When both our boys were little(r) they used to lose their cool every time one of their Lego or Magnatile creations would inevitably break. Our response to them would always be, “And that’s the best part about Legos/Magnatiles/Generic Building Toy! You get to build it all over again!.” Because that’s the way they are designed… You could say they are manufactured to be easily repaired… or you could say that they are meant to break.

All of this is bubbling up to the surface of my mind because we are in the middle of the festival of Sukkot. And much like Lego, with its intentionally engineered impermanence, Jews all over the world have carefully, meticulously, exactingly crafted little huts with an intentional degree of impermanence. I was reminded of the intentionally tenuous nature of the sukkah, due to this past weekend’s Nor’easter. My social media feed has been filled non-stop with two things: images of a devastated Jersey Shore and people’s fallen sukkot.

Both are tragedies. Of very different magnitudes. The personal tragedy of one’s little hut bending and breaking are nothing compared to the damages felt on the north-eastern coastlines of the US this past weekend. This is because the homes and businesses and properties that were (still are) flooded will take a tremendous amount of resources to correct. (Time, Money, Tears). But the sukkah… the sukkah is designed to fail. It is meant to ride that line between shelter and ramshackle hut that could implode on us at any minute. It’s meant to be fixable. It’s not meant to be permanent.

And that is part of the symbolism of the sukkah as well. It’s supposed to fall over. It’s supposed to get ruined in the rain. It’s supposed to remind us of the inherent impermanence of all things. Of the entropy, the inevitable decay of all things. It’s descriptive as much as it’s prescriptive. It reminds us that things end, sometimes poorly. It also reminds us that sometimes things are fixable. Our sukkah, thank goodness, was slowly pushed into my parked car over the course of the storm… leaving an out-of-shape but very salvageable mess. It took me 10 minutes of moving my step ladder around this afternoon to put it back together. Because it was meant to be broken… AND meant to be fixed.

In fact, in the liturgy we use the image of סוכת דויד הנופלת, Sukkat David Hanofelet. Lit. “David’s Fallen Sukkah.” This is clearly a metaphor for the current “exilic state” of the Jewish people. That our king, our messiah, our Davidic Line whose reemergence will signal the long prophesied redemption is merely a sukkah in need of some minor repair. That if only we were to prop the sukkah back up, to take the time to fix that is broken… we can bring true redemption. We CAN fix what was broken.

Sometimes, it’s when we fix the broken thing that we discover new ways of being. We iterate, we improve, we grow… because we are meant to break, and to be repaired.

Growing up my father and I would proudly craft our sukkah out of 2x4’s and rope. We called it the Boy-Scout Sukkah (TM). We never really took notes regarding how we put it together from year to year though… so while we would normally keep to roughly the same design, the measurements would change from year to year. A piece of wood that was an upright one year would become a part of the lintel the next… and sometimes we would end up with too much or not enough wood. All of this meant that essentially, we were making the sukkah anew each and every year. We would use basically the same parts… but create something different from the year before.

That’s what Legos are all about… taking different pieces that seem limited in their scope and linking them together to form something wondrous… something plucked out of our imagination. And we know it’s impermanent. We know that it’s delicate. We know that it will break. We know our sukkot will break. We know that we will break.

And we know we can fix it… maybe that’s the best part?

One of the strangest and most compelling aspects of Judaism, in my humble opinion, is just how OLD it is. There is never a singular reason for why we do anything. Each custom has multiple equally valid and frequently contradictory rationales behind it. This stems from many things, with the longevity of the tradition being prime among them. I should also add that it comes from Judaism’s marvelous tradition of reinventing itself each and every generation. We have customs that can be traced back to the dawn of civilization (more on that in a bit), and while many of our ritual acts haven’t changed much over the millennia… we have. The context in which we celebrate and sanctify is different in each generation, each decade… sometimes each year for each and every one of us. And so, the tradition doesn’t so much as permit re-interpretation, it demands it. Us Jews make meaning out of actions that we have taken out of their original contexts of time and place… and use them as lenses to connect us, root us, and help us navigate our way through the trials and tribulations of the present.

Which brings me to this very important moment on the Hebrew Calendar. We are on the cusp of the Festival of Sukkot, the holiday that: marks the end of the high holiday season, the end of the summer harvest season and the start of the rainy season in the Land of Israel. And boy do we have some kooky customs associated with it.

