Eight years ago I bought a rowhouse in a working-class neighborhood where the majority of residents were African American. At closing, the seller commented that the neighborhood once had been Italian and Jewish. I thought to myself, Well, a Jew is moving back. I bought the home because it was affordable, near public transportation, and beautiful. In the years since, more working-class Latino families and middle-class whites and African Americans, singles and families, have bought homes in my neighborhood as housing prices in nearby areas skyrocketed.

Places change over time. What has occurred in my neighborhood can be labeled gentrification. Certainly the ethnic and racial makeup of the area is more diverse than it was in 2000, and the next Census likely will show an increase in the area’s median income. What we usually mean by the term gentrification though is displacement of longer-term residents as higher-income people move in and house prices, for sale and rent, increase. No doubt displacement of one type or another has occurred in my neighborhood but much of the change appears to have happened through the sale of previously owner-occupied homes; house-by-house, sellers have been realizing profits — one of the key ways we can build wealth is through property ownership.

While homeowners might be displaced, renters are most at risk of losing their homes through gentrification-related changes — as rents rise or units are converted to condominiums by owners seeking to maximize profit. It is easy to think about displacement as the unfortunate outcome of strong markets — unpleasant for the people directly affected but part of the way things work. Besides, what can you do? Housing is a commodity.

But such a perspective lets us off the hook too easily. Housing is both a commodity and also an anchor, a home, something that can come to feel as our own even if we rent. Housing can affect our health and our ability to hold a job. It provides a base from which we live our lives and in which we hope to be safe. Stable housing provides benefits to individuals and families and also to communities. And for both individuals and communities a lack of stability can bring its own problems.

Stability, though, is not an absolute good in itself. Distressed areas can be stable in certain regards but unhealthy. While gentrification can displace, it also can bring needed investments and services that benefit most all who live in a changing area. The issue, it seems, is balance. How can change and stability be balanced? How can we create balance in a system in which private property dominates, and most owners, understandably, hope to realize a profit? How can the benefits of gentrification be realized without displacement of people, especially those with few options? What responsibility do we (property owners, government, nonprofits, private developers) have toward people, especially renters, who seek housing stability?

Answers I don’t have, but here are some thoughts.

Let us work to renew a sense of community and shared responsibility to balance the focus on private property and individual gain. Let us demand that government leadership at all levels address affordable housing needs in a sustainable way. And let us shift toward a broad vision of housing that acknowledges it as more than a means of wealth creation, and let us view residents, including renters, as more than market bystanders or collateral.

Of the issues discussed in the preceeding roundtable, the relationship between charisma and leadership is of utmost significance. To the best of my knowledge, there are no courses in either rabbinical school or continuing education programs that are designed to teach rabbis to be charismatic. That is a good thing. It is not good, however, that few programs help rabbis think about the dimension of passion in their rabbinate. This gap in rabbinic education needs to be addressed. Charisma, no, passion, yes — rabbis need to be inoculated with passion before they leave their seminaries and then receive periodic booster shots in all of their continuing education programs once they are practicing in the field.

Here are some of the differences between passion and charisma:

• Passion is centered on a dream; charisma is anchored in the self.
• Passion inspires others to work together; charisma can create divisions.
• Passion is about purpose; charisma is about drama.
• Passion endures and lifts people around it; charisma often creates a crash-and-burn syndrome, and takes others down with it.
• Passion helps to build community because those feeling it respond to a higher calling; charisma, however, diminishes community because people ultimately perceive that the ego behind the charismatic leader leaves little room for others.

Stressing passion over charisma is not a game of semantics. When congregants speak about charismatic rabbis, they are suggesting that rabbis need to inspire people with ideas, action, wisdom — with a vision of that which transcends the self. Passion is about uncovering core issues and drawing from that an authentic sense of purpose. It’s what some colloquially refer to as “finding one’s voice” and, I would add, then not losing it over the years.

Many rabbis begin their first years with a sense of calling — the passion that brought them into the rabbinate. But the distractions of petty politics and the narrow concerns of congregational life can unconsciously become the focal point that, over the years, mutes a sense of higher calling. The result is that rabbis become less inspiring because they learn to play it safe rather than to speak from their authentic selves. That’s when rabbis become dull. They may be able to fake charisma, but they can’t pretend passion.

This discussion on continuing education is critical and all conscientious professionals work to refine their skills and deepen their professional knowledge. Learning how to give a good sermon or teach an exciting class or offer a stirring eulogy is a craft, but we need rabbis who are more than technicians. We need rabbis who maintain their passion for the challenges of a calling that is increasingly complex. And we need congregations who will support and reward rabbis for doing so.

