My Deflating Shabbos Day Trip
I had been looking forward to this outing for the longest time. Many years ago, an orthodox rabbi appeared on a Jewish channel for an interview. I took a liking to him both as a presence and an intellect. Since his synagogue was within driving distance and they don’t shut off their parking lot, I opted to see what goes on there for a typical Shabbos morning. The surroundings, just shy of a cathedral, really more of a Jewish empire, and eloquently articulate sermons left their favorable impression. I made an effort to treat myself to Shabbos there about once a quarter, tailing off a little after my retirement, then not going at all once the pandemic altered Shabbos morning everywhere. The Rabbi, being a few years my senior, opted for his retirement this year, but he remains on site, while allowing his successor, groomed as an assistant for many years, some freedom to escape his legacy.
As the pandemic eased, while my small synagogue with limited ability for distancing in the sanctuary remained on hiatus, treated myself to other alternatives, with staying home the most attractive. Having my mother’s yahrtzeit coincide with Shabbos, I attended Chabad, a much more engaging Saturday morning experience than my own shul. Following this, my shul still closed, I stayed home the next two shabbatot, not feeling up to a real schlep until the following week. I coupled my Shabbos morning with a popular city attraction for the afternoon, making a day of it, as I sometimes do when I worship there.
My car has been my freedom, even on Shabbos, ever since I acquired my first one. I find the solitude of a multihour ride with a few en route diversions mentally settling, even if my must attend to safety alertness amid some NASCAR hopefuls on the interstate. I almost never listen to the radio, just watch the road, the scenery, putter around the WaWa as I decide what 20-ounce coffee creation should sit in the holder next to me for the remainder of the drive. Cruise control goes on and off, giving my right leg but not my vision, a periodic alternative to the accelerator pedal. Nearly all highway, nearly all in the middle lane with an occasional mosey to the right if those coming too close from behind have their cruise controls set to serious speeding. Motion of the other cars has a way of keeping me engaged while my mind finds a few cortical convolutions to think about what I might like to do in the next month or year, or admire the river that the route requires me to traverse.
Arrived there at my usual clock time, though somewhat later in the service than most visits. Typically, I find lots of empty parking spaces toward the rear of their lot, maybe fewer this time though hardly noticeable in the far reaches where I usually plant my vehicle, nearly always the only one from out of state. Brisk winter walk to the main entrance, remove coat, refresh in the rest room, saunter onward to the sanctuary, take a tallis from their rack, and find a row of seats with the end not occupied to avoid climbing over another worshipper. To my surprise, the men’s section seemed more populated or with the pandemic maybe attendance was really the same but more spread out. The women’s section, easily and intentionally visible through decorated plexiglass, had a notably more sparse attendance compared to my previous visits. While I typically arrive as they are repeating the shacharit Amidah, this time the Torah was already open and their Ritual Director who chants each week had begun the Kohen Aliyah.
No Bar or Bat Mitzvot this Shabbos, one of the few on my visits without one. In its place were two Riff-Raff observances. The first groom in-waiting had Levi ancestry. I don’t recall if I had ever experienced an Aufruf there before, or it was not memorable if I had. They made this one memorable. Their Cantor being away, perhaps the reason for being ahead of schedule, a young man with in a hefty lyrical baritone intoned Ya-amod, Ya-amod, Ya-amod. And it wasn’t a Bar Mitzvah. Not seen that before anywhere. And it happened again a few Aliyot later. After each the couple said a prayer to each other on the Bimah while the new Senior Rabbi told an anecdote about how the couple met and where they would be living after their weddings.
If there is anything Torah I generally abhor, it is InterAliyah Sound Bites, those paragraphs that interrupt the cadence of the Torah service to expound on the contents of the upcoming Aliyah. Whether they are permitted at all is a subject of dispute. The retiring Rabbi never interrupted the Torah service except to congratulate the Aliyah recipient on a recovery from illness or some notable milestone, never to imply that his words of Torah were so important as to intrude on the literal text as it was being chanted. It looks like the new Rabbi started his own imprint with not only Aliyah Sound Bites, but made them Squaw Work, inviting women to ascend the Bimah to tell in the American vernacular about the Torah portion that they were not permitted to read from the scroll themselves. I still abhor them, even when limited to two.
