A Matriarch is Still Hopeful. And Yet...

I worry that we good people may lose our way. We may forget that we are supposed to be healers in the world.

Oct 06, 2024

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.

white and black ceramic cup filled with brown liquid on brown wooden sufface — Photo by Nathan Lemon on Unsplash

How do I feel about being Jewish now? It’d be a lot easier to answer in just one word, rather than 500-1,000.

Oy.

I’ve been many kinds of Jew in my 71 years: Orthodox, Reform, Conservative, Secular, Renegade, Rejecting, and Respectful. But until 10/7/23, I’d never been Vulnerable.

I grew up in a small, three-synagogue town on Long Island. My mom was not well and was unable to drive, so we had to join the synagogue most walkable from our house.

Thus began my time as an Orthodox Jew. My older sister became enraptured with Judaism. The two of us walked diligently to shul each Shabbat, one eagerly anticipating the pomp, circumstance, and spirituality of the services, and the other, me, dragging my synagogue-shoed feet. I played along the way to stave off the arrival of what seemed to me to be the most torturous two hours on the planet.

At one corner lived two scary, big, barking dogs who’d jump at their fence trying, in my six-year-old mind, to escape and bite me.

“Don’t worry,” my sister would counsel. “Dogs don’t bite people on their way to synagogue. G-d protects us because we are Jews.”

I must not have been the brightest bulb or the typical questioning Jew because I bought it. For many childhood years I believed that I had a Jewish cloak of protection.

As life went on, I passed through the many stages of being a Jew. In my teen years, there were the dating non-Jews rebellion years. After college, there were the questioning the existence of any supreme being years, when I eschewed anything that smacked of dogma. When my daughters were born, so began the era of passing along the traditions and heritage I had loved growing up.

As I stood at my first-born grandson’s bris, I entered the years of legacy as I accepted the mantle of a matriarch’s responsibility to pass along a respect and connection to those who came before us and the beliefs they held dear.

I’d say I’m still in my Secular but Heritage-Loving Legacy state of Judaism.

But through every permutation of my interaction with Judaism, I felt safe. My childhood sense of protection covered me like a warm blanket. Logically, it made no sense. I had learned about the Holocaust, toured the ovens at Dachau, and knew family members in distant lands had been marched into those death chambers. And yet, somehow I still felt safe as a Jew in the world.

Recently, I examined my connection to Jewish safety. I thought back to those dogs. How did they know I was walking to synagogue? What made the child in me so willing to believe Judaism would afford me a level of protection others didn’t have? I never saw us as better than anyone else; that wasn’t part of the teaching or the culture.

I was taught that a major tenet of Judaism is Tikkun Olam, the healing of the world. This was something I took seriously, choosing professions that focused on “good” work, raising three daughters who also became teachers to put goodness into the world. Even now, I volunteer when I can, in part because I believe that is what being a Jew inspires and even requires.

Maybe I thought doing good somehow resulted in being protected? Really, until 10/7, I never thought much about why I felt safe. I just did. Until I didn’t. And, now I worry for my kids and grands. I worry about them drowning in the rising tide of hate speech and antisemitism.

I worry, most of all, that those of us who chose to be good, moral people, who embraced the basic teachings of Rabbi Hillel — summarized in this quote: “That which is despicable to you, do not do to your fellow, this is the whole Torah” — I worry that we good people may lose our way. We may forget that we are supposed to be healers in the world. We may turn into the very people we fear, those who spread hatred, support violence, and step off the paths to peace.

In short, I worry that bad things may happen to these good people. Or, worse, bad things may become an accepted part of everyone’s life.

Despite my vulnerability, I am compelled to be more connected and more visible as a Jew, personally and publicly. I hung a mezuzah on my deck door, which is most visible from the street. I’m lighting Shabbos candles. I’m wearing my mom’s Star of David necklace, which has spent the last 40 years in a drawer. I’m wishing people Happy New Year in Hebrew. Shana Tova.

So, how do I feel? Vulnerable and frightened. And yet, still hopeful? Some days.

On Being Jewish Now

A Matriarch is Still Hopeful. And Yet...

I worry that we good people may lose our way. We may forget that we are supposed to be healers in the world.

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