My Story 20

I followed up on Mendel Gertner's suggestion, and applied to the course for sofrim. Little did I realize that this was to be for me a watershed moment in many ways. First of all, the entire class was made up of Kollel students. These were advanced learners, way beyond the level of training which most rabbis receive. Most of my learning, up to that point, had been self taught, with important rabbis guiding me, and allowing me to "pick their brains".My classmates were well versed in texts, familiar with vast arrays of opinions. I was jumping into the deep end of the pool. In addition, the course was conducted in Yiddish, a language in which I am not really fluent. When I didn't know a word that was used, I would write it down, and inquire afterwards as to what it meant. The instructor, Rabbi Ben Zion Wosner, is the son of one of the "gedolim" of Bnei Brak in Israel. Like most Israeli rabbis, he was knowledgeable and personable, but with never a smile or a laugh. I was not used to that. But most eye opening to me was how sources were dealt with. What I had previously learned was that there was no such thing as a 'wrong" rabbinic opinion. Everyone was right on some level. The art of "Paskening" (coming up with a final ruling), was to weigh the strengths of the authorities involved in any dispute, arrive at a majority consensus, thereby determining the "main" opinion on an issue, while also considering those whose rulings that were stricter to be followed where possible, as well as those whose opinions were more lenient, to be utilized in an emergency. Here, there was a different "ball game". Sources were analyzed critically. Our "jumping off point" was the Mishnah Berurah, which has become the standard book of halachah for most Ashkenazim. Rabbi Wosner would examine the Mishnah Berurah, pointing out misquotes, misunderstandings of earlier opinions, and sometimes fuzzy logic. He did the same for the seventeenth century rabbis whose opinions form the backbone of Ashkenazi practice. I had never heard anything like this. I expected this class of rabbinic scholars to protest, or even walk out. Nobody did. I then realized that the halachic process had been "dumbed down" in less advanced learning. I had the very troubling experience of a Yeshiva dean ask me what I had learned in my last class. Upon hearing that I had learned that there were four glaring errors in the Mishnah Berurah on the letter "tet", he said "there are no errors in the Mishnah Berurah". I opened the book and showed him. He ran from the room crying. I wasn't quite sure how to feel about this. After deconstructing the Mishnah Berurah, Rabbi Wosner would then analyze the sources to find out what the proper conclusion was. This gave me a whole new understanding of how halachah works! On one level, I was gaining insights into the scribal laws that most sofrim, or even most rabbis, never get. When I moved to Israel three years later, I quickly became recognized as an authority in this area. But on another level, I was realizing something very troubling. Ashkenazi halachah was heavily based on authorities who relied heavily on "svara", theoretical constructs, not based on sources. I was learning that many of these svarot were less than logical. In some cases, Rabbi Wosner would dismiss these views, no matter who came up with them. In other cases, he would say "this doesn't make sense, but it is the accepted halachah". I found that troubling. As we studied the entire gamut of opinions, it became clear to me that the Sepharadic authorities were much more sources based, with minimal "svara". Although Rabbi Wosner was rejecting these views as "not our minhag", I couldn't unsee what I had seen. Years earlier, I had gotten to know the Syrian Jewish community in Brooklyn The son of their Chief Rabbi had been my professor for Arabic in college, and had invited me many times for Shabbat. I found the Sepharadic ways aesthetically pleasing, but I knew it "wasn't mine". I could only admire it from afar. But now, the superiority of their approach was jumping out at me from every page. I felt perplexed, but not yet at the verge of a breakthrough. I began studying more and more Sepharadic texts. They made so much sense! As I began doing work as a sofer, the Sepharadic script seemed to hypnotize me. Although most Ashkenazim consider it inferior (the Mishnah Berurah considers it invalid!), its variations seemed to so well  fit sources! I struggled with this for the next ten years. Finally, I approached Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, a former Chief Rabbi of Israel, who only gained a larger following after leaving that post. He convened a Beit Din, and gave me permission to "become" Sepharadic. He even went on television and praised my decision. But I'm jumping ahead in my story. To be continued.

