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I’m Telling You for the Last Time

There is a peculiar occupational hazard among rabbis: The immodest attraction of comparing oneself to Moshe Rabbeinu, our teacher Moses. We feel called to service (sometimes as a second career, or in Moses’s case, a third). The more we learn in conversation with God and in dialogue with God’s Torah and God’s people, the more humbled we are by the vastness of what we have yet to learn and whom we have yet to help. We feel the heavy burden of responsibility for the spiritual experience of others, sometimes to the point of frustration with the people and with God, only to be reminded in moments critical and beautiful that this life of service and connection is a gift to be cherished.

I say all this with the (perhaps romantic) feeling that this modest Flame article is my Deuteronomy…my final testament before the people who have given me the gift of leadership continue on to the Promised Land without me. I’m no Moshe Rabbeinu, but writing these words has me feeling at least a small part of what he must have felt: the sadness of parting and the regret at work left undone, mixed with the pride in how far we’ve come together and the excitement for you in all the opportunities before you.

I’ll hazard a guess at what was on the tip of his tongue at the time he stood before the people for the last time: I love you. And you’ve got this.

But he was a rabbi, so he made a whole big long book about it.

I’m still learning, in the words of the great teacher Jeff Lebowski, about “that whole brevity thing.” I’ll probably have more to say over my final Shabbat at PJTC, but for the purposes of this article, I will summarize my swan song to you by borrowing from what is perhaps my favorite teaching about the purpose of a holy community like ours and the responsibility each of us has in it. If you hold to these words of our wise tradition, I promise you the next hundred years will be at least as successful as your first:

Joshua ben Perahiah used to say: appoint for yourself a teacher, and acquire for your a companion, and judge every person with the scale weighted in their favor. (Pirkei Avot 1:6)

First, I often try to teach the old saying, “Nine rabbis can’t make a minyan, but one butcher can.” There is nothing Jewish I do as a rabbi that can’t be done by any Jew; I’m just a bigger nerd about it. Nevertheless, as I clean out my office and read through all the nice notes people have written me over the years, I am reminded of what my rabbis have meant to me in my life, and no words do justice to my gratitude to you all for having me as your rabbi. Suffice it to say, it’s good for every member of the Jewish family to have a teacher or a mentor of some kind, someone who is a few steps ahead on the journey you are taking, to hint at the right direction, or at least point out the potholes. And while I’ve tried to stay out of the rabbinic search work, I really like what I’ve seen in terms of the humanity, broad-mindedness, self-awareness, and inclusivity of the process. You are in good hands.

Second, the nature of Jewish wisdom is that it cannot be learned alone. A person could read the whole of the Torah, pore through all its various commentary, and discover all the secrets of all the master teachers throughout our history, but if she learns all this by herself, our tradition discounts it as if she hasn’t learned at all. One of the unique treasures of our wisdom tradition is that all true learning is necessarily in dialogue, not merely between teacher and student, but in conversation among peers. This also says to me that if one’s learning does not contribute to building community - and all the more so if that learning contributes to dividing community - then that learning is not Jewish. The moral of this teaching for synagogue life: The friends you make at your synagogue are at least as important as the rabbi you hire; I think it is orders of magnitude more important.

But the most important thing is the third teaching here: Judge every person with the scale weighted in their favor. When a synagogue is in transition (and in today’s world, when isn’t it?) uncertainty can manifest insecurity, and insecurity can manifest distrust. Trust and grace, I have found, are like the cartilage in the joints by which a community moves forward. Without the ability to give each other the benefit of the doubt, every step becomes painful, and even the most minor disturbance can be jarring. As each of you steps into the next century of PJTC, I encourage you to see everyone here as partners, if not friends, and never adversaries. When someone’s opinions or actions frustrate you, remember that everyone you meet may be fighting a battle you know nothing about, and assume that everyone is doing the best they can, just like you are.

To paraphrase Amos (7:14), I am not a prophet, nor the son of a prophet. I have been, too briefly, a shepherd and a tender of the garden. I have tried to follow the example of Moshe Rabbeinu, and if I have ever served you well, I ask only this in return: Be open to your next teacher. Make friends here to learn, struggle, pray, cry, and celebrate with. Give everyone you meet at PJTC the benefit of the doubt. And send me a postcard from the Promised Land.

I love you. And you’ve got this.

Rabbi John Carrier