Sermon given December 13, 2025

The concept of L’Dor Va’dor, passing our values from generation to generation, runs very deep in Judaism. Saying that it runs deep feels like quite the understatement, even. Passing down everything from rituals to values to tefillin to names to recipes… this spirit of “l’dor va’dor” ensures that the chain of Jewish life and learning never breaks. 

This year, L’dor va’dor is the theme of KBE, our religious school. The kids are exploring their family trees, learning about their personal ancestors, and also learning about where we as modern Jews collectively fit on the ancient family tree of our people, that started back with either Abraham or Adam and Eve, depending on how you look at it.

The last few weeks, we’ve also been talking in services about what gets passed down from generation to generation, albeit through a different lens. In the stories we’ve focused in on, about Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, and now Jacob, Leah, Rachel, and their sons, many important things are shared l’dor va’dor– specifically, a relationship to God, and a sense of obligation and responsibility for future generations. Each of these sets of parents passed along to their children how important it was to continue being connected to God and to try and live godly lives.

But that’s not all that was passed down, of course. As we’ve been talking about the last few Shabbatot, intergenerational trauma also got passed down. Favoritism, spite, and jealousy also got passed down. Sibling rivalries got passed down. Last week we talked again about Jacob and Esau finally making peace after immense discord which all started when their parents pitted them against one another– but then what do we see this week? We see that very same Jacob doting and fawning all over one of his sons, Joseph, causing yet another generation of jealous siblings to cause trouble. This, too, is an example of something being passed down l’dor va’dor– but something damaging, instead of holy. 

None of this, I think, is what our tradition is hoping for when we invoke the concept of “l’dor va’dor”. And yet, if we focus in on these imperfections, it can actually make our ancestors even more relatable, and even more real, to us.

Because for us as modern Jews, we are also human, and we also pass both the good and the bad to the next generation, l’dor va’dor. We’re both trying to pass down the awesome stuff about being Jewish, the rituals we love, and the responsibility we feel to those who went before us, and those after us– but we also, unintentionally, pass along our own intergenerational traumas, fears, guilts, and even prejudices to our children.

For example: A grandchild might refuse to try attending a specific shul because her grandfather had a negative experience at the shul 60 years ago and has been badmouthing the congregation ever since. Ever heard of something like that happening? Or how about: In response to a natural question from a child about the different denominations and what they mean, an adult Jew might perpetuate negative and oversimplified stereotypes, saying that Conservative Jews are in the middle and don’t really take a stand on anything, Reform Jews only really talk about Tikkun Olam, Orthodox Jews don’t give rights to women, and so on.

And sometimes, we also pass along fears bred of very real dangers we have faced in our own lives. We might reactively urge our children to avoid certain neighborhoods or wearing certain clothing, or to hide their magen david necklaces when there is an antisemitic attack in the news– even if it didn’t happen nearby. We might advise them not to share that they are Jewish immediately if they meet new people. Ever heard of parents saying these things? The list goes on and on.

And when we do each of these things, we are transmitting our values and our fears, l’dor va’dor. We are transmitting our pride and our pain. We are transmitting our accomplishments and our losses. And we are transmitting our shared and ongoing vulnerability in a world that has hurt our people many times. Transmitting these things is neither good nor bad– it just is a natural part of being in a community like ours. But especially when we talk about the uncomfortable and painful topics, it behooves Jewish adults to acknowledge the power of the choices we make, and the words we use, and the rituals we observe, on the next generation. 

One of the most painful things about being a rabbi is when I talk to the kids and teens about antisemitism. I tell them that I wish more than anything that I could give them a world without Jew Hatred in it; that I could promise that they would be safe outside of the walls of the synagogue. For parents and grandparents, too, this is one of the most painful conversations we have to have with our kids. L’dor va’dor, we are their role models and guides as they come to the realization that there are places in this world and people in this world that are safe for us as Jews, and people and places in this world that are not safe for us as Jews. From us, the next generation learns about how precious it is to have safe Jewish spaces that nurture the Jewish spark within each of us, and how to walk the line, the blurry boundary, between what it means to be a Jew here, at Temple Beth El, and what it means to be a Jew outside of these walls, in a world where antisemitism is a real and scary thing. 

I’d be willing to bet that for many of us here today, we feel a palpable difference right now between when we are inside these walls, with this congregation, and what we feel most other places. The specifics of the many lives we each lead might be different, but there is a common anchor, here, in the Jewish communal life that we have built together.

Here, just being in the presence of other Jews–

Here, inside these solid walls, built with Jewish love and vision–

Here, where we do not have to defend or explain our right to be who we are openly, and proudly, and without caveat–

Here, where we are surrounded by others who know, when Antisemitism veers its ugly head, that we will have each others’ backs, no matter what, and that love and support are things we will never take for granted.

Here, shevet achim gam yachad. Here, we are all family, sitting together, bound by a common fate and purpose. 

The beauty of this space is something we must commit to transmitting, l’dor va’dor. 

