A Rabbi Without a Community: Reflections on Racism and Resilience

The month of Elul is dedicated to introspection. It is a time to reflect on our identities, our ambitions, and the paths we've chosen. Central to this introspective journey is Heshbon Hanefesh—the Hebrew term for "an accounting of the soul," a thoughtful and reflective examination of who we are and where we aspire to be.

This month, I've been reflecting deeply on my choice to become a rabbi, a path that I still believe was one of the smartest decisions I've made. I've been a rabbi for over six years and have served the Jewish community for over two decades in various capacities. During that time, I have built relationships, led services and life-cycle events, and engaged in important conversations about justice, identity, and faith. My work has taken me across the country and abroad; some may even consider me one of the most well-known rabbis in the United States. But becoming well-known was never the goal. I became a rabbi because I believe deeply in the power of community, in fostering connection, and in serving others with compassion and purpose.

Yet, I find myself a rabbi without a community. It's a lonely place, and I know I'm not alone in this feeling—many in our community are searching for belonging. 

Being a rabbi has always been about creating spaces of belonging and spiritual growth—a role where I could help others feel seen and heard within the Jewish community. I envisioned a rabbinate where I could be embedded in a community, guiding people through their joys and sorrows, their questions and celebrations, while also working to make our Jewish spaces more inclusive and just.

Yet, despite my dedication and service, I find myself without a true Jewish community to call my own. It's a painful reality that I've had to navigate, one that speaks to the deeper fractures within our communal structures—fractures often rooted in exclusion, bias, and systemic inequities.

At every step of my rabbinic journey, I've encountered racism—often coupled with the intersection of sexism. Racism isn't just an occasional bump in the road; it's a constant, shaping every interaction I have in the Jewish world. I've navigated situations that would leave many of my colleagues in disbelief. And still, I carry on with grace and resilience. But honestly, I'm tired, mentally exhausted, and sometimes strangely bored by the same cycles of struggle.

Recently, I had a conversation about my entrepreneurial mindset. Honestly, I've been entrepreneurial and had to think outside the box because doors were often closed to me. In rabbinical school, I was praised for securing a grant to lead Shabbat services in a café. But the truth is, I applied for the grant because I needed it—I couldn't get an internship that would allow me to develop the skills to lead services in a more traditional setting, and yes, racism was a factor. While others saw it as a creative endeavor, it was a necessity—born out of a lack of options, and it was survival. 

Despite these constant struggles, my work as a rabbi remains deeply meaningful. A significant part of my career has been centered around giving keynotes, helping communities navigate racism, supporting rabbinical students—many of whom are underrepresented in the Jewish community—and making myself available to those who often feel left behind by the Jewish community. These are the people I connect with deeply, those who, like me, have felt the sting of exclusion, bias, or outright discrimination within spaces that are meant to be welcoming. This work is meaningful to me—deeply so. It's important, and in many ways, it has become the rabbinate I envisioned for myself when I first set out on this path. However, I always imagined doing this work within a community, not as an outsider.

But while it fulfills a crucial need, it also speaks to the gaps in our community, gaps that shouldn't have to exist. I never imagined that so much of my time as a rabbi would be dedicated to helping others navigate the very racism and exclusion that I have faced myself. I find deep purpose in this work, but I also wonder how different my rabbinate might look if the community, as a whole, was more willing to confront its own biases and offer a true sense of belonging to everyone.

In my first two years as a rabbi, I was supervised, critiqued, and scrutinized as if I had decades of experience. I spent unnecessary hours fighting to do some of the most basic things that rabbis do because others with no training believed they could do them better. I didn't receive the grace necessary to grow into my role.

Over the years, I've experienced members of the Jewish community make up stories about me, about events that never happened, grounded in their biases about Black people, and use these stories to get me fired, in some kind of trouble, attack me online or prevent me from working. Others have used me as clout to sell books, to prove their lack of bias, and or to push their own agenda without ever consulting me. My experiences are a painful reminder that my qualifications, dedication, and passion are not enough to overcome the biases that persist in our community. And still, I carry on.

I am resilient because I have had no choice. Every day, I push forward because giving up has never been an option. But resilience does not mean the burden isn't heavy. It does not mean the constant battle against racism doesn't take its toll.

As I reflect during this Elul, I question the choices I've made and the spaces I've tried to inhabit. The racism I've faced has made me question my place in the Jewish community and whether I can truly serve in the way I once hoped. But I also question whether the Jewish community can fully embrace rabbis who look like me. 

I still hope that one day I will find a place where I can serve without constantly having to prove my worth or navigate the exhausting terrain of racism. I’m not sure that place exists—at least not in my lifetime. But by sharing my experiences, I hope others will begin to reflect on how deeply racism functions within our Jewish spaces and how it tears at the fabric of our community. It is not just individuals like me who suffer; it is the collective spirit of our people. And still, we must carry on.

Elul: A Month of Preparation and Renewal