The first, and ostensibly most pivotal is the shaking of the Lulav and Etrog. The four special plant species that our ancestors have been waving in the four cardinal directions, up to the sky and down the earth from time immemorial. These four species are the Palm Frond (for which the Lulav takes its name), the Myrtle, the Willow, and the Citron. Each of these different plants have been given spiritual and mystical significance over the centuries of discourse. My favorite midrash, or interpretation, is that they each represent different aspects of a human being. The palm frond being the spine, the myrtle symbolising the eyes, the willow being the lips, and the citron as the heart. But what we are really probably doing by parading around our synagogue sanctuaries with these plants is conducting an ancient fertility ritual.

I remember the first time I realized the out-of-time-and-place nature of the lulav and etrog ritual had always been to me. Over twenty years ago, I spent the intermediate days of sukkot camping in the wilds of the Negev Desert in the south of Israel. I was on a semester abroad in high school program housed at the Alexander Muss campus in Hod HaSharon… and we would frequently go on trips all around the country for a few days at a time as part of the educational experience. I remember clearly watching as my classmates did the traditional hoshannot, the petitionary prayers said while marching in a circle with the lulav and etrog. And I remember at first thinking just how strange a sight this was… it looked like some ancient cultic ritual straight out out of the pagan roots of humanity. Then I realized that this was actually the rite of this land. My classmates and I were performing and ancient cultic ritual… it was OUR ancient cultic ritual, in the place where it was conceived and practiced and meant to be. We were praying for rain using the prayers of our ancestors in the place it was meant to be performed. My mind was blown.

When I was an adolescent, my father and I had the tradition to build a sukkah on our front patio. We would use 2x4’s, cinderblocks as anchors, and rope. No nails, screws, or hardware in sight. We would invite family and friends to our home not to eat inside, but to come and delight in the tiny little shanty that we had put together out of wood and rope… the way our ancestors must have, right? I have fond memories of building that sukkah with my father…

Those memories are part of the reason I make sure to build a sukkah every year and include my boys in helping to set it up. When they were younger, they would make decorations and my wife and I would put them up. But now that they are older, they can actually be helpful in putting together our family’s little ramshackle hut in our driveway. This year in particular, it was a delight to see how my boys danced between the poles of the frame, declaring “Our Sukkah, Our Sukkah!” with such glee… such unabashed joy. Our eldest was especially helpful in latching all of the various little bungees necessary to keep the tarp walls attached and the roofing somewhat secure. At one point, he looked at my wife and I and said, “I know I am special, because I am Jewish.” Affirming our deep held conviction that it is by DOING that we instill identity. For my boys Sukkot isn’t a foreign desert cultic ritual… it’s the festival after the high holidays when they get to be outside with their friends and family… when the world seems whole and full of joy.

One of the names for Sukkot is Z’man Simchateinu, The Time of Our Joy. And today I feel that more than ever. There is something joyous and cathartic and exuberant about this holiday that has us parading around with ancient fertility dances and symbols. That forces us to build little ramshackle huts in our backyards and invite people into them. That encourages us to remind ourselves that there is still Good in the world. That even as the seasons change. As the first crispness of the Autumn begins to creep into our lives, as the world gets cold and seems to go to sleep… there is joy, there is abundance, there is love… there is Sukkot.

I am having a bit of a rough adjustment back to the “real world” post my yearly nigh-month-long foray into Jewish Camp-Land. There are so many thoughts about what makes “good” Jewish education that are a-brewing in my noggin… but they need time to develop. I have so many emotions leaving what is, for all intents and purposes, one of my happy places — a little Jew-topia where shobbos just “happens” and being a rabbi is almost normal.

Which I think is why my adjustment to the land of Merion is always a bit rocky. Michelle reminds me that year after year, I crash land back from camp with my head in the clouds and a twinge of melancholy. I liken my re-entry into normal society to how we acclimate a fish to a new tank. First, we plop the fish, in it’s bag into the tank so the water temp of the water in the bag slowly adjusts to mirror that of the tank. That way, the fishie doesn’t incur temperature shock when finally being let out of the bag. That is a process that takes time and patience. I remember as a child waiting impatiently to set the fish free and watch them swim. And I remember my father telling me that what we were doing was what was best for the fish, and the fish’s future success.

The problem with this metaphor (in which I am clearly the fish in need of some time to adjust) is that I am not sure I have the time to properly acclimate this year before needing to swim in the general population. You see, today is Rosh Chodesh Elul, which marks one Hebrew Month until the High Holidays. For those playing at home, these are the “superbowl” for Jewish clergy: a time period on the Jewish calendar in which Jewish clergy feel the most stressed to “get it right”. It is also the time period on the Jewish calendar in which we as a people are obliged to engage in the act of “cheshbon nefesh” or “soul-accounting”. This Soul Accounting is the act of examining our past selves and determining what habits, proclivities, and or routines have outlived their use. Or to put it another way, we Jews have this set time on the calendar in order to give us a moment to think about the ways we want to grow and change in the year ahead. What are the “deficits” in our character that we need to turn into “surpluses”? What are the ways in which we want to be better versions of ourselves?