The Torah was acutely aware of the dangers of charismatic leaders as well as the differences between leaders who were not only charismatic but also passionate. The biblical Korach was charismatic and caused a catastrophe. On the other hand is Moshe Rabeinu, Moses, the rabbi par excellence. The trait that characterizes his leadership more than any other is humility — and it is that humility that repeatedly averted disaster. Charisma, over time, seems to defeat humility and create out-of-control situations. Conversely, the compatible qualities of humility and passion are precisely those that have the power to create enduring dreams.

Finding ways to promote the spiritual formation, development, and nurturance of rabbis is a critical issue for rabbinic seminaries — as several people mentioned in the Roundtable. Seen as a continuum, rabbinic education can model a lifetime pattern of learning, growth, and sustenance. So attention to the soul matters a lot. As students develop skills in studying and analyzing texts, teaching, preaching, counseling, and leading services, they also need to understand the importance of cultivating their soul. Becoming a spiritual leader for a community is a daunting task and requires tools or practices for reflection, personal prayer, discerning truth, and listening to the inner truth. When students leave the seminary they plunge into very intense lives in congregations, Hillels, camps, and JCCs. They need what most of their rabbinic colleagues need: spiritual practices that strengthen their middot, their faith, their courage, their equanimity, their sense of authenticity, their prayer-life, and their vision, so that they can inspire congregants and the larger community. These qualities keep their rabbinate fresh and alive, mitigating the burnout and the compassion fatigue that are dangerous professional traps.

From my experiences with the hundreds of rabbis who have taken part in the Rabbinic Leadership Program of the Institute for Jewish Spirituality (IJS), I know the need is urgent. Rabbis describe many challenges: while they skillfully lead services, many rarely pray. Though they love their work, they often feel exhausted and overwhelmed, drained of spirit, patience, and creativity. Torn between family and congregational responsibilities, with no time for themselves, they pay little heed to the call of their soul or the ache in their bodies.

They yearn for spiritual companionship and for time to rethink core theological ideas — so that they can reclaim the passion that drew them into the rabbinate. They want to deepen their work with more openheartedness, generosity, patience, and equanimity, and to be less judgmental of themselves and others. They want to develop authentic lives in community with others who support and understand them.

We are each evolving spiritual beings who require new learning, new skills, new meanings; we need opportunities to investigate and shed outworn theologies or Jewish ways of thinking that have become tired and old. This is the work of spiritual re-formation. It gives us time and tools to look anew at our theology as it evolves with life experience, to reconnect with prayer. Nurturing a safe community of companions helps us do this work. Providing opportunities for spiritual development in various venues of retreat will benefit many.

Unfortunately some highly regarded spiritual leaders have transgressed boundaries, hurting individuals, leaving communities flailing, and damaging the credibility of the spiritual enterprise. This is terrible and inexcusable. While these leaders are no different from other high-powered individuals who make similar transgressions, we expect our spiritual leaders to adhere to a moral code, and we feel betrayed and outraged when they don’t. While those rabbis might be taking advantage of the power their spiritual charisma gives them, they are not truly spiritual individuals. Without a spiritual practice of cultivating humility, clarity, truthfulness, and discernment, they do not see how the power of their ego has distorted their vision, clarity, and truthfulness. They have not been able to discern the yetzer hara from their overall neediness and vanity. When rabbis are lonely, burned out, and spiritually dead, no matter how vibrant they seem (transmitting spiritual energy is different than having inner knowledge), they are more likely to believe they are exempt from normative standards. In communities that demand accountability and transparency, where humility is cultivated and honored, where rabbis are given the tools and time to practice self-care, they can more often align their talents and strengths  in service to the community and to God, rather than to their own ego. 

And after all, the simplest teachings lie at the core of spiritual formation for rabbis: God wants our heart; the essence of the spiritual life is to work on ourselves; and we cannot teach authentically when our role is divided from our soul. We cannot give what we don’t possess.

The offerings of a continuing education program must be broad enough for the entire rabbinic community. We approach our rabbinate based on our own leadership styles, disposition, and community dynamics. And at different stages of our rabbinic tenure, our needs for support and professional development change.

