Burnout Lessons: Finding Your Shofar, Finding Your Envelope

At the beginning of August I received multiple e-mails from colleagues and organizations, all urging me to read the same newspaper article. The New York Times had published a feature on clergy burnout, and many of my colleagues felt it was required reading for rabbis.

The reporter cited multiple studies, each more fascinating then the next. The Presbyterian Church found that since the 1970’s the number of ministers leaving their jobs during their first five years of work had quadrupled. The Evangelical Lutheran Church found that 13 percent of their ministers were taking antidepressants. And my favorite was a seven-year study at Duke University, of 1,726 Methodist ministers in North Carolina. Compared with congregants, the ministers reported significantly higher rates of arthritis, diabetes, high blood pressure and asthma. This study fascinated me. First of all, who knew there were 1,726 Methodist ministers in North Carolina? And more remarkably, it took the learned professors at Duke University a full seven years to learn something that every Jewish mother knows: being a Rabbi is “not a job for a Jewish boy!”

1. It Makes Sense

Clergy burnout is understandable. The work of rabbis, as well as teachers and organizational professionals, is community work, the hardest work in the world. It’s hard in any community, but in the Jewish community….oy!

Communal leadership is very difficult. Indeed Rashi famously quips that if you place the burden of communal leadership on someone’s shoulders, “they will disintegrate on their own”. The Rabbinate is not a job for a Jewish boy.

Twenty years ago, when I’d first started to attend rabbinic conventions, I’d listen to older colleagues talk about burnout and think they were crazy. What were they burnt out about? To me, being a Rabbi was such a thrill, such a privilege, that I planned to do it for free after I retired!

But now I understand those colleagues. I too am getting burnt out.

Now, I’m not embarrassed by burnout, because I know I’m in good company. For example, listen to what Moses says to God, after another one of the Jews complaints in the desert:

“Did I conceive all these people? Did I give them birth? Why do you tell me to carry them in my arms, as a nurse carries an infant..?”

I would say, Moses sounds burnt out!

Or listen to the words of Maimonides, in a letter to a student who wants to visit:

“I will write you my daily schedule:

I live in Fostat, and the Sultan lives Cairo. The distance between them is 4000 cubits [a mile and a half]. My duties to the Sultan are very heavy.…….by the time I come back to Fostat, half the day is gone. Under no circumstances do I come earlier. And I am ravenously hungry by then. When I come home, my foyer is always full of people – Jews and non-Jews, important people and not, judges and policemen, people who love me and people who hate me, a mixture of people, all of whom have been waiting for me to come home.... I apologize and ask that they should be kind enough to give me a few minutes to eat. That is the only meal I take in twenty-four hours…….Patients go in and out until nightfall, and sometimes – I swear to you by the Torah – it is two hours into the night before they are all gone. I talk to them and prescribe for them even while lying down on my back from exhaustion. …..On Shabbat, the whole congregation, or at least the majority of it, comes to my house after morning services, and I instruct the members of the community as to what they should do during the entire week. We learn together in a weak fashion until the afternoon. Then they all go home. Some of them come back and I teach more deeply between the afternoon and evening prayers…That is my daily schedule.”

Now, after writing all of this, Maimonides throws in the kicker:

“And I’ve only told you a little of what you would see if you would come”.

So I’m not alone in burnout. From Moses to Moses, burn out has been the Rabbi’s lot.

Rabbi’s are idealists, and they expect a lot of the world. And so we get disappointed all the time.
I can tell you that I am burnt out because I expected more.

I expected more of Jewish leaders. Today, there are entire blogs devoted to collecting news articles about the failings and foolishness of Jewish leaders and Rabbis. These misbehaving rabbis are my colleagues, and sometimes they are people I deeply respect. And so it hurts me personally, when I have to read about stupid rabbinic pronouncements: like the Rabbis who write a book advocating the murder of Arab babies, or the Rabbis insisting that parents in Lakewood should not call the police to report sexual abuse. Even worse are the scandals, the rabbis who make headlines for crimes ranging from shaking down hedge fund operators to sexually harassing students. Each scandal hurts, and each one makes me a bit more cynical.

