Sunday the Rabbi Stayed Home

by Harry Kemelman

  “You are talking about some of the seats that have little nameplates on them. I don’t suppose you happened to notice, but on that stand you were talking from and on the reader’s desk behind you and on the very chair you were sitting on, there was a little brass plate telling that it was contributed by the Kallen Family Fund, all the pulpit furniture, including the ark and the public address system you were talking through. Maybe he wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to give it if he had known some young wise guy was going to use it to call him a worshiper of the golden calf.”

  “Money isn’t everything,” said Gorfinkle, “and it doesn’t give you the right–”

  “Sure, I know money isn’t everything. Some people can talk and make speeches instead. I didn’t go to college like you boys. I grew up in the streets, but I learned a couple of things there. One was talk is cheap. And when some wise guy would sound off about something he claimed to know for sure, we would say, ‘Put your money where your mouth is.’”

  “Well, let me tell you–”

  “I just want to ask you one question, Ted. It’s about your sermon. I’m not going to ask you what the purpose of it was. That was pretty clear: The temple is growing; it’s getting too big for the both of us. Maybe you think it would be better for all concerned if you cut it down some in size.”

  “I didn’t–”

  “No, what I want to ask you is, in your sermon, in laying down the law the way you did, did you think of yourself as Moses? Or God?”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  There were less than twenty-five present Friday evening in the tiny Hillel House chapel, and Rabbi Small suspected that some of them were Gentiles. One who sat well in back certainly was not Jewish, since he was dressed in black and wore a Roman collar. The rabbi assumed he was the director of the Newman Club at the college, and so it turned out when he approached him at the end of the service and introduced himself. Father Bennett was a youngish-looking man of thirty, slim and boyish, and he laughed easily.

  “Scouting the opposition, Father?” the rabbi teased.

  The priest laughed. “For a while, I thought you might need me to round out your minyan. Is that the word?”

  “That’s the word. The attendance was rather disappointing.”

  “Actually, I’m surprised you got as many as you did. The great majority of students left this afternoon or earlier–right after their last class. Not that Rabbi Dorfman draws crowds, you understand. For that matter, I figure I am getting only about a quarter of the students I should,” he added hastily, as if to avoid any disparagement of Rabbi Dorfman. “In our case, it’s understandable: The church is in a state of flux; we’re trying to modernize. But so many of our young people are holding back, as though waiting to see which road the church will take. They don’t accept blindly; they question and discuss and argue.”

  “And you find this disturbing?”

  “Not at all,” said the priest quickly. “But much that they question we are not in a position to answer. Take the matter of birth control. So many of our Catholic students come from large families. In most cases, they are the first of their families to go to college. Well, you know from hearing them talk that they aren’t planning to have six or seven children; two or three at the most, and that means birth control.”

  “Well?”

  “Of course, upper-income Catholics have been doing it for years. In the higher social levels the large family is the exception, rather than the rule. But these young people are frightfully sincere. If the church establishes a regulation that runs counter to their common sense, they won’t just disregard it, as other generations have done. They’re more apt to disassociate themselves from the church completely.”

  “Young people grow wiser or at least more tolerant as they grow older,” said the rabbi.

  “Perhaps,” said Father Bennett, “although frankly, I’m hoping the church will grow more tolerant, too. On this matter of birth control, for instance, the committee the Pope set up to study the question, opinion was overwhelmingly in favor of permitting the use of the pill.”

  “But the Pope has come out against the pill.”

  “For the present, yes. But there’s a good chance one of these days he may change the doctrine.”

  The rabbi shook his head. “He can’t. He really can’t.”

  The priest smiled. “It’s not a dogma, you know, and the church is a very human institution.”

  “It’s also a very logical institution, and the question of birth control impinges on the sanctity of marriage, which is a dogma.”

  “And what is your position?”

  “Well, we regard monogamous marriage as a highly artificial institution which is nevertheless the best system we have for organizing society. It is like a legal contract, which can be broken by divorce in the event that it becomes impossible for the two principals to continue. But with you, marriage is a sacrament and marriages are made in heaven. You can’t permit divorce, because that would suggest that heaven had erred, and that is unthinkable. The best you can afford is annulment–a kind of legal fiction that it never happened.”

  They had left Hillel House and were strolling along the neat campus walk. Now they had arrived in front of the Dorfman home. “And how do you see birth control affecting our teaching on marriage?” asked Father Bennett.

  “It becomes a question of what the function of marriage is,” said the rabbi. “If it is procreation, then I suppose it makes sense to consider it the business of heaven. But it is hard to imagine heaven being greatly concerned with an institution that is largely intended for recreation. And that would be the effect if the use of the pill were condoned.”

  When Father Bennett had left them and the baby-sitter had departed and they were alone together, Miriam asked, “What got into you tonight, David? Were you deliberately baiting that nice Father Bennett?”

  He looked at her in surprise and then grinned. “I suppose it’s hardly the sort of discussion I would be likely to hold with Father Burke in Barnard’s Crossing. Somehow I feel freer here. Perhaps it’s the academic atmosphere. Do you think he was annoyed?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “If he was, he took it well.”