As several of the rabbis in the foregoing Roundtable mentioned, mentoring programs for new pulpit rabbis can be an effective tool in the arsenal of continuing education programs. With the help of the Legacy Heritage Fund Rabbinic Enrich ment Initiative, Yeshiva University has been experimenting with different models of preparing the mentors/mentees for rewarding experiences. A few criteria have proven essential: First, expectations for the relationship must be defined in advance, as are measures and metrics to describe success. Second, a trained facilitator should prepare the mentor and mentee for a productive experience by creating an environment for trusting conversations and a pragmatic routine. Monitor ing the ongoing conversations and relationships helps avert derailment if the mentoring process stalls. In addition to the obvious benefits that such synergy gives the young rabbi in his formative years, it also expands his collegial circle of friends. For example, young rabbis at conferences normally spend time with their friends from seminary. The latitudinal silos are broken when dozens of young rabbis meet their mentors at these conferences, and a wonderful byproduct of a successful mentoring program is vertical integration between young and more seasoned colleagues. Meeting with peers of similar age and experience can also, of course, be helpful, and serious spiritual retreats can serve rabbis with opportunities to grow in their intellectual pursuits and their avodat Hashem.

Secured Web sites can be designed to provide rabbis with “classes in a box” that help ease pressures to prepare material during stressful times. It can serve as a venue for rabbis to share materials for classes and research into specific halakhic/philosophical issues — especially helpful to rabbis living in communities where Judaic libraries are unavailable.

Management skills, strategic planning, and board development, should be taught in venues where the professional and lay leader learn together. This promotes consensus between the klei (rabbi) and lay kodesh (president) about what needs to improve.

Continuing education should also include an entire array of programs for the rabbinic spouse. In the Orthodox community (and perhaps in other communities as well), the rebbetzin plays a significant communal role. While this voluntary role is defined by her interests, balancing a professional career, family responsibilities, her own contributions to the community, the plethora of events she must attend, and managing a rabbinic home is stressful. This is further complicated in a community where the rabbi is the neighbor of his congregants, the rabbi’s children attend the same schools as the youth of his congregation, and often the educators are his parishioners. It is essential to give the spouse the spiritual sustenance necessary to calibrate her soul, a safe space to discuss the challenges of a rebbetzin’s position, and the management skills to help balance these responsibilities.

Susan Berrin: How do you envision that your rabbinic alumni continue to learn, once they’ve been out of the seminary for several years? How will your graduates continue to grow as rabbis?

Aaron Alexander: 
Within the progressive movements, very few of us grew up with Torah lish’ma (learning for its own sake) as an inherent value. Our real learning of Torah began in the seminary, which doesn’t feel lish’ma, because of grades. Creating an environment in rabbinical school that cultivates a love of learning Torah for its own sake is extremely important. Our experiment with removing grades didn’t work all that well. While some students managed fine with pass-fail reporting, other students seemed to need grades as a motivation to perform.

Dan Ehrenkrantz: 
We don’t have grades and we’ve not had that problem. We do wonder, though, how to accentuate what is truly outstanding work.

Renni Altman: 
Our students can choose grades if they want; otherwise we operate on a pass-fail system. Fundamentally, the rabbi needs to have an ongoing relationship with scholarship and learning, which we create through the alumni association — initially through conventions and now much more so through technology and online courses, many of which incorporate chevruta study. Many of our alumni don’t have a community of other rabbis with whom they can learn, so online courses create learning opportunities that can work for a whole range of rabbis in different situations.

Sharon Cohen Anisfeld: 
Once students graduate there is, ironically, much that conspires to make ongoing study a real challenge. That’s why it’s critical to start thinking about post-graduate continuing rabbinic education in the first year of rabbinical school. I would highlight three ways in which we seek to nurture a lifelong commitment to learning. First, we help students develop the skills to engage competently and creatively with classical sources in the original. This is essential if they are to become independent learners by the time they are out in the field. Second, studying in a beit midrash b’chevruta grounds the learning process in friendship and community, and creates an atmosphere in which one is accountable as a student not only to one’s teachers but to one’s self and peers. Finally, as faculty we model a commitment to lifelong Torah study with our own chevrutot; this reinforces a sense of seriousness about the shared enterprise of learning.

Ehrenkrantz: 
The learning curve for rabbis during the first few years in the field is tremendously high — they serve essentially like a post-medical school residency. It’s not until the fourth year or so that a rabbi begins to establish patterns of continuing education and learning. A focus on chevruta study during rabbinical school helps rabbis to replicate that method in the field. Ensuring a fixed time for ongoing learning as part of rabbinic life and inculcating that into the daily routine is critical. Missing from the rabbinate is a formal system of continuing education — a requirement that rabbis in the field need to fulfill in order to remain members in good standing of their rabbinical associations. Physicians who don’t keep up with their learning lose their license to practice. The rabbinate needs some level of professionalization akin to that model.

