Descendants of the Wary
Last night I went to see Parade—the musical, but more than a musical. A modern midrash, a mirror held up to our Jewish past, to our American present. A ritual of memory and reckoning.
It tells the story of Leo Frank, a Jewish factory superintendent in Georgia who was falsely accused of murdering a young girl in 1913. The show walks us through his arrest, his trial, and ultimately his lynching by a mob—after the governor commuted his death sentence in light of new evidence.
The musical does a hauntingly good job of subtly revealing the antisemitic prejudices that shaped the trial and public opinion. He wrung his hands in court—and that was enough to cast suspicion. A nervous Jew from Brooklyn, misplaced in the South. Over time, the trial is exposed as a farce: witnesses were coached, evidence was ignored, and the media inflamed public opinion to such a degree that justice was impossible. In the end, a mob broke into Leo’s jail and lynched him.
A Jewish lynching. In Georgia. In this very place. I’ve seen lynchings portrayed on film before—of Black men, queer men—but this was the first time I witnessed, on stage, the hanging of a Jewish body in my country.
And when the trapdoor fell open, and the white light flooded the stage, I shut my eyes. I heard someone near me crying. And in that moment, I saw across time—the recurring traumas that have shaped our people, left marks in our bodies, our stories, and our very DNA.
We know now what Torah always knew: trauma doesn’t end when the moment ends. It ripples and stains. It lives in the body, even in the blood - leaving biological and psychological imprints that can pass down through generations. Epigenetic studies show how the stress and fear experienced by our ancestors alter how our own bodies respond to the world.
I wasn’t born with a Jewish bloodline on both sides. But I got my share of the stomach aches. The too-much-ness of the world. Leo Frank had those too—at least, the character onstage did. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe this is what we carry, those of us born from the womb of a people always on the run.
When I look at Jewish life today, I see a lot of trauma playing out. I see Jews responding to fear with aggression—defending unjust actions, supporting things like ICE deportations, killing of Gazan civilians, riling up one another through social media. I see us gripping tightly to narratives of victimhood while inflicting pain on others. And the dissonance of this is hard to hold, even for the zealots among us.
One of the radical gifts of Judaism is that our tradition changes depending on the lens we bring to it. That’s why we read the Torah again every year—not because the words change, but because we do. Come to Torah with fear, we’ll find stories that justify fear. come with love, we’ll find stories that demand justice, that open us to connection. Torah isn’t a list of moral instructions—it’s a centuries-long conversation about what it means to be human, to live together, to wrestle with power and purpose. A living well of wisdom.
We begin Leviticus this week—Vayikra, the book of calling. A text full of detailed laws and ritual instructions for a people in formation. When our ancestors were still licking the wounds of slavery, still learning to walk upright, to be a free people together.
After exile from Israel, these laws evolved into halacha—Jewish law. A manual for our survival, a tightrope of holy practice. Through the centuries you can trace the survival of Jewish identity—our peculiar persistence—to halachic adherance.
But fear festered within our halakhic system. It has turned Yeshiva boys into gatekeepers who rip Torahs from women’s arms at the Kotel (western wall). It has turned settlers into vigilantes who light Palestinian villages on fire, and last month killed 22-year-old Rashid Sawaed.
I am a halachic Jew — I shape my family practice through Jewish values and tradition. But I remember how we received these laws in this weeks parshah/Torah portion - vayikra, and G!d called to Moses. A personal invitation — hey Moses —not in thunder on a mountaintop, but quietly - can we talk in the tent of meeting? A tent for relationship, connection. An invitation to step into presence with the Divine, with self, and then lead the way.
So we too are invited to step into presence and connection. Which you already know. That’s why you gather to sing together, to pray under the trees, to build trusting relationships. Throughout my life, every time I sought my own healing, I found myself beside sitting a bunch of jews, looking for the same.
That’s why I’m here with all of you — not because I wanted to preserve Judaism as it has always been, but because I wanted to elevate the Jewish elements that shift our culture towards healing. To move us from neurosis towards wholeness. From reactivity to presence. Even from fear to joy.
In Leo Frank’s story, the most inspiring figure is his wife, Lucille. Before Leo’s arrest, Lucille was a quiet, private person. She wasn’t inclined to speak publicly or navigate politics. But she stepped into the spotlight, meeting with lawyers, journalists, and politicians. She even approached Georgia’s governor herself—a Southern Jewish woman advocating within a deeply patriarchal and antisemitic system—convincing him to review the case. Her white skin gave her access to power—and she used it strategically and persistently to change the course of justice.
Lucille never remarried. She lived 43 more years, and never stopped telling the truth about what happened to Leo. Her story is about power, and how we wield it. About knowing where we stand in a web of privilege and pain—and choosing to show up, anyway.
Most of us today have identities that are complicated, layered. With power in some places, and wounds in others. And part of what community is for—what this community is for—is to hold the hurt and uplift each others power. To remember the past without reenacting it.
We are the descendants of the wary. And yes, we’ve survived. But now, we need more than survival.
We need repair.
We need reconnection.
We need rituals of healing,
and a Torah that breathes,
and halacha that calls and listens, and songs that soothe.
May we continue to build a Jewish life that connects us, transforms us, that tells the truth and shapes a peaceful Jewish future, together. Shabbat Shalom.
