By: Nomi Kaltmann as seen in Eureka Street

12 June 2025

I’ve been a big believer in interfaith work since I was young. In Year 12, I studied a VCE subject called Text and Traditions, which focused on how the three Abrahamic faiths — Christianity, Judaism, and Islam — approach their sacred texts. I still remember attending a student conference with representatives from each religion, alongside classmates from Jewish, Christian, and Islamic schools. We listened, asked questions, and tried to understand how each faith interprets the world. It left a lasting impression on me.

Later, in my first year of university, I went on an interfaith camp and met not just Jews, Christians, and Muslims, but also Buddhists, Hindus, and members of the Bahá’í community. I loved hearing about other people’s religious practices and how their beliefs shaped their lives. That interest eventually led me to serve as a board member of the Faith Communities Council of Victoria. Even though I was often the only Jew in the room, I found deep satisfaction in building connections across difference.

People of faith are becoming increasingly rare in Australia. The 2021 census shows that religious affiliation is on the decline, with fewer Australians identifying with any organised religion. That makes these conversations more, not less, important. In an increasingly secular and politically fragmented society, where suspicion of religion seems to be growing, spaces for genuine interfaith dialogue can feel like a small but vital counterforce.

I’ve always loved being Jewish. In 2019, I became the first Australian woman to enrol in the four-year rabbinic ordination program at Yeshivat Maharat, a New York-based seminary that is the first in the world to ordain Orthodox Jewish women as rabbis. I spent four years studying Torah and Jewish law while keeping my full-time job as a lawyer and raising my children. The program I completed offers the exact same curriculum that Orthodox men receive in rabbinical school. As you can imagine, ordaining women as rabbis within Orthodox Judaism, a tradition over 2,000 years old, remains highly controversial.

But for me, the opportunity to access that level of Torah learning was a joy. When I received my ordination, I knew some in my community wouldn’t accept my title or role. But that didn’t bother me. Orthodoxy often changes slowly, and often for good reason. It seeks to preserve a way of life that has endured for millennia. Still, I believed then (and still do now) that there’s room for thoughtful evolution — especially when it comes to education and leadership.

What I didn’t expect was how much interest my ordination would spark outside the Jewish world. Soon after I began writing publicly about my journey, Catholic schools started reaching out. Many teach a unit on Jewish ethics in their senior religious studies curriculum and were keen to bring a practising Jew into the classroom, especially someone who, like their students, is young and a person of faith that can speak directly about the modern experience of faith in the 21st century.

Some invitations came through my personal website, others through people who had read my work in Australian newspapers, and a few via mutual friends from interfaith spaces. I agreed to teach a few classes and for me, that’s when everything shifted.

As I started teaching in person and over Zoom to hundreds of Catholic school students around Australia, I rediscovered a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in a while. The students’ questions were clever, considered, and generous. They genuinely wanted to understand Judaism, not just in theory, but as a living, breathing tradition.

I explained how Orthodox Jewish law approaches topics like birth, IVF, abortion, and conception. I shared that in Judaism, life begins at birth, not conception. IVF, while generally discouraged in Catholicism, is often permitted in Orthodox Judaism with proper rabbinic guidance. These ideas were new to many students, but they responded with respect and curiosity.

I also discussed the Jewish view of G-d. In Orthodox Judaism, G-d is eternal, indivisible, and beyond human comprehension. G-d has no physical form and cannot be represented visually. The Shema, one of our central prayers, declares: “Hear O Israel, the L-rd is our G-d, the L-rd is One.” In contrast, Catholicism teaches that G-d exists as a Trinity — the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit — and that G-d became manifest through Jesus. This remains one of the most striking theological differences between our traditions.

And yet, I’ve been struck by the seriousness with which Catholic students approach their faith. In an era when it’s not exactly trendy to be religious, they ask thoughtful questions and approach the sessions with maturity. Many are surprised to learn that there are only around 14 million Jews in the world — a tiny number compared to other global religions, including the vast Catholic Church.

Over time, I came to see that these classroom encounters were a more meaningful form of interfaith work than the formal multifaith councils and committees I used to sit on. In those rooms, dialogue sometimes felt abstract or performative. But in classrooms, on Zoom or in person, questions felt real. There was no script. Just students, a teacher, and the space to explore difference.

After October 7, I stepped back from formal interfaith spaces, including resigning from boards I had sat on for years. The Hamas terrorist attack on Israel that killed more than 1,200 Israelis and saw more than 250 Israeli hostages taken back to Gaza was horrific. And yet, many of the interfaith groups I’d worked with for years refused to issue a clear statement of condemnation.

I understand that Israel is complex. But surely, we can agree that murdering Israeli civilians and taking hundreds of hostages from their homes and a music festival is wrong. Compassion and empathy for Palestinians in Gaza and condemnation of terrorism are not mutually exclusive. Still, no one in my formal interfaith circles reached out — not even colleagues I’d sat alongside on boards for years. It hurt.

That experience fractured my trust in those spaces. But by teaching Judaism to Catholic students across Australia, I’ve found something different. Something hopeful.

In the past year, my unexpected role as a female rabbi who now regularly teaches Catholic school students, both in person and online, has brought me back to what I always loved about interfaith. For me, interfaith isn’t about agendas or statements. It’s about engagement, real discussions, mutual respect, and learning for its own sake.

Each class is its own microcosm. A small space where curiosity overrides politics. Where mutual misunderstanding is met not with defensiveness, but with dialogue. Where teenagers, often encountering Judaism for the first time, offer me not judgment, but thoughtful inquiry.

I don’t expect everyone to agree with my path or perspective, but I believe in the power of a conversation. And I believe that education changes things. Every time I teach these classes at a Catholic school, I’m reminded that even in a time of rising antisemitism and growing distrust, connection is still possible.

When I teach a class to Catholic students, no matter where they are in Australia, with their brilliant questions and thoughtful reflections, these sessions are the highlight of my week. They don’t just keep my faith alive. They give me hope.