The Boychik Rabbis

Years ago we joined a Reconstructionist synagogue in Columbia, Maryland and sent our kids to the Sunday school with which our congregation and several others were associated. Unlike the Sunday school that I attended as a kid, which was generally taught by the students’ parents or grandparents, the board of this school decided that it was a mitzvah of sorts to hire guys studying at a religious institution in Baltimore. These boychik rabbis (as I privately came to call them) would trek to this liberal community every week and share their knowledge of Judaism with young people. An all-male group, they dressed in business casual outfits with yarmulkes (did some wear and payess clipped with a tight bobby pin?), and they were told to focus their instruction on the curriculum that the school provided — stories from the Torah and holidays.

Early on I got a whiff that my attempt at Jewish education was not working. Frankly, my expectations were not high: I wanted my kids to meet some other Jewish kids, since they didn’t know any from their public school, and to become familiar with ritual practices while having a bit of fun.  I certainly understood that complaining about Sunday school was de rigeur, but my daughter’s complaints began to trouble me.

“The kids acted crazy, and when boys didn’t listen, the teacher made them do push-ups.

“Was there time for discussion?” I asked.

“Who would want to talk to those guys?” she replied.

My first attempt at interference was meant to be subtle. I sent in some Jewish-themed stories for the young rabbis to read to their groups. These books were thoughtfully chosen, well-written and illustrated, and topic-appropriate. There were no takers.

Going for a more direct approach, I made arrangements with the boychick running my son’s class to visit and co-teach with him for about an hour. Everyone recognized that my son’s class was “out of control,” and my offer was graciously accepted.

It was shortly before Pesach. I began by getting kids away from the helter-skelter desks where they were tossing things at one another, and I promised that we would do something interesting today. The young rabbi continued to sit on a chair while the rest of us formed a circle on the floor.

I began by asking kids what they thought about in their spare time, and they shared their answers with one another. A few talked about soccer or an upcoming play or something they really didn’t like studying in regular school. We then honed in on Pesach: Had any of them had any thoughts about the holiday? A few kids responded: relatives were coming to town, one kid was planning to help make chocolate-covered matzoh, etc.

Then it was time for the big connection I hoped to promote: “You know, while most of us probably saw Passover as a background thought, your teacher was probably thinking almost non-stop about the holiday.”

The boy rabbi agreed. “So much to do and think about,” he said.

“Could you share with all of us something that you spent time pondering?” I went on. “Tell us something that really got you thinking and wondering.”

The kids seemed interested too. After a pregnant pause, the teacher  looked up at the ceiling with deep concentration and then down at us. “We were trying to figure out which face-creams women could use, which were pesedik and which were not,” he told us.

All I could do was think about the possibilities this guy and the school were missing.

There was nothing I could fix, whether I held a Ph.D in education or not.

We recently visited our grandson’s shule “Purim-palooza,” and watched as he bounced up and down as a member of  a hamantashn dance troupe. It was an event any of those boychick rabbis would probably find alienating. And I was so very happy to be there.