It is hard to do that personal work at the same time as creating experiences and environments for others to actively engage in this cheshbon nefesh.

And yet, after a few years of doing it — I am not sure what the personal process could look like without the communal. The two are linked in my psyche. I need to look inward and wrestle with my own perceived inadequacies while also looking outward and helping people confront their own. It’s an honor and a privilege… and it’s a lot to do… especially as I’m waiting for the water temperature to even out.

There is solace to be had though in the act of this soul accounting. The painful process of looking inward and discerning one’s own foibles and making the pledge to do better is ultimately the process of change and growth. It is what our tradition calls “t’shuvah” or return. And it offers us the opportunity to look in the mirror and ask ourselves “Am I the person I want to be?” Or maybe “Am I the person the people I love need me to be?”

These existential questions are a lot to carry day in and day out. If we spent all of our time focusing on these vital, and yet overwhelming questions — it would be impossible to get anything done. We would find ourselves in a state of paralysis, thinking about the ways we SHOULD be better and not actually taking the steps necessary to change. Thoughts get us stuck — and that is why Judaism, as an Orthopraxy, offers us concrete actions that help us unstick ourselves. The mitzvot, as units of connection and meaning are discrete actions that affirm our place in the world and help us connect.

But Judaism also has ideas that can help point us towards connection. The month that we find ourselves in as we prepare for the Holidaze is called “Elul”. And the rabbis of our tradition are wont to find meaning even in the most unlikely of places, like the name of a month. The tradition teaches that ELUL — אלול is actually an acronym for the Hebrew Phrase Ani L’Dodi V’Dodi Li — אני לדודי ודודי לי, or “I am for my Beloved and my Beloved is for Me.” This line, taken from the biblical book Song of Songs, which is composed of a series of ancient love poetry, is frequently used in ketubot, wedding invitations, and even occasionally as part of traditional wedding ceremonies.

Why do the rabbis equate Elul with marital love?

I can see two reasons. First, the poetry and imagery contained in Shir HaShirim, the Song of Songs, is traditionally understood to be a metaphor for the loving relationship between the Jewish people and God. Accordingly, as we are about to enter into the time period in which tradition understands the Divine to be sitting in judgement of us, it behooves us to remind ourselves that before God-As-Judge, we have God-As-Partner.

Now Judaism’s idea of life partner is best articulated in the phrase that the character of God utters in the second creation story in Genesis. In seeing that the first human (Adam) is alone, God remarks that Adam needs an Ezer K’Negdo — עזר כנגדו, literally “a helper to oppose him”. Or as I like to translate it, “A Help-Mate to Oppose him.” That notion of one’s life partner serving as one’s eternal help/opposition — or alternatively helping us by pushing against our ingrained tendencies. A life’s partner is someone who helps us see the flaws in our character and instead of running away from them, helps us to confront them. A life-partner is someone who sees the foibles not as dings in your self worth, but as opportunities for growth.

That leads me to the second way I feel this idea of Ani L'Dodi, V’Dodi Li — of being there for our loved ones serves us during this potentially difficult and perilous time of year… we need to show up. If we are expecting each of us to engage in the real difficult work of “soul-accounting” — of seeing the flaws and imperfections that limit and prevent us from reaching our truest potential… of our highest “mensch-dom,” then it would serve that we also need to be that Ezer K’negdo — that helper to push one another. It’s one thing to feel that God, the eternal, the ephemeral, the unknowable is both our helper and critic. It’s another thing to take a look around and see where in our lived experience that energy manifests. Part of the soul accounting we must engage in during this time of year is the work of discerning who are the people, places, activities, things, etc… that help push us towards becoming the ideal versions of ourselves. What are the relationships that are worth nurturing?

On the flip side, we ought to ask ourselves: What are the relationships that need to atrophy? Are there people, places, experiences, things, etc… in our lives that just push us, but not in a helpful way? How do we correct those relationships? Are they worth investing in?

Elul is the time when we are supposed to consider the people we have been and dream of the people we want to become.

Elul is the time when we ought to recommit to the relationships that push us towards our best selves.

Elul is the time for all of us to adjust to the ambient temperature of the water around us… so that once Tishrei, once the holidays come along — we are prepared to swim and acknowledge together all of the ways we commit to change and grow for the better.

