Conversations With the Rabbi

by Adam Kaz






    The Rabbi’s office was small and orderly, like the Rabbi himself. Both our hands were sweaty when we shook across his desk, and my admiration for the man increased wondering how he could sit in this hot room all day wearing a tweed jacket.

    “Thomas, Thomas,” he said tenderly. His mouth was lava red in the gray of his full beard. “Please take a seat.”

    We sat.

    “Thank you, Rabbi.”

    He was silent a moment, smiling. “I must say I was excited about this meeting.”

​    “Yeah?” I said hopefully.

    “Oh, yes.” The Rabbi leaned back and hugged his little belly. “You’re a very nice young man, and Rachel seems happy when she brings you to shol. But what could Rachel Friedman’s boyfriend want from a meeting with her rabbi? This I ask myself. Are we digging for awkward Bat Mitzvah photos for a silly gift?”

    “No,” I said anxiously and wondered what a Bat Mitzvah was. “It’s not that.”

    “Should I take it this is a social appointment? A meet and greet?”

    “The reason I’m here is serious, actually.”​

    “Oh?” The Rabbi leaned forward. Resting his hands on the desk he said, “And what is that serious reason?”

    The worst he could do, I told myself, was say no. And was that so terrible? Yes, I thought. If he said no I would never recover.

    My eyes were closed I was so nervous. “Would you please sponsor me in my conversion to Judaism?” I said quickly. Hearing no response I opened my eyes and saw him normal, still smiling. “I’m Catholic, or my parents are Catholic. I’m nothing. But I’m committed to becoming Jewish. Please give me a chance.”

    The Rabbi waited to see if I finished. “I had a feeling this conversation might be about that.” He massaged his beard. “You probably know conversion is no walk in the park. If I do accept you—and I don’t have to—you’ll join classes, you’ll get involved with the community, observe our customs. More will be asked of you, frankly, than we ask of our congregants. I’m flattered by your interest. But if you want to learn more about Judaism I would recommend baby steps first. Perhaps I could email you a few articles.”
       “Thank you, Rabbi,” I said. The room was hotter now, sweltering “But I must convert with you as my sponsor.”

    “You must?”

    Yes,” I insisted. “You see, this isn’t just about studying the religion.”

    It’s not?” His eyebrows rose. “Tell me more.”

    “It’s about Rachel’s parents. Whenever we see them they’re always going on about other guys Rachel knows. Guys she went to high school and college with. They think there are a million better matches for her. And it doesn’t take a genius to notice what these guys all have in common.”

    “I see,” the Rabbi nodded. “And I suppose that’s why it’s so important I sponsor your conversion? Because it would mean that much more to Mr. and Mrs. Friedman coming from their rabbi.”

    “Bingo.” I tried to snap but my fingers were too sweaty. “And I’m probably almost positive I’ll propose to Rachel in a couple years or so. I want to have the Jewish thing in my back pocket by then.”

    “I see. And how long have you known Rachel?”

    “Three months,” I said, “but I already live with her.”

    “Huh.” The Rabbi stared up at whatever Jewish people call heaven. Then shaking his head he said, “Unfortunately it can’t be done.”

    “What? Why not?”

    “I’m sorry,” he said, and by the way he said it I really thought he was. He stood, which I took as a command to do the same. “It’s not going to work out.”

    “But why?

    “It’s not going to work out, and I’d like to leave it at that,” he said and shook my hand. “I know I’ve disappointed you. Maybe you could reach out to Temple Beth Jacob. You might have better luck there.”


    “It’s not fair.” That night I sat on the couch and watched The Regular Show while Rachel assembled an IKEA shoe rack on the floor. “Why wouldn’t he give me a reason?”

    “The Rabbi is a very smart man.” Rachel screwed one brown board into another. It was kind of impressive how she could do all that by herself. “Whatever his reasons I’m sure they’re sound.”

