Rosh Hashana begins two weeks from Sunday night, and I’ve been thinking a lot about the future of American Jewry. A Pew Research Center report from 2013 spelled out a scenario of the vanishing American Jew: 72 percent of non-Orthodox intermarry and just one in five of those couples raise their kids Jewish; 32 percent of Jewish-born millennials described themselves as having no religion.

These days, it seems like nearly every synagogue or Jewish institution has membership and fiscal problems. On the North Shore, the Jewish Community Center in Marblehead lost millions and had to sell its former Middleton summer camp to stay open; Jewish charities are struggling to raise funds and remain relevant.

Seeking perspective, I knocked on the door of Rabbi Yossi Lipsker. If anyone knows just how much things have changed, it’s Lipsker. A Hasidic rabbi, he arrived in Swampscott with his wife and a newborn son 24 years ago and set up a small Hebrew School and synagogue above a convenience store. His Torah-based philosophy emphasized compassion and empathy. Since 1992, his door has always been open, and he’s welcomed anyone interested in Judaism. There aren’t any dues, and people donate whatever they wish to give.

At the time, the polite, bearded man was ignored by most of the rabbis north of Boston and viewed as an outsider by those who worked for Jewish organizations.

These days, most of the rabbis who shunned him no longer have pulpits here, and Lipsker has established deep roots on the North Shore. While he is a traditional rabbi who observes the Sabbath and the Torah’s 613 commandments, he’s not in the business of judging others and welcomes all who walk through his doors.

He tells people who seek a spiritual connection to start right away, where they are. “You don’t have to be Orthodox,’’ he said. “You don’t have to be anything. Just showing up is already pretty awesome in our book. In fact you don’t even have to like gefilte fish.’’

It’s faith that keeps him working 18-hour days and taking calls from dusk to midnight. He’s also guided by the Hasidic belief that one mitzvah — good deed — leads to another, making the world a better place. Lately, he’s been thinking a lot about gratitude, which he will discuss during his upcoming Rosh Hashana sermon.

“It’s called the attitude of gratitude and Judaism is wired to encourage thoughts of gratitude because you’re supposed to say 100 blessings a day,’’ he said. “From the moment you wake up you’re saying thank you to God, and during the High Holidays that really resonates.’’

That gratitude led him to organize a trip late last month to aid flood victims in Baton Rouge, La. Lipsker, his wife, four of his children, and a dozen other members of the community – Jews and gentiles – spent two days working with the Red Cross, helping to clean out flood-ravaged homes and to distribute meals.

“There couldn’t be a better segue into the high holidays. Instead of isolating ourselves from the world in preparation for the holiest days of the year, we fully engaged with the world,’’ said Lipsker, reiterating that taking action – such as helping someone in need – helps provide balance in life.

In response to increased anti-Semitism in the state, Lipsker thinks Jews need to stand together and speak out against hate. Last month, vandals scrawled “Jews did 9/11’’ onto a Marblehead High School softball field. Last spring, there were anti-Semitic incidents in Beverly, Georgetown, Newton, Swampscott, and other places.

Lipsker believes that administrators who head up Greater Boston Jewish charities need to set a tough tone and assume leadership roles in the fight against hate.

“Anything less sends a message that we are somehow guilty of something just by virtue of our Jewish identity,’’ he said. “This tacit green light might be a serious contributing factor to this rising phenomenon.’’

Lipsker, who tries to squeeze in a long motorcycle ride to Gloucester or somewhere else along the coast before praying each morning, excused himself, and welcomed an elderly woman into his office.

“How are you, rabbi?’’ said the woman, who spoke with a Russian accent.

“Baruch Hashem, thank God,’’ said Lipsker, smiling.

The two began to talk, and I closed his office door and found myself standing alone in the sanctuary under the shul’s ornate ark.

Sunlight streaked against the empty chairs, leaving an orange glow on the hardwood floors. The big room sat silent, and I pulled up a chair, closed my eyes, and tried to talk to God.

Steven A. Rosenberg can be reached at bostoncolumn@gmail.com.