WHERE IS OUR STRENGTH? IN ME AND IN YOU—AND IN OUR NAME

I’ve always been amused that our modern Jewish movements carry names that confuse far more than they clarify. Reform Judaism borrowed its 19th-century German label to describe a bold program of principled change, yet today the name functions mostly as a historical marker rather than a reflection of any current reform agenda. Conservative Judaism took its name from the more conservative early reformers, even though it now embraces most Reform innovations and is anything but conservative in practice. Reconstructionist Judaism is rooted in a brilliant book by its founder, yet its title tells you almost nothing about its beliefs. (It recently renamed itself "Reconstructing Judaism," an awkward moniker that somehow manages to say even less about its beliefs.) Orthodox Judaism, too, is misnamed, a term that was scornfully imposed on traditional Jews by early reformers rather than a name chosen from within.

Forgive the hubris, but I have long felt that our movement may possess the most genuinely descriptive name—a name clear enough to spark meaningful conversation about our beliefs. Yet, like the others, it comes with some baggage—chiefly the tendency of some of our own adherents to, shall we say, expand its meaning beyond what it was meant to convey.

Since becoming part of this movement, some folks have told me—sometimes earnestly, sometimes forcefully—what they believe “humanistic” really means. Usually it’s a definition along political lines, namely progressivism mixed with a redefinition of humanism as “humanitarianism.” I’ve come to understand that this interpretation often points toward a particular political direction shaped by both progressive commitments and a humanitarian instinct.

This is an entirely respectable worldview, and I certainly recognize that many Humanistic Jews feel that our approach naturally resonates with such commitments. Even so, they sit somewhat apart from the philosophical foundation of our movement.

Rabbi Wine specifically—and carefully—chose “Humanistic Judaism” to describe a naturalistic worldview in which human beings—our judgment, our experience, our moral reasoning—stand at the center of Jewish life and shape our understanding of human dignity. And while this can—and at times does—call upon us to take courageous political positions, he was not prescribing specific courses of action. Rather, he meant to identify a way of thinking, a way of making meaning, a way of constructing Jewish life on human terms rather than supernatural ones.

Perhaps a more accurate name for our movement might have been "Atheistic Judaism." After all, when stripped of its enormous cultural baggage, atheism simply means “without a deity.” And is that not what we are? Well, yes ... and no. Technically, it's correct. We engage our Judaism and live our lives "without a deity."

But given the popular understanding of atheism, it would have been a terrible choice. For many people, the word conveys a combative, empty, and even anti-religious worldview. To those who thought it might be more descriptive, Rabbi Wine (who was once identified in Time Magazine as "the atheist rabbi") insisted that it was a terrible idea to name ourselves after what we reject. He was absolutely right. Defining a religious movement by the beliefs it denies is intellectually backwards. It places negativity at the center of our beliefs. And, as Rabbi Wine famously taught, it is always better to believe than not to believe.

So while the literal meaning of a movement called “Atheistic Judaism” would not be technically wrong, its popular understandings were and remain so hopelessly entangled with hostility and caricature, that it could never serve us constructively!

And so, despite its potential for reinterpretations, I believe that Humanistic Judaism is as close to a perfect name as possible. It directs us to the core of our project: a Judaism grounded in both human and Jewish insights, responsibilities, and possibilities. When we hold firm to that meaning—without importing political expectations or redefining “humanistic” as something it was not intended to convey about our approach to Judaism—the name continues to guide us with real clarity.

It affirms that “humanistic” describes an approach to Judaism and to life entrusted to humanity alone, accurately recognizing that our choices and commitments rest solely on the accumulated wisdom of human experience and on the deep record of Jewish history—not on supernatural authority. And, of course, it does what a good name must do: it opens the door to real conversations about our unique and meaningful way of understanding Jewish life and history.