When Jews Started Driving to Shul

When the Conservative movement allowed Jews to drive to synagogue on Shabbat in the 1950s, it was trying to solve a real problem. Families were moving to the suburbs. Synagogues were farther away. If people couldn’t walk, they wouldn’t come. Their solution? Let them drive—just to synagogue, just on Shabbat.

It felt reasonable. It felt inclusive.

But looking back, even the leaders who made that decision admitted it came with a cost they hadn’t foreseen.

Rabbi Ismar Schorsch, a former head of the Jewish Theological Seminary, later reflected that by permitting driving, they “gave up on the desirability of living close to the synagogue and creating a Shabbos community.”

They didn’t just change a rule in Jewish law—itself a big no-no, they shifted the whole map of Jewish life.

And with that shift, something subtle but powerful began to unravel.

Before cars, Jewish community was built by foot.

The Shabbat walk to synagogue wasn’t just about observance. It was about presence. About life lived together.

You’d see your neighbors. Your kids would run ahead to their friends’ homes. You’d hear Hebrew on the sidewalk. Smell cholent from the windows. Run into someone who’d invite you over for lunch.

You didn’t need to plan a “Shabbat experience.” You were living inside one.

And all of that—everything that made Shabbat more than a ritual, everything that made Jewish life feel whole—depended on one quiet rule:

We don’t drive on Shabbat.

That rule kept us close. And closeness kept us Jewish.

Then the engine started. And the community scattered.

At first, it was just a short drive. But over time, the distances grew. People didn’t need to live near a synagogue. They didn’t need to live near each other. So they didn’t.

We traded the walk for convenience. And slowly, without noticing, we lost the spontaneous Shabbat invites, the kids with kippahs on scooters, the public Jewish life we didn’t have to schedule—we just lived it.

We got space. But we lost belonging.

This isn’t about religious stringency. It’s about Jewish continuity.

You don’t need to be Orthodox to feel the ache of distance. You just need to be a Jewish parent wondering why it’s so hard to give your kids what you had.

You want your children to speak Hebrew, feel proud, marry Jewish, have Jewish friends. But that doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens in proximity.

Not just to Jewish ideas—but to Jewish people.

To thrive, Jewish identity needs more than pride. It needs neighbors. It needs a walkable Jewish world.

That’s why Jewish school matters. That’s why community matters.

You can’t give your child the exact life you had. But you can give them something better than drifting.

You can give them belonging. Direction. People to grow up with.

And the good news is: you’re not alone.

There are schools—like Zucker Jewish Academy—and others across the country that are designed to support families just like yours: families who may not have grown up religious, but are serious about raising strong, connected Jewish children.

Through organizations like the Jewish Education Initiative, it’s possible to find a Jewish school and community that fits your family—and to access support to make it affordable.

If you want your kids to grow up with identity, clarity, and community—you have to build it.

Start with a Jewish school. Build from there.

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