(RNS) — Stop me if you’ve heard this one: A Reform rabbi visits an Orthodox community, and a good time is had by all.

Adas Kodesch Shel Emeth, an Orthodox synagogue in Wilmington, Delaware, celebrated its 140th anniversary, making it the oldest synagogue in the state. Its rabbi, Abe Rabinovich, invited me to speak at their celebration, held in the local Jewish community center. Gov. Matt Meyer — one of six Jewish governors in the country — and U.S. Sen. Lisa Blunt Rochester participated in the festivities. Fourth-generation members of the synagogue were there. It was very sweet and meaningful.

But how is it that I, a Reform rabbi, was the featured speaker on “The Future of American Judaism” for an Orthodox community? (Rabbi Albert Gabbai, rabbi emeritus of the venerable Sephardic synagogue Congregation Mikveh Israel in Philadelphia, delivered the benediction.)

Perhaps it is because I have always embraced the idea of klal Yisrael — that we are all part of a larger Jewish family and that we should affirm our connections, even as we embrace our differences. And perhaps it’s because I believe in living a positive Judaism based on what you do, not a negative Judaism based on what you don’t do.

I will admit that over the years, I have heard far too many Reform Jews say: “I don’t have to do that; I’m Reform.” Or: “I don’t have to know that; I’m Reform.” (Check out my podcast with Rabbi Rick Jacobs, president of the Union for Reform Judaism.)

That caused me to create a parlor game for Reform Jews: Tell me why you are a Reform Jew — without using a single negative word.

Don’t tell me what Reform Judaism isn’t, what it says you don’t have to do or what you don’t have to believe. A negative Judaism is a thin gruel. It produces negative Jews. We need a positive Judaism that creates positive Jews.

What might positive Judaism look like?

Several months after Oct. 7, 2023, I was in Jerusalem, and I visited my favorite bookstore. I saw Rachel, a 20-ish woman who works there.

I said to her, in Hebrew, “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you are exactly the sort of young person who would have been at the Nova festival. I feared the worst.”

Her eyes darkened. “It’s ironic that you say that. I was supposed to go. I almost bought a ticket. Then I remembered it was Shabbat — and Simchat Torah. I always wondered who ended up with the ticket I didn’t buy.”

Her voice trembled. Then, she added something I have not forgotten:

“I am from a Sephardic family. There is no way I could not have been at the table.”

Let me unpack her response.

Rachel’s Judaism is about her immediate family, at the Shabbat and festival table, complete with food, drink and laughter. The gatherings are very joyous and noisy.

That Judaism ventures forth into her extended family, her tribe.

The biggest part is obligation. Her presence at the holiday table was required and expected. I would like to think that she received those requirements and expectations without a guilt trip.

Rachel and I have spent a lot of time together, reading, studying, chatting — “Here is a translation of Leonard Cohen’s poetry into Hebrew. Do you know his work?” She lives simultaneously within her own particular culture and within the larger culture. Her Judaism is one of obligation to the Jewish past, present and future, while living firmly in the modern world. 

When Rachel said, “I am from a Sephardic family,” she meant that her family was of the edot ha-mizrach, Jews who had come from Arab lands.

Let me neither generalize nor romanticize Sephardic Judaism, or to be more precise, non-Ashkenazic Judaism, but much of Sephardic Judaism seems more — how shall I put this? — liberal than the Judaism of eastern and central Europe. It is more open, freer, even more joyous. It also understands that it lives in the modern world.

Consider the following quote from a great rabbi: “Living conditions, changes in values, and scientific discoveries create new questions and problems. We cannot avert our eyes from these questions.”

Sounds Reform, or Conservative?

Actually, those words come from Rabbi Ben-Zion Meir Hai Uziel, the Sephardic chief rabbi of Mandatory Palestine from 1939 through Israel’s establishment as a Jewish state in 1948.

Israeli philosopher Micah Goodman writes about Sephardic Judaism and the Judaism of the edot ha-mizrach:

They have an intimate relationship with the past, but the past does not control them. They are attached to their tradition without enslaving themselves to past generations. Their relationship is one of fidelity and proximity rather than power and control.

There is also a certain ritual looseness in non-Ashkenazic Judaism — not of laxity, but of priorities. It is more about what you do than what you avoid.

Years ago, I had lunch with a friend in Great Neck on Shabbat. The restaurant happened to serve pork and shellfish dishes. 

Next to us, at a long table, there was a group of men wearing black kippot, appearing Orthodox and speaking Farsi. They were Iranian Jews — not Sephardic, but not Ashkenazic, which is my point. 

I approached them, wished them Shabbat Shalom and then asked them out of curiosity and with not a shred of judgment, “It’s nice to see you, but it’s Shabbat and this restaurant is not kosher and you’re wearing kippot. What’s up with that?”

One of them said, “We just came from [an Iranian synagogue in the area]. We go every week, we pray and then we come here for lunch afterwards.

“Yes, we know that we ‘shouldn’t’ handle money on Shabbat, and yes, this place isn’t kosher. But our custom is to eat together afterward — to continue the joy of Shabbat.”

They focused on what they “should” and “could” do, rather on what they should not do. 

Imagine a Judaism expansive enough for family, joy and responsibility. One that embraces the table, the community, the moment, the mitzvah and the modern world. Sounds good to me.