High Holidays

by David Knepler

Somewhere in college I felt compelled to go to High Holidays. It wasn't always that way. My freshman year I resisted the call, much more excited by the availability of sex, drugs, and alcohol that life on campus offered. It was my first time away from home, and I was having a good time. I didn't know where services would be, not that I made much of an effort to find out. I probably lied to my parents, telling them I was going, as I had gone every year while I was growing up. The closest Jewish congregation that I was aware of was easily 50 miles away; there was no Hillel on our campus of 800 students.

By my sophomore year, I had become bored with drinking, but somehow sex and drugs still managed to retain my interest. Once again I promised my parents I would attend High Holiday services, but this year I kept my word. Some freshman students invited me to their conservative services in Baltimore, and I stayed with one of their families. The services were held in the largest synagogue I had ever been in. People sat basically in order of how much money they had paid for their tickets. During breaks I wandered around the synagogue, looked at the classrooms-- the place was more like a university campus. The rabbi and the designated speakers implored the congregants for more money, so that the dream of a daily chapel could be achieved.

I focussed in on the prayers and the translations. I found them inspiring and thought-provoking, more than in the past, although they were the same prayerbooks I had grown up with. This was probably because I had become more socially and politically aware at college, and I found much material relating to creating a better "me" and a better world.

At the Shermans' house that night, the family talked about the beauty of the synagogue building, and about who had new cars and how they were dressed. The the conversation turned to schvartzes and their general laziness and unworthiness. I wondered to myself if I was the only one who had read the translations into English of the Al Cheyt.

The next year I didn't plan on going anywhere for the High Holidays, since the bad taste of the Baltimore situation still lingered. I was scheduled to be in theatre rehearsals throughout the High Holidays. But the afternoon of Rosh Hoshanah eve, something awoke in me, and I heard myself explaining to the Drama department director that I was going to be absent from some rehearsals, and didn't know when I'd be back. I realized I had to be in shul for the High Holidays. I had heard about a small congregation in a town about 60 miles away, in Easton, Maryland. I had never been to Easton, but found some maps, put on some nice clothes, and just started driving. I don't remember all the details, but when I got to Easton I think I either looked up "Synagogues" in the Yellow Pages and found the location, or kept asking people until someone knew.

I sat in my car outside the synagogue, waiting for people to show up. Several cars pulled up at once, and people began to pile out. Someone had the keys to open the door, and I walked over to them. I was a little nervous, wondering if they were going to ask who invited me, ask to to pay, generally ask a lot of screening questions. They instead asked a question I was not expecting. They asked if I was the Rabbi.

Over the next 24 hours, and then again on Yom Kippur, I learned the story of this little congregation on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. They once had enough families to keep the synagogue bustling, but times had changed, as families had moved to Baltimore and other cities. Now they only got together for the High Holidays, and rented the synagogue to a church the rest of the year. The had hired, sight unseen, a rabbinical student from Baltimore to lead them for the High Holidays, and that's why they thought I might be him. One of the families immediately offered to be my overnight host, and I accepted.

The Rabbi arrived about 20 minutes late, a thin, young, bearded man who worked in a shoe store when he was not in school. Another family was acting as his host. We had just slightly more than necessary for a Minyan. We found where the chairs were stacked, unfolded them into loose rows, and prayed. We made Kiddush together with food the families had brought. The strength of the community was not in numbers but in simple good faith, good cheer, and warmth. I wasn't afraid of the High Holidays anymore.

—from our September 1993 Newsletter

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