My Journey to the Rabbinate

Sean E Samitt

My Journey to the Rabbinate

Had someone told me at my Bar Mitzvah that one day I would seriously be considering becoming a Rabbi, my response would have been uncontrollable laughter followed with many naïve reasons as to why “I would never do that.” I’m not sure what turned me off about it. Nevertheless, hineini, here I am wholeheartedly considering it. I’d like to share with you my journey here.

* * *

At my Bar Mitzvah, my father reminded both our family and guests just how fond of Hebrew school I was. He quipped of the days of dragging me to Tempe Israel of Northern Westchester. What few of our guests had realized was that my father’s metaphorical humor was not so much a metaphor as much of a reflection of the day he did literally have to drag me out of the car and pull and push me into the building. I vaguely recall his lectures in the car rides to Temple Israel, explaining why I needed to go.

Having been adopted by my parents at seven months from Paraguay, I was raised more as a “cultural” or secular Jew. My family and I were members of a Reform congregation in Croton, New York. As my Christian friends would speak of those members of their churches who only went to services for Christmas and Easter, we were the Jewish versions, and for many years I only recalled attending one High Holy Day service on Yom Kippur.

The apparent animosity I held for Judaism was not due to a lack of interest or desire, but more just a lack of a connection. I in fact did enjoy the ideas that my religious schoolteachers were hoping to convey to my classmates and I. I endured as much religious school fever as my classmates did. The grueling hours spent on Sundays and Tuesday afternoons. I didn’t mind the subject, but the fact that I was sitting locked in a classroom while my non-Jewish friends were out playing soccer and basketball didn’t help anyone’s attempts to help me want to grow spiritually and religiously. To my mind, going to school for long periods of time would cause hair to recede and a bald spot where one would place a kippah (because of this I would actually refuse to wear one for about a year and a half).

I would sit in the sanctuary for afternoon T’filah and count the pages remaining in the service. I knew Hebrew, I was taught vague meanings of the prayers, but it just didn’t click for me. I would recite the prayers by rote and not gain anything meaningful. I would sit in the pews and wonder if that was really all there was. At the time, I didn’t have a connection. I was there because my parents expected me to become a Bar Mitzvah but if it were up to me, I would have been out on the basketball courts with my friends those Tuesdays.

I remember my Bar Mitzvah quite well. I was up early that morning polishing off my chants and going over the brachot I would be helping lead in a few hours. My parasha was Ki Teitzei and I was able to form some connections to the portion and create a meaningful D’var Torah. Yet even though I understood the Hebrew and I was able to draw some parallels to teach from, I had a difficult time understanding why exactly I was there.

During the ceremony, many times Rabbi Jaech and Cantor Sher pointed out how we were there, that the Torah had been passed “l’dor v’dor” from generation to generation of the Children of Israel, the Scrolls containing the “Story of our people’s life from Sinai until now.” We read of the teachings and insights gained from our ancestors’ history. One thing that my Cantor told us that day did resonate. He said, “May you remember what you learned this day, how you learned it, and most importantly why you learned it. And as your journeys continue, and whether those journeys lead you or you lead them, remember what you accomplished and that will help you overcome and obstacle or challenge that lies in your way.”

I’m not sure why that was one of the things that actually did remain in the back of my head from that day. Rabbi Jaech wrapping me in my tallis that morning, and realizing that the shawl that was being draped over my shoulders was more than just a piece of cloth meant to fulfill an ancient commandment, but that it was my late grandfather’s: the one he was married to my grandmother in. He had been gone for years, but that moment I remembered my parents taking me to see him in the hospital, his eyes no longer able to see. I remember he held me and used his fingers and touch to “see” his grandson, playing with my toes, fingers and face.

Rabbi Jaech shared with us the blessing of the Jewish people:

Y’varechecha Adonai v’yishmarecha

May G-d bless you, and keep you.

Ya’eir Adonai panav eilecha, v’kuneka

May G-d’s light shine upon you and be gracious to you.

Yisa Adoani panav eilecha v’yasem l’cha Shalom. 

May G-d be with you always, and may He grant you peace. 

Hearing those words, I was half asleep. Yet, there was a meaning to them. Little did I know the hard work of my teachers and clergy would be another stepping stone in my journey. I thought I was finally finished. On that wet, rainy afternoon in September of 2006, as I walked with the rest of my friends to the bus to my party, I thought it was one of the last times I would step into a sanctuary.

