Clergy Vs Rabbi

How The State Made Me A ‘Real’ Rabbi

September 2018

have never been fond of the term “clergy” for myself or other rabbanim. It is derived from
Greek (meaning “inheritance”), and then French (meaning “scholarship,” as historically it
was often only the priests who were taught how to read and write), it seems to have a
distinctly non-Jewish connotation.
In fact, many dictionaries define this term as either “the body of all people ordained for
religious duties, especially in the Christian Church” or “a priest or religious leader,
especially a Christian or Muslim one.”
Although the word “clergy” gave rise to such innocuous terms as “clerk,” there is
something about this word—when applied to me—that gives me the willies. Not to mention
that it lumps us into a group with whom we have little in common.
Nevertheless, there is no way of escaping it. In front of my car I have an official
laminated card from the New York City Department of Transportation allowing me to park
in certain no-parking zones in the city. The card says: “CLERGY, Rabbi Moshe Taub.”
(No, the reader may not borrow it!)
When I visit people in the hospital, I get validated for parking quite often, but before they
stamp my parking ticket they always demand to see my clergy ID.
But the strongest embracing of this term occurs when one seeks the right to officiate at a
marriage in New York State. As the reader is likely aware, in order for the state to
recognize a couple as married (which has broad implications, including their tax status),
they must have an official state marriage license.
Who is granted the right to marry a couple? Section 11 of the Domestic Relations Law of
the State of New York gives a list of people who are eligible to perform marriage
ceremonies in New York State. Among them are leaders of the Society of Ethical Culture;
the mayor or former mayor of the City of New York; federal, state, or local judges or
justices; and of course, clergy members or ministers of any religion.
After I moved to New York City, it came to my attention that my registration was no
longer in the system. Perhaps because of my new address or job, I was no longer
recognized as clergy.
So one free morning, I headed down to the City Clerk’s office on Worth Street on the
Lower East Side, where one must go to register. I had a wedding coming up, and I did not
wish to have to explain to this family that I was not recognized as a rabbi by the State of
New York.
It was an odd room. Most of the people there were couples who were getting married on
the spot. There was even a group of entrepreneurial people outside selling everything
from flowers to veils. I saw two groups of photographers inside offering their services to
the happy couples when their papers were signed. I guess this is one idea for how to save
money on making a chasunah!
I confidently approached the desk when my number was called and presented a letter
from my shul indicating that I was the rabbi there.
The man looked at me incredulously. “What is this?” he asked.
“Well, it’s proof that I serve as a rabbi,” I replied innocently. My heart sank as I realized
that this was like the DMV for rabbanim, and no matter what documentation you bring, you
will always be missing that one document that you need.
He explained that I needed a certificate of ordination or proof that I was listed in an
official registry of clergy members in my denomination.
A morning wasted, I dejectedly returned home. The next week I cleared my schedule
again and returned with my semichah in hand.
“What is this now?” the man asked.

Semichah from Lakewood is handwritten and signed by the four roshei yeshivah. I had
anticipated that it would look like chicken scratching to him, so I had taken the liberty of
translating it.
He did not seem all that impressed. He looked at the document as though it had been
found along with the Dead Sea Scrolls.
“Please wait here while I go get my supervisor.” Ten minutes later he shuffled back with
an older gentleman from some secret back office.
I imagined that this older supervisor had been sitting in that back room for decades and
was called upon once every 25 years or so. In this Byzantine environment, where time
was lethargic, it may have been the first time in years he had seen the light of day.
He looked impatiently at the document and then looked up at me and said, “I am sorry,
but we just can’t accept this.”
I was getting frustrated. “You mean to tell me that if I go online and click on one of the
million websites that advertise ‘Become a clergy member in minutes’—that you will accept,
but an ordination from the largest yeshivah in the country, and a real congregation to boot,
is not enough?”
He looked me straight in the eye and said, “You are coming to me with logic, but this is
government!”
After a moment he said, “Look, if you can find someone other than yourself to translate
your ordination, we can accept it.” Before I could digest this reasonable request, he
continued, “But you have to find an official state translator of this language.”
Rabbinic Lashon Kodesh—with its mix of Hebrew and Aramaic—has no state translator;
of this I was sure. In truth, I should have just called Lakewood and asked them for an
English-language ordination document.
It took me months to get my approval from the state. By that time I had already served as a mesader kiddushin.
Not sure when the marriage certificate I had signed expired, I made my third, and final,
in-person visit to Worth Street.
My turn arrived, and I explained the entire story to the (new) man. He told me that there
was no issue and that he could accept my marriage license since I was now approved. He
also said that it was a good thing I had come down because after a certain amount of time,
the couple would have to apply for a new license.
Of course, it couldn’t be that simple. He took a look at it and said, “Ooh, there is no date
on this certificate.”
I started to panic, trying to recall the date of the wedding; I didn’t want to call the chasan
unless I had to. But then this young African American man shocked me. “Don’t work so
hard to remember the date. You are a rabbi—you can simply look at the kesubah and
figure out the secular date!”
Indeed, I keep a copy of every kesubah after each wedding, in the same marriage folder
I had with me that day.
At least he understood that rabbis are not simply clergy.