Speeches & Surprises

It usually takes a good two or three weeks to prepare a really good impromptu speech.

Mark Twain

I use that line to open a speech whenever I was not told before hand that I would be addressing the crowd.

It is the one thing I always have at-the-ready!

As someone in a position where one never knows when they may have to speak, always having a speech prepared is wise counsel.

In fact, it is solid advice for anyone attending an event, and certainly for a rav.

The classic suggestion is that every rav should have a vort in his back pocket for every occasion –a classic idea for a bar mitzvah, a wonderful thought for a sheva brachos and, divrei hesped and nechama for a levaya. Then, should he be surprised with a request to speak he has, at least, a starting point.

Several weeks ago a member of my shul’s brother sadly passed away. Now, shuls have different types of membership, and this person who was sitting shivah is what is called an ‘associate member’. An associate member could mean many things, often it refers to someone or a family that while they don’t usually daven in the shul-nor sometimes live nearby-they still wish to show their support.

In any event, because of my loose connection with this family, I missed the news that he was sitting shiva.

It was the last day of shiva when I discovered his loss and I immediately darted into my car and headed over to his home where I assumed he was sitting shiva.

When no one answered the door, I called the home. My cell connection was bad. What I did make out from his wife is that he has a large family and thery were sitting shiva in their sefardi (bukkarian) shul. “We should have called you to come to this evening, but please come”.

I thought I misheard this last line. “We should have called…” Why should they have called me? To invite me to the last opportunity to pay a shiva call? But as I said, the connection was bad and I attributed my mishearing her words to that.

In any event, that evening when we finished the late maariv in my shul, I shot into my car and quickly made my way over to this sefardi shul.

Walking in, the building was silent.

Not a sound.

I looked inside the beis haknesses-the lights were off.

Maybe I misheard which shul the family is sitting in, I thought.

I made my way downstairs, and saw that the lights in the ballroom were on.

I quickly, and without giving it too much thought, walked in to the ballroom, with its heavy door quickly, and loudly, closing behind me.

To my shock, at least three-hundred people were in this room, eating a catered meal. Before I came into the room, all were silent as they were listening to divrei hesped from their rav, and with the slam of the door, one could hear the heads of three-hundred peple all at once turn to look at me.

The whole moment was awkward, but also incongruous. Could this really be a shiva?

Maybe I was in the wrong shul and this was a sheva brachos, or the like.

But it was a shiva. I then recalled how many groups within sefard have a fascinating minhag for some type of public gathering for the last night of shiva, where friends and family and rabbanim join the family for their last night of halchic mourning.

In fact, at the back of the room, behind all the guests and tables, I was able to make-out the aveilim sitting near the floor.

Now I understood what she meant when she said, “We should have called you…”

All of this happened very quickly. The slamming of the door behind me, the turning of the heads to look at who made this ruckus during the rav’s speech, and my remembering this minhag.

The rav stopped his speech, and kindly invited me to sit with him and the other sefardi rabbanim at the head table. This was not the time to argue-all eyes were on this red-headed ashkanazi who just walked in-so I quickly and as quietly as possible made may way to an empty chair at their table.

In truth, I was now deeply curious. I have never attended an event like this, and wanted to know what type of speeches were made, what was done at this type of event. It was a chance to witness a beautiful mesorah that was new to me.

How does a rav mesh the wonderful food and large unified gathering with the deep mourning of the family?

As these thoughts were going through my head, the rav was finishing his speech.

In Hebrew, he concluded, “And now we have Rabbi Taub joining us.” Directing the microphone toward me, he then concluded “We now ask him to speak.”

While trying to keep a straight face, I was panicking inside!

Thirty seconds ago I thought I walked into the wrong building, fifteen seconds ago I noisily made my ‘grand’ entrance, ten seconds ago I put it all together and recalled this wonderful sefardi minhag, five seconds ago I wondered what a rav would speak about at such an event, and now I am being asked to speak!?

‘I guess I was about to find out what a rav says by such events!’, I jokingly thought to myself.

There are two things that are true across all languages and cultures. Honesty and ahavah. I began by saying over the story that brought me there-what I just shared with you above-and then I admitted my own curiosity at what a rav would say before I myself was called up to the podium.

I then spoke about the love that the Torah describes between fathers, mothers and children (the niftar’s mother was still alive) and the bond between a husband and his wife, trying to tie it to that week’s parshas Vayeitzei which happened to cover many of those topics.

It was not, perhaps, a great speech, but it was an honest one, and a heartfelt one at that. When I finished, I turned to the rabbanim and asked,  “How did I do?”

“Rabbanim usually speak for at least twenty minutes at these events” one responded, before another added, “But I am surprised you were able to muster even three minutes!”

It was a unique event, and it trained me for yet another situation for which to always have a vort close by.

But it also taught me another lesson.

No matter what our customs, or how we mourn, at the end of the day family is family and words of comfort can come in all shapes, sizes, and levels of surprise.