April 1, 2026

Dear Member,

The Seder presents us with a stark experiential contrast. On the one hand, it is – and eponymously so – an incredibly structured event, beginning with an articulated roadmap (Kadesh, Urchatz, etc.) followed by a precise order of remembering and retelling the Exodus. On the other hand, it is an intensely personal experience, shaped by unique family customs as well as individual interpretations of the text. One might think that over time, the evening would become a rote exercise in efficient familiarity. And yet each year presents an opportunity for newfound understanding and reflection, a lens through which the charge of בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם – “In each generation, a person is obligated to see himself as though he left Egypt” – is refracted through our personal and communal experiences. Rabbi Dr. Norman Lamm (d. 2020) recalls his Chassidic grandfather’s shifting demeanor at different moments of the Seder, as the triumph of Israel was interspersed with accounts of suffering that he connected to his personal history. I often wondered what my Dad z”l carried to the seder table, knowing what became of grandparents and others who did not escape Germany with him – and the gentle reassurance of שֶׁבְּשִׁפְלֵנוּ זָכַר לָנוּ כִּי לְעוֹלָם חַסְדּוֹ, “Who remembered us in our lowliness, for His kindness is everlasting.”

The Seder, then, becomes a moment in which our shared national narrative is shaped, in part, by our individual storytelling. I submit that this same paradigm applies to our involvement in institutional and organizational life.

Few institutions are as ordered as shul. Visit any shul and, setting aside the saying of ve’yatzmach or the order of karbanos, the experience is transferable from one to another. Bringing this closer to home, for nearly three-quarters of a century, a person walking through our doors has enjoyed roughly the same fundamental contours that shaped the experience which developed first on Riggs Road, then Eastern Avenue, then University Boulevard, and for the past 50 years at our Arcola Avenue home. And yet, much like the personal Seder, many surrounding elements evolve. Such evolution is healthy – even necessary – for organizations to endure. And to endure means to emerge with the strength to transmit our mission to the next generation.

Let us view the shul as a Seder: structured in its essential elements, yet by design intentionally flexible and responsive. A model that receives questions with, “How might we . . .?”

Fifty years ago, the notion of a dedicated space where women can care for their infants would have seemed beyond a novelty. But with a community eruv, children’s groups, and a growing number of young mothers attending shul, we responded with a comfortable and tranquil Mother’s Lounge in the balcony. Likewise, intensive Torah learning is no longer the exclusive province of a privileged few, and our twice-weekly night Seder, featuring chavrusa learning, shiurim, and the chaburos led by Rabbi Rosenbaum, reflects that reality. Our Adult Education and Youth programming similarly evolve.

On the administrative side, we are pivoting to a new organizational model in order to maximize the impact of our resources and, ultimately, provide better experiences for our members. Some of these changes may depart from the way we’ve always done things. But they are part of a broader, forward-looking strategy. Our work is informed by internal and external factors – a refined understanding of our institutional composition and the environments in which we operate.

And none of this happens without you.

Rabbi David Stavsky (d. 2004) notes that a vav was added to Yisro’s name as a reward for his counsel that Moshe appoint anshei chayil to assist him (Shemos 18:21; Medresh Rabbah Shemos 27:8), transforming יתר (Yeser) into יתרו (Yisro). Rabbi Stavsky explains that vav is a conjunction, vav ha’chibur, meaning “and” and “with,” and that the reward embedded in the expansion of Yisro’s name reveals an axiomatic truth of communal development: There is strength in addition. The sharing of responsibility is what enables growth and building. No leader – whether Rabbinic, professional, or lay – can do it alone.

And this, I submit, presents for our consideration the question of how we might deploy our individual, refracted strengths toward a focused communal success, molding our community with personal contributions. Tall order? Perhaps. But consider George Eliot’s encouragement: “The best introduction to astronomy is to think of the nightly heavens as a little lot of stars belonging to one’s homestead.”

Our shul as our homestead.

We enter this season bound, as we have been continually, to the situation in Israel. And here, too, we find strength in the promise of the Hagadah: שֶׁבְּשִׁפְלֵנוּ זָכַר לָנוּ כִּי לְעוֹלָם חַסְדּוֹ. If the instruction of בְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר חַיָּב אָדָם לִרְאוֹת אֶת עַצְמוֹ כְּאִלּוּ הוּא יָצָא מִמִּצְרַיִם has at times been fraught with painful history, let next year’s fulfillment of that mandate be defined by the simcha of the גְּאוּלָה שְׁלֵמָה.

חַג כָּשֵׁר וְשָׂמֵחַ

See you in shul,