Brad shared this during our Shema Kolaynu: Hear Our Voices service on Yom Kippur this year. If you didn’t attend that service—or were moved by his words and want to read them again—we hope you find his words meaningful.

In college, I took a few comparative religion courses. We studied Buddhists, Muslims, Christians, and Atheists and it struck me that most groups have a clear, definitive label for their identity. Then there’s us. What are we? Jew-ish.

I think a lot of us relate to that “ish.” Take some, leave some, embrace what resonates, and question the rest. I’ve always leaned into that ability to question and figure stuff out—sometimes, as my parents can attest, a little too much.

My “ish” growing up in Denver was pretty great. My brother, Andy, and I went to Herzl Jewish Day School (now Denver Jewish Day School) through 4th grade. Mom and Dad did a great job of setting expectations high, but I don’t remember many consequences for missing the mark. There just seemed to be an understanding that you do your best and don’t quit. Family was always a priority. Dad grew up here, his mom, Grandma Esther, lived here, his dad had long passed. Every Friday, Dad would buy a challah and pick up Grandma Esther, and Mom would cook a delicious Shabbat meal. Shabbat was always at our house, even through my college years when we were home. Our friends knew the Ripps boys weren’t going out on Friday night until after Shabbat dinner, and Mom had an open-table policy. To this day, the number of my non-Jewish friends who can recite the Motzi and the Kiddush is pretty impressive.

Our observance of Judaism entailed showing up at High Holiday services at BMH, heading into the main sanctuary, and then Andy and I slipping out shortly after services started to find friends. Maybe we’d go to part of the kids’ service, goofing off, sometimes wandering back in for the sermon, and heading home for a delicious meal with family and friends. It really was a fantastic way to miss school. But, I was a pain. I still remember Mom catching me trying to sneak a Walkman into services to listen to the Broncos game!

My mom’s side of the family lived in Houston, where things were a bit more observant. Grandpa and Grandma’s house was the place for Passover Seders. One year, an older cousin helped make sure I got real wine instead of grape juice. I’m pretty sure it was my first time tipsy, sleeping through dinner probably face down in my plate before I was moved to the couch. They kept kosher, except for that one cupboard holding the pots, tools, and paper plates reserved for Grandma’s crab night.

Grandpa was loud, strong, and spun wild made-up stories always with a moral. And Great-Grandma—who I called “Grapes”—was quiet, loving, and deeply devoted to Israel. She and Zadie were huge Zionists. They made many trips to Israel and financial support, the biggest being starting the Paradise Mattress factory in Israel in the 40s —mostly as a legitimate business to create jobs and resources, with the side benefit of smuggling weapons in those mattress boxes in the early statehood years. Grapes and Zadie were very humble. I had to hear the stories of their contributions from other family members, saw recognition plaques at the Hadassah hospital in Israel, and eventually read Zadie’s published biography. 

Looking back, we had wonderful traditions, but we didn’t talk much about the spiritual stuff. I don’t think they did anything wrong; it was just not what we did. So, I apparently had to find something to make my parents a little crazy. I chose religion as my battleground.

My Walkman antics blossomed into full rebellion. Since I’d had four years of Jewish day school, I decided I didn’t need after-school religious school. I used my bar mitzvah as the ultimate bargaining chip! I negotiated my way out of confirmation, kept my parents completely in the dark about my bar mitzvah prep, and had them convinced I was going to blow it. But something shifted during the process. I hesitate to say maturity in a 13-year-old boy; it was probably a piece of “don’t quit” and I knew how much Judaism meant to Grapes and Grandpa, so I decided to pull it off for them. The bar mitzvah went well, but I stuck to my guns and retired from formal Jewish education immediately after.

Then came high school, when I heard about the Israel Study Tour—6 weeks in Israel between junior and senior year. I was interested! I mentioned it to Grapes, and without missing a beat, she asked where to send the check.

