Bring the Kids to Shul!

When a tree falls in the forest, and nobody is around, does it make a sound?

When a baby cries in shul, it most certainly does.

When a baby starts crying in shul, reactions often range from “Shut that kid up!” to sympathy for the parent to “I’m glad it’s not me” to “Should children come to shul in the first place?”

I think it’s great.

I don’t think it’s great that the child is disturbing others. (It only rarely breaks my rhythm.) I think it’s great that we have children coming to shul. Who wants a shul without children?

Some places do.

I read about a large synagogue in the South whose respected rabbi did not tolerate noise during services. When a child made a fuss, he halted the service and announced, “Little children, like orders, must be carried out.” Ouch.

I saw another account entitled, “When My Synagogue Banned My Baby on Yom Kippur” about a congregation that didn’t allow babies until later in the service, or they could attend an alternate venue. The author describes other experiences of being denied entry to services with his child in tow, or being asked to leave if the baby made noise.

I get it.

People come to shul to daven - and, of course, listen to the rabbi. At the same time, if we want adults to love Shul, we need to train them as children by bringing them to shul.

This is the message of the Hakhel ceremony that took place every seven years.

“Hakhel - Gather the people – the men, the women, the little children, and the strangers in your communities - that they may hear and so learn to revere Hashem, your God, and to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching” (Devarim 31:12).

The Talmud (Chagigah 3a) notes that this verse is puzzling: If men and women come to learn or listen, why do the little ones come? They’re not mature enough to understand what’s going on. The answer is they come for God to reward those who bring them. In other words, God credits those who bring their children to the assembly.

The medieval rabbis note that this is the source for people bringing their small children to the synagogue.

Not everyone embraces this practice. Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe (Planting and Building: Raising a Jewish Child, pp. 61-63), cautions:

“We must be careful not to bring our children to synagogue when they are too young. A very young child has no idea what is going on in shul. He is unfamiliar with the prayers, can’t read a siddur, certainly doesn’t pray, and he makes it difficult for others present to pray too. We often see such children roaming around the shul during prayers…They run around the Aron ha-Kodesh and bimah, and on Rosh Hashanah can sometimes be seen mocking the shofar-blower. It is irresponsible for parents to allow insufficiently mature children into shul.”

Some of you are nodding your heads right now…

On the other end of the spectrum, Rabbi Yehuda Aryeh Leib Alter, the Sefat Emet, teaches that enduring noise and disruptions from the children, while it might detract from the adults’ personal prayer experience, achieves the lofty goal that they grow up to become shul-going, observant members of the community. We can give up a little of our decorum, and even peace of mind, if it helps ensure the Jewish future.

In the High Holiday Beginners Service at which I officiated, we attracted Jews from various Jewish backgrounds, affiliations, and observance levels. We had an open-door policy, which meant we drew many families with children. Whenever a child would cry, I would announce, “You might hear crying, but I hear the music of Jewish continuity.”

A shul without children is boring. Their wide-eyed innocence as they run to kiss the Torah, the sense of excitement when sitting with parents who try to engage them in the service or Torah reading, and joyful anticipation as they clamber under their father’s tallit during birkat kohanim. What kind of shul would deliberately reject their own future and opt for a sterile, dull, child-free environment?

I once read learned analysis of the various pros and cons of bringing children to shul. However, I don’t believe in the cons. Bring the children! Try to keep them quiet. Give them some candy. Give them a role. At the same time, parents need to model the right way to sit in shul and daven. That’s right. No talking! I don’t think anyone who talks in shul can be so annoyed when children disrupt the service. We can all do better to make the shul experience more meaningful for everyone.

Our children – and all of us – benefit from davening in shul. We’ll pick up some tunes, encounter God, better appreciate our connection with others, and strengthen our Jewish identity to ensure the future of the Jewish people.

Connecting the Dots

You’re not seeing spots. It’s not an error.

If you look inside a Torah scroll, there are ten places in which dots appear above the letters. This is a Masoretic tool, based on the word mesorah, tradition. We maintain a specific tradition of how the Torah is written as well as a variety of idiosyncrasies meant to draw attention to a deeper message being conveyed by the specific text.

One famous example are dots above the word “va-yishakeihu” when Esav kissed Yaakov. Was it a real kiss of brotherly love? Maybe it was forced. Maybe Esav tried to bite Yaakov. The dots are a point of departure for deeper discussion or analysis.

In Parshat Nitzavim, we see dots. 

