In Jewish tradition, there is a story of a man who plants a carob tree, even though it won’t bear fruit for seventy years. When asked why, he replies simply: “Just as my ancestors planted for me, so I plant for my descendants” (Talmud, Ta’anit 23a).
This story captures the quiet, often thankless truth that every educator lives: every lesson, every interaction, and every moment of care is a seed. But planting is hard. We don’t know if the seed will take root. We don’t know if winds beyond our control will tear it away. Yet still we plant. Still we educate.
All with a belief that something good and worthwhile, somewhere, sometime, will emerge. And often, when it does, we are taken by a stunning surprise.
The highlights of education
For example, this past spring, ahead of Remembrance Day, my 10-year-old daughter Avital joined a Jerusalem program where students “adopt” the memory of a fallen IDF soldier, meet their family, and honor their legacy through reflection and ceremony. Avital’s class adopted Rahamim (Rami) Yahav, killed in the 1973 Yom Kippur War.
In their tribute video, the children spoke about what they learned: to care more, to put others first, to have courage, and to remember even those long forgotten. Watching the video, I thought of Rami’s parents, long gone, who surely hoped his memory would live on but likely doubted it ever could. Yet here he was, 50 years later, deeply rooted in the hearts of my daughter, her friends, and hundreds of families. One tree had fallen, and yet a forest grew in its place.
This is the quiet truth at the center of education: that we are here to plant, not to harvest. Being an educator isn’t about quick results. It’s about showing up – again and again – with care and intention, even when the outcome remains unseen.
Education is especially difficult when it happens in a culture obsessed with metrics – a culture that too often defines success in terms of efficiency: how to do more, how to do it faster, and how to prove that it’s working. But education doesn’t move at that pace. As Parker Palmer writes, you can’t “educate effectively.”
“… As long as ‘effectiveness’ is the ultimate standard by which we judge our actions, we will act only toward ends we are sure we can achieve. People who undertake projects of real breadth and depth are very unlikely to be “effective,” since effectiveness is measured by short-term results.”
Like love, like hope, education is not something you execute efficiently or measure in real time. It is an enduring commitment – a choice to pour yourself into something, day after day, whether or not you will ever see the results.
However, in a system that rewards speed, visibility, and proof, planting without seeing fruit can be exhausting, and that exhaustion has led to a profound talent crisis in the Jewish community – one that has only deepened over the past five years, as pandemic strain, social upheaval, October 7, rising antisemitism, and institutional instability have taken their toll.
Educators are leaving due to disillusionment
More and more educators are leaving the field – disillusioned, under-supported, and burned out. When they walk away, the loss extends beyond staff; it includes the wisdom, continuity, and relationships at the heart of Jewish learning and community. At this moment, when our people face some of the greatest challenges in recent memory, when our values feel under siege and our future feels fragile, the need for committed educators is more urgent than ever.
If communities expect educators to keep showing up fully present, with care and conviction, then those communities also have to show up for them. Educators can’t keep planting if no one is there to remind them why it matters and to nurture and refuel them.
This is something all of us can do. Institutions and funders can create spaces for educators to reflect, reconnect to their purpose, and find strength in each other. Communities can invest in their growth, not just their output, with support – emotional, spiritual, and professional – that sustains their spirit. Parents and individuals can reach out with words of gratitude, noticing the quiet impact teachers have on their children, on their community, and on their lives.
When we care for who educators are, not just what they do, they can keep planting even when the ground feels frozen. It starts with small things: As this school year ends and another summer of Jewish life begins, ask yourself: Have you written to your child’s counselor to say thank you? Have you called the Hillel director to ask her how she is doing?
Have you advocated for improving the working conditions of your Hebrew school teacher? Have you texted the camp director not to ask for more photos but to simply say: thank you.
As you do, ask yourself, too: do you still hold that quiet faith that you, or your child, might one day blossom in ways that will surprise and awe you? That even if they do not follow the exact path you imagine or become the person you thought they “should” be – that they can, if you nurture them with the enduring faith of education, grow into something magnificent you could never have foreseen?
This is the sacred work of education: planting seeds, holding faith, and believing – even through doubt – that something beautiful will grow. Because the ultimate business of education is the business of hope – and we can never lose it.
The writer is the founder of M²: The Institute for Experiential Jewish Education, which operates in Israel and the US.