My daughter came home from high school the other day and showed me a text from a friend. Allegedly, their high school’s name appeared somewhere in the Epstein files. Knowing how quickly rumors spread among teenagers, I looked it up myself. Once I found the reference, I explained the context: it appeared in a travel-related exchange, a passing mention of someone whose husband had once attended the school. While admittedly unsettling for teenagers to see their school’s name in a trove of documents associated with such horrific crimes, there was nothing nefarious about the reference itself.

Still, I could see their discomfort. The mere proximity felt contaminating.

That conversation stayed with me because, for many of us — particularly in the Jewish world — the connections to Jeffrey Epstein cannot be so easily brushed aside.

For me, one of the most meaningful Jewish experiences of my life was my time as a Wexner Heritage Fellow, a fellowship funded by Les Wexner. Only toward the end of that experience did I begin to understand the extent of Epstein’s past relationship with the Wexner Foundation, and only later did I learn more about the deeply troubling allegations and associations that have since come to light. 

I did not commit a crime. I did not knowingly enable one. And yet I benefited from an institution whose name is now entangled in one of the most disturbing criminal enterprises of our time.

That reality must be acknowledged. 

I have been in rooms, in homes, in spaces that now cast a moral shadow. The question that haunts me is what it means to have benefited — even unknowingly — from power structures later revealed to be connected to grave harm. 

This is not only my reckoning. Beyond the fellowship, I have also come into contact with at least one other alleged perpetrator through their connections to Jewish organizations. Many of us have learned from, donated to, voted for, worked alongside, or celebrated individuals whose names later became associated with profound moral failure. The web of proximity is wider than we like to admit. In communal life, funding, leadership, and influence can travel together and reinforce systems of power that enable harm, including sexual violence.

Recently, in a group for Jewish professionals, someone posted about seeking alternative funding sources for those wishing to move away from donors connected to Epstein. The post included a disclaimer that their particular funding stream was not implicated — followed by four words: “so far, please G-d.”

So far.

In those words, a quiet anxiety: that any institution, any teacher, any funder, any leader might harbor secrets we cannot see. That today’s opportunity could become tomorrow’s reckoning. That any morality in our communal life was merely illusory. That we, through our desire to help our people, now feel tainted by participating in systems of power that would allow this monster to exist.

So where does that leave us?

Some have responded by making donations to organizations that support victims of sex trafficking. That feels meaningful and right. But our reckoning must go deeper than charity alone.

On Yom Kippur, we speak of teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah — loosely translated as repentance, prayer, and charity. Teshuvah begins not with public gestures but with honest self-examination. It asks us to confront uncomfortable truths, even when we are not the wrongdoers. It invites us to ask whether there is moral residue in the benefits we received. In challenging myself today, I am asking myself many questions:

How can we repent for harm we did not directly cause?
How can we change the systems we participate in but did not design?
How can charity begin to address wrongs we cannot undo?

There is no way to right the crimes committed by others. We cannot reverse time, but perhaps we can refuse indifference. Perhaps we can examine the systems we sustain. Perhaps we can demand greater transparency. Perhaps we can sit with discomfort rather than dismiss it.

The first step in teshuvah is simply acknowledging that our souls may have something to repent for. In so doing, we recognize that we have benefited from tainted systems.

I am finally ready to take that step — to sit with the discomfort rather than push it away, to examine what accountability looks like in communal life, and to ask harder questions about power, money, and influence.

I suspect I am not alone.

If this moment asks anything of us, it may simply be this: to be honest, to be vigilant, and to be willing to do the spiritual work even when the answers are not clear.

That, too, is teshuvah.