For generations, men of my family have been rabbis. In Israel; before that, in Europe. It was to be my calling. I was quite a prodigy, the pride of my yeshiva. The elders said I had a forty-year-old's understanding of the Midrash by the time I was twelve. But by the time I was thirteen, I knew I could never be a rabbi.
Why not?
Because for all I understood of the Talmud, I never saw God there.
You couldn't lie to yourself.
I tried. I tried like crazy. I mean, people were counting on me.
But yours is a respectable profession.
Not to my family. My parents were destroyed, devastated by my decision. My father sent me away to New York, to live with distant cousins. Eventually, I found my place, my life's work.
What then?
Well, I immersed myself fully. I studied the minutiae. I learned everything I could about the law. I mean, I felt deeply inside that it was what I was born to do.
And did your parents get over it?
No. I always hoped that I would find some way to change their minds, but they were inconsolable. My father never spoke to me again.
If you had to do it all over again, would you make the same choices?
What choice? The last thing I took away from the yeshiva is this: We can't run from who we are. Our destiny chooses us.