הַנִּ֨סְתָּרֹ֔ת לַה' אֱ-לֹהֵ֑ינוּ וְהַנִּגְלֹ֞ת לָ֤ׄנׄוּׄ וּׄלְׄבָׄנֵ֙ׄיׄנׄוּ֙ׄ עַׄד־עוֹלָ֔ם לַעֲשׂ֕וֹת אֶת־כׇּל־דִּבְרֵ֖י הַתּוֹרָ֥ה הַזֹּֽאת׃

“Concealed acts concern Hashem or God; but with overt acts, it is for us and our children forever to apply all the provisions of this Torah.” (Devarim 29:28)

There are dots written in the Torah on top of the words “lanu u’l’vaneinu ad.” Why?

On this Shabbat in particular – the last Shabbat of this year, let’s try to connect the dots. They contain crucial lessons of continuity, complexity, and visibility.

1)  Continuity
Rashi explains that the dots draw attention to Jewish interconnectedness. As the children of Israel enter the Promised Land, they need to keep in mind that there is collective responsibility. Lanu u’levaneinu ad olam - Us and our children forever. The dots are a way to highlight and draw our attention to this fact.

As Moshe steps off the scene - and as the Jewish people face the responsibility of living a full Jewish life in the land without the divine protections of 40 years in the desert, they are reminded that it is up to them. Lanu u’l’vaneinu ad olam. It will be sad when Moshe dies. It will be difficult to live up to the high expectations God set for us. But lanu u’l’vaneinu ad olam. We will take what we have been taught and carry it forward.

Ad olam – We are a forever people.

2)  Complexity
There are things we understand and things we don’t understand. Both are part of our Judaism.

Rabbi Chaim of Tchernowitz, the Be’er Mayim Chaim, explains that we must reveal that which is hidden. Part of the Jewish mission is to find the holiness inherent in all things and in all places all over the world and actualize that holiness. Elevate the sparks.

This Kabbalistic idea is a very empowering concept. It means there is goodness and light even in the darkest places. Rabbi Nachman of Breslav highlighted this principle many times:

“Afilu b’hastarah - Even within the most hidden-most recesses can be found aspects of God…When a person, God forbid, commits a transgression going against the will of God, there’s still an aspect of goodness hidden within that action.” (Likkutei Maharan #56)

As believing Jews, there is no reason for despair. There is always light at the end of the tunnel. It’s no coincidence that one of Rebbe Nachman’s most famous expressions is “v’ha’ikar lo lefacheid k’lal - have no fear at all.”

The dots highlight that, forever, we will exist in a world where there is a revealed reality along with a hidden realm. No matter what, there is hope.

3)  Visibilty
Rabbi Aharon Rokeach, the fourth Belzer Rebbe, suggested that the verse can be interpreted as follows: Hanistarot l'Hashem Elokeinu - If we hide our mitzvot by doing them privately, then only Hashem will know about our righteous ways. On the other hand, v'haniglot lanu ul'vaneinu - If we make sure to reveal our good deeds to our children, then our religious priorities and values will remain ad olam - for all eternity.

One afternoon in Jerusalem, Rabbi Yakov Vann was on his way to the synagogue for the afternoon prayers when somebody called out from a doorway asking him to complete a minyan in a house of mourning. He gladly agreed. Upon entering the apartment, he was surprised to observe that although it was full of Jewish books, the mourners themselves did not appear to be religiously observant.

After the prayer service had concluded, Rabbi Vann took out a volume of Mishnah Berurah to examine it, and he was even more taken aback to see that its margins were full of astute insights and comments. He inquired about the owner of the sefarim, and one of the mourners replied that they all belonged to the deceased, his father.

Rabbi Vann probed further, asking whether any of the other family members used the books. Sadly, the son responded that although his father had been a very pious and learned Torah scholar, none of his children had followed in his ways. He explained that when his father came home each night, he would lock himself in his study and spend hours poring over his beloved books. Since his Torah study only occurred behind closed doors, his children never observed him learning and therefore did not absorb his passion for Torah and mitzvot.

V'haniglot lanu u’levaneinu as olam. Jewish visibility matters. Publicly being Jewish is the key to Judaism moving forward forever.

We’ve connected the dots to understanding that the core of Jewish continuity is the fact we are a forever people. We recognize there is a link between the hidden and the revealed, and we must not be discouraged when things don’t go our way. And maintaining our visible Jewish pride ensures our children follow in our footsteps and that our enemies will never prevail.

If we connect the dots, we will go a long way in ensuring that the year ahead will be even better than this one.

Can I Get an Amen?

“V’amar kol ha’am amen – And all the people shall say amen!” (Devarim 27:16)

Few words in Jewish life carry as much depth and consequence as the simple response “Amen.”

