When you think about this week’s Torah portion and Tisha B’Av, if you know anything about them (don’t worry, I’ll tell you), you probably don’t think of the words “fantastical,” “funny” or “magic.”

Here’s something fantastical, funny, and magical: Jane the Virgin, a series now on Netflix.

My husband and I just finished marathon-watching all six seasons over the course of only a couple of months, I’m more than a little embarrassed to admit. It was a special time we spent together every evening (and, truthfully, filled a void left by our younger daughter moving out (yay for her, though!).

If you haven’t seen Jane the Virgin—you HAVE to.

No, I’m serious.

It’s a dramedy, SO well-done as a real-life portrayal of three generations of strong, Latina women, and addressing all kinds of serious issues, including U.S. immigration policies. (As proof of what I’m saying, my real-life Latino husband completely agrees with all these statement).

It’s also a spoof on telenovelas, or Spanish soap operas, meaning it’s completely absurd and fantastical. You cry at the pain, grip your seat and scream out loud at what happens at every turn—and you laugh hysterically. (You can watch the trailer on YouTube here.)

Most importantly, you come away being reminded of the power of love and with a deep desire to believe in the fantastical, magical possibilities of life and living in community.

I need a lot of messages like this these days as a counter to the constant reminder that our world is in serious trouble.

I also don’t need Tisha B’Av, which commemorates the destruction of the Temple and the burning of an ancient city to remind me to be in mourning. Our tradition says we’re supposed to observe mourning rituals for three weeks before the holiday, with special restrictions in place, which feels especially burdensome to me at a moment when I feel like I partly live in a place of mourning all the time these days.

On the other hand, ritual is important, and Tisha B’Av offers an opportunity to practice ritual in community—because you’re never supposed to mourn alone, and community is crucial to survival. Even the rituals of Tisha B’Av are magical; you sit in the dark in community, with flashlights, and chant the Book of Lamentations together.

At the same time, our tradition says that if Tisha B’Av falls on Shabbat, you have to push it off for a day; we’re not allowed to mourn on the Sabbath; funerals and burials are not allowed on the Sabbath or holidays. Mourning takes a break or it comes to an abrupt end.

Maybe that’s a message for how to live our lives.

Here’s a message I heard from Torah this week: “It’s time to cross over.” God speaks to Moses saying, “It’s time to cross over into the Promised Land, so prepare the people for it; it’s happening soon!”

Of course, Torah stories are all very magical and fantastical, from the way God speaks to Moses to water pouring forth from rocks to giving birth at 90 to the description of the Promised Land as “flowing with milk and honey.”

And such stories helped millions of African Americans survive slavery and make freedom happen, and helped millions make new lives in this country as immigrants.

I heard an interview with DeRay Mckesson, a Black Lives Matter activist who believes in magic with all his heart—and in making magic happen through community—in simple ways. (You can hear his beautiful story on Episode 25 of Meditative Story.)

While listening to McKesson’s story, I thought, I want to believe in magic. And believing in magic is kind of like believing in God. It takes both faith and action.

You know what else is magical and fantastical? Laughter. And playfulness. They carry the power of survival.

Psychotherapist Esther Perel was interviewed by Krista Tippett and told a story of a group of Holocaust survivors who saw a play that dramatized their lives in the camps. In an effort to honor the pain of these survivors, the play was very serious.

When it was over, they were asked, “What did you think?”

“It was good,” they responded, “but where’s the laughter? We didn’t survive such an ordeal by being serious all the time. We laughed at ourselves and our situation. This was part of our resilience.”

Perel says we’ve become way too serious and earnest in our desire to respect each other. We’re afraid of offending, but to an extreme. We’re afraid to laugh at ourselves; even self-deprecation has become taboo.

But finding humor in the pain, the ability to laugh instead of cry, is just as crucial as community or the determination to survive. Humor offers distance, ownership, autonomy and perspective. It gives us a say over the matter. Laughter is play, and when you lose humor, you lose playfulness.

The effects of humor are magical.

So let’s remember to cross over, like our tradition reminds us—maybe even moment to moment.

Let’s mourn together in the magic of community, take action in community, and then cross over into fun and playfulness—all the time; let’s continue to celebrate life and remember to feel alive in the midst of the pain and suffering, using the magic humor and playfulness.