We are an unlikely group to have come together to study permaculture at the Hava v’Adam ecological farm and education center near Modi’in in Israel. Ten participants, mostly Americans, ranging in age from 20 to 31, cover quite a lot of ground within the spectrum of what it can mean to be Jewish: We are unaffiliated, religious and in-between; we are Modern Orthodox, Conservative, and nondenominational; Sephardic and Ashkenazic. Two arrived planning to make aliyah, while for others, this five-month Eco-Israel apprenticeship program is their first experience in this country. Two have one Jewish parent and were raised Catholic. My dome-mate — we live in geo-domes on the farm made of wood and canvas — was born to a Moroccan Muslim father and a Jewish mother who converted to Catholicism. She is exploring her Jewish roots through this experience. From the start, our common interest in the environment and sustainability was more apparent than a sense of shared Jewishness.

Originally derived from “permanent (agri)culture,” permaculture is a design system and philosophy modeled after nature’s systems, applied not just to physical landscapes but to social structures and community life as well. An integral concept in permaculture design is the “edge effect” — the interaction at the borders between separate niches. The edges are where things happen. Transition zones in nature, where edges meet, are the most active, productive, and stable due to their biodiversity. For instance, plants that grow at the edges of a pond attract fish to feed and breed there, so designing a wavy shape to the pond rather than a circular one maximizes the edge, leading to a more active habitat. Strong ecosystems result when the borders that make up an edge are distinct yet permeable.

The “edge effect” has parallel results when applied to the design of the Eco-Israel community. Our interdependence as a functioning community on the farm requires that our “edges” are constantly in contact. Continuous interaction among the structures we’ve incorporated to support this exchange have strengthened our productivity on farm projects as well as our personal and spiritual growth. Weekly “talking circles” focus on honest and constructive communication. A rotation of communal chores holds the group accountable to maintain the needs of both farm and community. During “skill-shares,” individuals teach yoga, text study, or fermentation. Each of us is developing our own niche as part of this small ecosystem through the process of defining and negotiating our constantly fluctuating borders.

Planning our first Shabbat together was full of edge. Some had specific requests of the group, while others were unfamiliar with Shabbat and felt overwhelmed and alienated by restrictions. Most controversial was the request to leave the bathroom light on overnight, which many felt was counter to the ecological values the farm upholds. The quest for middle ground between seemingly conflicting values led to meaningful conversations and creative solutions. Such interactions pulled and pushed at my edges. Through interaction with others who hold a diverse set of Jewish traditions, I have developed a deeper appreciation for what makes my sense of Jewishness and my upbringing — in a Conservative egalitarian context among (relatively) like-minded friends and family — distinct. In this way, negotiation of the edge helps to further define the niches on all sides. By engaging others, I am learning who I am.

Three months in, challenges continue to arise, but there is a sense of openness to the influence of others. Our individual edges are active, but they reflect our progress toward a stable system with less friction and smoother communication. For example, during a recent “talking circle,” one person — who upon arrival expressed frustration with traditional religious observance — shared a powerful experience that inspired him to explore regular prayer. Midsentence, one of the most observant members of the group casually leaned his head on another’s shoulder. I was struck by the marked openness in the dialogue and warm physical interaction. How had their once-closed edge become so permeable?

Taking responsibility for the daily function of our farm engenders a sense of shared purpose and requires cooperation. Baking and breaking bread together, watching seedlings grow into full heads of lettuce, maintaining compost toilets, celebrating rain — living side by side as we do — a natural osmosis occurs. The other dimension of effective edge, however, is the intentional quality of our community. Through course work, informal conversations, and rituals, we wrestle with the meaning of Jewish identity and our common history and heritage. We have found a context for permaculture concepts within Judaism’s roots as an agricultural religion. The way brakhot reference the source of food growth aligns with permaculture’s emphasis on whole system awareness. Celebrating the harvest festival of Sukkot takes on greater significance when we have a literal harvest to celebrate. Through a framework that integrates the two, the Jewish tradition enriches our shared permaculture; and through permaculture, we discover a richness in Judaism. As a result, we carve out a place within Judaism that we can inhabit together, at least for five months.

