As we emerge from Shavuot—the holiday of Matan Torah—and enter Parshat Naso, we reflect on the continuity of Torah in our lives. We read about the dedication of the leaders of each tribe to the Mishkan, each bringing the exact same gift, but each offering imbued with a distinct intent, spirit and contribution to the community. It is a fitting moment to consider the institutions to which we dedicate ourselves—especially our Jewish day schools—and to ask: What is their true value?

In 2025, running a school with industrial efficiency sounds like a reasonable goal. But anyone who has lived within the rhythm of a school day knows that schools, like human beings, are wondrous yet inefficient machines. Humans breathe in oxygen, and only use a portion. We consume food, yet much of it is not directly converted to energy. Our bodies are messy, miraculous systems—wasteful by industrial standards but perfect in their divine design.

So, too, with education. Hours of planning go into crafting lessons. Committees meet to discuss curriculum. Teachers differentiate instruction, assess learning, attend to each student’s needs. And yet—how much actually “sticks”? Parents want output metrics. What’s the return on investment? Are our children ahead in math? Are they fluent in Hebrew? Can they recite Gemara? Have they mastered coding and critical thinking?

But a school is not a factory, and a child is not a mass-produced, assembly-line product.

Education—especially in a Jewish day school—is not about simple, measurable inputs and outputs. A school is a living, breathing organism. It has a history, a personality, a culture. It is a place where students learn not only how to parse a Rashi or solve an algebraic equation, but how to navigate relationships, make mistakes, find their voice, and feel part of something larger than themselves.

The students I teach sometimes push back: “Why memorize this? We’ll forget it anyway.” And they’re not wrong. The point is not just to remember facts—it’s to absorb values. It’s to struggle with ideas and learn resilience. It’s to work with a chavruta, to disagree respectfully, to show up even when the material is tough or the world feels overwhelming.

Yes, in a Jewish day school, we teach Torah. But we also teach how to live a life of Torah. Our students see teachers who model integrity, empathy and a passion for learning. They are influenced not only by what we say but by who we are. They learn from peers, from community events, from tefillah, from the spirit of the school itself.

Dan Senor recently remarked, in the wake of Oct. 7, that rebuilding Jewish life in America starts with our schools. “At our school,” he said, “Jewish identity isn’t just taught—it is lived, celebrated and cultivated every day.” That’s the heartbeat of our mission. That’s what motivates us every day.

Fulfilling this mission is undoubtedly expensive. Our teachers are deeply committed, not for financial gain, but for the love of the students and the mission. Still, they deserve professional salaries and dignity in their work. Facilities must be maintained. Curriculum must evolve. Technology must be current. And most of all, we must continue to create environments that are safe, inspiring, and deeply Jewish.

Yes, you can point to the measurable metrics of value—lower rates of intermarriage among day school graduates, high college acceptance rates, leadership roles in Jewish communities, aliyah numbers. All true. All important.

But those numbers don’t capture the true value. That happens when a child walks into a classroom and sees a teacher who believes in them. The numbers don’t reflect the value derived from the quiet pride of reading a pasuk or a passage of Gemara fluently for the first time. Or from the spontaneous singing of zemirot on a class shabbaton. Or from the gentle hand that reaches out to help a classmate who falls on the playground. They don’t capture the decision to wear a kippah in college because it “just feels right.”

You can’t quantify what it means to belong.

Parshat Naso reminds us of the weight and beauty of community. Each tribal leader brought the same offering, but each was unique in essence. So too, each student, each family, each school plays its part in building the future of Am Yisrael. The gifts may look similar on the outside—but their inner worth, their eternal value, is immeasurable.

We may try to calculate the cost of Jewish education—but we should never try to measure its worth.

Rabbi Dani Rockoff is the head of school at Westchester Day School. He can be reached at drockoff@westchesterday.org.