My Story 19

Grand Rabbi Joel Teitelbaum of Satmar (1887-1979) was a great rabbinic scholar, with a following both as a Rav, a traditional halachic authority, and as a Hasidic Rebbe already in his teens. He was personally modest, but fiercely outspoken, about everything that seemed to threaten Judaism. He is perhaps best known outside of Hungarian Hasidism for his staunch, lifelong opposition to Zionism and the State of Israel. But for his followers and admirers, he was far more than that. True, even in his youth he opposed Zionism on halachic and Talmudic grounds. But as time time went by,he was even more disturbed by, and freely spoke and wrote about, the anti-religious actions of the Zionist leadership, that most preferred to hush up and ignore. (I have previous written about some of these atrocities). On the other hand, he was opposed to public demonstrations. Wherever he was, his heart led him to ameliorate the physical and spiritual pain of his people. The Nazis  only came into Hungary in 1944, but quickly began their extermination of Hungarian Jews. The Rabbi of Satmar was also deported to a camp, but bribes offered for his escape were accepted. He arrived in Brooklyn, New York in 1946, where he reestablished the tradition of Hungarian Jewry in all its details. Unlike most other recent arrivals after the holocaust, his followers were not allowed to flounder and seek out their own  ways to survive in their new environment. An organized community was set up to find employment, and provide for the needs of the poor. Every Satmar Hasid was expected to donate 10% of his income to a common fund, This money was used, at first, for their own poor, but later was expanded to help any and all Jews who were in need. The Satmar Rav, as he became known, was first and foremost concerned with acts of "Hesed" (loving kindness). He shunned all organized communal institutions that were already in America, for many of the same reasons that members of this group have expressed. He set up schools, a Beit Din, mikvaot, kashrut supervision (he considered the OU to be both corrupt and incompetent. A view I share), as well as an array of other institutions as they became necessary. He was totally unconcerned with recognition by others, preferring to speak and teach his own truth. Even today, many people are converted to Judaism through  Satmar Batei Din. These conversions are not recognized by Israel, but they don't care! I was privileged to have an audience with him on three occasions. He was already in his nineties, and physically weak. As is customary, I handed him a note with my prayer requests, along with a small donation. He quickly accepted the note, but wouldn't accept the money until I assured him that I could afford it! The food packages which I received were only one of his projects. Many hospitals in the New York area have rooms set up by Satmar, where kosher food is available for those visiting the sick, as well as places for prayer and rest. Under the Satmar Rav, the movement grew to some 100,000 members, with few joining from the outside, but nonetheless providing help wherever and whenever needed. Sadly, none of his children survived him. He was succeeded by his nephew, Rabbi Moshe Teitelbaum, who continued his work. (A segment of the community did not follow Reb Moshe, but rather Reb Yoel's widow!) Unfortunately, when Rabbi Moshe passed away in 2006, the movement split into two factions, each following one of Rabbi Moshe's sons.  Rabbi Joel also set up a rural Satmar enclave near Monroe, New York, which was named "Kiryas Joel" (Joel's Town). More recently, it has become an independent township, with the name "Palm Tree" (translation of Teitelbaum). If you visit, be prepared to have people fight over you for the honor of your presence at a meal. During those days in Monsey, when I and my family were in danger of falling apart if not for Satmar, I was friendly with a man named Charlie Roth. He was the editor of a weekly, secular Jewish publication called "The Jewish Post and Opinion". Upon hearing my experience, he wanted to run a story about Satmar's distribution of food. I called the man who had contacted me, and asked if he was willing to be interviewed. He said "No, we don't look for publicity". I said "but Satmar gets so much bad publicity (for anti-Zionist activities), why not get some good publicity for a change?" His answer "We don't care what anybody thinks of us".

