By Rabbi Josh Beraha, adapted from a sermon delivered May 15, 2026
Dear Seniors:
Five years ago, you stood on the cusp of Jewish adulthood and became b’nai mitzvah at Temple Micah. But there was no ordinary Shabbat morning buzz. No one was here in the sanctuary to celebrate with you. It was 2020, the height of the pandemic, which meant: we were on Zoom. Nothing about it was the way anyone could have imagined. And your class rose to the occasion.
My favorite memory from that year is the way your classmates passed the Torah from house to house in a large plastic storage container—with hand sanitizer in it, of course—and a note wishing the next kid “mazel tov.” In a moment that could easily have felt like, “Wait…how are we supposed to do this?” you made something out of it. Something beautiful.
I keep coming back to that storage container because it feels like a little midrash on the Jewish story. We imagine Torah in an ark, dressed in velvet, lifted high, carried with dignity, kissed. But Jewish history has taught us that Torah has traveled in all kinds of vessels: across rivers, through deserts, into exile, onto ships, into suitcases, and, yes, one year, from house to house in a clear plastic bin.
History does not always give us the sanctuary we hoped for. It does not always give us the world we would have chosen. But it does give us the task. Carry Torah anyway. That year, in your own way, that’s what you all did.
Now, five years later, you’re being asked another version of that same question. Not: how do you become b’nai mitzvah on Zoom? But: how do you cross into what comes next without losing what you carry?
This question isn’t new. It’s built into our name. Jews are Ivrim, Hebrews, from the root meaning “to cross over.” Abraham and Sarah came from mei-ever hanahar, “across the river.” From the beginning, Jewish life has meant crossing from the familiar toward a future not yet known.
But here’s the thing: we never cross empty-handed. Always, we cross carrying the stories of those who did it before us.
That’s Torah.
And as you stand at this threshold, I have one piece of advice for you, and that is: take a class in Jewish history. Learn the story you are carrying.
Not because Jewish history will tell you exactly what to do, but because it will place your questions inside a much larger story. And when you know that larger story, the present starts to look different. You start to see patterns. You can see danger without being ruled by it. You can face complexity without imagining that you are the first Jews who ever had to do so.
That kind of perspective matters because it’s a complicated time to be a Jew.
Complicated because, on the one hand, as American Jews, we are among the freest and most secure Jews who have ever lived. Most of our history wasn’t like this. There was often some ruler, some mob, some decree, some border that could close without warning. And here we are, free, with rights and choices our ancestors could scarcely have imagined.
And yet Jew hatred hasn’t disappeared. It’s still here.
Sometimes it’s active and violent, like one year ago when two young people were murdered outside the Capital Jewish Museum. But Jew hatred also works more quietly. As one scholar recently put it, it can be ambient, like a low hum in the background: the silence, the double standards.
That is what I mean by complicated: we live with freedom and vulnerability.
But Jewish history can help us live with that kind of complication.
A Jewish history class will also help you address a subject that has become one of the most difficult and dividing topics in Jewish life today: Israel. Because you’ll see—Israel is not one simple thing. It’s also messy: ancient Jewish life in the land, centuries of longing for return, modern Zionism, Palestinian national aspirations, war, survival, grief, hope—all bound together in one complicated history.
This is the word to hold onto: complicated. Complicated. Especially today, it feels like no one wants to make room for complexity. People want certainty, a side to be on. So they talk about Israel as if it’s one simple thing. Israel is good. Israel is bad. Israel should do this. Israel should never do that. Be careful around that kind of dogmatism! Learn enough history to be suspicious of easy answers. Learn enough history to ask good questions.
But—the deepest reason to study Jewish history is not to understand danger or complexity. It’s to understand how Jews actually lived. Because history isn’t just what happened to us. History is also what we practiced. What we built. What we remembered. The ways we carried Torah forward.
So when I say, “learn Jewish history,” I also mean: let Shabbat teach you that you are more than your work. Let the Jewish calendar teach you that time can be made holy. Let the rituals ground you when you feel unsteady. Because without history, without Jewish memory, we may miss the beauty of who we are. Every crisis feels like the first crisis. Every argument, the whole story. But Jewish memory gives us longer vision. It teaches us that we aren’t starting from nowhere.
We are part of a story that began long before us and will continue long after us. We come from a people who crossed rivers and borders. A people who carried Torah into so many unknowns, sometimes in clear plastic bins.
Whether we hand forward a Judaism that is alive and morally serious depends on whether we learn the story well enough to carry it forward.
So take the class. Learn our story. Let memory root you. Let it teach you how to cross. And when you cross into what comes next, you won’t be empty-handed. Carry your inheritance, and carry it with pride.
This article was originally featured in the June/July/Aug 2026 issue of the Vine.