I also expected more of the Jewish community. Teaching Judaism in North America feels like a Sisyphean task, like pushing a boulder up a hill with the boulder constantly rolling down again. We are assimilating rapidly; just look at the marriages page in New York Times on any given Sunday, and you can see how many of our children are marrying non-Jews. And then you turn to the other pages of the newspaper, and read about young Jews who are passionate opponents of the State of Israel. Even at Brandeis University, hundreds of students mobilized against a visit from the Israeli Ambassador. How is it that young Jews are sometimes Israel’s greatest enemies?

I also expected more from God. Sure, when I started in the rabbinate, I knew intellectually bad things happen to good people; after all, I had read the book of Job. But I had never seen with my own eyes the pain and suffering families endure. But now I have. How can you not question when you see good people suffer?

Some people have remarked to me that it must be “easier” now for me to deal with difficult funerals, considering I have twenty years of experience. Actually, the opposite is true. If you go to one tragic funeral, you imagine that this is the only one, and that it is a unique event that happens once in a lifetime. But if you go to ten tragic funerals, you have a terrible sinking feeling in your stomach, because you know full well that if there have been ten tragic funerals, there will be an eleventh too.

Yes, I’m disappointed in God. I’ve seen too much suffering, too much injustice.

I’m actually most disappointed in myself. I don’t feel comfortable talking publicly about my own soul and psyche, but suffice it to say, if I could go into a time machine and meet myself from twenty years ago, I think that in some ways, twenty-something Chaim would be disappointed. He would expect more of me as a Rabbi, husband, father and person.

I’m burned out and disappointed.

2. God is Also Disappointed

But burnout is not a rabbinic preserve. I won’t ask for hands, but I’d bet most of the people in this room 40 and older have also been burnt out. In our twenties, we have an ideal vision of life, and then life turns that vision upside down. We all get disappointed, and then we get burnt out.

But the disappointed among us are not alone. Truth is, God is disappointed every day. The Talmud in Avodah Zara says that during “the second three hours of the day God sits in judgment on the whole world, and when He sees that the world is so guilty as to deserve destruction, He transfers Himself from the seat of Justice to the seat of Mercy”. Remarkably enough, God is so disappointed in humanity every day, He wants to destroy the world.

And if God is overwhelmed by the daily judgment, imagine what happens on Rosh Hashanah!!

And if God is always disappointed by judgment, today must be God’s day of disappointment!!

Wouldn’t God be burnt out by now?

3. Find Your Shofar

But the lesson of this Talmudic passage is that disappointment is daily part of life, and a fixed part of the universe, from God on down. Even so, God manages to find a way to get over his disappointment. The lesson is that even when things don’t measure up, don’t get disappointed. There is always a good reason to love life; all you have to do is find your shofar.

Consider this Midrash in Vayikra Rabbah. It says that the moment God hears the shofar on Rosh Hashanah, He moves from the throne of justice to the throne of mercy.

How does the shofar affect such a dramatic change?

I think the answer is that when God listens to the shofar He sees a different side of humanity. The ram’s horn is a symbol of the akeidah, a permanent reminder of Abraham’s willingness to say “Hineni”, I am ready. Abraham stood ready to sacrifice everything until the last moment, when God allowed Abraham to sacrifice a ram instead.

And even if God sees all of the stupid and petty things man has done, God remembers that when the chips are down, man can say “Hineni”, “I am ready”, just like Abraham did.

When the chips are down, we aren’t all that disappointing.

There are times we feud, yes…but there also the times when we run to the hospital and mend old rifts. (But why does it have to wait for the hospital though?)

And although the Jewish people seem to be falling off the edge of a cliff, whenever the chips are down, Jews have always found a way to survive. 65 years ago, after the Shoah, we managed to survive, and even thrive. Think of the survivors in 1945, emaciated, broken and battered. Yet three years later these very same survivors are in Israel, fighting in the War of Independence.