Edge can be found in endless areas of contemporary Jewish life: religious and secular, Jews and non-Jews, Israel and Diaspora. These dichotomies don’t exist only between groups in society; there are edges within each of us. As complex and contradictory beings, we struggle to find wholeness and integration among disparate parts of ourselves. Whether we are trying to hold onto contradictions as individuals, or at the level of family, community, or beyond, meaningful interaction at the edge helps to develop and define that which is unique and distinct. Maximizing edge helps us to recognize and value our niches in order to form a sustainable whole that is greater than any sum of its parts.

Nearly four years ago, I set out to create a new Jewish community in Seattle that would appeal to young adults and families. As founders of the Kavana Cooperative, we quickly found ourselves grappling with the fundamental question of what organizational model to use. Over the last few decades, Jewish religious communities have been organized around one of two paradigms: a conventional synagogue model (oriented around formal worship, rabbinic leadership, and a physical space) or the do-it-yourself model of havurot and (more recently) independent minyanim.

Each of these models had serious limitations for our community in Seattle. The synagogue model felt too top-down; the do-it- yourself models either relied on a cadre of very knowledgeable lay leaders or risked compromising quality and content. How could we create a community that coupled the sense of engagement sparked by local, grass-roots communities with the professional support and infrastructure provided by synagogue communities? Drawing on preschool and grocery store co-ops for inspiration, we decided to build our Jewish community around a cooperative model.

The Kavana Cooperative has emerged as a dynamic community that reflects the interests, expertise, and commitments of its constituents. People who join become “partners” in the cooperative and commit to attending on a regular basis, making a significant financial contribution each year and taking on a volunteer role/job. Kavana’s programming is creative because it is generated by partners, and, in the co-op spirit, participants are often called upon to pitch in at events.

Our success suggests a paradoxical phenomenon critical for re-engaging a younger generation of Jews. Demanding more, rather than less, of participants is a key ingredient for engaging those who feel alienated from existing Jewish communities. The cooperative model empowers partners to become “producers” rather than “consumers” of their own Jewish life. In order for this model to work, leaders must be willing to relinquish some control over the community’s religious orientation and embrace a pluralistic spirit. But it is precisely the promise of nourishing our partners’ diverse journeys so they can take ownership of their Jewish lives that makes the cooperative model so compelling.

When we founded Brooklyn Jews in 2003, it was in recognition that the vast numbers of young Jews moving into our neighborhood were not joining synagogues; they were, though, voicing a desire to be connected to Jewish life. Our gatherings from 2003 to 2006 — when l became senior rabbi at the 150-year-old Reform synagogue Congregation Beth Elohim (CBE) — were home-based and depended significantly on virtual communication. Blogging and emailing were among the most significant modes of engagement. We were “out there.”

Moving “in-there” to the synagogue became a natural next step. The night before deciding to apply for the rabbinic job at CBE, I gathered together a number of friends to reflect on the changes and help me decide what to do. Together, we had built Brooklyn Jews. Our children were growing up and a new, younger set in their 20s were moving into Brooklyn. It was time to adapt. We could auction off the Brooklyn Jews name and idea to someone else; we could let it go into the world and be reinvented, which would send an important message about not “owning” the idea of Jewish continuity, but merely being a privileged participant in its developing reality. We could buy a building in Park Slope and move toward becoming an institution, which would require incredible financial resources and create a statement about the presumed “failure” of traditional synagogues to adequately engage a younger generation. Or, we could join CBE, grow the congregation, and make the case that the synagogue, the enduring institution of Jewish life for the past 2,000 years, was the most worthy of our attention and devotion.

We chose the third option, which has come with great rewards and some interesting challenges. The rewards are clear: Serving a community rooted in eternal values of Torah learning, prayer and spirituality, and acts of lovingkindness is the most fulfilling work I can imagine as a rabbi. Bridging perceived generational gaps in the Jewish community is also deeply valuable work. The digital age has only increased the silo effect of microcommunities of interest engaging in their own internal dialogues. Having a stage in the community — which is possible in Brooklyn — to assemble actors from across the spectrum is a vision of Sinai we are meant to practice.

