We Need a Post-Birthright Revolution
Terumah
Purim is coming, and my team and I at The Downtown Minyan are knee-deep in preparations. Many people associate the holiday with mishloach manot (gifts to one another) and costumes. But for those of us who work with young Jews in urban centers, Purim is one of the biggest nights of the year—hundreds, sometimes thousands gather to celebrate.
And every year, we ask ourselves: Should we throw a big party to draw a crowd? We know the formula—alcohol, food, a trendy venue. It’s the easiest way to fill a room, to capture the coveted 18–35 demographic. And yet, from the start, I’ve had qualms about this approach.
What does it mean that so much of young Jewish life in NYC revolves around fancy parties and good food? Is a Shabbat truly successful if 200 people come—but only because we provide an open bar and the best kiddush in town? How do we compete with everything the city has to offer while insisting that Judaism has its own unique demands?
I see this tension everywhere. In America, and with the best of intentions, we’ve built a model of Jewish engagement around what is most enticing, not most enduring.
Take Birthright, for example. I strongly support Birthright Israel. Offering young Jews an all-expenses-paid trip to Israel is a phenomenal way to spark a social experiment in identity formation—one I’ve witnessed firsthand as a staff member. As an entry point, Birthright excels.
But when the Birthright model—centering on free, attractive/exciting experiences—becomes not a gateway but the norm, something essential is lost.
How can we create Jewish connections that last?
In this week’s Torah portion, Terumah, the Jewish people receive an unexpected command: construct a portable sanctuary, a Mishkan. This Tabernacle would journey with them through the desert, serving as the sacred center of the community.
Yet the Mishkan was unlike any sanctuary of its time.
Ancient temples centered around idols—fixed images of deities, objects of passive worship. The Mishkan’s most sacred space, by contrast, held two winged cherubim. The holiest place in the Tabernacle was a symbol of something dynamic: the human potential to forge a relationship with God.
Here’s the Mishkan’s first message for today: God—religious community—is not a product we consume. We encounter the divine through active engagement.
Even more importantly, the Mishkan wasn’t built by an elite class. Moses invited everyone—without exception—to contribute materials or craftsmanship. This communal participation was revolutionary, not just because of Moses’ call but because the Jewish people responded by giving collaboratively, without needing to be asked again.
In ancient Mesopotamia, prisoners of war were subjected to brutal labor conditions. And in Egypt, where the Jews had been enslaved to build enormous structures for deity-like pharaohs, workers were dehumanized and discarded once they were no longer useful.
This tension—between creating meaning and exploiting labor—foreshadowed many modern dilemmas, including the clash between marketable products and intrinsic human values. Famously, Karl Marx argued that under capitalism, even the most essential aspects of human life—work, relationships, identity—are reduced to objects for exchange.
This is the Mishkan’s second message: Jewish life is not a commodity, and Jews are not faceless cogs. It’s not just about filling seats—it’s about a relationship with God and with each other where we are creators, not consumers.
The Mishkan embodies this countercultural ideal. It wasn’t passively received but actively created—together. It announced that holiness is not housed in grand structures but in the people who bring them to life.
God commands: “Build me a sanctuary so I may dwell among them.” Not in it, but among them. This isn’t just a plan for one sacred space—it’s a bold promise for what Jewish life can become.
Resisting commodification doesn’t mean rejecting materiality. The people were commanded to make the Mishkan magnificent—gilding it with gold, adorning the priests in splendid robes, filling the air with sacred aromas. Jewish life was never meant to be stripped of joy, splendor, or sensory experience.
The problem isn’t that we make Jewish spaces attractive—it’s when attraction becomes the end, not just the means. The Mishkan teaches that all the trimmings, gold, and celebrations matter only when they serve a greater purpose. The goal is not the edifice itself but the sacred community it fosters. When beauty and joy serve that purpose, they are not distractions from holiness—they deepen it.
The future of Jewish life will not be determined by how well we market it but by how firmly we anchor it. Instead of making Jewish spaces feel effortless, we should cultivate a culture of shared responsibility, where people take ownership over their communities. We don’t need another generation of Jewish consumers. We need a generation of Jewish builders.
As for Purim? We’re still finalizing details. But we have already planned a beautiful Megillah readings led by community members, including some who are reading for the first time. We’re also exploring low-key but meaningful ways to celebrate together after we break the Fast of Esther. It’s going to be memorable—not for the party, but for the people bringing it to life.
"We've built a model of Jewish engagement based on what is enticing rather than what is enduring". Says it all.
Yasher Koach .... well said!