Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the message that adulthood means seriousness. We become professionals. We carry responsibility. We lead. We teach. We show up for other people’s most vulnerable moments. Slowly, quietly, play begins to feel optional—childish, even indulgent.
Rabbis are not immune. In fact, rabbis may be especially vulnerable to this shift. We stand in front of communities and speak about weighty things—life and death, covenant and responsibility, justice and grief. We officiate funerals. We counsel families. We carry stories that are not light. It can begin to feel inappropriate to juggle.
And yet, Jewish tradition has never equated holiness with heaviness. The Torah commands us, “Ivdu et Adonai b’simcha”—serve God with joy (Psalm 100:2). Maimonides goes even further, teaching that experiencing joy in the performance of mitzvot is itself a form of sacred service (Mishneh Torah, Hilchot Lulav 8:15). Joy is not decoration. It is devotion.
One of the things I have loved most about being a rabbi is that I get to use all parts of myself—even my strange hobbies—as part of how I teach. I have juggled for Purim. I’ve taught juggling to children in the synagogue as a way of building focus and resilience. I’ve even unicycled through our social hall during a Hanukkah celebration. Not because it was gimmicky, but because it was alive. Those moments weren’t distractions from Jewish learning; they were Jewish learning.
When adults play, something important happens. Hierarchies soften. Ego loosens its grip. Creativity reenters the room. The nervous system resets. Laughter reconnects people who might otherwise stay guarded. And when rabbis play, something even more important happens: the community sees that growth includes joy, that leadership does not require stiffness, and that spiritual depth and lightness are not opposites.
Juggling, for me, is a form of sacred play. It requires focus, humility, and risk. You will drop the ball. You will look foolish. You will try again. It is serious practice wrapped in delight. In a world that is already heavy, withholding joy is not a virtue.
Adults need play because play reminds us we are still becoming. It keeps curiosity alive. It builds resilience. It trains flexibility. It restores perspective. And rabbis need play because our communities need to see that Judaism is not only about obligation—it is also about aliveness.
The question is not whether we have time to play. The question is whether we can afford not to.
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