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“For nearly ten years, it has been an honor and a privilege to come to work every day,” he said. “Having spent approximately one third of my working life at MJF, it will not be easy to say goodbye. We have achieved great things as a community, and I take great pride in all our collective accomplishments. 

“We also have many exciting opportunities and challenges ahead of us, and I know the lay and professional teams in place are poised for success.”

Cohen’s tenure brought stability to the organization, which had weathered several leadership changes in the first half of the 2010s. He came to Minneapolis from Connecticut, where he had served as the CEO of the United Jewish Federation of Greater Stamford, New Canaan, and Darien.

Prior to his Federation career, he had worked at Yale University. He came to the Ivy League school from a decade as a career diplomat in the Foreign Service of the United States Department of State. He served as Deputy Political Counselor in Quito, Ecuador, as a member of the Secretary of State’s Executive Secretariat, as Political-Military Affairs Officer in Sarajevo, Bosnia, and as Staff Assistant to the Ambassador to Egypt.

Cohen’s email talked about some of the challenges the community has faced and the community’s response to them. Special fundraising efforts were launched as a response to COVID-19, Russia’s attack on Ukraine, and supporting Israel after Hamas’ attack on Oct. 7, 2023.

“I will be forever grateful for this community’s response to every adversity we have faced,” he said. “None of this would have been possible without the moral and financial support of thousands of folks who care deeply about our community and the larger Jewish world.”

Cohen said the exact timing of his departure is yet to be determined. Board President Debbie Stillman said that a search firm has been hired to help find Cohen’s successor, and that Mark Appelbaum and Jeremy Cohen would chair the search committee.

“Over the past decade, Jim has helped guide Federation and our community through extraordinary moments – from the pandemic and the war in Ukraine to October 7 and the war that followed,” Stillman wrote. “He has also helped lead successful initiatives, including the consolidation of the Barry Family Campus, the development of a meaningful partnership with Kibbutz Holit, and the revitalization of Federation’s Global Experiences program.

“Jim executed multiple strategic plans and launched two significant emergency campaigns, all of which have strengthened Federation and deepened its reach.”

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An old Jewish joke: What’s the difference between a pessimist and an optimist? The pessimist says, “It can’t possibly get any worse than this.” The optimist says, “Of course it can!”

This past January I had the blessing of two months of sabbatical. In the past, sabbaticals had been times for deep, sustained study. But since my last sabbatical a decade ago, the pandemic and October 7th and its aftermath had taken its toll, and I accepted this time to let go of goals and expectations and just be, and to deepen relationships with family and friends. 

I appreciated this gift and, at the same time, something else emerged. As the weeks passed by, during long car rides, hikes in the desert, and late-night conversations, I found ample space to reflect on being a Jew in this moment and my outlook as an American especially anticipating our 250th anniversary. 

I have always believed in America’s ideals and grew up singing: “You’re a grand old flag. / You’re a high-flying flag. / And forever in peace may you wave. / You’re the emblem of the land I love, / the home of the free and the brave.” 

I memorized famous speeches such as: “Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure….”

Today America is being tested again. Will we long endure?

Yehuda Kertzer, president of the Shalom Hartman Institute and a leading thinker on the major challenges facing the Jewish people, says that a 19th-century Jew who was reflecting on their place in Western civilization would be considered “a Judeo-optimist” – I love that phrase – if they felt that they could “find redemption in the West as long as [it was a] society with a genuine commitment to liberal democracy.” We Jews found that Judeo-optimism in America.

I generally am an optimist. I find joy in seeing what is possible instead of feeling only what is challenging.

And yet, I am a student of history and know shifts are happening in our world that are greater than our individual ability to affect them. 

We must be realistic and have our eyes open. 

I have such deep gratitude for having lived through the late 80s and the 90s that will be remembered as exceptional in the annals of history, as we moved toward greater equality, peace, and justice in the world, from the end of the Cold War to peace in Northern Ireland, to the “peace dividend” allowing us to spend on domestic needs and not the military, and yes, to the early hopeful days of peace between Israelis and Palestinians.

Today we are witnessing a reversal of those positive trends on so many fronts across the globe. 