Community organizing principles — reaching people where they are and redefining Reform Judaism as more openly pluralistic — are key. One of the strongest spiritual minyanim that meets is the indie-minyan, Alt-shul. Participants are mostly non-members in their 20s and 30s, fully traditional, yet representative of a kind of spiritual hunger that Reform Judaism doesn’t fulfill. But they have raised money for the shul, repaired a Torah, and joined us at our holiday celebrations. Their presence is one of the many quiet engines driving change in Jewish life. We maintain an open engagement with the neighborhoods around the shul by running twice-monthly Shabbat programs in the homes of nonmembers, which is both a Jewish service and a recruitment tool for further engagement in synagogue life (and supported by grants from the Samuel Bronfman and Charles H. Revson foundations). Additionally, the programming we developed at Brooklyn Jews — arts, films, and fun, as well as musical early-childhood education where parents are learning alongside kids — has become the normative model for our new community. We take it as a given that Jewish life should be fun.

The last challenge, I believe, is not unique to the indie-minyan movement. It is merely the question of ownership and financial obligation. The movement for the revitalization of Jewish life has relied too heavily on making everything free while Judaism has endured, paradoxically, as a tradition of moral and ethical obligation. Teaching a new generation to feel an obligation to support Jewish life is a challenge faced by every generation, and we seem to have found a fairly simple formula: greater ownership, greater support. Having children helps, along with being relevant to the broader cultural tropes of politics and arts. Between 2006 and today, our synagogue membership has grown from 508 to 740 families. That we are so blessed to be growing in this way is a hopeful testimony to what can happen when synagogues open their doors, allow for multiple points of entry, and create opportunities for more Torah, more acts of lovingkindness, and fun.

Decisions about which practices, beliefs, and values will be part of one’s Jewish identity are today — more than at any other time — in one’s own hands, and this is having a considerable impact on Jewish education. An increasing number of options now exist for those seeking Jewish learning outside of established settings like synagogues. Private tutoring, online resources, social networking, and alternative educational programs make it possible to gather information and make decisions about one’s religious life without affiliating with a particular community or adhering to a single authority.

Some who “opt-out” of mainstream educational institutions do so in order to accommodate conflicting demands on their schedules; for others, the decision to “do-it-oneself” may be motivated by high fees for membership, unresponsive leadership, or frustration with Jewish learning experiences that are not up to the standards of excellence that a sophisticated Jewish population demands. While private tutoring should, by definition, provide personal attention, an individualized approach that responds to the specific needs of each student and offers opportunities for self-guided research and discovery is also characteristic of excellent classroom settings. As well, classroom learning should expose children and their families to a range of opinions, enable belonging amid plurality, and provide opportunities for participation in intergenerational communities of practice. It may be challenging to ensure that these types of experiences occur outside of communal settings.

A vibrant Jewish education is simultaneously conservative and expansive: It is concerned with the transmission and perpetuation of existing ways of living, while at the same time it seeks to enable the future flourishing of Jewish life through innovation. Educators must therefore be expert in making relevant what is ancient while also grounding contemporary sensibilities in tradition. Decisions about the content of lessons shape the learner’s conceptions of authentic Jewish practice and the norms for communal participation. For good or ill, institutions typically have leaders that have the authority to make determinations of how and where to draw these lines and staff that are held accountable for their implementation. Where individuals or groups are “doing it themselves,” outside of institutional frameworks, distinctions may begin to blur between leaders and participants, creators and consumers, and funders and beneficiaries. While this might foster greater empowerment and shared accountability, it can also lead to curricular decisions based less on a careful consideration of communal concerns than on personal preference. We should require of our educators evidence of expertise, even if not in such traditional forms as accreditation or titles, and empower them with the authority to insist on commitments to practice that are grounded in tradition and communal engagement.

