As many of you now know I’m finally, officially, a hechshered rabbi—a fact to which I’m still adjusting. It’s been a 30 year odyssey, so, a little faster than Moses’s but a lot longer than most seminarians. There have been many opportunities along the way but once I understood that the title “rabbi” conferred certain rights, especially the authority to make halachic rulings with indemnity, I decided it wasn’t for me. To be honest, I still don’t want to make rulings, and unless pressed, I am likely to defer that role to someone else better suited for that task.
However, as a young and revved up neohasid, on fire with beginner’s mind, the only thing I really knew about rabbis was that they led services and preached, and I definitely wanted to do that. So, I called my beloved teacher, R. Gershon Winkler, Shlita, if he would make me a rabbi. He said, “Jhosele, you ARE a rabbi, everyone is a rabbi.” I was like, “No, I want to, like, study and be ordained…by you!” He said, “I don’t do that.” And yet, I persisted. I said please and he said no, I said PLEASE and he said NO. This turned into a tussle and finally, amused but also a bit exasperated, he said, “KAH! What do you want from me?!?” And I said, “AN ASSIGNMENT!” He shot back, “FINE!!!” and slammed down the phone. (An experience from a bygone era, I’m afraid. It certainly ended a phone call with a dramatic flourish!)
A few days later I received a fat envelope in the mail. Inside were two halakhic questions: 1) “Would you allow the shofar to be blown on Rosh Hashana should it fall on Shabbat?”; and 2) “Would you allow a person to shake the lulav on Shabbat if it was that person’s only chance to perform that mitzvah?” He added:
I know you can answer both of these questions off the top of your head. But if you want to be a REAL rabbi you have to learn to answer these questions based on the answers that came before you. I’ve printed out all of the references you should be familiar with in order to rule on these two situations. Study them first, and then answer based on what you have learned. Send me your answers and explanations when you can.
Love, Gersh
Folded up was a 12-page dot matrix print out, in Hebrew and Aramaic, listing all the references for me to study. At the time, I had only the most basic Hebrew reading skills and practically no comprehension. I struggled to decipher even one reference. I realized I had no idea what I was doing.
Long story short, I sought out adept chevrutot to help me plow through enough of the citations to even make a stab at answering the questions. And two years later, I sent Gershon my answers. He replied by sending me a short congratulatory note and a shtar/document declaring me to be a sagen harav/deputy rabbi, authorized to perform lifecycles, teach, lead prayer and offer pastoral support. Which, of course, is to say that basically, I had become slightly more educated than a b’mitzvah.
Shortly thereafter, I was hired to lead a small, independent Jewish community in Half Moon Bay. I kept learning and, after about two years, Gersh called me to see how it was going. After hearing my report he said, “I think you’re ready.” I was like “Ready for what?” “For your rabbinic ordination!” he shot back. “I don’t want to be a rabbi!” I said. Gershon was confused. “But you asked me to make you a rabbi!” I was like, “I know, but I changed my mind.” He was exasperated. “Why? Do your congregants call you rabbi?” he asked. “Uh, sometimes,” I reluctantly answered. “Well then, you’re shirking your responsibility to them.” He had a point.
However, I had had an epiphany shortly before his call. I had taken a course with Dr. Charlotte Fonrobert on Gender in the Talmud at the Graduate Theological Union. It was an amazing academic adventure and my classmates were a veritable “who’s who” of current and future Queer Jewish rabbis and scholars. However, the lessons leaned towards traditional rabbinic reasoning and structural analysis rather than content. Not my strong suit. One day, Charlotte was diagramming the sugya, and I was not able to follow. My mind wandered into the story in the text. I had an “AHA!” moment and excitedly raised my hand. Charlotte turned from her diagram and said, “Yah, Jhos.” I blurted out my chiddush/insight about the text (which had something to do with a genderqueer person’s rights and responsibilities, if memory serves). The class screeched to a halt and went dead silent. Charlotte squinted, rubbed her chin, pondered my contribution for a moment, nodded her head quietly, and then pointed her index finger at me and said, “Yah Jhos, this is a good drash. But this is not the gemara.” And in that moment I got clear that I was no gemara parsin’ rabbi; I was a Maggid—a meaning makin’, Torah talkin’, yarn spinnin’, ritual designin’, song singin’ preacher—not a rule-making (or bending) rabbi. And so, when Gershon threatened to ordain me I said, “Look Gershon, I think I’m really a Maggid, okay? Could you just, like, ordain me as a Maggid?” We went back and forth, and he finally said, “I think it’s a cop out. But if that’s what feels authentic to you, I’ll do it.” And he did.