And for myself, I can look back at one or two things I've done, and say that if my entire career had been for this one thing it would have been worth it.

When we are burnt out, we need to do what God does, and go grab our shofar and see the best side of our community, ourselves, and of the Jewish future. When the chips are down, we see who we really are; and remarkably, we’re usually a lot better than we thought we were!

4. Why Does He Want to Be Disappointed?

But grabbing a shofar is not enough.

The strange thing about disappointment is that it seems to be part of God’s plan. In the Talmudic text we cited, it says that God gets disappointed every day. In the Midrash we cited, it says God is disappointed every Rosh Hashanah. And indeed, Rashi cites a Midrash that says that even during creation, God wanted to create a world that would withstand judgment, only to realize that it was impossible.

So I have a simple question; why does God keep disappointing Himself? If at the very beginnings he knew that the world would come up short when judged, why does he keep trying to judge the world? Isn’t it exhausting?

It may be exhausting, but it’s worth it. A failed judgment reminds us to come home again. Judging ourselves reminds us of who we really are. All of us start with a dream – a plan, no different than God’s. We have high hopes. But we get sidetracked and lost.

Being a good spouse gets lost because we’re too distracted.

Being a good parent gets lost because we’re too busy.

Having good values get lost because we’re too ambitious.

The road map gets lost. We forget who we are.

And so we need to judge ourselves, to be disappointed, if only to remind ourselves of the original plan, of who we wanted to be, who we were supposed to be, and in a sense who we really are. Disappointment leads us back home, and reminds us of our ideals and goals.

Rav Soloveitchik explains that Teshuva, repentance, is a way of recovering our true selves. Sin is a by-product of getting lost chasing foolish dreams and trivial goals. Teshuva is returning back to our true identity. He writes:

“While, in sin, man misidentifies and alienates himself from himself, in the case of Teshuva he reverses the process of misidentification: he discovers himself, and "returns" to his true self.”

Burnout is our soul’s way of telling us to come home again; and on this holiday of disappointment, we need to remember to come home, to do Teshuva, and get back to our true selves.

Or, if I can put it another way, we need to find our envelope.

5. Find Your Envelope

Let me explain.

Dr. David Pelcovitz visited Montreal a few months ago and told a powerful story about a 9 year old girl. The girl’s mother had encouraged her to volunteer by visiting an elderly lady who had lost most of her eyesight. One day, while chatting with the young girl, the elderly lady explained that she could recover her eyesight if she would have a small operation; but because she was an older woman on a fixed income, she lacked the resources to pay for this expensive procedure. Inspired to action, the girl went home and told her mother that she was going to do a fundraiser to pay for the elderly woman’s operation. The mother smiled at her daughter’s good intentions, but assumed, like most parents, that her daughter’s naive dream would soon disappear.

The next day, the girl goes to school and begins to raise money. She goes from class to class, from teacher to teacher, and at the end of the day, after all the change had been exchanged into bills, the girl had a grand total of 83 dollars. She took the thick envelope stuffed with singles, and visited her elderly friend. Not knowing much about contemporary medical economics, the girl announced to her elderly friend that she had raised the money for the operation! So, the young girl and the elderly woman took a short walk over to the local Ophthalmologist’s office.

The doctor examines the elderly woman, and says yes, she is a candidate for the procedure, and he can do it right away. At that point, the young girl chirps in and says that she will pay for the procedure, and produces the envelope with the 83 dollars.

The doctor does the operation.

The girl comes home, and reports to her mother the day’s events. The mother is mortified; she assumes that her daughter has somehow misled the doctor. She runs to the doctor’s office to apologize, and to negotiate a way to pay him the balance. As the mother starts to talk , the doctor cuts her off in middle, and opens his jacket. In his inside pocket is the envelope, stuffed with singles; he had not put the cash away. He tells the mother that this envelope was far more precious to him than money; this envelope reminded him of goodness of humanity, of the goodness of a nine year old girl, and why he became a doctor in the first place.