That trip was amazing and led to a year-long fellowship after college on Project OTZMA—my time in Israel changed everything. I felt Judaism everywhere in Israel. The whole country shut down for our holidays. We were the majority. The holidays were so much fun and meaningful to observe there. I’ll never forget Simchat Torah in Tzfat. An older man handed me a shot of strong liquor, and another thrust a Torah into my arms to dance—not this delicate thing we handle so cautiously in every other interaction I had growing up. I even spent a month teaching in a boarding school, where part of the routine was laying tefillin every morning and davening 3 times per day. Working, living, celebrating, and exploring the country, I finally understood where my grandparents’ deep love for Israel came from and was a catalyst for my Jewish identity. It was definitely an intense “ish” period. 

Once back in the States, it was time to start adulting—get a job and figuring out daily life and what my new “ish” would be. The holidays were an important anchor and, interestingly, my mom started to explore more of the spiritual side, which led to more discussions and intention around holidays. It was the late 90s; spirituality conversations were more common and the stage of life for my parents as empty nesters allowed for that. I can now relate!  

I was dating, not really thinking about marriage yet, but I did know I wanted to marry someone Jewish. One random Thursday night at Hemingway’s on South Pearl, I ran into a girl I’d gone to Temple Emanuel preschool with. It was beshert (meant to be). She was in the process of moving back to Colorado after she and her family moved to the east coast in high school. We started dating and my friends knew this girl was different. 

Sascha’s family is blended, Indian Christian and New Jersey Jew. Her family blended the two traditions beautifully. During my first Christmas with them, I was caught completely off guard when the whole family gathered to light the menorah, singing back and forth from Christmas carols to Chanukah songs. Their “ish” was vibrant and beautiful.  

Sascha and I got married on July 1st—the longest Shabbat of the year—which meant a marathon weekend for my more introverted wife: Shabbat dinner Friday, rehearsal Saturday, and the wedding Sunday. It was an amazing event.

When our boys came along, Sascha and I had to figure out our family’s “ish.” When we were dating, Sascha used to come with my family to BMH services. Andy and I would actually stay in services at that point, but mid-way in, she would look down the pew and notice every single Ripps was asleep. I called it deep meditation; she called me out on it.

We “temple dated,” bouncing from Temple Emanuel for Rosh Hashanah at Shwayder Camp, to Adventure Judaism for Sunday school in Boulder and Passover in the Moab desert, before finally finding our home here at Micah. Life was crazy with soccer schedules, so Friday night Shabbat wasn’t always realistic. Instead, I’d buy the challah and we’d do Shabbat on whatever night we could. The timing didn’t matter as much as the intentionality of the tradition. Both of our boys had deeply meaningful bar mitzvahs with Rabbi Mo—a far cry from the psychological warfare I put my own parents through.

As my appreciation for these traditions grew, life brought us to the hardest chapter. As many of you know, my dad passed away this past May at age 87.

Before he passed, based on the foresight of our wives, Andy and I were fortunate to have open, challenging, loving conversations, and were very clear of his wishes. On his final day—a beautiful spring day—he had a beer on the patio with my brother and my son Grayson, and we all went out to dinner. We told him we loved him, he shared his gratitude for all we had done to take care of him, and we said good night. Two hours after we dropped him off, we got the call.

Over the last number of years, Dad‘s connection to Judaism waned; he did not have much interest in engaging in it. We had some conversations about death and even God, but those were fading as well. He did have an interesting response to what’s next. Gray was just catching up with him and asking how he was doing. Dad gave some of the typical answers, around aches and pains of getting older. Gray then said, at least it’s better than the alternative, to which Dad responded, “We don’t know that for certain, do we?” It made us all pause and smile.

In Judaism, there is the concept of a chesed shel emet—an act of true kindness, such as preparing the dead or attending a burial, or even just helping them through their final days—the highest mitzvah because it is one that can never be repaid. Navigating the last couple years and then the days that followed his passing felt like the ultimate mitzvah.

