hope—and our greatest strength.
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