* * *

My Bar Mitzvah was just one of the first experiences I would have with my Jewish identity. In school I was bullied and beat up because I was Jewish. It was a few months later, and I couldn’t understand what would cause someone to have such a large animosity against a people to become violent. I had hardly gone to synagogue, why me? There were other kids who were Jewish in my school. While I don’t think I was beat up for a reason other than that I had a chai around my neck, a desire to understand more about the label I apparently had began to develop.

As I left middle school, my family picked up and left New York for the wild, Wild West. I was a strong math student with a passion for flying. Enter: Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. That was my goal, to earn wings and fly. As my family and I traveled across the country to Prescott, Arizona, more instances of anti-Semitism cropped up as we traveled through the small rural, Christian-dominated towns of the “Heartland.” Most notably: someone’s van in Prescott. Silently signs were hung such as “Hitler was right,” or “The Jews must go.” Again, the lack of attachment to Judaism resonated in my mind and heart.

I began high school at Tri-city Prep, a school of two hundred students. As my family began settling into our new lives in Prescott, my father got in touch with the local Jewish synagogue, Temple B’rith Shalom. In school, I found myself being the only Jew, and found my peers having a myriad of questions from their predominantly Christian community. So I began searching for answers. My dad had suggested us going to a service or two. My curiosity was peaking and, alas, I couldn’t drive and go somewhere else, so I donned a kippah and went along.

The Friday night service we went to was a choir service, filled with music and the congregation joining in song over the ancient texts. My dad and I began remembering the prayers that both of us had learned in our preparations for becoming b’nai mitzvah. The siddur began to connect me to those afternoons in Croton, New York. But the music stopped me from counting pages. Soon after that service, my dad insisted I join the choir, so I did.

* * *

Joining the choir forced me to relearn the prayers and Hebrew that I had allowed myself to forget. The melodies brought a different meaning to the texts I had wrestled with when I was in religious school. It was as if the words of the siddur had come alive. I was no longer just reciting. I was reading the prayers, concentrating on what I was singing or reading. I developed a sense of praying in the moment. This kavanah and ruach I had not experienced before.

As my time with the choir continued, so did my curiosity, delving into various books and actually paying attention to the various Torah portions throughout the year. Eventually, at the direction of Gwenda Krochock, or choir director, I began singing some solos and call and response prayers. The music leads me to a new state of kavanah, and I was enjoying the new experiences I was having with what only a year or two prior had been a dry, dull afternoon spent in school.

            Soon Temple B’rith Shalom welcomed Rabbi Berkowitz back into the rabbinate, and while he was hesitant at first, entertained my voice at services and would invite me to sing solos during Friday’s Kabbalat Shabbat services. As my voice and repertoire developed, slowly I began singing more often, making more and more trips from my seat in the congregation up to the bimah. During the oneg, the congregants would always tell me that I should become a cantor, and that my voice was quite good for an untrained teenager.

I remember one Kabbalat Shabbat service rather vividly: I had been signing a couple of pieces solo or as a lead when Rabbi Berkowitz came up to me prior to services. He told me that he was feeling a little under the weather and his words went something like this: “Do you remember the Reader’s Kaddish and the V’ahavta from your Bar Mitzvah?” I hesitantly said yes, wondering what he had up his sleeve, and wondering if I actually did remember the whole thing. His next question was: “Why don’t you grab a tallis and join me on the bimah.” And so it began…

I would occasionally come up to the bimah to lead a prayer or two, and within a few months I found myself just sitting on the bimah, helping lead almost every prayer, and enjoying it. The words of the siddur were becoming engrained in my mind and heart, and I began hoping to share the spirit and ruach that prayers and being Jewish gave to me with the congregation through my voice.

In school I began to see that my Jewish identity was one that would not be separated from Sean Samitt, whether for the good or the bad. Teachers and peers wanted to know more of my faith and beliefs; usually to learn, but occasionally to argue and belittle my incongruence with being a Christian. I recall a couple of instances where the divide truly did exist between my peers and I.

Having grown up in New York in an area with no less than five synagogues within a 20-minute drive from my house, and a high population of Jewish families, most New York school districts would close for any Jewish High Holy Days which fell during the week due to the high level of absences of families observing the holidays. When we moved to Arizona, it was a shock to find out that I would need to take a personal absence to attend synagogue and observe those days. Although at the end those absences did not count against me, it was still a shock.

I was involved in many school activities at my high school, and I remember once being asked, “well, you [Jews] still believe in Jesus and the Bible, right?” The student who had asked was entirely serious. I'm sure you can only imagine my response. 

But as I kept going through high school, my dreams and desires kept pushing me towards Embry-Riddle. As I began studying there, I realized that although I did enjoy flying, that I was not a physical candidate to fly, and then changed my studies to Aerospace Engineering. That path was not right still and I again changed my major and still felt that I was not doing something that I would love or enjoy. 

