There Is Holy and Necessary Work to Be Done

After college, I had the pleasure of living and working in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, near the shul I grew up in. There is much to love about this historic and scenic part of the neighborhood, but what felt especially precious to me during that time was its proximity to the water. Every day after work, I would come home, drop my bags, lace up my sneakers, pack a snack, and walk down to Pier 6 to watch the sunset or the moonrise. I would sit facing the southern tip of Manhattan, with Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty just within view.

Often, my mind wandered to my ancestors—my great-great-grandparents—who left their cities and villages for this foreign and unruly place. What did Manhattan look like to them as it first came into view over the water? Did it feel like relief, or compromise, or a challenge? Would they be surprised to know that their great-great-granddaughter is still here, sitting by the water, thinking about them?

This week, my teacher Ruth Messinger reminded our class that we are all immigrants. My ancestors never struck it rich, nor did they become highly educated or widely acclaimed. And still, my ability to sit by the port they once passed through and wonder about their lives is, in and of itself, the fulfillment of the dream and promise of this country. It is a measure of the success of immigration.

That is why the scale of state-inflicted violence and the threats to the safety and sanctity of immigrants across our country—from Minneapolis to Maine and far beyond—feel so staggering. Each time I glance at the news, I feel utterly gobsmacked. There is nothing fundamentally different between the stories of people seeking safety and opportunity today and the stories of my own ancestors. How can this be happening? How can this be happening here?

Over the past few weeks, I’ve spoken with many people who share that same disbelief, anger, and grief. The tools I usually reach for to help others make sense of a heavy world are simply not sufficient for this moment. I believe deeply in the value of the pastoral wisdom I am trained to offer—to care for yourself and your neighbors, to hold fast to something hopeful or holy, to trust that the pendulum swings, however slowly, toward justice. But right now, even I am not finding those words soothing or strengthening. So I won’t offer them here. There are no words that feel adequate to meet this moment.

And yet, while our hearts may be shattered, abdication of our responsibility—to one another and to our democracy—is not an option. I have been profoundly moved by the courage of colleagues in the Jewish world and across faith communities who are fully inhabiting their roles as leaders. When words fail, they are showing up with their bodies and their influence to protect the most vulnerable among us.

I want to lift up the work of delegations from T’ruah, Bend the Arc, Avodah, and other Jewish organizations who traveled to Minnesota this week to witness and learn from the powerful organizing and advocacy efforts taking place there. BJ Rabbinic Fellowship Alumna Rabbi Arielle Lekach-Rosenberg of Shir Tikvah in Minneapolis is doing extraordinary and holy work, galvanizing clergy and the broader Jewish community to act with courage in the face of threats to our neighbors. I encourage you to read this article, which includes excerpts from her speech at the 2023 “ICE Out of Minnesota” rally.

As we enter Shabbat, I invite you—as I have been invited—to reflect on your own immigration story. Where do you feel most rooted? Who—ancestors, family members, community—made it possible for you to be there? And how might you help create that possibility for someone else?

There is holy and necessary work to be done. It is a blessing to do it here, in New York, with you.

Shabbat shalom,

Iliana Brodsky