Judaism is a religion of symbols. Every Saturday, the two loaves of bread nestled under the challah cover represent the double-portion of manna. Passover night, we dip horseradish into chopped apples to recall the bitter slavery of our ancestors. We build funny huts outside in our backyards to remember when God sheltered the wandering Israelites, only sometimes ours collapse in a chaotic, rainy storm. We wear garments threaded with fringes to kiss commandments. These prayers in ancient tongues, these traditions linger like, frankly, odd guests long after the event has ended, yet we still cherish them like vintage records. All of this is meant to remind us, lest we veer off-course. Lest we one day take the holy part of ourselves as if it is a moon wrapped in brown paper, and light it on fire, sacrificing it to small gods.