Twelve years ago, long before I decided to dedicate my life to Jewish education, long before I chose to become a rabbi, I was a counselor for the oldest kids on camps. It was the hardest and most important job of my life.
It was the end of a long eight-week summer at Camp Ramah in the Poconos, and I sat in a gazebo with my Rosh Edah, my division head, in order to process the summer that was.
“I don’t feel like I was successful” I told him. “I don’t think that I transformed the campers into the leaders that I wanted them to be, the Jews that I dreamed they could be, the mensches that I know they can be. Instead,” I admitted, “I feel like I failed them – I was not the transformative educator that I thought I could be.”
My wise division head, now a rabbi himself, simply smiled and said, “You are an idiot.”
“If you think the job of Jewish education can be completed in just eight weeks, or twelve, or even in a year, then you simply do not understand the line of work that we are in.”
“This is not a job where you receive instant gratification,” he explained. “We must be in it for the long haul, and you will have to wait years, even decades, before you can determine whether or not this summer, and your role in it, was a success.”
Long ago someone had told me that Jewish education was like agriculture: you plant seeds in the soil and wait for them to sprout; some do and some do not. Sometimes, despite the right conditions, despite the constant watering and the endless patience of the farmer, the seed simply will not germinate. Other times you can ignore a corner of your field only to discover it later in full bloom. And like a farmer, all an educator can do is wait and wonder what the results of the latest season will be: feast or famine?
Perhaps the Jewish world is now ready to take this metaphor into the twenty-first century. If Jewish education is like agriculture then perhaps we should be ready to apply some of the scientific advances found in the world of farming to our mission as teachers of Torah. Perhaps we should commission soil studies in order to determine where the most fertile ground is to sow our seeds of study. Maybe we should explore ways of digging channels from large bodies of water - like Israel, New York, Chicago and Los Angeles - in order to irrigate the Jewish world that lies in between. Perhaps the time has come to explore subsidies that would help our Jewish educational institutions practice the art of their farming more effectively. If Jewish education is like agriculture, then I am proud to be a farmer – but a modern farmer, one who is willing to explore every available advantage that could allow for a greater, more consistent yield.
The truth is that I often think back to that summer twelve years ago and I think about those campers and where they are now. They are doctors, lawyers, and bankers. They are Jewish educators, artists, musicians and writers. Tragically, two of them are no longer with us: one, a lone soldier in the Israel Defense Forces, was killed in the line of fire in Lebanon, and the other was struck down by an indiscriminant Leukemia. The others are no longer anyone’s campers; instead they are Jewish adults who have celebrated, supported and mourned with one another for the past twelve years.
Just this past Thursday night I was with a few of these former campers at an event celebrating our camp and its past leadership. Suddenly one of them looked down at her phone and whispered some exciting news. “Dara had her baby,” she said, “It’s a girl!” Suddenly, I was transported back to that gazebo twelve years ago and to the wise words of my sage mentor: “You are an idiot.” It was only then that I finally realized that any serious Jewish educator must be a passionate and patient farmer – you can simply never know when the seeds of Torah will sprout.