There have been times when my life felt as steady and reliable as the sidewalk that rolls past my front door; mostly straight, with enough gentle curves and turns to keep it mildly interesting, but never challenging.

Other times, my life feels like the path through the woods that my dogs and I take in the morning; rambling, never quite the same, trickier in wet weather. I can pause to enjoy the wild beauty around me, but I also have to watch my step, because there might be a snake slithering by or a spider’s web in my path. It’s more dangerous, less reliable, always different.

I walk through the woods because it is important for the dogs. They need variety. But there are days when I would prefer to stick to the pavement. It’s so much easier to navigate. 

This Shabbat Jews around the world read the end of the Book of Numbers, Ba’Midbar in Hebrew; it means “in the desert.” The Children of Israel were at the very end of their four decade trek through the Sinai peninsula. Their journey was through desert, not woods, but like my daily walk it was never steady, never straight.

They relocated 42 times during their 40-year march through the desert. Along the way were unanticipated risks, difficult terrain and potential enemies.

Perhaps that is why the Children of Israel wanted to go back to Egypt every time things got tough. The farther they traveled, the better Egypt loomed in their imaginations. Eventually, they “remembered” that they ate cucumbers and fresh fruit, meats and delicacies while enslaved.

In this Torah portion, they were poised to enter their new home, but there were details to be worked out first. The Torah talks extensively about the property that each tribe, clan, and family would receive. They hadn’t even finished their trek, but they were anticipating an enormous change in their lives. 

They also had to welcome a new leader. God had made it clear that Moses would die in the desert and Joshua would be the new leader. Change was in the air.

As Rabbi Evan Krame wrote, “At times in our lives, we have to imagine what life will be like in new circumstances, sometimes in a new place, or with new people. It is an opportunity to focus on what is really important. What values inform us, who inspire us, and where we feel like we belong.”

Torah teaches us to prepare ourselves for change, just as the Jews did in the desert. We each have the ability to initiate change, and we are indeed obligated to learn to adapt and change. As one rabbi wrote, “the very story of the beginning of the Jewish people is a story of change: the transformation of skeptical, wandering individuals, into a cohesive, holy, just community.”  

Change comes even to communities that are cohesive and united. I have just begun to serve as rabbi at a synagogue where my predecessor served for 20 years. He was 86 years old when he retired, an old-school Reform rabbi. I am none of those things.

As you can imagine, the new, “young” female rabbi who sings different melodies is a bit of a shock. Many people have welcomed me with open arms, and others are still deciding if they can deal with the change. Of course, they have no choice. Rabbi Agin has moved away. Someone new must step in.

How a group of people adapt to change can define the character of a community.

We begin with our shared experiences and memories. Remembering Shabbat at home with parents, family, friends. Lighting Friday night candles. Going to Temple. Singing the same prayers, week after week.

If we moved somewhere new, we took comfort in knowing that some things wouldn’t change. Jews everywhere read the same Torah portion each week. Every congregation sings the Shema and mourners stand to say Kaddish. 

Yes, there are differences. There always are. Whenever I’ve visited a new synagogue I watch the people around me; do they stand for the Shema? Do they sing the Hatzi Kaddish with the clergy, or do they sit quietly? What melody will they use for Adon Olam? I do my best to adapt.

I have shared the following with my new congregation: 

“My prayer is that we will change together, as a community, united with a vision that we are always moving toward a promised land. I believe that our shared experience of, and our love for Judaism, will help guide us as we weather the changes that time and circumstances impose on us. May we be blessed to cherish the communal experiences that hold us together, and the core values that bind our souls.”

Privately, I pray this each morning as the dogs and I navigate the woods that are wet and wild at this time of year, bursting with blooming weeds and butterflies: “Dear God, let the beauty of this difficult place enter into my soul and comfort my heart, that sometimes longs for the safety and security of the easy path.”