“It’s Our Story to Write”
On November 15, 1825 B’nai Jeshurun applied for incorporation, New York’s first Ashkenazic synagogue. Leading the charge were the young people boldly declaring “their intention to erect a new Synagogue in this city” that would follow the “German and Polish minhag [rite]” and be located “in a more convenient situation for those residing uptown.” But it was not merely the minhag of the service or its location that were the decisive forces in the establishment of what we lovingly call BJ. It was the spirit of America that animated this younger generation, as they declared “the wise and republican laws of this country are based upon universal toleration giving to every citizen and sojourner the right to worship according to the dictate of his conscience” (quoted phrases excerpted from Dr. Jonathan Sarna’s American Judaism).
It would not only be at that moment in 1825 that questions of how the American spirit and the dialectic between Jewish tradition and change would be at the center of the conversation at BJ. Questions of decorum and mixed seating, the institution of a choir and women’s participation were alive and well and fairly tumultuous throughout the mid to late 19th century. Rabbi Israel Goldstein reflects on this period in his book A Century of Judaism: B’nai Jeshurun 1825-1925.
“They wanted the bountiful benefits that they thought reform would bring without sacrificing the comforting legitimacy that they knew tradition provided. Ideally, they somehow sought to be both Orthodox and modern at the same time, enjoying the benefits of both positions, and satisfying everyone.”
In 1926, a little over 100 years later after the establishment of B’nai Jeshurun, just an hour away in Danbury, CT, a charter group of 31 members signed the original roster establishing the United Jewish Center and began worshipping in the home of Henry Dick, its first president. Its inaugural rabbi, Jerome Malino was a disciple of Rabbi Stephen Wise who had actually served as the rabbi of BJ from 1893-1900. The United Jewish Center was not a typical synagogue. Beyond being the only significant shul in the area serving around nine towns, at its biggest around 450 families, it didn’t affiliate with a Reform movement until 1975. On Shabbat morning as I was growing up, there was a traditional lay-led non-egalitarian minyan that was held in the chapel which pre-b’nai mitzvah students were required to attend. When there was a bar or bat mitzvah, there was also a “Reform” service in the main sanctuary with a choir and an organ. On the High Holy Days, there was a Reform service and the traditional one that my family attended. The synagogue was really a “center” bringing together Jews from all across the spectrum to have a place. I was the first girl to be asked to lead part of the traditional service though I declined. I can’t really remember why. And as the years passed the traditional service faded away with the elders that had nourished it with their devotion and leadership. At nearly 100 years, the synagogue is significantly smaller and for the last 30 years has lived its Reform identity exclusively.
So while I grew up going to Reform Jewish summer camp and youth group, and experienced its vibrant community, its creativity and its clarion call of justice, I also had the experience of growing up with the power of the traditional liturgy and prayer services. I was nourished as a young Jewish leader in the Reform movement and owe a debt of gratitude to my counselors, songleaders, educators and rabbis along the way that inspired me and invested in me and yet, I also felt a deep call of a more traditional prayer experience and practice. In my shul growing up, however, it felt that you were one or the other—traditional or Reform. You were in the chapel or the main sanctuary.
It wasn’t until I fell into the job as the Family and Youth Director at BJ in August of 1996, when I moved to NYC for rabbinical school, that I felt a religious synergy that I had never experienced before. There was a dynamism of the community and its leadership. There was searching and struggle and a robust conversation of what was right and good in the eyes of God. I met members who had grown up in Orthodox communities and members that hadn’t grown up Jewish at all or were secular Jews. All had found their home at BJ, as did I.
The bold spirit of BJ’s founders is still very much part of the essence of our community, so, too, is the profound commitment to a tradition that speaks through eternity. For me, the embodiment and leader of that synergy has been Rabbi Roly Matalon, my teacher and partner. There will be much more to say about Roly as June of 2026 approaches. As we anticipate Roly’s retirement as Rosh Kehillah and move through this period of transition, our 200-year history provides incredible wisdom as we look to our future. But it is the vibrancy, the love, the holy searching, the agitation and the aspirations of this present moment that will set the stage for what lies ahead.
I am forever grateful that I grew up in a shul, nearly a century old, that taught me about the multivocality of the tradition and exposed me to how different kinds of Judaism could be practiced. Yet, my heart was always searching for a place that could hold it all together in a more integrated way. BJ has been that for me and I hope it has been that for you too.
All the words were given to us by one Shepherd, one God created them, one Provider gave them, the God of all deeds, has spoken them. So make yourself a heart of many rooms and bring into it the words of the House of Shammai and the words of the House of Hillel, the words of those who declare unclean and the words of those who declare clean.
—Tosefta Sotah 7:12
This teaching not only invites us to hold the diversity of our tradition and of the people in our community, while also reminding us how big our hearts are to hold it all together. I pray in this Bicentennial year, as we honor our past, celebrate our present and look to our future, that our hearts will be big and our spirit will be bold. It is our story to write.
Shabbat Shalom,
