I wrote this a few years ago and never got around to publishing it. My feelings about religion have not changed. If anything, they have become even more critical and dismissive, if that's possible. But, it's a nice story at its heart.
Religion isn't one of my favorite things. It doesn't even rank in the top thousand. If I were to give it a position among the things for which I have a fondness, I would place religion just below repeated punches to the forehead. I find religion silly, outdated and totally useless... for me, anyway. I equate the mumbo-jumbo recitations with the mystical incantations spoken by "Samantha Stephens" in countless episodes of Bewitched... and just as effective. I will not, however, impede on anyone who finds peace and solace from religion. But, don't try to convince me to see things your way. I won't. My limited participation in any sort of religion-related activity is purely out of respect for my dear wife and, in turn, her respect for her parents — who take their religion pretty seriously.
Recently, I accompanied my wife to a shiva for a family member. A shiva, for those of you not familiar with Jewish practices and customs, is a gathering for a period of mourning after the death of a "first-degree" family member (i.e. mother, father, sister, brother, son or daughter). Family and friends assemble at the decedent's home (usually) for evening prayer services for a (traditional) period of seven days, but most American secular Jews whittle that down to three (sometimes less).
The shiva that I attended was to remember Lila, my wife's once or twice removed cousin. We arrived at a house filled with people I did not know. Most, I assumed, were friends of Lila's and her husband. Further inside the house, I spotted my in-laws, my nieces, my wife's brother and sister-in-law and Lila's two children, who are around my own age. I also recognized the rabbi from the synagogue to which Lila and her husband frequented as long-time members. Coincidentally, my son went to elementary school with this rabbi's children, although they were not in the same grade. As far a rabbis go, he's a nice guy. As far as non-rabbis go, he is also a nice guy.
Growing up, I rarely went to any sort of religious services. The ones that I did go to, I always remained in the back of the chapel, as far back and as close to the exit doors I could get and still be considered "inside." From my distant vantage point, I watched the rabbi go through his motions. He was usually an older man, with graying temples and a Mona Lisa smile — not unpleasant, but not quite friendly. After services concluded, he greeted congregants with a wise and knowing nod, patting young ones on the head and warmly shaking the hand of older folks. In my mind, I have always had a certain mold in which rabbis should fit. This is how I want my rabbis to appear and behave.
When I met my wife, she and her family belonged to a synagogue whose rabbi fit my "rabbi criteria." He was a tall, genial, white haired gentleman with a pleasant voice and reserved demeanor. He had a strange habit of repeating the last few words of his sentences, I suppose, to emphasize the points of his sermons. I also learned that he was a career Navy man. But, he was, unmistakably, a rabbi. Mrs. Pincus and I were married at a different synagogue whose rabbi, while much more approachable and friendlier than the Navy man, was still, unmistakably, a rabbi. He was a warm presence and his congregation adored him.
When the Navy rabbi retired, he was replaced by a steady stream of candidates who were, decidedly, un-rabbi-like. Some were crass, unpolished and very uninspiring. The synagogue finally settled for a young rabbi who treats the honored position with the same dedication as a fifth-grade kid at 2 p.m. on the last day of school before summer vacation — staring at the clock, watching the hands tick off the minutes until he can blow this proverbial taco stand. To this guy, being a rabbi is no different than any profession that works "on the clock." Once the time card is punched "out," that's where his "rabbi"-ing is — out! His service is supplemented by an assistant rabbi who, I believe, assists him in watching the clock. Both of them are out-of-sight more than they are visible and "rabbi"-ing.
Back at the shiva, the evening prayer service was beginning. I politely grabbed a siddur (prayer book) to follow along. I refuse to participate in responsive reading, reading in unison or pretending to read "silent devotion," but I will not be disruptive to those who wish to carry out the ritual. This rabbi took his place in the center of the living room, a small, semi-circle of people loosely formed around him, and he began.
He spoke so eloquently, guiding everyone through the words and offering gentle reminders of the current page from which we were reading for those (like me) who don't read Hebrew or just lost their place. He interjected with brief, but concise, explanations of the prayers and their intended meaning. His voice was sweet, filled with compassion and comfort, while maintaining an air of authority and command. The crowd was obviously entranced by his presence.
When the service concluded, I thought "If I was gonna start believing in this hooey, this guy would certainly be a good reason." His voice and manner were comforting and compassionate, giving off a palpable feeling of warmth and grace and kindness. It made me think that maybe the content of religion isn't important. All those so-called words of scripture aren't the important part. Maybe it's just the vessel through which they are delivered.
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