Immanuel College has been a pillar of Anglo-Jewish life

Reflecting on the last four years at Immanuel College, ‘blessing’ is the word that comes to mind. From the supportive staff and engaged parents to, most importantly, the brilliant students who make every day a genuine pleasure to come to work, this community has become a second home to me.

Yesterday’s announcement marks the end of a chapter that none of us imagined would close in this way. And yet, for those of us who have had the privilege to be part of this extraordinary school, the sense of gratitude runs just as deeply as the sense of loss.

This morning, as the hall filled for the first day of the Shavuot term, we began as we always do: with Tefillah (prayer). I shared with the students that so much of our tefillah is about gratitude, but in life, we don’t always appreciate what we have until it’s taken away from us. You could feel that awareness in the room today. There was something different in the atmosphere, a real sense of appreciation for being back together again.

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For 35 years, Immanuel College has been a pillar of Anglo-Jewish life. It’s a place where learning and laughter go together, and where we focus on who our students are, not just what they achieve. We understand that education only works when the person behind the grades is thriving.

We believe that Jewish growth and academic success go hand in hand. Our goal has always been simple: to ensure our young people graduate as proud, knowledgeable Jews who are ready to give back to the world.

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Having worked in a number of Jewish schools, I can say with complete honesty that I have never experienced anything quite like what exists here. There is something rare about Immanuel; in its warmth, its ambition, its sense of purpose, and the way people care so deeply about one another.

That is what makes this moment so difficult.

For many colleagues and friends, this is also a time of real personal uncertainty. Questions about the future, about stability, about livelihood, are very real. It would be wrong to gloss over that.

And yet, I keep returning to that powerful image in the Gemara (Taanit 29). As the flames consumed the Beit HaMikdash (Temple) and the world they knew was collapsing before their eyes, the Kohanim (priests) did something almost unimaginable. They climbed to the roof of the Sanctuary, clutching the keys, the very symbol of their sacred responsibility, their daily avodah, their closeness to the Divine. And in that moment of devastation, they cried out: “Ribbono Shel Olam, since we have not merited to be faithful guardians, here are Your keys, take them back.”

The Gemara describes how they cast the keys heavenward, and a hand emerged from the Heavens to receive them.

It is an image of profound poignancy. At the very moment when everything is being torn away, the Kohanim recognise with absolute clarity that the Mikdash was never truly theirs. The privilege they carried, the access they had, the holiness they lived within, it was all a gift, a trust placed in their hands for a fleeting moment in history. And now, with broken hearts, they return it. Not in anger, not in defiance, but in surrender, in humility, in a deep and aching acknowledgment of loss and of truth.

That idea has stayed with me and given me some solace over these past days.
We have been entrusted with something very special at Immanuel. We have given to it, and it has given to us. And now, as this chapter comes to a close, we carry that with us.

The news broke on Yom HaShoah, which brings with it an added weight. Viktor Frankl famously wrote that even when everything else is taken, a person still retains the freedom to choose how they respond. That quiet truth feels especially relevant now. We may not have chosen this, but we do have a choice in how we meet it, in how we support one another, in how we carry forward what has been built here, and in the dignity with which we step into what comes next.

I told the students today, in assembly, “you can take a child out of a Jewish school, but you cannot take the Jewishness out of the child”. What is instilled through years of learning, lived experience, and a sense of belonging does not simply fall away. It becomes part of who they are, shaping their values, their identity, and the way they see the world. Long after they will leave the gates of Immanuel, those roots remain, constantly guiding and sustaining them.

The story of the Volozhin Yeshiva offers a powerful lesson about what it means for something truly meaningful to endure. Founded by Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin, it revolutionised Torah learning and became the model for the entire yeshiva world to this day. Yet at the height of its success, it was forced to close in 1892 under pressure from the Russian Empire, which demanded changes that would have compromised its spiritual integrity. Rather than dilute its mission, its leaders chose to shut its doors. On the surface, this seemed like a tragic end, but in reality, it marked a beginning. Its pupils carried its spirit across Europe, building new yeshivot and transmitting its approach to learning to future generations. In this way, Volozhin did not disappear; it expanded. Its physical building may have closed, but its legacy became the foundation of Torah learning worldwide. That is how something meaningful endures, not through structures alone, but through the values it instils and the people who carry them forward.

There is a word in this week’s parasha, נגע, something difficult, an affliction. The very same letters can form ענג, joy. It’s the same building blocks, just arranged differently. It is all about perspective.

Sometimes the circumstances themselves don’t change, but the way we look at them does. And when that shift happens even slightly, it opens up the possibility of finding meaning, or even a sense of joy, in places we might not have expected.
We would never have chosen this ending. But we can still choose how we carry it forward.

Even the name “Immanuel” — עמנו־אל, “Hashem is with us” feels especially resonant right now. At times of uncertainty as much as in moments of clarity.
What has made this place exceptional has never been the building. It has always been the people, the colleagues, the students, the families, who created and were part of the “Immanuel Family” something truly remarkable together. That does not disappear.

It continues, in each of us, and in everything we go on to do.  I feel incredibly privileged to have been part of this community. Thank you to everyone who has made these past four years so meaningful. There is a great deal to be proud of.
And, in time, I believe we will see how much of this story continues.

Rabbi Yoni Golker is Director of Jewish Life and learning at Immanuel College