The arc of the moral universe is bending less toward justice, and less toward equality and peace. 

To be sure, it is easy to point also to the good that is happening. Thank God. As I said, I am an optimist. Just look at what Minnesotans did this past winter. 

But this sermon is not about that. It is about the cyclical forces of history moving toward more autocracy, war, and challenge that overshadow our individual acts. It is about what we can realistically hope for, and it is about when it all started to change. 

That date was September 11, 2001.

A week later on September 18th we were in this sanctuary for Rosh Hashanah and I said:

“We have become a nation of mourners, but tonight our period of shiva ends. Seven days ago, it felt like our souls were ripped from our bodies as planes descended in terror into New York, Washington and Pennsylvania. We know the details too well; the pictures seared into our collective consciousness….

“We feel pain deep inside our psyches.…We cry out with Job: “I walk about in sunless gloom.” We argue as Abraham did with God: “Far be it from You to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty.” We lament with Jeremiah: “Alas, Lonely sits the city; Once great with people.”  And with Isaiah, who championed the cause of the widow and orphan, our hearts ache for those who became widows and widowers and orphans this week.

“Our shiva is ended, but we have just begun our mourning, each at our own pace, in our own way.”

A month later I was in New York for Mount Zion’s annual 11th grade trip, planned before September 11 changed the city’s skyline and our souls. With only three of the original 11 students who felt comfortable travelling, we were not tourists. Below 14th Street was a military zone; smoke still rose from Ground Zero. We walked in silence. Walls of buildings were plastered with American flags, emergency information sheets, and pictures of missing relatives. New Yorkers thanked us for coming. We were pilgrims, touching a wound that was our wound as well. 

In the years following, students would join me at Ground Zero recounting where they had been on 9/11. Year after year we saw the gaping hole from the towers’ collapse eventually cleared out and the building and memorializing begin and, somewhere along the way, there were no more personal stories by the 11th graders. 

And now, 25 years later, I am teaching history to students born a decade after 9/11.

September 11 united us as Americans. 

Just 10 days after the terrorist attack, a public service announcement aired on TV. The minute-long commercial showed us face after face of our fellow citizens, each person looking directly into the camera saying the words: “I am an American.” One after another, different skin colors, different cultural clothing, different class settings, firefighters to street artists to Wall Street bankers, looking into the camera: “I am an American.” At the end, the words e pluribus unum come onto the screen: “Out of many, one.”

In the months that followed, people signed up to serve and protect the public in unprecedented numbers. 

In a similar moment of patriotism in our history, before World War I, a young Jewish man, Israel Isidore Beilin joined fellow immigrants at a training camp, Camp Upton, in Long Island. A quarter of his division, the 77th Division, the Liberty Division, was Jewish, all from the Lower East Side. They were joined by Irish, Italian, Asian, Native American, and farm boys from the west. They spoke 43 languages and dialects. Beilin wrote a musical revue to entertain his fellow troops in 1918, and he published it under his stage name, Irving Berlin. One of the songs he decided not to include because it was too serious for a light-hearted musical revue was, “God Bless America.” Later, in 1938 on the cusp of World War II he dusted it off and revised it as a peace song:

God bless America, land that I love
Stand beside her and guide her
Through the night with a light from above
From the mountains to the prairies
To the oceans white with foam
God bless America, my home sweet home.

Such reverence and clarity. There are times when we can sing, God Bless America with unbridled optimism and joy, and, like the commercial, say: “I am an American,” and feel the pride well up inside. 

Today in 2026 may not be such a time.

September 11 did not just unify us; it exacerbated a divide that was at first hidden, then deepened into greater polarization. We are feeling the consequences today. 

A week after 9/11, I will never forget attending a Jewish community meeting convened by the federations about what we should now do. The conversation focused on the reality of terrorism and how to protect ourselves. Gone was any nod to overcoming our worst natures

and aspiring toward peace. We were witnessing a paradigm shift. 

