As the Midrash teaches, we all stood at Sinai, but each of us heard something different. Revelation, in this telling, wasn’t broadcast in a single voice. It reverberated across a multitude of hearts and minds, each person receiving the Torah in the frequency of their own soul. Some heard obligation. Others heard love. Some felt fear. Others, awe. But all of us heard something. And all of us stood. This idea has always struck me as liberating—a framework for Jewish pluralism that honors difference without abandoning unity. But I confess that lately, I’ve begun to worry: can a people truly remain one if we’re not just hearing different things, but speaking entirely different languages?
Today, Jewish identity takes on vastly different forms. Some Jews daven three times a day, wrap tefillin with muscle memory, and orient their lives around halakhic rhythms. Others show up weekly to synagogue, lighting Shabbat candles and lingering over Kiddush. And then there are those whose Jewishness is expressed almost entirely through cultural or communal life—the Jews who frequent the JCC more than the beit midrash, who might show up for a Tot Shabbat once in a while but are more committed to spin class than the siddur. These are what some call “JCC Jews,” and I’ll admit: for a long time, I worried that they were enjoying the amenities of Jewish life without embracing its animating purpose. That they were sweating on treadmills under mezuzahs, eating latkes without wrestling with our sacred texts, and missing the “why” of being Jewish altogether.
But maybe I was wrong.
Maybe the “JCC Jew” isn’t disengaged, just differently engaged. Maybe lifting weights in a Jewish space, or sending a child to Jewish summer camp, or simply identifying proudly as a Jew in public is, in its own way, a commitment to continuity. Maybe the impulse to belong, even without ritual practice, is not something to dismiss but to build upon. Still, it raises a question I can’t shake: is there a core—a set of shared commitments—that binds us together across these differences? Or is Jewish peoplehood so fluid, so unbounded, that it risks becoming unmoored?
If I had to name the pillars of peoplehood—the elements without which our collective Jewish future becomes unsustainable—I’d begin here. First, we must share a sense of destiny. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh—all Jews are responsible for one another—is not just an ethical teaching, but a definition of identity. To be Jewish is to be implicated in one another’s fate. When Jews are attacked in Paris or Pittsburgh, when hostages are held in Gaza, we are not bystanders. Their suffering reverberates in our bones. Their survival is our concern. A sense of mutual responsibility is not optional; it is the glue of our peoplehood.
Second, the Torah must have a role to play. You don’t need to be Orthodox, or even observant, but you can’t cut the Torah out of the Jewish story and expect the narrative to continue. Torah is not just law—it’s language. It’s memory. It’s moral grammar. Without Torah, we are a people without poetry, without a compass. To build a Jewish future that doesn’t wrestle with Torah is to sever the root and expect the tree to bloom.
Third, memory must be seen as our sixth sense. Jews don’t just remember; we live within memory. Egypt, Auschwitz, exile, empires—we carry these with us not to be defined by trauma but to be anchored by resilience. Memory is what gives us perspective. It reminds us that we’ve been here before. It keeps us honest. It whispers: don’t forget who you are, and don’t forget what it costs when the world does.
Fourth, the Land of Israel must remain central—not as a political litmus test, but as an ancestral and spiritual center of gravity. You don’t have to agree with every government policy, but to be Jewish in 2025 and be indifferent to Israel is to misunderstand something essential. Israel is not just a country; it is a covenant. It is not just a homeland; it is a heartbeat. And though we may critique it—and we must—it remains a core part of who we are.
And finally, a commitment to the future. We don’t inherit Jewish life from our ancestors—we borrow it from our grandchildren. The task of our generation is not just to preserve what we love, but to ensure it can be loved by those who come next. Sustainability, joy, and meaning must be our benchmarks. We need institutions that don’t just survive, but inspire. We need to leave things better than we found them, or at least with a fighting chance.
Could the answer to these questions have been different in 1930s Germany than in 2025 America? Of course. History shapes priorities. Then, Jewish peoplehood was defined by survival. Now, we have the privilege—and the burden—of asking what we are surviving for. But the through-lines endure: Torah, memory, mutual responsibility, Israel, and the future. These are not optional. They are not mere accessories to Jewish life. They are the tent poles.
So, does it matter whether you’re a JCC Jew or a synagogue Jew? Not necessarily. The form may differ. The entry point may vary. What matters is the direction you’re facing. What matters is whether you see yourself as part of something larger than yourself. What matters is whether you believe the Jewish people have a future—and whether you’re willing to help build it.
If you are, I want to sit at a table with you. We may not pray the same way. We may not vote the same way. We may not even define Jewish identity the same way. But if we share a sense of destiny, if we honor Torah and memory, if we wrestle with Israel, and if we work toward a Jewish future, then we are part of the same people.
Because in the end, it’s not about whether we heard the same thing at Sinai. It’s that we were all there.
Together.
Leave a Reply