Said after blessings, prayers, and declarations of faith, amen functions halakhically as an obligation, communally as a bond, mystically as a spiritual channel, and experientially as a source of inspiration.

Amen packs quite the punch for such a small word. The stakes are high.

The Talmud (Berachot 53b) declares: “One who answers amen is greater than the one who recites the blessing.” This startling statement elevates the responder above the original speaker, teaching that the echo of faith may be more powerful than its articulation.

“One who recites an abbreviated amen, his days will be abbreviated and incomplete; one who recites a truncated amen, his days will be truncated. One who extends his amen, they will extend his days and years for him. One who extends his amen, they will extend his days and years for him.” (Berachot 47a) That’s a lot of pressure on what might otherwise be treated as a few simple syllables.

Why is amen so powerful?

Amen commits, confirms, and connects.

Amen commits the listener to the mitzvah. For example, one who hears a blessing and answers amen can fulfill their obligation without reciting it themselves. Reciting amen is an act of consent.

Amen, which is linked to emunah (faith) confirms one’s conviction in the possibility that the blessing can come true. Responding amen is like declaring, “It is true. I accept it upon myself.” Thus, halakhically, amen is not optional courtesy. It is an act of halakhic and spiritual partnership.

Amen creates connection. Prayer in Judaism is rarely solitary. Even the “I” of prayer is often voiced in the plural: “Forgive us,” “Grant us peace,” “Heal us.” The communal essence of Jewish worship becomes fully alive when voices respond to one another. Amen is the sacred response that crystallizes the tzibbur, the prayer community. It transforms a private blessing into a shared act of faith, petition, affirmation, and thanksgiving.

This is why synagogue worship is uplifted by the chorus of amens. The spine-tingling response of “amen, yehei shmei rabbah” during Kaddish, the echo of amen after the priestly blessing, or the resounding communal amen to a rabbi’s heartfelt prayer — all are moments when individuality melts into community.

Amen creates a feeling of presence: “I heard you, I affirm you, I stand with you.” Without it, prayer risks becoming a soliloquy. With it, prayer becomes a communal covenant.

This layered significance has found renewed expression in the modern phenomenon of the “Amen Party.” These gatherings, often organized by women, bring groups together to recite a series of blessings over foods, each followed by the enthusiastic response of amen from the group. The idea is that by maximizing the number of blessings and amen’s, participants create a surge of communal merit. Organizers frequently dedicate the gathering to health, livelihood, or spiritual needs.

Though contemporary in form, the practice has deep roots. Throughout rabbinic literature, we find emphasis on the accumulated power of collective amen’s. The Amen Party simply channels this teaching into a joyous ritual — one that embodies halakhah, community, and spirituality in a celebratory framework.

Amen is elevational, aspirational, and possesses a certain religious, maybe mystical power. “Reish Lakish said: One who answers amen with all his strength, they open the gates of the Garden of Eden before him.” (Shabbat 119b)

A rabbi once entered the synagogue and noticed some congregants failing to respond amen to the Torah blessings. He stopped the service and gently rebuked them:

“You do not realize the power of this word. Every amen builds a world. The Talmud teaches that one who answers amen is greater than the one who recites the blessing. Do you understand what that means? The blessing is a spark, but amen is the flame. Without it, the blessing does not shine fully.”

The congregation, moved by his words, responded to the next blessing with a resounding, heartfelt amen. The Rabbi smiled and said: “Now the angels have something to carry upward.”

Amen is not a formality. It is a force that turns blessings into flames of shared holiness.

The word amen may be short, but it is one of our most powerful expressions. Halakhically, it is an obligation; communally, it is the glue that binds worshippers into a congregation; and spiritually, it is a vessel that draws divine blessing into the world.

From the synagogue to the amen party, from straightforward congregational response to complex halakhic topic, from the lips of a child to the resounding response of a congregation, amen is far more than a word. It is a covenant of faith, a declaration of belonging, and a bridge between heaven and earth. Every time we answer amen, we affirm not only someone else’s blessing but the truth that our faith is stronger, deeper, and more enduring when spoken together.

Amen to that!

Two Sides of the Same Kan

Have you performed the mitzvah of shiluach hakan, sending away the mother bird before taking the eggs?

Occasionally, I get a call from someone who discovers a nest in their yard, and they want guidance on how to fulfill the commandment. After all, the Torah promises long life as the reward for fulfilling the mitzvah.

It’s not that easy.