Daniel Nevins: 
There are and should be multiple forms of continuing education. All rabbis must have a chevruta, which is a life-long obligation for all Jews, and certainly for rabbis. In addition, many of our alumni should be able to pursue specialized education such as advanced degrees in Jewish studies, or certificates in discrete skills such as clinical pastoral education (CPE) or nonprofit management, and ritual skills like kashrut supervision, sofrut, or writing gittin. Next fall, JTS will offer onsite CPE for ordained clergy, and I’m developing an advanced halakhah certificate program for our current seniors and ordained rabbis.

Dov Linzer: 
The Orthodox community already values Torah lish’ma. But because so much of the learning at our yeshiva is goal-oriented — learning all of the relevant halakhot — we’re not cultivating Torah lish’ma as much as we should. When we required students to learn a hundred pages of gemarah independent of the yeshiva, it became just another requirement. So now we’re not testing the students on the learning but asking them to keep a journal — summarizing what they’ve learned. This method, hopefully, will cultivate a love of learning every single day beyond the context of school. We encourage our rabbis to fix times for Torah, maybe learn a daf yomi. And while our rabbis pursue Torah learning — needing to provide halakhic answers and teach text courses — that learning does not necessarily nurture the soul, expand the rabbi’s horizons, or maintain one’s sense of religious purpose. For these essential experiences, we need rabbinic retreats and other opportunities to share with colleagues and to pull ourselves back from the entrenched role of rabbi.

Altman: 
And as part of professional development, our rabbis must continue to hone more practical skills needed for their rabbinate.

Alexander: 
The advance of technology has significantly opened opportunities for studying Torah lish’ma. Rabbis with extremely busy schedules can now still find ways to learn — podcasting has become a tremendous resource in Judaism where anybody can download a lecture or shiur and listen in the car or while working out. We post an enormous amount of material online and through e-mail. We need to think creatively about how to do this most effectively.

Cohen Anisfeld: 
While technology is and will continue to be a tremendous asset for rabbis, online resources should not be a substitute for learning that is grounded in personal relationships. Chevruta study reflects a deep Jewish intuition about the connection between friendship and learning. It is at least as much about “not knowing” together — taking the risk of asking real questions — as it is about gaining knowledge and information. This is particularly vital for rabbis, who often feel immense pressure to pretend they know more than they do. Chevruta is great practice for saying, “I don’t know” or “I don’t understand this” with someone we trust.

Ehrenkrantz: 
I’d love to hear feedback on my suggestion to formalize some continuing education units. While some rabbis are really good about carving out time and keeping up with their studies, for others it’s a real challenge. If we simply say, as rabbis you should definitely learn a lot, and here are resources; now go use them, the rabbinate may not grow as a profession in the way it should.

Nevins: 
Mandating such a program is unrealistic and unhelpful. And I’m skeptical about credit for credit’s sake. We know that merely attending conferences does not necessarily lead to the attainment of substantial new skills. But the movements could create standard formats for CRE credits and then issue benchmarks for outstanding rabbis to attain each year. Once this vocabulary is introduced it will become easier to sustain expectations that rabbis stay current in their training.

I would like to challenge rabbis to dedicate each decade of their career to a discrete skill set. For example, the first decade could be devoted to cultivating pastoral skills; the second to refreshing and expanding primary-text skills; the third to engagement in issues of peoplehood and public policy. I like the idea of career stages and shifting our focus periodically in order to break out of habitude.

Linzer: 
I wonder how many doctors or lawyers take those credits just to fulfill requirements and whether much growth actually occurs as a result of those demands.

Alexander:
I’d like to see rabbis leave the seminary with a list of ways to further their education with a mentor who will urge them to continue to learn and grow.

Cohen Anisfeld: 
Rabbinic mentors help rabbis continue to work toward goals they set as students. Mentorship also underscores that the learning process does not end with ordination.

Altman:
A mentoring program offers new rabbis a spiritual guide to replenish the well — especially in terms of self-care — during the early years.

Linzer: 
We’ve been struggling with mentorship because it requires preexisting relationships  and also because it takes time to develop those relationships — it’s not just for help in a crisis. One place to start is during a retreat, with time to share why we’re rabbis and reflect on our own spiritual development — where the talks are not just about content but are inspirational.

Alexander: 
We’ve been talking about rabbis mentoring rabbis but some of our most knowledgeable, committed, and passionate members of the community are our lay leaders. I wonder what it would look like to have rabbis being mentored by their board members and laypeople.

