One day in fourth grade, the rabbi visited our classroom to teach us the V’ahavta in Hebrew. The V’ahavta is a prayer which commands us to love God with everything we are, in everything we do.
We sat filled with fear and excitement that the rabbi himself was teaching us that day. He assigned each of us a line of Hebrew to learn for the following week. At the end of class, I stashed my Siddur, prayerbook, under my desk, raced to carpool and didn’t give the assignment another thought. When the rabbi returned the following week, he listened intently as each student dutifully recited their line of Hebrew. I sat silently as the prayer traveled around the room. It was clear that everyone had done their homework. Everyone but me.
I was sick to my stomach, on the verge of embarrassing myself in front of my classmates and my rabbi. I was next. The rabbi looked to me, expecting me to recite the next line and instead I turned as red as a pomegranate. I braced for the worst. Without missing a beat, my rabbi held me in his gaze. “Don’t worry, Julie. Read the line in English. In fact, let’s all read this in English. God hears all languages.”
He saved me. The rabbi saved me. And it wouldn’t be the last time. Just ask my mother.
Today I travel the world performing Jewish music, and everywhere I go I tell people about my first rabbi, Robert Miller z”l. The rabbi who taught me to love Torah. The rabbi who taught me to love.
