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Dear Union of Orthodox Rabbis:

The language of your statement and press release has left me with an anguish I cannot describe. In responding, I will aim for self-restraint; but, candidly, I suspect I will fail.

While today I tend to pray in Orthodox shuls, I am a child of the Conservative movement. Since you have labeled the temple of my youth "heretical," I assume you've never set foot in such a place. Let me then, for your future reference, offer a few representative scenes from my childhood.

At Temple Beth Jacob's religious school, we learned to pray in fluent Hebrew. We learned to weep when the world was hurting; we learned to look to God for guidance; we learned to give aid when Israel was threatened; we learned to exult when Israel triumphed; we learned that tzedakah was an obligation; we learned to cast our lot with our people. I ask you, dear arbiters of authenticity: If that's not Judaism, what is?

In shul, my father did the pidyon haben, the redemption ceremony for the firstborn son. The tradition dates back to our ancestor, Aaron. I ask you, sole bearers of the sacred chain: If that's not Judaism, what is?

At Camp Ramah we spoke Hebrew to each other, sang the Birkat HaMazon after meals, drew squiggly maps of Israel in the sand and wore our prayer shawls among the trees. On a starry night I looked toward the heavens and said, "Mi chamocha ba'elim Adonai? Who is like unto Thee, O Lord?"

I ask you, possessors of the one true path: If that's not Judaism, what is?

One year my rabbi left us for a while to march in Selma with Martin Luther King. The cause was not immediately Jewish, yet the imperative was entirely clear. "Justice, justice shall you pursue," my rabbi cried, quoting Deuteronomy. I ask you, dear enemies of counterfeit creeds: If that's not Judaism, what is?

Our cantor was quite a remarkable man. His voice carried for a half a block and his spirit carried for half the earth. His faith was tested in ordeals by fire, and I speak quite literally in his case. Twice he ran into burning shuls to rescue Torahs from arsonists' flames — once in Germany at the start of the Holocaust, and once at the shul where I grew up. In neither instance did he hesitate. I ask you, O judges of pious purity: If that's not Judaism, what is?

While I'm speaking about my cantor, allow me to pose a simple question. Following your rabbinic logic, I would imagine that priests of heretical temples are, perforce, themselves heretical. I ask you, then: Is this true of my cantor? He whose flesh braved me to chant from the Torah? He who comforted the sick and bereaved? He who sang at my father's funeral in a way that made the walls want to weep?

I ask you, rabbis, for I need to know: Am I the victim of a pulpit plot? Have I swallowed a sweet but noxious brew? Tell me, rabbis, and tell me straight: Is my cantor a heretic?

I will allow these questions to remain rhetorical. For the moment, rabbis, I think that is best. Shabbat is coming; I have much to do, and I assume the same is true for you.

Soon I will daven at a shul that is run by so-called ba'al tshuvah rabbis, those who have returned to traditional observance. They, their wives and the active laity are real heroes of today's Orthodox outreach. As my homage to their work, let me offer a blessing to us all:

May we embody what we espouse. May we build bridges instead of walls. May our temple be our character.

If we build that, perhaps they will come. At the moment, though, I'm not so sure. Because if the wanderers read your statement first, I doubt they'll be knocking on our doors.