I don’t know if I am ready for Elul, but I can tell you that I sure do need it…

I didn’t grow up keeping kosher.

I grew up very kosher aware. I remember understanding from a very young age what was and was not kosher, even if we weren’t so observant of the dietary taboos of our people. We had lines, of course. We weren’t savages! Pork was forbidden in the home, well… except in Chinese food. (I can honestly say that I didn’t know that wontons had pork in them until I was halfway through elementary school.) We were American, and we were Jewish. Sometimes we would make our cheeseburgers with kosher ground beef… a real melding of identities.

And I remember going out to eat growing up and ordering essentially whatever we wanted. We ate out quite a bit… and occasionally we would go to a Kosher Restaurant. When I say that the average dining experience at a kosher establishment should be judged on the temperature of the food, I am not so far off. If it’s hot, you win! Warm is also not bad. Forget service, decor, hospitality — be happy it is kosher, tastes good, and you didn’t have to cook it. There are a myriad of reasons for the phenomenon of the sub-par kosher dining experience. Costs and razor thin profit margins create a situation in which price points are rarely “reasonable”. So most kosher places go all in on the food, and skimp on the service. And the places that tried to do both, usually struggled to do both well. Or at least used to…

Now Kosher Restaurants come in two distinct “genders”, like all things in Kashrut. There are meat restaurants and dairy restaurants and neither the two shall meet. This stems from the biblical prohibition against boiling a kid (animal) in the milk of its mother. (Exodus 23:19) And due to the principle in halakha of creating further distinctions and stringencies in order to protect a primary commandment, we have ended up with a strict taxonomy of meat and dairy. This extends to dishes, pots and pans, cutlery, cookware, etc… In fact keeping a kosher kitchen is fairly complex as there are rules governing the mixture not only of meat and dairy but also stringencies around the intermingling of kitchenware of the different “genders”.

All of this is to say that for this reason Kosher restaurants are (with GREAT exception) either Meat or Dairy. And because of that, there are certain staples that are impossible to find at a Kosher establishment. A meat restaurant won’t have a cheeseburger. A dairy restaurant won’t have pepperoni pizza. But they both will ALWAYS (well ALMOST always) have sushi.

This is because, due to a quirk of custom and “law", fish are widely understood to be pareve — or neither meat nor dairy. You see, there is a third secret category that I didn’t mention above… and that is pareve, or “neither”. There are some things that necessarily are neither meat nor dairy. Vegetables, fruits, and… fish? So sushi is ubiquitous at Kosher establishments. And while at first it might have been a bit of a gimmick the rise of sushi as a kosher restaurant staple has coincided with a marked improvement in the vibe of kosher restaurants.

The sushi has gotten better too. In fact, my family prefers the kosher sushi from the local (I use the term somewhat loosely, as it’s 40ish minutes away without traffic) Kosher Supermarket. It is AWESOME sushi… and it is produced at a 100% kosher facility. Which brings me to the real reason for this post… last night my family and I ordered from the local kosher dairy restaurant aptly named “Slices and Rolls”. They have raised the bar on kosher dairy. Their pizza is outstanding and their sushi holds up… We ordered from there tonight: one gluten free pizza, one pizza with 1/2 mushroom and 1/2 “mac and cheese” (it’s exactly what it sounds like), and all the sushi we could nom nom nom. And as I was feeding my family this veritable feast from an Italian-ish/Sushi-ish restaurant that caters exclusively to observant (mostly ashkenazi) Jews. What a crazy world we live in.

It should come as no surprise that I bear some of the hallmark attributes of my generation. A nostalgia for Pogs and Tomagatchis and the original 150 pokemon. A penchant for multiple drinks (as evidenced by my stickered water bottle and starbucks coffee both sweating next to my computer). I still feel like it’s a win whenever I “adult” super hard. And I have been in some form of therapy on and off since high school.

I don’t remember a time before anxiety.

I like to joke that Ashkenazi Jews have been selectively bred for intelligence and anxiety. (As it was the smart ones who knew they were coming for us that were able to get out…) But really there might be a direct correlation between intelligence and anxiety. It takes some level of self awareness and smarts to be able to predict danger. That’s not to say that intelligent people are necessarily anxious nor that anxious people are necessarily intelligent; rather, that I am anxious AF. I always have been.

