Rabbi Nebbish

One warm afternoon, some time back, I attended a shiur before which the rabbi took off his jacket, approaching the group in his shirtsleeves. I was surprised to hear an older woman turn to the person beside her and comment, audibly, “Nebbish.” She said it twice – there was no mistaking it.

I think she meant he was unimpressively thin, which he was. On a deeper level, though, the woman was channeling a stereotype of the skinny, knock-him-over-with-a-feather, bookish Orthodox rabbi.

Literature has several overlapping stereotypes for the Orthodox rabbi – the overweight, socially inept glutton; the avaricious user of his flock; the strict legalist of gaunt face and sharpened beard; and the nebbish, the skinny rabbi, often young, generally a wallflower.

I just finished reading Allegra Goodman’s “The Family Markowitz” the other day (this is definitely not a recommendation for the book), and she presents several appearances of this last, uninspiring mold of rabbi. It appeals, this vision of the clergy as a bookish young man who is socially inept and unimpressive. Discounting the religious message is easier if we can assume that the rabbi is a shy milquetoast who simply lacks the ability to pursue the sins he claims to willingly shun. Think of the initial impression of Father Mulcahy from MASH, until you learn that he has a sense of humor and can do a tracheotomy with a pocketknife.

Perhaps rabbis own a certain obligation to prove that they are not this pathetic; that feeling certainly figured into my decision to return to the gym several years ago. [Granted I haven’t gone since moving to Canada…]

But I think Jewish society owes itself some degree of freedom from the stereotype, which hampers the community as much as it hampers the rabbi. Assuming that the baal mussar [author of rebuke] does not know the pleasures he condemns is a cheap way out of taking his words seriously. Better to hear what he has to say, and weigh it seriously, regardless of the conclusion.

By the end of the shiur, the rabbi had completely won over this woman; she was laughing at his jokes, participating in the discussion, and calling, “More” when he concluded his talk. So he won the battle that day. But I wonder how many times the speaker is not given the opportunity to correct misimpressions, and so a valuable message is lost.

A Tale of Two Tales, and of Stereotypes

[This week’s Haveil Havalim is here!]

This is a bit of a rant, and it's on a matter of common sense, so feel free to skip this post.

They tell the following story regarding Rav Jezrel, Rosh Kollel in a small New England town some 30 years ago:
Rav Jezrel was approached by one of his yingeleit, who wanted to leave the beis medrash and enroll in Yeshiva University. Rav Jezrel asked what courses he would be taking, and what would be the content of those courses. The young man explained that he would be studying accounting, biology and Spinoza.
Rav Jezrel shook his head. “Accounting, fine; you need it for a parnassah. Biology, fine; it will help you understand gemara. But Spinoza, in a yeshiva?! Der pasuk shteit “מבית ומחוץ בכופר,” not “מבית ובפנים בכופר!” [a pun on the Hebrew of Bereishit 6:14, reading it as “You shall keep the kofer/heretic from the house and outside,” and not “from the house and inside.”]

They also tell the following story regarding Rabbi Michaelson, a musmach (ordained rabbi) from Yeshiva University:
One morning, in shul, a yeshivish young man was honored with gelilah – the chance to wrap up the sefer torah. He rolled the Torah closed, then attempted to put the cover on the Torah before tying the Torah closed with its gartel.
Rabbi Michaelson quipped, “He doesn’t understand – the gartel belongs on the inside, not the outside. A gartel on the outside is a siman psul [a standard sign that the wrapped Torah is disqualified]!”

Neither story ever happened – I made them up this morning – but they fit the stereotypes surrounding two camps, the yeshivish and the centrist. (I could just as easily have attributed the first story to Rav Gifter and the second to Rav Soloveitchik, the way people tell stories about each, but I would not want to contribute to the already-great canon of misleading stories surrounding them.)

Everyone seems to be aware of these stereotypes, and people believe them and invoke them. Example: Someone commented to me on seeing me reading a teshuvah on my laptop at seder, “You wouldn’t last one minute in the Satmar kollel with that kli (implement)!”

But in real, person-to-person interactions, the stereotypes often fall apart; here in Toronto, I’ve worn my black hat at Modern Orthodox minyanim without anyone looking askance, and I’ve davened at yeshivish kollel minyanim and received an aliyah. I have yet to be treated in a hostile way by either side.

I don’t think we do ourselves any favors with these assumptions. These beliefs intimidate us, convincing us that we cannot cross lines, that we cannot enter a certain minyan or a beis medrash, or even speak to someone who is of different political beliefs, lest they attack or ridicule us. If I think Rav Jezrel won’t respect me, I’m not likely to approach him with a shailah. If I think Rabbi Michaelson looks down on me, I’m not going to attend his shiur. But until I ask them, I won’t know whether there is any substance to my fears.

Prejudice is a natural defense mechanism, a pre-emptive wall protecting us against attacks, but walls work both ways, locking us in as well.