    “Yeah. I bet they sound dumb,” I whined. “Your parents won’t like me if I convert at Beth Jacob.”

    “My parents won’t like you no matter what you do.” Rachel stood and set her screwdriver on the coffee table. “But I love you very, very much.”

    She planted a kiss on my cheek and smelled like shampoo. Which was sweet, but I was in a sour mood. So I scooted away and took out my phone.

    “Maybe the internet has the answers.”

​    “It definitely doesn’t.” Rachel shrugged and returned to the project. “But do whatever you want.”

    The most helpful information, of course, came from Reddit. After a few minutes of exploration I discovered an insightful post that blew this case wide open. I leapt from the couch, startling Rachel. Things might be OK, I thought. I had a mission.


​    “Thomas, Thomas, good to see you,” the Rabbi said.

    His secretary ignored my phone calls four times before we arranged this meeting, two weeks after our first. But I didn’t let that phase me. I understood now. It was all part of the process. Everyone must play their part. Just like how the Rabbi played stupid, giving an Oscar-worthy performance when he stood and said:

    “Welcome back. Now what could Rachel Friedman’s boyfriend want from a second meeting with her rabbi?”

    “I think you know why I’m here,” I said smugly. We shook hands, his sweaty, mine dry. We sat and I crossed my legs. “I think you know exactly why I’m here.”

    “I do?”

    “You see, Rabbi, after our meeting I followed your advice and did a little research.” I took out my phone. “I’d like to read you something. Would that be OK?”

    He nodded. “Please.” If the Rabbi knew I had him by the balls he did a great job concealing it.
​
      “This is a Reddit post from a couple years ago,” I said. “It says, ‘Judaism, unlike many religions, does not proselytize. To be Jewish one must either be born into the religion or observe a lengthy conversion process that may include readings, community service—’ blah, blah, blah, skipping ahead, skipping ahead. ‘It can be difficult,’” I continued, “‘even to begin the conversion process, as a rabbi must agree to sponsor the convert. Rabbis routinely turn people away. In fact it is tradition that a rabbi must turn away a convert several times before they accept him or her.’”

    Here I paused to survey my audience. The Rabbi sighed and massaged his beard. Got ‘em!

    I continued, “‘Rabbis turn the covert away twice, and only on the third ask will they relent. This tests the convert’s commitment to the process.’” I pocketed the phone and cleared my throat. “So, Rabbi, you must know where this is going.”

    “Thomas, I understand you’re trying--”

    “Please consider this my second official ask. Would you, Rabbi, please sponsor me in my conversion?”

    “My answer remains the same,” he said and smiled sadly.

    “Shocker.” I brushed my knee like there was something on it but there wasn’t anything on it. Then I stood. “I’m curious what our third meeting will yield.”

    “Thomas,” he said hesitantly. “I would prefer it if we did not have another meeting.”

    “Come now, Rabbi, we all know where this goes,” I chuckled. “I ask. You say no. I ask again. You say stop asking.”

    “Thomas,” he said and paused, searching for words. “I’ve heard this ask-three-times story before. I’m sorry to tell you: it’s an urban legend, a fantasy. More illustrative than anything. It’s meant to make a point about the burden one accepts when choosing to convert, but it’s not something you should accept as fact. If there was any truth to this story at any time anywhere there certainly isn’t any in Chicago in twenty-twenty five.

    “The reason I turned you away is not because of some test. It’s because, and I’m sorry to say this, you don’t seem very interested in Judaism, and I can’t spend my time on someone who isn’t devoted. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but there you go.”

    “Rabbi, you don’t have to try so hard. Please just—”

    “Please let me finish,” he interrupted. “I think you’ve made a fool of yourself coming here like this. It’s OK, it happens. I’ll keep this between us, as a favor, because I doubt you want Rachel’s parents or other members of the congregation to hear about our meeting.”

