Who Is A Rabbi?

This question resonates on a profound level, recalling two poignant incidents that underscore a broader, more urgent narrative about identity, aspiration, and the state of Jewish education in Africa, particularly Nigeria.

The first incident took place during a visit by Rabbi Howard Gorin and Jeff Leiberman to Port Harcourt, Rivers State. Gorin is known as one of the first American rabbis to travel deep into Jewish communities, including those in Uganda and Nigeria, while Leiberman is a documentarian. As they engaged with the vibrant Meir Elohim Community, an individual with a zeal but limited knowledge of Judaism introduced himself with a title that carries centuries of reverence: “Rabbi.” It was obvious that there is a lot of difference in opinion. However, it became clear during their interaction that this title had been adopted without grasping its weight, its history, or the depth of commitment it signifies. Leiberman later shared a photograph on Facebook that captured the poignancy of the moment: “Nigeria Rabbi on a bike.” While this story is tinged with humor, this snapshot reveals a startling sobering truth: how the absence of structured Jewish education leaves space for misconceptions, even exploitation, of sacred titles right here in Nigeria!

The second incident speaks of aspiration amid adversity. My mentor, Akeidah Fulcher Eze, took deliberate steps to pave a path for Prince Israel and me in a certain rabbinical institution. We were tasked with articulating, in writing, why we desired to become rabbis. I, as usual, poured my thoughts into that essay, crafting a piece that earned Fulcher’s admiration, even though the application ultimately did not come to fruition. Although this story contrasts sharply with the first, it is proof of the hunger for authentic engagement, a fervent pursuit of spiritual growth, and the painful barriers that exist for African Jews seeking formal rabbinical training.

These narratives shed light on a critical reality: a majority of global Jewish institutions have largely overlooked African Jewish communities. Clearly, the lack of accessible, quality Jewish education has led to a troubling dynamic where the title “Rabbi” risks being diluted while simultaneously extinguishing the dreams of those who genuinely wish to pass through the corridor of rabbinic service. Therefore, this is a call to action—a reminder that a rabbi is not merely a title one assumes but a scholar, a teacher, and a shepherd of their community, dedicated to the service of God and humanity.

In the broader Jewish tradition, a rabbi embodies rigorous study, leadership with morals, and is dedicated to tikkun olam (repairing the world). There is little doubt that partnerships that put education, mentorship, and resources first are important for this goal to come true in Africa. We need institutions willing to see the potential in every seeker, to nurture vocations, and to ensure the title “Rabbi” is honored as a symbol of profound responsibility, not a label taken lightly.

The stories of aspiration and misunderstanding compel us to bridge this gap, to invest in a future where African Jews can pursue their calling with dignity, knowledge, and the full support of the global Jewish family. It’s worrying how Jewish education and resources are in Africa, especially in Nigeria.

The widening gap in Jewish engagement in Africa is undeniably troubling to the extent that many Jewish communities, especially in Sub- Saharan Africa, apart from the Republic of South Africa, feel overlooked by foreign Jewish institutions. The lack of proper education and facilities not only hampers the growth of Judaism on the continent but also fuels misconceptions about the faith’s values. The notion that a rabbi’s title is “a mere title” any person can accord himself reflects a deeper issue of misunderstanding and disconnection, likely exacerbated by limited access to authentic teachings and standard facilities required to train up people to become rabbis.

Yet beyond the internal challenges of education and mentorship lies an equally formidable barrier: access. For many Africans aspiring to rabbinical training, the pathway is narrowed by complex giyur (conversion) standards, lineage considerations, and institutional criteria that—while rooted in the preservation of Jewish law and continuity—can feel exclusionary when applied without contextual sensitivity. These frameworks, though essential to safeguarding tradition, often operate without sufficient mechanisms for outreach or accommodation, reinforcing a perception of Judaism as inaccessible to sincere seekers. The result is a quiet loss: gifted minds and devoted hearts are turned away from yeshivot, depriving the global Jewish community of voices shaped by resilience, diversity, and lived faith.