  Professor Richardson lived in an old Victorian house. A large, square vestibule was separated by sliding doors from the living room, at the other end of which was another pair of sliding doors, which led to the dining room. Both pairs of doors had been pushed back to form one huge L-shaped room. By nine Saturday night the party was in full swing. People were standing around in small groups sipping their drinks. At one end of the room several chairs were clustered around a small table where the rabbi and Mrs. Small were sitting with their host, Professor Richardson, a youngish-looking, athletic man who kept interrupting his conversation with the rabbi to jump up to greet some new arrival, whom he would bring over to present. Mrs. Richardson circulated among her guests with occasional hasty forays into the kitchen to replenish the supply of food and drinks.

  Invariably there were questions: “Why do you people wear that shawl thing with the fringed edges at your services?” “Do you have to have ten men in order to pray?” “Those dietary laws you people have–they were a health measure, weren’t they? Why do you need them now that we have modern methods of refrigeration?” “What’s being done to bring the synagogue up to date?”

  Most of the older people, faculty members, made a point of coming over; and they, too, asked questions, meaningless, polite questions, intended only to make conversation: “You from around here, Rabbi?” “How do you like our school?” “You taking Bob Dorfman’s place?”

  On the other hand, the majority of the young people, he soon saw, had come not to meet him, but one another. They stood around in small groups; in one corner six or eight were sitting on the floor, one of them lying on his belly, his feet in worn moccasins waving in the air. From their intent expressions punctuated by explosive laughter, he gathered they were telling jokes, off-color jokes probably. So
me of those who did approach him apologized for having missed the service the night before. When the student president of Hillel slid into the chair beside him, the rabbi remarked on it. The youth nodded. “You know how it is, Rabbi. No matter how you dress it up in your publicity, it’s still a religious service. But an open house like this is a party. You can take a girl to something like this, and it constitutes a date. Understand?”

  A tall, ungainly student with blondish hair approached. “H’lo, Rabbi, Mrs. Small.” It was Stuart Gorfinkle.

  “Oh, Stu, we’ve been trying to get you,” said the rabbi.

  “Yes, we phoned a couple of times,” said Miriam, “and left a message.”

  “Yeah, I got it. Sorry I couldn’t make it to the Hillel service last night. I had a date.”

  “That’s all right,” said the rabbi. “Are you driving home with us? We plan to leave about nine tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, it’s like this, Rabbi. A couple of guys who live in Gloucester are leaving tonight, and they offered me a lift–”

  He seemed embarrassed, so the rabbi said quickly, “Of course, Stuart.”

  “Well–say, I thought I’d drop in to see you some time tomorrow afternoon if you’re going to be home.” The young man sat down.

  “By all means. We’re expecting the students who are back from school.”

  Father Bennett came up and took a vacant chair beside the rabbi. He glanced at Stuart and half nodded, as though not sure whether he knew him or not. He smiled at Miriam.

  “Do I have to apologize to you, Father?” asked the rabbi. “My wife thought I was baiting you last night.”

  “Oh, really?” He laughed. “Of course, you realize, Mrs. Small, that your husband is a Jesuit. Myself, I’m not very strong in the hairsplittings of theological argument. You have a name for that sort of reasoning, don’t you, Rabbi?”

  “Pilpul,” said the rabbi, “although I think you will find it somewhat different from Jesuitical disciplines.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Father Bennett. “But, as my young people say, each person must do his thing, and mine is essentially counseling. I try to instill in my people a simple faith, and I leave all the subtleties to the big guns of the church. My feeling is that once a person has faith, then everything else falls into line. Since we’re all pretty much in agreement on that, I consider it my contribution to the ecumenical spirit.”

  The rabbi coughed apologetically. “Well, not quite. There’s a difference in orientation. You Catholics are heaven-oriented, while we Jews are content with this world. There was a saint in the Middle Ages who never laughed–”

  The priest nodded. “‘My Savior is crucified, and shall I laugh?’”

  “That’s the one. And it’s actually a logical attitude in the light of your theology. You aspire to sainthood. We are content with the human level. Of course,” he added, “it isn’t because we lack fervor or aspiration. Rather, we believe that if you aspire to something above the human level, there is grave danger of falling below it.”

  “But faith, Rabbi. If you have faith in the majesty and glory of God–”

  “Ah, but we don’t–”

  “No faith?” The priest was shocked.

  “None that is enjoined upon us. It is not a requirement of our religion, as it is of yours. I suspect it’s a kind of special talent that some have to a greater degree than others. Basically, our thinking is in line with the passage from Micah: ‘What doth the Lord require of thee but to walk in His way?’”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Not really. You can walk in His way and still have doubts of His existence. After all, you can’t always control your thoughts. When you affirm your belief, doesn’t that imply that just prior to your affirmation you doubted? Our doubts are not accompanied by feelings of guilt and terror that afflict your people. Psychologically, I suppose, it’s healthier.”

  “And you, Rabbi, do you believe?”

  The rabbi smiled. “I suspect that like you or anyone else for that matter, sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t.”

