Maybe it’s just my struggle to socialize, but every time I meet someone new I’ve always wanted to have a story ready. For a few years it was describing the time I get held up in airport security for scanning as a potential threat, then maybe it was descriptions of the time I stumbled into a college party I wasn’t invited to but was welcomed in anyway.

In more serious company it was maybe anecdotes of my visit to the resting place of the Lubavitcher Rebbe in Queens, NY on the anniversary of his birthday and the powerful spiritual energy that permeated the air that night. When I was younger I didn’t get to tell the stories myself but was regaled by others with tales about small schemes I had hatched up: lying to adults about how many desserts I’d had so I could always squeeze in one more, or elaborate concerts on toy drums and glockenspiels with lyrics that were indecipherable from the moment they were uttered. Within every one of these stories is a microcosm of me, and not just me, but the people in my life who have shaped me and helped me forge my path. Though I aim to tell stories about myself that remain truthful, I carefully and subconsciously curate these tales to present not only my current self but also the person I aspire to be.

When I think of love, I think of my ex-girlfriend jumpstarting my car after the engine died while I foolishly left the radio running as we talked and cuddled in the back seat. I was panicking with no idea how to connect which cable to where and she took over and did it in a flash. After my engine started running, the enduring image in my mind of the love and joy in that relationship was her turning to me with a grin across her face, flexing, and cracking a joke. There was something magical about the pride she had in helping me out and covering for my automotive incompetence.

When I think of family I think of so many stories of gatherings, from getting sleepy at Pesach from the small pours of wine, to conspiring with my cousins to organize sleepover parties at the end of holidays. We’d think we had gotten one over on our parents, completely missing how often these stays were arranged ahead of time. When I was younger every new holiday was not just an opportunity for prayer but was for new chances to play and to roam and to read. Even as I reached the age of bar mitzvah and began leading services in the sanctuary, many of the fellow congregants just wanted to talk about how I used to spend the services crawling underneath the pews, popping up periodically like a little Jewish groundhog. 

In Judaism, storytelling is not only central to the entire construction of the faith but also at the core of identity and heritage. Stories are shared to educate on laws and obligations just as often as they are shared to entertain. And dearest to me, stories are shared to remember. When speaking of the deceased, it is traditional to accompany their name with the phrase “zikhrono/ah livrakha,” or in English “of blessed memory.” Nothing illustrates our commitment to memory as well as a recent joy I experienced in my life: the birth of my first nephew. At the bris milah, the baby is brought before the entire community and named. Traditionally the naming not only draws from the Torah which is opened shortly beforehand the ceremony, but also from the well of family history as well. My nephew Saul was named for a great man, my great-grandfather, who was a committed doctor who practiced through disease outbreaks, all while remaining devoted to his family. My brother (the father of my nephew) spoke briefly about the name chosen, citing some anecdotes he gleaned from a conversation with our grandfather. Baby Saul is now imbued not only with the promise of a bright future but also the blessings and honor of a brilliant and loving man. The power of stories, and of names, allow the memories and lives of generations to continually flourish.     

When I approached interfaith, I embarked on it with the same focus on stories. Though I have comfort and familiarity within the realms of Judaism, my Jewish communities on campus and elsewhere represent but a fraction of the people surrounding us. While there are commonalities to traditions and practices and holidays with many of the Jews I meet, there is still so much I don’t know about other faiths and customs (even within Judaism!). And so when I joined the BILI Launchpad Fellowship and attended the Interfaith Leadership Summit this past summer I sought out stories. I asked people about their moments of spiritual connection, for anecdotes of practices and devotion, for memories of childhood and growth and community. I was overwhelmed, not just in the vulnerability of the many people I talked to, but in the beauty of their experiences. Each had upbringings that instilled rejoicing at acts of service, communities that upheld and cherished their most marginalized members, and intimate moments of self-discovery and triumph.

During one meal, each table was tasked with discussing aspects of their name, what ideas your parents (or yourself) had drawn on to build out such a distinctive part of your identity. I learned about names passed down unchanged for generations, surnames indicating societal roles and ancestral homes. Some people at the table were even unsure of their name and gained new insight into their heritage as one of the program mentors gave his best understand of a translation. And as I learned about this beautiful fabric of history and future that was being shaped by family and culture, I gleaned newfound appreciation for my own name. Oftentimes I like to reach for my given Hebrew name, Noach ben Miron ha’Levi, which marks me with the inherited name of my deceased grandfather, the name of my own father, and lineage we can trace back to the tribe of Levi, the caretakers of Holy Temple. But as I discussed my given name, the one everyone calls me, I felt a swell of appreciation I had never noticed before. There were times when I felt my name was too plain, chosen in part because it matched the names of my older siblings Elliot and Emily. Now I feel overjoyed to claim to be a part of that trio, infinitely proud of the loving and inspiring people they have become. I had discovered through this conversation that I could more distinctly than ever claim my own identity.

 To me, interfaith is about both the storytelling and the story-listening. It is about giving people the chance to let you into how they see themselves or want to see themselves. It’s about making small efforts to see the wholeness of each person around you, to foster greater communities of understanding, of care, and of love.