I want to start, as I often do, with a Laffy Taffy–type riddle.
Q: How many Jewish grandparents does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None! “Don’t worry about us. We’ll just sit here in the dark eating leftover matzah.”
We’ll come back to that.
The summer before you started 9th grade — in 2022 — the JCHS Professional Community, our educators and staff, had summer reading, just like students. One of the books for ProCom that summer was a memoir by Edie Eger. The Choice.
Edie grew up in Hungary. By sixteen, she had earned a spot on the Olympic gymnastics team. But then the Nazis deported Edie and her family to Auschwitz. She survived. Emaciated and nearly dead, she was liberated in 1945. Edie went on to become one of America’s most celebrated psychotherapists, seeing patients well into her nineties.
Edie died just weeks ago, at 98 years old. Zichronah livracha — may her memory be a blessing. Her death prompted me to recall that book we read just before you started at JCHS and to share an episode from it.
On Edie’s first night in Auschwitz, the infamous Dr. Mengele came to the women’s barracks looking to be entertained. Someone told him there was an accomplished dancer among them. He commanded sixteen-year-old Edie to dance.
Musicians played. Edie danced. But as she danced, she closed her eyes. And in her mind, she was no longer in Auschwitz. Instead, she imagined being at the Budapest Opera House. When the Auschwitz musicians changed to Tchaikovsky, in her mind, Edie was dancing Romeo and Juliet.
“I created a world inside me,” she said later. “I was always thinking about the future — when all this is going to be over.” Edie recalled something her mother told her on the way to Auschwitz: “Everything can be taken from you. But what you put here — in your head — no one can take away.”
That interior treasury — that inner knowledge — sustained her. It was enough: enough to endure, enough to survive, enough to thrive. That is what kept Edie Eger alive.
So why did JCHS faculty read the book? Because we believed, even before we knew you, that this was a vital lesson for you too. What we carry in our heads about ourselves is important. It is the doorway to our future.
Speaking of doorways — in the JCHS tote at your feet is a gift for you, a gift for your doorway. It is an olive wood beit mezuzah, a mezuzah case. Marked on it is the Hebrew letter shin — ש. An image familiar to many of us because it is on lots of Jewish doorposts. It stands for Shaddai — one of the ancient names of God. One traditional interpretation of “Shaddai” is “Almighty.”
But the rabbis of the Talmud in Chagigah 12a weren’t satisfied leaving it there. When they looked at that word, they saw something hidden inside: She-amar l’olamo: dai. “The One who said to the world: this is Enough.” A rabbinic legend explains: When the world was being created, creation kept expanding — oceans poured, mountains multiplied, heavens accumulated upon heavens. And the Creator said: Dai. Enough.Not because creation had failed. Not because it needed more time to become worthy. But because it was — exactly, precisely — enough.
That word dai is also hidden inside the name Shaddai. Seeing it on a mezuzah is an essential reminder of a value that has been part of our tradition for thousands of years: You are enough.
You are! In my years at JCHS, I have rarely seen so many distinct, strong, fully-formed personalities gathered in one grade. You came in with your own convictions, your own voices, your own ways of seeing the world. You never stopped surprising us. What I did not expect was how generously you held all of that. How flexible you could be with each other. How adaptive when the world shifted under your feet. How kind — genuinely, quietly, persistently kind — even when kindness wasn’t the easy choice.
You figured out, without anyone telling you: that a room full of strong personalities doesn’t have to become a competition. It can become a community. And through four years you created that kind of community.
This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotcha, teaches a similar truth.
In it, Jews in the wilderness are frustrated, crying out. For Moshe the burden is crushing for a leader Torah calls more humble than any person on the face of the earth (Numbers 12:3). An exasperated Moshe turns to God. And, as Ms. Rabinowitz taught beautifully at Siyyum last night, Moshe concedes: I cannot carry this people alone. It is too heavy for me. Moshe admits he cannot do it by himself.
But the answer he gets is not “try harder.” It’s not “Come to think of it, Moshe, you’re right. You are not enough.” Instead, seventy elders are gathered to share the load, so the weight could be carried together.
And that transforms things for Moshe. As others rise to take up the load, he isn’t threatened — he’s grateful. And as they actively participate, Moshe observes, “Would that all the people were prophets” (Numbers 11:29) — would that all of them were this wise, this engaged, this ready to lead.
Sharing the burden doesn’t diminish Moshe. It steadies him. He becomes secure in knowing that with others he is enough. Admitting his limitations was not a confession that he was not enough. Rather, it led to the discovery that being enough never meant standing alone.
That is the dai story of this Class. You were enough — not in spite of your differences, but through them.
This idea of dai is familiar to lots of us already from the Pesach Seder, when we sing Dayenu — each stanza calls out a gift, on its own, that would have been enough.
Beyond the Seder table, when I call that word to mind today, I direct it toward each of you. Each one of you is dai — is enough. Perfectly and completely. Not too much. Not too little. Just right. Enough.
Now look around for a moment.
Look at the people who came to celebrate you today. Every person in this room who loves you does not love a future version of you. They do not love a perfected version of you. They love you this version of you — the one sitting here right now, human and imperfect and whole. For them, you are enough!
We know! We have watched you wrestle with ideas that didn’t yield easily, navigate relationships that got complicated, make sense of a world that asked a great deal of you. And after four years of knowing you, here is what we can say with complete certainty:
You are enough.
Hang this mezuzah on your doorpost. In your dorm room, your first apartment, wherever life takes you next. And on the hard days — when the world makes you feel small, when you wonder whether you measure up — look at the shin. Remember what it means.
Remember Edie Eger, who at sixteen found a whole world inside herself that no one could touch.
Remember the lesson from Moshe that being enough depends on not standing alone.
Remember the thousands-year-old tradition placing that letter on your doorpost to tell you exactly what you need to hear:
Dai. You are enough.
And unlike some Jewish grandparents sitting happily in the dark . . . with their leftover matzah — we are not in the dark about you.
We see you. Clearly. Completely.
And what we see is more than enough.
Precious, bold, and grateful Class of 2026 — we have loved having you at JCHS. We are so proud of who you are, and so excited for all you are becoming.
As your journey takes you away from us, know that all of us in this sanctuary are always here for you.
And we will miss you deeply.
