The Talmud states, "In a world that lacks humanity, be human." In a world as untethered as ours has become, simply being human, a good person, is a measure of heroism. At a time when norms of civility are being routinely overwhelmed, it may be the only measure that matters. Mensch-Marks represents Rabbi Joshua Hammerman's personal Torah scroll—the sacred text of his experiences, the life lessons he has learned along his winding, circuitous journey. Mirroring 42 steps Israel wandered in the Wilderness, Hammerman offers 42 brief essays, several of which first appeared in The New York Times Magazine,  organized into categories of character, or "mensch-marks," each one a stepping stone toward spiritual maturation. These essays span most of Rabbi Hammerman's life, revealing how he has striven to be a "mensch," a human of character, through every challenge.

Mensch-Marks creates a brand-new genre. It is memoir as sacred story, as how-to book; a series of personal vignettes in dialogue with one another over the span of decades, resonating with eternal ideas that span centuries. It traces the author's own personal growth while providing a road map for people of all backgrounds seeking a life of moral vision. The wisdom is shared not from a pulpit on high, but rather from an unfolding story of a fellow traveler, one who has stumbled, failed, and persevered, struggling with the questions large and small. Through it all, Rabbi Hammerman has tried to live with dignity and grace, what he calls the "nobility of normalcy."

He writes, "If by sharing what I've learned, I can add a modicum of generosity, honesty and human connection in a world overflowing with cruelty, loneliness and deceit, then I'll have done my job." The essays cover crucial moments of failure and forgiveness, loving and letting go, finding deeper meaning in one's work, and holiness in the seemingly inconsequential moments of everyday life.  Rabbi Hammerman, ever the optimist, believes that we can turn things around, one mensch at a time.

Part One Work and Worship. . . In which I explore my sacred profession.

'Work' has always meant something other than 'daily drudgery' in Jewish tradition. From the earliest days of the Bible to the advent of modern secular Zionism, there has always been something sacred about the work we do. In fact, the Hebrew words for work are directly connected to the sacred. The most common term, avodah, not only means 'work,' it also is the term used for the sacrificial rites followed in the days of the ancient Temple. Later, when the Temple was destroyed, avodah came to be associated with that which replaced sacrifices: prayer. Our work is nothing less than a supreme offering to God, whether one is a rabbi, minister, imam, doctor, or welder. I see my task as being analogous to that of the ancient biblical prophet, of whom Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, 'He is neither a singing saint nor a moralizing poet. His images must not shine, they must burn.' Work and worship stand united, for one leads to the other; prayer leads to world-mending activity, and such activity engenders awe and gratitude. That should be the case for all work, but it certainly must be the case for my profession. It has been for me.

'People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing every day.'—A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Mensch•Mark 1

1985A Young Rabbi

Are Exuberance and Wisdom the Product of One's Age?

For the first two millennia of the rabbinate, age was equated with wisdom and experience with respect. Everyone abided by Leviticus 19:32: 'Stand before the gray haired one [your elder].' No longer. It's sad, and not just for elders. Back in 1985, I could sense this transition happening and gave expression to my feelings in the following article, appearing in The New York Times Magazine, which forced me to question whether any age would arrive when I would feel completely comfortable in my rabbinic role. But my encounters with ageism enabled me to hone a broader message and dedicate my life's work to breaking down all stereotypes that hide the true essence of our humanity.

I am twenty-eight years old and a rabbi. Had I chosen to be a gymnast or tennis player, I would be considered past my prime. As a lawyer or computer engineer, I would be reaching the peak of yuppiedom. In my own eyes, I fret at how quickly the years pass while I helplessly watch my youthful vigor recede.

And yet, when I walk into my office each morning, I feel like a seventeen-year-old walking into a bar, fearful that some hulk of a bouncer will appear to check me for ID. I am a child in a profession where life begins at sixty.

Being a rabbi at any age inhibits normal social intercourse; being a young rabbi compounds the problem acutely. I am an anomaly in a community where rabbis are expected to have gray beards and the all-knowing countenance of one who is nearing the end of life's tumultuous journey.

I know that I am not alone; in many fields it is not easy to be young. In the two years since my ordination, I have left many a hospital room wondering whether the patients give their young doctors the same incredulous looks they often give me. A thirty-year-old dentist tells me of the difficulties of starting a practice—he wonders whether people will be willing to entrust their sacred smiles to one so young. Another friend, a psychologist, labors to establish his professional reputation. I feel for him, as well as for all the young men and women who strain to reach the next rung on the corporate ladder, only to be quashed by someone older. I feel for those who fritter away a half dozen precious years of youth at prestigious law firms, only to find that no partnership awaits them.

And yet my own position is particularly awkward. The awkwardness goes beyond the fact that I address doctors and judges by their first names while they call me by my title even when they are four decades my senior. It reaches beyond the fact that I commonly marry couples much older than I or that some of the more grandmotherly types I come across like to pinch my cheek. Wherever I go age is an issue, for not only am I cursed by being young, I am cursed by looking young. When the author of Ecclesiastes wrote, ''Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth,'' he was not speaking to a convention of young rabbis.

I can understand why many of my rabbinical colleagues and classmates choose to pursue other advanced degrees before entering the pulpit, while others prefer to spend years of tutelage under the wings of established rabbis in suburbia. Some, like me, stand alone, unprotected, and uneasy, but most are located somewhere out on the prairie, planting Jewish roots in places where most of the natives have never seen a rabbi before. But here I am, in a pulpit just a hop from New York, where people know what a good bagel—and a good rabbi—should look like.

If I seem overly energetic to my congregation, the quality is attributed to my age. My rather too apparent self-respect is something, they say, that will diminish 'when I know better.' Occasionally I am seen as being manipulated by one congregant or another; I am said to be easy prey because of my lack of experience. At a recent wedding, the father of the bride told me that I look more like a bookie than a rabbi. I made light of it (neither job, I said to him, is suitable for a nice Jewish boy), but I was sensitive to the anxiety underlying his remark. He was giving his daughter away, and the man who was going to put the stamp of God on the whole enterprise could just as easily be standing next to her—except that he's much younger.

My congregants ask themselves: How can this rabbi be mature enough to comfort mourners when he hasn't known a lifetime of personal grief? How can he advise parents about their children when he hasn't yet reared children of his own? How can he counsel troubled couples when he hasn't been married long enough to experience marital strife? How can he represent us before God when he hasn't been through our suffering, when he hasn't seen what we've seen? Can a rabbi who is not battle scarred truly be a rabbi?

©2019 Joshua Hammerman. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Mensch-Marks: Life Lessons of a Human Rabbi—Wisdom for Untethered Times. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW 15th Street, Deerfield Beach, FL 33442.