One night, when I couldn't sleep, I imagined receiving a long distance phone call from America. It was a once-in-a-lifetime phone call. My former congregation was looking for a new rabbi but wouldn't have time to find one for the new Jewish year. Would I consider returning for a year as an interim rabbi?
I am no longer young. My family left the congregation thirty years before to move to Israel. The invitation was very flattering. But could I accept it?
I was the first rabbi of our suburban synagogue located on Long Island, New York. There were larger congregations around us, but we served a certain population - people who wanted a synagogue a bit closer to their homes, people who did not find their place in the larger congregations, young families who were looking to create a warm and intimate Jewish community.
My wife and I, and our one-year-old son, came to the budding congregation during my final year of rabbinical school. I was studying to become a Conservative rabbi, and the congregation wanted to affiliate with the Conservative Movement. I served the congregation for the next thirteen years.
The people who remembered me from thirty years before and suggested my name now remembered a young, enthusiastic and friendly rabbi - a rabbi who took an interest in their children, was available at all times, and was also their social friend. Did I still have that in me? They also remembered a warm, compassionate and intelligent rebbetzin (some things never change).
I look in the mirror. My hair is gray. I don't see so well from my left eye. Both my wife and I have had medical problems in recent years. I still try to smile a lot, try to be cheerful and hopeful, and I still think there's nothing more important than human relationships. But I'm not the man I used to be. I tire more easily and I'm less energetic. My wife and I are known to go to sleep at an early hour. Family and friends hesitate to call us after 9:00 p.m.
I'm thinking of my uncle who was a member of Kvutsat Yavneh, a religious kibbutz. He had a beautiful singing voice and served as the high holiday cantor for many years. The year he turned 67, he notified the kibbutz that he would no longer lead them in prayer. When asked why, he answered, " I prefer people asking me why I didn't chant the service, than why I did."
There is one more reason why I hesitate to answer my congregation's call in the affirmative. Common wisdom holds that as people grow older, they become more religious. People like to joke that the closer they come to meeting their Maker, the more punctilious they are in observing His commandments. That process hasn't happened to me. In fact, quite the opposite has taken place. I have become less observant over the years. In years past I attended a daily morning minyan; today I attend services only on Shabbat mornings. In the synagogue I do not always open the prayer book with a sense of joy and I do not pray with the sincerity I should. During the Torah reading, I listen but don't follow in my Chumash. In all honesty, I don't think I'm the person to lead a Jewish congregation.
And so, perhaps this evening I'll pick up the phone and call the chairman of the rabbinic search committee. I'll thank him for thinking of me - I'll tell him it was a real honor - and I will wish him luck in finding the right person for the job.
Oh, and about the imaginary aspect of the phone call - what a wonderful opportunity it afforded me to reminisce on my life and to take the measure of the man I am today.