Exposure to diversity within Torah-true life is not a threat; it is a gift

’Tis the most desperate time of the year, when a quiet panic grips certain parents. Applications go out, interviews are scheduled, and suddenly otherwise reasonable, balanced mothers and fathers transform into lobbyists, strategists, and amateur sociologists. Why? Because their child must — must — be accepted into that school. Not a good school. Not an excellent chool. That school.

’Tis the time when rabbanim, gvirim, askanim, and anyone who knows someone who knows someone with pull in that yeshivah receives multiple phone calls, with the same impassioned plea: “I heard that the school has only X slots available, which will be filled by those with the most pull [i.e., those who nudge the most]. You know who I am? Right? I learned second seder with your eidem in BMG two zemanim ago. If you can please put in a good word for me….”

And the rav, askan, etc., will inevitably say, “I’ll try” — knowing full well that he is unlikely to be successful (unless he is calling for his own einekel. Hey, it’s not what you know….)

Now, I fully understand why parents would make the phone call. Parents care. They want the best for their children. If they believe that a particular yeshivah or Bais Yaakov is right for their child, they might as well go for it. But what I really don’t understand is the desperation, the overwhelming concern that the families must reflect their exact hashkafah, their precise shade on the spectrum, their dialect of frumkeit; the fear that if their children are exposed to those a bit to the left of them, the roof will cave in.

Similarly, how often do menahalim hear from parents, “If you accept that [atypical, more modern, etc.] family or bochur, then I cannot send to your mosad — because who knows what that exposure will do?”

This discourages the menahalim, who might otherwise be open to accepting atypical children or families, from doing so.

I am not naive. I know about the dangers of technology. But the real answer is education, not insulation. All that energy being expended on insulation would be much more productive if it was spent on education — in developing a relationship with your child, and in developing a sense of pride in the values your family stands for. That pride provides an infinitely better protection against the danger of modern society than insulation.

Insulation is largely fool’s gold, because you won’t be able to insulate your child forever — and it comes with a hefty price. Because beneath the surface of that determination lies something else — something quieter, and far less noble: fear. Fear that if your daughter sits next to someone whose father davens without a hat, she will abandon everything she was taught. Fear that if your son is in a class with boys whose families daven a different nusach, he’ll lose his identity. Fear that anything outside your type of Yiddishkeit is a threatening force that must be sealed off completely.

That fear comes with a price tag.

Because when a child grows up in a bubble so hermetically sealed that even minor differences are treated as contamination, we aren’t raising stable, confident bnei Torah — we’re raising spiritual porcelain. Children who either panic when encountering a different nusach or a slightly different minhag, or are disillusioned when they realize that “hey, that kid across the street is not that bad!”

We tell ourselves we are protecting them. But maybe we are weakening them.

Exposure to diversity within Torah-true life is not a threat; it is a gift. It teaches our children that there are many beautiful ways to serve Hashem. It teaches them to respect people not because they look the same, but because they are tzelem Elokim. It teaches them to think, to discern, to appreciate. And yes — it teaches them to stand firm in their own identity without fearing everyone else’s.

How many times have I received phone calls from parents who themselves attended a large community school which accepted all sorts of kids, or grew up out of town, where there was only one frum school, and they did perfectly well. Yet they are now desperate that their child attend that yeshivish school because “who knows what he will be exposed to in that other school.” I don’t get it. You went to a broad-based school and did just fine. What’s the desperation about?

I’m not suggesting we throw our children into environments that contradict our values. Hashkafah matters. The atmosphere of a school matters. But between reckless exposure and neurotic sheltering lies a wide, healthy space called normalcy. A space where a child can learn to interact with other frum Jews who serve Hashem differently, and still feel proud of who they are.

Insulation is easy. Education is harder. But only one prepares a child for the real world.

Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger is the rav of Congregation Shaarei Tefillah of New Hempstead and the author of Positive Vision, a Chofetz Chaim Heritage Foundation project (ArtScroll\Mesorah)

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1092)