I genuinely don’t understand people who go through life without anxiety. Who don’t dread or attempt to predict or replay every social interaction. Who aren’t filled with angst at the thought of each potential rejection or the stress of reliving each awkward encounter. It’s impossible for me to imagine a world where my social anxiety doesn’t fuel some abject level of self loathing or at least disgust. Where my skewed perception of reality ignores all of the good. All of the impact. All of the laughs and the affirmations — and it’s like I get stuck in the negative…

It’s almost like I live in an anxiety stew. Swimming in this stew of angst with riptides of self loathing, there are moments when the waters calm and I am able to gasp for breath…. And if it weren’t for those brief moments when I am able to be fully present in my life — with my family, my work, myself — then I wouldn’t understand that it doesn’t have to be this way.

And let’s be honest, the stresses of today’s world lend themselves to increased anxiety. Our waking lives are spent being bombarded with invitations to compare our lived reality with everyone else’s curated one. Instagram is NOT real life. And yet, we still doom scroll and wish that the posed and composed images we “stumble” across were our lived realities. That is not to mention economic realities and pressures bearing down more intensely each year, month, and week.

Anxiety is a natural component of the human condition. My wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, and talented wife has helped me to understand that my anxiety is a feature as much as it is a bug. Without anxiety, our ancestors would have been eaten by the lions or other apex predators. Without angst we wouldn’t ever be able feel the pressure to create, to innovate, to imagine. Anxiety is useful in that in its harnessed form it can propel us and society forward. And anxiety is so so painful in the ways that it paralyzes and provides fodder for the brain demons that infect so many of us.

So how do I handle it? In addition to medication, therapy, diet, exercise (yes, of my body), I like to include prayer as part of my ever growing and demanding self care routine. The Hebrew word “to pray” is להתפלל — which we normally understand to be a somewhat theurgic act. (Theurgy: acting in a way that impacts or changes God/the Divine.) Either through requesting something of God, or maybe offering gratitude — the language of so much of Jewish prayer seems to be either buttering God up or asking something of God. This is in conflict with the grammatical form of the verb. You see, the word “to pray” in Hebrew is actually in a reflexive conjugation. This means that it connotes an internal process more than an external one. So prayer, at least grammatically, according to judaism is an internal process.

This actually makes so much sense, especially from a humanist perspective. We have no idea whether our prayers actually reach this thing we call God. There’s no way of knowing something or a cosmic-someone is listening, let alone that we can affect or impact the creator of the cosmos itself! What can we change? We can we impact?

Prayer affords us the opportunity to change ourselves. Or at least do the work of changing and directing our thoughts and intentions. If we are genuinely all created in the image of God, בצלם אלוקים, then it would follow that the little piece of Godliness inside all of us can in fact be impacted by consistent prayer. I say consistent prayer because much like going to the gym, prayer can make you sore. Not physically, but spiritually. Praying is a spiritual workout, and prayers are exercises to help us build our spiritual muscles. I don’t know about you, but I hate going to the gym. I hate being sore. I hate sweating. But you know what I hate more? My self loathing.

In order to beat back the mind-demons that plague us, in order to combat the self loathing inherent in the human condition, we have to… sigh… exercise. Our bodies, to stay healthy, and our minds/souls to stay healthy too.

It becomes much, much more difficult to be mired in self loathing when we live in that space of being בצלם אלוקים. It behooves us to recognize that there is some shadow of divinity inherent in each of us. No matter what we think. No matter what the anxiety demons might whisper. We are each created in the Divine Image. And that means that prayer has the power to move us… to grow the inherent strength in each of us.

Well that’s not entirely true.

I used to spend a week at Boy Scout camp every summer. My father even worked there a few summers and I had the privilege of being the singular staff brat. And because of the peculiarities and realities of the Boy Scouts of America (as they were then called) I wasn’t allowed to sleep in the same cabin as my father. Also, due to the peculiarities and realities of the way Boy Scout Summer Camp is structured, each troop only spent a singular week up at camp each summer. As a result, I became the wandering scout, and I spent each week with a different troop. Some were local troops, some were from out of state, some were there because of the Island.

Oh, that’s right — I forgot to mention, another peculiar reality of this particular Scout Camp was that it was an actual Island in the middle of the Delaware River.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

Technically most of the camp was on the primary island, named Treasure Island (lovingly referred to as TI) and a secondary, much larger island named Marshall Island. Due to the peculiarity and reality that when divvying up the landmasses in the Delaware river, Pennsylvania and New Jersey each took alternating Islands. As a result, Treasure Island proper was legally located in New Jersey, while Marshall Island was under the jurisdiction of Pennsylvania. And it was for this reason that the shooting sports were located on Marshall Island. But I digress….

There is so much lore stored in my noggin about this truly sacred site. I have such important core memories of summers spent working there, growing there, learning important life skills and lessons there. It was also there that I realized just how spiritual of a person I am. Yes, I dislike that word… but I never felt closer to God, to the universe than when I was working on the Island. It was a sacred time in my life.