Altman: 
Though this could be a helpful exchange of ideas, it might not be a good mentorship relationship. Being mentored by a member of one’s board can be fraught with difficulties. And our rabbis need mentors with years of experience in the rabbinate. We all see how often rabbis become burned out, not attending to self-care whether it comes from study, prayer, personal development, spiritual development, retreats, whatever. We can get so caught up in our professional obligations that we neglect ourselves and our families.

Berrin: A rabbi serves as teacher and spiritual leader. Charisma can draw people to a rabbi; it can be used well, or abused. How do you address the role charisma plays in the rabbinate?

Linzer: 
Our pastoral counseling program teaches our students the skills of creating boundaries — making sure they know where they end and where the other person begins. Setting boundaries is critical to counseling or teaching and also to time management — how to be “on” and how to take time “off.” We help rabbis create calendars with clear designations of time for one’s own learning, and time off with family or friends.

Alexander: 
Charisma is a double-edged sword. When one of my friends becomes observant because of one deeply inspiring rabbi, I am thrilled to find somebody has been introduced and drawn to Torah. At the same time, I am also worried that the charismatic leader and the newcomer are unaware that the learning is grounded in 3,000 years of tradition — that anything we teach as rabbis is being taught in God’s name; we teach in the name of Torah and not in our own name. This can become a very fine line, especially for charismatic leaders.

Ehrenkrantz: 
The community does itself a disservice by defining and understanding charisma so narrowly. When Moses is told that he is going to die, his attention goes to appointing a successor. God tells him that he should commission Joshua, an “ish asher ruah bo” a man in whom there is ruah, spirit. What do we want in our leaders? We want somebody who has ruah bo, who has spirit, and that may translate to charisma. But who doesn’t have ruah bo, who does not have spirit within them? Only a dead body. So, every person has ruah; the question is how to see the ruah that a person has, to translate that spirit, which may look different than the way charisma is generally understood. In terms of rabbinic training, we concentrate a great deal on self-assessment, being able to see oneself accurately, and to be self-reflective — what we call “use of self.” Rabbis should bring absolutely everything that they have to offer to the situations in which they find themselves. What they have to offer is a tool. If somebody is very nice looking and people respond to them because they are nice looking, that’s great. But just because people respond to a nice looking rabbi doesn’t make that rabbi a better person. It’s only a tool.

Altman: 
Conversations about charisma underscore the responsibility inherent in assuming a position of leadership. The danger arises when charisma is a self-serving reinforcement of a rabbi’s own ego needs.

Ehrenkrantz: 
Our students are required to take a mini-course in appropriate boundaries; nobody graduates without it.

Cohen Anisfeld: 
We help each of our students cultivate a leadership style that is personally authentic, self-reflective, and responsive and responsible to others. While we address many of these issues in our counseling courses and seminars, no less important are the informal ways in which we teach students about the ethics of leadership. For example, how do we model appropriate boundaries, humility, and a healthy capacity for reflection and personal growth? How do we create an environment within our own school community that leaves space and time for spiritual renewal? How do we honor different voices, different talents, and different styles of leadership among our students and faculty? 

Linzer: 
For some magnetic rabbis we need to worry about lack of substance — charisma has to be harnessed, and it has to be coupled with substance and attention to detail, to text, and to other people. It’s not a substitute for the real knowledge and skills that a rabbi must have to be an effective rabbi.

Berrin: What are some of the more profound challenges for rabbis in the field today and how might continuing education address some of these challenges?

Alexander: 
For the Conservative movement, our most profound challenge is to find ways to inspire people to bring into their lives something from within the tradition. As rabbis, we’re struggling to find ways to help people connect, and we all ought to be learning best practices from each other.

Nevins: 
The ground is shifting constantly — populations are moving, families are morphing, denominational labels are blurring, obscure rituals are being reclaimed, and bedrock practices are being questioned. In this environment a rabbi must be able to identify core values and help shape his or her environment rather than be resigned to reactive behavior. Rabbis are entrusted with communal memory and stability, yet we also are challenged to help the Jewish people adapt its covenantal mission to current circumstances. Our ultimate job is to make Judaism matter for our people and the world.

Ehrenkrantz:
The demand and expertise required of rabbis can be an overwhelming challenge. It would be ideal for rabbis to meet with one another, to work in concert, and for institutions — rabbinical schools, rabbinical associations, and congregational bodies — to be very thoughtful about how to give rabbis the tools they need to succeed in a changing world.

