Over the past fifteen months, I've had the privilege of writing to you about many different subjects. We've reflected together on Jewish holidays, rising antisemitism, acts of hatred in our own communities, Israel, the pain that followed October 7, the importance of Jewish education, and the remarkable resilience of Jewish life here in Western Massachusetts.
After one of my recent columns, someone asked me a simple question: Why does the CEO of a Jewish Federation write about these things at all?
It's a fair question, and one I've thought about a great deal the last 72 hours.
The answer is that I have never believed the Federation exists simply to raise money.
Of course, fundraising is essential. It allows us to care for people in need, educate our children, support Jewish life throughout the world, strengthen our agencies, provide security support, and invest in the future of Jewish life. But if all we do is raise dollars, we've missed something fundamental about who we are.
A Federation is, at its heart, a community. Communities don't exist only to distribute resources. They also exist to encourage, to teach, to comfort, to challenge, and sometimes to help us think through difficult moments together.
That's how I've understood my responsibility.
I don't write because I believe I have all the answers. Quite the opposite. I write because the questions facing the Jewish people today are too important to ignore.
Our tradition doesn't ask us to avoid hard conversations. It asks us to engage them thoughtfully.
One of my favorite teachings in Pirkei Avot comes from Hillel: "In a place where there are no people, strive to be a person." I've always heard those words as a reminder that leadership isn't about having the loudest voice. It's about having the willingness to step forward when something needs to be said—and doing so with humility.
That has been my intention every time I've written.
Some readers have agreed with most everything I've written. Others have disagreed with parts of it. I suspect most have fallen somewhere in between. And honestly, that's exactly what I expected.
Judaism has never been built on everyone thinking alike.
The pages of the Talmud are filled with disagreements. The rabbis argued passionately with one another, yet preserved opposing opinions because they believed sincere disagreement could deepen understanding. Pirkei Avot teaches that "Every dispute that is for the sake of Heaven will ultimately endure." That has always struck me as a beautiful idea. We don't strengthen the Jewish community by pretending we all see the world the same way. We strengthen it by learning how to disagree without losing one another.
When I wrote recently about Israel, my goal was not to tell anyone what to think. It wasn't to endorse a political party or defend every action of every Israeli government. It was to explain why many Jews understand Zionism, antisemitism, and Israel differently than they are often portrayed in today's public conversation. I also tried to acknowledge that people of goodwill can and do disagree about many aspects of Israeli policy.
Some readers found that helpful. Others wished I had approached it differently.
I respect both responses.
But I also believe there are moments when silence has consequences.
When antisemitism is rising, when Jewish students are struggling on college campuses, when Israel becomes a litmus test for belonging in so many spaces, or when members of our own community are hurting or feeling misunderstood, I don't believe the Federation should disappear from the conversation.
Not because we have the final word.
But because we should offer a Jewish voice—one rooted in history, compassion, learning, and a deep love for our people.
The prophet Isaiah wrote, "For Zion's sake I will not keep silent, and for Jerusalem's sake I will not remain still." I've always understood those words less as a call to certainty than as a reminder that love carries responsibility. If we care deeply about the Jewish people, then sometimes we are called to speak—not to win an argument, but to elevate the conversation.
Another teaching has stayed with me throughout my career: "It is not your responsibility to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it." None of us can solve the divisions surrounding Israel. None of us can eliminate antisemitism. None of us can heal every fracture within our community. But neither are we free to pretend those challenges don't exist.
Over these past fifteen months, I've tried to write from that place—not from certainty, but from responsibility.
Have I gotten everything exactly right? No, of course not. No leader does. I've learned from many of the conversations that have followed these columns, and I expect I'll continue learning.
But I hope one thing has always been clear.
Everything I've written has come from a love of community, a love of the Jewish people, and a belief that the Federation should be more than an institution that responds to crises or raises funds. I believe we should also help people think, learn, connect, and find one another—even when the conversations are difficult.
If my words have encouraged reflection, sparked respectful conversation, or helped even one person feel a little more connected to our shared Jewish story, then they have been worth writing.
Thank you for reading them. Thank you for responding to them. And thank you for continuing to be part of a community that cares enough to wrestle with hard questions together.
That, perhaps more than anything else, is one of the things that has always made the Jewish people strong.