Parents are the primary Jewish educators in the lives of their children, implicitly and explicitly shaping their beliefs, practices, and attitudes about Jewish living through their own behaviors. When parents prioritize other extracurricular activities over Jewish studies or have a “drop-off” approach to their child’s schooling, children are likely to internalize the message that Jewish learning is of little importance. In households with fewer connections to Jewish community or less participation in ritual observances, it is essential that Jewish education involve enculturation within viable expressions of communal Jewish life. Teachers and tutors must not only model the values and practices that they teach, but also must enable students to experiment with and commit to the performance of those practices.

Whether we are working in institutional settings or outside of them, we should share a concern with effectively educating an increasingly diverse Jewish population with wide-ranging needs. Our common agenda must include recruiting and training creative and skilled teachers, developing engaging and useful curricular resources, and guiding individuals and families to make personal meaning out of the wealth of information and experiences to which they have access. To maximize the potential for both personal and communal growth, we should determine what kinds of learning experiences are best done individually and what in collaboration with others. For example, learning to chant from the Torah involves rote memorization that may be suited to computer gaming or forms of private study, but meaningful examination of the multifaceted meanings of a Torah portion requires engaging in discourse with others. Such an approach benefits not only individual learners but also learning communities, whose level of discourse is heightened when participants prepare in advance.

Given our limited resources, we must be careful to not duplicate one another’s efforts. The hallmark of this next decade should be collaboration. Our dual goal must be to establish unique learning environments and to blaze varied pathways in support of idiosyncratic Jewish journeys. We must ensure that those who are “doing-it-themselves” have access to supportive Jewish communities that can bring them in as stakeholders in the endeavor of creating a thriving, inspirational, and authentic Jewish future.

For 3,000 years, Jewish people have asked, “Is this food kosher?” — that is, is this food fit to eat? You might think that, after all this time, we’d have sorted out what this question means, and/or how to answer it.

But at the start of a new decade, kashrut has moved high up on the communal agenda. These are some of the questions we need to think about: What does “keeping kosher” mean? What certifications should we use? On one side, people like Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and Rabbi Arthur Waskow have argued that kashrut should be a broad ethical category of consumption. They argue that we should ask not only about our food but also about our clothes and cars: “Is this fit for me to consume?” The questions they’ve asked for decades are now being picked up by mainstream commentators, within and without the Jewish community. On the other hand, traditional Orthodox leaders argue that broader issues can and should be raised, but those issues should not be confused with kashrut (See Rabbi Daniel Alter’s essay in Sh’ma, Dec. 2009). A mashgiach can establish whether the animal was a kosher animal (was it a cow or a pig?), whether it was healthy or unhealthy, and whether it was killed by a trained shochet in accordance with the halakhah of shechita. They argue that while many other issues are important, including the treatment of workers, they should be addressed by the law of the land rather than the categories of kashrut. Kosher meat produced or handled by workers who have been mistreated is not unkosher, in this argument, though people might choose not to eat it for those reasons.

Between these two arguments step, variously, three “certifiers” of kashrut: the Magen Tzedek, the Tav Hevrati, and the Tav Hayosher (see Sh’ma ethics columns, September and November 2009). Each seeks to establish a second certification, framed in explicitly Jewish terms, addressing what might be called the non-kashrut elements of kashrut; each offers consumers the information to exercise ethical choices. Over the next decade, we’ll see which of these certifications become normative and how they — along with public pressure — influence institutions to act more responsibly.

Arguments to reduce red meat consumption are growing steadily. Will the meat, though, be slaughtered and sold through the existing kosher food lanes or will it come from Arcadia Farms, Kol Foods, Mitzvah Meat, and other recently founded ethical producers?

We’re also seeing a dramatic increase in growing food in Jewish institutions. Community Supported Agriculture groups (CSAs) are already becoming mainstream — by 2010, just six years after Hazon’s first CSA was launched, we will have at least 40 CSAs, with many thousands of members that support more than three dozen farms. A decade from now, there’ll be CSAs across the Jewish world and a growing number of suburban schools, JCCs, and other institutions will be bulldozing sections of their parking lots to plant gardens and grow their own food. This will be a profound shift, as will the maturation of a group of Jewish farmers from Adamah: The Jewish Environmental Fellowship and elsewhere.