Today, all of us have to find the envelope in the pocket. We need to remember who we really are. The envelope, our inner goodness, is always there, waiting to be rediscovered.

When we’re burnt out, when we are disappointed in who we have become, all we have to do today is grab a shofar, and find our envelope.

We can always find our shofar, and take pride that when the chips are down we will respond to the call of hineni.

And one day, when we get too lost in our ambitions, a little girl will come to our office with envelope, an envelope that reminds us of who we really are.

Shanah Tova!!

Chelsea, Marc and the Jewish Problem

One hundred years ago it would have been impossible, for a Jew would never have been considered an appropriate match for the daughter of the President of the United States; and one hundred years ago it would have been improbable, because very few Jews would have married out of the faith.

But 2010 is not 1810 or 1910. The news media yawned when Chelsea Clinton married Marc Mezvinsky in a ceremony that featured a tallit and sheva brachot, a Rabbi and a Minister. Jews have thoroughly integrated into American society, and as a result bigotry is scarce and intermarriage common.

But for Jewish pundits, the Clinton-Mezvinsky wedding is a religious Rorschach test. Each pundit gazes into this intermarriage, and sees their own reflection. For some Jews, the Clinton-Mezvinsky wedding is actually a source of pride, a sign Jews have truly arrived. Others fret, wringing their hands and issuing jeremiads about how the Jewish community has failed. Orthodox polemicists blame the failure of the Liberal movements, outreach professionals blame the community’s failure at outreach, and Zionists see this intermarriage as indicative of the failure of Diaspora Judaism. Hundreds of op-eds and sermons have been devoted to dissecting this intermarriage and agonizing about the contemporary “Jewish problem”, a crisis of assimilation and indifference.

Many of these pundits make compelling cases, but I can’t help feeling like they’re all missing the point. Assimilation isn’t occurring because Judaism has failed; it’s occurring because all institutions, including Judaism, are declining. As David Brooks has pointed out, institutional thinking has eroded across the board, in schools and sports, in businesses and in banks. Respect for and devotion to institutions is disappearing.

Today’s mindset is profoundly individualistic. Every practice is evaluated by one simple criterion: “what’s in it for me?”. By contrast, institutional thinkers approach their institutions with a profound feeling of reverence and responsibility. Brooks quotes political scientist Hugh Heclo, who writes that “institutionalists see themselves as debtors who owe something, not creditors to whom something is owed.” Institutionalists are extremely uncommon nowadays.

Simply put, intermarriages occur when the institution of Judaism becomes a secondary concern, superseded by one’s individual needs. And since individualism is the order of the day, few can justify passing up true love in order to respect a millennia old tradition.

Some Rabbis have tried to repackage Judaism into user-friendly parcels in order to make it more appealing in an age of individualism. They have offered Jewish wisdom about leadership and family, and even tips on kosher sex. I use this approach myself, and it certainly helps make Judaism more relevant and meaningful. But ultimately, this approach will fail as a weapon against assimilation, because in our zeal to make every Jewish practice useful and beneficial, we have actually undercut the very foundations of Judaism. Judaism is founded on a sense of duty; we fast on Yom Kippur, even though it’s uncomfortable; we circumcise babies even though it’s painful. We do so because Judaism is a transcendent institution that we revere.

Abraham, the founding father of Judaism, proudly announced “Hineni- I am ready”; he was ready to sacrifice for any and all of God’s demands. And throughout history, Jews have been willing to put Jewish destiny before individual interests. Until now. With a deeply individualistic zeitgeist blowing by us, who knows if there will still be Jews who will proclaim “Hineni” at the end of the 21st century.

(But in the end, things are not so bleak. for a more optimistic continuation of this article, read this.)

A Lost Joy

We are lucky enough to live in the lottery winner of civilizations. Our standard of living eclipses that of previous generations. Dreaded illnesses have been banished forever, and life expectancy has gone up by thirty years in the last century. Luxuries that were inconceivable fifty years ago are now the birthright of the middle class.

