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When Dan Senor spoke last year at the 92nd Street Y’s State of the Jewish Nation, he did something both obvious and long overdue. He shifted the focus away from politics, public relations, and even antisemitism. He placed it squarely where it belongs: on Jewish education, Jewish literacy, and Jewish practice as the foundations of Jewish continuity. To be frank, I was thrilled.

And in many quarters, the response was also: it’s about time.

For decades, American Jewish institutions have invested enormous energy in fighting Jew-hatred and in memorializing the Holocaust. Both efforts are essential. Neither is optional. But neither, on its own, is sufficient to sustain a vibrant, confident, and meaningful Jewish identity, especially for young Jews. Does the Jewish community only want to pass on crisis management and historical trauma?

You cannot build Jewish life by teaching Jews only what to fear.

That same discussion resurfaced more sharply this past week, when Bret Stephens addressed this year’s State of the Jewish Nation. His remarks drew widespread attention, mostly because of his provocative suggestion to the ADL. Whether one agrees with that idea or not, it succeeded in the way such provocations often do: it forced people to listen.

To me, Stephens’ argument was never really about the ADL itself. It was about priorities; about what American Jewry chooses to fund and prioritize. At its core was a warning about the danger of defining Jewish identity almost entirely in opposition to antisemitism and pro-Israel messaging, as though Jewish life exists primarily as a reaction to Jewish hatred.

I don’t think this approach inspires people across the generations.

Stephens’ remarks articulated something many have sensed but struggled to express: a Jewish identity built primarily on victimhood, grievance, and defense will eventually hollow itself out. Young Jews do not remain Jewish because they are told the world hates them. They remain Jewish because they encounter meaning, depth, beauty, purpose, and a living tradition that speaks to their inner lives.

This is where Rabbi Mark Wildes’ new book, The Jewish Experience, enters the conversation—not as a rebuttal to Senor or Stephens, but as the next logical step to what they were both pointing at: What is Judaism in 2026? What makes it worthwhile?  Do Jewish ideas merit engagement?

Rabbi Wildes is not arguing against the fight against antisemitism. He is arguing for something more foundational: the crucial need to invest in Jewish thought and practice, and Jewish experience as positive and compelling ends in themselves.

After decades of working with young Jews—many of whom arrive with little background but serious questions—Wildes understands a simple truth. Jewish continuity does not come from warning young Jews why they should be afraid to leave. It comes from showing them why they would want to stay.

Education, prayer, ideas, community, and practice are not luxuries to be addressed once antisemitism is “handled.” They are the substance of Jewish life itself. Without them, even the most effective defense organizations risk protecting an increasingly empty shell.

The attention sparked by Senor’s clarity and Stephens’ provocative suggestion, therefore, presents an opportunity, not to dismantle institutions, but to change the conversation. This can’t happen fast enough.  To claim that Jewish pride, Jewish literacy, and Jewish commitment are not secondary concerns. They are the main event.

If American Jewry can redirect even a portion of its energy from perpetual reaction to proactive cultivation of Jewish life, we may yet give the next generation something worth inheriting.

And that, finally, is a future worth arguing for.