My Story 18

First, I want to reiterate that my purpose in writing this series is not to point out unpleasant things, but to explain why I take such a strong stance against charlatans, and anyone who twists Judaism for personal or political gain. I abhor those who use legitimate Torah principles in such a way as to protect the guilty. As long as these things are not in the open, nothing will change. 
When I lost my job as rabbi of the Northern Westchester synagogue, I was at a loss as to what to do and where to go. Our son, Nachman, was just under a year old. I had no savings, and clergy are not covered under the unemployment laws that normally support those out of work. Not too far from where we were living, was the community of Monsey, New York, with its largely Orthodox population. We had often gone there for shopping. I consulted a rabbi there, who advised me to take a job as a fundraiser on a commission basis, and find an apartment in Monsey. We were soon to learn that Monsey was a very divided community. There was "up the hill" Monsey. It was Modern Orthodox, led by a very prominent figure in that movement. It was affluent. It was separate in almost every way from "down the hill", which was Hareidi (ultra Orthodox),mostly poor, with both Yeshivish and Hasidic constituents, who cooperated with each other...most of the time. The "up the hill" community assuaged their consciences by donating to a communal charity which was supposed to help poor "down the hillers". Neither side respected the other's rabbis or policies. Down the hill Monsey was divided also, not so much by ideology, but by economics. Those with rich relatives bought homes, with basement apartments, mostly illegal, rented out to families without the "right connections", who would struggle to pay the exorbitant rents, which paid the mortgages of their landlords. I inquired what, if anything, the rabbis (including a Yeshivish, world-renowned so-called Gadol) were doing about the inequity. The answer was nothing. After all, there was a more important issue. It had been discovered that the community's swimming pool, despite having a wall around it for modestly, could nevertheless be peered into if one stood on an adjacent hill. The rabbis were very busy organizing the construction of a larger wall. There ended their activism. We rented a basement apartment. It was July, so it would be several months before I would find out that only part of the apartment got heat. When I asked the landlord for an explanation, he said "you never asked". I was a dismal failure as a fundraiser. What I brought in just barely covered the rent. I decided that I must swallow my pride, and apply for public assistance. The landlord's wife told us "You can't do that!" "What?!? Why not?" "Because it is an illegal apartment. You will be guilty of informing". It was then that I realized that these Torah laws were being exploited to protect the oppressors. I went to the charitable organization that was funded by "up the hill". "Yes, we can give you work!" I was elated. "You will work on a loading dock, putting refrigerators onto trucks". Now, I never was an athlete, and I knew I was not strong enough for that kind of work. "Don't you have anything else?" "No. If you decline our offer, all we can do is give you two loaves of Challah bread and a bottle of grape juice every Friday". I was broken. I fell into depression. I had no way of feeding my family. Sima even offered to go back to her parent's home so that she and the baby would not be a burden upon me. That made me feel much, much worse. Then, one Thursday night, I received a phone call. A man with a very thick Hungarian Yiddish accent was on the line. "Rabbi Siegel, this is so and so from the Satmar Hasidim. We have heard of your situation. We have spies in every synagogue to find out who is unemployed, or underemployed. Tonight, at 4 am, you will receive a shipment of food, enough to last for two weeks. It will come every two weeks until you no longer need it. At that point, let us know. It comes at 4 am so that no one will see who gets it, but rest assured, many of your neighbors get the same service. Please do not say no". In the package were fresh fish, meat, bread, fruit, vegetables, even candy, in abundance. As I'm writing this, I'm tearing up with feelings of gratitude. This would not be the last time that Satmar would come to my aid, while the "larger" Jewish community would let me down. Shortly afterward, I received a visit from a kindly man named Mendel Gertner. He was a member of the "Malachim" (the Angels), a small sect that had broken away from Chabad in about 1920. He said "forgive me, but being a rabbi is not a profession. You need a profession". He got me into a course for "Sofrim" (scribes), which was to sustain me for the next twenty years, Besides the advantage of having a profession, that course was to have a profound effect on my thinking. More about Satmar, and the Sofrim course, in my next post.