The nest - and hence the eggs - cannot belong to you. If it is on your property, then according to halakhah, it does belong to you, making it impossible to perform the mitzvah. What to do? You can simply go to ShiluachHakan.com, and they will try and connect you with someone nearby who will let you use the nest on their property.

For those of us who may find all this a little complex, what is the meaning and message of this mitzvah even if we don’t perform it?

The commandment seems to be about compassion.

Rambam (Moreh Nevuchim 3:48) explains that sending away the mother bird displays sensitivity, so she does not feel the pain of having to witness her children being taken. Ramban (Devarim 22:6) notes that humans are inherently needy and even selfish. We need to breathe; we need to eat; we need to sleep. Even during these moments, we must be sensitive to the needs of others and aware of how our actions affect those around us. God commands us to show sensitivity even to birds and certainly to our fellow humans.

If compassion is at the core of shiluach hakan, then why can’t we say so out loud? The Mishnah (Berachot 5:3) teaches: “One who says that sending away the bird is due to God’s mercy is to be silenced.”

Why? What’s wrong with saying God has compassion? Three times a day in the Ashrei prayer, we say, “V’rachamav al kol ma’asav – God’s mercy extends to all creation!”

The Gemara (Berachot 33b) explains that this is a warning against interpreting commandments. Mitzvot are “decrees of the king.” Whatever rhyme, reason, or rationale there might be for mitzvot, those are not our focus. Accordingly, while we all understand that compassion is at the core of shiluach hakan, we don’t want to talk about it too much or make it our focus.

I think there is a further complication. Why do we need a mitzvah of shiluach hakan in the first place? If we want eggs, and we want to be compassionate, why not simply wait for the mother to leave? That would be even more compassionate! As a rabbi of mine noted, “People say that they love fish. If they really loved fish, they would take them out of the river, give them a kiss, and put them back. People love their stomachs!” In the same vein, shiluach hakan cannot simply be modeling compassion.

How are we to understand the tension between what seems to be an obvious lesson in a more complex package? There are two components to the mitzvah of sending the mother bird away from her nest or, if you will, two sides to the kan. There is the human, and there is the divine.

At its most basic level, the mitzvah presents an opportunity for understanding God and the world we live in. Just like the festivals remind us of our past, and the rules of chesed are a benefit to society, shiluach hakan has a clear lesson: Be compassionate! We seek out ta’amei ha-mitzvah – the rationale for the commandments, to enrich our observance. Rambam and Ramban unequivocally see the lesson of sensitivity in the simple reading of the mitzvah.

On a deeper level, though, shiluach hakan, again like all other mitzvot, expresses the inscrutable command of God. “Gezeirah hi mil’fanai!” We may be tempted – and sometimes encouraged and enriched – to rationalize our observance, but shemirat ha-mitzvot is, at its core, heeding God’s command.

Rationalizing mitzvot may be satisfying, but when all does not work out according to plan, there is the potential for devastating disappointment. The Talmud (Chullin 142a) states that a possible cause for the apostasy of Elisha Ben Avuya, who left tradition and became Acher (The Other), was the linking of the mitzvah with its reward.

Elisha once overheard a father ask his young son to shoo the mother bird and bring down some eggs from the nest, thereby fulfilling the two commandments promising the reward of long life at the same time. The son dutifully climbed the ladder to the nest and shooed away the mother. On his way down the ladder with the eggs, he tripped and fell, broke his neck and died. Elisha thought to himself, “Where is the reward of long life and goodness of days for performing both of these mitzvot?” In anger, he rejected the rest of God’s law.

We can – and must - surely declare that God is merciful, informing our observance of shiluach hakan. But we cannot take this claim as the exclusive basis for our obedience. The attempt to understand God’s will does not give us greater insight into how God works. As one rabbi put it, “Elisha Ben Avuyah discovered that God does not prevent gravity from pulling a boy to his death, even while the boy is obeying a mitzvah that promises long life.” God may be compassionate and command us to be compassionate, but this does not mean we know how God’s compassion works

Shiluach hakan is a timely reminder to be compassionate. As the High Holidays approach, it cannot hurt to show God how we have internalized the Divine lesson to show more compassion to those around us. Simultaneously, we acknowledge that we don’t fully understand exactly why we perform the commandments. These two sides of the same kan represent the two diverse – even diametrically opposite - components to be found in all areas of Jewish observance. Sometimes we know, and sometimes we don’t know. Both sentiments shape our ongoing and ever-evolving relationship with Avinu Malkeinu, our Father and King.

If we keep striving for answers even when they are not forthcoming, I cannot promise a long life, but we will be blessed with a rich, complex, and meaningful one.