Who Has the Authority to Say You Belong?

The experience of descendants of Crypto-Jews, or Benei Anusim, varies from person to person. Like most things in life, these experiences exist along a broad spectrum. As I have noted in other blog posts, Hispanics who are descendants of Conversos often face different challenges depending on their backgrounds as well as the Jewish communities they seek to join.

What I describe here is one particular phenomenon that I have personally observed. It should not be taken as a universal experience. The synagogue where I serve as rabbi, for example, is approximately fifty percent Hispanic, and what follows clearly does not apply to the overwhelming majority of our members. Rather, it reflects a pattern I have noticed among some Latino visitors to our congregation, as well as in conversations about their experiences with other Jewish communities.

Back in the 1970s, there was a television show called Sanford and Son. The sitcom told the story of an African American father and son who owned a salvage and junk business. I first saw the reruns in the 1980s. Today, such a show would undoubtedly be considered politically incorrect. At the time, however, many of my African American friends watched it and thoroughly enjoyed it. Oddly enough, it even became a source of bonding between us.

The father, Fred, was elderly, stubborn, and feisty. In one episode, he developed a toothache and had to visit a dentist. The first dentist he met was a young African American doctor. Well, you guessed it—Fred did not think the young dentist was the right person for the job. Instead, he insisted on seeing someone “more experienced.” The implication, however, was obvious.

He wanted a dentist from a different racial background. A white dentist was brought in and examined Mr. Sanford’s condition. After a few minutes, he explained that the case was more complicated than he had expected and that it required someone with more specialized training. You guessed it again. Much to Fred’s chagrin, the original African American dentist walked into the room and successfully performed the procedure.

The 1970s were a long time ago, but there is something about that story that still rings true today.

I can tell you from personal experience that many Hispanics who claim Converso heritage do not necessarily want a Hispanic rabbi to guide them through the process of Jewish education. Instead, many are looking for what they perceive to be a “real Jew”—someone who is Ashkenazic or Israeli.

In other words, they often want someone who, quite frankly, does not look like them. More importantly, they frequently prefer someone from outside their own cultural background to tell them what they are expected to do. instead of focusing on the process and the validity of the studies they are supposed to undertake to convert or return, many individuals seem focused on the image of what they believe to represent legitimacy.

I am not entirely sure why this is. Perhaps hearing “one of their own” explain what is and is not acceptable according to Jewish law is more difficult to accept. Perhaps there is even a “Who does he think he is?” factor involved. Yes, he received semikhah. Yes, he has earned advanced degrees in Jewish studies. But why is he expecting me to make so many difficult changes? Why can’t he understand that life is complicated and that my family is not necessarily on the same page?

He should understand. He should be more flexible. If he is not, then I would rather hear the same message from someone with a different background. Better yet, I would rather have someone else tell me what to do—even if I ultimately ignore the advice.

Oddly enough, I have also observed the opposite reaction. When I have tried to meet people where they are, showing flexibility in recognition of their circumstances, that very openness has sometimes been interpreted as evidence that I lack authenticity. In other words, if I am too understanding, I am perceived as somehow being “less Jewish” or less qualified to speak authoritatively.

All of this may sound humorous, but it is based on multiple real-life experiences. The conversations and interactions are genuine. I may be mistaken about the motivations behind them, but after speaking with other Hispanic and Latino rabbis, I have found that many have encountered remarkably similar situations.

There is no neat resolution here—only an observation. Perhaps this is simply part of the psychology of people returning to Judaism. For many, the issue may not be one of knowledge at all, but of legitimacy. They are not merely looking for someone to teach them Jewish law; they are looking for someone whom they believe possesses the symbolic authority to affirm that they truly belong. A rabbi who appears more visibly established within the Jewish world—whether because he is Ashkenazic, Israeli, or simply perceived as representing the broader Jewish community—may be seen as someone who can confer that legitimacy in a way that “one of their own” cannot.

Whether that perception is accurate is beside the point. It is nevertheless a reality that some Hispanic rabbis have encountered. If so, the issue is less about ethnicity than it is about the sociology of religious authority and communal acceptance. In that sense, the old Sanford and Son episode illustrates something surprisingly timeless: people often judge expertise and authority not solely by competence, but by who they imagine possesses the right to speak.