My Story 17

During my time in Northern Westchester, I often visited the wondrously friendly Nitra community. When I occasionally had a halachic issue that I felt was beyond my abilities, and required a hands-on consideration that precluded a call to Rabbi Sharfstein in Cincinnati, I would sometimes go to their rabbi, Rav Shlomo Ungar. Once, Rav Ungar advised me to get to know his young son-in-law, the Dayyan Rav Hillel Weinberger, who was taking many responsibilities off the shoulders of the aging rabbi. I met him, and was astounded by his knowledge, his compassion, and his ability to cut through folklore, legend, and politics to arrive at a conclusion. He was about my age; approximately thirty. But the comparison ended there. All of rabbinic literature, from the earliest parts of Talmud, to twentieth-century responsa literature were firmly committed to his memory (including books I had never even heard of). I not only came to speak with him often, but he graciously agreed to allow me to call him with any question on my mind. For the next several years I did so...several times a day. He is now a leading figure in the Hungarian Jewish community, and cannot easily be reached by phone. But what I got out of the eight years I was in close contact with him was like an education beyond anything I could have imagined. Perhaps the most important thing I picked up from him was the Hungarian Orthodox worldview. It seemed almost schizophrenic to me at first, but I came to understand and sympathize with it. On the one hand, it was very resistant to change...any change. Even the dress of prewar Hungary was preserved in every detail. The accommodations of Modern Orthodoxy to Western ideas and values was, to them, anathema. The Judaism of Yeshiva University and its sister institutions was seen as Reform-lite. Even the "Gedolim" of the Yeshiva World who had gone over to using scientific information in deciding halachic issues, were looked upon warily. Nobody, but nobody, was accepted merely because of his position or reputation. All that these things meant was that their views must be considered. But, if they didn't meet standards of logic and sources, they would be rejected. It seemed like a very closed and narrow system...at first. Then I saw that they made a sharp distinction between what SHOULD be done (in their view) and what is the actual halachah. A strong stand must be taken against any kind of weakening of traditional values and forms, but if someone had a problem, that was a very different story. Except for the areas of Kashrut and Passover, their actual halachic system was light years more liberal than even the most left-leaning Modern Orthodox rabbi. For instance, in the realm of "nidah" (menstrual law) in which there are many opinions as to what sort of stains rendered a woman menstruant, and hence forbidden to her husband, they ignored what was acceptable and not acceptable among contemporary rabbis, and would find sources that would permit the couple to be intimate, in cases that would make other rabbis grab their heads in horror. (I would later learn that the Sepharadic approach was virtually identical). Even more, the Dayyan taught me to distinguish between halachah and politics. For example, even Modern Orthodox go very far in finding halachic problems that would serve to delegitimize non-Orthodox practices. The Hungarians also wanted to keep people away from these movements, but not at the expense of falsifying the halachah. On the issue of mechitzah (the physical partition between men and women in the synagogue), the lack of which some rabbis had written was a Biblical violation, despite it not appearing anywhere until the thirteenth century, and then labeled as not a big deal, but which twentieth-century rabbis had chalked up to "too obvious to mention", the Dayyan opened up a Shulchan Aruch, and said to me "It should be right here, between this subparagraph and that. Hmm..it's not. It must not be the halachah then, is it?" At the same time, he stressed that all innovations were dangerous, and must be protested. But writing large number of Jews out of Judaism, as many do, was not acceptable. Even inter-hasidic issues were politics. It is well known that there is a great deal of animosity between the Hungarian Hasidim and Chabad. This animosity stems from three things; Chabad's attitude towards the secular Zionist establishment, their alleged over-adoration of their Rebbe, and the fact that Chabad has their own version of many mitzvot (there is a Chabad Tallit, a Chabad Torah script, Chabad tefillin, Chabad etrog, and most controversial of all, a Chabad mikveh.) Many of these were ruled invalid by Hungarian rabbis. I asked the Dayyan about this., His answer "Politics". I learned that politics are often a way to fight ideologies that were seen as "dangerous", but should never be used to fight individuals, or to delegitimize our fellow Jews. Beyond that, their division of "Heimish" and "Modern" didn't so much apply to practice, as to ideology. Even a non-observant Jew, who believed in old-world traditional Judaism, although he, for whatever reason, didn't practice it, would be welcomed like a brother. On the other hand, even a distinguished Talmudic scholar, who sided with innovation and "modernization" would be shunned. Unlike Chabad, the Hungarian groups do not seek new members in their communities, But Baalei Teshuvah and converts who persist, do join. Their preferred approach is to urge, and more importantly, help people to become what they consider to be good Jews, but to find their own path within Torah. Again, these are my experiences. You may have seen other things. No group is perfect, and everyone has their black sheep. But what I saw at Nitra, has been repeated over and over in my life when dealing with Hungarian communities and rabbis. Although there are many charitable Jews, the dedication of the Hungarians is unique. I experienced this at several crucial junctures in my life (to be described later). I do not know how I would have survived without them. That will be my next post.