While the immediate aftermath of 9/11 brought out support for America from Paris to, yes, even Tehran and Moscow, those candles lit in city squares across the globe were soon going to flicker and extinguish. Once we Americans stopped singing for peace and started speaking of protection, we became willing to give up freedom and other values for safety, often real safety, but sometimes perceived safety, sometimes safety based solely on prejudice. And that was in the rational conversations. In some corners of our country, conspiracy theories and fears led to hatred and violence, ready-made to be taken advantage of by demagogues. 

We are in a tough moment. Lies and hate are now spoken without shame. We can cower or we can stand up. I choose to stand up not only to fight the hate which will always be an uphill battle, but to hold onto our values even when pessimists question why.

There is another song about America written in a different context. It doesn’t bless America as it is with unwavering patriotism. 

It recognizes the beauty, even the exceptionalism of America, but more as it can be, the kind of America where an immigrant Jew, dare I say a Judeo-optimist like Irving Berlin could, as many Jews did in the past century, write the soundtrack of America. This song was not by someone Jewish. The lyrics were a poem written in 1893 by Katharine Lee Bates, a professor and poet from Wellesley College.

She wrote it atop Pike’s Peak in Colorado. At the 14,000-foot summit, she recalled: “I was very tired. But when I saw the view, I felt great joy. All the wonder of America seemed displayed there, with the sea-like expanse.” After she published, “America, the Beautiful,” it was set to 75 musical settings by 1900. The most famous is the one we know, a hymn called “Materna” by Samuel Ward. 

While Bates was initially surprised by the success of “America the Beautiful,” she later reflected that its “enduring hold upon our people is clearly due to the fact that Americans are at heart idealists, with a fundamental faith in human brotherhood.” And Americans were willing to work for their dream.

When she wrote: “Thine alabaster cities gleam / Undimmed by human tears,” this was the ideal that clearly was not yet. When she wrote: “May God thy gold refine / Till all success be nobleness / And every gain divine,” it was a prayer that all Americans would benefit from material success. “And crown thy good with brotherhood / From sea to shining sea!” was the ultimate aspiration of America that did not exist in 1893 nor does it in 2026.

When I went to the World Trade Center Memorial site last year, our 9/11 guide showed us something I hadn’t seen before, a tree called the Survivor Tree. It is a Callery pear tree. Every spring, it is first to bloom. This tree was the last living thing pulled from the rubble of the World Trade Center. Crews excavating the site discovered the severely damaged and burned tree in October 2001 and initially assumed it was dead. The roots were snapped. Branches were broken. Bark was burned. Once they realized it could be revived, they cared for it in a nursery in the Bronx. It was moved to the Memorial Plaza in 2010. 

The Survivor Tree is a symbol of chance, resilience, and rebirth. 

But does it reflect a belief in values besides survival and resilience and “there but for the grace of God go I?” 

The vision of the original World Trade Center was to be, in the words of its architect Minoru Yamasaki: “…A living symbol of [our] dedication to world peace…a representation of [our] belief in humanity….” 

Aspiration and then reality. 

The towers were destroyed; yet in the loss, new buildings were erected. 

Alongside, one tree that survived the attack on 9/11 lives on. It is a powerful symbol of resilience, but in many ways, the new buildings are the real story, built at a time of great uncertainty with a faith in America’s future with American values enshrined in its foundations and soaring heights.

We also speak of a survivor tree in our tradition, one that lives and also bears core values. Is a tree planted by a person who knew he would not be able to eat its fruit but trusted that his grandchildren would. 

In the Talmud, tractate Taanit 23a, we encounter Rabbi Yochanan teaching that Choni was troubled his whole life by a verse in Psalms: “When Adonai brought back those that returned to Zion, we were like dreamers” (Psalms 126:1). You may know this verse: שִׁ֗יר הַֽמַּ֫עֲל֥וֹת בְּשׁ֣וּב יְ֭הֹוָה אֶת־שִׁיבַ֣ת צִיּ֑וֹן הָ֝יִ֗ינוּ כְּחֹלְמִֽים (Shir ha’ma’alot, b’shuv Adonai, et shivat Tziyon ha’yinu k’cholmim.)

