So in this Rabbi biz, there are times that you put into the eBlast that you’ll be talking about X. In this case, me. I’ll be talking about me and my journey to the rabbinate, on the eve of my smicha, my rabbinic ordination.
In this Rabbi biz, there are time that you put that into the eBlast and even while you’re doing it you’re thinking, “That’s so not going to happen.” You don’t know exactly why. A premonition. You probably don’t expect an insurrection at the Capitol, even if an insurrection such as this week’s was foreseeable.
And so it leaves you in a quandary. What do you do? What do you talk about?
And the Jewish answer more often than not is probably, both.
About what happened in Washington this week I don’t have a lot to say that you haven’t been saying and thinking already, either this week or for a long time leading up to it. Like you, I was shocked – even while I wasn’t surprised. I imagined this possibility but something in me didn’t think I’d actually see it. And I admit there are days when I just don’t want to be part of something for the history books. I don’t want to have to hear the word “unprecedented” every day.
But we are dealt the time and circumstances that we are dealt. And here we are. I am relieved that this particular episode ended. I am proud of Congress as a whole for returning to the scene and, despite their trauma, staying as long as was necessary to confirm the election. I am unhappy that so many legislators would continue to cast doubt on the vote, fanning the very flames that led to this. And I am pained that there were deaths in our Capitol.
I am aware that the people who invaded our halls of government – conservative white people – were treated far better than black or brown protesters would be. They were treated like peaceful protesters are supposed to be treated. When they, with their guns and bats, were not peaceful protesters.
I myself have been a peaceful protester in the Capitol. I was arrested in the Capitol Rotunda in 1991, doing civil disobedience in an ACTUP demonstration. We did not break through barricades. As I recall, we just bought tickets for the tour. And once in the Rotunda, on cue, we fell to the ground. A “die-in,” as it was called, dramatizing how many people had died of AIDS and drawing attention to the government’s indifference.
That was a protest.
This was a mob.
And as Jews, I think it’s fair to say that mobs have never gone well for us. There was something particularly bizarre for me about teaching Yiddish poetry Wednesday at noon while Ari Hilton was texting me live updates. We were reading a Moyshe Leyb-Halpern poem, called Memento Mori, in which he explores his familiar, casual relationship with death. And I was busy deciding what of the updates to share in the Zoom Room, with 1930s Yiddish still on our lips.
I felt a fear, a Jewish fear, based on history and engraved in my epigenetics. This is why, later in the day, it felt right for us to hold an impromptu gathering. Not because we needed to hash out the news, but because we needed to be in a room together and address our fear.
“Fear is the cheapest room in the house,” says the poet Hafiz. “I would rather see you in better accommodations.” And so we took an hour together to look at the light in each other’s faces – like you might do right now. We grounded ourselves and breathed together – like you might do right now. And we named the ancestors who have inspired us – Sojourner Truth and Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Emma Goldman. And we began to feel our strength.
There are folk in this country who profit by our fear. Who want us to feel isolated from each other and from our history. Disconnected from our strength. But we are more powerful than we often give ourselves credit for. So before we move on, take a moment and feel your power. And know that whatever comes next – and we will have a long climb out of the mess we’re in – but whatever comes next, we will face it together.
And that is, for me, a powerful and soothing thought.
Now, onto subject #2 that was supposed to be subject #1. Well, we don’t have the same kind of time for it that we might have. So we’ll just do a little FAQ – Frequently Asked Questions.
FAQ 1. How did you end up being our rabbi if you’re not a rabbi?
Very good question. It’s your fault. I always wanted to be a rabbi, since third grade, after reading a story about Rabbi Hillel when he was a kid and his longing to learn Torah. And that awakened a longing in me that has never once abated. Many years later I moved to Sonoma County and joined Ner Shalom. Rabbi Elisheva was the rabbi, and she was in the process of leaving. And as sometimes happens, things don’t go so well in the aftermath. If you weren’t around then, you don’t need to know. But during a difficult moment in 2008, with the High Holy Days 20 feet in front of us, and with Shari’s encouragement, I volunteered to lead the services. I had stage readiness – fearlessness in fact – from my years with the Kinsey Sicks. And I had so much love for the liturgy, the music, the transformative process of the High Holy Days. It all poured through me. For me it was magical, and it was pretty good for you too. The Board suspended its rabbi search and invited me to come on staff.
FAQ 2. If you wanted to be a rabbi in 3rd grade, why didn’t you become one?
1991, ACTUP era. Photo by Robert Camyre.
Well, that was my plan. But when I was 22, in 1982, I had just come out of the closet. I had been busy reading essays by Jewish lesbians. There was a movement happening to claim some of the turf of Judaism. But the movement had not yet resulted in policy shifts in any of the Jewish denominations. So at 22, about to apply, I realized there was no rabbinical school that would accept me. At least not unless I went back into the closet – an option that was not really possible for me either practically or ethically.
I could’ve waited for change. But right then the AIDS epidemic was about to unfold and I felt I was needed elsewhere. As I said earlier, I was an activist. I went to law school and eventually ran an AIDS legal organization in San Francisco. And at one of the low points in the epidemic, 3 friends and I started the drag a cappella comedy troupe that you all know about that took the next 21 years of my life.
All of these callings were a kind of ministry. They seem so different from each other. But on some level they were all about care, about joy, and about lessening the suffering of others.
FAQ 3. What are your plans once you have your ordination?
What are my plans? I hope to take Monday off. In fact, in general taking Mondays off would represent a lifestyle improvement. Otherwise, I look forward to being able to give Ner Shalom my attention. Catch up with all of you whom I haven’t been able to chat with in months. I’ll also continue the work I do with Taproot, which is a program training young Jewish activists and artists to make creative ritual. But if by this question what you’re really asking is if I’m going to look for another job, the answer is, “Are you crazy?” Could I ever find a community where I am so well met by creative and soulful people? Where I have this freedom to imagine and create new things and I’m not chucked out for doing it? Next question.
FAQ 4. What’s the difference between Reb and Rabbi anyway?
“Rabbi” is an old Hebrew word for teacher. Rabbis were traditionally ordained by their teachers. Nowadays that mostly happens through the medium of a rabbinical school.
“Reb” is an affectionate honorific from the Chasidic world, used for a beloved teacher. It is not really a technical term, so there is no ordination involved; no “Reb Licensing Board.” I have been grateful that this community chose to call me Reb. In the Jewish Renewal Movement where I study, we call all our teachers “Reb” even when they are ordained rabbis.
And then there’s “Rebbe” which is something else altogether. “Rebbe” is the title used for the wonder-working rabbis who headed Chasidic dynasties. My teacher Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi of blessed memory was a kind of rebbe in the Jewish Renewal Movement, and he also taught how to serve in a rebbe-like capacity, how to have real soul connections with the community one serves. But his teaching of “rebbe-craft” as he called it, was not a suggestion that anyone use that rather grand title.
FAQ 5. So cut to the chase, what are we going to call you?
Reb Irwin, please. I don’t want that to change. I think the title “rabbi” can be off-putting and hierarchical. And I love being called “Reb Irwin.” The biggest difference is that when someone points to me and says “He’s the rabbi at Ner Shalom,” I can stop correcting them.
FAQ 6. What does this feel like for you?
I’m a basket case. Overwhelmed. Moved. In love. Nervous. Happy. Sad. I feel my ancestors around me. I feel the presence of my teachers who are no longer living. I feel the love of my teachers who are. And my family and my loved ones in this community. I’m blessed. And grateful.