There was a time not long ago when denominational labels mattered. Conservative. Reform. Orthodox. Reconstructionist. We organized our synagogues, summer camps, seminaries, and even our family expectations around them. These affiliations weren’t just statements of belief or practice; they were identities, communities, inherited legacies.
But today? More and more Jews—especially younger ones—either shrug at these labels or reject them altogether. And to be honest, I understand why.
As a Conservative rabbi, I love my movement. I was raised in USY, trained at JTS, inspired by the intellectual rigor and spiritual balance Conservative Judaism once, and still attempts to promise: halakhic integrity without fundamentalism, modern scholarship without relativism, Jewish peoplehood without ethnocentrism. We told ourselves we were the reasonable middle ground, the bridge between tradition and change.
But bridges are meant to be crossed, not inhabited. And in recent decades, we became too comfortable on that bridge, trying to hold the center as the landscape around us shifted. Denominationalism began to feel less like a mission and more like a marketing strategy.
This isn’t just a Conservative problem. Reform Judaism wrestles with its own boundaries between innovation and continuity. Orthodoxy struggles with internal schisms and the tension between isolationism and engagement. Even the most vibrant non-denominational communities often import the same issues, just rebranded under new names like “pluralistic” or “post-denominational.”
The reality is that the denominational model that shaped 20th-century American Judaism is crumbling, and we should neither be surprised nor overly nostalgic. Movements were built to answer questions that no longer animate most Jews: “Do you believe in Torah mi-Sinai?” “Are you shomer Shabbat?” “Do you count women in a minyan?” These were once identity-defining questions. Today, they feel like checkboxes on a form very few people are filling out.
Instead, Jews are asking different questions: “Where do I feel spiritually alive?” “Who welcomes me and my partner?” “Will this community care for me when I’m sick, or celebrate with me when I return to myself?” These are human questions, heart questions. And denominations, with their institutional committees and policy statements, are often too slow or too impersonal to answer them.
When I first became a rabbi, I believed that movement loyalty was part of my job. I sent students to Ramah. I encouraged JTS applications. I advocated for the Conservative movement in Jewish Federation meetings, on panels, at interdenominational gatherings. But over the years, something shifted. The questions people brought to me were not about the Conservative movement. They were about God, grief, identity, belonging, Israel, antisemitism, and purpose. They were about feeling distant from prayer, or unsure how to talk to their children about Judaism. My rabbinic calling was not to be a brand ambassador. It was to be a spiritual guide.
So I started saying something I never thought I would say: I don’t care what label you use. I care that you show up. I care that you learn, pray, wrestle, give, ask, mourn, celebrate. I care that you let Judaism be a language for your soul, not just a category on your demographic survey.
Let me be clear: I’m not saying movements have no value. Institutions matter. Standards matter. The infrastructure that movements provide—training rabbis, producing prayerbooks, supporting educators—is not easily replaced. But the loyalty they once commanded no longer holds. Jews today are brand-agnostic. They crave authenticity more than affiliation. They want spiritual depth without being told they must check their intellect, politics, or family structure at the door.
And to be honest, sometimes the movements failed us. Conservative Judaism promised halakhah and change, but too often delivered bureaucracy and indecision. Reform promised relevance, but sometimes drifted so far from tradition that it left people spiritually unmoored. Orthodoxy offered clarity, but sometimes at the cost of compassion or inclusivity. We all have teshuvah to do.
There’s a moment in the Torah where God tells Moses to count the Israelites “by their ancestral houses, by the clans of their fathers.” It’s the beginning of tribal identity, recorded meticulously. But in later books, the prophets rail against tribalism when it obscures justice, mercy, or unity. Labels may be necessary for organization, but they are not the essence of holiness.
What would it mean to move beyond denomination while preserving depth? To be post-denominational but not post-commitment? I think it begins with rabbis and educators who are deeply rooted in tradition but flexible in their application. It means building communities where halakhah is a path, not a gate. It means cultivating spiritual maturity rather than institutional loyalty.
Our people have always survived by adapting. When the Temple fell, we built synagogues. When Europe burned, we rebuilt in America and Israel. Denominations were part of that rebuilding, a brilliant and necessary response to American religious life in the 20th century. But they were a means, not an end. Now, we need to let go of the illusion that they are eternal.
As a Conservative rabbi, I still carry my training, my values, my love for what the movement tried to be. But I no longer believe the future of Judaism will be denominational. It will be covenantal, as I once heard from Rabbi David Wolpe. Relational. Grounded in Torah and open to the world. Fiercely Jewish and radically welcoming. Less about being Conservative or Reform or Orthodox, and more about being part of a people that still hears the voice at Sinai, however faintly.
I don’t know what we will call it. But I know what I want it to feel like: a home, a fire, a path, a conversation, a blessing.
And that’s worth building—together.