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PLAIN TALK—by Alfred Segal
The Congregation That Grew Too Big
Sans - Souci
Mr. D. J. (he’s of a city other
than the one in which I have my
being) was telling me by mail:
“The other day, on a downtown
street of my city, I saw the rabbi
of our congregation.”
“Rabbi,” I said, “how are you?’’
and I took his hand.
He looked me over in evident
confusion . . . “What’s your name,
please?” he asked me politely.
“Oh, I’m a member of your con
gregation, and really don’t you
know me?”
He blushed . . . “Somehow I
know your face,” he said, “but I
just can’t remember you. Maybe
you’re Mr. Abrahams?”
“No, I’m not Abrahams” ... I
gave him my name, but please,
Mr. Segal, you just describe me as
D. J! To publish my full name and
address might embarrass the rab
bi.
The rabbi’s head dropped, like
the head of some one in deep
shame . . . “Our congregation is
just too big,” he said. “The rabbi
just can’t know everybody in it.
Too big! Too big! Frequently I’m
embarrassed by other members
whose names I can’t remember.
Too many people in the congrega
tion, but that’s the way our di
rectors want it . . . More and more
members, as if a congregation
were a production line.”
We stood there talking for about
ten minutes. The rabbi said that
congregations should be kept rea
sonably small, to enable the rabbi
to serve every member ... to
know not only their names, but
also to be acquainted with their
private problems, so that he may
counsel them. He thought it was
a mistake to let a congregation
grow loo big.
“Five hundred members are
about enough, a thousand are too
many,” he went on.
“Rabbi,” I said, “I’m just now
trying to remember a good story
I once read about a big congrega
tion.” Mr. Segal, it was a story I
had read in your column some
20 years ago, at least. It was all
about a member of a congregation
dying and the rabbi getting all
confused as to the dead man’s
identity when he was burying
him.
I hope you can remember it, Mr.
Segal, though it must be tough for
a columnist to remember some
thing he wrote 20 years ago. If
you remember please tell it all
over, and I’ll give it to our rabbi
and to people in our too-big con
gregation.
Well, yes, I think I remember
that story of 20 years ago. Wasn’t
it all about a Mr. Levy who had
died and whom his rabbi couldn’t
remember? He was a member of
a congregation with some 1500
others in it. The time came for the
funeral service, the rabbi took his
place at the pulpit in the funeral
home. He read the prescribed
prayers and the appropriate
psalms, and came finally to the
sermon of tribute to the dead man,
Mr. Levy.
He began: “We are here to pay
"All right, Rabbi, I'll give another $250,000
for the New Temple Building Fund, but only on
condition that you treat me just like any other
member.” —>«•—
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