Standing here today, I keep coming back to one word: belonging.
When I think about Hill Havurah, belonging here sometimes feels like a kind of radical acceptance.
We are a community of different backgrounds, different families, different relationships with Judaism, different opinions, different ways of praying—and plenty of quirks. Some of us know every word of the service. Some of us are still figuring out which page we’re on. Some of us come for Torah, some for the music, some for the people.
And, there is room for all of it.
That feels especially meaningful when I think about how much has changed since we gathered here last year.
Our community is growing—quickly. We’ve welcomed so many new members and families. Our programs have grown. We’re creating more opportunities to gather across generations and finding new ways for people to enter into Jewish life and into this community.
And, of course, we did all of this during a year while Rabbi Hannah was on sabbatical.
Which was a wonderful opportunity for her to rest, reflect, and recharge—and a wonderful opportunity for the rest of us to discover exactly how much Rabbi Hannah juggles on a normal day.
But during that time, something pretty incredible happened: people stepped up.
Our staff took on new roles. Volunteers raised their hands. Community members cared for one another. We experimented. We made mistakes. We figured things out. And we kept gathering.
We already know that Hill Havurah belongs to all of us. The challenge—and the privilege—as we grow is making sure it continues to feel that way.
Because growth for its own sake is never the goal.
The goal is that when someone walks into a Shabbat service for the first time, someone notices them. That our children grow up surrounded by adults who know their names, and vice versa. That someone can arrive here with a Jewish life that looks completely different from the person sitting beside them—and both can feel equally at home.
That, to me, is radical acceptance. Not simply saying, “You’re welcome here,” but saying, “You belong here—and you don’t have to become someone else first.”
That is the Hill Havurah I hope we keep building: growing and changing, a little quirky, occasionally chaotic, deeply caring, and always making room.
So this year, I hope each of us will help make that belonging real for someone else. Introduce yourself to someone new. Show up. Volunteer. Invite someone in. And when you need community, let yourself be the person who reaches out, too.
Because the most meaningful measure of our growth isn’t how many people are in this room.
It’s how many of us can look around this room and think: I belong here.
I feel incredibly lucky to belong here with all of you.