As part of our Spinoza family education program, when the children go off to learn in their age groups, I usually convene the parents for some learning or discussion. At last Sunday’s discussion, something happened that stayed with me—not because it was easy, but because it was right. A conversation I had planned took an unplanned turn. What emerged was the kind of exchange that could have easily gone the way of so many others these days, where disagreements quickly become barriers. Instead, it became a model of what we, as Humanistic Jews, strive for—open, thoughtful engagement across differences.
Because some of those differences were the result of ideas and opinions I’ve shared in these commentaries or on Friday nights, I made an effort to resist the urge to reiterate them. In any case, some of those present were clearly aware that my views were, at least in some respects, at odds with theirs. And yet, what emerged was not a contentious debate over divisions but an affirmation of our shared commitment to discourse. One parent, in particular, demonstrated the kind of intellectual generosity that keeps our community strong—listening, speaking candidly, and making space for others to do the same. Other parents joined in, sharing their own perspectives and, at times, expressing both concurrence and empathy. But even where views diverged—even where it was clear that the old guy (me) was not entirely on the same page—the entire conversation remained rooted in real dialogue.
Afterward, I had a moment with the parent I spoke about. She is someone I deeply respect, and I was personally grateful for the opportunity to express how much I appreciated her willingness to engage. I shared that, as the rabbi, I have experienced people over the years who have regarded their place in a community—and in a couple of cases, even their friendship with me—as contingent on agreement. I have also seen how painful it is when differences lead to distance when people who once sat together in conversation can no longer find common ground. I expressed my gratitude that she and her husband, who demonstrates the same ethos as she does, have chosen for their family to be members of our community. And then, because she is a remarkable person, she did something remarkable—she hugged me.
The tenor of our parents’ discussion reminded me of something I spoke about on Rosh Hashanah—that freethought, skepticism, and debate are at the core of both Judaism and Humanistic Judaism. I pointed out that our movement does not require unanimity; it requires the courage to think critically and the willingness to engage in reasoned dialogue.
That said, I want to acknowledge this: I fully understand that, for some, there are real red lines—points where disagreements become unbridgeable. I don’t dismiss that. I have my own. But unless we’re actively seeking conflict, most disagreements in our Humanistic Jewish community don’t fall into that category. They are just that: disagreements. They reflect meaningful differences in perspective and, often, our shared but competing values. Yet they do not (at least in my experience) stem from fundamentally incompatible realities. This distinction matters. In nearly thirteen years here, I have only rarely encountered true red-line moments. Most of the time, our disagreements need not rise to the level of “deal breakers,” certainly not when it comes to friendships or membership in our community. Even when significant, they reflect the different ways we prioritize our values or interpret the evidence of any given situation. And that is how I believe we should treat them.
Today there are some very real differences among Jews. Naturally, some of these are found among our congregants. In many places such differences are fracturing synagogue communities and even dividing families. Yet I hope that what I've shared with you about this Spinoza parent discussion can remind us that Humanistic Jews—and Humanistic Judaism itself—have the power to serve as a light and example to the Jewish world. The tradition of Jewish debate goes back to ancient times. It is, perhaps, best exemplified by the endless debates in the Talmud. Those ancient rabbis were not always polite. Their debates were often rollicking. Yet they were also deeply committed to the exchange of ideas—vigorous, searching, and always in pursuit of truth. They referred to their arguments as machlokot l’shem shamayim—literally, disputes for the sake of heaven. In their pietistic way, they were endorsing disagreements for the sake of truth. I believe the tradition of debate that they nurtured is part of what made us the resilient people we are today. As one parent said, "It's required!"
It is my hope that Humanistic Jews and Judaism will continue to model that resilience—not by evading disagreement, but by embracing it with integrity, curiosity, and a shared commitment to remaining in the conversation.