Ultimately I decided to end my time at ERAU. That was a hard realization to come to. Personally, I had to conclude and accept that my dreams had changed, and had not been as concrete as I thought they were. And in addition, I had to then share that with my family. We had moved and left our life in New York, with Riddle being a factor in that decision.

So I enrolled myself in community college to keep myself in school. As what I was working for in school had taken a break, I began spending more time at synagogue, singing more often at services and helping out with the religious school: teaching music, working with the kids on Sundays and helping out with the youth group. My Jewish identity continued to grow stronger. 

As I began wondering what was next, I was starting to see some sort of picture of something in social work or psychology, not really considering the rabbinate. I had constantly repeated to myself that I was just "not that type of person," that I was spiritually interested in Judaism and had a desire to spread the ruach and kavanah that I experienced through prayer and music with others; but I did not see myself as someone who would consider becoming a member of clergy. 

As I kept on questioning myself, members of B'rith Shalom would continue telling me that I should become a cantor or rabbi. I would hear it, but I wouldn't listen to it, it felt more like my grandmother was telling me what to wear to school, rather than getting ideas for a career.

But slowly, as I started asking myself what I wanted to do, the answers were starting to come, at least what I thought were the answers. After one of the Shabbat services, I found myself sitting at a coffee shop just simply asking myself: "well why not?" And... I couldn't come up with any answer. To this day I still don't have an answer as to why I shouldn't. I began this inner struggle with myself to understand what I wanted, not what my family or congregation wanted. 

Upon talking to other rabbis, some had mentioned that their path to the rabbinate was a “calling” or something Divine. Although I am not sure I would say it is a “calling” in that sense, I do feel as if this has happened for a reason and that I am meant to choose this path. Rabbi Nina Perlmutter pointed out to me that she knew she had to do it when she couldn’t stop thinking about becoming a rabbi. And that is where I am now. 

It isn't really me looking to find a career or a way to make money after college, but just wanting to find what I want to do. And what I have found is that I want to serve and help others, spiritually and emotionally and physically. And I don't see other options, I don't see myself being happy doing anything but that. It is a true desire to serve and grow and lead. 

I could become a doctor or a social worker or a teacher, but I feel that although I could do any of those, that rabbi is one that sticks out. That when I look into the other "careers" my mind just drifts back to the rabbinate. 

My reasoning comes down to this: 

·       I love being Jewish. I truly do (which I would think is a good thing in this case).

·       I love the culture of Judaism. The sense of community of that extended family. Even though all families are annoying and there's always the uncle who talks too much, or the grandmother, or the mother-in-law, etc. that can drive you nuts. They are still always there. That sense of support is always meaningful and important to me. 

·       I love the teachings Judaism offers us. Life is hard and trying and difficult. And no one has all the answers, but the sages and rabbis sometimes knew what they where talking about. And what they have said has meaning to our lives even today.

One of my favorite sayings is one from Rabbi Nachman of Breslov. He writes: 

כּלל לפחד לא והעקר מאד צר גשר כּלוֹ העוֹלם כּל

"Kol haolam kulo gesher tzar m'od. V'haikar lo lefacheid klal."  

The whole world is a very narrow bridge. The main thing, the key, is to not fear. 

That speaks a lot to me. And to what we need to do. Things aren't easy and can be tough but sometimes we just need to keep faith in something. Not even a god (although that is part of my belief) but just faith in friends and family or whatever or whomever and just keep fighting and go on. 

The history, passion, music and liturgy have meaning to me now.

The Hebrew--- eh, still not too fond of that. But I recall someone saying that loving something means doing what you hate regardless. 

The most important thing in my experience is just that sense of compassion. From my Bar Mitzvah I was talking about Ki Teitzei, where we are reminded to care for the fatherless, the widow and the stranger. And we are reminded of that constantly. And that alone is a very important thing to always think of others. The sense of compassion that we are expected to uphold.

I hope to one-day just help to repair the world, Tikkun Olam. Even if not the entire world: just one person. The sages taught that if you kill one person it is as if you have killed the world, but if you save one person it is as if you saved a whole world. 

I have a burning desire inside to help others. My friends, my family, even though I’m sure I drive them nuts. Anyone. Just to help, whether it’s doing something or just talking or listening. I yearn to keep the flame alive that has withered at the winds of time. So for now I will keep contemplating and thinking. 

I do hope, and I do think this is true, that in two years time I will find myself in rabbinical school. I cannot get it out of my mind or heart.

 L'shalom, In peace, 

Sean E Samitt