The past was a lot different. People in my parent’s generation grew up in a world of wars, financial depressions, and inferior medical care. These difficulties shaped their lives and left their scars. One man I knew, who had no money as a child, remained a miser long after he had achieved exceptional wealth. Another survivor I knew, traumatized by the hunger he endured, left caches of food and money all around his house. Adversity leaves a bitter imprint, tattooing antique worries into our hearts.

Thankfully, today we live in an era of exceptional abundance and tranquility; my kids have been vaccinated against a slew of afflictions, will never be drafted into the army, and generally worry most about if and when they will be getting a new electronic gadget.

Every day, we must remind ourselves to appreciate these remarkable blessings, and thank God for our bounty. But for the most part, there is one blessing our generation has been denied: the joy of triumph.

A true triumph is when one has overcome existential challenges. Alongside the painful memories of suffering lies a fierce pride, a profound self-respect built on courage and determination.

One woman I knew, who was disabled as a child by polio, refused to allow her disability to define her life. She lived a life of courage, determination and love, and served as inspiration to a multitude of people, including myself. She had become the exceptional person she was despite her difficulties, but also because of them; she had passed life’s tests. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch writes that the Hebrew word for test, “nissah” is related to the Hebrew word to raise up, “nasso”. This is because a test is not meant to merely be endured, but rather to raise one up to a higher plane. And there is nothing sweeter than passing life’s tests.

Today, one can observe the joy of triumph at select celebrations such as weddings. The grandparents or great grandparents speak a European accented English, and simultaneously have a tear and a twinkle in their eyes. They are graduates of university of life, and sometimes have a six digit diploma tattooed on their arms. They tell you that the bride is named after a sister who didn’t make it, and then they ask you to make a l’chaim, a toast, to the future of the young couple. This toast is different than any other toast, because it has a message of determination that says: “damn you Hitler, we’re still here”. And as you raise your glass, you realize that the smile on the grandfather’s face is unique: it’s the smile of triumph.

Those of us who have lived privileged North American lives will never experience that smile, because a test free life is a triumph free life. That's how it should be, because God forbid, no one should ever desire the anguish of tests; and in the end, far too many fail their tests. Indeed, if you asked the smiling grandparent at the wedding, they’d tell you their deepest wish is for all of us to live lives of peace and tranquility.

No, we will never know the joy of triumph. But if we look in the right places, for a few fleeting moments, we too can share that smile of triumph, a triumph earned by blood, sweat, and tears.

My New Hero

I don't even know my new hero's name. She isn't a famous movie star or a politician. Actually, I’ve only met my hero once, serving coffee at the Second Cup where she works.

But she's my hero anyway, because like all heroes, this big hearted barista had a mission: to put a smile on everyone's face. I had run into her cafe hurried and stressed, looking for a quick caffeine fix between meetings; and to be honest, like most other customers, I was a lot less congenial than I should have been. Yet this woman accepted my order gracefully, and with just a few kind words managed to make me smile. This hero had made a difference in my day; and she certainly makes a daily difference in the lives of her customers as well.

Now, calling this cheerful coffee salesclerk a “hero” might seem like a gross exaggeration to you; but I am dead serious about what I’m saying. Yes, I’m sure you agree with the Mishna in Pirkei Avot that we should greet people with a pleasant face; after all, that’s how our mothers raised us. But frankly, there’s a lot more than manners at stake here.

Smiles are in short supply nowadays. People are far more busy and stressed than they were fifty years ago. (Why that is is a topic for another time). Socially, we are cut off from everyone except for those who are closest to us. True “neighbourhoods”, where people actually know their neighbours, no longer exist. Even in the suburbs, people are unable to name most of their neighbours; people may live next door to each other, but they aren’t next door neighbours. We have retreated into well insulated cocoons, entertained by the flickering screens of the electronic age, communicating virtually with virtually everyone, but truly knowing virtually no one. True community spirit, with a sense of being connected to those who surround us, has disappeared nearly everywhere.