    He sounded so sincere. You had to give it to the guy. He. Was. Committed. I respected him so goddamn much for that.

    “Bravo!” I said, clapping. “Bravo! Bravo! Rabbi, you’re a gem, and I’m so thrilled to be going through this process with you.”

    “Please leave my office.”

    “Don’t worry, I’ll pretend to look sad on the way out.” I opened the door but before I left I winked and said, “Wouldn’t want to spoil the illusion.”


    The Rabbi and I observed a two-week gap between our first and second meeting, so I figured a three-week gap between the second and third was appropriate. We needed a break.
      After three weeks, though, I resumed the process, a process which, I discovered, had become thornier. The Rabbi was wholly committed to pretending like he didn’t want to see me. My calls went straight to voicemail, which didn’t bother at me first, it was part of the process. But after my twelfth call? 

    When I heard the Rabbi’s voicemail a full month after our second meeting I cried, “Godammit!” and slammed my phone on the kitchen table.

    “What was that?” I totally forgot Rachel was sitting next to me. She peeled an orange.

    “It was, er, a telemarketer.”


    “But you called them?”

    “You’re right. That was me returning a call from earlier.”

    “From a telemarketer?” she asked, unmasking the orange completely.

    “Yeah?” I said. “And he didn’t pick up so I got a little mad.”

    I see.” Rachel ate an orange slice. “You’re not bothering the Rabbi again, are you?” 

    “No.”

    “Because if he says the three-asks is an urban legend, I think you should take him at his word,” she reminded me. My hand rested on the table; she covered it with hers, soft and moisturized. It was nice. “He told you he doesn’t want to talk. Drop it, please.”

    And I did. Honest. For a few days. I let myself get discouraged and put the conversion process on ice. Maybe I would’ve forgotten it entirely if we didn’t get Indian food with Rachel’s parents later that week.

    “What’s the name of that boy who was in all those plays back in high school?” Mrs. Friedman asked as she stirred masala into rice. “Do you remember his name?”

    “You’ll have to be more specific,” Rachel said.

    “He was in all those plays you did,” Mr. Friedman said. “He was the lead a couple times. Very talented.”

    “I don’t know.”

    “Are you sure?” Mrs. Friedman thought for a moment. “You must remember.”

    “Brett Leavitt?” Rachel suggested.

    “That’s right,” Mr. Friedman said. “Brett Leavitt.”

   “I remember him,” Rachel said, and I wondered when, if ever, I should enter the conversation. “He’s still doing theater, I think.”

    “That’s right, I hear he’s on Broadway,” Mrs. Friedman said.

    “Broadway Chicago,” Rachel corrected.

    “Even better! He’s local.”

    “Was he in anything Star Wars?” I asked, hoping we could talk about Star Wars instead but everyone ignored me. 

    “You grew up with such nice people,” Mrs. Friedman said for like the hundredth time, “it’s a shame you don’t keep in touch.”


    The next evening I felt a little like a stalker crouching behind a green Volvo in the parking lot of Rachel’s Jewish church. It rained earlier that day, now it was dark. I had been waiting over an hour when the Rabbi appeared from the gravel path that connected the parking lot to the front doors. He carried a briefcase.

    It’s showtime, I thought. My legs were stiff from the crouching, so I was a jerky toy soldier come to life when the Rabbi passed my hiding spot. I went for it, yelling, “Rabbi, Rabbi!”

    Ten yards from me he stopped. Squinting in my direction he confirmed what he probably guessed: that I had caught him unawares, had proven my commitment, and now it was checkmate.

    “Please consider this my third ask,” I cried, still limping.

    “Unbelievable,” the Rabbi said. He was jogging toward his Lincoln. “Unbelievable. Not to be believed.”

    I followed. “Would you please sponsor—"

    “No!” He turned around. Now we were face to face. “I will never sponsor you because you’re clearly out of your mind, Thomas! Please stop following me.”

