Aristotle suggests that we should seek a profession that aligns with our telos, our purpose. The task is not simply to seek work that is meaningful, but also to identify work that is unique to our individual purpose: what is it that I have to contribute, and how do I figure that out? When I first read this in college, the question of my future shifted from who do I want to be to who was I meant to be? How can I best contribute? What’s my purpose?
My Jewish day school education ended in elementary school, and I didn’t learn Talmud in a serious way until I graduated college and went to Israel, where I spent three years learning at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies. It was there I found a like-minded community of peers, and my rav, Rabbi Danny Landes, who opened my eyes to Torah study that is rigorous, open-minded, and uncompromisingly moral. And once I started learning, I never wanted to stop.
I still can’t figure out how I was an engaged, observant Jew for my entire life to that point without having real access to a daf of gemara. I was 21 years old, and, for the first time, doing this thing that felt like the most Jewish thing I’d ever done. I wanted every Jewish child to have access to the texts of our people as soon as possible. Working as a middle school Talmud teacher when I returned to the US, was my tikkun, my repair. For a long time, I believed that teaching was also my purpose, in Aristotle’s sense. It would be my contribution.
Over the years that I was teaching, my husband, friends, and I also started building intentional community in Brownstone Brooklyn. We created an independent minyan, when that was still a novel invention. As the Jewish community around us started to flourish, so did our lives. And as this happened, I also began to see building community as my purpose.
When the new Jewish day school in our neighborhood was looking for its first Head of School, it brought everything together for me: teaching, community building, and, most importantly, a role in which I would have the privilege of setting children up for a life of deep connection with Judaism and serious Torah learning. Taking on this enormous job gave me the most profound sense of purpose I had ever experienced.
But then things got hard. The world was hard. The election cycle was hard. The pandemic was hard. Supporting and sustaining a diverse school community became increasingly challenging as the world became increasingly polarized. There were many moments when I questioned my capacity to do this work, and I made missteps along the way. But ultimately, as the job became more complex, it felt more and more like my purpose.
When I first heard about Hartman’s Rabbanut North America program, I knew right away that I wanted in. I already knew that I wanted to give my community everything I had, and I wanted to have even more to give.
Entering the rabbinate had crossed my mind at earlier points in my career, but for various reasons the existing denominational options weren’t a good fit for me. I was still developing my own theology and relationship to Judaism, and I didn’t want to be pigeonholed. But more than that, I was young, and I wasn’t ready to make what felt like it would be a lifelong commitment.
The Hartman program is a gift that arrived at a moment in my life when I am standing fully and upright in my purpose. Hartman has always been a place where all are welcome to learn and bring their whole selves. There is not only space, but an invitation to grow and evolve. And every member of the Hartman faculty models the values at the center of the institution, especially the commitment to ensure that Judaism is a compelling force for good in the 21st century. That is the work. It’s what I try to do every day and what I want to continue to do with my time and my energy.
I returned from the first of three summers studying at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem just a few weeks ago, and I already feel the impact of my learning. Over my 12 years as Head of School, I have always been hesitant to have real conversations about Israel because of the diversity of views within our community. When the Hamas-Israel war began, it became even harder.
But now, nearly a year since October 7, hesitating because real dialogue feels too hard is no longer an option. Hard conversations across difference are all we have. Engaging is our only choice, and we have to start with our own communities. If we can’t figure out how to talk to one another within our own communities, what does that mean for the world? In my school, this reality has led us to articulate a new philosophy of Israel education to guide how we talk about and teach Israel, beginning with modeling the work of dialogue across difference among our faculty community.
I find myself terrified by the prospect of this work and simultaneously full of energy to give it everything I have. It is the work of a rabbi and I’m grateful for the opportunity to take it on. It’s my purpose, my contribution, and my privilege.