I love our holidays for the celebration, family, and food. But in grief, I discovered I needed the rituals: the rapid burial, where there was no Jewish guilt for who was or wasn’t invited, or who could get there or not; the honest, unfiltered nature of mourning; and the incredible embrace of community during shiva. I needed this structure. 

I had never lit a Yahrzeit candle before. Typically, I sleep pretty well. That week I would wake up every night at 4:00 a.m. Seeing that small flame burning in the dark brought a quiet, unexpected comfort. And saying Kaddish has become my anchor.

A few weeks after shiva, my 20-year-old son, Elan, went with me to a Saturday Shabbat service at Micah. Sitting there, the rawness hit me. I made it through maybe two lines of the Mourner’s Kaddish before tears flooded my eyes. Without a word, my little boy put his arm around me. In that moment, I felt held by my boy, and by this entire community.

Life, however, insists on moving forward. Three weeks later, we were in Jackson Hole for my niece Gwen’s bat mitzvah. Coincidentally, she had the exact same parsha I had back in 1988. They provided me the honor of an aliyah to chant a Torah portion, which was so meaningful and moving. It was wonderful to be back together with the close friends and family who had just helped with the mourning process. Man, that service was tough, though. My emotions were high;I think I was in tears pretty much the whole time, doing my best not to look at Gwen, not wanting her to see me crying and throwing her off. Her bat mitzvah was just amazing as such a beautiful right of passage juxtaposed against the right of passage her dad and I were going through.  

The High Holidays feel different this year. Dad was sitting next to me last year. I was written into the book of life for the year and he wasn’t. That’s heavy. Last Friday night was an emotional service. I had to take a deep breath when Rabbi Mo lit the Yahrzeit candle. Then, when he honored 9/11 with the Mourner’s Kaddish, I had a momentary visceral response: how dare you take that from me this year, at this moment? I need this Kaddish! The emotion passed and I realized that is the point of the Kaddish. It is for everyone. I know it is not mine, it is for the community and to support everyone. I could be supported and support others in the same moment. I really don’t know what the Kaddish says. I thought about reading the translation, then realized I really don’t care what the words are, I sort of know, but it’s the chant, the tone, the collective voice of the room, and the shared comfort of knowing we don’t carry our grief alone. That is a uniquely Jewish value!  

As anyone who Rabbi Mo has asked to share their journey during this Shema Kolaynu service understands, he pushed me to dive deeper into the God/spirituality/holiness concepts and what that means to me and my “ish.” Like many who have spoken, I wrestle with the God concept. An old, long-bearded man waiting for us in heaven who controls what happens down here doesn’t quite fit my beliefs. I do like our Jewish stories; I see them as guides for our long-held Jewish values and traditions. I don’t worry about the historical accuracy; I believe in the messages. 

So, I’m not all in on the God concept, but not all out either. In the past, my time in contemplation of where we go when we die has been fleeting, only briefly pondering it when close family and friends have passed. Maybe I considered it on the way to or from the funeral, but then I moved on. I find it interesting how dramatically my opinions shift when the issue directly affects me. All of a sudden, what happens when we die got real. What happens to my dad? I’m not ready for him to be totally gone. I don’t think I believe in the afterlife, but I want some after. I still have his contact in my phone. I say “Hi Pop” out loud when I ride by his apartment just off the Cherry Creek trail. I think of calling him on certain drives, like on the way down from skiing. 

This July 1, on our anniversary, I listened to the happy anniversary voicemail he left back in 2022 that I happened to save on my phone. That’s just not wanting to say goodbye, right, or am I feeling some presence? My God-thoughts are challenged with unexplainable events that seem too perfect, like Sascha walking into that random bar and setting the course for the rest of my life. The last day with Dad was unexplainably perfect. I happened to suggest my brother and oldest son come to town that week. That Saturday could not have been better— it was a beautiful day, and Dad was enjoying every minute of it. He had his favorite beer on the patio, his boys with him, a fun dinner out—even if his meal wasn’t up to par—in and of itself on point. There was no real reason for him to pass that night.