Along with the collapse of community has come the collapse of civility. There’s simply no time to say hello; after all, we have to get down to business. People chatter away on cellphones while standing on line, and the polite banter of strangers only occurs when two people are simultaneously between calls. E-mail is even worse; the linguistic structure of e-mail has the ambience of firefighters shouting to each other during a four alarm fire. Greetings, even first names, are omitted, leaving only a blunt request, sometimes delivered in caps, demanding of us to “CALL JIM NOW”. Frankly, we are stretching the social fabric a bit too thin, and we are witnessing an epidemic of grumpiness.

And grumpiness makes a difference. I remember being stunned when a former Member of Parliament, discussing his life in politics, told me that at times legislation, even the course of governments, are deeply affected by the moods of the leaders. A Prime Minister arrives one morning in foul mood because he had a fight with his wife, and all of a sudden, initiatives are upended, ministers are demoted. Grumpiness is not just a mood; it can change history. And much like the famed “butterfly effect”, (that a butterfly flapping its wings can change to course of the weather) a simple lack of civility can have far reaching consequences as well.

And that’s why this barista is my hero. By putting a smile on the faces of her customers, she has pushed back against the impolite and impersonal. And with her cheerful countenance, she has made difference; after all, even one smile can create a hurricane of kindness.

What a Peace Activist Should Want

(Rally Speech 6-7-10)

I am also a peace activist.

I pray for peace every day, three times a day. In the daily prayer we say the words “Sim Shalom”, asking God for world peace.

I dream of peace, just like Isaiah dreamt,

וכתתו חרבותם לאתים וחניתותיהם למזמרות

“They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks”.

And I hope for peace, much like Yitzchak Rabin hoped for peace when he said to Yasser Arafat on the White House lawn on September 13, 1993:

“We say to you today in a loud and a clear voice: Enough of blood and tears. Enough.”

And like Isaiah and Yitzchak Rabin, I too dream of peace.

I’m also a peace activist.

But I have some questions for the "peace activists" who were traveling with the "Freedom Flottilla".

Why do you ignore the plight of the Muslim Uigers in western China?

Why do you ignore the Fur, Zaghawa, and Masalit tribes in the Darfur region in Sudan?

Why do you ignore the plight of the pro-democracy movement in Iran, where students are getting slaughtered in the streets of Tehran?

And why is it that you couldn’t bring a measly little package to Gilad Shalit, who has sat for nearly 4 years in captivity without a visit from the Red Cross or a family member?

And why is it that when Jewish blood flows in the streets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, when rockets rain down on Sderot, you, the "peace activists" are silent?

And why is it that as Mahmoud Ahmadinejad builds a nuclear bomb to destroy Israel, you say nothing?

And why is it that whenever someone talks about peace, it must be at the expense of Israeli lives?

My dear “peace activists”, this is the key to understanding the situation in Gaza. Read Hamas’ charter, and then compare it with Israel’s declaration of independence.

The Hamas charter says:

"Israel will exist and will continue to exist until Islam will obliterate it”

“The stones and trees will say O Muslims, O Abdulla, there is a Jew behind me, come and kill him.”

And the Hamas Charter quotes the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a horrific anti-Semitic forgery that has caused Jews so much suffering the last century.

On the other hand, Israel’s declaration of independence offers peace to the surrounding nations. It says:

WE EXTEND our hand to all neighbouring states and their peoples in an offer of peace and good neighbourliness, and appeal to them to establish bonds of cooperation and mutual help with the sovereign Jewish people settled in its own land.

Indeed, it’s the only Declaration of Independence in the world to make an offer of peace!

AND THIS COMPARISON TELLS THE ENTIRE STORY – WHAT DOES HAMAS REALLY WANT, AND WHAT DOES ISRAEL REALLY WANT!!

Now, another question for the “peace activists” around the world: why is it that Israel is assumed to be guilty until proven innocent? That until videos and photos from the Mavi Marmara were revealed, all of the “peace” community assumed the worst about Israel, assumed the worst about the one democracy that actually treasures human rights in the Middle East?

Why was there a rush to judgment, eventually overturned when the videotape was revealed?

