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Judaism doesn’t want you to wander and live just anywhere — or does it?
(JTA) — I was a remote worker long before the pandemic made it a thing, but it was only last month that I really took advantage of it. Early on the morning of New Year’s Day, I boarded a plane from Connecticut bound for Mexico, where I spent a full month sleeping in thatch-roofed palapas, eating more tacos than was probably wise and bathing every day in the Pacific. I’ll spare you the glorious details, but suffice it to say, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a January.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I found myself again and again coming into contact with expats who had traded in their urban lives in northern climes for a more laid-back life in the tropics. There was the recently divorced motorcycle enthusiast slowly wending his way southward by bike as he continued to work a design job for a major American bank. There was the yoga instructor born not far from where I live in Massachusetts who owned an open-air rooftop studio just steps from the waves. There were the countless couples who had chosen to spend their days running beachfront bars or small hotels on the sand. And then there were the seemingly endless number and variety of middle-aged northerners rebooting their lives in perpetual sunshine.
Such people have long mystified me. It’s not hard to understand the lure of beachside living, and part of me envies the freedom to design your own life from the ground up. But there’s also something scary about it. Arriving in middle age in a country where you know nobody, whose language is not your own, whose laws and cultural mores, seasons and flora, are all unfamiliar — it feels like the essence of shallow-rootedness, like a life devoid of all the things that give one (or at least me) a sense of comfort and security and place. The thought of exercising the right to live literally anywhere and any way I choose opens up a space so vast and limitless it provokes an almost vertiginous fear of disconnection and a life adrift.
Clearly, this feeling isn’t universally shared. And the fact that I have it probably owes a lot to my upbringing. I grew up in an Orthodox family, which by necessity meant life was lived in a fairly small bubble. Our house was within walking distance of our synagogue, as it had to be since walking was the only way to get there on Shabbat and holidays. I attended a small Jewish day school, where virtually all of my friends came from families with similar religious commitments. Keeping kosher and the other constraints of a religious life had a similarly narrowing effect on the horizons of my world and thus my sense of life’s possibilities. Or at least that’s how it often felt.
What must it be like — pardon the non-kosher expression — to feel as if the world is your oyster? That you could live anywhere, love anyone, eat anything and make your life whatever you want it to be? Thrilling, yes — but also frightening. The sense of boundless possibility I could feel emanating from those sun-baked Mexicans-by-choice was seductive, but tempered by aversion to a life so unmoored.
The tension between freedom and obligation is baked into Jewish life. The twin poles of our national narrative are the Exodus from Egypt and the revelation at Sinai, each commemorated by festivals separated by exactly seven weeks in the calendar, starting with Passover. The conventional understanding is that this juxtaposition isn’t accidental. God didn’t liberate the Israelites from slavery so they could live free of encumbrances on the Mayan Riviera. Freedom had a purpose, expressed in the giving of the Torah at Sinai, with all its attendant rules and restrictions and obligations. Freedom is a central value of Jewish life — Jews are commanded to remember the Exodus every day. But Jewish freedom doesn’t mean the right to live however you want.
Except it might mean the right to live any place you want. In the 25th chapter of Leviticus, God gives the Israelites the commandment of the Jubilee year, known as yovel in Hebrew. Observed every 50 years in biblical times, the Jubilee has many similarities to the shmita (sabbatical) year, but with some additional rituals. The text instructs: “And you shall hallow the 50th year. You shall proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: each of you shall return to your holding and each of you shall return to your family.”
Among the requirements of the Jubilee was that ancestral lands be returned to their original owners. Yet the word for liberty is a curious one: “d’ror.” The Talmud explains its etymology this way: “It is like a man who dwells [medayer] in any dwelling and moves merchandise around the entire country” (Rosh Hashanah 9b).
The liberty of the Jubilee year could thus be said to have two contrary meanings — individuals had the right to return to their ancestral lands, but they were also free not to. They could live in any dwelling they chose. The sense of liberty connoted by the biblical text is a specifically residential one: the freedom to live where one chooses. Which pretty well describes the world we live in today. Jewish ancestral lands are freely available to any Jew who wants to live there. And roughly half the Jews of the world choose not to.
Clearly, I’m among them. And while I technically could live anywhere, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to. I like where I live — not because of any particular qualities of this place, though I do love its seasons and its smells and its proximity to the people I care about and the few weeks every fall when the trees become a riotous kaleidoscope. But mostly because it’s mine.
A version of this essay appeared in My Jewish Learning’s Recharge Shabbat newsletter. Subscribe here.
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Quiz: For America 250, how well do you know U.S. Jewish history?
