Strap: Confluence
You can ’t hide
By: Rabbi Dr David Fox
“No rabbi. No Torah scholar. No sermon.”
Pics:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1uJVNLVCbWjmswQZ_ABjNHxivLbEUgn0Z/view?usp=drive_link
I was the stranger in town. Having relocated in order to complete my clinical training at a noted hospital. I had left behind familiar faces, comfortable climate, and my position as a congregational rabbi in a small community. Moving to a major centre of religious Jewish life, I was unknown to literally everyone in the area and began to enjoy some of the anonymity, which allowed me to pursue my professional work and my personal studies. In this large, old Orthodox neighbourhood, no one needed another rabbi. With a small family to support and subsisting on the stipend awarded by the hospital, finances were a struggle. I frequented the local synagogue where I befriended the aged rabbi who lived in my apartment complex but after coughing up money for membership dues, I realised that I was unable to afford “tickets” for seats during the High Holy days.
I learned that the synagogue had a small “overflow” minyan for those who preferred not to pray with the larger crowd, and for which seats were somewhat more affordable because the venue was less popular. The minyan was relatively small and cohesive. Praying was focused, lay people led the services, and a rabbi from the local rabbinical college walked over to give the sermons. It was a change for me to pray in quiet, sitting near the back, rather than speak from the pulpit and participate in chanting the services. The guest rabbi spoke nicely during the various spots where a sermon or other inspirational words were needed, and I accustomed myself to the new role of being a newcomer in a group of in-towners who had grown up together and were a close unit.
The second day of Rosh Hashanah came and with it came a downpour the likes of which I had never seen back in California. The streets were flooding, the wind roared, branches fell from trees, and the sky was black with roiling storm clouds. As I walked into the small chapel, I did what the other men did: I removed my waterlogged footwear and tried to repel the soaking rainfall from my suit and body. I heard the whisper and chattering of the men and gradually heard them speculating that the rabbi was not going to make it. “He will never set out in this rain.” “For certain the road from the yeshiva will be washed out.” “There is no way he will show up.”
Services began and the men’s speculation proved accurate. By the time we were well into the cantor’s repetition of the long liturgy, the congregation had no leader at its helm. Everyone looked around the small sanctuary. We saw the paediatrician, the scientist, the accountant, the school custodian, the businessmen, the high school principal, two electricians, and the car salesman. No rabbi. No Torah scholar. No sermon. As the reading of the Torah came to a close, one of the older men came over to me, asking if I might be able to say a short drasha. I gave him a curious look as if to say, “Why would you ask ME?” but he pre-empted me by saying that he had noticed that I often walked home with the congregation’s main rabbi on Friday nights so he guessed that I knew how to “speak the language”. I acceded to his request and he announced that Mr. Fox had agreed to speak in lieu of the yeshiva rabbi, who had still not arrived.
Like it or not, a challenging moment had arrived. I could face the challenge and deliver a drasha and forever blow my cover that I was actually a somewhat experienced rabbi, or I could speak briefly and sit back down, returning to my anonymity. As I strode to the pulpit, I made my choice. I got up and posed a question to the men, encouraging them to join me in a discussion about the Rosh Hashanah themes. They began to participate and what might have been a dry drasha or a stagnant sermon became an interactive class on the spiritual essence of the Holy Day. I mentioned in passing that in prior years I had preferred to shift from sermon to discussion because people were more engaged and could return home and share the thoughts with family. There was no turning back. I had disclosed that I was in fact a rabbi.
By the time Yom Kippur approached, the president of the main congregation informed me that I would henceforth be leading the services (more rain in the forecast made it unlikely that the yeshiva rabbi would show), and the venerable rabbi of the main congregation congratulated me, letting me know that I was invited to take the position of assistant rabbi, which solidified my relationship with him. For years, I had the honour and merit to learn from him, to participate in his beis din activities, and over time to synthesise my professional activities as both a clinician and clergyman. A meaningful turn in my life began because I was unable to afford a High Holy Day ticket.