Altman: 
Among the most profound challenges for an individual rabbi is the issue of self-care, of being whole, of finding that elusive balance between personal and professional life — of ongoing spiritual growth and personal nourishment. Professionally, the rabbinate demands an ever-expanding skill set. Today, rabbis are expected to be both visionary — think in terms of the big picture — and aware of all aspects of congregational life. We want leaders to reach out to Jews beyond the walls of the congregation, to the periphery of the congregation. We need to help our alumni develop those ever-expanding skills.

Cohen Anisfeld: 
We need to be able to respond to the question that so many Jews today are asking in one form or another: “Why be Jewish? Why does all of this matter?” Though this may once have been the question of the wicked child at the Passover seder — “Ma ha’avodah hazot lachem?” (What is the meaning of this worship to you?) — we can no longer see those asking such questions as wicked; we can no longer afford to relegate them to the margins of our communities. In fact, this creates a wonderful opportunity for us rabbis to be more honest and reflective about why we ourselves do what we do, why it all matters. Judaism will thrive if it speaks to the most significant and elemental moments and mysteries of people’s lives — to the questions, fears, joys, sorrows, and longings that make us human.

Linzer: 
The challenge we all face is to connect people to our Jewish heritage. Rabbis must recognize that this is a central responsibility and obligation, and our rabbinical schools must commit time to teach rabbis how to reach out and to help synagogues realize this is the work of rabbis. We’ve heard some synagogues ask rabbis: Why are you taking all of that time, you should be focusing on those within the synagogue? And, why are you bringing all these people into our synagogue, they are not our members?

Rabbis must also address larger global responsibilities, and we can’t ignore the current financial crisis that is having a devastating effect on Jewish institutional life. This crisis presents an opportunity to help people focus on questions of meaning rather than materialism. Within the Orthodox community we’re very good at learning and observing, but we’re less focused on why we’re doing something and connecting our behavior and habits to a sense of meaning within the tradition. Modern Orthodoxy has never developed a religious ethos, a religious mentality that offers a perspective on the world, and provides a lens through which to interpret our experiences.

Dear Rabbi Glanzberg-Krainin,

For years I have felt compelled to be a rabbi. This path incorporates my deepest interests and fascinations: teaching, literature and philosophy, meaningful moments in people’s lives, seeking the sacred. No matter how far my heart and mind wander Jewishly, I repeatedly encounter my sense that I would love being a rabbi. Wherever I am in my journey, I revisit this conviction in new ways.

I fear, however, that ordination could ironically compromise this very journey. Though almost-applying to rabbinical school has colored my past two autumns, I have annually decided to soak up another year as a layperson. I want to keep questioning, exploring, and experimenting; I don’t want my journey to end.

I am hesitant to forfeit the freedom and spontaneity of this journey. Connecting religion and career must introduce some concrete boundaries into one’s spiritual life. While I value discipline and commitment, I also enjoy the variety in my practice — the liberty to seek God in many different ways. Some mornings I yearn to lay tefillin; other mornings, silent meditation. Some Shabbatot I gravitate toward minyanim; others, the woods. I do not want to apologize to colleagues or congregants for this inconsistency. How is it for you to have your religious life on display? Do you ever feel spiritually stifled as a rabbi?

I am also reluctant to curb my explorations of the uncharted territories that define a journey. Do you feel that you have time to continue to learn and to draw from teachers? Also, are the laypeople around you hungry for Jewish knowledge? Do you feel intellectually challenged in your workplace? I sometimes wonder if a career in academic Jewish studies would be more stimulating. Did you ever consider academia over the rabbinate? How did you decide?

There appears to be a dearth of rabbis with more questions than answers. So many seem better at talking than listening, at responding than wondering. Is there something about rabbinic life that conditions people to be this way? I do not want to acquire that sort of “confidence.” How have you remained an open, curious, and wrestling Jew? Have you ever been tempted to feign certainty or to rationalize in order to feel more certain?

Thank you for your time,
Sam

Dear Sam,

Thanks for writing so openly about your search and struggles; I am very moved by your questions. Before trying to respond, let me first point out something that I found very striking about what you wrote: “No matter how far my heart and mind wander Jewishly, I repeatedly encounter my sense that I would love being a rabbi.” That’s a powerful statement to make, and I advise you to pay it close attention. Perhaps your question is not, Do I want to be a rabbi but, rather, how can I be a rabbi in a way that will keep me alive spiritually.

