In the urban Jewish neighborhoods of late 19th and early 20th century America (so I’m told), one thing you could always count on was that no matter the weather or time of year, standing outside of his shop, with his hands tucked into his pocket, would be the herring man with his barrel of fish. The barrel would be overstuffed with fish crowded swimming and sliding over each other, as they waited to be yanked out in order to become someone’s Friday night gefilte fish course.

When I started rabbinical school 2 1/2 years ago, I felt like I was one of those herring.

OK, well, not quite: Right before starting rabbinical school, I did a master’s degree in Buddhist Studies. And like folks do in most graduate humanities programs, I spent a ton of time on my own, often reading long books and doing translation work. While it got a bit lonely at times, I really loved being able to pursue my interests on my own, spending hours reading by the stained glass windows of the library, wandering the stacks, and only occasionally having a short conversation with a classmate over lunch or after a seminar.

But rabbinical school was something totally different. The bet midrash, or study hall where pairs of learning partners (chevrutot) meet every day to learn Jewish texts in their original language, is the heart of my school and the main mode of learning there. So everyday, aside from daily morning tefila (prayer) and classes that stretch late into the afternoon, I’m expected to sit down with my chevruta to read, analyze, and pick apart a piece of Talmud, Bible, rabbinic legend, or mystical literature before heading into class. While the idea of doing this excited me, a few weeks after I arrived, not only was I exhausted, but having spent so long learning how to learn on my own, I felt like I didn’t have the personal time to process what I was learning. I wondered if I could even manage to continue in that environment.

As it turns out, I’ve adapted and now can’t imagine learning Jewish texts without a chevruta. But the role of chevruta in the bet midrash, in the context of a relatively small program that has its students interacting with each other on a daily basis makes me think that of all the parts of rabbinic training and formation, this social, interactive dynamic is perhaps the most important, profoundly impacting how us future rabbis will think and act.

The idea of chevrutot goes way back in rabbinic history. Among the sages who are listed in the Talmud, some of the most important  – Rabbi Yochanan and Resh Lakish, Rabbi Yehudah and Rabbi Meir, Rav and Shmuel – are often mentioned in relation to their study partner. And the image of two study partners hunched over their books evokes a beautiful analogy connected with the rabbinic saying that the Divine Presence hangs out when two people engage in the study of holy works: study partners can be like the two angels who face each other on top of the Ark of the Covenant, creating a space for God to rest.

Study with a chevruta pulls me out of my own habitual and familiar ways of thinking and forces me to interact with a text and another person who may come with a totally different set of ideas, expectations, and skills. And my job becomes, day after day, to learn with and from the person sitting across from me. It can be a challenge to show up every day, not only to be open to what the text and my chevruta are thinking and saying, but also to be open enough to admit when I’m wrong (which happens a lot) and to work together with a chevruta when something is completely opaque to both of us.

Aside from the daily time we spend in chevruta, at my rabbinical school, since we spend most of our time with the other five to fifteen students in our classes, we do a lot of interacting with other people. We have courses that often end up becoming group discussions, class meetings where we process our experiences, community time where we share news and build skills, and we also tend to get together for Shabbat meals where we come into contact with a range of different religious practices, forcing us to figure out how to make community with people who sometimes do things different than us. The social dynamic of chevruta ends up extending to almost all aspects of life of a rabbinical student.

While the education of rabbis in most seminaries involves the in-depth study of classical and modern texts, I think that it might be this daily training in how to interact with others that will help me and others become better rabbis. When I come to a congregation, a big part of my job will be to build community with others and help people find their own way in having a relationship with, becoming part of, and growing spiritually within Jewish tradition. The dynamic interplay and demands of chevruta and relating to others in my school community will shape how I carry out my mission.

Nachman of Breslov, an 18th century Hasidic teacher, once talked about how when two people engage in a debate over sacred text, each one arguing different opinions, they create a gap between each other. But this gap isn’t bad; rather, it’s what makes creativity and imagination possible. According to a mystical account of creation, before forming the world, God filled the cosmos, leaving no room for the world to exist. So God made God’s-self smaller, making an empty space for the dynamic process of world-creation to take place.

If I can keep this intention in mind, when I’m doing chevruta study or sitting in a circle in class, at community time, or at a dinner, I can be trained in and practice how to make creative spaces between myself and others. And I think that that could be a really important ingredient in helping me to serve others as a rabbi.