People often ask me:
“What’s the most meaningful part of being a rabbi?”
Is it the weddings? The Bar and Bat Mitzvahs? The holy days? The truth is—it’s not one particular moment. It’s something else entirely.
It’s being invited in.
- Into people’s real lives.
- Not the polished, posed, social-media-ready moments.
- But the raw, human ones.
- The joyful ones.
- The messy, sacred, complicated ones.
It’s being the person someone calls when they don’t know what to do. When they’re grieving. Or questioning. Or wondering if there’s still space for them in Jewish life. It’s when someone says: “I didn’t think I’d have a Bar Mitzvah.” “I never imagined I’d find a rabbi who would help me through this.” “I didn’t think we still counted.”
And my job—the real heart of it—is to look them in the eye and say: “Yes, you do. Yes, we can. Yes, we’ll figure it out—together.”
Sometimes that looks like standing under a chuppah with a couple who’ve already been married for 20 years but never had a real celebration.
Sometimes it’s crafting a deeply personal ceremony for a family trying to honour a loved one lost in tragic circumstances.
Sometimes it’s showing up with a Torah scroll at a nursing home because a boy’s grandmother couldn’t travel, and that’s where he needed to become a man.
And sometimes, it’s just sitting with someone in silence, holding space.
What’s most meaningful to me is that none of these moments are generic. Each one is crafted. Personalised. Rooted in ancient wisdom, yes, but always made relevant to the person standing in front of me.
Because our tradition is not a museum. It’s a living, breathing inheritance. And I believe it can speak to every person, in every chapter of life, if we’re willing to listen, adapt, and meet people where they are.
So, what’s the most meaningful part of my job?
Being trusted.
