As told to Jeannette Batz Cooperman
Photograph by Mark Gilliland
Rabbi Susan Talve spent her childhood in the peaceful Hudson River Valley—on a train line that went straight to Manhattan. Her father took a lot of teasing from his Turkish friends, because he urged his four daughters to go places, meet any challenge society dared put in their way. “I grew up with the wonderful illusion that I could do anything I wanted,” Talve says, sounding both wry and grateful. She pursued rabbinical studies in Jerusalem, traveled the world, tackled social justice issues that left other clergyfolk cowering. “I still find myself thinking I can do anything,” she laughs. “Sometimes it gets me into trouble.”
My worst job ever was waitressing in Jerusalem. Oh my God. I couldn’t believe people could treat other people that badly. I always overtip.
My worst date was with a fellow who’s now one of my heroes. It was a double date—and he met his future wife on that date.
I do believe in love at first sight. The first time Jim and I met was on the steps of the Hebrew Union College. I can still feel him looking at me.
Sometimes I spread myself too thin—and I let people down. Maimonides says that accepting your limitations is how you get close to God.
What’s important about a home? That my children still want to be here. That it remains a vibrant place that feels comfortable and safe and doesn’t mind being messy.
Thinking you are going to change the world is inevitably disappointing.
Our kids can’t see the same world we saw. My sister and I hitchhiked across North Africa, for God’s sake. Now you can’t even bring your toothpaste on the plane.
My wildest dream? Universal health care. It would change everything, and it would make life so much easier for everybody.
Never think you have to do something because you’re the only one who can do it. There’s always somebody else who can step in—and sometimes that’s the holiest thing.
What I’ve most hoped for and most feared? My daughter’s heart transplant. It’s the biggest thing in our life.
I always thought that the greatest sin was the sin of certainty, thinking we can know things that we can’t know. But a little certainty would be a really good thing right now.
Irreverence belongs everywhere. If you can name it, if you can hold it in your hand, if you can make fun of it, it’s not God. And it’s when we try to define God that we’re in trouble.
If we lose our sense of humor, we lose our sense of awe.
Sometimes you just get too busy—or your heart gets hardened. Was that the one person I was on this earth to help, and did I miss the chance?
That’s my hardest work: forgiving myself.
Best gift ever? A string of pearls from my father when I was ordained. My mother told me he agonized over those pearls. He picked every pearl.
The most underrated virtue is the ability to refrain from gossip.
I’m an obsessive cleaner. You wouldn’t know it to look at my house—there’s no time—but I love the Scrubbing Bubbles.
I worked on lots of archaeological excavations—I love the dirt, the history, the puzzle of putting people’s real lives back together.
To feel the challenge of a spiritual journey, I’d choose the desert—the dryness, the ownerlessness of it.
I remember climbing down Mount Sinai with my family. It was so dark, and I was scared we might fall or get lost. My daughter said, “Mom, look up!” And when I looked up at the stars, it felt like every light in the universe was on.