Choni thought, “Ha’yinu k’cholmim? We were like dreamers. Can one really sleep away seventy years, dreaming?” Those years refer to the period after the destruction of the first temple when our ancestors tried to survive in exile in Babylon. The question of how we managed that time of duress for seventy years prompts the famous story of Choni. 

While he tries to imagine why so many challenging years, a person’s lifetime, could be considered a mere dream, he encounters a man planting a carob tree. The man tells Choni: “I found a world full of carob trees. Just as my ancestors planted for me, I too am planting for my descendants.” Then Choni falls asleep and, in our version of Rip Van Winkle, sleeps away not twenty but seventy years, waking up to find the fully grown carob tree and its planter’s grandson. Choni sees the fruit of the planter’s labor and feels reassured that past efforts made a difference.

A rabbi who survived the Holocaust, gave a sermon called “The Carob Tree Will Show Me!” in 1941 while he still was in Vilna. Rabbi Matityahu Gordon brings out the lesson of Choni’s tree: 

Let us, then, consider …the spiritual heroes of every age—who have stood in the breach in every generation. These individuals labor on two fronts: the “immediate work” and the “eternal work.” From the generosity of their spirit, [with the first work], they offer quick relief to the weary and the weak—those crushed by circumstance.…

But the second kind of labor—the eternal labor for the public good, for the life of the nation, for its Torah, its rebirth and flourishing—this is a concealed task, hidden from the eye. Its beginning is small and slow; it creeps forward with painstaking effort. Sometimes an entire generation lays only the foundation stone, while the next builds the structure. Sometimes several generations toil and labor, all merely preparing the groundwork. […]

[To] act in a way that may yield blessing for a future generation—this requires a vast and understanding heart, a discerning mind, a far-seeing eye, and a wide soul…. Their imagination dances before them, and their hearts sing. They know that no great idea is born in a moment, and that they are not free to abandon their task. They point to the early generations, in each age rising like stars across the sky of life—brilliant and mighty—who poured their strength into planting the seeds of their thoughts in the furrows of human hearts.”

I may be an optimist, but my eyes are open. The currents of this time are not for the good. Still, I believe in America’s exceptionalism. I trust in future generations taking the ideals and words of our founders and creating a more perfect union. We all can be “planting seeds … in the furrows of human hearts.” 

This summer, I signed onto a statement by Jewish leaders called, “Grateful are we” about our 250th anniversary:

…. America’s greatness has never rested on perfection. It rests on the enduring power of its ideals and the willingness of citizens to struggle to live up to them.

That is our charge now.

At a time of division, distrust, and fragmentation, we recommit ourselves to strengthening the bonds of citizenship, renewing a culture of democratic responsibility, and modeling a patriotic pluralism that makes room for deep difference within shared national purpose. We also commit ourselves to teach these values to our children and our children’s children.

We are proud to contribute to helping America more fully realize the promise of a more perfect union.

Grateful are we. Committed are we. Hopeful are we. God bless America.

With a nod to Irving Berlin’s blessed America, the idea of America’s promise as a yet “more perfect union” speaks of committing to our aspiration of America as exceptional. We must envision it and trust that it is yet possible, even if not achieved fully in our 250 years. 

It is possible. 

The challenges we are facing as Americans and as Jews are significant, and they can change for the better, if not in our lifetime, then in our grandchildren’s. I picture Rachel’s and my grandkids and even their children in this sanctuary in seventy years, God willing, and I trust they will be able to live our Torah values of kindness and generosity because we didn’t stop teaching and emphasizing our deepest convictions despite the devaluing trends in our society today. 

And so, I say to my imagined grandchildren, even if the forces of history are moving toward autocracy, war, and challenge in our lifetime, may you be nourished in your generation from the fruits of the trees we planted. 

May this be our will, our fellow Americans’ will, so that it can be Your will; please, God.

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Now, we’re back for Season 3! 

We’re so excited to bring you 12 brand new stories from another incredible group of women in our community.

Each week, you’ll hear a storyteller read her piece as well as have a conversation with me, Jewfolk’s Editor-in-Chief, Lonny Goldsmith. 

Right after the show – produced by Jewfolk’s Galit Breen – everyone wants to discuss the stories. What struck them, what surprised them, what spoke straight to their hearts. 

