The Eternal Sermon: “Always Be Composing!”
“A verse may find him, who a sermon flies, And turn delight and into a sacrifice.” –The Church Porch, George Herbert (1633)
What is the most boring part of attending synagogue?
Yes, I know the cynical answers: “What isn’t?”, “Have you met my rabbi?”, “Is there any better place to catch up on your sleep?”
For me, growing up, it was the Torah reading. (We were excused from the sermon.)
If I was lucky enough to be sitting with my pals, we played “Torah Baseball”:
Randomly open the Chumash (in which we’re supposed to be following the reading.) If the first letter is a Shin or a Samach, you hit a single, Dallid, a double, Tet or Tuff, a triple, Hey, a home run, Vuv, a Valk (with Yiddish accent), anything else, you made out.
Hopefully, by the end of nine innings, the reading was concluded, as well.
As we got older, and more cynical, we focused on each Aliya recipient’s donation, deeming them either too cheap or too extravagant. As adults, we simply caught up with each other’s news. Sitting alone however, time stood still.
Then, one Shabbat, we were in Oceanside, celebrating our friend’s final weekend there as Youth Director. At the end of the reading, the rabbi announced the sermon would be delivered by… ME?!!
What the Hey?!
Yes, I was on the lecture circuit at the time, but no one had told me about this!
As I walked (very, very slowly) up to the lectern desperately trying to recall some one-size-fits-all Dvar Torah, I saw my wife looking at me bewilderedly, and my friend and his wife mouthing to each other “You told him, right?”
I managed to get through it.
In the process, I discovered a wonderful exercise. Henceforth, sitting alone during the reading, I make believe I have to deliver a sermon at its conclusion. It involves me in the reading, turns boredom into an intellectual exercise I share with my family over lunch.
Of course, I was never again unexpectedly called upon. At least not in this hemisphere.
In Rio de Janeiro over Shabbat, we attend the local Chabad.
Whenever we go to Shul abroad, I manage to choose the wrong attire. If I wear a tie and jacket, everyone else is casual; if I don’t dress up, they have.
This is no exception. I wear a tie and jacket; the young crowd wears tank tops (excepting the black-hatted Chabadniks.)
I stand out so much as soon as the reading begins, the rabbi descends from the podium to sit next to me to get acquainted.
Originally from Brooklyn (big surprise), not only do we know people in common, but he is familiar with me because I’m frequently quoted by Rabbi Joseph Telushkin in his books, whom and which all Chabad revere.
As the reading ends, he returns to the podium to deliver his sermon. Since it is in Portuguese, I don’t comprehend a word of it, until he mentions “Telushkin.” That makes me smile.
Then however, to my horror, he mentions “Herschkopf”, inviting me to come to the podium, apparently to deliver a sermon. That makes me wince.
What the Hey?
The only time in decades I haven’t prepared a sermon during the reading, only because the rabbi was talking to me throughout it, is the first time I have to deliver one.
As they say in Brooklyn, “Tuff Nuggies!”
As I walk (very, very slowly) up to the Bima, once again I see my wife, with our daughters this time, look at me bewilderedly.
As if things can’t get worse, I don’t even speak the language! I try to make the best of it as I begin my speech:
“This is the first time I am ever speaking to an audience that doesn’t understand a word that I am saying. I suspect however, that some of my previous audiences would have preferred that.”
The rabbi translates. Not one laugh, not even a smile. I’m bombing here!
I better get serious:
“The best thing about going to Shul anywhere in the world you are, and being part of Chabad in particular, is that, no matter where you are, no matter how far away from home, you are still home.”
He translates. Uproarious laughter. I have to wait for it to subside before I can continue.
I don’t know what the Hey is going on, but “Lost in Translation” or not, I keep talking.
The best thing is, if you stop to be translated every few sentences, not only do you have time to think what to say next, but you only have to speak half as long.
When services end, the rabbi generously invites us to sit with his family at the congregational luncheon.
Towards the conclusion, he gets up to speak. Once again, I hear the one word I don’t want to, “Herschkopf.”
Once again, he beckons me to speak. My wife and daughters are amused. I’m not. In all ways, our Shabbat Chabad experience was unforgettable.
Several months later, guess who calls?
The Rio Rabbi. He wants to fly me back to speak on the high holidays. What?!
They say things in the southern hemisphere are topsy-turvy, e.g., their winter is our summer. From my perspective, this certainly proves it.
The one thing that remains consistent however, in any hemisphere, is that I will always be preparing my sermon during the Torah reading.
In David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross, the ABC mantra of sales is “Always Be Closing!”
My ABC mantra during Torah reading is “Always Be Composing!”
The composition might be a symphony only I will ever hear, but, for me, it makes the Torah sing.