The Forward produced The Great American Jewish History Quiz! using Claude, a generative artificial intelligence tool by Anthropic. All questions and answers were researched and written by Louis Keene, who prompted Claude to create the user interface and underlying code and to track statistics.
Questions or feedback? Send us an email: forwardquiz@forward.com.
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Mazel tov, Taylor and Travis: A rabbi’s imagined wedding speech under the celebrity chuppah
I have to admit, as a rabbi, I never imagined I’d be standing at a wedding bringing together two of America’s great religions: football and Taylor Swift.
And yet here we are. I’ve officiated weddings in synagogues, in backyards, on beaches. I was not prepared for Madison Square Garden.
Before I get to the blessings, I need to share a little Torah with you. Don’t worry: I’ll keep it short. Half this room is Swifties and half is Chiefs fans, and the only thing you agree on is that you didn’t come here for a sermon.
The very first matchmaking story in the Torah involves a man named Eliezer, sent by the patriarch Abraham on a mission: find a wife for Abraham’s son Isaac. Eliezer travels far, he arrives at a well, and he devises a test. A test that looked past beauty, past pedigree, past fame, past achievement.
The test is simple: When a stranger arrives tired and thirsty, what do you do?
Rebecca does more than just offer water to Eliezer. She sees his camels are also thirsty, and without being asked, she waters every single one. Ten camels. Anyone who has ever watered a camel knows this is not a small thing.
And the Torah stops to tell us: this is the wife for Isaac.
The Torah could have stopped to admire her talent or her beauty. Instead, it stopped to admire her kindness. Because she saw need in the world and responded to it, just because that’s who she was.
Taylor and Travis, I think about that story when I think about the two of you. Because what we know about you isn’t just about the Grammys or the Super Bowls. It’s about the friendships. It’s about the family. It’s the way Travis’s eyes light up when he talks about his brother Jason. It’s the way Taylor has shown up, year after year, for her crew — the people who have been with her since the beginning, long before the sold-out stadiums.
These are people who know how to love. Eliezer traveled hundreds of miles looking for exactly that. Turns out it was worth the trip.
Red zones and red carpets
Now, because we have a professional athlete here, permit me a football analogy.
Every great quarterback needs protection from a tight end like Travis. Every championship team depends on its offensive line. The line doesn’t get the glory. They don’t score the touchdowns. But without them, nothing works.
Marriage is the same. Protect one another. Protect each other’s dignity. Protect each other’s dreams. Protect each other’s hearts. Be each other’s offensive line on the hard days.
And because we also have one of the greatest songwriters in history standing before me — someone who has written the soundtrack to a generation — permit me a music analogy as well.
Every beautiful song has both melody and rhythm. Sometimes one instrument leads. Sometimes another does. But what makes the song truly beautiful is that each makes room for the other. The goal is never the solo. The goal is the harmony.
Marriage is exactly the same. There will be seasons when one of you carries more. Seasons when one of you needs extra support. Seasons of celebration and seasons of challenge. The goal is to reflect each other’s light. The goal is to create something together that neither of you could have created alone.
So, Taylor and Travis, here is my blessing for you: May you always remember what drew you to each other, the soul beneath the spotlight. May you protect each other fiercely and gently, in the stadiums and in the quiet rooms where no one is watching. May you make room for one another — to lead and to follow, season by season, era by era.
And may the love you build together — the real love, the private love, the love that has absolutely nothing to do with cameras or crowds — be the greatest thing either of you ever creates.
Mazel tov.
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The 50 most interesting Jews in American history you’ve probably never heard of
The United States is turning 250 years old. You know the stories of many of the Jews who have helped to shape the country’s history and culture, including such luminaries as Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, Philip Roth and Barbra Streisand.
But behind the American Jewish names we know and revere are the stories of many other American Jews who influenced the nation — and whose lives reflected the country’s efforts to realize its founding promises — who have found less purchase in history’s spotlight. To celebrate the 250th anniversary of this country’s founding, we’ve collected 50 of those stories here.
Among their number are scientists, athletes, lawmakers, clergymen and a couple genuine American characters — the type of people who, no matter where they were born, ended up living lives that speak to the best of what the U.S. has to offer its citizens.
As one of our honorees, the author Edna Ferber, wrote: “America — rather, the United States — seems to me to be the Jew among the nations. It is resourceful, adaptable, maligned, envied, feared, imposed upon. It is warmhearted, overfriendly; quick-witted, lavish, colorful; given to extravagant speech and gestures. Its people are travelers and wanderers by nature, moving, shifting, restless; swarming in Fords, in ocean liners; craving entertainment; volatile. The schnuckle among the nations of the world.”
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