Every generation asks the same anxious question: Will our children still be Jewish? In a world overflowing with temptation, distraction, and endless noise, what can we do to ensure Jewish continuity without retreating from modern life or surrendering to it? How do we raise young Jews who are not merely Jewish by birth, but Jewish by choice, conviction, and courage?
That question hovered in the air long before smartphones, social media, and streaming culture. It was asked loudly and urgently in the late 1960s, when the world was convulsing with change. Old systems were questioned, authority was rejected, and young people were searching for meaning beyond the institutions they inherited. The summer of 1969 became iconic for its flower power, free love, and revolutionary ideals. Young people wanted truth, authenticity, and purpose, and they were willing to tear everything down to find it.
Just a few months later, in the winter of 1969, a group of college students gathered in Crown Heights for the annual Pegisha, a Shabbaton for Jewish students from across America. They came to hear the Rebbe speak. The Rebbe understood exactly who was sitting in front of him. These were not sheltered yeshiva students. These were young Jews immersed in secular culture, exposed to radical ideas, and deeply allergic to anything that felt fake or diluted. And so the Rebbe did something remarkable. He did not try to make Judaism easier for them. He did not lower the bar or soften the message. He raised it.
Because the Rebbe understood a counterintuitive truth: The more engaged a Jew is in authentic Yiddishkeit, the more likely they are to have a Jewish future. Judaism does not survive by being convenient. It survives by being compelling. It does not thrive when it is simplified to fit the moment, but when it is deep enough to challenge it.
We see this pattern everywhere. The hardest Jewish days are the most widely observed. Passover demands preparation, discipline, and uncomfortable conversations, yet it remains the most celebrated holiday on the Jewish calendar. Yom Kippur asks us to fast, reflect, and confront ourselves honestly, and synagogues fill to capacity. Meanwhile, the easiest holidays, like Purim and Lag BaOmer, joyful and light as they are, are often the least observed. Convenience rarely inspires commitment. Depth does.
Diluting Judaism to make it more palatable does not make young Jews more connected. It makes Judaism feel cheaper, and young people can spot cheap from a mile away. They are not looking for a watered-down version of eternity. They are looking for something worth giving their lives to.
This insight is embedded in the most intimate blessing we give our children every Friday night. When parents place their hands on their sons’ heads, they do not say, “May you be like Abraham, Isaac, or Jacob.” Instead, they say, “May G-d make you like Ephraim and Menashe” — two young men raised in Egypt, immersed in the most morally confused culture of their time, yet unshaken in their Jewish identity. They are the original case study of Jewish continuity in a secular world.
Jacob knew exactly what Egypt represented. It was the epicenter of materialism, indulgence, and moral decay. When Abraham and Sarah had gone there generations earlier, they were warned not to remain, because the environment was spiritually corrosive. And yet Jacob moved his family there, knowing that his grandchildren were being raised far from the safety net of Jewish society. One can only imagine his fear. We worry about our children today despite Jewish schools, camps, and communities. Imagine worrying about Jewish continuity in ancient Egypt.
When Jacob finally meets his Egyptian grandsons Ephraim and Menashe, he braces for compromise. Instead, he encounters conviction. These young men are refined, proud, and unmistakably Jewish. Not because everyone around them was Jewish, not because it was socially convenient, but because it was deeply internalized. Jacob realizes that if Judaism can survive here, it can survive anywhere. And so he declares for all time that, through them, Israel will bless its children.
The Rebbe explained to the college students that the secret to Jewish survival and continuity lies in the names that Joseph gave his two sons, because names in Torah are not labels — they are life missions. Joseph names his firstborn Menashe, saying, “Ki nashani Elokim et kol amali v’et kol beit avi,” meaning that G-d enabled him never to forget his suffering and his father’s house. By naming his son Menashe, Joseph ensured that his children would grow up hearing about their grandfather Jacob, their great-grandfather Isaac, the Shabbos table, the songs, the stories, and the values of home. Menashe represents sacred nostalgia, memory as identity, and roots that anchor a soul.
Joseph names his second son Ephraim, declaring, “Ki hifrani Elokim b’eretz anyi,” for G-d has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering. This was Joseph’s refusal to see exile as an accident. Yes, he was far from home, but he was not far from purpose. Ephraim represents creativity, growth, and mission. It is the courage to bloom where you are planted and to illuminate dark surroundings with borrowed light from home.
Together, Menashe and Ephraim form the blueprint for Jewish survival. Memory without mission becomes stagnation. Mission without memory becomes confusion. But when nostalgia fuels creativity and identity empowers purpose, young Jews gain the confidence to live proudly without compromise.
This is what the Rebbe was telling those college students in 1969. Channel your revolutionary energy not into tearing down your heritage, but into living it boldly. Do not run from Judaism to find yourself. Run deeper into it. That message sparked a quiet revolution, one that continues to ripple through generations of Jewish life.
The question of Jewish continuity remains urgent. The answer remains unchanged. If we want our children to keep the faith, we must stop trying to make Judaism easier for them and start inviting them to rise higher. Children do not walk away from challenge; they walk away from emptiness. They stay when they see that Judaism is lived, celebrated, and cherished.
Lay tefillin. Light Shabbos candles. Keep a kosher diet. Sanctify the Shabbos. Go to shul. Let our homes, our tables, and our calendars declare that Judaism is not a hobby, but a holy way of life. When our children see us choosing Judaism with pride and joy, they learn that this is not a burden to escape, but a treasure to carry forward.
This is how we become like Menashe and Ephraim. And this is how our faith, our people, and our legacy live on.
Rabbi Dovid Vigler is the spiritual leader at Chabad of Palm Beach Gardens, with over 85,000 subscribers to his YouTube channel, youtube.com/jewishgardens. Email him at [email protected].
