My Authoritarian Rabbi Ruined Judaism for Me
There was a time when I was really into being Jewish. I dug the music, the connection to the past, the guilt of an all-powerful being watching over us, which kept me from going full criminal at age thirteen. And I loved the Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. A party almost every weekend for about a year where I could dance with girls? Yeah, Judaism was pretty awesome.
That came to its apex when I was fifteen, the year I was being confirmed.
My family had a good relationship with the temple. Temple Anshe Sholom in Olympia Fields, Illinois. Yeah, that’s the same town R. Kelly lived in and where he did much of his grooming and raping of and peeing on underage girls. The two things are not related, I’m just giving you geographical context. My parents were actively involved on the Temple Board of Directors and in the Men’s Club and Sisterhood. My brothers and I attended religious school every Sunday and Hebrew school every Tuesday and Thursday in preparation for our Bar Mitzvahs. And in high school, I landed my first job as a Sunday School aide. I made eight bucks an hour. Adjusted for inflation, that’s just shy of sixteen dollars an hour. And people say Jews are cheap… And we had a good relationship with our rabbi—let’s call him Rabbi Goldstein. (His real name was Rabbi Gluckman but I’m feeling benevolent, something my rabbi was not in this particular instance, so I’ll spare him the personal embarrassment of how he initiated my turning away from Judaism and all things religious.)
In high school, religious school was on Monday nights. The evening began with a catered Italian meal. I recall dense baked mostaccioli and garlic bread with a standard salad of wilted lettuce, red onions, soggy croutons and a flavorless tomato if you were lucky enough to scoop it onto your plate before your friends. We’d eat, make inappropriate jokes then sit through some kind of speaker or big group lesson, then split off into our respective classes—freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors. The sophomore class was the confirmation class, which was taught by the rabbi.
One week in class, Rabbi Goldstein was giving a particular lesson about… I don’t remember exactly. But I remember being into it at the time. I absorbed everything he taught me and processed it in a way that made the lessons apropos to my life. The following week, Rabbi continued with the lesson but said something that directly contradicted what he had said the week before. I raised my hand.
“Yes, David,” Rabbi Goldstein said.
“Last week you said this.” (Again, I can no longer recall the specifics.) “This week you said this. Which way is it? Or can it be both?” I fully admit that despite my affinity for my religion at the time, I could still be a smartass and had long been a kid who pushed back against authority figures. But in this case, I was asking a legitimate question with all due respect to the teacher and the subject matter.
“It’s whatever I say it is,” Rabbi Goldstein answered.
“Okay. But you said two very different things.”
“It’s what I say it is.”
“I understand that. But you said one thing last week and now you’re saying the opposite thing this week. So, which one is it or can it be both?”
My curiosity was giving him the opportunity to save face against his contradiction. It was also a teaching opportunity for him. A way to really dig deeper into the subject matter. To get our hands dirty in the complicated relationship between (hu)mankind and God. In Hebrew, the word rabbi is defined as my teacher or my master. Rabbi Goldstein chose to run with the latter definition.
“It’s what I say it is, David, and I don’t need you questioning me on it.”
“I’m just trying to understand—”
“It’s what I say it is!”
“I know that! But you’ve said two different—
“I am the rabbi. You are the student. It is not your role to question me.”
It was clear to me in that moment that I wasn’t going to get my answer. Either I had accidentally exposed a blind spot in Rabbi Goldstein’s knowledge and he was embarrassed or he was an authoritarian asshole who hated having to adjust his lesson plan for his students. I chose to assume the latter.
“Well, you don’t have to be such an asshole about it!” I said to him. The class gasped. Except for my best friend Brian Wolff who snickered. With that, I packed up my books and headed to the door.
“You can leave!” Rabbi Goldstein shouted at me.
“I’m already leaving,” I said with an angry grin.
They could have their Judaism. I realized I’d be better off not engaging with toxic authority and the kind of people who promoted it.
I waited outside of the temple for class to finish up because an older kid was my ride home. And by the time I got home, my parents were waiting for me—pissed. Rabbi Goldstein called them and told them his side of the story. They repeated it back to me. When they asked for my side of the story, I said, “Rabbi is right. That’s exactly what happened. He refused to answer my question.”
“But you called him an asshole,” they said.
“I did.” He was being one. His job is to teach. It’s right there in his name. And he refused to do that.”
“What he teaches and how he teaches is not up to you.”
“No, it’s not. But when a student asks a question, it’s his job to provide answers not tell the kid to sit down, shut up, and do what he says.”
“He’s the rabbi. You are the student.”
“That’s exactly what he said. Doesn’t answer my question.”
My parents then slapped a week’s long punishment on me and told me that I needed to apologize to Rabbi Goldstein. I refused. They insisted. I acquiesced. I was tired. I wasn’t going to win. The adults were stacked against me.
Later that week, I sat in Rabbi Goldstein’s office with my parents. On a worn-in couch while he sat behind his desk. The four of us sat there quiet for some time. Maybe a minute. Two at most. It felt like hours. The ball was in my possession and I wanted to run the shot clock down. I was not going to speak first.
“David..?” My mother said.
“Yeah?” I said as if I didn’t know what she wanted from me.
“You have something to say to Rabbi?” my dad chimed in.
“Oh. Yes.” A long beat. “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t. I wasn’t sorry at all. To this day, that apology is the biggest lie I’ve told. There was not an ounce of truth to my apology. Should a fifteen-year-old call an adult, a teacher, an asshole? It’s not something I want my kids to do, but if the shoe—butt plug?—fits…
“I accept your apology, David. Thank you.”
I didn’t want him to accept it. I wanted him to answer my question. And for a moment, I considered asking it again. Let’s see this play out in front of my parents instead of a room full of kids who feared him more than I did. But I decided against it because I just wanted to get out of that office. I was outnumbered.
I remained a Sunday School aide. I continued going to class on Monday nights and was confirmed. I traveled with the rabbi and a few other kids from the temple the following year to a Jewish leadership conference in Atlanta. I attended no sanctioned events, ditching the whole thing to bum around the town instead. Because while I put on a good Jewish face, after my altercation with Rabbi Goldstein and my parents’ blind allegiance to his authoritarian approach to education, I was over the whole thing.
They could have their Judaism. I realized I’d be better off not engaging with toxic authority and the kind of people who promoted it.
It’s funny now. Because when my dad gets annoyed I’m not more religious, like why we didn’t have a bris for our son, I can tell him it’s because Rabbi Gluckman—err, Goldstein—was an asshole and you stood by him choosing authority over knowledge. And that’s everything a Jewish teacher shouldn’t do.
