This past weekend, I traveled to the Detroit area to celebrate a family simcha (a joyous occasion): the b’nai mitzvah of two of my next generation cousins.

As we sat together before the service began, my cousin, the mom of one of the b’nai mitzvah boys, quietly shared something that has stayed with me all week. After I commented on the beauty of the unfamiliar sanctuary, she replied, “But it’s not home.”

The b’nai mitzvah was supposed to take place at Temple Israel, the synagogue where generations of our family have celebrated milestones and marked life’s most meaningful moments.
 
Earlier this year, a violent antisemitic act caused significant damage to the building, forcing the congregation to relocate while repairs continue. “The community has really come together to support Temple Israel,” my cousin said. “But I always dreamed we’d be having the b’nai mitzvah at our synagogue.”

As the service began, I started noticing all the small ways that feeling showed up.
 
The rabbi reached for a place to set down the kiddush cup, then stopped. The place she was reaching for existed in her sanctuary at Temple Israel. It didn’t exist in this temporary space. She smiled, laughed softly, and said, “This is our first service here.” The congregation laughed with her, and the service continued. A passing moment for most, but to me, it said so much about what’s at stake as hate continues to grow.
 
We often measure antisemitism in broken windows, security costs, and damaged buildings. Certainly, those things matter, but we do not always talk about the quieter losses: the familiar sanctuary, the instinctive routines, the traditions passed from one generation to the next, and the comfort of gathering in a place that feels unquestionably like home.
 
All of these are ordinary things… Until they’re gone.

As I reflected on that moment throughout the weekend, I found myself thinking about the ordinary moments that happen every day in Jewish life, especially at our JCC. A preschooler being greeted by name as they walk through the doors. Campers gathering for Camp Shabbat on Friday afternoon. Friends catching up after a workout. Families celebrating holidays together. Someone walking into the JCC for the first time and discovering a sense of connection and belonging.
 
Most of these moments are so routine that we hardly notice them, and, in a way, that’s what makes them special. These moments become the rhythms and rituals that shape our community. They create memories and build relationships. Over time, they transform a building into something much more meaningful and magical — a home.
 
Perhaps one of the most powerful ways we respond to antisemitism is by protecting those ordinary moments and ensuring they continue. We can do this by creating spaces where Jewish life can be lived openly, confidently, and joyfully; where children can learn, families can gather, traditions can be celebrated, and community can flourish.
 
At a time when Jewish institutions face real challenges, I am grateful for every person — no matter their faith — who helps make those moments possible. While extraordinary events may define our memories, it is often the ordinary moments that define our community.

Those moments are always worth protecting, preserving and — even if we are momentarily displaced — celebrating. In Detroit, in Indianapolis and wherever Jews gather. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Sam Dubrinsky
Chief Executive Officer