Compounding this challenge is the often-overlooked role of visa bureaucracy. Recently, a couple of Nigerian Jews who were accepted into yeshivot in Israel—schools that saw their potential as future rabbis and were ready to help them study—had their journeys stopped not because they weren’t qualified, but because of decisions made by the embassy and strict immigration rules. These administrative barriers have quietly extinguished opportunities for future rabbis in a country that has sustained mainstream Jewish practice for over three decades without a single resident rabbi. Such moments expose a painful paradox: communities are encouraged to preserve Judaism, yet pathways to leadership formation remain obstructed. Until we address these systemic barriers with intention and compassion, the dream of nurturing homegrown African rabbis will remain vulnerable, teetering between aspiration and denial.

For over a decade and a half, two individuals from Nigeria’s Igbo Jewish communities have resided in Israel, and they are known to have been ordained as rabbis. Yet beyond their names, there is little information about their formal rabbinic status, congregations, ordination, or institutional affiliations. This prolonged lack of clarity has left a vacuum within Nigerian Jewish life. In response, many communities now turn to rabbis found on the internet for learning and spiritual consultation, while others look inward, conferring the title “rabbi” upon local Torah teachers who provide instructions, motivation, and communal leadership. In the eyes of many congregants, the functional roles appear indistinguishable: teaching Torah, guiding prayer, and offering moral direction. Thus, in the absence of an ordained rabbi, doing what seems necessary becomes normalized. Over time, the title is accepted by the individual, embraced by the community, and gradually sustained—until any capable Torah teacher may be addressed as “rabbi,” and the cycle continues.

A more troubling development has emerged alongside this trend: the reinterpretation of rabbinic authority through the lens of traditional Igbo social structures. In Igbo culture, elders called the Nze or Ndi Nze are highly respected. These titled men are custodians of moral order, interpreters of the laws of the land, and key figures in communal governance, often serving as a check on the authority of the Eze (king). The Nze, viewed as upright and spiritually elevated, have historically played a stabilizing role in Igbo civilization. Drawing from this parallel, some have begun advancing the concept of an “Nze-Rabbi”— a fusion of traditional Igbo leadership and Jewish religious authority.

Under this emerging narrative, an Nze-Rabbi is defined loosely as an elderly man, a synagogue leader, or a Torah teacher with a measure of knowledge and respect within the community. There is no need for yeshiva training or formal ordination; all that is needed is acceptance of the title by most people in the community. While this definition may appear pragmatic on the surface, it represents a fundamental misunderstanding of Judaism’s standards and procedures. In effect, the title of rabbi becomes a cultural adaptation rather than a religious qualification, detached from the rigorous scholarly process that defines rabbinic authority worldwide.

This approach is deeply flawed. It reflects not malice, but ignorance of how Judaism has historically preserved structure, continuity, and accountability. More concerning are the implications. If this logic were extended beyond Igbo communities, other ethnic groups in Nigeria could introduce parallel constructs—Obong-Rabbi, Emir-Rabbi, or similar titles—each shaped by local tradition rather than Jewish law. What begins as an attempt to solve the absence of rabbis would ultimately introduce greater confusion, inconsistency, and fragmentation. It is a classic case of placing a round peg in a square hole—addressing a real problem with a solution that creates even deeper structural challenges.

To really understand who a rabbi is, you have to look at history. The fact remains that the word “rabbi” doesn’t appear in the Tanach (Hebrew Bible). It came about later, during the post- Temple period, when Jewish life changed from sacrificial worship to study, law, and community leadership.

At first, “rabbi” was an honorific title given to learned teachers who showed exceptional mastery of the Torah and moral leadership. As Jewish communities grew and spread out, the need for standardization became increasingly evident. Formal institutions of learning were created, ordination processes were set up, and rabbinic authority became linked to rigorous study, mentorship, and communal accountability. This framework, while evolving, remains the basis of rabbinic legitimacy in the modern Jewish world.

A Glimpse of Hope from Uganda.