    “I’m not. I thought—”

    “You thought a lot of dreck and now you’ve gone too far,” he said. “Any more of this and I’ll call the police.”

    “But I just thought—”

    “I don’t care!” he said and marched away, leaving me in the cold. 


    He didn’t tell the police, I don’t think. But somebody told somebody something because the parking lot story reached Mr. and Mrs. Friedman. Then they told Rachel. My relationship didn’t work out, then a lot of other things didn’t work out.

    Last summer I spent most of my time near the Jackson Blue Line entrance. I held a plastic cup for generous commuters and watched people go up and down the subway stairs eight hours daily. It was muggy and boring and I always had a headache. But so long as I made twenty-five bucks I could get two meals a day. Often I recognized people from college or someplace but, owing to my new beard and baggie clothes, they never recognized me, and I never said anything, so they walked on past.

    You can imagine how weird but pleasant it was when one day I heard a familiar voice calling from the down the stairs, “Thomas, Thomas.”

    “Rabbi?”

    The short man bounded upward two steps at a time, his hand outstretched for a shake, which I met. We stared at each other and he said, “You look awful.”

    “I respect you so much for your honesty,” I said. “It’s the economy. Things are so flippy-floppy, you know.”

    “Right?”

    The Rabbi took me to Starbucks and insisted he pay for whatever I wanted. Maybe he felt partially to blame for my bad luck, but that’s not how I saw things. I hoped he understood we were chill when we sat at a Starbucks table and I said, “It’s crazy how I let things go. I really screwed up. Stupid me.”

    “We’re talking with the benefit of hindsight,” he consoled. “We must not be so hard on ourselves. Now tell me, Thomas, how exactly did you come to such a desperate situation?”

    I explained the last three months in greater detail, and honestly it felt pretty good talking to someone. I don’t want to get into all the weepy stuff that happened after the breakup. Let it be enough that whatever I said touched the Rabbi deeply. He wiped a tear and said, “Thank you for sharing, Thomas.”

    “Sure.” Then I sighed and sipped my Venti Pistachio Latte with caramel drizzle. “It’s really unfair.”

    “What is, son?”

     “The world, you know, people. And stuff.”

     The Rabbi considered this in silence, zoning out, or perhaps conferring with the Jewish version of Jesus. Then he said, “You know, there’s a Torah story about a man named Joseph and his brothers. I think it might be of interest to you. Can I please share it?”

    I nodded.

    “Now Joseph has ten brothers, but of all his brothers Joseph is the most loved by their father. One day his brothers, because they are so jealous, sell Joseph into slavery. Joseph travels to Egypt to become the Pharaoh’s slave. But he impresses the Pharoah and gets a job as the ruler of Egypt and the Pharoah’s second in command. Not bad for a slave.
       “Later there’s a famine, really bad, everyone’s dying, terrible. And Joseph’s brothers travel to Egypt looking for food. There, ironically, they get an audience with their brother, but they don’t recognize him. And Joseph, because he’s a vengeful guy, puts them through a whole rigmarole of psychological torture that would take too much time to explain. Anyway, the brothers get scared, obviously, but in the end Joseph admits it was him the whole time and everyone makes up. Though for a second there his brothers thought they were in trouble.” The Rabbi paused and massaged his beard. “So what could Joseph’s brothers learn from this experience?”

    “That sometimes things might look bad but they work out anyway?” I said hopefully.

    “Yes, aaanndd,” he elongated the word, “sometimes, when we’re blinded by emotion, we push away the best people we know.”

    I thought about it a moment. “That’s a good lesson.”

    “Yes, I think so,” he nodded. “A good lesson from a good story. Isn’t it nice, what good stories reveal?”

    “What do you mean?”

​    The Rabbi’s wise eyes grew wide and sparkly. “Let me email you a few articles.”


Adam Kaz (he/him) is a Chicago-based writer, editor, critic, and marketing professional.

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