Rabbi Harold M. Schulweis Sermons

On the Occasion of the Installation of Rabbi Daniel Satlow

by Harold M. Schulweis

I was not born a rabbi. My father was not a rabbi, nor was his father. A rabbi is not a rebbe, someone who inherits the status and mantle of his ancestry. I was born a layman, and as a layman I had felt from the start a certain mystique about the rabbi. Not merely the mystery in that the rabbi was invisible during the week and incomprehensible during the weekend, but a clear sense that the rabbi is different.

A rabbi is unlike a lawyer or a doctor or an engineer or a business man. A rabbi is different. Not that the rabbi is superior; in fact, the tradition makes it clear that the rabbi, like any righteous person, cannot exist on this earth and do good without transgressing. The rabbi is not infallible, and the folk saying that nine rabbis don't make a minyan but that ten laymen do.

The rabbi may try to be one of the boys to convince the world that he is accessibl, and he may even swap jokes and make light banter. But I think that despite himself he is different. And if he doesn't think that he is different, he is seen as different.

The rabbi is alone. "I am lonely. Let me emphasize that by stating that I am lonely I do not intend to convey to you the impression that I am alone. I, thank God, do enjoy the love and friendship of many. I need people, talk, preach, argue, reason; I am surrounded by comrades and acquaintances. And yet, companionship and friendship do not alleviate the passional experience of loneliness which drains me constantly. I am alone because at times I feel rejected and thrust away by everybody, not excluding my most intimate friends.  The words of the psalmist, 'My father and my mother have forsaken me' quite often ring in my ears."

I have often wondered about this confession of Rabbi Joseph Baer Soloveitchik, the Rav, which is found in his remarkable essay, "The Lonely Man of Faith.” I have wondered in what sense is loneliness the fate of the rabbi's faith.

Why should he be lonely? The rabbi’s study is lined with books, with texts, commentaries and responsa. He is not alone. Still, there are times, more frequent in recent years than ever before, that new situations arise, more pressing than ever before. New challenges, new questions, new facts, which call for his decision and his judgment. And with all due respect to the companionship of books and the collegiality of his rabbinic peers and the institutions of his training, it is he who must decide. In this, the rabbi cannot overcome his sense of aloneness.

People come to the rabbi with personal situations about abortions, homosexuality, and divorce that are quite new and personal and which the ancient text do not satisfy. They do not satisfy because so much of the background, assumptions, presuppositions of the ancient and medieval world are not those of the rabbis who are called upon to rule and decide today.

Simply put, facts have changed, attitudes have changed, values have changed. The congregation has changed and the rabbi has changed. For example, from the time that I was ordained at the Jewish Theological Seminary in 1950 to the ordination of Rabbi Satlow, the attitude toward women has changed radically.

Most of the time the rabbi may conduct himself like the Jewish priest. He wears his vestments, he officiates, he conducts the ritual, he follows the codes. But the law is necessarily impersonal. The rabbi, like the judge, lives by the Book. The law cannot make exceptions. The law seeks to be unveiled. But more often now, the rabbi confronts individuals, with personal lives and unique situations which require more than following the law. And he experiences the loneliness of not knowing where and how to decide. As such times he feels closer to his prophetic ancestry than to his priestly ancestry.

Even as Moses, the prophet of prophets, is not always sure of himself. Consider the episode of the five daughters of Zelophdad, who in the Book of Numbers 27, came to Moses to protest the law. In accordance with the tradition only men are eligible to inherit the property, the land from their father. In their case, their father Zelophdad left no sons, only daughters, and they have no inheritance in this. They challenged Moses "Is it fair? Does not God have compassion for all?" "Give us a possession among the brothers of our father."

Moses knew the tradition. He knew the law, but he heard the moral rightness of the women who complained to him. He was alone. Moses brought their complaint to God, because according to a rabbinic commentary in Sifri, "The daughters saw what Moses could not see." Finally, Moses ruled that women should indeed inherit the property from their fathers. On this verse Rashi says, "Praised is the person with whom God concedes." Which means that Moses made the decision.

Moses was alone. He had no precedent and the Midrash cites cases after cases in which Moses did not and could not consult with his colleague, and who, even when the law was unambiguous but violated the conscience of Moses, he rose alone to contradict the law and God. Alone, Moses broke the tablets of the law and God said, "You have done right to break them." Alone, Moses instituted a procedure that defied God's order, and he did not attack the enemies but negotiated with them. Alone, Moses rejected the visitation of the sins of the fathers upon the sons against the edict of the law. In case after case, God acknowledged the wisdom of Moses' lonely decision, and declared, "Moses, you have instructed Me, and I God will cancel My judgment and place in its stead yours."

The rabbi is sometimes a priest, and sometimes like Aaron; he is tempted to listen to the voice of the populous even as Aaron listened to the worshippers of the golden calf. Aaron rationalized his decision. He thought "vox populi vox dei" -- the voice of the people is the voice of God. Perhaps he wanted to be accepted as one of the boys. Perhaps he could not stand loneliness. But Moses, the prophet, could not enjoy the comfort of populism. He knew that popularity is not the mark of the prophet and so Moses, and the prophets, generally were lonely and reviled and certainly not understood by the people around him.

The Torah for him is not a xeroxed text. The rabbi has before him a Torah consisting only of consonants. It is an unvocalized text. The Rabdaz explains, "The Scroll is not vocalized to allow the wise to give his own voice to the text, his own vowels, his own interpretation.” That is what keeps the Torah eternal and which keeps the congregation alive.

It is in this sense that the rabbi must accept his loneliness. It does not mean that he does not have deep and close friends. Perhaps more opportunity for friendship is given him than to the average individual. But it means that he has decisions to be made and positions to be taken that may strain the relationship between him, his friends, and his congregation. In this, the rabbi is alone. He has only God to call upon, only God to wrestle with and in the course of the wrestling he will be vulnerable to lameness, that will remain for him forever.

What then, in honesty, should we say to Rabbi Satlow? On the walls of Beit Hatfutzoth, the museum of the Diaspora in Tel Aviv, may be found a statement by a great rabbi who knew loneliness. Israel Salanter said, "A rabbi whose community does not disagree with him is no rabbi. A rabbi who fears his community is no man."

You, Dan, are the son of prophets. In you is the solace that comes from loyalty to the conscience that has led you to this sacred vocation. In you is the moral passion that kept the prophet alive, who when he confessed that he felt the derision against him, and was tempted not to mention God's name was overwhelmed by the word that was "in my heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones. (Jeremiah 20:9)

You, Dan, belong to a loving congregation with an understanding heart whom you have no reason to fear. For they understand that rabbis throughout the tradition have never simply lived by the book or the letter of the law. Only the simplistic view of Judaism can picture the rabbi as governing by quotation, or by putting his hand on the pulse of the people. It is a magnificent calling, the rabbinate. Be strong and be a blessing to us all.

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