As I step into my role as rabbi in the Jewish Renewal lineage, I’ve been thinking a lot about the term “Rabbi,” or in Hebrew “Rav.” Traditionally, that word is translated as “Great One” – a sign of the elevated status that Rabbis have occupied in Jewish communities for centuries. 

But it is that definition of Rabbi that caused me to resist this calling for so many years. I chafed at the hierarchical implications, and perhaps more deeply, I was uncomfortable with this model of rabbi being “symbolic exemplar” – the idea that people expect their rabbi to be the paradigm of perfection, scrupulously observing all the commandments (perhaps so they don’t need to!), having a perfectly formed and coherent theology.

I don’t want to be put on a pedestal. I don’t want to feel pressure to hide the parts of myself that are wounded or feel broken, the parts of myself that I’m still figuring out. I don’t want to have to hide parts of myself that might bother people or even scandalize people. I don’t want to have to pretend to be someone that I’m not just to meet others’ expectations of what a rabbi should be. I don’t want to have to silo parts of myself, or create separate personas – my authentic self and my rabbi self. I spent too many years of my life in closets, and am not willing to enter into another one. 

I was worried that if I couldn’t be honest with others, I couldn’t be honest with myself – that I might start to believe the projections and the performance. I don’t want to be seen as “Rav” – as great. I just wanted to be seen as me. 

So while I learned a lot of deep Torah and Talmud and Kabbalah in rabbinical school, perhaps the most valuable part of the journey has been coming to terms with my own style of leadership. And what I learned along the way is that there is another definition of “Rav” – it can also be translated as “many” – multitudes. For example, “Erev Rav” is the term used to describe the diversity of the Israelites as they left Egypt. 

As I’ve grown into spiritual leadership over the past few years, I’ve realized that I can be a different kind of “Rav” – not someone who is greater than anyone else, but someone who contains multitudes, someone who brings to my rabbinate the full complexity and diversity of who I am. Someone who can be honest about all the ways in which I’m a work-in-progress – and perhaps inspire you to share your less-savory parts. Together we can remind each other that when we share those vulnerable parts of ourselves, rather than being rejected, it usually makes people feel closer to us. Together can learn and relearn that we are worthy of love and community and support – not despite our brokenness, but because of it.  

I can be a Shabbat-observing, neo-Hasidic, mysticism-loving, queer, body-positive, tech bro, single dad, ADHD, Enneagram 7, surfer, Burner, meditator, ecstatic dancer, and everything else that goes into the soup of what makes me me. I’ve learned that none of those are mutually exclusive with being a rabbi – and, in fact, the lessons they’ve taught me make me a better spiritual leader. Together we can redefine what is sacred and what is profane, and make room for all of us – and all of our parts – in holy community. 

The first time I actually learned about Jewish Renewal was from reading the New York Times obituary of its founder Reb Zalman Schacter Shalomi ten years ago. I remember thinking, “Who is guy who grew up Orthodox and was a Chabad rabbi but also dropped acid with Timothy Leary and met with the Dali Lama and is into singing and dancing and meditation and embodiment, and is egalitarian and pro-LGBTQ and cares about the environment and social justice?” I thought I was the only person who embodied that many seemingly contradictory attributes. And so if he could be a rabbi, perhaps I could be too. 

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I’ve also been thinking a lot about lineage. Smicha – ordination – is about stepping into a lineage, of being the next link in a chain of rabbis that, according to our tradition, stretches all the way back to Moses. Today is not just celebrating my ordination and my personal lineage, but our community’s lineage as trailblazers in the Jewish Renewal movement. 

People often think of lineage in terms of what we have a responsibility to preserve from the past. Our ancestors have certainly bequeathed us lots of wisdom, and a whole treasury of sacred texts, liturgy, and rituals to create meaning in our lives and navigate this being human. But to be part of the Jewish Renewal lineage is to take our place in a chain of spiritual innovators, entrepreneurs, and revolutionaries, who reach back into that vast treasury to equip us for today’s challenges and tomorrow’s opportunities. 

As the founder of Jewish Renewal, Reb Zalman, liked to say, “It’s not called Jewish Renewed.” Jewish Renewal is an ongoing process, and it’s our turn to take responsibility for what is next – the next cycle of renewal, that speaks to the needs of this generation. 

Which brings us to another definition of “Rav” – which comes from the Hebrew word to argue, to debate, to quarrel. Being part of the Jewish Renewal lineage is to be in dialogue with our ancestors, to speak up when we disagree with them, to keep the conversation going. As embodied by the rich debates of the Talmud, the Jewish approach to birthing wisdom is through sacred sparring. And by engaging in this holy “Rav,” we keep our ancestors alive, we keep our tradition alive. I am proud to continue this sacred heritage of Yisrael, of wrestling with the Divine. 

To be a rabbi is not to bask in one’s own greatness, but to fight – to “rav” – for what we believe it, to fight on behalf of those who can’t fight for themselves, to use our position of authority to fight for the vulnerable and marginalized in our communities. At a time when so many minority groups are being targeted and at risk – our trans and non-binary siblings, immigrants, people of color, reproductive freedom – the responsibility of the Rav is to be the sacred fighter. It feels more essential than ever that people who wield spiritual authority use it to fight for those in danger and those in need. I feel the privilege and the weight of that responsibility.

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As I searched the Torah for the word Rav, I found an occurence in the Book of Bereishit/Genesis, where Yaakov and Esav are reconciling. Yaakov showers his brother with so many gifts that Esav stops him and says, yesh li rav, achi – I have so much, my sibling.

So perhaps the last reading of “Rav” that I’ll share today is “abundance.” I look around this room, and I feel so blessed by the abundance I see. I feel so blessed to be in a community that allows me to be this kind of Rav. I feel so blessed to call you my friends, my family, my fellow spiritual seekers, my companions on this journey. To laugh with you in times of celebration and hold each other in times of pain. I’m continually inspired by the countless hours you all dedicate to this community. Yesh lanu rav, achim – we have so much. There is no other community in the world where I’d rather be serving. And probably not many others that would want a rabbi like me!

Thank you for making me a Rav. For embracing me in my fullness, and for being a community where all of us can bring our full selves. For being a community that wrestles with our ancestors and with the Divine, that fights for our values and for those in need. Thank you for the abundant blessings you bring into my life. And with this expanded definition of Rav, I am honored and humbled to be your Rabbi. 

Read Zvika’s commitments to the Chochmat HaLev community, his “renewing of vows” on the occasion of his rabbinic ordination in the Jewish Renewal lineage and three-years anniversary of his role as Spiritual Leader of Chochmat HaLev. Watch a video and view photos of the celebration.