opinion
As a Rabbi in a Small Town,
I Understand the Jewish Class Divide
Rabbi Rachel Isaacs
W hen you walk into the back door at my home
away from home, Beth Israel Congregation
of Waterville, Maine, you’re greeted with a
faint scent of kosher matzah ball soup mixed with the
slightest hint of mildew from a 70-year-old building that
can’t quite manage its moisture anymore.

On your left, you’ll see the kitchen, the heart and soul
of our congregation. It is often where the most invaluable
Torah is taught and learned. That happened a few years
ago, when my wife, Mel, was joined one snowy Saturday
night by our rabbinical intern.

“Mel,” he asked, “do you always need to make this
many sandwiches for the food pantry?”
“No,” she replied. “Demand has gone up over the past
few years, but we always need to make double at the
end of the month.”
“Why,” he inquired, “should you need to make any
more at the end of the month than at the beginning?”
Mel stood there somewhat stunned by a question
that should not have felt like a Talmudic riddle. How
could he not know? I am sure he knew why we blessed
two challahs for each Shabbat meal (to remember
God’s grace in the desert when, ahead of Shabbat, the
Israelites were able to gather double the amount of
manna [Exodus 16:22]). But why did he not know why we
need to double the number of sandwiches we make at
the end of the month?
“Most of the clients we serve, some of whom are
members of our own congregation,” she explained, “rely
on WIC and EBT, government benefits that are issued at
the beginning of each month and that often run out by
the end, especially in families with children.”
“Oh, OK. I didn’t know that,” he said with a humility that
endeared him so deeply to all of us at Beth Israel.

He didn’t understand the significance of the double
portion at the end of the month, but the truth of the
matter is before I came to Waterville, I didn’t either. I
knew nothing about communities like Waterville. And
what I thought I knew was not only wrong, but actually,
in retrospect, was harmful and offensive. And if I did think
about class differences when I lived in Brooklyn, I rarely
thought about it in connection to the Jewish community.

But my ignorance and that of my student should not
surprise us. Because how many of us really talk honestly
about class? Class isn’t just about money. It’s a messy
alchemy of financial wealth, social connections, political
and cultural power, the opportunities people encounter
in their lifetime and the communal regard they receive.

To put it more concretely, someone can have the money
— through personal resources or scholarships — to attend
a Jewish summer camp. But class is also knowing which
brands everyone else is wearing, knowing where to access
those in-fashion clothes and being able to own them.

The trickiness of class is what brought one of my Maine
rabbinic colleagues to warn me about sending the kids in
my congregation to major Jewish summer camps, “Even if
you can get them the scholarship, Rachel,” she said, “the
teasing they might endure might not make it worth it.”
Why aren’t we talking about class? The topic is tender
because class is inextricably linked with our dignity.

In Hebrew, the word for dignity is kavod and it shares
the same root with kaved, heavy. Dignity is about how
much leverage we have — in creating a world that gives
us what we need and brings us into spaces with the
promise of fullness, respect and agency. And the inequi-
table distribution of this kavod is impacting the ability of
the American Jewish establishment to sustain functional,
holy communities equitably nationwide.

For many small-town rabbis like myself, who travel back
and forth regularly between large cities and our small-
town synagogues, the disparity in services, luxuries and
opportunities we witness between urban communities
and our home shuls is striking and often painful.

Synagogues like ours are struggling to pay their
heating bills so that their pipes don’t freeze. Our congre-
gants often cannot make their rent or pay college appli-
cation fees, and our boards struggle mightily to raise the
funds for paltry part-time rabbinic salaries. These heroic
small-town lay leaders work the equivalent of unpaid,
full-time jobs so that every member of their congregation
can have a human hand to hold when life gets real —
during times both of transcendent joy and deep distress.

Over the past 50 years wealth and social power have
been increasingly concentrated in 12 metro areas to
the exclusion of large swaths of our nation. The organi-
zation I lead, the Center for Small Town Jewish Life at
Colby College, estimates that one in eight American
Jews lives outside one of these areas. At the same time,
we must also see that class disparities exist within every
locale. And so, as we plan programs and craft policies
as an American Jewish community, I would challenge all
of us to ask ourselves and our institutions questions out
loud that we usually don’t ask.

Who is included or excluded by the price of this event
or membership?
What services should every member of a Jewish
community be able to access, regardless of price? Who
will provide it? Who will pay those who are providing
those services and will they be paid a fair wage?
How do we work to address the pain and shame
caused by unacknowledged class differences within
our community?
Not all of these questions have simple answers, but we
have to start addressing them. There are three steps we
should be taking as an American Jewish community to
make our community more economically equitable now.

First, even though livestreaming has been a blessing
and increased accessibility and access in ways that
cannot be overstated or taken for granted, we still need
to reiterate — in all of our communities — that it doesn’t
replace the importance of physical presence.

Second, every state in America should have at bare
minimum one full-time, at-large, pluralistically oriented
rabbi with an endowed salary that serves the entire
Jewish community of that state.

Third, we need to find ways to make sure that every-
one has a seat at the table, so that every Jew’s soul is
fed. We cannot afford to lose anyone. The eternal faith of
the people Israel is a covenant that should not be contin-
gent on one’s class — it is up to all of us to make sure that
every member of our people is spiritually sated, held by
community, known and called by name.

Recently I turned to Central Synagogue in New York City
to support the work of the Center for Small Town Jewish
Life. They answered the call immediately — partnering
with us not only financially, but as thought partners in
building community and capacity through Central’s The
Neighborhood online community and my organization’s
programs. Two other Manhattan synagogues — Rodeph Sholom
and Park Avenue Synagogue — came in alongside them,
eager to help us spread the story of small-town Jewish life
and advance our mission. They are funding our National
Impact program, Makom, that trains small-town lay leaders
and Jewish communal professionals to make small-town
Jewish life sustainable.

But there is so much more to be done on a strategic,
national scale to ensure that we are touching and serving
every member of the American Jewish community with
dignity. We will need to continue this work together, large
and small Jewish congregations working together to
serve the entirety of our people with dignity.

On every Shabbat to come, let’s dream of lechem
mishneh, a double portion for all, and let’s start ensuring
that everyone, at the very least, has the flour for a single
loaf. As our rabbis teach, “eyn kemach, eyn Torah” —
without flour, without physical sustenance, our Torah
cannot live. ■
Rabbi Rachel Issacs is the executive director of the
Center for Small Town Jewish Life at Colby College.

This op-ed was adapted from a guest sermon given
by the author at Central Synagogue in Manhattan.

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