One of the most important lessons that life keeps reminding me is the impermanence of all things. Nothing lasts forever. Entropy comes for us all. For everything. It’s strange, but the flooding and subsequent closure of Treasure Island was a truly seismic event in my life. I remember the feeling of loss when I found out that due to rising waters in the Delaware, TI wouldn’t be opening. It was to be a great summer. My third, or was it fourth?, summer on staff. I was going to be the Nature Lodge Director! At… 16 years old. It was my dream job. We had a nice building, with animals to feed, scouts to come and work on nature-based projects and merit badges, and a nice building… and shade. We would spend our afternoons playing magic cards and hoping no scouts came to work on a merit badge…

All of those dreams ended when TI flooded.

We were given the option to either apply to be part of the clean-up crew who would be living in “rustic” conditions” on the Island, or to join the now overbooked Resica Falls staff to help ease the over-full camp.

I chose neither.

You see, TI is and was, for me, both the people and the place. The work was the magic. I loved my fellow staff members for sure, but getting to teach younger and older scouts real life skills was a blessing. And I am not one for excessive manual labor, despite my shoulders.

So, after being elected to some high-mucky-muck position in youth group and needing to keep shabbat (which I had figured out how to do on TI) — it was suggested to me to work at Ramah. I was already used to working at an overnight camp. (Well… sort of — I was used to working at a Boy Scout Camp… which is very different from Ramah. It’s kind of a camp for the staff as the staff are mostly teenagers themselves.)

So I worked at Ramah. And I had a horrible summer. But I came back (for some reason), and I discovered something — I loved the work. I loved being a camp counselor. I loved being a Jewish Camp Counselor. I loved the merging of my outdoorsy-light love of nature along with my emerging proud Jewish identity. Ramah is where I fell in love with Jewish Education. Where I realized that the different aspects of my being didn’t need to be siloed. It was at Ramah where Michelle and I first began dating… and where I still have the privilege to spend a large part of my summer.

I spent ten summers working at Ramah from the ages of 17-27. Starting off as the educational assistant, which a particular peculiarity of the camp being primarily an educational institution meant that I was essentially everyone’s assistant… I am grateful for my many supervisors that summer. (In particular: Lisa Richman and Susan Rand-Lakritz. They were my rocks at camp that summer and I am grateful for our continued friendships and years of working together.) I spent summers as a counselor and division head… and I have been blessed to be able to return (thank you Adath Israel and Camp Ramah in the Poconos for allowing it!) each summer. Most recently, I have been able to serve camp as an educator, nature instructor, and abba to my little ones as they come up to camp. Camp has changed, I have changed, the world has changed — and yet it’s still my favorite place on earth.

I am grateful for my summers at TI. TI taught me independence and that I had capacity.

And I am grateful for my early summers at Ramah. Ramah taught me the way forward.

Now I am grateful for my ability to see my kids grow up at Ramah Camps… finding themselves, celebrating their Jewish identities… and most importantly: having fun.

It’s a peculiar and particular thing, this (Jewish) camping thing.

I am grateful to still be a part of it. So, so grateful.

More on that in a future post.

Everyone has a topic or two that they could drone on about for hours. You know what I mean, the precise combination of expertise and passion that serves to annoy anyone and everyone that cares to bring up the subject. I suffer from this condition, and I am certain most people do as well. And one of the topics that I can’t seem to get enough of is Myth.

This should come as no surprise to those who know me well. I am someone well versed in the genres of Theology and Tantasy, and it makes sense to think that Mythology rests at the intersection of the two. That is a partially true assessment. First, the venn-diagram between theology and fantasy is a little more muddled than a clear two circles that barely overlap. Most fantasy novels and series have their own in-world very serious theologies occuring. They have their own mythologies that impact the story and the character development. And I have found some fantasy novels rife with weighty theological and philosophical implications, insinuations, and declarations. (See: The Stormlight Archive by Brandon Sanderson, for example.)

So before we entirely attempt to sever ties between Mythology and Fantasy, we should acknowledge that the two genres are for sure related. Fantasy novels regularly explore mundane themes in fantastical settings. They explore the human condition under the backdrop of the supernatural. Fantasy narratives force us to confront the fact that even with magical powers and seemingly limitless might, humanity would still be humanity. All of this is in common with the phenomenon of Myth (which I will elaborate on below). There are two major differences regarding the purpose and role of Fantasy vis-a-vis Myth. The first answers the question of the purpose of Fantasy articulated by the fantasy author Ursula K. Le Guin,

“If it’s worth answering, the best answer is given by Tolkien, author, critic, and scholar. Yes, he said, fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape? The moneylenders, the know-nothings, the authoritarians have us all in prison; if we value the freedom of the mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can.”