Second scroll, then Haftarah. It was done by a man who had just recovered from a serious illness which kept him away. This being his Bar Mitzvah haftarah portion which he had learned 55 years ago, he fulfilled the honor this Shabbos. He even still had the Bar Mitzvah Training Pamphlet, his with a firetruck red somewhat tattered cover. When I see this, I wonder if it is the only one he knows how to do, becoming cynical from the bar mitzvah recycling that goes on in my shul, though I suspect from his level of fluency he is likely to have the skill to do any for which an invitation comes with sufficient notice.
Torah away, no processional presumably due to public health concerns. Prayer for the Healing may also have the new Rabbi’s imprint. Previously the Rabbi would ask doctors and nurses, plentiful in that congregation including some of national repute, to rise and pray for healing of their patients. The new Rabbi just had everyone rise and whisper the names of those who needed recovery as the leader on the Bimah intoned the Hebrew text. Probably better with an attendance in the hundreds.
The weekly Shabbos sermon came next, in its usual place in the sequence of liturgy. The retiring Rabbi is a national master at sermons, even compiling his favorite into a book and posting many on his congregation’s web site for people like me to read from afar while we regret not being able to be there. Over the years, he has had assistant Rabbi’s deliver the Shabbos address, and on three occasions of my attendance, he has deferred to special guests, always people of prominence in the broader Jewish community as authors or heads of national Jewish agencies. This time the now Rabbi-in-Residence, as he selected his post retirement title, ascended the central podium himself from his customary seat on the bimah. It started out in its expected stimulating way as he critiqued a popular journalist whose work we both enjoy reading. Indeed, we each subscribe to her Common Sense site, where I occasionally insert my thoughts, though I did not find out if he does. Then as he moved to the central subject, the importance of patience as it appears in the day’s Sedra and in which the journalist and the rest of us often falter, the elegance waned. It never slouched to a diatribe though my attention eased off as well.
They offer a handout at the entrance with congregational announcements. The incoming Rabbi will have his Installation the following Shabbos. This must be new practice, offering solemnity to a new person whose accomplishments do not yet speak for themselves. I’ve never seen it in an Orthodox congregation, but neither have I heard operatic Ya-amod in triplicate for any other than a Bar Mitzvah. In summary, it had many of the trappings that in my mind correspond to the Conservative Shabbos experience of the early 1970s. Some pomp. Some visible presence for the women even if artificially created. Perhaps a fabricated elevation of title via installation formalities of somebody who has already been an Assistant for many years and should be well known in his own right. Or maybe the congregation needs some means of affirming that the retiring Rabbi will no longer be the Go-To.
And the kiddush followed. Despite the pandemic, they trusted people to keep their distances, pour their own wine, and use utensils even to remove cookies from the tray. It offered beef cholent and small meatballs, but as is my custom, I stayed with pareve. At the coffee station they had bottles of fruit liqueurs of a few types and non-alcoholic syrups beyond the expected coffee, decaf, and varietal teas. I took a scoop of everything pareve and stood in the middle eating. Nobody came over to greet me, though nobody usually does, not even my own shul when I stand alone at kiddush, except at Chabad. Then on to the pastry table with a few too many samples, slowly devouring them in two or three bites each. Nobody greeted me with a plate of mezonot either. There were tables and perimeter chairs but I stood mostly in the middle and alone. The rugelach and black and white cookie with generous frosting were worth the extra time there.
Then back to the car, set Scout GPS to the Art Museum that I had designated for a visit before heading home. I felt energetic, maybe a little disappointed that after two years and a pleasant but lengthy trip, I harvested less than I expected.
It has been that harvest that I try to import back to my own congregational experience, though with little success if Covid has elevated absence ahead of presence. Maybe the faltering there will enable better recognition of aspects that we have in our favor with no need to upgrade, which is just as well as there never seems a desire to be any different next week than last week. I know people which means I approach them without any expectation of them approaching me while I sip my 15 ml of scotch at kiddush. I know everyone who receives and Aliyah which requires a congratulatory elbow bump in this Covid era. And we only have one Rabbi with full freedom to make his imprint, receiving credit or tacet scorn as he goes. A mini-Jewish empire must have assertive machers. We don’t. As I approach twenty-five years of membership, we are not what we were. Less attendance, less talent, more of Pareto’s 80/20 USY clique where a few people are invited a lot and most not at all. It’s a megatrend that appears everywhere, as I found out when a premier regional congregation finds its need to repackage. We have always had that need, never perceptive enough to realize that we could tinker with our experience more than we do. Many quarterly visits later, with a notable time gap, that message has imprinted and not seriously changed.