According to my friend Deb, one of the first things I ever told her was I wanted to be a rabbi.
I have no recollection of this conversation. However, I do not doubt it as this idea has danced around and inside of me for some time.
I’m not exactly sure where or when it took root. Best I can surmise is some time between my post-college, rabbi-to-be lover and coffee with Deb circa 2007.
Most everyone I have mentioned this to over the years thinks it an obvious next step. Perhaps, most especially, Rabbi Brant Rosen.
“In some ways, you kind of already are (a rabbi),” he told me during one of our monthly meetings.
And yet, each time I seem to be moving toward it … I step away.
Most notably, when my then-husband asked me for a divorce in 2012.
No longer did I have to consider his career path. The four years of medical school and four years of residency that had just earned him a lucrative job offer in Seattle. That rabbinical school was in Philadelphia. Or New York. Los Angeles or Boston.
Only that, suddenly I could go.
I bought Hebrew workbooks. Interviewed recent graduates. Secured the domain name “A Wandering Jewess.”
I availed myself of help offered by spiritual leaders in both Seattle and Chicago.
And yet, not long after my divorce was final, the desire fell away.
I didn’t want to cloister myself away studying ancient Aramaic for five years, I said. I took issue with the schools’ policy of not admitting seminary students with non-Jewish partners. Even though I didn’t even have a partner. (The Reconstructionist Rabbinical College has since revoked that policy.)
I wondered about my aptitude for learning Hebrew. Was unclear about what I would do with my ordination. And feared, as a rabbi, I would never find romantic love again.
“Who will I meet?” I asked my rabbi, in earnest. “Another rabbi,” he replied. I wasn’t sure I wanted that either.
So I returned to writing — following a 15-year hiatus — instead. I pursued other work. Fulfilled a life-long dream of living in Europe. (And dove head-first into a delicious three-month romance with a delightful not-Jewish man before leaving the country.)
I applied to the School of Divinity at Yale University.
Anything but re-open my consideration of rabbinical school.
I’ve heard my own voice whisper in possibility, in surrender. Words like “Maybe” and “Really? OK …” But have said little. Until Friday, Artist Date 5.2 (or 121, depending on how you count.)
I ride the number 80 bus to the number 47 and walk about 10 blocks – arriving just a few minutes before Shabbat services at Tzedek Chicago, a new congregation founded by Rabbi Rosen while I was living in Madrid. The congregation is (somewhat ironically) meeting a couple of streets over from the home my ex-husband and I once owned.
There is music and poetry, prayer and politics. Many familiar faces. Many not – like Leah, who plays the guitar and sings. I am reminded of Passover seders and other holiday gatherings … watching Jews sing with unabashed joy, Jews who not only embrace but roll around in their faith as if it were a cashmere blanket.
I am not this kind of Jew. And up until now, I have seen this as proof that I am not “rabbi material.”
Up until now.
I hitch a ride home from services with my friend Elaine. A young woman from Kalamazoo is in the back seat. She has come to Chicago for the weekend, her 22nd birthday, to attend services at Tzedek Chicago.
Her father is Jewish, her mother – Chinese … and she is all Jew. Like me, a Jew (at least to some) who converted to Judaism. But unlike me – an adoptee raised by a Jewish family but not born into one – has only recently claimed this faith as her own.
She plans to apply to the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College this fall. And she has spent a summer at Middlebury College learning Hebrew – signing a statement agreeing not to read, write, speak or listen to a language other than Hebrew during the seven-week semester – in preparation for the entrance exam.
She is, in a word, serious.
She believes there is a need for a rabbi like her –a Jew of color, deeply committed to social justice, a supporter of Palestine.
I have no doubt.
But under that, I have another thought.
That I am white. Not terribly political. Older.(Old enough to be her mother.)
Faith does not come easily to me. I am a practitioner of what works. There is a mezuzah in my doorway, a batik of Ganesh on my wall, and the book Alcoholics Anonymous on my shelf.
I gather stray Jews and others for holidays. And say “thank you” when a guest brings a dairy dish and I have cooked meat.
Two of my great loves were not Jews. And when one ended in divorce, I found it necessary to have a Jewish dissolution of marriage, as well as a civil one.
I am doubtful and uncertain. Even now as I write this. Yet I keep returning to it, to this place of Jewishness again and again.
And that, perhaps, there is a need for a rabbi like me.