  Stuart rose. “I got to split now, Rabbi. We’ll be starting out pretty soon. See you tomorrow maybe?” He nodded uncertainly at the priest.

  “Sure, Stuart.”

  “Drive carefully,” said Miriam.

  The rabbi looked around him and remarked that almost all the young people had gone. He turned to Miriam and then said to Father Bennett, “I think maybe–”

  Just then Professor Richardson came over. “Oh, you can’t go now, Rabbi. We’re expecting Lucius Rathbone–oh, there he is now.” He hurried off to greet the newcomer.

  “Lucius Rathbone?”

  “The poet,” Father Bennett explained. “Songs of the Ghetto. Blue Notes. He’s our poet in residence. Bill Richardson said he might be coming over.”

  The rabbi looked curiously toward the door and saw a tall, light-skinned Negro of forty, resplendent in a white turtleneck jersey and a black silk Nehru jacket. From his neck hung a silver chain and medallion, which he fingered. Beneath his pencil-line moustache, and above his little goatee he flashed strong white teeth in momentary smiles of greeting as Richardson, with one hand on his elbow, steered him across the room. His head held back, he looked down his aquiline nose from under lidded eyes as Richardson talked.

  They came over. “Rabbi Small filled in for Bob Dorfman this week, Lucius. Mrs. Small, Rabbi, Lucius Rath-bone.”

  The poet extended a hand and permitted the rabbi to press it. Still clutching the Negro, Richardson put an arm around the rabbi’s shoulder. “Now that the youngsters are gone, Rabbi, we can all have a quiet cup of coffee around the table.”

  “We really ought to go, professor. We have a babysitter–”

  “Surely you’ve got time for a cup of coffee.”

  The rabbi allowed himself to be persuaded. There were around a dozen seated at the table, and the talk was addressed largely to the poet.

  “You working on something special right now, Lucius?”

  “What about Prex’s statement on the Student Afro-American League?”

  “You hear anything about a new department of urban sociology, Lucius?”

  It was obvious to the rabbi that they had come not to greet him, but in the hope and expectation of meeting the poet. And it was just as obvious that he enjoyed their attention. He fielded their questions sometimes sarcastically, sometimes even caustically, but always with peremptory authority. And when on occasion his answer embarrassed the questioner, he tossed his head back and laughed hugely, as if to make it clear that no real animus was intended. It was a kind of game he was playing with them. When he noticed the rabbi glancing at his watch, he called across the table, “You’re not planning on leaving now, are you, Rabbi?” as though resenting the idea.

  “I’m afraid we have to–”

  The poet’s face took on a cunning look. “You know, my uncle was a rabbi.”

  “Is that so?” said the rabbi, although he knew he was being drawn.

  Rathbone’s voice shifted suddenly to a higher pitch, almost a falsetto, and he spoke in the street dialect of the Negro ghetto. “Leastways, that’s what we called him. He was a preacher and had a storefront church he called Temple of Zion. Reverend Lucius Harper. I was named after him. We always called him Rabbi Harper. My old daddy said it was a religion he made up so’s he could grease up to the Jew landlord who owned the building and maybe get free rent. But Rabbi Harper claimed as how he did it under conviction and that us poor colored folk would be better off if we stuck with the Old Testament. What do you think of that?”

  “Naturally, I think you would,” said the rabbi.

  “Yeah? Then how come all the stores down in our neighborhood that were profiteering on us were owned by Jews?”

  “Now, Lucius–” Professor Richardson was distressed.

  A spot of color appeared in the rabbi’s normally pale cheek. He said quietly, “I know only one Jewish merchant who had a store in the Negro area in the town wher
e I grew up. His father had started it long before your people moved to the neighborhood. He was certainly not a rich man. He couldn’t sell the store, and he never had the money to close up and start another in a different location. Finally the decision was made for him when there was a riot in the area. They broke his windows and cleaned out his shelves for him.”

  The Negro was not abashed; on the contrary, he glared at the rabbi, and when he spoke, it was once again in his normal cultured baritone, and his tone was accusing. “And am I supposed to feel shocked because my people finally kicked over the traces and got a little of their own back? For four hundred years you have oppressed us and brutalized us and enslaved us, robbed us of our heritage and our manhood–”

  The rabbi rose, and Miriam, too, got up. “We really have to go, Mrs. Richardson.” He turned to the Negro poet. “Those four hundred years you speak of, Mr. Rathbone, my people lived in the ghettos of Europe–Poland, Russia, Germany–and there were no Negroes there. My grandfather, who came to this country from a small town in Russia at the turn of the century, like the rest of my ancestors, had never even seen a Negro, much less enslaved and brutalized and robbed him of his manhood.” Miriam had come over to stand beside her husband, and he took her arm. Now he stared directly into the angry eyes of the handsome, light-skinned Negro. “Can you say the same of your ancestors, Mr. Rathbone?”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  You whipsawed me,” said Irving Kallen ruefully. “You and the Doc between you.”

  Meyer Paff grinned. “Nothing to it, Irving,” he said. “It was the last hand, so we were just trying to make a pot.”