What will be the Jewish response to hunger and how will we connect issues of hunger, poverty, and food justice to the ethics of kashrut? Organizations like the American Jewish World Service and Mazon: A Jewish Response to Hunger are already doing vital work. But when and how do we take on the U.S. Farm Bill? What do we do about food deserts in our inner-cities? Does the Jewish community believe that public schools should serve healthy and nutritious school meals to all children — and, if so, what will we do about it?

Finally: What role will Jewish culture play in the conversation about food and kashrut? I grew up in a household with chopped liver, lokshen, vosht, schmaltz, and pletzels (yes, that’s pletzels, not pretzels). Not to mention my grandmother’s chopped and boiled fried fish. I grew up with these foods. But if you raided my kitchen today, you wouldn’t find any of them. I’m starting to be bothered by this, and I hope to find ways to reintegrate memory and culture back into the kitchen. In this way, I really do hope to eat more healthily and sustainably.

“I retired with over 300 sick days, for what?” My father spoke these words the day after he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer that had spread to his liver. A series of strokes had left him unable to move his left side. It had been a bad day. That first night in the hospital was the first he had ever spent in a hospital over the course of his entire life. My 75-year-old father lived twelve more days, and we spoke of many other things, but our conversation never again touched on this topic. And now, of course, there is no way to talk about anything.

One other time — twelve years earlier — we had spoken about those “sick days.” At the time of his retirement, I was shocked to hear he would be paid only 25 percent of his sick-time benefit. I had suggested that instead of retiring, he call in sick every day for the next two years. “Dad,” I had said with the exasperation of someone who had never had a job that included sick days, “why didn’t you ever use any of those days?” “I wasn’t sick,” was his answer.

He worked as a teacher and provided for us; we lacked for nothing. But once he became a grandfather, we saw what we had been missing. How he changed after retirement, how his life was enriched, made diverse, when he became a daily caregiver to his grandchildren and a twice-weekly tennis player up until the week before his hospitalization! Though he had always liked to draw, mostly with pencil and usually on a napkin or the back of an envelope, he began attending art classes. My parents’ home slowly filled with children’s toys, tiny bags of chocolate chip cookies in a drawer just within reach of the children’s short arms, cocoa, and juice boxes in the fridge. The walls of their home became the backdrop to my father’s somber portraits, mostly sketched in pencil and charcoal, some nudes. I didn’t know he had it in him!

The biblical Avraham had it easy. Every time he walked down the street, he saw the sign in his father’s shop: “Idols for sale.” It was as clear as a summer night on the Vegas strip: “Idols, Idols, Idols.” Avraham’s father trafficked in idols, as did mine, as do I, I imagine. My father fed the “idol of work.” I’m a comedian who quite frankly is hard pressed to work as often or as steadily as my father. Feeding the idol of work isn’t my problem, anyway. Growing up, the message was clear: Work is most important. Undoubtedly, it was the repository of my father’s emotional energy. And as I raise my children, I can understand why my father made that choice. Work and career are a more clear-cut venue for one’s emotional life — certainly easier than the soft, complex, unclear science of child rearing, which is filled with so many disappointments and setbacks. Sure, with a long view, most of us are pretty good at parenting, but with a long view — say 500 years, if we discount a decade — Jewish life was good in Poland. Day-to-day parenting is hard; focusing on work is easier. But in the final analysis, what he got for himself and gave to his grandchildren and even his children once his outlook and attitude changed was worth far more than the 25 cents on the dollar he was paid for those unused sick days. And that is what we both realized when he said “for what” as he lay dying.

I, too, work and I work hard; I’m currently producing a one-man show off Broadway that I wrote, perform in, and do publicity for, while also being a “hands-on” dad, parenting three children and awaiting the birth of a fourth whose due date is imminent. But because I am part of an active and conscious spiritual community that forces me to reckon with those idols of my father’s that I’ve broken and left behind, I can’t just work. I can’t build my emotional life and identity from my work alone. A parable: A young mother and wife asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe, z”l, if she should become a typist to help her family. His response, I’m paraphrasing, was: “If you need the work to help your family, by all means take the work. But you’re a wife and a mother; don’t become a ‘typist.’”