I am particularly struck by your fear that  your religious journey will end upon ordination. In my experience, you can’t keep the journey from ending unless, has v’shalom, you die. You are always on a journey somewhere, regardless of your career path. The questions you ask have to do with where and how your journey could unfold in a way that nurtures you and makes you feel alive while allowing you to give your gifts to the world.

It is true that, to use your words, “connecting religion and career” does, in fact, limit freedom and spontaneity. There is no question that the life of a congregational rabbi imposes real boundaries on one’s ability to follow the “religious impulses of the moment.” Yet it seems to me that a religious life lived within the context of a community of any kind imposes boundaries on one’s ability to live religiously in the moment. As I read your questions, I want to ask: What role does the desire to serve play in your decision-making process? In my experience, the rabbis who are most fulfilled by their work are both passionate about Jewish life and desirous of serving God and the Jewish people. In the non-Orthodox world, one of the few places where you can both receive an intense Jewish education and live within a seriously committed Jewish community has always been rabbinical school. But once you leave the womb of that training program, rabbis who don’t feel a deep desire to serve ha’Kodesh barukh Hu and am Yisrael are often the ones who are most deeply pained by the reality of life among am’cha.

And it is true that if you become a congregational rabbi, your religious life will be on display. Jack Bloom calls the rabbi a symbolic exemplar for the congregation. And yes, that does mean that there are times when you may be incredibly distant in your connection with God while you’re leading a Shabbat morning prayer service. I imagine that this is not dissimilar from the way a therapist feels about a client whose issues become tedious. Most therapists are not going to say to their patient: “Listen, I just can’t bear to hear you drone on for another hour.” Yes, there will be times when you are going through the motions and not really feeling it. But that boredom, and those boundaries, can also be incorporated into your religious life. “How,” you might ask God on a regular basis, “can I serve You best in these circumstances?”

Your congregants are going to be more and less fluent in the language of Jewish life. There are times when you will feel called upon to speak to your congregants on a level that might feel rather pedestrian; at other times, you will be called upon to translate at a very sophisticated level. If you are fervent about what you are doing and respectful of the different places where people are on their own journeys, you will find a community that wants to learn from your most passionate of places. 

Finally, Sam, it is true that some of my colleagues exude a confidence that might at times verge on pomposity. This phenomenon might be a defense against the vulnerability that comes from functioning as a symbol of something to which one feels unworthy. It is true that members of your community will look to you for answers; it is true that saying to your members that you don’t have the answer, or that you struggle with the same issue, is indeed a risk. The culture of the community that one serves has a lot to do with how safe it is to admit one’s own confusion. But a conscious, self-aware individual does not need to become a pompous rabbi — although rabbis sometimes fit that description. It is possible to be both passionate and humble in your work despite the symbolic role that you end up playing in people’s lives.

Kol tuv, David

Dear David,

I see a theme emerging in our correspondence: giving and receiving, self-awareness and awareness of others. I expressed my fear that being a rabbi might threaten my personal journey and you encouraged me to consider my desire to serve. As a Hillel professional, friend, romantic partner, and son, I have struggled with the delicate balance between giving and receiving.

I feel compelled to serve as a rabbi. When I have new insights, I almost reflexively fantasize about how I could share them. When I encounter inspiring texts, I want to read them aloud. My journals are sprinkled with dormant divrei Torah. I love listening to people. But the desire to serve can go awry.

It seems that one who constantly embraces the role of “symbolic exemplar” for a community could actually limit his or her capacity to inspire that community. A Zen roshi concerned with his monks must also let go sometimes and focus on his own meditation; if not, he’ll wither as a teacher. Is it not similar for rabbis? How have you sought this balance between giving and receiving in your career? How have you created space to explore your own soul so that you can help others explore theirs?

When I do not consistently “receive” richness from prayer and ritual, I wonder why I should inspire others to seek meaning in those places. I do not have perfect faith in the structures of Jewish religion. When you are, in your words, “going through the motions and not really feeling it,” how do you remain inspired to be a full-time proponent of Judaism? How do you know that God wants to be served in this way? Your statement that boredom can actually enrich one’s religious life intrigues me. I would love to hear more about this. 

Thank you for your openness,
Sam

Dear Sam,

You are absolutely right to be cautious about the potential for rabbis to become so focused on serving others that they neglect to invest in their own religious growth and care. Rabbis who don’t make time for their own neshamot become burnt out and bitter. You happen to be considering the rabbinate at a time when the larger Jewish community is responding to this phenomenon with an explosion of continuing rabbinic education programs. I have participated in several that have been enriching.