Fantasy; then, is ultimately a form of escape from the realities and burdens of living. While the themes and narratives of the great fantasy novels intersect with the lived realities of the human experience, they are ultimately in service of that escape. The stories exist to give the reader a respite from the trials and tribulations of their daily lives. In this schema, fantasy becomes the release valve for one’s frustrations. Something that allows the individual to briefly exit their own problems and inhabit a fictional other’s. Maybe even to serve as a foil for our own frustrations and disappointments… “At least I’ve never been faced with an overbearing hungry man-eating dragon…”. The meaning-making in the realm of fantasy is secondary to the purpose of entertainment.

Myth on the other hand is meaning-making incarnate. Meaning first, entertainment second.

Myth uses the language and forms of Fantasy (or does Fantasy use the forms and language of Myth?) in order to convey a deeper meaning about the human condition. Good writing is in conversation with the foibles of humanity. Good Myth makes meaning out of it. And this is why I love the Torah, the Hebrew Bible, and Rabbinic Legend. They are each the exercise of Myth at its best.

Now some might be getting worried that I seem to be carelessly throwing around the idea of Mythology in relationship to Torah. Fantasy with History. Truth with Fiction. Those people might be right. And I know that they are; in part, wrong. For I am not convinced, as a rabbi or as a Jew, that the accounts and narratives in the Torah are historically accurate. I don’t have a time machine, nor do I want one. I am, on some level, envious of my fellow Jews who can believe that the text is the literal word of God handed to Moses at Sinai. But on the other hand, when I read that sacred document I can’t help but see the textual errors and discrepancies and ways in which multiple competing narratives, traditions, and polemics have been interwoven to create one of the greatest Mythologies of all time.

And yes, I would call the Torah/Hebrew Bible/Rabbinic Legends the Mythologies of the Jewish People, and argue that so should you. It is difficult to look at the competing creation narratives in Genesis 1-2 and 2-3 as anything other than different mythological cosmologies placed in quick succession. The language is fantastical and it is hard not read as a Myth. The two stories are also contradictory, making it difficult for someone to reconcile that both are the “historical truth”. That is not to say that there isn’t “Truth” to be found in Mythology. Quite the opposite, the power of Mythology is its ability to help us see the difficulties of the human condition and give us models on how to overcome them.

When we encounter Myth-As-Meaning, we open ourselves up to inhabiting our own problems in relation to a larger tradition. We recognize that despite the millenia between us and the genesis of that Myth, the human condition hasn’t really changed all that much. Sure, the tools have gotten better and living has gotten more complicated, but people have always been nothing more than people regardless of context.

I will add that it is precisely the sheer amount of time that these stories have been preserved and utilized in helping my people make sense of their place in the world that adds to the kedusha, the sacredness of the tradition for me. Torah (in its most expansive definition) has served as the lens through which the Jewish People have understood and found meaning throughout an incredibly turbulent history. There is meaning in the ways these Myths have sustained us. How they have nurtured us. How they have given us hope and helped us to find the meaninging in the some of the darkest moments of recorded human history. This isn’t just any mythology… it’s MY Mythology. It’s YOUR Mythology. It’s our yerusha, our inheritance. And that makes it sacred.

We need to reclaim Mythology as something more than Fantasy. While Fantasy serves as a form of escapism with the meaning almost incidental to the project, Myth uses the fantastical in order to help us make meaning of our stories today by connecting with the stories of the past. Myth should be less of a dirty word in the Jewish world, and more of something we speak about with pride.

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In fact, the word mitzvah probably would be properly translated as “commandment”. This is because the word seems to be a noun derived from the Hebrew root for “commanding”. And if that is the case we are left with a discrepancy between the way most modern non-Orthodox Jews conceive of mitzvah and what the term actually means.

For, the differences between a “commandment” and a “good deed” are far-reaching. A “good deed” is something that we do because it is objectively good to do. Because there is some ethical or moral or clearly positive outcome that can be derived from completing such an action. What’s more, a “good deed” is an action that ostensibly someone could opt-out of. Which is to say that a “good deed” is a indeed good thing to do, but it is not incumbent upon any individual to necessarily engage in such a task. To put it plainly, no one HAS to partake of a “good deed”, it is a choice as to whether someone wants to “do the right thing.”

