The Conservative movement was born from a paradox. It sought to conserve Jewish tradition while acknowledging that history moves forward. It stood between Orthodoxy and Reform, not as a compromise, but as a principled commitment: halakhah could be binding and evolving.
Its roots trace back to the 19th century, when European Jewry faced the intellectual and social upheavals of modernity. The Reform movement issued the 1885 Pittsburgh Platform, rejecting halakhah as binding and embracing a universalist ethic. In response, scholars like Zecharias Frankel and, later, Solomon Schechter, proposed something different: that Judaism could engage with historical scholarship without losing its soul.
Schechter, a brilliant academic and passionate believer in halakhah, brought the “Catholic Israel” model to America. He founded the Jewish Theological Seminary not just as a school but as a movement. Under his vision, the Conservative movement championed the scientific study of Judaism—the belief that Torah and tradition could be studied critically and still be sacred. He didn’t fear academic rigor; he welcomed it. But Schechter also knew that Judaism wasn’t just an idea—it was a lived experience. That’s why he sent his rabbinical students out of New York, out of the ivory tower, to encounter real Jews with real problems.
That is the origin story of our movement: not just tradition and change, but scholarship and responsiveness. Law and life. Principles and people.
And it’s why, from the very beginning, Conservative rabbis wrestled honestly with practical questions that other movements either ignored or answered too easily. Should you be able to drive to synagogue on Shabbat if you live far away? Can you bury a non-Jewish spouse next to their Jewish partner? What happens when technology, family structure, or cultural shifts challenge halakhic norms?
These were never just policy questions. They were existential questions about what kind of Judaism we’re trying to build.
When COVID hit, our tradition was tested again. We had to make decisions quickly: Could we count a Zoom minyan? Could we say Kaddish online? Could we sanctify time and space through a screen? Conservative rabbis adapted—sometimes hesitantly, sometimes courageously—but always with one goal: to keep Jewish life breathing through the chaos. That responsiveness was not a break from tradition. It was the tradition.
And yet here we are, five years later, facing not just halakhic challenges but a different crisis: silence.
Too many rabbis—including myself—have stopped speaking publicly about the tensions we see. We don’t address Zoom minyan. We don’t talk about interfaith burial. We don’t clarify what halakhah actually asks of us, because we’re afraid that if we say the hard thing, people won’t come back. We’ve chosen quiet pastoral sensitivity over public halakhic clarity.
I understand that instinct. I live with it. I’ve been afraid to say, “This doesn’t feel like a real minyan,” because I want mourners to feel supported. I don’t challenge certain burial practices because I don’t want to alienate families. I hesitate to push for Shabbat observance because I don’t want to sound judgmental. But here’s the truth: If rabbis can’t speak honestly—if we can’t name the dissonance between halakhah and what’s happening in our sanctuaries—then what are we even doing?
The Conservative movement didn’t arise to avoid discomfort. It arose to tell the truth. To say that halakhah matters. That scholarship matters. That Jewish law evolves, but it doesn’t evaporate.
We’ve inherited a theology of courage. Schechter believed that you could study Talmud critically, confront historical change, and still say Modeh Ani in the morning with a full heart. He didn’t shrink from complexity. He leaned into it.
So why are we shrinking now?
We are supposed to be a movement of intention. Not just reacting to pressure or popularity, but making decisions rooted in halakhic reasoning, spiritual integrity, and love for the Jewish people. And that also means we deal with dilemmas as they come up—because often, we never imagined them until they arrived. No one 50 years ago assumed interfaith burial would be a widespread pastoral concern. It’s not about making anyone feel bad—it’s about educating our communities that it didn’t always exist this way. These are new realities, and we have to bring Torah and tradition to meet them honestly. But here we are. Intention means naming the tensions we live with, not pretending they don’t exist. It means trusting our communities enough to tell them the truth.. Not just reacting to pressure or popularity, but making decisions rooted in halakhic reasoning, spiritual integrity, and love for the Jewish people. Intention means naming the tensions we live with, not pretending they don’t exist. It means trusting our communities enough to tell them the truth.
I’m not saying every rabbi needs to be a halakhic hardliner. I’m not even saying I have all the answers. But I am saying this: If we want Jews to take Jewish tradition seriously, we have to show that we take it seriously. If we believe in presence, we have to talk about presence. If we believe Zoom is not a minyan, we need to say that out loud—even if we still find compassionate ways to include those who cannot attend in person. If we believe interfaith burial raises profound theological questions, we need to explain why. If we believe halakhah offers a path of purpose, we need to teach it—not just in adult ed classes, but in our everyday decisions as a community.
I love my congregation. I love the people who show up on Zoom. I love the people who show up in person. But love cannot replace leadership. And leadership means saying something when it would be easier to say nothing.
We are not a movement of silence. We are a movement of sacred tension. Of tradition and change. Of honesty and loyalty. If we forget that, we become irrelevant.
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