Dear Friends,
This past Shabbat we invited students from our 7th through 10th grades of our Hebrew School up to the bimah to lead parts of our Friday night service. (Each grade from 3rd grade and above is asked to lead parts of the Friday night service on two specified nights throughout the year).
Those years—typically spanning ages 12-16—are such fraught, dynamic years, particularly in this climate, that I wanted to spend a few moments reflecting to them about what I think Judaism might have to say to them about their lives in this moment—and, frankly, what it might have to say to all of us.
So I thought I’d share those brief reflections with you here, recognizing there are so many places where we can and will go deeper:
I’m thinking back to myself in those years, as I think about some words to share: I don’t envy you. I know plenty of adults who say, oh to be a kid again, the simplicity of not needing to be responsible for others in a primary caretaking way.
Sure, adults don’t have it easy either. But those 7th through 10th grade years are not easy. There’s a reason our tradition formulates the B’nai Mitzvah ceremony just prior to them. I say this at each B’nai Mitzvah ceremony we celebrate: Judaism has an instinct that each moment when you are going through a transition from one stage of life to the next — birth and welcoming a new child into the world; marriage and forming a new family; death and the transition to grief and the beyond; and yes, the transition from childhood to adulthood, which 7th through 10th grades are right smack in the middle of — Juduasim has the instinct that each of these moments are fraught and scary and sacred, and that they are worthy of our time and intentionality and love and care.
The B’nai Mitzvah ceremony in particular first wants to make sure you are confident in who you are: that as you prepare for these teenage years, you understand all that you are capable of—which is a lot; which is infinite. It wants you to know that each of you, all of us, were created by God. And that means God loves you, your parents love you, this community loves you.
Not to sound too corny up here, but you’re special. Each of us is; and we’re called upon to cherish that, to honor that, to feel that even as we endure adversity. The B’nai Mitzvah ceremony in part empowers you to experience that feeling, so that you demonstrate to yourself just some of the unique facets of life that you are capable of—chanting a mystical, mysterious, thousands-year old-language, interpreting Torah, offering prayers. These distinct Jewish expressions are some pretty special things to be able to do.
Which leads to the second thing the B’nai Mitzvah experience was meant to set you up for. As I say at each B’nai Mitzvah celebration, part of what the event commemorates is a shift in responsibility for the ownership of one’s Jewish identity from the parents to the students—to you all. Erik Erikson, the famous child psychoanalyst identified that up until adolescence, up until about seventh grade, our development, our growth, depends mostly what is done to us—what do our parents sign us up for, did they buy us the right art supplies for our school project, are they looking over our shoulder while we do our homework. From here on out, from seventh grade and beyond, our development, our growth, depends on what we ourselves do—how do we engage with our friends and peers, what moral choices do we make?
Judaism recognizes this through who it understands is literally responsible for whether or not you are fulfilling the mitzvot, the sacred calls of Judaism. Up until you’re 13, Judasim says it’s your parents fault if you’re not. Your engagement with your Jewish identity, until you turned thirteen, was the responsibility of your parents. Did you celebrate the holidays and shabbat? Did you wrestle with the moral and ethical calls of Judaism, to love your neighbor, to love the stranger? Did you engage in Jewish ritual, prayer, and study? All of that was the responsibility of your parents.
Not anymore. Guess whose responsibility it is now: yours.
Actually this is so much the case that there is a tradition that on your B’nai Mitzvah, your parents say the following blessing: בָּרוּךְ שֶׁפְּטָרַנִּי מֵעָנְשׁוֹ שֶׁל זֶה. Blessed is the One (God) Who releases me from the burden of this one”—this kiddo. In part it’s an acknowledgement of the responsibility that has shifted from the parents to the kids; in part it’s also a recognition that as parents, while we’re called upon to pour love and care, and sometimes blood, sweat, and tears into our children’s lives, at a certain point, as Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin writes “there are limits to every parent’s ability to control and influence. The rest is up to faith, hope, and trust.”
And you all. You teenagers. It’s up to you.
As you navigate this next stage of life, part of your task— perhaps your central task, Erikson teaches—is to hone in on your identity: to discover who you are as an individual, separate from your parents; to identify your values; your north star in life—what are you going to set your life’s compass to, what is the moral compass that is going to direct you?
The B’nai Mitzvah celebration is there in part to help formalize the foundation for this discovery process. You’re Jewish. Each of you is. That is a central part of your identity. One about which you can and should feel a sense of pride. Each of you will have your own—and get to have your own—relationship to what that means. But your Jewish identity is meant to be a source of pride and strength and love. The shared story, the shared values, the shared traditions you have within the long arc of the Jewish people, are meant to be a source of strength of you as we seek to anchor ourselves in this sometimes head-spinning world.
You don’t need me to tell you that being publicly Jewish is a little more complicated than it was, say, a year ago. There’s a lot swirling around out there. Still, being Jewish is a part of your identity that is worth cherishing, worth embracing, worth inviting into your conversations with yourself as you discover who you are.
I remember those early teenage years, looking around, forming strong, important attachments with friends; at the same time, unsure of who I was, trying to make my way in the world.
For me, anchoring myself in my Jewishness turned out to be such an important resource in my relationship to my sense of myself—and I’m pretty sure you don’t have to grow up to be a Rabbi for that to be true. You just have to be you.
I wish each of you a sacred next chapter of your journeys. Shabbat Shalom.
