“From this moment on, people will look to you as a rabbi, whether you like it or not. You’d better start behaving like one.”
These were the words shared at the very first meeting on my first day of Rabbinical School in Jerusalem. I remember sitting in the sanctuary on the Jerusalem campus of Hebrew Union College, struck by the gravity of the moment. I had wanted to become a rabbi for so long, and it was finally happening. But that life’s dream came with obligations, and the time had come to confront them.
On that July afternoon, I made the decision that I was going to wear a kippah in public. Every single day for almost a decade, I donned the ritual head covering, not as an act of personal piety, but as a way of representing my faith to others. My thinking was that if I was meant to be a spokesperson for Jewish tradition and ritual, I may as well own it in the most public way possible.
During that first year living in Israel, this was not as consequential a decision. Living in an openly Jewish society made it easy for me to navigate daily life without much reaction from others. Upon my return to the States, though, my family was very concerned about publicly outing myself as a Jew. At the same time that Donald Trump’s first presidential campaign had elevated anti-semitism to then-record levels, it was no small thing to be so demonstrative of my religious beliefs. Yet, over the ten years I have been wearing my kippah daily, I have never experienced what I would consider animosity or hostility. I have been met by many well-intended (if not always graceful) questions, all of which I was happy to answer; after all, helping people understand Judaism is part of the job description. I have encountered many acts of true kindness, from strangers wishing me Shabbat Shalom (regardless of whether it was, in fact, Shabbat) to references to upcoming holidays. I can only imagine how my male privilege impacted the responses I’ve received, but at no point in my time wearing ritual garb have I ever been made more afraid because of my kippah.
Despite my overwhelmingly positive reactions from others, I have begun to struggle with my relationship with this everyday practice. My rabbinate has been predicated on a sense of authenticity, of living out my values in ways that I believe are worthwhile and meaningful both to me personally and to the community I serve. And the reality is, I’m not sure what value, if any, my kippah-wearing has for my relationship with God. Sure, the presence of a kippah buys me a certain level of cultural cache when walking into an inter-denominational space. But my personal connection to God does not require a headcovering, and there is the risk that wearing one will prompt my congregation to think it is the “right” thing to do. And when we look at the garment’s history, that is far from a logical conclusion.
The Torah does not explicitly mention the need for a ritual headcovering. Even the Talmud, which loves to mandate religious practice, isn’t sure about whether or not to make the kippah an expectation. By the Middle Ages, Maimonides was ready to declare that a kippah should be worn during prayer and study, but not daily. It is only in the past 500 years that the practice has adopted the rule of law, a short period in the larger context of Jewish history. Thus, it is entirely reasonable for a person to conclude that a headcovering is an unnecessary tradition for their personal practice.
I began wearing a kippah in order to serve others. As I grow and mature into my rabbinate, I am constantly questioning how I best balance the delicate relationship between being a public servant and being a practicing Jew in my own right. In many ways, I am profoundly grateful that this religious practice is giving me pause; after all, Judaism’s central modality is to compel participants to think critically about their behavior and to assess how they can better be in relationship to holiness, community, and personal piety. In that way, the kippah is serving its function, even if I ultimately decide that wearing one regularly is not for me.
If my kippah-wearing was meant to offer me a chance to represent Judaism, it is once again meeting that need. Forcing me to ask questions about my public and private relationship with Judaism is the kind of work that all rabbis need to be doing as regularly as we invite our congregants to do so. Ultimately, I believe strongly that Judaism is a tradition of why, not of what. Much more than whatever decision I ultimately make, I am a better rabbi for having explored the question in the first place, and that is how I hope to lead by example for a congregation that, I hope, will approach our practice with the same level of curiosity, openness, and willingness to strive for a higher purpose.
Austin Zoot is the Rabbi Educator at Valley Temple in Wyoming, Ohio.