In My Father’s Footsteps

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By Rabbi Elana Zaiman

It was my first week on the job. There I stood, a 31-year-old newly ordained rabbi, in the front office of Manhattan’s Park Avenue Synagogue. I was dressed in a skirt and blouse, hose and heels, and engrossed in conversation with a congregant. As we spoke, I rested my elbow on the box of brochures that had just been delivered from the copy center.

“Rabbi Zaiman, can you please move your arm?” Violet, a secretary in her late 50s, asked.

I paid no attention to her request and continued my conversation.

Exactly what I said, I don’t recall, but it was something like, “I thought you meant my father.”

A few moments later, Violet asked again. “Rabbi Zaiman. Can you please move your arm?”

Again, I paid her no heed and continued my conversation.

A few minutes later, Violet asked yet again, “Rabbi Zaiman, can you please move your arm?”

Once again, I did not respond.

Shortly thereafter, I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I turned toward the touch. It was Violet. “Rabbi Zaiman,” she said. “Can you please move your arm so I can open the box of brochures that you’re leaning on? I need to proof them.”

“Sure!” I said. Then I laughed. “I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

Violet glanced at me, a confused look on her face. Her expression seemed to say, “Of course I meant you. Who else could I have meant? You are Rabbi Zaiman, aren’t you?”

Clearly, I had some explaining to do.

Exactly what I said, I don’t recall, but it was something like, “I thought you meant my father.”

Violet continued to look confused. I could imagine her thinking, “How could I have been talking to your father? Your father is not here.”

“You see,” I continued, “my father is Rabbi Zaiman.”

Still, no comprehension dawned on Violet’s face. I had to explain myself somehow.

“My father is Rabbi Zaiman,” I said, stressing the word ‘father.’ “Rabbi Zaiman is not yet me.”

Violet’s confusion softened into a knowing smile.

That night I called my father to tell him the story. He laughed, then told me of a similar experience he had when he first became a rabbi. He, too, looked around for his father when someone addressed him as “Rabbi Zaiman.”

The rabbinic lineage in our family extends back to at least my great–grandfather, and our suspicion is that it goes back even further. I wonder if my grandfather, and possibly my great–grandfather, had similar experiences when they were first ordained; if they, too, felt that the title “rabbi” referred not to them, but to their fathers, in whose footsteps they were following.

I asked my father how long it took him to grow into his title, how long it took him to feel like a rabbi in his own right.

he assured me that one day I, too, would grow into the title of rabbi without even realizing that I had

It happened imperceptibly over time, my father said, and he assured me that one day I, too, would grow into the title of rabbi without even realizing that I had.

Our family story is not unusual. I’ve heard similar stories from children of doctors, lawyers, ministers, chiropractors, accountants and others, all who have chosen to follow in their parents’ footsteps. I’ve also heard stories from men who did not follow in their fathers’ professional footsteps, but who as adults were called by their surname, the name by which their fathers had always been known. I’ve heard stories from wives and husbands, fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers, all of whom found themselves living those roles they recalled someone else inhabiting.

The truth is that differentiating ourselves from others, and figuring out how to be in the world in a way that is uniquely our own, is a process of growth for all of us. If we spend our lives trying to be someone other than who we are, or to live the life someone else wants us to live, we have missed the point of what it means to be alive. Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol, an 18th-century Hassidic Master, got it right when he said, “In the coming world, they will not ask me: ‘Why were you not Moses?’ They will ask me: ‘Why were you not Zusya?’” The point of living, really living, is to live into ourselves. This is our holy mission on this earth. In truth, we need not wait until the coming world to be asked this question. We can ask ourselves this question now. If we take great care in responding, perhaps we can live more deeply into the selves we are on the road to becoming.

About the Author

Elana is the first woman rabbi from a family spanning six generations of rabbis. She began her career as a rabbi at Manhattan’s Park Avenue Synagogue and currently serves as a chaplain for the aged at The Summit at First Hill in Seattle. Elana travels around the country as a scholar-in-residence and motivational speaker. Her current sought-after topic is writing ethical wills. She also consults with families, couples and individuals who are writing ethical wills.