|
Rabbi Karp's Sermons ... REFLECTIONS ON BECOMING A DOCTOR OF DIVINITY I think that every single one of us have had, or will have, experienced at least one moment in our lives which gives us cause to stop and reflect on where we are, where we came from, how we got from there to here, and what does it all mean. Often those moments are life cycle events - the Bar or Bat Mitzvah of a child, a child’s wedding, the birth of a grandchild, the death of a parent. At such moments, very often the theme of our reveries is the speedy passage of time, and with it, of life and our lives in particular. How swiftly the years have flown by; how twisting and turning the trail we’ve traveled. Next Tuesday morning will be such a moment in my life, and more particularly, in my life as a rabbi. For next Tuesday morning, during the sharcharit service at the New York campus of the Hebrew Union College - Jewish Institute of Religion, during the school’s Founder’s Day observances, I and fourteen of my rabbinic school classmates, along with eleven cantors, will be receiving honorary doctorates. The rabbinic degree will be a Doctor of Divinity and the cantorial degree, a Doctor of Music. They will be awarded to us for, among other reasons, our 25 years of service to the Jewish community. I myself cannot believe how personally excited I am about this. Receiving this degree is really important to me. But even as I revel in the pleasure of the moment, I cannot help but remember what it was like all those years ago to be a student at the Hebrew Union College, watching others receive this degree. I remember how we rabbinical students used to laugh at them. "Why are these alter kachers getting doctorates? They didn’t take courses. They didn’t write and defend any dissertations. They didn’t fulfill any of the academic requirements associated with a real doctorate. All they did was live as rabbis for 25 years. A DD degree - Doctor of Divinity? Nah! ‘Didn’t Die,’ that’s what it stands for! What a joke! Just another testimony to the old boys network of the Hebrew Union College!" And Tuesday, I fully expect that as I stand to receive my degree there will be many a young rabbinical student present, thinking the same thing that I and my classmates thought when we were in their place. And in truth, I cannot blame them; not because they are right, but simply because they are too young and inexperienced to understand. DD. Doctor of Divinity. Didn’t Die. 25 years later, the joke isn’t so much of a joke. Indeed, two of my classmates have passed away. Mark Goodman, a sweet, caring, and gentle soul, succumbed to AIDS. Earl Kaplan, a bundle of energy and creativity, a hustler and a wheeler dealer, the only HUC student that I know of who actually invited the news media to attend his senior sermon, one day stepped off an exercise machine at a health club, collapsed and died right there on the spot, from a massive coronary. Then there were others who did not die physically, but who died rabbinically. The demands and unique pressures of professional Jewish life was too much for them, so they set it aside, seeking their livelihood in other fields. When I add to all this, all the divorces among my colleagues; all those families broken by the demands and the pressures and the fish bowl existence of the rabbinate - wives balking at the role of "rebbitzin," children loathing the life of an RK, a Rabbi’s Kid, then "Didn’t Die" takes on the aspect of a badge of honor, worthy of distinction. But for me and my classmates, this Doctor of Divinity is far, far more than merely a survival doctorate. It is more than a declaration that it is 25 years later, and I’m still here, relatively whole and in one piece. More importantly, it is a true positive accomplishment. It is a recognition of a life of service to the Jewish people, and hopefully, a life of growth and learning. Very much so, learning. Maybe not the book and course and dissertation learning of a formal doctoral degree - though in order to survive as a rabbi you have to do a great deal of that, but you just don’t get the academic credit for it - but learning nonetheless. Important learning. And learning where it counts. Learning with the Jewish people. Learning from the Jewish people. I know that it is prosaic to say that "Life is the greatest teacher of them all," but it is undeniably true. Far more than any of those rabbinical students who will be there on Tuesday will ever be capable of believing at this stage of their lives. Far, far more than we were ever capable of believing 25 years ago when we were about to be ordained. 25 years ago. How young we were, and how naive! We had completed our studies and really thought we knew it all. After all, it was all right there written in the book - actually the books; the sacred books of our people which we had poured over for the last five years. Everything seemed so black and white, so right and wrong. Little did we realize then just how many shades of gray do exist in this world! Our sermons, which we thought were brilliant, all had the cookie cutter quality of academic papers, boring academic papers. They were but a reflection of precisely what it was we lacked in our rabbinate; that elusive quality that could never be taught in the traditional classroom, with desks and chairs and texts and teachers and research papers due at the end of the semester. That elusive quality was the human element. We could learn what the texts said about compassion. We could learn what the texts said about the unique dignity of every individual. We could learn what the texts said about humility. But there is a universe of difference between theory and practice, and that gap could only be bridged by experience. It could only be bridged by living with Jews and struggling with Jews and learning from Jews, all in an honest attempt to seek out meaning and the presence of God in their lives and in ours. It was easy for us then to say such things as "absolutely no to intermarriage!" because, of course, there weren’t any intermarried people at the Hebrew Union College. We didn’t have to look them in the face. We did not have to see them as living, breathing, caring, feeling, loving human beings struggling with all sorts of complex issues in their families and in their lives. It was easy for us then to say such things as "Judaism expressly forbids cremation." But then again, in school we did not have to anguish with grieving families who in their heart of hearts were engaged in a profound