In the fall of 2018, a classmate was getting married at Plum Street Synagogue, and I was asked to recite one of the Seven Blessings. We were told to walk up the right-hand stairs to the bimah, say our part, cross the platform, and descend the left-hand stairs. I refused. I walked up and down the same stairs. Crossing that stage in that direction is how our movement ordains rabbis. I hadn’t earned that yet.
This Saturday marks the 143rd year of ordination in Cincinnati. Five students will ascend those stairs and be ordained, and they will be the last. That is a tragedy.
When looking at the grandeur of Plum Street Synagogue, I can’t help but feel the gravity of a century and a half of rabbinic excellence. Abraham Joshua Heschel prayed here. Sally Priesand preached here. Some of the greatest thinkers, sages, and heroes of our people began their journey here, and you can still hear echoes of their Torah reverberating through us and around us. I believe rabbis can be the best version of humanity: they are kind, thoughtful, brilliant, and graceful. I say this not because I am one, but because I aspire to live up to the title I have been bestowed every day. I stand on the shoulders of giants, giants who once sat where I sat, felt what I felt, and paved the way to their future that is now my road map.
I am uniquely prepared for a future without ordination at Plum Street. I was ordained during the COVID-19 pandemic over Zoom. I have compassion for the administrators who were forced to make an impossible, obvious decision during that time. But that did nothing to quench my grief at the loss of the moment I had imagined for a decade. As one of my classmates put it: “I can’t believe I’m getting ordained in front of my spoon collection…”
Yet, grief wasn’t the end of the story. I had a rare opportunity. I was staying in Cincinnati after ordination. I had committed my work and devotion to the Valley Temple, and I had the keys to the building. I took my laptop and was ordained alone, through the internet, on my community’s bimah, standing in front of OUR ark, holding OUR Torah. I had been alienated from the history of our tradition in that moment, but that didn’t mean I didn’t get to create a new moment, the first rabbi ever ordained from the pulpit of his choosing (as far as I know, of course).
Would I have rather been ordained the “normal” way? You better believe it. I am unsure if I will ever be able to think back to May 23, 2020, without a sense of bittersweet melancholy. But I also carry with me the pride of knowing that, in a moment when “normal” wasn’t an option, I could use my knowledge of ritual and create a sacred moment that would still uplift the learning, growing, and healing I so needed.
That balancing act between the joy of honoring this year’s ordinands and the sadness of commemorating the loss of this powerful tradition from Cincinnati’s identity is our task. It isn’t going to be easy.
We are taught in the Talmud that when a funeral and a wedding intersect, we are always to default to the wedding; ours is a tradition of joy and vibrancy. Thus, we must invest our time and attention in making Rabbis Benzion, Johnson, Oppenheimer, Pappell, and Starr feel like the gifts they are. The focus must be on the dedication and conviction they have put into their craft, and the sacred obligation they are taking on in leading our people into a future that is as exciting as it is intimidating.
Next, we have to feel the sadness that comes with watching something we have held dear as a city, as a community, and as a movement for so long. Tears will be shed, but will be met with hugs and care. Frustrations will be vented, met with compassion and understanding. This is hard. And we need to feel that.
And the next day, it is time to get to work imagining how Judaism can thrive in Cincinnati, specifically, and the Midwest in general, for generations to come. Throughout Jewish history, it is out of the ashes of destruction that we have created some of the most beautiful expressions of faith imaginable.
We were only able to receive the Torah after experiencing bondage in Egypt. We were only able to create the Talmud after the destruction of the Temple. We were only able to create a homeland for the Jews after the devastation of the Holocaust. What are we going to come up with next? I honestly don’t know. But I have staked a career as a Cincinnati rabbi on the belief that we will figure it out, with vigor and conviction.
Every time I step foot into Plum Street, I think about the moment in the book of Exodus where Moses sees the burning bush. We are told that God said, “Remove your shoes from your feet, for the ground upon which you stand is holy.” I have always felt the pull to similarly step out of my footwear in that space (for the care of those around me, I promise I will abstain).
But when we actually think about the way Jews understand our faith, we know that God doesn’t only exist in certain places, under certain conditions. Even after the burning bush is extinguished, we still feel the glow of the sacred. Because we bring the light with us out into the world. We bring the skills we have learned, the wisdom we have pursued, and the mentors and partners we have foraged. And, as Isaiah reminds us, “from out of Zion, Torah will come forth.” (3:2) And it is we who get to bring it with us and share it with others.
Austin Zoot is the Rabbi Educator at Valley Temple in Cincinnati, Ohio.
