"Rachel!" "Silverman!" And Other Gatekeeping Tricks

Happy Rabbi Appreciation Day 6/13

June Thirteenth (6/13) is Rabbi Appreciation Day. Why? Because there are 613 mitzvot in the Torah and-let’s be honest-some underappreciated rabbi somewhere couldn’t resist the numerological pun.

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So now, we mark the day by honoring the rabbis who stand with our communities, who challenge the status quo, who hold sacred space, and who persist despite the often challenging terrain of Jewish life and leadership.

To my colleagues: I appreciate you. Deeply. You are doing sacred, sometimes thankless, often impossible work. But on this holy day of rabbinic recognition, I need to lovingly clear my throat and say something out loud: Why-O God of Abraham, Sarah, and your ever-opinionated Aunt Ethel-do we Jews love gatekeeping so much? And why does it so often turn into our favorite blood sport: "Get the Rabbi"?

Let’s define our terms: gatekeeping, in this context, is the act of deciding who belongs, who counts, and who gets to call themselves part of the tribe-or, worse, worthy of leading it. It’s Jewish Geography with a judgmental smirk. It’s the subtle hierarchy of names-"Rachel! Silverman!"-that, while sometimes charming, reinforces the idea that there’s a real Jewish name (read: Ashkenazi, ideally Brooklyn-adjacent), and if yours doesn’t sound like it belongs on a deli menu, well… you might want to keep your conversion papers handy.

And while we’re at it, let’s define “Get the Rabbi.” It’s the communal sport of nitpicking a rabbi’s every move-scrutinizing sermons, questioning their kashrut, debating their credentials, or delighting in the latest scandal or misstep. It’s when curiosity morphs into critique, and critique into a kind of passive-aggressive trial. It’s the urge to test whether a rabbi is your kind of Jew, rather than letting them be fully human in a deeply complex and visible role.

It’s easy to roll our eyes at the obvious examples, but gatekeeping often wears more charming disguises. It can be about upholding traditions, family expectations, or denominational pride. It sometimes even comes from a place of deep love for Judaism. But don’t be fooled-it’s still a form of exclusion. It tells people they don’t belong, or worse, that they are less than.

One of its more benign forms is Jewish geography, which can be entertaining but also alienating. I even have to admit that one of my favorite rituals, the search for shared connections, also falls into this category. In a group of people, two Jews will inevitably start asking each other questions to figure out who they know in common. Sometimes it's joyful connection. Sometimes it's a subtle way of asserting status or belonging.

Gatekeeping isn’t just about who is in or out. It’s about who gets the mic, who gets honored, who gets hired, who gets to speak for the community, and who is listened to. Gatekeeping, when unchecked, tells certain people that they are perpetually auditioning for Jewish legitimacy.

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I’ve felt this in my own rabbinate. I’ve been openly gay for my entire rabbinical career. And while I have received a lot of love and support, there have also been moments when my presence was treated like a novelty, a risk, or a political statement. There have been rooms where I was asked to weigh in on LGBTQ+ issues but not on Torah. Places where I was celebrated as a symbol but sidelined as a scholar. And some rooms where people literally pretended I did not exist.

These days, I encounter gatekeeping most often at weddings, ceremonies where I’m invited to lead for communities who aren’t mine, where I’m there to hold sacred space for people at the threshold of something beautiful. And yet, almost without fail, someone manages to make it weird.

Like the time a smirking guest asked me in front of a group what the blessing over shrimp was, as if I was personally responsible for the couple’s catering choices. Or the time I used a Conservative rabbi’s interpretation of the word adam as “human” rather than “man” in the Sheva Brachot (the Seven blessings for a wedding), and someone loudly derided me for being Reform. I am neither. But the assumption was that if I wasn’t Orthodox, I must be buttering shrimp and rewriting Genesis. (I’ve never eaten shrimp.)

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It’s exhausting. And it’s not just me. Talk to women rabbis, Black Jews, Jews by choice, Jews of color, Sephardi and Mizrahi Jews, Jews with interfaith parents, converts, disabled Jews, patrilineal Jews, rabbis with tattoos, or rabbis with Southern drawls-and you’ll hear versions of the same story. We’re in the room. Sometimes we’re at the bima. And still, someone wants to know: "But are you really... you know, Jewish Jewish?"

And here’s the kicker: most of the time, it’s not coming from outside the Jewish world. It’s not antisemitism. It’s us. Doing it to ourselves. We are a small people. Others are already putting a target on our backs. Why must we keep drawing bullseyes on one another?

This is the dark magic of internalized scarcity. There’s this belief that if someone else gets to be included, then something must be taken from me. That if we let in too many kinds of Jews, we’ll dilute the brand. That inclusion is a threat, not a blessing.

But that’s fear talking. And fear has never been our best teacher.

The truth is: the Jewish people have never been homogenous. From the moment we left Egypt, we were a mixed multitude. We are an ecosystem, not a club. The strength of an ecosystem comes from diversity and interdependence-not purity tests.

So on this Rabbi Appreciation Day, here’s what I propose: Let’s stop trying to play Jewish border patrol. What if, instead, we became ambassadors—welcoming each other and our loved ones and curious guests with open hearts and open minds? Let’s stop confusing our personal preferences for universal truths. And to those who feel that one denomination is more legitimate than another? Let’s let God sort that out. And maybe, just maybe, let’s stop trying to “get the rabbi” and start trying to get the rabbi- so we can better understand what they’re navigating, to recognize the spiritual labor they’re doing, and to honor the wisdom they carry.

Because if you’re lucky enough to have a rabbi in your life, especially one who is showing up in the fullness of who they are, cherish them. Don’t audit their legitimacy. Learn from their Torah. And if they say the Kiddus (the blessing over the wine) a little differently than your Uncle Mo’s cousin’s rabbi did back in 1953? Maybe just say Amen anyway.

And while we're at it, let's celebrate the rabbis who have made their rabbinates into paradigms of spiritual ambassadorship, those who make more room at the table, who cross boundaries with compassion, and who remind us that holiness thrives where welcome lives.

Because in the end, Judaism is not a purity contest - it is a covenant of belonging.