Just two days ago, I sat with an Israeli couple—first-time parents of 10-day-old twins. Two men, who had found a surrogate in the U.S. to carry their children. One baby nestled against their chests in a carrier, the other cradled in their arms. I was there as part of the beit din, the panel of witnesses for the babies’ conversion.
Before the ritual began, I asked them what they hoped for their children. I expected the usual: health, happiness, love. Peace. And yes, they did mention all of those. But the first thing they said was: “That the hostages come home very soon.”
Two men, holding their tiny, floppy, perfect newborns, just beginning their lives as parents—and their thoughts turned immediately to others, to those taken from their homes, to the ache of a country and an entire people still waiting. I was deeply moved.
Hours later, as the Knicks game went into overtime, the news broke. Two young Jewish adults, Yaron Lischinsky and Sarah Milgrim, shot and killed outside a dinner in DC for young professionals and diplomats. The event was organized by the AJC and focused on interfaith understanding and Israeli-Palestinian coexistence. The killer? Another young man, armed with a gun and radicalized by hate. He shouted “Free Palestine” as he was arrested and said he “did it for Gaza.”
It is tragic. It is heartbreaking. And it is not the world we want to be living in. Not for ourselves, and not for our children.
I’ve spent the past few Sunday mornings with our teens, trying to help them make sense of the moment we’re in. Trying to make sense of it together, actually. Zionism. Israel. Antisemitism. The war. The narratives. The fear. I organized the conversation around the documentary October 8, with Noa Tishby’s book on Israel as a reference for the discussion. As I turned off the lights and pressed play, I started to cry. I whispered a silent apology to the students, that this was the conversation we had to have. I choked up again later, when three-fourths of them said they had experienced antisemitism firsthand.
At the end of our final session, one of the teens raised his hand and asked, “Rabbi, what can we do about it?”
That’s the million-dollar question. I didn’t love my answer, to be honest. The question is so right-on and huge. It’s the one that keeps me – and so many of us – up at night. What can we do about it? So I will try again, another answer, one I keep coming back to.
Show up for the Jewish people.
Need a mantra? Go back to the words of Hillel: If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when? (Pirke Avot 1:14) To which the 15th century Italian scholar Ovadiah ben Avraham from Bartenura commented: אם אין אני זוכה לעצמי מי יזכה בשבילי – If I do not merit for myself, who will merit for me?
What is our merit in all of this?
Our merit is that we know: no one else will hold their babies and pray for strangers who need the Jewish people’s help. No one else will keep synagogues open and thriving. No one else is making shabbat dinner and lighting candles and blessing their children using the age-old formula given by Torah. In other words, no one else will keep Jewish life alive for us. If we don’t act for ourselves, who will?
But that is not the whole formula. From that place of self-care, we can move outward to help all those in need. Like putting on the oxygen mask in the airplane, we take care of ourselves so that we can care for others next. We cannot skip the first part. But the second part is key, too.
To the teens graduating high school this spring: when you get to college, don’t sit out the Jewish stuff. Go to Hillel, Chabad, whatever is offered on your campus. Put a mezuzah on your dorm room door. Be a part of it. If you are not for yourself as a Jew on campus, who will be for you? And then, go out and be an activist on campus for all the other causes that move you. As a proud Jew, go fix the world.
To the rest of us: no more “I’m Jewish, but not really into it.” No more “They go to synagogue, they buy kosher meat, they give to Jewish causes, but I don’t really do that stuff.” Fill in the blank for who “they” are—maybe it’s the orthodox, or the cousins you never really liked, or the people who always seemed a little too into it. You know, the rabbi and cantor. But here’s the truth: Am Yisrael Chai—the Jewish people live—only if we keep living it.
Give to Jewish causes. Spend time with Jewish community. Learn Jewish texts. Come to the Shavuot picnic and maybe revisit services, too. Cantor Kissner and I run a good one (lay-led shabbat tomorrow, to give fair notice) and if you don’t come, who will? If you don’t give—of your time, your talent, your energy—then what can we say to our children? That once it was wonderful to be Jewish in America, but we gave it up?
And then: put on your yellow pin or yarmulke, your Magen David or “bring them home” dog tag—and show up for others, too. This is a time of fear and fragility for so many. The world needs our courage, our help, our healing. Let our yiddishkeit (Jewishness) be the reason we rise to the moment.
I don’t know what the legacy of Yaron and Sarah z”l will be. I don’t know what those tiny babies at the mikveh will grow up to do. But I do know this: we owe them something. We owe them Jewish community that is vibrant, healthy, safe. We owe them the effort of not giving up and doing our best to make things better. We owe them a world full of love, goodness, and peace. We owe them a lot. May we merit to do all that we can.
PS: I found the Muslim Public Affairs Committee’s statement about Wednesday’s tragedy comforting and hopeful. To be clear, the MPAC is not a Zionist organization and much of their rhetoric criticizing Israel’s actions in Gaza is strident. But as many of us wonder where voices of our allies and neighbors are, this felt like a spark of hope worthy of sharing.
Note: this essay also appeared in the Jewish Standard on May 30, 2025: https://jewishstandard.timesofisrael.com/what-we-owe-our-children-in-memory-of-yaron-and-sarah-zl/