I look carefully at the charcoal drawing. Do I see a long-eared rabbit or a long-billed duck? I realize that I’m seeing both at different moments, depending upon the angle of my gaze and which side of my brain is receiving messages from the picture in front of me. I love watching each animal emerging from the other in what psychologists call an ambiguous image. I shift my eyes slightly this way or that, and as if by magic, the rabbit disappears, the duck appears, the duck then fades and the rabbit reappears.
Ambiguity is great when you’re looking at drawings that induce optical illusions. It’s not so great when you’re figuring out who you are and what roles you play in your life. Over what will be 38 years of my life, my personal and professional identities have at times intersected so closely that I’ve had to be vigilant about not confusing where Dan or Rabbi Ornstein begin, end, and begin again. Many times, I’ve had to reflect critically upon when it’s best for me to be the proverbial rabbit, duck, both, or neither. This vigilance is even more critical as I prepare to step away from my formal role as clergy and enter the world of a full-time layperson who happens to be an ordained rabbi.
I’m profoundly lucky and grateful not to have experienced the burnout and mental health crises that American clergy report in record numbers since COVID and the last presidential election. I’ve enjoyed an outstanding relationship with my synagogue here in Albany, and the growing sadness they and I are feeling upon my gradual departure is the result of mutual love and respect, not resentment and regret. Yet my decision to step away from this sacred role leaves me feeling not entirely sure about what will come next. Who will I - the private person - be, the morning after I shed the formal mantle of public leadership? As the artist of my own life, how will I draw the next portrait?
As a telling example, Jewish religion commands every member of the community, not just rabbis, to visit the sick and pray for their speedy recovery; my visits often mean something entirely different to someone in a hospital bed who specifically wants the rabbi to invite God’s healing power through prayer and presence. Does this kind of referential power and purpose suddenly end when I reach the last day of my contract, turn out the lights and close my office door for the last time? And if I’m truly stepping away from playing a formal clerical role, would I really want to retain this kind of responsibility, valuable as it is? How can I visit someone who’s sick, pray for their recovery, and do this merely as a fellow community member?
One possible answer to my questions lies with what the rabbis of ancient times did during the workday. Becoming a rabbi in the ancient world meant that you learned sacred scripture and Jewish law with a master and served as a community resource when you weren’t at your day job or supporting your family. Rabbis then were woodchoppers, builders, farm hands, gravediggers, tanners, shoemakers, blacksmiths, launderers, weavers, brewers, salt dealers, and merchants, and that’s only a partial list of what they did. A professional rabbinic clergy class arose in the Jewish community only centuries later. These early leaders with whom I share a title didn’t have to choose between being a rabbi and a person on the street. One’s rabbinic leadership was simply integrated into the rest of his everyday life and work; and each rabbi was on call to be called upon when spiritual leadership was necessary. The rest of the time, they were just ordinary people in the community.
I became a rabbi because I felt it was the best way for me to serve God and make the world a better place. The outer trappings of how I do this will no longer happen inside my office or on the pulpit during a Sabbath service. The mystique and responsibility associated with a clergy title will no longer and can no longer be mine, if I want to successfully transition to private life. But I’m not changing the fundamental religious commitments and sensibilities by which I define myself. In retirement, whether I’m in my house, on a hike, or hanging around with others, I will be Dan; but the spiritual life and character that made me a good rabbi will hopefully continue to inform my ability to be the best Dan that I can be.
Stepping away after decades from full-time work requires us to re-draw our self-portraits with clarity and purpose. I look forward to admiring my new picture, drawn with old and trusted tools.
Dan Ornstein is the rabbi of Congregation Ohav Shalom and a writer living in Albany, NY. Check out his writings at danornstein.com
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