These interviews will give you a chance to listen along as that week’s storyteller and I do just that! 

Whether you laughed along with us in the audience at the live show in June or are discovering Stories from the Tribe stories for the first time, we’re so glad you’re here.

Season 3 starts next week.

New episodes will drop every Wednesday — right here or wherever you get your podcasts.

So grab a cup of coffee (or a glass of wine — we’re not judging), press play, and join us for another season of TC Jewfolk’s Stories from the Tribe podcast.

Because these stories deserve to be heard!

Listen to the teaser episode of Season 3 of TC Jewfolk’s Stories from the Tribe podcast on your favorite podcast app.

And don’t forget – the live storytelling show returns every June! Our 2027 show date is June 21, 2027 – save the date and be the first to hear about auditions and tickets by signing up for our email list.

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The bench, located on the Barry Family Campus near the building’s main entrance, comes from a national initiative led by the Kindertransport Association (KTA). The association has donated memorial benches across the country to educate the public about Kindertransport and raise awareness of the children affected. 

“The children’s separation from their parents and the complete uprooting from their childhood lives, and the parents who acted with unimaginable courage to save their children by sending them away to the unknown for an uncertain time, left emotional scars and enduring trauma,” said JCRC Director of Holocaust Education Susie Greenberg. 

The Kindertransport began after Kristallnacht, an infamous pogrom against Jews in Germany. Following this, many Jewish families were looking for ways to escape Nazi Germany. While many countries were reluctant, they sympathized with the plight of children. 

In December 1938, unaccompanied Jewish children were taken from Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Austria to countries where they could find safety. The United Kingdom took in the majority of these children, with Sweden, France, Switzerland, and Belgium taking in a smaller number.  

The unveiling included the descendants of Kindertransport survivors. Marilyn LeviBaumgarten’s mother, Kitty Pappenheim, and one of her sisters were amongst the children sent from Vienna to England. 

“My mother and one of her sisters went on it. I think it was the first Kindertransport out of Vienna. It was Hanukkah, 1938,” said Levi-Baumgarten. “My mother tells us that she remembers lighting candles on the train.” 

Another local, Sandy Baron, shared the experience of her father, Kurt Moses, who was sent on Kindertransport at 11 years old. 

“My dad ended up staying at [the lodge] in France, owned by the Rothschild family. He was there for about a year, with 135 other children,” said Baron. “After about a year, the children were moved to another French town, where living conditions were more difficult.” 

JCRC staffer Julia Fromstein shows Rivel Greenberg how to scan the QR code on the Kindertransport Memorial Bench. (Lonny Goldsmith/TC Jewfolk).

Baron explained that her father did not talk much about his experience, but eventually shared his story in an interview with the Shoah Foundation. 

“I think he would be grateful that stories of the Kindertransport program are now being told,” Baron said. 

Sir Nicholas Winton was a well-known individual of the Kindertransport, who rescued 669 Jewish children from Czechoslovakia and brought them to Britain. Winton’s son, Nick, who spoke at a Kristallnacht commemoration in Minnesota in 2022 and spoke to educators on a JCRC-sponsored trip in 2024, sent some words to be shared with the Minnesota community. 

“The lesson from this is that we have more power to make a difference than we think,” Winton wrote. “We must take every opportunity to use it to the benefit of our community.”

The memorial bench includes a plaque with a QR code that links to the testimony of individuals impacted by the Kindertransport rescue efforts. 

For those involved in the memorial bench, preserving history means not only remembering those who survived, but also the families who were forced to make an impossible decision. 

“A bench cannot save 669 lives,” Winton wrote. “But it might change the thinking of one person who sits down for a moment, looks up, and discovers that they have more power than they think.” 

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Only something very special.

Last week, we had the privilege of participating in the dedication of the new Minnesota Military and Veterans Museum (MMVM). We were honored to represent the Jewish community and to join a small group of interfaith religious leaders for the opening of this beautiful and important new center. We shared prayers and teachings, blew the shofar, and affixed a special mezuzah to the museum’s front entrance.

