“What should we call you?”
I tell them that my name is Julie, but they can call me whatever they want.
Do they want to call me Rabbi Pelc? I certainly don’t feel like Rabbi Pelc. Rabbi Pelc sounds like someone old, wise — and male.
I know that many of my colleagues would choose to be Rabbi Julie, a nice compromise. But this begs the question — if I were a man, even a male student, would I still be flinching when they called me rabbi? Or would I smile shyly, knowing that this title would be mine soon enough.
I tell myself that I am being reverential to the training of my chosen profession, since I will not rightfully deserve to be called rabbi until I am finished with my graduate studies. But I know that hidden inside this reverence and humility lurks a deep-seated fear of owning the power of the rabbinate — owning the power of my own authority.
On an airplane headed toward Lubbock, Texas, I try my profession on for size for the first time, just to see how it fits. I am practicing Torah chanting — reading, then singing quietly under my breath. This week, the portion of the Torah we read includes the story of Noah, and I glance over my sermon.
The flight attendant announces that the plane is in its final descent for Lubbock. There, I will serve as the community’s rabbi for the weekend, and eight more weekends throughout the coming year. I shift in my seat, fold the pages of Hebrew and stuff them into my red backpack.
The former president of the synagogue picks me up at the airport. The previous evening, we had spoken on the phone to arrange the final details of my visit.
He asked how he might recognize me. I tell him I wear glasses, I look Jewish — dark, curly, shoulder-length hair — and have a red backpack. Yep, that’s how you find your rabbi. Your spiritual leader. Your wise old man. You look for the red backpack coming off the airplane.
I walk past the former president without him noticing me. He follows me outside, explaining that he saw the backpack, but didn’t know it was me. Their rabbi. I wonder whether I would know to look for a 26-year-old girl in a maroon sweater-set, either.
“What should I call you? Ms. Pelc?” I think this is the worst of the options I have heard so far.
What to wear?
The man reminds me of my dad: sweet and middle-aged. He has two teenage daughters, and seems to be unsure of the appropriate way to relate to the young woman lugging a heavy bag into his truck. He does not want to offend me, but the fact remains that he does not know what to call me, either. I try to pretend that I am just like any other guest rabbi who has visited Lubbock.
We make small talk. He asks about my trip. As we drive, he narrates an informal tour of Lubbock. Soft country music plays on the radio as we pass cotton fields and strip malls.
At the hotel, I unpack and review the clothes I have brought. I know I will need something dressy for Friday night services, and Saturday and Sunday will be a bit less formal.
What does a young woman rabbi wear? I had decided against suits since they felt too formal and too male. I brought a flowered dress falling between knee and ankle for Friday night. Conservative, sophisticated, simple. Perfect for Lubbock. I have not worn it since I purchased it three years ago.
I look at myself in the mirror. I feel like a little girl. I change clothes three times before I leave the room.
I sit in the lobby, lean over, and realize that it is possible to see more leg than I had anticipated in that flowered dress. I long for jeans and comfortable shoes, for my seat in the back of the congregation, where I can whisper with my friends and critique the rabbi from below.
I am picked up from my hotel by the former president of the synagogue and his wife. I reach for the handle of the rear door, but I see that his wife is seated in the back seat.
I am reminded that I am here for work. A guest rabbi would sit in the front seat, even when a husband and wife are both present in the vehicle. I tell myself that I am a hired professional — not someone’s daughter or niece or cousin from out of town.
When we arrive at the temple, people want to shake hands and say howdy to the new rabbi. Everyone asks me what I would like to be called. What is preventing me from making eye contact, and smiling with confidence, and saying, “Call me ‘Rabbi’”? I am unsure whether I want to be their adorable granddaughter or their professional spiritual leader.
I am told all of the members of the synagogue’s non-Jewish choir wear long white robes. I see the robes hanging on a coat-rack, and wonder aloud whether I, too, should wear one.
“Naw, you’re dressed up so pretty,” the choir director, Christina, tells me, as I try one on over my flowered dress.
“But do I look more like a rabbi in the robe?” I ask her, as I push the long sleeves up so I can use my hands.
“You do what you want, but I think you don’t need it” she tells me. I imagine wrapping a big white prayer shawl over the robe and drowning in white fabric. I decide to leave the robe on its hanger.
As the choir and I ascend the steps to the raised platform of the bima, I see rows of faces looking up at me with curiosity. Standing before them, my nervousness and my self-consciousness fade. I have waited my whole life for this moment. To stand before a congregation and sing my soul — to connect with the ancient words of our tradition and to reach out to the people who have come to share this sacred moment with me.
I hold the Kiddush cup and bless the wine. I carry the heavy Torah around the sanctuary as the choir sings and I proclaim “Shema Yisrael, Adonai eloheinu, Adonai echad.” I chant from the Torah and teach the congregation about Noah. And I smile.
After the service, we gather in the social hall to share homemade desserts and coffee. “Thank you for coming, Rabbi, Sir,” one elderly man tells me, before changing the epithet to “Ma’am, er, Miss.”
Some people tell me that they loved the sermon. One congregant tells me that it was “very accessible for the children.”
The children ask me if I am married, if I am a vegetarian and which is my favorite portion of the Torah. They call me “The Rabbi”— talking about me in the third person to their parents, even though I am in the room. I wonder if they sense that this is what I really do want.
“The Rabbi taught us the Bathroom Prayer,” one of them announces, after I explain that tradition provides an opportunity to praise God even after using the facilities. “The Rabbi said that it’s okay to give her a hug,” another exclaims.
“The Rabbi is coming into our Sunday School classes!” I nod, letting them know that I will be here, for them, as The Rabbi, all weekend.
For the children, I tell myself, it is important for me to be The Rabbi. Not student rabbi. Not Ms. Pelc. But The Rabbi. I want these kids to know they can ask me questions about their tradition, that they can trust me to provide them with a sense of their place as links in the chain of the Jewish people.
A woman slowly approaches me after most of the others have left. Her eyes are swollen, she asks whether I do spiritual counseling.
“My dad died two weeks ago. I can’t work, I can’t sleep. There was no formal mourning. He was cremated.”
I notice that she is the same age as my mother. She calls me rabbi. I tell her yes. I would be glad to meet with her, to listen, to allow space for her tears. We agree to meet after Sunday school.
I look at her looking at me. I am a 26-year-old child — and I am her rabbi.
For the first time all weekend, I know who I am.
Former Milwaukeean Julie Pelc is a student at the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion campus in Los Angeles and co-editor with Tobin Belzer of “Joining the Sisterhood: Young Jewish Women Write their Lives” (State University of New York, 227 pages, $18.95).
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