The Inadequacy of My Reformed Jewish Education I grew up thinking I was getting a “Jewish education.” Hebrew school twice a week, holiday programs, Bar Mitzvah prep. But in reality, what I received was a watered-down version of Judaism, all the rituals — but not really — and none of the meaning. I learned how to read Hebrew letters, but not to understand the words. It was memorization without context. Zero literacy in the Hebrew language. Everything was watered down. The Messiah was minimized, the rebuilding of the Temple never mentioned, and most holidays ignored. We only learned the “big five,” stripped of depth and meaning. The first time I ever put on tefillin was not at my Bar Mitzvah, it was at 51 years old, in Israel. That’s how much was missing. Even the prayer books were altered, stripped of their majesty. G-d was no longer “King of the Universe” but reduced to a gender-neutral “O Lord.” And Israel? Avoided entirely. No discussion of modern Israel, its history, its challenges, or its central place in Jewish identity. It left me unprepared. Unprepared to face the depth of our history. Unprepared to understand Zionism as more than a political slogan. Unprepared to answer the tidal wave of antisemitism and antizionism that has now become part of daily life. I don’t blame my parents (some of you think I should). They gave me what was available. But what was available was designed to keep things “easy” and “accessible” rather than challenging us to wrestle with the weight of our tradition. It was Judaism without backbone. Now, in my 50s, I find myself doing the hard work that should have been done decades ago. Studying. Listening. Wrestling. Relearning what should have been mine as a child. And it is hard. Learning in middle age what should have been the foundation of my identity feels like trying to learn the language of my own soul years too late. So I avoided Judaism for most of my adult life. I married Jewish (which was a miracle), but we were mostly secular. Still, we worked hard to give our children a strong Jewish identity, even if it was without the depth of religion. I regret this now. I regret not giving them the richness and grounding that I myself had been denied. They inherited my gaps, and that weighs on me. This is the painful legacy of an inadequate Jewish education: a generation left vulnerable, searching for the strength we should have been given from the start. But I also believe it’s never too late. The Torah doesn’t expire. Our connection to Israel doesn’t fade. And our covenant doesn’t weaken just because we were under-taught. I’m still building, still learning, still unlearning. And maybe that’s part of what being a Jew has always meant: the struggle itself is holy. And don’t get me started on how broken the synagogue system is in America. Too many synagogues function like country clubs with dues, politics, and shallow programming, rather than spiritual homes that challenge, inspire, and educate. Instead of being fortresses of Jewish strength, too often they feel like fragile social halls, afraid of depth, afraid of demands, afraid of truth. That brokenness is why so many of us were left unprepared and why we must do better now. (Yes, In 2024 I re-created a photo of my grandparents from 1974. 50 years apart)