Writing the Waves

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I recently listened to Jonah Platt interview Howie Mandel on Platt’s podcast, Being Jewish. Platt has become a significant new voice in the Jewish podcast world—one that’s gained real traction in the post–October 7 landscape. He’s speaking directly to young Jews, many of whom were already distancing themselves from Jewish community, and who since October 7, 2023 have often moved in one of two directions: further disaffection, or a newly intense (and sometimes raw) commitment to Jewish identity. Where those emotions will ultimately lead isn’t always clear. But Platt is doing something that matters: he’s trying to help Jewish Gen Z move toward depth, pride, and connection rather than drift, isolation, or despair.

Howie Mandel—decidedly not Gen Z—joined the podcast this past week. Platt asked him about his Jewish upbringing, his family, and the ways Jewish experience shaped his worldview. All of that was meaningful, but the moment that stayed with me was Mandel’s story about the year he spent attending minyan in memory of his father.

Mandel explained that when his father died, he was not, by his own description, a particularly observant Jew. And yet he committed to a rigorous daily practice for a full year so he could say Kaddish. Then he described what it took to make that happen: because he was constantly on the road performing, he had a clause written into his contracts requiring each venue or organizer to arrange a minyan of ten Jews so he could daven and say Kaddish. (He didn’t get into the specifics of “ten men” versus “ten Jews,” but either way, the commitment—and the logistical audacity—was unforgettable.)

Just imagine being the person managing a Howie Mandel show. Some performers demand a certain color of M&Ms, or a particular brand of espresso. This one needs a minyan.

Mandel admitted he wished he’d brought a camera crew, because the search for Kaddish-minyanim took him everywhere—from Boise to Birmingham. He found minyans in basements, improvised groups in back rooms, and communities where locating a tenth Jew felt like a scavenger hunt with holy stakes. I immediately wanted to watch the documentary that will never be made—the one that now lives only in my imagination as “the one that got away.”

I’m sharing this because I find it deeply moving how Jewish rituals—especially around life’s threshold moments, from birth to death—can transform a person’s relationship to Judaism. I’ve seen it happen for people who are already regular observers of tradition, and I’ve seen it happen for people who haven’t stepped into a synagogue since the day they became bar or bat mitzvah. I’ve even seen it happen for people who always knew they were Jewish, but never quite knew what it meant to live Jewishly.

When life brings us its trials and tribulations—its griefs and joys, its breakthroughs and
breakdowns—Judaism shows up with a box of tools. Not clichés. Tools: practices, language, community, rhythm, and ritual—ways of navigating what’s hard, and sanctifying what’s tender. Ways of remembering. Ways of healing. Ways of celebrating. Ways of showing up.

Sometimes people tell me they don’t find much inspiration or wisdom in “what they know about Judaism.” I hear that. But it’s worth remembering: Judaism is a wisdom tradition that has had roughly 3,000 years to refine the art of drawing holiness out of ordinary life—and even, astonishingly, out of painful life.

So if you ever find yourself at a gateway moment—one that puts you face-to-face with
the best and worst life has to offer—and you’re not sure what to do, please call me. I
promise: there is a Jewish tool for that. And with the right tool, you can learn how to release the sparks of holiness waiting inside the moment you’re in.