The Sacred-Everyday (Copy)
Rabbi Burt Siegel,
my dear friend and teacher, the founding rabbi of the Shul of New York and member of the New Shul's Rabbinic Chavurah, passed away last week.
Dear friends,
There is only one person I’ve ever met who could quite literally make a room full of people fly. I understand your skepticism. I had it too once. It vanished one Monday afternoon in the early 2010’s in a yoga studio in Chelsea, when I saw Rabbi Burt Siegel do it.
I had come early to the Shul of New York’s Hebrew school, where I had been teaching for a few years, in order to study with the rabbi. After years of observing him in action, taking in his approach and being infected by his unique mode of being Jewish, Rabbi Burt had agreed to become one of the rabbis preparing me for ordination. He suggested we start with Rabbi Zalman Schechter Shalomi’s book, Davening; A Guide to Meaningful Jewish Prayer. Our conversation dug into the intangible source of prayer, which goes far beyond words written in a prayer book. The rabbi had told me previously that he “doesn’t smoke marijuana because he’s naturally high.” This was one of the many moments in which I understood what he meant.
The other teachers arrived. Then Adam, the Shul's musical director, the rest of the team, and finally the children and some of their parents. We all gathered for the opening prayers. During the first couple of songs I could tell that Rabbi Burt was still “high.” When we reached the Mi Khamocha the rabbi stood up mid song, smiling. When he invited everyone else to stand too, I thought “Uh oh.” When he began walking around in a circle around them, inviting them to join, my embarrassment kicked in. And when he began flapping his arms to the music as if they were wings, I was awe struck. I felt myself rise to my feet, my voice switch from pronouncing Hebrew to letting out whatever sounds it naturally sang, and my arms begin to flap as I joined the circle. The rabbi was crying out “Fly! Fly!” And we were all doing it. Smiling, bewildered, happy, mortified, singing, dancing, joyful beyond the capacity of a New York Monday afternoon: kids, grownups and elders all experiencing prayer as if for the first time.
The happiness we experienced in that circle was at the core of Burt’s rabbinate. I remember the first time I attended one of his services, before I ever met him. It was Yom Kippur, and I sat with Judith Malina, the legendary director of the Living Theatre, of which I was a member at the time, and we both marveled at the Yom Kippur celebration he led. No fist thumping and moaning, only the ecstatic joy of being alive, being together, being lifted by each other and God.
This near irreverence took me by surprise when I began following him to his Friday night services. I had never seen Torah read on a Friday evening, which was novel enough. But what both scared and exhilarated me was when he took the Torah out of the arc to the band’s raucous Torah Orah and passed it on to other congregants who danced around with it in the aisles, before passing it onwards. There was a danger in the air, which brought me inescapably into the present moment, and allowed happiness to appear.
After Torah reading, which he did himself speaking the Hebrew words clearly, without trop, the rabbi would preach. Hi sermons were – on paper – short. They usually contained one simple idea, which took on profound meaning with Burt’s slow, direct and concentrated delivery. He had some magical ability to open the channels between his listeners’ ears and their hearts, so that when his message was delivered it made its way through their cerebrum and into their bodies.
In those years his sermons often contained some Indian flavor. He would take congregants annually to India, and spend time in Ashrams. But at a certain point his never-ending search for God - which he told me once was the most important question in his life - led him away from India and back into the Ashkenazi Hassidic tradition from which he came. He began studying with Chabad rabbis, exploring the impact of their teachings on his soul. For the first time in his life, he would prepare a bowl of water by his bedside so that as soon as he woke up, he could wash his hands with the traditional blessing and thank God for giving him one more day. At this stage, he had already lived about fifteen years longer than any of his parents and siblings, so he had a real appreciation for time.
And then, quite suddenly, his several years love affair with Chabad was over. He couldn’t take the politics, the misogyny and especially the homophobia. He was done hiding. The following week I saw him at the Mazals, the annual gala of Jews for Racial and Economic Justice, the lefty organization that is home to many of this city’s LGBTQ Jews.
This very real search was one of the great lessons I learned from Rabbi Burt. One of the hardest things for human beings is changing from a mold they are used to. For him this was a simple matter. Like we eat and breathe, we also need to honestly listen to ourselves and make changes accordingly. This is what led him to leave his congregation in Riverdale decades back, and to start The Shul of New York, which he led for close to twenty years before retiring.
But what drew me to this rabbi, the likes of which I had never encountered, was his larger-than-life stage persona, which simultaneously carried seriousness and play, depth and silliness, truth and nonsense. When he would conduct a conversion, for example his entire self was present to the reality of the transformation taking place - even as he knew that the words spoken were just words, the actions just actions, and any change that would emerge from it dependent on the imagination of those present. There is no ground to stand on in this world, he taught, other than what happens between us.
After watching him for a decade I began to copy what he did. At Bar Mitzvahs I would give the same introductions to prayers I had heard him give time and time again. I’d even perform his over the top, absurd version of Uzi Chitman’s Adon Olam in the same Tevye meets Sinatra style to end the ceremony. When people would rave after the service, exactly as he told me they would, I would honestly say “I was just channeling Rabbi Burt.”
Though I’ve developed my own rabbinical style by now, I know that I would not be doing what I do today had Rabbi Burt not shown up in my path over twenty years ago. He ignited and nurtured my curiosity, guided me, and presided over Erika and my wedding. A teacher is an ultimate gift, worth more than all the money in the world. When your teacher is your friend as well, the gift multiplies many times over.
In his final years, after beating off multiple critical illnesses that brought him to death’s door, Rabbi Burt retained his strong body (“Strong like a bull!”) his natural positivity, his curiosity and love of learning (in his last decade he studied both Spanish and Arabic for extended periods) and what I would call his love of God, as manifested in his gratitude, his love of people and his spiritual quest.
This quest continued beyond his death. True not to dogma and tradition but to the source that transcends them, the rabbi ordered his body cremated and his ashes scattered in the Hudson River.
May we merit such a life of generosity and mitzvahs. May we continue the song he sang. And may the seeker’s quest be fulfilled in God.
Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Misha