More than once over the past few months, I have broken down in tears following a discussion with my dad. My respect for him makes our political disagreements even more difficult. How do we engage with the very people who taught us abiding Jewish and American values when we differ on how they apply to the upcoming election?

I am grateful to have had the opportunity to process this complex experience with a group of thoughtful, like-minded people who know how to take action. 

To be transparent, this group is a loose network of progressive, politically engaged Jews who support Abdul El-Sayed for Senate. Some of us have a personal connection — Abdul hired me for my first local public health job and I was impressed by his leadership and inspired by his commitment to not just prevent disease, but to alleviate the underlying causes of poverty and injustice as well. Some are moved by one or another tenet of his campaign — money out of politics or Medicare for all. Some of us just want a Democratic majority in the Senate as a check on the increasingly authoritarian Trump regime. All of us are motivated by Jewish values like tikkun olam (repairing the world) and pikuach nefesh (the holy commandment to preserve human life).  

If we are failing to have productive conversations with loved ones on our own, what if we invite our families to a program, together, where we would practice talking in a different way? 

We tapped Rabbi Nate DeGroot for spiritual grounding and Aaron Handlesman as our professional facilitator. Rosh Hashanah with its themes of renewal and returning and repair felt like the right backdrop for this discussion — especially for a group of Jews who weren’t planning to spend the second day at synagogue. 

After listening to our vision for the event, they pointed out something that should have already been obvious (but wasn’t, at least to me) — we could not, in good faith, hold an event like this with the ulterior motive of convincing our parents to vote for Abdul. We had to be genuinely open to listening to their perspectives if we were asking them to listen to ours. Aaron reminded us that sustaining open and respectful dialogue on difficult issues is a skill to be taught and practiced, not an activity to rush into to achieve a political goal. Rabbi Nate reminded us of the immensity of Jewish time and that the seeds we sow at this event might not bear fruit for months, years, or even generations. All the more reason to start now, with a precious mix of urgency and patience. 

A plan was set and communicated: we were inviting our loved ones into a conversation, hosted at a warm and welcoming home. Many of us knew each other, or were friends of friends. There would be mutual respect in abundance, but also many disagreements. We were not going to try to convince anyone to see things our way; we were just going to ask them to listen, and promise that we would listen in return. 

As the event grew nearer, I began to worry how my dad was going to react to this type of intentional and expansive dialogue. David Fink is a politically inclined person and strong supporter of the Democratic party, but he would normally have zero interest in an event that centers interpersonal relationships and involves things like name tags and ice breakers. I knew he would be there — because I asked him to come and it did not interfere with golf — but I didn’t know much beyond that.

While driving to the event, I listened to Rena Branson’s song Ahava Raba, which we had sung at Rosh Hashanah services the day before:

Love is not a receding horizon we reach for
Love is the ground on which we lay

Following a 30-minute nosh-and-schmooze buffer, Rabbi Nate opened the program by connecting our goals for the afternoon to the themes of Rosh Hashanah. Aaron gave a brief introduction to Dialogue-with-a-capital-D. I saw my dad struggling to keep his face neutral as we were given skills to practice that, Aaron said, would improve the way we share our own perspectives and hear the perspectives of others. Maybe I’m wrong, or projecting, but I imagined my dad thinking, “I know how to talk to people. What are we doing here? When are we going to start the debate?” 

We would not be talking directly with our family members during this event, but rather in small groups so that we could focus on practicing our new skills without getting swept up in whatever drama was currently subtexting our family debates. I glanced at my dad again. I suspected that this felt like an unnecessary detour; he was more interested in talking points than Dialogue skills and more interested in talking to me than my friends or their parents. But he was willing to give it a try and, for that, I am grateful. 

Our first prompt: a moment where we felt pride in the Jewish community. We wrote down our thoughts and got into pairs. My partner shared the pride she felt at her grandchildren’s b’nai mitzvot. She listened intently as I shared about watching my 4-year-old daughter’s take on Taschlich, a tradition of casting off our ill deeds, which she did by whispering those transgressions to fallen leaves and then throwing them into the river proclaiming “I hope I never do that again … that’s my prayer and a blessing!”

Now we were warmed up and ready for the more difficult group discussion activity, where we were asked to practice using the skills we had learned while answering a series of prompts guiding us into a discussion of the current political moment. 

My group spanned three generations, and I pushed myself to practice the skill of listening to what someone else was saying without thinking about what I would say in return. It was hard, but got easier as the conversation went on. 

As anticipated, we ran out of time before we ran out of things to talk about. The group gathered to debrief. We congratulated each other for showing up. People expressed interest in attending another program in the future that might take the conversations to a deeper — or more direct — place. 

My dad and I lingered, as we tend to, and then made it as far as the driveway. This was the point where he shared a list of specific concerns about the Senate race that he had been waiting to discuss. Fighting my instinct to immediately respond to each talking point as he offered it, I practiced my listening skills. I listened with the intent to understand; then I spoke with the goal of being fully understood. 

I heard the fear that my dad carries with him and tried to understand how it drives his political perspective. I saw how his fears are a reflection of my own, even if they move us in different directions. I think I began to see a path for how we could find common ground. 

After 15 minutes, he said, with some frustration in his voice, that this is the conversation he had wanted to have today — why did we have to spend all that time talking to other people about other things? We didn’t need all of that when we already know how to listen to each other! 

I smiled. I told him that, from my perspective, those 15 minutes in the driveway had been the most generative and respectful conversation we’ve ever had about a political topic on which we disagree.

The purpose of the program was not to convince anyone of anything. I don’t know if my dad was even convinced that the event itself had achieved its goals. And yet, I feel more hopeful than I did before.

The High Holidays are a time for renewal, returning, and repair. And every year, we get another chance to engage in that holy work — internally, interpersonally, and communally. Maybe there’s a lesson here about political change too. 

Again, to be transparent, I want more Michigan Jews to support Abdul El-Sayed for Senate. I hope my dad votes for Abdul. I hope other Jews who are wrestling with the same fears and questions do too.

And, because I’m my father’s daughter, I know how to be practical. While I hope many Jews will vote for Abdul, I know others will not. What I hope we can do, regardless, is keep practicing how to talk across those differences with curiosity and care — and with trust that understanding is a path to common ground.