Published: 20 August 2018
Last updated: 4 March 2024
The bell-curve of religious observance has become inverted, with both extremes growing stronger, whereas the traditional centre grows weak.
That said, there is a strong and steady new commitment to traditional Judaism. There is hope that Orthodox Judaism in Sydney is not in palliative care, but in fact growing stronger.
Navigating this new reality, from a rabbinical perspective, poses the dilemma of jostling between those seeking a more intense religious experience and those barely hanging on to any experience. Where should his effort be exerted; inspiring the already inspired, or reaching out to the “wandering flock”?
To confuse matters further, religion struggles to gauge its success purely by popularity. The determining factor of a values-driven lifestyle cannot be based on the number of adherents; for society often flows towards lowest common denominator, even ethically.
It is this problem that does, or at least should, vex any religious leader: How do I know if I’m doing a good job?
Most jobs have clear and measurable KPIs. But when the service offered is the shifting of emotional and spiritual positions, quantifying the results becomes difficult. Qualifying them becomes impossible.
Firstly self-reporting is a poor test of people’s true attitudes and feelings. Shifting people’s thinking is a slow, even imperceptible, process. Inspiring sermons are often well received because they affirm previously held beliefs rather than challenge them. Great rabbis become those who “tell me what I like to hear.”
The unpopular rabbi may be a spiritual success, but like the Biblical prophet; he will only be respected in hindsight. In this context, popularity may be a sign of failure, not success.
Isn’t this a paradox? The unpopular rabbi may be a spiritual success, but like the Biblical prophet; he will only be respected in hindsight. In this context, popularity may be a sign of failure, not success.
Secondly the rabbi has in many ways become priest-like. In Christianity the role of the priest is designated for the few unique souls yearning for, and invested with, a Godly sense of purpose. The priest is set aside to be respected, learned from and inspired by, but not necessarily emulated. He is unique.
Sadly, rabbis have allowed themselves to become unique; separate and distinct from the community. Historically, the rabbi was a teacher, nothing more. His role, like all teachers, was to share the insights and ideals of the Torah, but most importantly his task was to role model Judaism.
Everyone was encouraged to study, become knowledgeable and express Jewish values at the highest level. The rabbi was never intended to be anything other than normal. But he has become a priest; not an ideal but an idea. People love their rabbi much the same way as they love a cartoon mascot; they work in the way that we need them to, but we don’t seek to emulate them.
Finally, the rabbi has become a service provider. When I went into the Rabbinate, I saw it as a calling, a vocation; a role that would allow me to carry and support people in their times of distress and share with them their moments of triumph. I saw myself as an extension of the communal family, committed to share in every joy and sorrow of my community.
But communities are transient; people move on and life circumstances change. People who once cried tears of loneliness on my couch don’t invite me to their weddings. Families whom I escorted to their loved one’s graves move away without saying goodbye. The rabbinical role now often mimics a dentist, useful when needed but a irrelevant when not.
So how do we measure whether a rabbi is successful?
Perhaps it cannot truly be assessed. Perhaps one day, as he sits on a veranda contemplating decades of communal service, someone may say “I am who I am, because of who he was...”, but maybe that person themself doesn’t realise it; and even if they do, perhaps they’ll never tell him.
Photo: Clifford Lester/Chabad