And indeed, “peace activists” in this very city, gathered two days ago to criticize the Government of Canada for not rushing to judgment.

These “peace activists” came to criticize Canada, and show their support for Hamas.

Well, as a Canadian and a peace activist, I want to say that I take pride in the Canadian government. I’m proud of her support of Israel.

Yes, I am also a peace activist, but I want a true and just peace.

I deeply want to see the Palestinians live in peace and prosperity….. but I also want Israelis to be able to live in peace in their ancient homeland.

I want Israelis to wake up in the morning, and not worry about Kassams and Katuyshas and suicide bombers.

I want a Middle East without terror, a Middle East with true peace.

I too say: Enough of blood and tears. Enough.”

And enough of Ahmadinejad and Hamas and Hezbollah.

It’s time for true peace in the Middle East.

What’s Your #ish?

No, that’s not a typo. #ish is a word, or at least it’s word-ish. #ish is actually a marketing invention, an amalgam of a hashtag, (a secret symbol comprehensible only to users of “social media” like twitter), and the funnier sounding half of the word Jewish. “What’s your #ish?” is the slogan of a $300,000 Jewish Federations of North American marketing campaign aimed at 18-35 year olds. Armed with a trendy tagline and comically offbeat video, this cutting edge marketing campaign invites young Jews to offer serious and silly descriptions of their “#ish”, the essence of their connection to Judaism.

Despite the comic ambience of this campaign, no question could be more serious. Jews need to know why they should be Jewish. This question is THE question, and needs to be discussed by everyone, from husbands and wives to parents and children, to the board of directors at every Federation in North America

But in many ways, this question is a sad question; or to be more precise, a serious question that gets too many absurd answers. I know this campaign is meant to elicit comic, tongue in cheek banter; at the same time it’s still distressing to consider that for many Jews, Jewish identity has been trivialized down to an absurd caricature, and a proud spiritual tradition has been reduced to a series of kitschy icons: Bubbies, corned beef, Woody Allen, Yiddish and Jewish jokes.

The Jewish community has done an awful job articulating “what’s our #ish?”. Instead of embracing a serious Jewish mission, we have poured our energies and philanthropic dollars into building nostalgia based cultural institutions. We forget that Judaism is not the “shvitz”, and not a pastrami sandwich, and not a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Yes, Judaism is more than lox, bagels and Woody Allen; it is a proud intellectual and spiritual tradition. Judaism is more than a hashtag, it’s a mission.

That Judaism is a mission is the fundamental idea embraced by serious Jews of every stripe, from the Jewish Socialist to the Ultra-Orthodox Chassid. (What exactly that mission is, is another story!). And Jews have made significant sacrifices throughout the ages to pursue this mission. When Abraham is asked by God to wander in search of his destiny, it was not in order to find a better cholent recipe or a good joke.

Well then, what’s my #ish? I’d like to answer with a story. (How Jewish is that!).

Dr. Rick Hodes has been doing a heroic job serving the JDC in Ethiopia for the last twenty years. One day, a young Muslim woman, Merdya Abdisa, comes in with a tumor the size of an orange around her eye. Hodes sends her file to leading surgeons around the world, but they all say it's impossible to operate on her. One day while visiting Minneapolis, Dr. Hodes overslept, and arrived at the synagogue just after services. The Rabbi was still there, studying with another man.

After praying, Dr. Hodes chatted with the Rabbi and his student. As it turns out the student was a doctor, with the precise specialty needed to do Merdya’s surgery. After showing the doctor, Eric Nussbaum, pictures of the young girl, Dr. Nussbaum said: 'I'd love to try to help this lady.'". A short time later Merdya was in Minneapolis having her tumor removed.

This story is a classic Jewish saga. It includes Torah, prayer, Jewish doctors and a Rabbi.

Most importantly, this story is about the Jewish mission, the profound desire to change the world, from Ethiopia to Minnesota.

And that’s my #ish.

The Zero Dollar Solution to the Jewish Continuity Problem