“Jewish joy.” The phrase has become nearly ubiquitous across the Jewish communal landscape in recent years. Hillels, federations, day schools, camps and communal organizations regularly invite us to “celebrate Joyful Judaism,” “amplify Jewish joy,” “spread joyful Judaism” or “be centered around Jewish joy.” It’s easy to understand why. In a post-Oct. 7 world marked by heightened antisemitism, grief, fatigue, polarization and anxiety, joy is a needed corrective to the trauma and pain that, for many, are part of the Jewish experience. Joy reminds us that Judaism is also song, food, friends, dancing and delight.

As a concept and as an experience, Jewish joy is valuable. However, in too many instances, Jewish joy has become both the dominant goal and tool through which we build Jewish life. This unintentionally narrows what Judaism is, who it is for and what counts as meaningful Jewish participation. Alone, Jewish joy isn’t enough. 

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Here’s why.

Joy as a strategy becomes consumer language. When joy becomes both the tool and the goal, Jewish experiences are marketing promises and Judaism sounds like an experience product. Undoubtedly, joy, as traditionally understood, is a valuable design tool for bringing people together. As the primary measure of success, however, it can subtly train participants to evaluate Jewish experience through the lens of, “Does this make me feel good?” Yet with any long-term goal, there are often periods when joy is not experienced most immediately. More often, growth requires periods of effort, repetition, discomfort and discipline before meaning or joy becomes visible.  

If participants of Jewish experiences are conditioned to evaluate only on the “makes me feel good” metric, the depth of Jewish life gets reduced to bite-sized moments. Perhaps more appropriately, participants should be trained to ask: Did this help me become more responsible, more connected, more empathetic? Did this experience help me to progress towards becoming the person I aspire to be?

Joyful Judaism also has a narrow visual vocabulary. Photographs intended to illustrate “Jewish joy” show things like energetic dancing, boisterous singing, unreserved celebration, euphoric prayer or lively clapping. The imagery often suggests a single, extroverted approach to joy. As the prominent Hebrew poet Abraham Shlonsky is purported to pen, al ta’am ve’rei’ach ein lehitvake’ach, “on taste and smell, there is no arguing.” So too with joy. Some experience joy through the loud and energetic, while others through quiet learning, focused one-on-one interactions, or showing up in support of others. A narrow picture of joyful Judaism can leave these quieter forms of connection outside the frame.

Finally, when Jewish joy is elevated above all else, it can unintentionally narrow who feels invited to participate. At times of loss, confusion or loneliness, joy may be distant. These moments are when a supportive Jewish community is so essential. But if a space is seemingly reserved exclusively for Jewish joy, the people who need community most often assume the invitation is not meant for them. The intended message may be, “Come join us in Jewish joy,” but those not ready for joy the unintended message received is, Come back when you are.

Judaism is bigger than a single emotional register. Judaism has never asked us to live the totality of life in one emotion. Embedded within Jewish life are rituals and support for mourning, confusion, boredom, obligation, repentance, anger and longing. Kohelet famously teaches that everything has an appointed time: “a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time for wailing and a time for dancing” (3:4). Judaism, with its thousands of years of memory and wisdom, offers pathways for navigating the full spectrum of life’s emotions.

What to do? How might we, as a Jewish community, continue to value and promote Jewish joy while expanding what we mean by it? One way forward comes through an idea expressed by Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks. In Judaism’s Life-Changing Ideas: A Weekly Reading of the Jewish Bible, Sacks writes,

“Judaism… it’s an identity. And you can’t sell an identity. But you can lose it. And many Jews are now losing theirs. Our ancestors have given us the gift of a past… [W]e should not relinquish it simply because we don’t know how valuable it is… If we truly wish to hand on our legacy to our children, we must teach them to love it… What we love, we inherit. What we fail to love, we lose.”

Within Mem Global, we’ve worked to create a variety of learning retreats that consider joy both through its traditional extroverted lens — like “Make Your Move: An Israeli Dance Experience” – and through a less traditional, more introverted lens — like “The Great Refresh: A Selichot Experience.” This distinction matters. Jewish joy can look like dancing, singing and celebration, but it can also look like reflection, contemplation, quiet learning, deep conversation and the feeling that there is room for the fullness of who we each are. If Sacks is right that “what we love, we inherit,” then our task is not merely to make Judaism joyful enough to attract people. It is to help people encounter a Judaism broad and deep enough to love. A Judaism worth inheriting must be able to hold the Shabbat table and the shiva house, the song and the silence, delight and solemnity. 

Jewish joy is beautiful. It is also necessary. But Jewish programming must be spacious enough to hold more than joy alone.

Rabbi Ari Perten is vice president of Jewish Learning at Mem Global.