Learn Torah | Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon

When I became a bar mitzvah, most people who knew me probably would have said I was the kid least likely to become a rabbi later on. My Torah portion was Ki Teitzei, the one with the most commandments of any in the entire Torah. Which also means it had the most possible bar mitzvah speeches. My rabbi asked me to focus on one particular law: what should happen to a boy who is wayward and defiant. What in the world was he trying to imply!

But truthfully, my Jewish upbringing didn’t leave me particularly Jewishly literate or even very interested. At 13, I could recite a few prayers and sing some songs, but I didn’t really know what any of it meant—or really, why any of it was all that important. And honestly, not much changed after that. After my confirmation, the cantor called to invite me to join the synagogue youth group. And I said no. I just wasn’t interested. Judaism was something I did because I had to, not something I wanted more of. What finally got me to join wasn’t the cantor’s call at all — it was my best friend at the time, Ben, who convinced me.

Which is why I know, from personal experience, that being given Judaism as a child isn’t enough. At some point, if it’s going to mean something, we have to claim it for ourselves.

Here’s the truth: most of us never really got the chance to learn Judaism as adults. We picked up some Hebrew words, maybe a prayer or two, maybe a story about Abraham or Moses. But the bigger picture — why Judaism asks us to live the way it does — many of us never had the chance to explore. So when someone asks us a deeper question, it’s not that we don’t care. It’s that no one ever gave us the tools to answer. And friends, I don’t know is not enough.

But what about the real questions? If we stopped talking about God, what would Judaism lose? If we never opened Torah again, what wisdom would we miss? If we gave up on Israel — the people or the place — what would become of us?

And sometimes that gap shows up in the simplest way: a child looks up and asks, “Why? Why do we light these candles? Why do we put a stone on a grave?” And the adult hesitates. Not because they don’t care, but because they were never really taught either. So the answer becomes something thin, like, “It’s just tradition,” without explaining why that tradition matters. Judaism deserves more than that. We deserve more than that. Because every custom has a story. Every mitzvah has a reason. Every tradition has a soul.

Our tradition is built on asking. The Talmud says: לֹא הַבַּיְשָׁן לָמֵד — Lo habayshan lomed — “The shy person cannot learn.” (Pirkei Avot 2:5) You can’t be too embarrassed to ask. The rabbis of the Mishnah and Talmud asked questions endlessly: Why does the Torah say this? How do we interpret it? What does it mean for our lives? And sometimes, they preserved not just the answers—but the disagreements. Because the act of questioning was itself sacred. Judaism is not afraid of curiosity. It’s afraid of apathy.

Jews have been called Am HaSefer — the People of the Book — because at the center of Jewish life is Torah. And here’s the amazing part: a book doesn’t change when you read it — but you change. Every time you return to it, you see something new. Because you are different. Because your life is different. That’s why adult Judaism is so compelling. The questions we ask at 40 are not the same as the ones we ask at 13. The questions we ask at 70 are not the same as the ones we asked at 40. Torah meets us where we are.

One of the greatest rabbis in Jewish history, Rabbi Akiva, didn’t begin learning until he was 40 years old. Until then, he was a shepherd who knew almost nothing about Judaism. The story goes that he saw how drops of water, falling steadily, had worn a hole into stone. And he thought: if water can wear through rock, then maybe Torah can wear its way into my heart. So he began to learn — slowly at first — and went on to become one of the most influential rabbis of all time. It was Akiva who taught that the verse “Love your neighbor as yourself” is the great principle of the Torah. That teaching has guided Jewish life and values for nearly two thousand years. Rabbi Akiva shows us what it means to claim Judaism for yourself. He proves it is never too late. Forty is not too late. Sixty is not too late. Eighty is not too late. You are not too late.

If Rabbi Akiva shows us it’s never too late to begin, Sarah Hurwitz shows us that the same is true even for those who grew up Jewish. Like Akiva, she came to appreciate Judaism as an adult — only later realizing how deep and meaningful it really is. Sarah Hurwitz was a speechwriter at the White House. She had grown up Jewish, gone to Hebrew school, celebrated the holidays — and yet, she later admitted: “I thought Judaism was just bagels and birthright trips. Only later did I discover it was so much more — a profound tradition about how to live a meaningful life.”

