During the second half of Deborah’s studies toward ordination, the focus changed from ancient law to modern life.
The aspiring rabbis were taught psychology—how to respond to the many cries of the heart they would receive from members of their congregations. Marital pressures, divorce, illness, death. The full cycle of grief.
“And here,” Professor Albert Redmont emphasized, “the rabbi differs from the psychotherapist. For most doctors nowadays are too busy to give their patient much more than a pharmacological evasion to be swallowed three times daily. Rabbis have more potent medicine.
“Faith can lift the fallen. Even heal the sick, better than the scientist, whose powers are circumscribed by the frontiers of knowledge—which is where belief in God begins.”
The future rabbis worked in hospitals, homes for the aged, and kindergartens. They learned firsthand how to confront an anguish that is even worse than death itself—the dying person’s fears of the unknown.
“Hold my hand and repeat after me, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.…’ ”
“Thank you, Rabbi Luria. Thank you for your kindness.”
For Deborah, this human contact only magnified her love for the calling she had chosen.
For the High Holy Days in her senior year, Deborah was posted to a nonexistent congregation in New England.
That is to say, she would be temporary spiritual leader of a group of Jews who came together only on the so-called Days of Awe—the New Year and Yom Kippur—to expiate their sins and reinvigorate their faith.
The congregants in question were scattered throughout an area of some three hundred square miles near the Canadian border in New Hampshire and Vermont. Each year they would gather in the town hall or Unitarian church of a different village, bringing the one Torah Scroll—guarded all year round by an orthopedic surgeon—and absorb enough solidarity from their coreligionists to survive yet another twelve months in a region so remote that they were outnumbered by the black bears.
“Dean Ashkenazy,” Deborah said politely after she had been given her assignment, “I don’t want to seem as if I’m complaining, but most of my classmates have been sent to larger towns, even to colleges.” She pointed to her distant bailiwick on the map. “Why me?”
“The truth?” the dean inquired.
She nodded. “Please.”
“The college jobs are easy. Anyone can speak their language. Besides, if those kids feel strongly enough about a holiday to cut their classes and worship, then you’ve got an eager audience.” He paused thoughtfully. “Deborah, the people you’ll be preaching to are losing touch. They spend the year—especially at Christmas—wondering why they should work so hard at being different. They’re a small group to begin with, but the rate of their attrition is alarming.
“So,” he said, “I have to send the best we have.” He looked at her and concluded, “And that, Rabbi Luria, is you.”