Rabbi Gordon Kleinwasser—fifty-one, unhappily married, and unsure of God’s existence—stroked his graying goatee and waited for the storm to erupt as Mrs. Myra Enfeld strode into his office and sat down in front of his desk.
“How are you, Myra, and how’s the family?”
“They’re fine, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about.”
Mrs. Enfeld, a thin, well-tanned woman with dark hair and a long, narrow face, moved forward in her chair. “I know you’re busy so I’ll get right to the point. It’s about Samuel Schiffenbauer. All his shaking and singing when he davens has gotten so out of hand that it’s really detracting from the service.”
Rabbi Kleinwasser stared at the ceiling, as if seeking divine inspiration, and then said in a voice just loud enough to be heard above Mrs. Enfeld’s heavy breathing, “He’s a very devout man and this is the way he speaks to God.”
“There are many people in this congregation who are just as devout—maybe even more devout—and they don’t shout and carry on like he does,” Mrs. Enfeld said.
“Well, we each need to pray in our own way. The Jewish tradition encourages individuality.”
“But we don’t live in the shtetl anymore, rabbi. It’s the twenty-first century, not Poland in 1890. You know that Reed’s bar mitzvah is coming up in two weeks and I’m going to have friends and relatives from all over the U.S.—what am I saying?—from all over the world, and I don’t want Samuel to embarrass us with his carryings on. What are my friends going to think when...
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