My Story 16

In my experience, non-Hassidic Ashkenazi Judaism fails to answer the great longings of the soul. In the aftermath of the Shabbatean debacle, a sterilized, unemotional Judaism came to be. It centered around depth of study in texts; not connected with everyday life, and certainly not bringing one to a sense of transcendence and connection to G-d. (This is my experience, and everyone is free to disagree). The exalted poetry of the Kabbalah, which had for centuries been the direction of most scholars, was traded in for immersion in the details of legal text. Spirituality had proven too dangerous. Even the study of halachah, which had always been the purpose of going into the depths of Talmud, became the province of the few. Rather, books that explained and justified the understanding of Jewish law as expressed in customs of the East European communities largely took the place of the traditional methods of comparing Talmudic and Medieval sources and coming up with conclusions. Conformity in ideology and practice, it was thought, would prevent another popular revolution similar to Shabbateanism. When Hasidism arose in the mid and late eighteenth century, It was seen as a threat. Even stringencies introduced by Hasidism, such as much sharper knives used for Shechitah (kosher slaughter) were condemned as being deviations from tradition. Some rabbis even declared meat from such shechitah to be non-kosher. The ecstatic prayer of the Hasidim seemed particularly threatening. A hundred years of strife were to ensue, with undercurrents of that strife continuing to this very day. As you have probably gathered by now, I am definitely in the camp of the Hasidim when it comes to ideology. A great exception to all this was Hungary. Although there had been attempts to establish a Jewish presence in Hungary for many centuries, this only came about in the mid-seventeenth century, when Jews from Ukraine and Poland sought refuge from the Cossack massacres going on in those countries. The Hungarian community was fairly isolated for about a century and a half. When ideas of the "Enlightenment" began to come in from Germany, the rabbis made a united front against this threat to Torah Judaism. In fact, Hungarian Reform was not nearly as radical as in other countries, and looked more like what we would call "Modern Orthodox" today. Nevertheless, it represented deviation. Hasidism arrived in Hungary about the same time as the "Enlightenment" did. The new "enlightened" ideas were a common threat to both traditional and Hasidic Orthodoxy. As a result, the huge gulf between "Hasidim" and "Mitnagdim" (opponents of Hasidism) that divided East European Jewry, simply did not occur in Hungary. Differences between the non-Hasidic and Hasidic centered around style rather than substance. The Shabbatean movement  had much less influence in Hungary than in other countries. As a result, there was much less overreaction to spiritual expression, or the free study of halachah, The Hungarian Yeshivot, of which Nitra was one, would study the Talmud in the classical way, usually associated today only with Sepharadim; understanding the text, following each concept through centuries of halachic opinion, and coming up with a conclusion. Many prominent rabbis also did double duty as Hasidic rebbes. But there was a difference. Unlike the adoration of Hasidic rebbes in other places, the Hungarian rebbes were seen more as the embodiment of the community and its spiritual longings, their hopes and dreams. Their rabbis studied halachic opinions of traditional Orthodox rabbis, even delving into the writings of Sepharadi greats. Hungarian Jews didn't get into battles over minutia. As far as they were concerned, there were only two types of Judaism; "Heimish" (old 'homey" ways) and "Modern" (with the emphasis on the second syllable). The "Modern" meant assimilationist views, challenging the classical understanding of Torah. The "Heimish", be they Hungarian, German, Polish, Lithuanian, Russian, Moroccan, Iraqi or Yemenite were all on the same side, and were part of the conversation. A remarkable sense of humor, as well as a tremendous feeling of the imminence of G-d, permeated Hungarian Jewry. I wish that Hungary, not Lithuania, would have become the paradigm of Orthodoxy in the modern world. In the years that I lived in Northern Westchester, I got to know and admire the Hungarian approach. I became close to one of their Dayyanim (rabbinic judges), Rabbi Hillel Weinberger, who became a major influence on my thinking. That will be the next part of my story.

