When my student followed me out of the room after class, I assumed she had a question about the shiur. Instead, she said, “I saw something interesting on your source sheet. Can I call you ‘rabbanit’?”
She was referring to what I had assumed was the least important item on the handouts: In the top left-hand corner, I had recorded my name as “Rabbanit Sara Wolkenfeld.” Like so many women with no formal path to professional recognition, even after years of learning, I struggled to make my professional role clear. As the only non-rabbi on the educational team of the Center for Jewish Life–Hillel at Princeton University, I had initially hoped that we might all drop our titles, at least on printed materials, as an egalitarian gesture. But that change was not forthcoming, and so on any class brochure or staff roster with a list of names, mine stood out. In an effort to be reassuring (“Don’t worry! I know Torah, too!”) I began typing “Rabbanit” in front of my name for all official purposes. After all, my husband is a rabbi, so I figured I could get away with it.
But I said no to my student that day. I felt it was unnecessarily self-promoting, as well as excessively formal. Since then, however, I’ve changed my mind.
It is unfortunate that neither my six years of postsecondary yeshiva study, nor my years as a teacher in various settings, nor even my two-year synagogue internship, qualified me for any particular title. I was drawn to learning Torah and eventually to teaching. I find Orthodox life inspiring, and I have always wanted to share that inspiration with others. I knew that mine was not a path to a particular degree, but during the years when I was a full-time student, I did not realize what the implications of having no title would be in terms of workplace treatment, nor did I realize how much discomfort it would lead to for my students and colleagues.
Being Part of a JLIC Couple
The Jewish Learning Initiative on Campus (JLIC) offers rabbinic couples the opportunity to serve together as leaders and educators in campus communities. We teach classes, learn one-on-one with students, host Shabbat and holiday meals, and provide rabbinic and pastoral guidance. I was fortunate to also take on the role of director of education at Princeton’s Center for Jewish Life, which allowed me to think more broadly about the Center’s curriculum for all Jewish students interested in studying with our staff.
By the time I had spent several years at Princeton, I was answering halakhic questions, teaching shiurim, delivering divrei Torah in various settings, and offering pastoral guidance. I was functioning in a way that felt a lot like clergy to me and to everyone else. My student saw what I couldn’t see: Titles aren’t just about the people who hold them, but are a reflection of the knowledge amassed and the job being performed. The students who introduced me as their teacher to their friends and family, who invited me to speak at campus events and on panels, who referred their friends to me in times of crisis—all of them wanted some succinct way to acknowledge who I was and how I functioned in their lives. It was their vision of me as a leader that pushed me to take on the title.
The world of the university is a world of titles; professors, doctors, and yes, rabbis, are all around me. Prestige, and of course salary, rise with every additional degree earned. I was comfortable being “just Sara,” but it did not serve my students well, who sought a way to honor the Torah that I had taught them, nor did it always serve me well in a professional context. Although my husband and I had the same job description, I had to fight for a pay rate equal to his. After working alongside him for five years, I am still not qualified for any of the jobs to which he applied during his recent, successful search for a new position. Even educational positions at non-Orthodox institutions were often open only to rabbis and Ph.D.s.
It is strange to become a leader almost by default. Not having a formal course of study or an institution that would train me to be clergy contributed to my ongoing sense of not knowing what I wanted to be “when I grew up;” there was no model, no job title, to which I could point and say: “That is what I want to be.” My role models were women who led and taught through the sheer power of their Torah knowledge. I aspired to something more for my students; I want all of them, men and women, to feel that their love of Judaism could set them on a professional path, no less than their academic studies. The student who challenged me that day is in many ways inspirational, poised to acquire more knowledge and a greater command of Jewish law. It was clear to me that to downplay my own role would be to fail to provide her with the role model she deserves.
Naming Women’s Leadership
I believe that identifying and naming women’s leadership is one of the single most effective changes we can make in the Orthodox community. Our communal inclination to ignore the contributions of women starts at a young age: when we laud men for their davening abilities, compliment and encourage their synagogue attendance, push them to further develop their talents in yeshiva—and yet too often do not do the same for women. Through my teaching at Drisha, I have seen amazing high school girls who deserve to go on to teach Torah themselves in schools, communities, or synagogues. As someone who has spent time in many synagogue women’s sections reciting kaddish for my parents, I have encountered middle-aged and older women who are a regular presence at minyan, whose presence provides reassuring and informed company in the women’s section, and who could easily be considered “gabbai’ot.” In my years at Princeton, I have seen the women of our community deliver divrei Torah, organize shiurim, and coordinate chessed with an energy and ability that would be the envy of any young pulpit rabbi. It is crucial that we find a place of honor and a way to give recognition to these women in our communities.
When I leave Princeton this summer, my title may not follow me. I will not be stepping into a clerical role in my new home. What I have learned from my student that day is that I know how to step up and be a leader even without a title. What I have learned from my professional experiences, however, is that we will be richer as a community when we can openly name and honor the leadership abilities of all of our members. I look forward to celebrating the many and diverse talents of the men and women in my new community.