While a standardized rabbinic path based on rigorous education and ordination has been accepted by most of the Jewish world for a long time, Uganda offers a compelling example of how this model can be successfully adapted to local realities. Today, Uganda is home to a growing number of indigenous rabbis, many of whom have studied in yeshivot in the United States and Israel and gone on to receive formal ordination. Their travels indicate that a single, traditional campus-based structure doesn’t have to limit dedication to rabbinic training.

In practice, several alternatives, yet credible, pathways have emerged. Rabin Rivbin Asiimwe, currently a rabbinic Abayudaya student, combines structured online learning with periodic travel to Israel for in-person classes and mentorship. In the same way, a rabbinic student, Orah Avraham, in Mukono, central Uganda, is also enrolled in a U.S.-based yeshiva that offers a two-year online curriculum with homework, quizzes, and presentations. After this part is done, students go abroad to finish the rest of their course. These hybrid models maintain academic rigor while accommodating geographic and logistical constraints faced by African Jewish communities.

Uganda has a flourishing rabbinical council composed of ordained rabbis, yeshiva graduates, and rabbinic students, with representation across different regions of the country. This structure has a promising formation of a strong and credible beit din, capable of overseeing conversions and other communal religious responsibilities within recognized Jewish frameworks. With an increasing number of individuals committed to this path, Uganda is steadily building a sustainable future in which ordained and well-trained rabbis are consistently available to serve their communities.

The impact of this ecosystem extends beyond the present generation. The visibility of multiple rabbis—trained not only in Jewish law but also in leadership, pastoral care, and human relations—naturally inspires younger members of the community. Often, rabbinic families nurture future rabbis, creating continuity and depth within Ugandan Jewish life. Notably, Uganda now has rabbis trained through Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform yeshivot, reflecting a broad and inclusive engagement with global Jewish institutions.

Rabbi Shoshana Nambi of Mbale in Eastern Uganda is perhaps the best example of how well this teaching paradigm works. She went to Hebrew Union College (United States) and recently became the first black woman rabbi in Sub-Saharan Africa. Now she is an assistant rabbi at Congregation Beth Am in Los Angeles. The Union for Reform Judaism ordained her, and her journey is a major success that shows what can happen when African Jewish communities have access to mainstream educational paths. Uganda’s experience is, above all, a narrative of shaping the future through education, discipline, and adherence to globally recognized rabbinic standards.

A Vision for the Future.

In Uganda, as in Nigeria, it is still common for Torah-learned individuals to be affectionately addressed as “rabbi.” This practice is not unique to both countries alone and can be found in Jewish communities elsewhere. However, it is important to recognise the true significance of a Rabbi ( רבי ), which in Hebrew means “my teacher.” Within Jewish tradition, this title carries profound weight. It represents not merely academic accomplishment, but a lifelong responsibility to teach, guide, adjudicate, and uplift others in accordance with Torah values.

The scarcity of formal Jewish educational institutions and rabbinic training resources in Nigeria—and across much of Africa—has inadvertently contributed to misunderstandings about the role and responsibilities of a rabbi. Yet this reality should never serve as justification for lowering established standards. Instead, anyone who aspires to be called a rabbi should be encouraged and supported to pursue recognized and appropriate pathways of study and ordination.

To make such an outcome possible, well-wishers and stakeholders must invest intentionally in yeshivot, structured rabbinical training programs, and sustainable community learning centers. In this regard, working with Jewish schools and organizations abroad can be very helpful in making curricula, mentorship, and accreditation stronger.

Meeting these educational and spiritual needs sends a strong message: Judaism is a living, dynamic faith that values all communities, regardless of where they are. For Nigerian Jews in particular, this vision promises the emergence of a new generation of knowledgeable and passionate leaders—men and women who understand the rabbinic path as a sacred calling to serve others and embody the values of Torah in ways that resonate both locally and globally.

Ultimately, when Jewish education flourishes in Africa, the title “Rabbi” will naturally be revered as a symbol of deep commitment and integrity. In doing so, misconceptions will fade, and a renewed wave of devoted servants of Hashem and humanity will rise— rooted in learning, guided by tradition, and inspired by a shared future.

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