Rabbi Eli C. Freedman, Senior Rabbi Jill L. Maderer, and Cantor Bradley Hyman lead a service marking Erev Rosh Hashanah at Rodeph Shalom in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, US, Sept. 6, 2021. REUTERS/Rachel Wisniewski
As the Jewish High Holidays approached, my son surprised me with a simple request: “Dad, will you do the Birkat Kohanim — the Priestly Blessing — at Rosh Hashanah services?”
It had been more than 20 years since I last stood before a congregation as a Kohen. In my youth, back in Philadelphia, it was a defining part of my religious life. I can still recall the stained-glass light filtering into the sanctuary’s brown floors, the soft murmur of voices, and the weight of ancient words connecting me to generations who had come before. Back then, the experience filled me with awe and purpose.
But life moved on. The routines of adulthood — career, family, and the slow drift of questions about faith and ritual — pulled me away. The blessing became a memory rather than a practice — a thread of connection I had set aside without fully realizing what was lost.
I was truly shocked that my son knew about any of this, as I only mentioned the tradition in passing a few weeks earlier. However, when he asked if I would perform the ritual, I didn’t hesitate. I said yes. Then, on impulse, I asked him if he wanted to join me. He smiled.
Days later, we ascended the bimah — together — during the High Holy Days. As we stood beneath my tallit, with the holy ark filled with Torahs, his small hands stretched forward beside mine I felt the world sharpen into perfect clarity.
The congregation grew quiet, then their voices rose in song, carrying centuries of prayer and longing.
My son’s face glowed with pride and joy as we offered the blessing. In that moment, I understood that what I was giving was only part of the story. His request was a gift to me — a call to return, to remember that faith is not just a set of beliefs, but a series of choices and actions we must renew again and again.
Since October 7, 2023, my son has been different. The horrors of that day — the terror attacks in Israel and the surge of antisemitism that followed — reached even into his elementary school world here in New York. He has seen more than any child should: protests that turned ugly, hateful graffiti scrawled on subway walls, tense moments on street corners and train platforms. Though he couldn’t fully explain it, he sensed that something fundamental had shifted.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks once wrote, “To be a Jew is to be an agent of hope.” My son seemed to grasp this instinctively. Hope, he realized, is not passive. It is something we must build, defend, and embody.
While other children focused on sports or video games, my son leaned into Jewish life. He blew the shofar with pride, waved the Israeli flag at the Israel Day Parade, helped prepare holiday meals, packed kosher food for those in need, and celebrated festivals with a reverence that was both youthful and deeply serious. Watching him, I marveled at how children seem to sense when they are part of a larger story. Even at his age, he understood that these rituals were more than symbolic. They were acts of defiance against those who would erase his identity and, concurrently, declarations of belonging.
And in living his Judaism so fully, he drew me in. When he asked me to join him on the bimah, I knew this moment was about more than a single blessing. It was about continuity: a young Jew calling his father to lead beside him.
The Birkat Kohanim comes from Numbers 6:24–26:
The LORD bless you and keep you;
The LORD make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you;
The LORD lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.
These words are radical in their simplicity. In a world consumed by anger and division, they proclaim blessing, mercy, and peace. To “lift up His countenance” — to imagine God turning His face toward us with love — feels especially powerful today, when so many human faces seem turned away in hatred or indifference.
For thousands of years, these words have been spoken by kohanim: in the ancient Temple in Jerusalem, in shtetls across Europe, and in synagogues around the globe. They have carried Jews through exile and return, persecution, and renewal. Speaking them now links us to that unbroken chain of hope and endurance.
The sages teach, “In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man.” When a Kohen blesses the community, he is not merely reciting words. He is stepping forward to lead, creating a sacred moment for others to reconnect — to generosity, to faith, to one another. As I raised my hands this year, I felt their weight as never before. I wasn’t just fulfilling an obligation. I was a father embodying the faith my son had so passionately embraced. His shining face steadied me, reminding me that sometimes the blessing flows from the child to the parent.
We often speak of how parents shape their children, and of course that is true. But this past year has shown me the reverse can also be true: children can call parents back to what matters. My son’s devotion has deepened my own. His belief has challenged me not to speak of Judaism only in words, but to live it through action. In a world that feels chaotic and hostile, his enthusiasm has been my anchor.
Rabbi Hillel taught in Pirkei Avot: “The world stands on three things: Torah, worship, and acts of lovingkindness.” These are not abstract ideals. They endure only when lived out, often by the youngest among us, who still believe wholeheartedly.
Since October 7th, “faith” and “family” have become rallying cries. Too often, though, they are reduced to empty slogans. When lived fully, they are more than private virtues; they are the foundations of public life. Faith offers a moral vocabulary, a way to face darkness without succumbing to despair. Family binds us to one another, giving us strength to endure. Together, they create the trust and responsibility on which communities, and democracies, rest.
As Edmund Burke observed, the “little platoons” of family and faith are where citizens first learn to care for others. Without them, public life collapses into division and rage. A blessing, then, is not just a private ritual. It is a civic act, a declaration that we are bound together and that society is more than a marketplace of competing interests. In a cynical age, performing this ancient blessing is a quiet form of resistance. It proclaims that there is still something worth preserving, and still a future worth building together.
When my son asked me to bless the community, I said yes — to him, to my congregation, and to my own better self. As we descended the bimah, his eyes were still wide and shining. In that moment, I understood that the blessing had flowed both ways: from me to the congregation, and from him to me. The boy whose presence once sparked my Jewish devotion was now the one calling me to live it fully.
As this new year begins, I carry that image with me. The world is often dark, but when our children call us to stand tall, to speak words of peace, to perform rituals of hope; we must answer. May this year bring renewal. May we bless and be blessed. And may we never forget that sometimes it is our children who lead us home.
Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College and a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute.
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