It’s taken me a long time to learn enough about what a modern rabbi is and is not for me to finally feel comfortable stepping into the title. I spent over 20 years as a cradle-to-grave congregational leader. I worked for folks who prized not only a good drash but a drash for the good, people who were spiritually curious and not very halakhically observant, people who were hungry for relevant Jewish values that would help them navigate their messy lives and our increasingly troubled world, people who very rarely came to me for a halakhic ruling. It was demanding but rewarding work, especially during the High Holy Days when the pressure was elevated ten-fold. The rites, liturgy, and sermons needed to be meaningful and uplifting, but also real and honest, challenging and encouraging, germane to the community as a whole and to each individual in attendance. It was a Maggid’s job, no question about it, and my titular choice was affirmed year after year.
Since I stepped down from congregational leadership a few years ago, I’ve thought a lot about the responsibility I once held, when I would shudder as Rosh Chodesh Elul/the new moon of Elul darkened the sky a month prior to my mounting the bima/altar to offer a (hopefully) intelligent homily to transition into a new year. It feels like a delightful indulgence to be blithely writing this blog post without that pressure, when in years past I would be in the throes of doubt that I had anything worth saying. But nothing I faced in those years comes close to what my beloved associates who serve congregations are facing since the abject devastation of the Israel/Gaza war sent forth a plume of billowing horror into the world almost one year ago.
I can only imagine that they are wondering where is the Torah, that might give rise to healing and change, to be found? Which are the words that might bring clarity and compassion to the confusion in our hearts? Is it possible to press wisdom from an ancient text to cool the heat of a nuclear world? These questions loom like a vulture over these High Holy Days, I’m afraid. And as R. Gershon taught me so long ago, the way a rabbi answers a pesky question is by seeking guidance from those who came before. We aren’t expected to, and shouldn’t try, to make sense of our broken world all alone—the ancestors also knew a few things about senseless violence and random acts of cruelty, and, whatddaya know? They met it by learning and teaching, expounding and listening, praying and preaching; they met it with intellect, and as R’ Benay teaches us again and again, they met it with their svara, which is to say, all of the above plus a light dusting of spiritual intuition.