Her story reminds me a lot of my own. I, too, grew up going through the motions without really grasping what Judaism had to offer. Like Sarah, I knew the outlines but not the depths. It was only later — when I started learning on my own — that I discovered just how much wisdom, beauty, and challenge was waiting for me in Judaism. And since my mom is here today, you can ask her: how many times did I beg to go to temple as a kid? Zero. Not once. And while you’re at it, you can also ask her how many times the religious school director had to pull her aside to say, “Jason isn’t doing his Hebrew homework.” Let’s just say: more than once. It wasn’t until I was older that I started to claim Judaism for myself. That realization changed Sarah’s life. And it changed mine.

And I know what she means. I remember being a teenager and stumbling across Joseph Telushkin’s Jewish Literacy for the first time. It’s a massive book — hundreds of short chapters on everything from holidays to history to ethics. Each chapter opened a door I didn’t even know existed. Stories I’d never heard, ideas I’d never considered, wisdom that felt like it had been waiting for me all along. After that, I couldn’t stop reading. Novels too — like The Chosen or As a Driven Leaf — opened up worlds for me, helping me see Judaism not just as a set of rituals, but as a living, breathing story filled with struggle, searching, and meaning. Sometimes the best gateway to Judaism isn’t a textbook — it’s a story. That’s what adult Jewish learning does. It wakes us up to a Judaism we didn’t even know was there.

And that’s something I learned early on in my rabbinate. When I was still a fairly new rabbi in Tucson, I met with a woman in our Introduction to Judaism course. Her fiancé was Jewish, but he never asked her to convert. She signed herself up simply to learn more about his heritage. And as she studied, she decided to convert. But she told me, somewhat sadly, about her fiancé’s family’s reaction. For the most part, it was one of: “But why? Why would you even want that? Don’t do it for us.” I suppose they meant to be welcoming, even accepting. And honestly, I get it. When something has always been there, it’s easy to overlook. Sometimes it takes someone seeing it fresh to remind us how beautiful it is. She had fallen in love with Judaism. She found it compelling and engaging and uplifting and deep. And to the family, that was the strange part. Converting wasn’t weird — but converting because she actually wanted Judaism, because she found in it something beautiful, that was what they couldn’t quite understand. She was mystified. And I wasn’t.

And here’s how I feel about it: we have a lot to offer. I’m not surprised that people find Judaism compelling. And when someone chooses to join us, we welcome them with open arms. At the same time, you don’t need to be Jewish to belong here. Everyone in this community is welcome, regardless. But when people do choose Judaism, when they fall in love with it, it only confirms what I already believe: Judaism is worth loving. And look around this congregation. So many of our members found their way to Judaism as adults. They began learning, often in an Introduction to Judaism class, and they discovered a tradition so deep and compelling that they chose to throw their lot in with the Jewish people.

That’s why, starting October 23rd, I’ll be teaching an Introduction to Judaism course. Yes, it’s for people considering conversion. And yes, it’s for people raising Jewish kids. But it’s also for Jews who never had the chance to ask their questions. It’s for people who feel like they got the children’s version and are ready for the adult one. And even if you already have some background, don’t let the word “Intro” fool you — we’ll start at the beginning, but we’ll go far, and there will be plenty of depth to discover. And if the timing doesn’t work, that’s okay. I can help you find another way. The point is not which path you take. The point is that you take a step.

Rabbi Akiva began at 40, and he changed the world. Sarah Hurwitz rediscovered Judaism as an adult, and it transformed her life. I discovered Judaism anew as a teenager when I picked up Jewish Literacy and realized how much more there was to learn. A student in Tucson discovered Judaism and couldn’t understand why others didn’t see what she saw. And members of our own congregation began learning as adults — and now they sit beside us, shaping Jewish life, leading, teaching, and inspiring.

We are the People of the Book. Which means our identity is not just in being born Jewish. It is in learning. It is in claiming Torah for ourselves.

So my invitation to you this High Holy Day season is this: come learn. Come ask your questions. Come claim Judaism for yourself. Because Judaism is too deep, too rich, too beautiful to leave to “I don’t know.”

And if you’re wondering why I gave this sermon, well, Jodi suggested it. She said, “Jason, you should give a sermon that gets people to take your Intro to Judaism course.” And like most good advice from her, I listened.

Shanah Tovah.

Sign up for the Introduction to Judaism Course here! https://forms.gle/CwiGjoJGmn6adk6d6