In a world where so many are pulled to extremes—politically, emotionally, spiritually—I find myself searching for the the quiet wisdom of the middle path. Not the path of apathy or compromise, but of integration. Of balance. Of walking the road with both conviction and compassion. In the Jewish tradition, we call this derekh ha-emtsa’i—the golden mean. But it turns out we are not the only tradition to name this wisdom.
Ram Dass—born Richard Alpert, once a Harvard psychologist and later a spiritual teacher drawn to Hinduism and Mahayana Buddhism—offered seekers a gentle and transformative message: Be here now. Release the need to control. Surrender ego. Let go of the stories we cling to, and instead awaken into presence. His path, inspired by Buddhist and Hindu insights, was one of compassion, non-attachment, and radical acceptance. For Ram Dass, the spiritual life isn’t about becoming someone—it’s about remembering who we already are beneath the illusion of separateness. The self, he taught, is not to be refined, but transcended. Melt into being. Dissolve the ego into loving awareness.
Enter the Rambam—Moses Maimonides—arguably the most rational and rigorous of all Jewish thinkers. If Ram Dass was the mystic, Rambam was the moral architect. In Hilchot Deot, his laws of moral character, and in Shemonah Perakim, his introduction to Pirkei Avot, Rambam insists that the path to spiritual and ethical excellence is through deliberate effort. One’s deot—moral dispositions—must be trained toward the middle, away from extremes. The courageous person is neither reckless nor cowardly. The generous person neither wasteful nor stingy. This “golden mean” isn’t born of passivity or detachment; it is cultivated through reason, habit, and discipline.
Rambam’s middle path is strikingly similar to what the Buddha called the Middle Way—rejecting both indulgence and self-denial. And yet, their telos—their purpose—is profoundly different. For Buddhists, the aim is release from suffering, often through transcendence of the self. Rambam, in contrast, sees the self as a sacred instrument to be sanctified. We do not escape the self. We elevate it.
It’s a fascinating juxtaposition: Ram Dass teaches presence; Rambam teaches principle. One calls us to soften into what is. The other urges us to stand upright in what should be. Ram Dass invites us to melt into love. Rambam commands us to shape the self in love’s image.
I don’t think we have to choose.
Because both are responding to the same condition: the fragility of the human soul. Ram Dass knew how often our suffering is amplified by attachment, by ego, by fear. Rambam knew that character, too, can go off course—misaligned not just by external events, but by internal imbalances. We may be too angry, too passive, too vain, too self-effacing. For one, the remedy is letting go. For the other, the remedy is holding fast. But both acknowledge the work of the soul is real—and urgent.
That’s why this is not a post about East vs. West. It’s a reflection on how we walk the path of life without losing ourselves—or becoming imprisoned by ourselves. It’s about recognizing that human flourishing requires both presence and structure. Silence and law. Grace and grit.
In fact, Rambam himself admits that sometimes, the best way to reach the middle is to temporarily swing to the other extreme. If you are too arrogant, act in ways that are radically humble. If you are too fearful, practice exaggerated courage. Like bending a crooked rod past center to make it straight, he says, we sometimes need course correction. But only so we can eventually walk the middle path.
That metaphor—the bent rod—has always stuck with me. Because in times of collective crisis or personal upheaval, it’s tempting to overcorrect. To live at the edges. Some people respond to trauma by grasping for control, others by surrendering all agency. Some cling to ideology, others to avoidance. Our culture, too, has a tendency to reward extremism—passion without patience, outrage without wisdom.
But spiritual maturity, I think, asks more of us. It asks us to live in the tension. Not to flee from it. To integrate the Ram Dass within us—the part that aches to surrender—with the Rambam within us—the part that longs for moral clarity and personal responsibility.
And maybe that’s why the image I return to most isn’t a tightrope or a scale, but a road. Not a path between opposites, but one that includes them. Ram Dass said, “We’re all just walking each other home.” And I imagine Rambam might say: yes—and we are commanded to build the road as we walk.
That’s the difference, and the harmony. Ram Dass teaches that the destination is unity with what already is. Rambam teaches that we must transform the world into what it ought to be. But both ask us to be present. To pay attention. To do the work of the soul—whether through breath or boundary, meditation or mitzvah.
I’ll confess: I’ve needed both this year. In moments of grief or anxiety, I’ve found comfort in Ram Dass’s words. Just be here. Let it pass through. Don’t fix or fight it. And in moments of anger or urgency, I’ve felt Rambam’s hand on my shoulder: do not act on impulse. Train your character. Speak carefully. Align with what’s right, not just what feels good. Admittedly, I have not mastered either – it’s a journey!
There’s a humility in both traditions. A recognition that the human condition is precarious. That we can be hijacked by our emotions, our appetites, our narratives. That we need tools. And teachers. And each other.
The middle path is not about mediocrity. It is not spiritual indecision. It is a life of integration—where the inner world and the outer world meet. Where we make space for stillness and service. Where we don’t just transcend the self, or perfect the self—but learn to hold it with honesty and kindness.
Maybe that’s what holiness is. Not a flight from being human. But a deeper embrace of it.