Transcript of “The Blind Rabbi”
Recently, I was in a UPS store to mail a package back to myself. I was traveling. The package was full of books. I am always acquiring books wherever I go. I was near Fairfax Avenue in Los Angeles, which is a somewhat Jewish neighborhood. There was an elderly Rabbi dressed in a black suit and a fedora of a Hassid, an ultra observant Jew. And he was obviously visually impaired.
The clerk, who usually would have been helping him with his package to Israel, was busy with another customer. “Rebbe,” I said, using the familiar term for respect to one’s Rabbi, “Rebbe, let me help you!” And he said to me in Yiddish, “Mammale, you are most kind but I don’t recognize your voice.” “I am Rebba Raine,” I said. “I am a visiting Rabbi from Austin, Texas. Here, let me help you with that label.” As I took the label from his frail, gnarled hands, he started to smile. And then he started to chuckle to himself. And then he said to me, again in Yiddish, “Mammale, women can’t be Rabbis.” I didn’t argue.
Some cannot accept that women have become Rabbis. Or in my case, as I like to call myself, “a Rebba.” It doesn’t matter. My task is not to convert anybody. My task is to work my own unique path ordained by HaShem, ordained by God.
So the clerk took Rebbe’s package and the old man concluded his business. And the clerk asked me if I would be so kind as to walk the Rabbi out to his daughter’s car, which was parked right in front of the store. She was waiting for him.
As I turned to take the Rebbe’s arm, he protested. Hassid men, really observant Jewish men, do not touch women who are not their wives or their daughters or a relative. “Please Rebbe,” I said, “Think of me as a daughter. After all, my own Rebbe has passed. It would be such a blessing to me.” As he reached for my arm, his hand went up to my face where he just lightly touched my cheek. And then he raised his hand to the top of my head, I guess, to bless me. His hand felt my yarmulke, my kippah, the little hat that I wear on my head and he stopped and he looked at me with eyes that I could swear he could see through. His eyes sparkled, his smile was beautiful and again, that enchanting chuckle. “Oy vey Mammale, you really do think you are a Rabbi!” and with that we walked to his daughter’s car, full of love and full of joy, as though we had known each other forever.