The museum tells the stories of ordinary Minnesotans who answered the call to serve our country, from the Civil War through World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and the wars on terror. Stories like the naval reservists from St. Paul who fired America’s first shots of World War II on December 7, 1941. Stories like that of Ensign Ira Weill Jeffrey. Ensign Jeffrey, a Jew, was the first Minnesotan killed when his ship was struck in Pearl Harbor. We chose a mezuzah with an anchor for the museum to honor these soldiers and tell these stories.

A special mezuzah affixed to the museum’s front entrance. (courtesy)

As busy as the Jewish calendar is at this time of year, the timing of the museum’s opening – Sept. 11 – could not have been more meaningful. The museum includes a presentation that takes us back to that day 25 years ago, reminding us how Minnesotans experienced and responded to one of the most frightening moments in our nation’s history.

The proximity to Rosh Hashanah was meaningful as well. For at the heart of both Rosh Hashanah and 9/11 is the obligation to remember.

One of the central prayers of the High Holy Days imagines God reading from Sefer Zikhronot, the Book of Remembrances. In this sacred book, the stories of our lives are gathered and remembered. On Rosh Hashanah, we are reminded that our lives matter, that our choices matter, and that the stories we leave behind matter.

In its own way, the Minnesota Military and Veterans Museum is a Sefer Zikhronot for Minnesota.

It is a place where people can come to learn, to reflect, and to better understand the experiences of those who served our country. It preserves the stories of people whose names and experiences might otherwise fade from our collective memory. 

The story of Leon Frankel is one such story that calls to be remembered. Among his feats of heroism, Frankel risked his life to protect his squadron commander from attacking Japanese fighters while flying a damaged plane. Frankel’s bravery was recognized with a Navy Cross and two Distinguished Flying Crosses. 

We honor stories like these by learning from them. That is the value of the MMVM. And it is also the value of telling family stories around the Yom Tov table.

Stories teach us about courage and resilience. They teach us about loss and sacrifice, and about the calling to serve something larger than ourselves. They connect us to those who came before us and educate future generations about the responsibility to care for one another and to contribute to the common life we share.

That is why remembering matters.

Of all the prayers we will utter during these High Holy Days, our prayers for peace are among the most precious. Until we arrive at that messianic era when, as the prophet Isaiah teaches, “nation will not lift up sword against nation,” we give thanks for those who stand ready to defend peace. We give thanks for all who support our active military and our veterans. And we honor those who have served our country.

But perhaps the greatest way to honor them is to remember their stories and to allow those stories to shape the stories we write with our own lives.

Rabbi Alexander Davis is the senior rabbi at Beth El Synagogue in St. Louis Park; Steve Hunegs is the executive director of the Jewish Community Relations Council of Minnesota and the Dakotas.

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This meetup is the brainchild of Robyn Awend, Director of Arts Engagement at Minnesota JCC, and Galit Breen, TC Jewfolk’s Director of Engagement. Breen says, “TC Jewfolk is always looking for ways to create onramps for community members to Jewish life. This series has been a beautiful, creative, and fun opportunity to do just that!”

The JCreate event had something for everyone to do, regardless of their artistic background. Hunter Wengersky of Jewish Family and Children’s Services of Minnesota (JFCS) headed a collage station where participants could cut words and pictures from magazines to make their own art.

“It was a great opportunity for everyone to engage with the act of art creation, no matter the skill level, and folks made inventive and creative collages and circle-themed art,” said Wengersky.

Heritage Judaica also had a table of artifacts that people were allowed to take. Items ranged from kiddush sets to jewelry to kippahs. 

 JCreate also featured the work of a local artist, Lynda Monick-Isenberg. The fair featured a piece of hers called “tzimtzum: emptying the mind to begin a stroke…” This feature of the event was an example of how materials can turn into a finished piece of work.

The goal of the JCreate meetup is to make art supplies more accessible and allow community members to show and explore their creative side. JCreate showed that art can be both a personal experience and a means to connect people. 

“The event was a lovely opportunity for connection across generations and geographically, as folks came from all over the Twin Cities for this event,” said Wengersky. “There were kids, families, young adults, and elders engaging with the art-making opportunity, and everyone was very excited about the art supplies.”

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