search for how to render the greatest honor and express the deepest respect for the life values and principles of their beloved deceased. Ours was a class high on Jewish tradition. We were the first class which the Hebrew Union College sent en masse to Israel for a year of study. The school’s goal was to dramatically increase its students’ Hebrew capabilities and to bond them with the state of Israel - both of which they accomplished. But I do not think they fully counted on all the peripherals that came with that experience. What they got back were a bunch of Hebrew praying, talit wearing yarmulke Yids. We surely threw the daily worship services at the HUC chapels on the various campuses into shock. Many a visiting dignitary exclaimed in outrage, "What is this? This is not Reform Judaism!" Indeed, some of the faculty also expressed such sentiments. But this was the Judaism we learned to love in Jerusalem, and this was the Judaism we had every intention of bringing to our congregations, once ordained, whether the congregations wanted it or not. Yes. If you are unhappy with the increased level of traditional rituals in Reform worship; if our service is not the service you grew up with, and you miss that, then you have my class and the classes that followed mine to blame. We had so many beautiful gifts to offer our congregants out of our tradition, but unfortunately, as is true of most novices, we had absolutely no idea of how to deliver those gifts successfully. We started where we were at, and expected you to come up to meet us, rather than starting where you were at, and doing what rabbis are supposed to do - teach you; slowly, carefully, lovingly teach you. How many mistakes we made along the way! It is amazing our movement survived us. I know it is an alter kacher thing to say but, if we only knew then what we know now; if we only had now the energy, the vitality, the unbridled enthusiasm, that we had then, how many more great things we could have accomplished! But in the end, we didn’t do so bad. I look at my classmates today, I look at my schoolmates today - those who were a few years ahead of me and a few years behind me - and I am really proud to call them colleagues. I am really proud to be in their company. Somewhere along the line we made that transition from snot-nosed kids to honest to goodness religious leaders (at least they did). As a young rabbi, I remember going to rabbinic conferences and standing somewhat in awe of the "gedolei ha-dor" - the "greats of the our generation," the distinguished rabbis. Those were the older men who had made their mark on our movement, and who we held up as role models. Then, of course, there were the "tsadikim," the "Righteous Ones," the elder rabbis whose time had come and gone but whose imprint was indelible. Just about a year or so ago, at a rabbinic conference, as I was looking around, I could not help but notice that a shift had taken place. Most of the elders were gone, and those rabbis we looked up to all seemed so old, while on the other hand, there were just so many young rabbis around. Who did they look up to? Then I looked at my classmates, my friends, and I realized it was us. Not me in particular, maybe not me at all, but definitely them. Somewhere along the line, we came of age and assumed the mantle of leadership. Perhaps that was never clearer than when my schoolmate - one year my senior - Eric Yoffie was named President of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations. "Tempis Fugit" - time surely flies. 25 years ago who would have guessed that this New Yorker, born and bred, would have spent the better part of his career in, of all places, Davenport, Iowa. Indeed, when I left my position as assistant rabbi in a large congregation in New Rochelle, New York to assume the pulpit of the South Street Temple in Lincoln, Nebraska, countless were the congregants who asked either Cantor or me, "Are there really Jews in Nebraska?" Today we can answer with confidence, "Yes, and in Iowa, too!" Every once in a while one of my colleagues asks me, "Why do you stay in Davenport? You should be able to get a larger congregation in a larger community." More money. More prestige. More opportunities. These were the types of goals we each set out for ourselves 25 years ago, when first ordained. We called it then, and they still call it today, "the success track." Being the rabbi of a big congregation in a big city with a big building and a big staff, and a big paycheck, and all the prestige which goes with all that. You know, nothing succeeds like success. And sorry to say, all too often that is the way our movement works. As I said to Eric Yoffie after the last UAHC biennial, "I will know that those stereotypes are broken when I see the UAHC choose a rabbi from a small congregation to lead one of the biennial Shabbat services." So they want to know, why do I stay? Why do I shun the traditional parameters of success? Why have I strayed so far from the path I set out on 25 years ago? And sometimes I wonder the same thing. Sometimes when driving Joshua back and forth to Iowa City, passing all those farm fields, all those barns and farm houses along I-80, I find myself asking myself, "You’re a little Jewish boy from New York! What the hell are you doing here?" I ask the question, but of course I know the answer. Success is not necessarily a matter of size, but rather of fit. And I like the fit here. I like it a lot. I do the things that I enjoy the most - teach Judaism, touch lives, and strive to repair the world. And I work with people whom I enjoy and whom I respect. People from whom I probably have learned more than I have taught and who have offered me the opportunity to grow and the freedom to grow. As for the other things, prestige is, at best, fleeting, and money cannot buy happiness. As PIRKE AVOT teaches us, "Who is rich? He who is content with what he has." And if that be the case, I consider myself one of the most successful rabbis in the field, and living in Iowa, that is literally in the field. It has been a long road I have traveled these past 25 years. It has had its bumps, but few roads don’t. All in all, I have no question but that it has been a good one, a very good one. And I guess that is why I am so excited about getting this doctorate. As I see it, it celebrates a life well spent and a successful and a productive rabbinate. It makes note of all the good that has past, and welcomes all the good that is yet to be. AMEN |
