Rabbi Adam Allenberg

May 15, 2009

Parshat Behar-Bechukotai

Camp Beth Am

Every year around this time I get this incredible urge to pack up and go.  It's the sure-tell sign of a person who spent the majority of his adolescence going to summer camp.  When most of my friends in high school were planning for a summer of lifeguarding and living at home, all I could think about was how I would fit all that I needed in life into a trunk and army duffle.

I went to a Jewish summer camp in the North Woods of Wisconsin, about half and hour from the border of the upper Peninsula of Michigan .  Or as many native Californians call it, "Isn't that Canada already?"  If you wanted to find me in the summer, or my heart during most of the school year, you could find it at Camp Interlaken JCC, 7050 Old Highway 70, Eagle River , Wisconsin 54521 .  Even now I remember the address and zip code without missing a beat.

I first experienced outdoor Judaism here.  This was the first place that I met adults that weren't my parents who I really trusted.  This was the first time I knew independence or who I was capable of being.  I still believe that I grew and experienced more in the weeks I spent at camp than I ever did in the halls of my school or the room in parent's house.  In short, camp was a deeply important place in my life and still is.

Jon Gonsky.  It's funny to remember people's names that you haven't seen or heard from in 20 years.  Jon Gonsky was one of my camp counselors my first summer at camp, the year my life changed.  Jon was a cool guy.  Actually all of my counselors were cool but in their own unique way.  But Jon was...well...Jon was cooooool.  He had this whole confident and handsome thing going for him, tight black curls on his head, a gold Jewish star around his neck.  All of the girls in our sister cabin had a thing for him, as did their counselors, which really made him a god in our eyes.

One Friday night I noticed that as the camp slowly sat down after finishing their private prayers—the Sabbath sun setting over the far western bank of our lake—Jon stood, resolutely.  And when the last person sat down, only then would he sit.  He'd been doing this for a while before my friend and I asked him why he remained standing for so long.

"I stand up out of respect for the others in our community and their prayers."

I didn't know what to think.  I had never thought about prayer that way, as a communal act, not a private one done with others around.  I had never thought about community in that way either; that someone else's prayers might be elevated because I cared for them, noticed them, stood on their behalf.  Suddenly, Shabbat services changed.  Camp changed.  My place in the world had changed.

I moved from camper to counselor at Interlaken into my college years.  Slowly my counselors moved into the void, the world beyond camp, where being gainfully employed means no more summers of camp magic.  Eventually I found myself in their position, older than everyone at camp or, at least, that's how I felt.  And then one summer there was no more camp.  And then another.  And another.  But each year at this time, I think about that place and wonder when I'll get back there.

The first time I set foot on this campus I started calling this place Camp Beth Am.  It's that gate when you first drive in.  It has such a rustic, homey quality.  You know when you pull onto the campus how you're met by that small grove of eucalyptus trees that cast a shadow over the front drive?  The bright orange California poppies, smiling up at you as you go past.  They get me every time.  Following the loop towards our offices you travel past the Beit Kehillah, then the sanctuary with its walls of glass and the outdoor chapel, it's close to impossible not to sense that something is different about this place.

Congregation Beth Am.  26790 Arastradero Road , Los Altos Hills , CA 94022 .  I delivered my senior sermon from rabbinic school here.  My wife Lauren and I were married in the outdoor chapel.  My last remaining grandparents passed while working here.  My friends from afar have gotten married and started families.  I officiated at my first funeral and my first wedding while working here.  Beth Am has been and will always be a very important place for me and for my wife Lauren.

I moved from being an intern to becoming one of your rabbis, the synagogue's Program Director and a member of this community.  My energies have been dedicated to a number of community projects: creating space for the transient and often overlooked 20s and 30s population; to helping support the growing presence of Beth Am Men; to bringing social justice work deeper into the heart of our mission and who we are.  These are just some of the things that have occupied my "work," but they hardly summarize my experience.  I've learned at least as much about being a member of a community at Camp Beth Am as I did at Camp Interlaken .

I’ve learned that privacy is overrated.  We too often live our lives in isolation, trying to keep everything compartmentalized and neat.  But our lives are busy and they are messy.  Being a community means sharing that messiness with others.  Because sometimes, we rely on others and they rely on us to help clean things up.

I’ve learned that community is family, and you can’t handpick your family, so you’ve got to work at getting along and supporting one another.  Because you’re blessed with who you’ve got.

I’ve learned that community doesn’t just happen, we have to work for it.  We have to commit ourselves to reaching out as much as letting others in.  That vulnerability means we can get hurt and that can be scary.  But there are also incredible rewards to feeling deeply connected to a group of people; rewards that can’t be enjoyed when you don’t feel anything for those around you.

Leaving Beth Am is a lot like what leaving camp felt like for me.  Counselors and bunkmates, Unit-heads, specialists and songleaders, they are my colleagues, the Board of Directors, committee co-chairs, our youth and teens, our Gan Ami pre-school students and you.

A camp friend of mine once remarked at the age-old poignancy of our annual Torah reading cycle, always revealing a lesson about where we are from a story about where we were.  At least with regard to my own biography, this week is no exception.  This week we read the last two parshiyot of the book of Vayikra or Leviticus.  Next week we begin the book of Bamidbar, which means in the wilderness.  And when we finish a book of Torah, before beginning another, we proudly declare, “Chazak, chazak v’nitchazeck.  Be Strong.  Be Strong.  And we will strengthen ourselves.”

I have found strength in this community and I hope that I have brought strength to it.  And as Lauren and I are about to set off on a journey of our own, into the unknown wilderness that is Texas , we rely on the reserves of strength that you have given us.  We are grateful to you all for giving us so much these last two years, for sharing yourselves and for building community with us.

I’d like to close by offering the words of one of my favorite camp songs.  It reminds me just how powerful a place can be, but only when that place is where community is formed.

Bless this house, for we are all together.

Bless us all, we may not meet again.

Think of all the happiness we’ve found here.

Take it home and share it with a friend.

May this house of the people, this Beit Am, be forever blessed.  We will miss you Camp Beth Am.

Chazak, chazak v’nitchazeck!