Because I was the rabbi’s son, I learned that holy vessels are made from the same mud and clay as everything else.
Clergy kids rarely share the attitude of reverence that most people of faith bring to religious life; that sort of sanctity is sustained by a strong measure of hushed, respectful distance – and distance is the one thing that clergy kids don’t have.
As a child, I often felt like Dorothy Gale, peaking behind the curtain and discovering that the great and powerful Wizard of Oz is, in fact, an ordinary guy.
Throughout my boyhood, our family dinner conversations often turned to Dad’s day at the office. His work-day recollections taught me a great deal about human foibles and the fallibility of the synagogue community.
A highly respected cantor was having an affair. Wealthy donors complained about Dad’s anti-war activism and threatened to withhold their pledges if he continued to speak out about Vietnam. A much-beloved rabbi at the nearby Conservative synagogue was an alcoholic. The families of my Hebrew school classmates – and teachers – suffered their fair share of dysfunction.
Our own rabbinic household posed challenges, too. It’s hard to think of the rabbi as a symbol of holiness when you are 15 and he is your father.
It wasn’t just people. I knew the jewels on the Torah covers were cheap plastic imitations, and I’d seen the janitor turn off the Eternal Light when closing up the synagogue building.
Even our congregational prayer book was revealed to me as flawed: in its opening pages, where it acknowledged the rabbis who had contributed to it, I found Dad’s name – spelled with the wrong middle initial.
Thus I lost my innocence early. For the rabbi’s kids, synagogues are like hot dogs: It doesn’t help to know too much about what goes into them. I knew too much, and my knowledge left me jaded.
