וַיִּקְרָ֛א יְהוָ֥ה אֱלֹהִ֖ים אֶל־הָֽאָדָ֑ם וַיֹּ֥אמֶר ל֖וֹ אַיֶּֽכָּה׃

But God Eternal called out to the human being, saying, “Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9)

I distinctly remember reading this verse for the first time and feeling a deep sense of confusion. Could it be possible that God actually doesn’t know where Adam is hiding in the Garden of Eden? Or, could it be simply a rhetorical question, as our classical commentators teach us? Neither answer satisfied the pierce in my heart upon hearing God’s cry: “Ayeka! Where are you?” In a teaching on this moment in our sacred myth, Rabbi Art Green reframes God’s question as one directed not only toward Adam but toward every one of us. Rabbi Green calls us to hear the question, “‘Where are you’ in fulfilling God’s purpose in creation? [..] Where are you in being human in the fullest sense of the word, bearing within you the image of the divine? Are you living and acting that way? The universe needs you to do so.” 

Through this lens, we can understand that this question is anything but rhetorical when we hear it directed toward ourselves. The question is alive and breathing, ringing in my ears as I navigate this world: “Ayeka! Where are you?” This was the question that burned inside of me as I found myself more and more dissatisfied with a career as an actor. There are people in need of spiritual support. There are people hungry to find meaning in Torah. There are people in the streets fighting for justice. Ayeka, Andrew! Where are you? 

Today, I enter my rabbinate with the knowledge that far too many people still see Judaism as archaic, irrelevant, and meaningless to their contemporary lives. In a world that has prioritized the voices of straight, cisgender, white, able-bodied men, it is understandable why those of us who do not fit into those categories might not be able to see ourselves as easily in the story of the Jewish people. As I enter the rabbinate, my greatest passion has been working with those Jews who feel disconnected, to help them find both their voice and their place in our institutions. As the Coordinator for Young Adult Engagement at Temple Israel of Boston, I met with these Jews on a daily basis, hearing story after story of young people who don’t feel “Jewish enough” to participate or who have been dismissed and disparaged in other mainstream Jewish spaces. As the Reform Rabbinic Intern at Columbia/Barnard Hillel, I once again found myself in these conversations with students of color, LGBT students, and students with disabilities who share their struggles to feel at home in the Jewish world. 

One Shabbat evening at Columbia/Barnard Hillel’s Reform minyan, I delivered a d’var torah rooted in an LGBT interpretation of the story of Joseph. As I spoke to the group, I noticed one of my transgender students in the front row beginning to cry. At first, I was worried I had offended him. But after the service, he approached me, offered me a big hug, and told me that he had never considered there could be people like him in the Torah. He had heard the question, “Ayeka! Where are you?” and the answer seemed crystal clear: you are nowhere to be found in the story of our people. No one had ever made him feel like Torah was just as much his story as anyone else’s. This is why I chose to become a rabbi, to empower marginalized Jews to take their places at the forefront of our congregations, to push our communities to move beyond tolerating our differences and begin celebrating our differences, to see how much richer our Jewish communities can be when we widen our tent. 

Throughout the past five years of rabbinical school, it has become clear to me that widening our communal tent must begin with widening my own tent, exposing myself to an expansive variety of voices and stories from outside my bubble. As a Wexner Graduate Fellow, I have cultivated and fostered meaningful relationships with Jews across the denominational spectrum, challenging me to question my own preconceived notions both about myself and those who see the world differently than I do. But, the times in which we live demand an expansion of awareness even beyond the confines of the Jewish community. As a T’ruah Human Rights Fellow working with The Bronx Defenders, I used my community organizing training to build relationships with a community that otherwise would not have been part of my life. Walking up and down the hallways of Bronx apartment buildings, speaking to community members about their challenges with the housing court system or inviting them to “Know Your Rights” trainings, I was keenly aware of the kippah on my head. With this small piece of fabric, I felt a sense of responsibility, a reminder that the answer to “Ayeka! Where are you?” is not only “I’m on the bimah” or “I’m leading prayer,” but rather “I’m right here with my neighbors. I’m building bridges. I’m listening.” 

Now, more than ever, our communities need rabbis who listen. In 2015, I worked on a listening campaign at Temple Israel of Boston, convening over 60 house meetings in which nearly 400 congregants shared their life passions, their fears, their concerns, and their desires. Ultimately, though the data collected was helpful, it was the process of the conversations themselves which was truly transformative. In the five years since this campaign, our world has changed in immeasurable ways. No one could have foreseen the ways in which division has taken hold of us, the ways in which uncertainty would permeate our lives, the ways in which we have been isolated from one another. In the face of overwhelming despair, our desire to engage with each other, to be in relationship authentically, has increased exponentially. Never has it been more important to make our communities feel radically inclusive, to swing our doors wide open, to remind people that Judaism provides a pathway for being part of something greater than ourselves. As a rabbi, I want my congregants to hear the call, “Ayeka! Where are you?” and to enable them to answer, “We are together. We are growing. We are home.”