Where You Go, I Will Go (Rosh HaShanah 5785)

Where You Go, I will Go
Rabbi Lisa Rubin, Rosh HaShanah 5785

There was a couple who desperately wanted to escape the strife consuming their hometown. They chose to immigrate with their two young sons to a new city. Not long after, tragedy struck: the father died unexpectedly. The mother, whom I would describe as kind and strong, continued to raise her sons alone. Ultimately, those two boys grew up to be young men who married local women. Just ten years into those marriages, both sons died suddenly from illness. Having lost her entire family, the mother resolved to return to her original community. Though she shared a deep bond with her daughters-in-law, she spoke to them plainly and compassionately: You have no children, you are young and can remarry, you should stay here and rebuild your lives. One daughter-in-law reluctantly agreed. But the other would not hear of it.

Clinging to her mother-in-law, she declared fiercely: I want to be with you for life. I want to follow you home, live in your community, learn your ways and one day, I want us to be buried in the same place. Realizing the young woman’s resolve, the elder stopped urging her to leave. Together, these two women — childless widows — set on a journey home.

You may have recognized what I have just shared as the synopsis of the first half of the biblical Book of Ruth. Naomi is the Israelite mother. Ruth is the Moabite daughter-in-law. Both are headed back to Bethlehem. Ruth became a paradigm of a convert to Judaism, pledging loyalty to Naomi — and her people — to the death. Her words are enshrined in our tradition. Verbatim, she says to Naomi: “Do not urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go, I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried.” ^[i] The story of Ruth – with its themes of loss, grief, and loyalty – is one of the great narratives of our Bible.

I have thought about this book endlessly since the current war began.

The devastation perpetrated on October 7th sent shockwaves through our Jewish hearts worldwide. The emotional anguish and universal concern for hostages by the Israeli people and by the diaspora have been all-consuming. For the past year, we have endured a collective trauma made even more acute by antisemitism on a scale that most of us have never experienced.

As a Jew, it has been a year filled with worry and fear, anger and uncertainty. And yet. There has been a ray of extraordinary, unexpected light.

I am a Jewish professional whose chief focus is educating students who are considering joining the Jewish people. So you can imagine, as I watched the almost-contagious vitriol directed at Jews online, on campuses and elsewhere, I assumed that the interest in becoming a Jew right now might be instantly, dramatically affected.

For those listening who may be unaware, here at Central Synagogue, we house the Center for Exploring Judaism, a welcome locus for those stepping into our community and the largest conversion program of its kind. For nearly 15 years, we’ve nurtured this Center, welcoming thousands of students and their families into Judaism. I was certain that the aftermath of October 7th would be the end of what we had built.

I was afraid there would be no new students, and that our current students might understandably pause their journeys or leave altogether. As Jewish grief and anti-Semitism crescendoed, who would choose to join us? Who runs toward a house on fire? The peak of interest in Judaism had suddenly turned into our precipice. Like so many times in Jewish history, it seemed possible that conversion would go quiet or cease entirely.

Immediately after the attack, we reached out to those converting, offering to reschedule their ceremonies if celebrating felt inappropriate amid so much sorrow. Not a single person took us up on that offer. Their conversions – held before a beit din, the traditional panel of three clergy, followed by the ritual immersion in the mikvah to mark renewal in fresh waters— brought a kind of restorative glimmer to the darkness which loomed over our community.

As the war and protests escalated, I offered each student an easy exit, free of judgment:

I assured them, “There will always be time to study. When things calm down.” I offered, “If you are managing too many difficult conversations with your friends or family, I realize that’s a lot of pressure. We can postpone.” My colleagues and I paved an off-ramp, making it obvious that we would understand if they felt now was not the time to choose us.

But not a single person altered their plans. Not a single person reconsidered, slowed down, or walked away.

In fact, something remarkable happened. More students signed up. The very next class, starting in November — was the largest we had ever seen. And the one after that? Even larger. Our program has doubled in size since the war began. We’ve facilitated 108 conversions since October 7th, and we are hearing very passionate and unwavering declarations, like these:

· Antisemitism makes me want to double down on my commitment.

· I want to be on the right side of history.

· I’m basically Jewish already and now is the time to make it official.

· There is no other community I want to be part of.

In their essays, students write statements like this one:

“It would be impossible for me to recount my journey of exploring Judaism without acknowledging the unique timing and horrific events of October 7th, 2023. As we sat watching the news in disbelief for weeks that turned into months, [my fiancé] and I openly discussed the impact that these events might have on my own commitment to convert. At that time, I explained to him that if anything, this horrible and heartbreaking act of terrorism only fortified my conviction to pursue a Jewish identity and to raise a Jewish family.” ^[ii]

Another student wrote:

“The terrorist attacks on those beautiful Jewish souls…pierced our joy and made a painful reality explicitly clear to me. The Jewish people would always face not just the horrors of anti-Semitism, but actual physical danger. If I was going to be the mother of Jewish children, I too must be Jewish. I need to know what it’s like to exist in the world as they do. I need to be able to guide them and love them as someone who understands what it means to be a Jewish person in this world.”^[iii]

I can’t read you the 108 statements today, but suffice it to say that for me, they merge into a powerful testament of solidarity — against all odds.

