Vulnerability is the Language of Connection

Vulnerability is the Language of Connection
Rabbi Sivan Rotholz

Shabbat Shalom.

My path to the rabbinate was not straightforward. In 2016, when the country was torn apart politically and it felt like the fabric of our society was fraying, I heard what I understood to be a call. And, like many Jewish leaders before me, initially, I resisted it. I had distinct memories of my childhood rabbi, and he didn’t look anything like me. His work seemed remote, formal… I wanted to live a life of service to the Jewish people, but I worried that meant I couldn’t be too genuine or too personal – that being a rabbi required staying at a remove from the people to whom you pastor.

During this time of ambivalence, I visited Israel. There I met a rabbi who offered a new perspective on what rabbis do and believe, how they serve. She told me a story that changed the way I viewed the profession, and, frankly, my future.

“Once,” she told me,“I had a miscarriage and had to miss leading services – something I had never done. When I returned to my job, everyone asked me what had happened.” This rabbi went on to say: “So many mentors and friends had warned me not to share my miscarriage with my congregants. ‘A rabbi must stay separate.’ I struggled with whether or not to tell my community this intimate, personal thing about myself,” she confessed. “But in the end, I decided to tell them the truth. And the response was remarkable. Woman after woman came up to me to confide that they, too, had suffered the same sadness. Our mutual grief was a pathway to connection.”

What I learned from this simple conversation is that vulnerability can be the glue, a gift, a vocabulary; and this discovery helped shape my approach to the rabbinate.

In this week’s Torah portion, Parshat Eikev, Moses admonishes the Israelites for their failings – their worship of the Golden Calf, the rebellion of Korach against Moses, the sin of the spies who went to scout the land and came back with a pessimistic report. Moses scolds:

Remember, don’t forget, how you brought on the Eternal

One’s anger in the wilderness. From the day you left Egypt

until you came to this place you have been fighting against

God.

Rabbi Elliot Kukla asks: “Why is Moses reminding them of this history? It seems like on the eve of entering the Promised Land it would be tempting to try to forget.”

By reminding the Jewish people of their past transgressions, Moses is engaging in tochecha – pointing out an important truth that someone might be missing in the hope that they might then do the work of repair. Moses is not only urging his people to do teshuva, he is also teaching a lesson for those who will come after – namely, us. That getting into the Land isn't the end goal; the journey, and our spiritual growth along the way, matters just as much. In our parsha, the Israelites weren't there yet; Moses had to keep shedding light on the work yet to be done. But what gets us from tochecha – pointing out the truth – to teshuva – repentance and repair – is vulnerability.

Rabbi Kukla goes on to say that “the people could only start anew in the Promised Land after naming the pain that brought them there, they could only rebuild their connection with the Divine after recognizing the damage that had been done in that relationship along the way.”

We are tied by our triumphs, yes, but also by our common mistakes. This is what the process of teshuva – which we are about to undertake throughout the High Holidays – is all about.

Like the Israelites in the desert and the rabbi who inspired me in Israel, each of us has moments of failure, and of heartbreak. But instead of the impulse to tamp down our difficulties or get past them, we can see vulnerability as an opportunity, a deeper language. We can find our way to one another when we share what’s really going on.

Last week, we commemorated Tisha b’Av – marking a long history of grief and destruction that has befallen the Jewish people. God knows this holiday has never felt more tragically relevant than it did this year. Following Tisha b’Av we entered the period of nechemta – of comfort – the seven weeks leading up to Rosh HaShanah. These culminate in Elul, a month of introspection when we look honestly at how we have fallen short so that we might do the work of repair. Our tradition reminds us that we can’t heal without a reckoning, without telling the truth, without shuva – return.

“You do not have to be good,” the poet Mary Oliver teaches. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.” Instead, “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

In this week’s parsha, on the eve of entering the Promised Land, the Israelites are asked to look back on their shortcomings so that they might do the difficult work of repair. Reminding us that being in the Land – and being members of Am Israel – is about spiritual growth.

When I felt the call to the rabbinate, I thought, “I don’t know if I can do this.” Seven years later, I know that every doubt was essential to finding my way to this esteemed bimah. How did I get from there to here? Every time I’ve admitted my struggles – as a mom, as a friend, as a student, as a new rabbi, I’ve forged a connection. When we acknowledge our struggles, we often notice others are struggling, too. “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

All of us have cracks, and when we acknowledge them, we come closer to others. We make something beautiful out of what is broken. In Parsha Eikev, we learn that the difficulties we face are an opportunity for growth: “Remember the long way that your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, in order to test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts.” And when we are open and honest about what is in our hearts, we speak the language of connection.

Shabbat Shalom