We’ve all heard the refrain (sigh): “Do I haaaaave to go to [fill in the blank].” Maybe for your child, it’s public school. Or their grandparents’ house for dinner. Or flute lessons. Or early swim practice. Or religious school.
The other day my son and I were eating lunch, and he casually said, “I guess I’m obligated to go to religious school.” First of all, points for vocabulary! Obligated is kind of a big word for a 9-year-old!
OK, now let’s unpack this sentence. It wasn’t a whine (thank God). There was no yelling or crying. There wasn’t an exasperated or frustrated tone. There was no resignation. It was pretty matter-of-fact, really.
“Yeah, you’re obligated to go. That’s true, I suppose,” I said in my most matter-of-fact voice, without subtext or baggage (I hope).
“That makes sense. It’s your school.”
This is where the camera zooms out to give the viewer some context. I’m a Jewish educator, the director of education at a synagogue outside Chicago. So yeah, I guess it’s sort of “my” school, inasmuch as it “belongs” to anyone. Our family talks about Jewish stuff a lot. (A lot.) It’s a job hazard. It’s not the kind of job that I finish neatly at 5:00 p.m. and leave at the office. It’s a vibrant, most-of-the-time messy, color-outside-the-lines kind of job, in the way that a beloved art teacher’s classroom might look as opposed to a stark college lecture hall. (And yes, my office often looks like a not-so-contained art room — creativity is messy!)
OK, zoom back in to the conversation at our dining room table. “It’s true that you have to go. But it’s not because I’m the Jewish educator and I run the program.”
Here he gives me one of his most amazing faces, a face he’s been making since he was a toddler and has been honing it ever since: a skeptical, one-eyebrow-raised face. A “hmm, tell me more” face that I’m completely unbiased in thinking is fantastic.
“You have to go because learning about Judaism is important. Because being around other Jewish kids is fun. Because learning about our traditions and texts connects us to the thousands of years that came before you and the thousands of years that will come after you. You have to go because you get to go, because people throughout time, and right now, aren’t always allowed to learn about or practice their religion. You have to go because you are obligated — by the Torah, which commands us to teach our children and rejoice on Shabbat and dozens of other things you’ll learn about there.”
And now let’s zoom out even more. This moment in our history is extraordinary. It’s one where we have incredible freedoms to celebrate — as well as a tenuous hold on those freedoms. We are mourning the losses of so many in the Israel-Hamas War and those still held captive. We are holding our breath watching our little ones grow into bigger ones, and also holding our breath to see how much antisemitism those little-and-big ones face. We are accepted enough by society that we can swim, play golf and eat anywhere — but there’s that feeling of not being accepted just enough that we seek solace in Jewish community, where there’s something comforting about not having to explain. About being liberal and Zionist and that’s OK. About commiserating with other parents about what activities were scheduled on Yom Kippur this year, and how to talk with the elementary school teacher about Hanukkah. About the importance of being around other parents of Jewish kids, in Jewish spaces, in Jewish community — a community that’s there for me, and I’m there for the community. It’s practically indescribable, but you know it when you feel it.
And yeah, it’s hard to go to religious school. It takes time. It’s expensive (this is a topic for another article, seriously). We have to get up early. We sometimes have to not go to other activities we wish we could go to. And. It is meaningful. It is connecting. It is fulfilling. The way a kindergartener can connect with someone they’ve known for years or maybe just three weeks. The way a 2nd grader gets giddy about getting to lead “Hinei Mah Tov” with their favorite hand motions. The way a 5th grader can challenge their classmate and have a respectful, mature conversation. The way a 7th grader can go off topic and find that the teacher is just as excited to go on that tangent with them. The way a room full of people singing “Oseh Shalom” with amazing energy feels like it really will bring peace down to our broken world.
Back to my dining room table. I’ve just stepped down from my tiny soapbox, and my son can see in my face that I have more to say but am choosing to hold back a little.
Here he pulls out another one of his amazing faces. This one is the 9-year-old classic — a slightly lopsided grin, with teeth a little too big for his face, enthusiastic the way a 9-year-old is going to be for just a little bit longer. And before I can invoke both Mount Sinai and his future grandchildren, he says, “Yeah, I know all of that. I like going!”
