Stop Outsourcing American Judaism

Bo and the Judaism Built at Home

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There are moments when I feel profoundly optimistic about the future of American Judaism.

Many of them come from meeting “everyday” Jews who are choosing to take action. Just this week, I met finance professionals reshaping how Israel’s story is told. I spoke with a friend launching a Torah learning program unlike anything before. I met parents ensuring their children receive the Jewish education they never had.

Their stories are part of the “Surge”—the wave of Jews newly committed or more deeply engaged since October 7th. But even as we celebrate this, we must ask: What was missing before that led so many American Jews to disengage? How do we sustain and deepen this renewed energy? What must we do better?

Here’s a hypothesis I’ve been thinking about: Could it be that for many American Jews, Judaism has been outsourced—education, identity, practice—all handed over to experts and institutions? How many see Judaism as something episodic, something to participate in rather than own? Something that depends on rabbis and Jewish leaders rather than them? Something that happens in a synagogue or JCC rather than in the home?

Outsourcing Judaism to elites and institutions is a sure way to guarantee its decline. Our parasha, Bo, points the way to what American Judaism needs to thrive: Judaism doesn’t start with institutions. It doesn’t hinge on leaders. It begins at home—with individuals and families.

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As Bo begins, the Israelites are still in chains. Before the tenth plague forces Pharaoh’s hand, Moses begins to instruct them on what it means to become a free people. We might expect a grand speech on freedom, theological pronouncements on God, or directives for the leaders who will guide them—but instead, Moses does something unexpected.

Before the final plague, he commands the Israelites: Take a lamb, bring it inside. Slaughter it and mark your doorposts with its blood. This was meant to mark their homes for protection as God sent the angel of death to strike down Egypt’s firstborns.

Setting aside divine protection, though, from the perspective of the enslaved Israelites, this was an open act of defiance. The lamb was sacred to the Egyptians, and marking their doorposts was a direct rejection of their masters’ rule.

But it was more than just an act of courage—it symbolized how the nascent Jewish nation would upend Egypt’s entire order. In Egypt, slaves were disposable—faceless laborers serving great Pharaohs and even greater pyramids. With this commandment, the Torah makes a radical statement: Jewish life isn’t built on kings or monuments, rulers or institutions. It isn’t Moses, the leader, who single-handedly ensures the people’s protection. Instead, the courage to face their enemies and the responsibility to seek God's protection is placed on every Jew, every family, in every home. Each household had to claim its place in the Jewish story.

Moses goes even further. While they are still enslaved, he tells them: One day, your free children will ask, “What is this service to you?” (Exodus 12:26). He then makes it clear—it is up to Jewish parents, not priests, prophets, rabbis, or educators, to teach their children the story of their enslavement and the meaning of Passover. The responsibility is theirs alone.

As slaves, the Israelites had been conditioned to wait for instruction, to look to others for direction. Moses could have positioned himself as their ultimate authority, the keeper of their story. Instead, he asks each Jew to become a steward of the Jewish past and the Jewish future:

"And you shall tell your child on that day, saying, 'It is because of this that the Lord did [this] for me when I went out of Egypt.'" (Exodus 13:8)

Moses makes it clear: Jewish strength rests in families and individuals who take responsibility. Leaders, institutions, even the Temple itself—these structures exist to support what must first be built: a personal, lived Judaism, rooted in the home.

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Jewish institutions in America are extraordinary. We have everything—social services, schools, advocacy, cultural programs. But strong institutions, combined with an American culture wary of individual obligation, have turned Judaism into something many easily outsource—something that happens there, at a JCC or synagogue, rather than here, at home. Something organized by those people that we can simply opt into.

American Jews cannot keep outsourcing American Judaism, no matter how fantastic our institutions are. Institutions are critical—they guide, support, and amplify—but they can’t replace what must be built in the home, around the Shabbat table, and in daily Jewish life.

Bo helps us see the way forward. Moses—the leader of an entire people, the ultimate symbol of institutional leadership—insists that Jewish life must be owned by individuals and families. He doesn’t resist decentralization—he demands it. He understands that while he may receive the Torah at Sinai, if Jewish parents don’t teach it, it’s for nothing.

I believe the most exciting parts of American Jewish life will emerge where individual initiative meets institutional support—where organizations nourish efforts, but Judaism itself is driven by Jews who refuse to outsource it. The lesson of Bo is clear: institutions matter. But Judaism lives—or dies—at home. It’s on us now.

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May this Torah learning be in merit of the swift and safe release of our hostages. We pray for the return of Arbel Yehoud, Agam Berger, Gadi Moshe Mozes, and all those still held captive.