Monday the Rabbi Took Off

Chapter Fourteen

Almost from the day he arrived in Barnard's Crossing, Rabbi Hugo Deutch had been involved in a series of conferences with Cantor Zimbler and Henry Selig, the chairman of the Ritual Committee. The latter had been appointed to this important post by the president largely on the basis of the speed with which he read the prayers. Bert Raymond had gone to the minyan to say Kaddish on the anniversary of his father's death and there had noticed Selig. "He's the first one to sit down at Shemon Esrah. The first time I saw him. I figured he must be skipping like I do, but then I sat next to him, and he really reads the stuff. His lips practically vibrate. He must know it by heart."

As a matter of fact, he did know the daily prayers by heart, and that was the full extent of his knowledge of Jewish ritual. He interposed no objections, therefore, to Rabbi Deutch's plans. The cantor was a harder nut to crack. He was entirely agreeable to any suggestion that expanded his part in the service, but when Rabbi Deutch suggested that a particular prayer might be dispensed with, especially if it called for an extended musical rendition, he would say plaintively, "But. Rabbi, this prayer establishes the mood for the whole service." Or sometimes he pleaded on purely personal grounds — that it was the best solo in his repertoire: "I sing the first part of this falsetto, and then the next part in my regular voice, then falsetto again, then the regular voice again. It's just like a duet, and the folks here are crazy about it. There hasn't been a single Friday evening service when someone didn't come to me afterward to compliment me on that particular prayer."

But Rabbi Deutch knew his own mind and had had long experience in dealing with temperamental cantors. "Look. Cantor, there's one rule about running a successful Friday evening service program, and that is. keep it short and snappy. Remember, it's a week-in and week-out thing. If the service is long drawn out, the congregation gets tired, and first thing you know, they stop coming. It's got to be kept under an hour. Remember, they've had their evening meal, and they want to relax. So they hear you sing a little, and they sing a little; we have a couple of responsive readings to give them a feeling of the solemnity of the Sabbath; I give them a short sermon; the Amidah is a little interlude where they get a chance to get up and stretch their legs a bit; and then we close with a snappy Adon Olam and they go down to the vestry for tea and cake and general conversation. It's a nice evening's entertainment, and you'll find that the attendance will grow from week to week."

He had other ideas about improving the service, and on his first Friday night he managed to put them all together. As the congregation began to arrive and take their seats, they noticed that the high thronelike chairs on the dais on either side of the ark normally occupied by the rabbi and the cantor were empty. The service was scheduled to begin at eight o'clock and by a quarter of eight the congregation, anxious to see its new rabbi in action, had arrived and was seated. But still the seats on the dais remained empty.

The organ had been playing mood music, a series of mournful cadenzas in a minor kev, but at ten minutes to eight the sound suddenly shifted to the major in a swelling diapason as the door of the enrobing room opened and the rabbi appeared, majestic in black gown and silken prayer shawl, a high velvet yarmulke like a cantor's on his head. He paused a moment and then moved slowly up the steps of the dais and stood in front of the ark, his back to the congregation. He stood thus for a minute or two. his head slightly bowed, and then straightened up and walked to his seat beside the ark.

Seated, he looked over the congregation, his face impassive, and what little murmuring of whispered conversation there had been stopped, as they felt his gaze rest upon them. At two minutes of eight he rose from his seat and approached the lectern. He did not face the congregation directly, but his body was turned slightly toward the door of the enrobing room. He stood thus expectantly waiting, and at eight o'clock exactly the door opened once again, and the cantor appeared and from the threshold began to chant Ma Tovu. How goodly are thy tents. O Jacob. Slowly, still chanting, the cantor mounted the steps to the dais while the rabbi remained standing, facing him. The chant ended just as he reached the lectern and only then did the rabbi retire to his seat beside the ark.

The cantor then sang the L'Cha Dodie with the congregation joining in on the refrain, after which the rabbi came forward to announce in his deep baritone. "We will now read responsively, the psalm on page twelve of your prayer books." and he read the first verse and then went on to join the congregation as they read the next verse, his rich voice plainly heard above the mumble of the congregation.

And the service was short and snappy. His sermon lasted only fifteen minutes, and at no time was any portion of the program permitted to drag. The congregation enjoyed the cantor's singing because there was not too much of it, and that their own portion of the service was largely confined to responsive reading where the rabbi did half the work gave them a pleasant sense of participation and vet was not onerous, and the Amidah, because it was recited while standing and in silence, was almost a kind of recess.

There were objections, of course. Some of the older members were not altogether pleased that their rabbi chose to wear a black robe, which to them was reminiscent of priests and ministers. And they also thought that the preliminaries were over-dramatic and hence smacked of theatricality and artificiality. But most approved.

"Look, what's the most stable religious organization in the world? The Catholic Church, right? And what's their stock-in-trade if not drama and ceremonial? They know what brings them back week after week— a good show, and they put one on."

These same dissidents found some objection to the sermon. "To me. he really didn't say anything."

"Yeah, but he didn't take forty minutes to do it."

But even the most antagonistic were forced to admit that the service was marked by great decorum, that favorite shibboleth of Conservative Judaism.

By far the great majority, however, thought it was a wonderful service and made a point of coming over to the rabbi to tell him so.

"I really enjoyed it. Rabbi. I haven't come to Friday evening service much in the past, but you'll be seeing me every week from now on."

"That sermon of yours. Rabbi, it struck a responsive chord if you know what I mean. I'll be thinking about it for a long time."

"You know, tonight for the first time I felt like I was taking part in something— well— holy. That's the only way I can put it."

"Me too. Rabbi. It was the best Sabbath I can remember." Bert Raymond, standing beside Rabbi Deutch. beamed.