The Zohar, a 13th century mystical Kabbalistic treasury, cryptically suggests that one must enter and emerge from Torah in order to understand its mysteries and truths. To illuminate this idea the following parable is offered (Zohar 2:176a-b)
מַתְלָא, לְבַר נָשׁ דְּהֲוָה דִּיוּרֵיהּ בֵּינֵי טוּרִין, וְלָא יָדַע בְּדִּיוּרֵי מָתָא. זָרַע חִטִּין. וְאָכִיל חִטֵּי בְּגוּפַיְיהוּ. יוֹמָא חַד עָאל לְמָתָא, אַקְרִיבוּ לֵיהּ נַהֲמָא טָבָא. אֲמַר הַהוּא בַּר נָשׁ, דְּנָא לָמָּה. אֲמַרוּ נַהֲמָא הוּא לְמֵיכַל. אָכַל וְטָעַם לְחָדָא לְחִכֵּיהּ. אֲמַר וּמִמָּה אִתְעָבִיד דָּא. אֲמַרוּ מֵחִטִין. לְבָתַר אַקְרִיבוּ לֵיהּ גְּרִיצִין דְּלִישִׁין בְּמִשְׁחָא. טָעַם מִנַּיְיהוּ, אֲמַר וְאִלֵּין מִמַּה אִתְעֲבִידוּ. אֲמַרוּ מֵחִטִין. לְבָתַר אַקְרִיבוּ לֵיהּ טְרִיקֵי מַלְכִין, דְּלִישִׁין בְּדּוּבְשָׁא וּמִשְׁחָא. אֲמַר וְאִלֵּין מִמַּה אִתְעָבִידוּ. אֲמַרוּ מֵחִטִין. אֲמַר וַדַּאי אֲנָא מָארֵי דְּכָל אִלֵּין, דַּאֲנָא אָכִיל עִקָּרָא דְּכָל אִלֵּין דְּאִיהוּ חִטָּה. בְּגִין הַהוּא דַּעְתָּא מֵעִדוּנֵי עָלְמָא לָא יָדַע וְאִתְאֲבִידוּ מִנֵּיהּ. כַּךְ, מַאן דְּנָקִיט כְּלָלָא, וְלָא יָדַע בְּכֻלְּהוּ עִדוּנִין דִּמְהַנְיָין, דְּנַפְקִין מֵהַהוּא כְּלָלָא.
Imagine a person who dwelled among the cliffs and did not know about those who dwell in the town. He sowed wheat and ate it raw. One day, he went to the town and was offered good bread. The man asked, “What’s this for?” They replied, “It’s bread, to eat!” He ate, and it was very much to his taste. He asked,” And what is this made of?” They replied, “Wheat!” Then they brought him cakes kneaded with oil. He tasted and asked, “And what are these made of?” They replied, “Wheat!”. Then they brought him royal pastry kneaded with honey and oil. He asked, “And what are these made of?” They replied, “Wheat!” He said, “Surely I am Lord of all these, since I eat the essence of all of these!” Because of this opinion, he knew nothing of the delights of the world, which were lost to him. So it is with one who grasps the principle but is unaware of all those delectable delights that derive from that principle.
I taught this a few years ago and one of the learners asked, “Yeah, well what if you are gluten intolerant?” Clearly, in such a case they would have never spent their life living on a cliff and only eating raw wheat kernels. Torah, with its unpredictably brutal or benevolent, terrifying or taciturn, cruel or compassionate God isn’t for everybody. Not a problem—there are plenty of other spiritual menus out there. But, for those drawn to Torah, there is no getting around that the kernel, the principal of Torah, is, on first inspection, rough, crass, and incredibly difficult to digest.
The Zohar teaches that if that is all one eats, nothing else is revealed. Rather, in order to liberate the full expression of Torah one must grind, knead, ferment, enrich, and sweeten the words with their own wisdom, transforming the rawness into a delectable delight. Those who enter the dystopian ancient world of the ancestors, according to the Zohar, should do so, davka, to liberate the beauty, kindness, healing, and hope from scripture’s jagged-edged dreamscape. The Torah—rife with tales of rejection, jealousy, murder, social unrest, climate disaster, dysfunctional family dynamics, war, enslavement, oppression, more war, rebellion, insurrection, a little more war, loss, and betrayal—is a spiritual account of human suffering. It accurately mirrors the world as I know it, and as such I always want at least a shimmer of that flavor to remain in anything we make of it. To enter the text as a Maggid is to find the hints and levers that help to illuminate the path through the badlands of fear, anger, frustration, and danger towards a just, peaceful, and secure world. Rabbis, on the other hand, are trained to be legalists, to make rulings, to adjudicate the picayune details of Jewish law in order to maintain the Jewish status quo. Or so I thought.
In fact, it seems, that limited definition of the rabbinic role evolved out of diasporic necessity for communal cohesion. Because pretty much any Talmud study will quickly reveal that the original rabbis did an awful lot of storytelling, pastoring, cajoling and counseling in addition to their rule making and breaking. They often entered Torah specifically to abrogate it because the raw kernel was indigestible without some maggidic alteration.
