By Rabbi Josh Beraha
They say a sermon shouldn’t introduce something entirely new, and that a preacher’s role is not to surprise, but to remind or inspire. That’s the meaning of the phrase “preaching to the choir,” because, presumably, the choir already knows the message. But the truth is, the choir still needs to remember why they sing—and how.
And so, what I write here are not groundbreaking insights but a return to what grounds us.
The rabbis taught, “Al tifrosh min ha’tzibur—do not separate yourself from the community.” (Pirkei Avot 2:4) And long before the rabbis, the writers of Genesis knew too, “Lo tov heyot
ha’adam levado—it is not good for people to be alone.” (Genesis 2:18)
If there’s one message for these fragile and frightening times, it’s this: we need each other. And not just community for the sake of community, but a chorus that lifts us up. A gathering of voices that holds the melody when we falter, that reminds us our song is part of something larger. Isolation causes us to lose our way. We forget we belong to a greater composition. We forget that the questions we ask have been asked before, that our anxieties are not entirely new, and that others have searched for the same notes before us.
And yet, the structures of modern life push us toward isolation. The spaces that once anchored communal life—libraries, town halls, sanctuaries, committees that met in person—are disappearing, replaced by private screens and remote interactions. Everything now is about convenience, allowing us to shop, work, and even worship without stepping outside. We know this, but we go along with it. Because it’s easier. Because it’s safer. Because after a long day, showing up anywhere, physically, can feel like too much.
Sherry Turkle, professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, warns that “we expect more from technology and less from each other.” Virtual spaces give us the sensation of community but lack the substance of real human presence. In the digital world, we are never truly vulnerable. We curate our words on email, filter our faces on Zoom, exit a conversation with the click of a button. But true connection demands something more—presence. These days, the news is a deluge of distressing headlines. It’s easy to feel drowned out, our own voices lost in the noise, uncertain if singing even matters.
But the synagogue, and by extension Jewish tradition, tells a different story. It tells us that even in our darkest moments, we are not alone. History moves forward because of the choices of real people who refuse to give in to isolation or indifference. I love Martin Buber’s rendering of God’s name as revealed to Moses in Exodus 3:14, “Ehyeh asher ehyeh,” often translated as “I am that I am.” Buber instead translates it as, “I shall be present as I shall be present,” shifting the focus from being to presence, from God to humans. For Buber, the realization of the Divine is not an abstract theological proposition but a lived experience, and one defined by showing up.
Similarly, the Talmud (Sotah 40a) teaches through Rabbi Yitchak that in the time of the Temple, when the priests blessed the people, they turned to face the congregation, their backs toward God. The message is clear: holiness is not found in retreating but in turning toward one another. The Divine is not a remote presence but is made real in the connections we build with one another. This is why Buber later points out, “In the Torah, no distinction is made between the ‘social’ and the ‘religious’; the religious element marks the direction, the social determines the course.” Faith, in other words, is not only about personal contemplation but unfolds in our interactions with others.
The alternative, as Buber saw it, is a life of angst, which he defined simply as “not to belong.”
Practically speaking, there are obstacles—a good book, a cozy couch. Parking is limited, and not all of us drive after dark. The melodies might be unfamiliar, or the Temple’s message may not fully align with our beliefs. All of this can be true. But being together, even in imperfection or disagreement, is better than going it alone. If the world needs less of anything right now, it’s isolation. And if we need more of anything, it’s each other.
I hope I’m preaching to the choir. But even choirs need practice and to remember why they sing. So if you’ve forgotten the tune, come join us. Someone will help you find your voice again.
“God,” writes Buber, “does not want to be believed in, to be debated and defended by us, but simply to be realized through us.” (Emphasis added.)
This is our task—and why we sing: to bring the more-ness of the world to life by being with one another. “ History moves forward because of the choices of real people who refuse to give in to isolation or indifference.”
This article originally appeared in the March/April/May 2025 issue of the Vine.