In a time when it feels like so many others in the world are not able to hold space for the trauma and grief the Jewish people are experiencing– or worse, when some are denying us dignity, and denying us safety– it makes sense that entering this building might feel like a sigh of relief, or like finally getting to relax a little. When politicians casually dismiss Jewish agency and safety, when graffiti haunts our neighborhoods, when our kids find swastikas at school– this is a place we can come to step away from that pain, and find strength in each other and our tradition.

Navigating the boundary between the Jewish life we live publicly and the Jewish life we live privately has always been a delicate balance, but it has gotten even more challenging since October 7, and then during the ensuing War. Antisemitic incidents have spiked in the United States, with some happening here in Maine. 

I’ve spoken with several KBE parents who are wrestling with how to approach discussing antisemitism and safety with their kids. Especially with Hanukkah approaching next week, the question of how to navigate our public and private Jewish lives is coming to a head.   

For some of us, being more visibly and outwardly identifiable as Jewish right now is an act of strength and protest and love, a statement of solidarity with our ancestors who also sought light in the darkness. For others among us, the opposite is true– it hasn’t felt safe, for some of us, to wear outwardly Jewish symbols or to put up signs in our yards, and the thought of having a Hanukkiah in our window may sound scary. 

And I want to name that this is OK, and that both of these stances have been felt by Jews throughout history. This isn’t the first time we Jews have felt such concerns. Historically, there have been numerous situations over the centuries where being visibly outwardly identifiable as Jewish was dangerous or stressful. Generations of Jews before us have also found themselves having to make difficult decisions about kippot, mezuzot, menorot, and other visible Jewish identifiers.

In celebrating Hanukkah, we light a menorah. But how publicly should we display it, the rabbis ask? Do we put the menorah where everyone can see it, loud and proud? Or do we keep it inside where it’s less obvious and perhaps safer? And the answer is:

Yes. The answer is, yes, either of these options is valid, depending on the circumstances and depending on safety. 

Because of course, of COURSE, it’s a mitzvah to be proudly Jewish. Arukh HaShulchan says:

מעיקר הדין מדליקין בפתח הסמוך לרשות הרבים

The best option is for us to light the menorah by the doorway, as close to public view as possible.

 But, says the Shulchan Aruch:

 ובשעת הסכנה שאינו רשאי לקים המצוה מניחו על שלחנו ודיו

In an hour of danger, when you can’t fulfill the mitzvah (by putting the menorah outside), place it on the table inside and that is enough. 

Enough. What a powerful word, and a powerful reminder. Sometimes, especially if we are talking about in times we feel fear, it is OK to just do enough, and not to do the ideal.

Sometimes, it is OK to be enough, and it is OK if that is a value we teach to our children, too.

The last thing we need to be doing is beating ourselves up for being Jewish in a way that makes us comfortable, or for taking care of our very real concerns about safety in a world where antisemitism is again on the rise. 

The level of comfort each of us feels in being publicly Jewish right now is going to vary based on a wide variety of factors. The face we are showing to the rest of the world is going to vary widely. But our tradition is big enough and wise enough to reassure is that this is OK, and that we don’t need to beat ourselves up for taking the route of safety in extenuating circumstances.

It’s OK– As long as, within this communal Jewish life we share, our commitment to each other remains strong, and our support of each other does not waiver. 

It’s OK, to prioritize self-care and not fight every single individual fight that is out there with every single individual wrong person on your Facebook Feed.

As long as, within this communal Jewish life we share, we are clear that our health and safety as Jews are non-negotiable, and that we will donate whatever resources we can to supporting Am Yisrael around the world. 

Interestingly, TBE has a public and a private life, too– publicly, we are the Conservative shul in southern Maine, we have a park that neighborhood kids play in, we host speakers and events, we run food drives. 

But the world at large, the world outside, doesn’t get to see and feel the private life of Temple Beth El. The outside world doesn’t get to share in the same safety and Jewish solidarity that we feel when we are together, that same sigh of relief when we come through those doors. They aren’t privy to the vulnerable, emotional conversations that have been happening since October 7, that take place in our Israel: Hard Conversations class, or to the uniquely Jewish pain that we feel when faced with antisemitic chants and publications and graffiti. 

They don’t get to feel the same primal power of dancing with Torah scrolls, of immersing in the mikveh, of the sweet smell of b’samim. 

That life, that life we live together, is ours.

And making sure we celebrate that life in whatever way feels authentic to us is more important than ever. 

As we prepare to light the candles this Hanukkah season, I offer the kavvanah, the intention, of l’dor va’dor. Hanukkah gives us an opportunity to re-examine and re-affirm the messages about who we are that we transmit to ourselves and to others. So- What values are we transmitting by lighting the candles? What does it mean to us to be part of this ancient chain? What does it mean to us to put the menorah on the window, or at the door- or on the table? What does it mean to us to prioritize our schedules to allow us to come together as a community for an epic Hanukkah party? And what does it mean to us to intentionally invite our neighbors, interfaith partners, and non-Jewish elected officials into this space for that party, too, sharing in our Jewish identity with them?

No matter how you choose to celebrate, you are part of the chain. We are each others’ teachers, and each others’ guardians and keepers, and we are each helping shape what the future of Judaism will look like.

L’dor va’dor, nagid godlekha. From generation to generation, we will talk of Your power, and embrace our role in the sacred chain.

Shabbat shalom.