Why I Want to be a Rabbi.

“You’re going to be a rabbi,” he said, she said, they said.  My reaction never wavered; I laughed.  I grew up in a Reform synagogue, spent my summers at a URJ overnight camp and was certainly a proud Jew, but becoming a rabbi? At the time, the thought was laughable – “You mean the hip hop idolizing kid with the baggy pants and crooked hat who DJs and plays basketball is going to be a rabbi? “Yes,” the Vanilla-Ice-rapping rebbe responded.  

“Who’s Darfur?” I naively asked Rabbi ‘Ice’ Rigler, my unorthodox, rabbinic bridge to Judaism who nonchalantly wore the ‘Save Darfur’ call to action on his wrist.  I felt foolish when I received the answer.  How could I not have known about a government-sponsored genocide in Africa?  Like many Jews, I was fascinated by the unfathomable Holocaust; the promise of Never Again was an important cornerstone of my Jewish education.  The details of this modern genocide shocked me into action.  I read, wrote, fundraised, lobbied and marched to Save Darfur.  I incorporated all the Jewish values I learned throughout Hebrew school - tikkun olam, achrayut, tzedakah - and transformed them into a deeply rooted passion.   It seemed my dormant Judaism had awakened just in time for my first trip to Israel. 

I stepped off of the Exodus cruise in Haifa and kissed the ground with 40 of my closest Camp Harlam siblings – it was not as tasty as I expected holy soil to be.  I touched the Kotel - it felt like a cold rock.  I floated in the Dead Sea - I preferred the pool.  Looking back, I was a lost, jaded teenager.  My spiritual expectations failed to materialize and my Judaism returned to hibernation.  A migraine cut my trip short and left me unfulfilled.  However, I was compelled to return to Israel and determined to find the connection I so dearly sought. Undeterred and curious, I signed up for NFTY-EIE, High School in Israel and returned to Eretz Yisrael after a year of NFTY involvement and a summer of counselor training at Camp Harlam.  Overpacked and excited, I arrived at Kibbutz Tzuba ready to tackle my enigmatic Judaism.  I soon realized how little I knew about my own religion and strived to remedy these deficiencies.  I began to blend thousands of years of Jewish experience with my own and to study modern Hebrew, inevitably kindling my nascent love with the land of Israel.  I celebrated Shabbat and holidays on Reform kibbutzim, in Orthodox shuls, in a loft in Tel Aviv, in a secular Israeli home, with friends and strangers, drums and guitars.  I hiked and swam and spelunked, I smelled and breathed and lived the land.  The Kotel was not a cold rock, but a continuum connecting me with hundreds of generations before me.  Israel was no longer just a foreign strip of desert; it was home.  Though still naive, I was no longer lost in the wilderness of Judaism; I had purpose and passion. My religious enlightenment and inherent bond with the Jewish homeland led me to a clear conclusion, one that I had laughed at so many times before: I want to be a rabbi.

From this new lens, I retrospectively refocused the defining Jewish moments in my life.  I remember few instances from the blur of becoming a Bar Mitzvah, but two moments stand out which paved my distinct path forward. My grandfather had suffered a stroke and was unable to attend my Bar Mitzvah celebrations.  Mentioning his name during Mi Sheberach felt insufficient, so I called him and sat the cell phone right next to the Torah while I conducted the remainder of my service.  Technology enabled me to share my religious milestone with my incapacitated grandfather.  This image, the juxtaposition of technology and Torah, has become integral to my Jewish exploration, expression, and teaching: YouTube, skyping with Israelis, communicating with campers, using iPads to teach Hebrew, social networking. Technology has had a tremendous impact on my access to Judaism and has facilitated my ability to convey meaningful Jewish experiences to others. As a rabbi, I would strive to integrate Jewish tradition with innovative technologies that promote the dissemination and accessibility to personalized Judaism. 

My Bar Mitzvah also included my father’s heartfelt speech which had an unorthodox conclusion: we sang Monty Python’s Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.  It took a few years for me to fully understand the significance of the song and even longer to realize how it tied into my Judaism.  Since then, it has slowly become a personal mantra and I have worked hard to always see the cup half full. Judaism has repeatedly appeared as a fundamental building block of this positive outlook. When a family member passed away while I was studying in Israel, Kaddish Yatom garnered new significance.  His death became a time to reflect and celebrate life; a time that I was able to push myself to appreciate the lessons that he instilled in me.  Over time, the sadness of his death became an experience that was inspirational, positive, and distinctly Jewish.  

However I quickly learned that positive attitudes alone only had so much healing power.  When an inspiring seventeen-year-old friend tragically passed, it was hard to find comfort.  He epitomized positivity, happiness and dedication and his loss was devastating.  Words were futile and no rationale existed to make sense of the situation.  Community became a crucial component of the healing process providing much needed comfort.  Hundreds of Camp Harlam alumni along with friends and family gathered to commemorate his life and mourn his passing.  Silent togetherness had never been more profound.  The communal support and camaraderie soothed our emotional devastation.  When I arrived at shiva, his father, a rabbi and one of my biggest role models, gave me a hug and said, “I don’t think we could make it through this without you.”    

This unthinkable tragedy defined Judaism in a way I had previously been unable to pinpoint.  Judaism teaches you how to love to your utmost ability; to do everything you can for your brother and sister; to turn flaws into perfections; to be beautiful on the inside and out; to thirst for answers while remaining curious; to push limits, hurdle boundaries and break the norm.  That was Mitch Perlmeter.  And Mitch’s passing humbly reaffirmed my passion for Judaism and my aspirations to become a rabbi.

I often envision my role as a rabbi: building meaningful, reciprocal relationships with peers, elders and pupils; applying Jewish values to better myself and my world; working to better understand and adapt traditions; helping others connect to our ancestral land and its boundless opportunities for spiritual growth; facilitating others to experience the warmth of Jewish community; sewing religious experiences into a cohesive quilt of Jewish identity; assisting others in tailoring their own religious tapestry.   

All too infrequently do passion and profession coincide.  For me, becoming a rabbi provides the opportunity and privilege to bind the two.  The prophetic predictions of pursuing the rabbinate from my youth have come to fruition.  What was once laughable is now an earnest endeavor. Judaism is my passion. I want to build community and share my love for Eretz Yisrael. I want to inspire Jewish youth and make prayer meaningful.  I want to offer unique perspectives and make Judaism relevant.  I want to use Judaism as a platform to better the world.