People sometimes ask me how I became a rabbi who juggles. The honest answer is: I didn’t decide to combine two abstract identities. I discovered that they were the same kind of thing. Juggling is not something you believe in, it’s something you do. Judaism, at its best, works the same way.
When Mordecai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionism, described Judaism as an “evolving religious civilization,” he shifted the conversation away from static belief and toward lived practice. Judaism is not a frozen system of doctrines. It is a dynamic, embodied, communal process which grows as we grow. It changes as we change and lives because we live it.
In that sense, Judaism is a verb. You don’t “have” Judaism. You keep Shabbat, you study Torah, you show up for minyan, you argue, cook, mourn, celebrate and repair what is broken. The meaning isn’t stored in a book somewhere, instead it unfolds in action.
Juggling is no different. You can read about the three-ball cascade, and watch endless Youtube videos on how to do a trick, but nothing happens unless you try it yourself. At some point, you have to pick up three balls and begin. You have to throw, drop, adjust, try again. The knowledge lives in your hands.
There is something deeply Jewish about that. Judaism has always been sustained not by perfection but by repetition. There is daily, a Shabbat at the end of every week and holidays every year. Every time is a bit different and the rhythm matters more than flawless performance. In juggling, as in Jewish life, you will drop the ball. The question is not whether you drop it, but whether you pick it back up. That’s where growth happens.
Judaism emphasizes community as the center of Jewish life. Juggling workshops often reveal the same truth. When people are working on a project together, people laugh and struggle together and encourage each other if they make mistakes. No one needs to learn alone.
When I teach juggling in a synagogue, I’m not adding something foreign to Jewish life. I’m reminding us that Judaism has always been physical. We stand, bow, sing, dance with the Torah, build sukkot, light candles. We move and the body matters. Juggling simply makes that visible.
There’s also something honest about juggling-you can’t fake it! The balls tell the truth, and you can’t act like you know how to juggle if you can’t actually do it. You can talk all you want about juggling, but no one will be impressed if all you do is talk. And when you practice you have to always try to stay focused, and juggle with kavannah, with intention. You have to keep calm, and do you best to keep a pattern, otherwise everything will fall apart. And you have to not give up and keep practicing!
In so many ways, that’s good theology. Judaism doesn’t demand that we master everything at once, but it invites us to stay committed and keep learning, even it takes a long time and is difficult. As it says in Pirkei Avot, “It is not up to you to finish the task, but you are not free to avoid it” (Pirkei Avot 2:16). The Hebrew word for education, chinuch, shares a root with dedication., reminding us that we need to always rededicate ourselves to practice and grow, refining, adjusting and continuing to grow.
So yes, I’m a rabbi who juggles. But more than that, I’m someone who believes Judaism lives in the doing. And sometimes, the best way to understand that is to pick up three balls and begin.
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