Posted on October 4, 2025
60 years ago today the Jewish religion and America’s national religion – baseball – came into direct conflict with one another. The MLB scheduling had decreed that Game One of the World Series would coincide with Yom Kippur. This timing challenge became an even bigger issue when the Los Angeles Dodgers progressed to the big game behind their ace pitcher Sandy Koufax.
Koufax’s Jewish identity was not a secret, and everyone realized the issue the moment the Dodgers progressed. He was proud of his Jewish identity and while not particularly observant, he wanted to honor his heritage. As he later said: “There was no hard decision for me … It was just a thing of respect. I wasn’t trying to make a statement, and I had no idea that it would impact that many people.”1
But his decision had a huge impact. For Jews at the time, Koufax made a statement about Jewish identity, our place in America, and the possibility of balancing both. It is a story that is still told and retold, when a Jewish pitcher prioritized his Judaism above the World Series. Thankfully for Koufax and the Dodgers, they would go on to win the series, but that is really secondary to the story of his observance of Yom Kippur and his refusal to pitch on this most sacred day. He was proud of his Judaism, he recognized the gift of his tradition, and in making his choice, he provided an example that inspired and continues to inspire the American Jewish community.
I wonder what would happen today. Whether a Jewish sports star would want to lean in to their identity, to miss a major game, or to risk the way that the media would portray it. People connected with the Dodgers at the time say that rather than being challenged by teammates for the decision, Koufax was actually celebrated and admired for being willing to put his religion first.2 In the current climate and our world of social media, I imagine a similar decision would be greeted differently today. Although I know a few Yankees fans who had been pushing for Alex Bregman to make the same choice. But I am not sure a Jewish player would want to out themselves in that way. And I’m sure everyone here chose Kol Nidrei last night over game 2. Luckily God is a baseball fan and so game 3 will be starting after the fast has ended.
Koufax speaks to a different time in American Jewish history. Just last year The Atlantic front page headline read: “The Golden Age of American Jews Is Ending.”3 As Rabbi Lisa told us on Erev Rosh Hashanah – it’s hard to be a Jew; and at the moment it feels much harder than it has been in recent years. I worry about the external pressures that we are facing as a Jewish community and how we might be internalizing the negative messages we are receiving.
When looking at the primary causes of low self-esteem, it is clear that external factors play an outsize role in contributing to this problem. As one article puts it, low self-esteem “results from hearing or interpreting messages from significant people … who were often very critical.”4 The messages that we hear from others contributes to the way in which we think about ourselves.5 And then, when we internalize the negative words, the criticism, and the put downs, our mental health suffers in a way that leaves us feeling insecure, unworthy of love, and unprepared to face our day-to-day lives.
This can happen to us as individuals, but I currently worry that this is happening to us as a community.
The way that Jews are talked about on social media, the slippage in criticism of Israel to criticism of Jews, the exclusion of Jews from various public spaces are all contributing to a communal sense of low self-esteem. This is coupled with the rising levels of antisemitism that are leaving us feeling targeted and attacked simply for being Jewish. Our children are living through a time where it is unfortunately normal to hear antisemitic comments from classmates, to witness a swastika drawn in school, or to feel excluded by the way a teacher talks about Jews and Israel.
It is understandable that many are seeking ways to blend in, to hide their Jewish identity in public, to avoid being identifiable as different in any way. People are engaging with their Temple communities as one of the only places where they feel comfortable to fully express their Jewish identity, to be their whole selves. Some of our teenagers have described Shir Tikva as their safe space, a place they get to escape to a couple of times a week, and where they can be fully Jewish and therefore fully themselves.
I don’t want our children to feel like their Jewish identity is a part of themselves that they can only express for a few hours a week here at Shir Tikva. I want them to see their Judaism as an integral part of who they are, a gift that they have received from their families – from Jewish and Jewish adjacent parents who have decided to raise their children here, with us. I want them to feel confidence and pride when they think about their Judaism, realizing the positives it brings, the strength it gives them, the legacy they are connected to, and the community they get to be part of.