I have also struggled with how to represent my commitment to the Jewish enterprise during those times when my own inspiration is lacking. In fact, this is one of the questions that I have been exploring over the past five years through spiritual direction. I had been framing the question in the language of “passion”: To be sure that this is what God really wants me to do, shouldn’t I feel passionate about my rabbinic work all the time? My spiritual director suggested that instead of measuring the “passion” I felt, I could consider if my work allowed me to stay “compassionate” and “interested.” With this shift in my thinking, the occasional phenomenon of boredom became much less threatening. I am sure that the value of any relationship that you invest in over time — whether with a person or with your work — will be better calculated by your level of “compassion and interest” than it will be by your level of “passion.” Of course, I would agree that if you never have any passion for what you are doing, it’s probably a clear sign that this may not be the place God wants you to serve.

I think the scarier question you are asking is: What happens if the community that I am serving is not particularly interested in the Torah that I’m most passionate about? Will you have the courage to leave and to find a place where you can be truer to yourself? These are indeed complicated questions — especially when your parnasah is on the line.

Kol tuv, David

Dear David,

The issue of parnasah is so complicated. On the one hand, what a blessing it is for people to support themselves through meaningful work! And Jewish communities need leaders who can devote abundant time and energy to Jewish life. On the other hand, the fact that rabbis earn a salary for their engagement with Judaism raises sticky questions.

Active laypeople, precisely because they serve without remuneration, might have more profound influence than rabbis. About a rabbi who observes Shabbat, visits the sick, and prays everyday, one can always say, “Well, s/he gets paid for that!” Would engaged laypeople shed a truer light on the value of Jewish practice? And do laypeople draw more meaning from their religious life than rabbis do because they are n’div libo, voluntary-hearted? When do you feel that your status as a professional Jew mitigates your capacity to inspire others? How does your parnasah challenge your ability to serve?

I wonder whether I, as a Torah-thirsty, non-Orthodox Jew, should go the route of the rabbinate or if I should serve as a committed layperson at the grass roots. What qualities, beyond the desire to serve, qualify someone to be an attentive rabbi rather than a devoted layperson?

I want to conclude with a more personal question. Careers in the rabbinate are known to be taxing on family life. At the end of the day (literally and figuratively), I am more committed to being a husband and father than to being a rabbi. If love and holiness are different, love means more to me. How have you struggled with this aspect of your work-life balance? Is it possible to do both wholly?

I regret to end this final letter. My questions are inexhaustible. Thank you,

Sam

Dear Sam,

In this exchange of letters we’ve been discussing two things at the same time: your own particular journey and the nature of the congregational rabbinate. There is a deep integrity to the journey that you write about as you reflect on your life: your love of Torah; your passion for truth and honesty; your desire to be a loving spouse and a nurturing father. And there is a genuine concern you express about the ways in which the congregational rabbinate might actually limit or compromise the very essence of what now most motivates you in life. I would be lying if I told you that you have nothing to worry about. Your queries about the congregational rabbinate are not so much questions as they are an acknowledgment of the occupational hazards of this profession. It is possible to go through the motions; to get sucked into the symbolic role that you play; to stop asking the difficult questions; to lose your own compassion because you are consumed with the petty and the trivial. There are disillusioned congregational rabbis preaching from pulpits around the country; and there are many deeply fulfilled laypeople inspiring their havurot and their congregations with their unadulterated passion for Jewish life. The pitfalls of professional Jewish life are real, and you are wise to understand them before you make a commitment to the rabbinate.

Sam, these wonderful questions that you pose might indeed be what help you avoid becoming one of those glib and disillusioned rabbis, because in asking these questions, you already have a sense about what to be wary. Rest assured, there are rabbis who inspire their congregants to grow as human beings and as Jews; rabbis who are authentic in their own struggles with the tradition and with God; rabbis whose families are healthy and intact and loving. There are good rabbis who love what they do; and there are rabbis who are simply counting the days until retirement.

I can’t tell you which kind of rabbi you’ll be if you decide to send in those rabbinical school applications. But I can tell you that my own rabbinate has been a journey: one in which I have struggled imperfectly to find the proper balance between a commitment to my family and obligations to my congregation; and one in which I have tried to keep my own Jewish life alive during the times when I was only going through the motions.  Along the way, I can affirm two principles: my own questions have never gone away, and I continue to feel it is a tremendous privilege to serve as a rabbi. Sam, my berakha for you is that you always keep your questions right in front of you. I have every confidence that you will find profound and important ways to serve God no matter where your journey takes you.

Wishing you all the best, 
David

Reviewed by Joseph Reimer