Now while that might be technically correct regarding the mitzvot, it is should be noted that the term itself meaning “commandment” ought to shape our understanding and relationship to the concept. If we are to understand ourselves as commanded to engage in an act, how would that change our relationship to said action? This is where the modern frequently gets tripped up. A world in which there is clearly a Commander and Commandee, in which the fear of repercussions from NOT fulfilling the will of God are very real and salient; is a world in which feeling commanded makes sense.

So; then, what do us post-moderns do? What does the hyper rationalist do?

Does the humanist necessarily need to reduce mitzvah to a mere “good deed”?

No. In fact, there are so many more ways of understanding of the concept of mitzvah that reorient it towards meaning making, command, and commitment.

First I want to affirm that the literal meaning of the word mitzvah is “commandment.” My personal theology is complicated and overly/overtly obtuse. I struggle with the idea of a transcendent deity truly caring about whether or not I eat this or do/don’t do that. So for me the “command” comes not from “God” but from the tradition of my people. I understand that for some that reorientation is jarring and potentially disqualifying. And I know that for many, it will resonate truer than pretending otherwise.

If my feeling of “commandedness” comes from my commitment to the ways of my people, then each time I engage with a mitzvah I am actively affirming that commitment — that foundational relationship, that identity. In this conceptualization of mitzvah, I am not merely enacting a “good deed” or a “commandment”, I am enacting my identity. I am connecting to my identity.

That idea of “connection” is ultimately what religion is about. A phrase that I often find myself uttering while teaching is, “Spirituality is just a euphemism for connection.” To be human is to need connection. And Judaism, for all of its faults, has perfected the language and technology of Connection. We call a discrete unit of connection a mitzvah. In this schema the idea of mitzvah is transformed from a mere “good deed” or reduced to a “commandment;” rather, it is elevated to the action that drives connection. Judaism has given us quantifiable actions that are meant to further our connections and ability to cultivate them.

Not every mitzvah strengthens every dimension of relationship. That is why there are traditionally understood to be 613 of them. Each mitzvah offers us an opportunity to sustain and enhance one or two vectors of relationship. Traditionally there are two vectors of relationship pertaining to Mitzvot in Jewish thought. (I will propose that we add a third genre down below.) The first category of mitzvah is known as Mitzvot Bein Adam L’Chavero — the category of mitzvot between human beings. Or as I like to understand it, between humanity and our fellows. There are so many mitzvot in the Jewish tradition that teach us how to be good members of society and to reinforce social bonds. These are the mitzvot that Classical Reform affirmed as binding in their original outlining of Jewish practice. They form the foundation of “ethical monotheism” that serves as the bedrock of Western Society.

The second “flavor” of Mitzvot we find in traditional Jewish thought are known as Mitzvot Bein Adam L’Makom — or mitzvot that are between humanity and the Divine. These are the ones that are understood by moderns to be the “religious” or “observant” or “pious” actions. Think: Kashrut, Shabbat, Sacrificial System, etc… And these are frequently the hardest for post-modern folks to wrap our heads around. “Why should I observe this ancient cultic taboo? While I am a modern educated citizen of the world.” The answer that works for me personally is that this is the technology and God-language of my people that can be traced back millennia. Let that sink in. Jewish practice hasn’t changed much for 2000 years, AND there are parts that we can reliably trace back to even earlier. So by engaging in this dimension of mitzvah, I am not only seeking to engage with the Divine, which I most certainly am, but also with thousands of years of my ancestors in their own personal journeys to connect with and make sense of their place in the larger world.

I want to add one more vector of relationship or mitzvah that isn’t found in the traditional literature, but is becoming more and more apparent needs our attention in today’s context. That is the notion of Mitzvot Bein Adam L’Atzmo — or mitzvot between a human and themselves. While this doesn’t appear in the tradition, it is clear to me that one of the most important relationships a person can have is with themselves. That is not to say that we should only cultivate a self-dynamic, but it is also not to say that we should ignore ourselves. We have an obligation to take care of and nurture ourselves, AND, I would argue, many of the mitzvot that we have inherited from our tradition present us with opportunities for self affirmation and esteem.

These three vectors of Atzmo, Makom, V’Chavero — of understanding mitzvah as the discrete unit of connection in one or all three of them — is a helpful heuristic to unlocking the power of mitzvah. Yes, a mitzvah is a “good-deed” in so much as it is a “commandment”. It is a good idea, a good action to affirm connection and relationship, and we ought to find a sense of commanded-ness from our received tradition as it sustained and guided our people from time immemorial… AND a mitzvah is an action that can bring us closer to connection. Connection with God. Connection with Others. And Connection with ourselves and the people we strive to be…

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