My Story 15

My four years in that small Northern Westchester congregation taught me several things about the American synagogue of which I had not been aware. Some of these lessons, unfortunately, only became clear to me in retrospect. The first lesson was, as I pointed out in my series "Orthodox and Non-Orthodox Judaism" is that knowledgeable, strictly Orthodox people don't generally belong to formal synagogues. They prefer a Yeshivah minyan, or an informal "shtiebel" (prayer room), where prayers could be said with appropriate concentration and devotion, minus the noise of gossip and discussions of current events that occur in most synagogues. For people who regularly study Torah, no need is felt for someone to get up and preach to them. Whereas today, Orthodox synagogues are mostly filled with people who have a commitment, to one degree or another, to Torah Judaism, this was mostly not true in the 1970s. The membership in Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform congregations, were all on the same level of observance (or lack thereof), with the "denominational" preference based on personal taste in style, rather than ideology. In one city I lived in, a synagogue boasted on its stationery that it was "the foremost Orthodox synagogue in the Mid West". But it had not a single Shabbat observant member. Rabbis taking these positions usually go in with enthusiasm to teach Torah, and raise the level of people's Jewishness. I quickly learned that the congregants had a very different goal. They wanted to be told that they were fine just as they are. They wanted to hear that coming to synagogue once a week would keep their families Jewish and happy. I was told "Rabbi, instead of talking about Torah and spirituality, can't you just give book reviews?" It soon became clear that this was not the only conflict of interests. A rabbi comes to a community, hoping to uplift it. He might make improvements in both the halachic and aesthetic aspects of the liturgy. But congregants want CONTINUITY. They want the same tunes, the same prayerbook, that they had known as children. One rabbinic friend of mine was dismissed from his congregation. I knew that he was a good rabbi, and an exceptional scholar. I asked one of the members of his board why they had fired him. "He didn't respect our traditions!" was the reply. Neither side had a clue, or even cared, what the other's goals were! Another problem is the parameters of the rabbi's authority. "Rabbi, you are in charge of the Kashrut in the kitchen". I inspected the kitchen before all events, and told the women present that certain foods were not acceptable. I was called before the board. "Rabbi, the women are complaining that you are looking over their shoulders in the kitchen". "But I was told that I am in charge". "You are in charge of certifying the kitchen as kosher, not to go in and look". The issue that "did me in" was not so much these, but the matter of separating the genders at prayer services. Until about 1970, this was not an issue in most places. Although separation, with a mechitzah (partition), is an old Jewish tradition, going back over one thousand years, many American communities, even Orthodox ones, had abandoned it. It really had no halachic basis, other than custom. However, Moshe Feinstein had falsely declared mixed seating to be a Biblical prohibition (!!!), despite it being neither in the Tanach or the Talmud. Even J.B. Soloveichik, a staunch liberal in most areas, said "If you heard Shofar in a mixed seating situation, you have not heard Shofar". Many ascribe this to a personal slight he had recently suffered at the hands of the Conservative Seminary (JTS). By 1970, few Orthodox synagogues had not fallen into line with the new pronouncements. But Orthodox rabbis were still encouraged to accept positions that called themselves "Conservative", although not necessarily having connection with the Conservative movement, but merely maintaining mixed seating. It was felt that the presence of an Orthodox rabbi in these places could only uplift these communities. By the late 1970s, Soloveichik had changed his mind, and ordered Orthodox rabbis, even those placed by his own organization, the Rabbinical Council of America (RCA) to immediately leave their congregations. Those failing to do so, would be seen as pariahs and renegades. Fearing for my career and position in the Orthodox community, I begged my congregation to go over to separate seating with a mechitzah. They refused, and I was fired. I would come to regret my stance (to be discussed in another few posts) and came to lose my respect for these two men who had, for political reasons, made mechitzah the be-all and end-all of Judaism. (I can no longer prefix the title "rabbi" to either of their names). As far as I can see, they were willing to cut off two-thirds of American Jewry in order to preserve what they saw as traditional, Lithuanian Orthodoxy. Another thing I learned was that few rabbis are in one position for more than three years. I was there for four. I learned that congregants who seemed like friends (or even like family) could turn into heartless employers.One disgruntled congregant could easily get a rabbi fired.  Whereas wealthier congregations generally pay a rabbi's mortgage, so that he will at least have equity in a house when he leaves, smaller synagogues provide congregational housing, which, of course, must be vacated at the end of the contract.Therefore, a rabbi whose contract is not renewed, finds himself homeless. Another lesson was that American congregations want young rabbis "in order to attract the youth". Rabbis over forty will rarely be hired. Those over fifty will rarely have their contracts renewed,.The Rabbinate, like professional sports, is a young man's profession. So, after four years, with a wife and not-yet one-year-old baby in tow, I was out of work with nowhere to go. Most Orthodox rabbis today are also lawyers or accountants for just this reason. (Conservative and Reform rabbinical organizations are much better at protecting a rabbi's rights). It would be twenty-one years until I would occupy another U.S. pulpit. However, besides the valuable lessons I learned, my proximity to the Nitra community introduced me to the Hungarian Orthodox tradition, totally unlike anything most people know. This would soon prove fortuitous for me and my family, besides giving me a deeper understanding of Judaism and its modes of expression. The cloud did have a silver lining.