On a lighter note:
On a Rosh Hashanah night, Cossacks captured the rabbi, cantor and president of a synagogue, granting them one final wish before killing them.
Said the Rabbi: “I prepare for my Rosh Hashanah sermon all year. Please don’t kill me before I preach my sermon and get it out of my system.”
“OK,” said the Cossacks. “You’ll give your sermon.” They turned to the cantor. “What is your final wish?”
“I practice my High Holiday renditions and compositions all year. Please let me sing them before I die.”
“Granted,” said the Cossacks. “And you,” they said to the president, “what is your final wish?”
“Let me die before I have to hear them both out,” he said.
Sermons and Melodies
Cantors and choirs are hired to inspire the congregation on the High Holidays.
As in a concert or opera, the cantor's skills, choice of melodies and manipulation of pitches drives the service. The service is a sell out if the musical presentation is complemented by a rabbi who tells a good joke or brings a tear to the eye.
“Spit not into the well from which you drink,” says the Talmud. I shouldn’t ridicule cantors, since I, too, sing and preach on the High Holidays. Yet it is worthwhile to reflect on the following allegory by the great Chassidic master the Baal Shem Tov.
The lion once grew furious with the jungle animals, and as “king of the forest,” the lion struck fear in the hearts of the animals.
“What can we do?” murmured the animals at an emergency meeting. “We are all doomed if the lion lashes out.”
“Not to worry,” said the wily fox. “I have 300 stories, anecdotes and vignettes to change the Lion’s mood.”
The animals walked confidently toward the lion's den, where the fox would make peace between the mighty lion and his subjects.
But while walking through the jungle, the fox turns to a friend and says, “You know, I forgot 100 of my entertaining stories.”
The animals were scared by the fox's lapse of memory, but the Bear calmed them.
“Not to worry,” he said. “200 vignettes by the brilliant fox will make the lion roll in laughter.”
As they neared the lion’s den, the fox turned to another colleague. “I forgot another 100 anecdotes. They simply slipped my mind.”
The animals grew fearful, but the Deer reassured them.
“No worries,” he proclaimed, “One hundred fox stories suffice to capture our king's imagination.”
As they entered the den, the lion rose to his full glory, gazing fiercely at his trembling subjects.
At this moment of truth, the animals looked hopefully to the fox to work his magic on the lion.
But the fox turned to the animals, “I am so sorry, but I forgot my last 100 stories. I have nothing to say.”
The animals went into hysteria. “Liar,” they cried. “You deceived us. What do we do now?”
“My job,” responded the fox, “was to get you out from your homes to approach the lion. I did my mission. You are here. The rest is up to you now. Let each of you find their own voice and develop a personal relationship with the king.”
This story illustrates a problem in institutionalized religion. We’ve come to rely on performing cantors and rabbis to represent us to the King of Kings.
“The rabbi's sermon today was great,” we comment. “He is very special.” Or, “The cantor’s vibrato melted my heart.”
Yet, with all due respect, we need more than the clergy to address the King. Their function is to persuade and inspire people to leave their domains and journey toward holiness. But ultimately, each one of us enters the space of G-d alone.
Every person must discover his or her inner voice, passion and spirit, to relate to G-d on a personal basis.