These students are the Ruths of our time, and we are Naomi. Despite our attempts to protect them and shield them, the Ruths are saying to us at our most vulnerable moment: “Do not tell me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.”

I recently read in The Forward about a Universalist Unitarian minister — a very successful one — who, after October 7th, is reclaiming her patrilineal Jewish identity and is now studying to become a rabbi!

It turns out this phenomenon is not unique to our current moment. I was astonished to learn that after the Holocaust, thousands of Germans expressed a desire to convert to Judaism. The interest was so significant that in 1950, a special commission was formed to help Berlin’s chief rabbi process the requests. ^[iv]

In Psalm 121, we ask, “From where will my help come?” Where do we find the inspiration to keep going in this seemingly endless nightmare? I share the unexpected outcome we saw at the Center for Exploring Judaism in the hopes that it may be a beacon of goodness for you, as it has been for me. The inspiration I need to get up and be Jewish every day comes from these modern-day Ruths.

What could be more encouraging than the fact that these people are following their hearts, taking stands, risking friendships and family ties, all to stand with us? They have even given us an insight into our biblical ancestor: the first Ruth was astonishingly brave, too. She married outside her people, left behind her family solidarity, abandoned her national identity, and renounced her religious affiliation. In the entire biblical epic of Israel, only Abraham made such a radical change, but he had a spouse beside him and a call from God! Ruth stood alone. And many of our converts do, too.

Anyone who steps into Judaism deserves our admiration and our deepest respect. I dream of a time when we collectively realize that the vibrancy and diversity of our community is a testament to the courage of those who join us. Even in the best of times, conversion is a profound commitment. And in the middle of a war, amid rising antisemitism? My gratitude knows no bounds. These newcomers are a gift. They are our teachers, too.

Specifically, now, the Ruths inspire us because they allow us to see ourselves through their eyes. When we despair, it is easy to lose sight of why we’re lucky to be Jewish. Our tradition can sometimes feel like a burden – too demanding or something to hide. Let us remember the words of Henry David Thoreau: “Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?” Seeing ourselves through the eyes of converts can restore our sense of dignity and faith despite this tragic year. We find renewed fortitude in those newly among us who believe in us most strongly and who see what is best in us. “You are worth it all,” they tell us.

“Inspiration” comes from the Latin word “inspiratus,” meaning “breathe into.” And before being embodied in the Latin, this concept of ‘inspiration’ had a spiritual foundation. In Genesis 2:7, we read, “And God formed the man of dust from the earth and He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.” In rabbinic theology, inspiration is the influence of God. When a biblical character is filled with “the spirit of the Lord,” they are inspired, filled with the breath of life.

All new Jews today are inspiring us, having an unexpected and welcome impact: They are breathing new life into our community. For me, they are bolstering my confidence, balancing my perspective, and keeping me focused. For their fellow students, they encourage reflection on personal beliefs, practices, and relationships to Judaism. They have flipped the script! They are the positive role models for us by demonstrating strong dedication and resilience in the face of adversity.

I recall a classroom conversation last fall about whether we should wear our Jewish stars and kippahs in public. Was it safe? Was there another way to show pride? It was the conversion students, not those born Jewish, who led a thoughtful discourse on the merits of publicly embracing one’s identity. It’s a personal decision, but their passion at that moment allowed commitment to conquer trepidation.

If the last year has validated anything, it is that we are not invincible. Jews, and indeed all humanity, have lived under a mournful shadow: The devastating consequences of war in Israel, the tragic loss of life in Gaza, and the global surge of hatred against Jews. No, we are not invincible. So how do we find the spark of possibility, the courage to be hopeful, the determination to move forward?

In 2017, I stood on this bima and taught the phrase from our tradition, “Gam ze Ya’avor.” This, too, shall pass. We take a deep breath — inspiratus — and in times like these, remember that there have always been inflection points like these. Whether personal or global, this is not the first challenge nor will it be the last. Historically, the Jewish community so often has been in the throes of agony. The pages of our history scream with pain. And we’re facing another such trial now.

Let us remember: what is most trying often becomes the most energizing. If you watched the funeral of Hersh Goldberg-Polin in Israel, you know that his mother, Rachel’s, eulogy was both heartbreaking and uplifting. She remains a source of strength for the world.

This is key. Jewish resilience has never been solely about endurance and retaliation. It has been linked to our capacity to be continually inspired by our tradition and yes, by Israel. For me, the people who have picked up Ruth’s mantle from thousands of years ago now allow me to see what once seemed impossible is actually within reach. Our community will heal and will grow. The Ruths have reminded me of what we can be.

When Ruth and Naomi return to Bethlehem, Ruth is shown kindness by a relative whom she eventually marries. This union is significant because the couple would become the great grandparents of King David. According to traditional Judaism, the Messiah will be a descendant of David, therefore also a descendant of Ruth, a convert to Judaism. What a testament to Judaism’s high regard for those who join our ranks. Ruth’s legacy is woven into our messianic hopes for a more promising tomorrow.

The book of Ruth begins with death but ends in new life. Let us pray for an end to suffering and war, and the beginning of a new year for our people-our newest people, our newest family, who remind us of the gift we’ve been given, and the gifts we have to offer.

Shana Tova.