And it is not just children who are feeling challenged by this moment. We adults are also feeling intense pressure. How many of us have walked into rooms where we felt uncomfortable, or even unsafe, publicly expressing our Judaism? How many of us have worried about the subject of religion coming up at work? How many of us have been on heightened alert for insensitive or antisemitic comments that leave us feeling like outsiders in a social setting? How many of us, against our better judgement, have read the comments on a social media post with bated breath? How many of us have worried about our children being identifiably Jewish in certain public settings.
Despite my advancing age, my mother still worries. She recently asked me, “Do you really have to wear your Hebrew Red Sox jersey to the baseball game?” I told her that yes, yes I did. I understood her hesitance, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my own. But, I have made the conscious decision to be more publicly Jewish. I want to be identifiable. Every time I wear that jersey, I get positive comments from other members of the tribe who appreciate the connection.
I started wearing this Magen David (Jewish star) necklace two years ago after hearing from our teenagers that they were hesitant to wear their Jewish symbols in public. And in the last several months, I started wearing it on the outside of my shirt so that it is publicly visible when I am out. I want them to know that I am proud to be Jewish. I want you to know that I’m proud to be Jewish. I want me to know that I’m proud to be Jewish.
I was recently apple picking with my family. An older man who worked at the farm approached us and offered advice about what varieties would go well in the dessert Micol was planning to make. A few minutes into our conversation, he timidly said, “Can I ask you ask a question? I notice you’re wearing your Jewish star outside your shirt. Do you feel comfortable with that?”
Perhaps anticipating my unease with the question, he shared that he too was Jewish and he wears his Jewish star around his neck with his late wife’s wedding ring. But he keeps it tucked inside his shirt. He didn’t add any explanation to that; he didn’t need to. I told him about my recent decision to wear my star more publicly. About it being a response to the growing antisemitism; about my intention to make other Jews feel more safe and comfortable. And I told him I was a Rabbi.
His expression of relief was immediate. He was among friends. He was with his people. And the timidity he showed when he first asked the question was gone. We talked for a few more minutes, like old friends who happened to run into each other in an orchard. Benny instantly took a liking to him and had a lot to say. He even proudly pointed out his own Jewish star, which he specifically requested on my recent trip to Israel. Our new friend sought us out several more times during our visit. “Hey Danny!” he would shout. We talked about Rosh Hashanah, the apple crisps he bakes, and Micol’s challah recipe.
Seeing a fellow Jew, one who openly identified as such, allowed him to open up about his own Judaism. It gave him the opportunity to share a part of himself that I imagine he usually keeps hidden. It was clear that given the opening, he wanted to talk about it. He wanted to own it. He wanted desperately to share his Jewish identity with another person. My entire family appreciated the connection with him and all of us left the orchard that day with much more than just apples.
I know that being publicly identifiable as Jewish can be scary. Especially now. It might sound strange to say while standing in front of several hundred people, but I like to blend in. When I’m not on the pulpit, I appreciate going under the radar, fitting in with the crowd. Wearing my star makes me stand out, it is something that people notice, and it signals me out as different. But I have made the active choice to challenge my discomfort. Wearing a Jewish star or another religious symbol can feel like wearing a scary flashing light that invites danger. But just as we experienced at the farm, our stars and our symbols can actually act as a beacon of light for others. Like the illumination of a lighthouse, it lets them know that they are safe and seen. This scary choice has the power to make the world less scary for others. And for me, that power outweighs the fear.
At Yom Kippur services 112 years ago, a young man by the name of Franz Rosenzweig was facing similar challenges to his Jewish identity. Living in Germany at the time, he felt the pressure from the dominant culture to abandon his Judaism and to convert to Christianity. He went to synagogue that Yom Kippur intending it to be a final Jewish expression before abandoning the religion altogether.6
We do not know exactly what happened to him in the course of that service, but he had what he described as a “non-mystical enlightenment.” He recognized the beauty of Judaism, the unique connection with God, the gift of being part of the Jewish people – and through that day’s experiences, his life was changed. He dedicated his life to Judaism and became one of the leading Jewish philosophers of the twentieth century. James Winchell in reflecting on Rosenzweig’s experience wrote: “a Jew walks into shul on Yom Kippur and . . . converts to Judaism!”