Pondering the difference between the titles rabbi and maggid, it occurred to me that the earliest rabbinic literature is loaded with examples where these roles are completely indistinguishable. Consider what they do with the following pesky Torah admonition:
Deuteronomy 21:18-21
כִּי־יִהְיֶה לְאִישׁ בֵּן סוֹרֵר וּמוֹרֶה אֵינֶנּוּ שֹׁמֵעַ בְּקוֹל אָבִיו וּבְקוֹל אִמּוֹ וְיִסְּרוּ אֹתוֹ וְלֹא יִשְׁמַע אֲלֵיהֶם׃
If a householder has a wayward and defiant son, who does not heed his father or mother and does not obey them even after they discipline him,
וְתָפְשׂוּ בוֹ אָבִיו וְאִמּוֹ וְהוֹצִיאוּ אֹתוֹ אֶל־זִקְנֵי עִירוֹ וְאֶל־שַׁעַר מְקֹמוֹ׃
his father and mother shall take hold of him and bring him out to the elders of his town at the public place of his community.
וְאָמְרוּ אֶל־זִקְנֵי עִירוֹ בְּנֵנוּ זֶה סוֹרֵר וּמֹרֶה אֵינֶנּוּ שֹׁמֵעַ בְּקֹלֵנוּ זוֹלֵל וְסֹבֵא׃
They shall say to the elders of his town, “This son of ours is disloyal and defiant; he does not heed us. He is a glutton and a drunkard.”
וּרְגָמֻהוּ כּל־אַנְשֵׁי עִירוֹ בָאֲבָנִים וָמֵת וּבִעַרְתָּ הָרָע מִקִּרְבֶּךָ וְכל־יִשְׂרָאֵל יִשְׁמְעוּ וְיִרָאוּ׃
Thereupon his town’s council shall stone him to death. Thus you will sweep out evil from your midst: all Israel will hear and be afraid.
The rabbis put on their best maggid-hats and tackle this text in the Babylonian Talmud, tractate Sanhedrin beginning on page 68b. They offer the most farcical arguments and examples imaginable to flip the plain meaning of the text on its head. They use persuasion, passion, and outrageous possibilities to wrest power away from the Torah itself. The logic is absurd, psychedelic, disturbing, highly imaginative, and very, very, clever; deftly weaving and plaiting strands and chains of reasoning and storytelling to emerge spiritually, ethically, and culturally victorious on page 71a with the radical quip:
לא היה ולא עתיד להיות ולמה נכתב דרוש וקבל שכר
It [taking your no-goodnik son out to be stoned to death] never was [OK] and it never will be [OK]. And then why is it written in the Torah? So that you might expound, and be rewarded.
Wait a minute! You mean to tell me that rabbinic riffing and maggidic imaginings are basically the same thing? Is the tradition showing us that what it takes to be a REAL rabbi or whatever we call ourselves, is—wait for it— SVARA?!? This is what this organization is all about, right? And it finally penetrated my thick layers of armor, and I finally said to myself, “Yeah, OK, I guess if they were rabbis, then I could be a rabbi after all.”
And so, if I may be so bold, I want to employ my rabbinate right now to bless and love up all of you, but especially those folks who are holding communities over these Yamim Noraim/Days of Awe. As this year ends and the next begins, may you enter the texts and not get lost in them, but rather harvest and sow what is true and holy. May you emerge to grind the grains you find and make something amazing so that all who hunger may be nourished and strengthened with words of Torah. Let them eat pita or cake, farro or pastries, but let them eat! No matter your title, orientation, or denomination the world desperately needs your honest, loving, and unique wisdom right now. And may we all find the courage to use our svara to knead this rough and bitter time into a shana tova u’m’tukah/a year filled with sweetness and salt, mettle, and bittersweet goodness.
