My daddy, Southern Baptist upbringing, says a woman can be anything she wants
but a pastor.
You can bet he’s not voting for Hillary Clinton.
But being a rabbi, oh that would knock him flat.
I wouldn’t be bringing Jews to Jesus, but I would serve latkes and homemade chili.
I would wear long scarves and sing the Sh’ma,
Have a congregation of hip old people in corduroy jeans and youth with horned rimmed glasses.
I’d have scheduled talks with the local mosque, we might even share the space.
We could have potlucks with the Catholics.
I’d use feminine language for God and marry two women under a chuppah.
I’d read feminist Midrashic poetry in synagogue and talk about Lilith.
I’d get drunk on Manischewitz and have long rambling conversations with God.
I’d go on walks with my fat senior dog, Bernstein.
My father would think I’ve lost my mind, say he didn’t raise me like this.
And I’d laugh and say, but daddy, God and I talk all the time,
and She says I’m doing just fine.
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