During the early stages of the Covid pandemic, the BJBE clergy team wrote daily messages to comfort, strengthen, and inspire the congregation.

When I used to leave my house every day for work (do you remember when we left our houses everyday?), I always did a little pat down. You know the move. Without even thinking about it, right before reaching for the door, tap the pockets. Phone? Check. Car keys? Check. House keys? Check. FOB for work? Check. Wallet? Check. Let’s go!

My routine includes one extra step. I also tap my head. Did I remember to put on my kippah? Usually it’s there; sometimes, I scramble around to find one of the kippot strewn about the house.

But lately, when going to work just means putting in headphones while I sit at the desk in the playroom, my routines are off. I don’t have my normal pat down. I realized last week that many days, it wasn’t until the afternoon that I even noticed I was missing my kippah.

On the one hand, it’s no big deal. I do not believe that a Zeus-like god will be sending curses of calamity my way for forgetting to cover my head. On the other hand, I wear a kippah on purpose; when it’s not there I feel less like myself.

I started wearing a kippah full time at the beginning of rabbinical school. It wasn’t a Jerusalem-induced piousness; frankly, it was inertia. I entered rabbinical school with a practice of wearing a kippah when I prayed and when I learned Torah. When I was done, I’d take it off. But given the amount of time in worship and study in rabbinical school, it was just easier to leave it on all the time.

Eventually, it became my new normal. I got used to having it there. And when I didn’t feel the clips gently tugging my hair, I was out of sorts.

In Israel, it felt normal to wear. But back in the US, I initially felt self-conscious about it. I had to get used to wearing an identifiable, religious symbol in public, secular space. At first, I worried that people were staring at me, judging me, or making assumptions about who I was or what I believed. Once in a while, someone would give me that look. The look that, while trying not to be rude or obtrusive, made clear they wanted to ask what I was wearing and why. They’d point toward my head and say, “What is that? Why do you wear it?”

I developed a stock answer, mostly to end the conversation as quickly as I could. I’d say something to the effect of, “It’s a symbol some Jews wear on their heads. It’s a reminder that there is something above, something bigger than us.” They’d nod knowingly, an answer that sounded sufficiently religious, but not too kooky.

To some degree, that’s the answer. But the real answer, as you might imagine, takes a bit longer to explain. In truth, my kippah isn’t for God. It’s not for anyone else to see (except for my Buffalo Bills kippah…that’s for everyone to see). It’s just for me.

I wear it to remind myself that I am a part of community. I wear it to remind myself that I have immutable values that do not change based on political expediency or difficult circumstances. I wear it to remind myself that prayer and study lead me to love and call me to action. I wear it to remind myself that it is my job to share that love with my family, friends, community, and with the marginalized, the underserved, the disenfranchised, and the vulnerable. I wear it to remind myself that in all of my actions, I am called to act for the sake of justice and righteousness. I wear it to remind myself that even when everything looks bleak, I will yearn for hope.

This pandemic has us all out of sorts. Our routines are off. We struggle to find normalcy. Even when we find a rhythm, it’s still not quite right. And that’s why we have ritual. We have ritual to give structure, meaning, and purpose to what could otherwise be mundane. Ritual reminds us of who we aspire to be. It reminds us of who we are when we are at our best. Sometimes we are off our game; we don’t hear the Call or all together forget that we are called in the first place. Ritual pulls us back in. Reminding us of who we are when we are at our best.

What are your rituals? What do you do or wear or say each day to remind you of the sacred path upon which you walk? How do you make sure even when times are hard, especially when times are hard, that you know that you have power and purpose?

This week, I’ve made a more concerted effort to do my morning pat down. It’s different now. Phone? Check? Wireless headphones? Check. Brushed back the scraggly bits of Omer/Quarantine beard? Check. Appropriate attire for a day of Zoom meetings? Check.

And then, one more pat. This one, a little less mundane, a little more purposeful. Am I ready to serve, to aspire, to insist on hope in the face of crisis, to try to be my best self, to strive toward a world of wholeness, justice, and compassion? Check.