I don’t know that through today’s services anyone is going to have an epiphany in the same way that Franz Rosenzweig did – although with Cantor Hollis and the choir’s music it is possible. But I do want us to consider his example. We often talk about people who convert to Judaism as being “Jews by choice” – in that they have chosen Judaism for themselves. But in my ideal, I want us all to consider ourselves “Jews by choice.” All of us actively and passionately choosing a Jewish connection for ourselves. Finding the Judaism that gives meaning to our lives, elevates our souls, connects us to something greater than ourselves, and allows us to experience a life filled with joy and blessing. Everyone here – we are here by choice. We have made a choice to be part of this community. Every day we make a choice.
The world feels scary right now. Particularly living in this world as a Jew. It would be easy to make a different choice. It would be more convenient. Perhaps it would be safer. So why make this choice? Why choose this? Right now, in this moment?
I think about the words of those who came, and made this choice before me.
Albert Einstein chose “The pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, an almost fanatical love of justice, and the desire for personal independence.” “These,” he said, “are the features of the Jewish tradition which make me thank my stars that I belong to it.”7 Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, said she chose because her heritage as a Jew and her occupation as a judge fit together symmetrically. She said: “The demand for justice runs through the entirety of Jewish history and Jewish tradition. I take pride in and draw strength from my heritage.”8 Elie Wiesel, who survived even scarier times than these, could be forgiven for making a different choice. But instead he chose us. He chose this. Because as he says: “I am a Jew profoundly rooted in my people’s memory and tradition, proud of belonging to a people that has never given up.”9 Rabbi Jonathan Sacks captured his choice this way: “I am a Jew because our nation, though at times it suffered the deepest poverty, never gave up on its commitment to helping the poor, or rescuing Jews from other lands, or fighting for justice for the oppressed”10 And we can’t forget The Big Lebowski’s Walter Sobchak, who chose “3,000 years of beautiful tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax.”
Every day we make a choice.
I choose Judaism because I want to be part of this family with roots that stretch back thousands of years, and branches that extend across the globe; an invisible, but visceral connection that unites us and ensures that I have family everywhere I go.
I choose Judaism because we as a people are always journeying towards the Promised Land, always imagining, striving, and fighting to make our world a better place; seeing the imperfections and taking upon ourselves the responsibility to fix them.
I choose Judaism because I believe that we are all created in the image of God, possessing the Divine spark within us; challenged to fully realize the Divinity that we possess, but also to see it in our fellow person.
I choose Judaism because I believe that this religion, which is thousands of years old, continues to speak to us today, with answers, practices, questions, and rituals that address the most pressing challenges we are facing.
Every day we make a choice.
We choose to shrink down or stand tall. We choose to wear signs of our heritage publicly or to keep them folded in our closets. We choose to tuck our star in or to wear it out.
Every one here today is making a choice. Sandy Koufax chose Judaism over the World Series. Franz Rosenzweig chose Judaism over assimilation. And all of you, both the Jewish and Jewish adjacent members of our community are actively choosing Judaism.
So why? Why did you make this choice?
It’s not a question that we often ask or are asked. But it is a question that gets to the heart of our very identity. In today’s world, we have other choices. Too many to count. And there are certainly easier choices. But we choose this.
We like to talk about Jews as the Chosen People, with our special covenantal relationship with God. But the truth is, we may not have even been God’s first choice. There is a midrash, a rabbinic story, that suggests that God offered the Torah to a variety of other nations before coming to us.11 These other peoples were not interested and rejected God’s overtures; it was only the Children of Israel who chose to accept the Torah and enter into a covenantal relationship. We are the chosen people because we made a choice. We chose to be God’s chosen people. We are the choosing people.
Every day we make a choice.
I will not minimize the very real fear innate in making this choice. And I do not fault anyone who struggles with it, or makes a different one altogether. But I honestly believe that we have all been offered the opportunity to choose something extraordinary. To be a part of a people that persists. A people that endures. A people that chooses.
We choose this gift for ourselves and for our families. We choose this gift because we recognize the power it can have in our lives. We choose this gift because through it we know that we can make our world a better place. We choose this and through it we are chosen.
Earlier today, we read the following words from God: See I set before you this day life and goodness, death and destruction. Choose life. Choose life so that you will live. Choose life.
To choose this people. This family. This faith. Is to choose life.
Everyday we make a choice. This year, what will you choose?