A little over two months ago, United Reform Congregation Beth Tikvah Tiferet Shalom v’Or Hadash HaChaverim Shel Mishkan Shefa Simcha — The Peace, Light, Renewal, and Friendship Synagogue: Formerly of Congregations Beth Tikvah, Or Hadash, Tiferet Shalom, and Mishkan Shefa Simcha, hired Max Eckleburg to serve as the temple’s one and only assistant rabbi. Fresh out of Hebrew Union College, Rabbi Eckleburg still had a lot to learn. The gangly, shaggy man (with an abnormally large Adam’s apple) didn’t relate to children, had no tolerance for yentas, and — worst of all — was a hopelessly inept communicator.
Despite these shortcomings, Rabbi Eckleburg did his best to settle into synagogue life under the watchful eye of the venerable (and hirsute) Rabbi Herschel, who took it upon himself to mentor his inexperienced protégé. On Rosh Hashanah, just before stepping up to recite a sprawling 6,000-word sermon, Herschel turned to Eckleburg and said, “Watch this, my boy! You have to have some chutzpah — excite the crowd!” As he stood, Rabbi Herschel felt a sharp palpitation — and soon after — all of a sudden — the wise, grandiose rabbi slumped against the pulpit, collapsed to the floor, and — without courtesy or ceremony — abruptly died.
“Good heavens!” Temple Board President Irving Glickman cried.
The congregants gasped, some shrieked, a handful fainted, and a few, so awesomely disturbed by the brutal and sudden death of their beloved rabbi, clutched their chests, staggered backwards, and — before anyone could even process the enormity of what was happening — dropped to the floor and promptly died. It was, in short, not a very sweet day.
***
With nowhere else to turn, the board of trustees hastily promoted Eckleburg to head rabbi, giving the newcomer just one week to prepare for the most prominent, high-stakes Yom Kippur in the congregation’s history.
“Oh! What am I to do? And Yizkor! Yizkor!” Rabbi Eckleburg thought, “So many deaths — so much devastation! What am I to do — and how am I to write?!”
After hours of thinking, it came to him: “James! James Steinbrenner! Yes, how could I forget? Sarah Lawrence!”
Eckleburg opened the Membership Directory, and there he was: James Steinbrenner.
“Nine…one… four…eight…two…six…one…four…nine…eight — perfect.”
“Hello?”
“Uh hello…this is uh Rabbi…Rabbi…Eckleburg…the new rabbi at United Reform? You may have…that is…perhaps you recall, we met, I believe, yes, yes, at, uh, if memory serves, your zaidie’s funeral…last week, it was last week, wasn’t it? I must say I…I was deeply…that is, I haven’t stopped thinking, yes, ever since, about your… your rather tremendous speech, which, if I may say so, you delivered with, uh, considerable talent and flair!”
Eckleburg eventually explained his difficult situation to Mr. Steinbrenner and asked the young MFA student if he would be willing to ghostwrite his Shacharit sermon for free.
“For free?! I’m sorry, Rabbi, but I can’t do it for free. I’m currently working on another project…there’s simply no time.”
“But what if…what if I pay you?” the rabbi responded.
“How much?”
“Well, I…uh…how about, erm, let’s say…five hundred dollars!”
“That won’t do–”
“I…I mean, forgive me…if you will permit me, my friend…I might suggest…well, not for my sake, of course, but rather out of due respect for the arrangements, and so on…one…one thousand dollars, yes, precisely that sum, and not a penny less!”
The young rabbi and his talented confidant had a plan. For one thousand dollars, Eckleburg, a woeful writer, would do nothing, while Steinbrenner, a damn-near professional wordsmith, would write the entire speech and, for an additional five hundred dollars, keep his role a secret.
***
Steinbrenner completed his final draft two days early.
“Have you read it yet?” he asked.
“I…I hardly think it necessary, really, that is, to, erm, read it beforehand…in advance, so to say. No, that would only, perhaps, you know, set my nerves a-flutter and, really, I must have confidence, I must let matters take their course. Yes, I assure you, I am perfectly prepared.”
Steinbrenner hesitated on the other end of the line. “You’re…you’re not going to read it? At all?”
“Every man has certain things in his life, James, very certain things, you understand? This is one of them, so… so let’s just…well, let it be as it is, you know, and not make any extra fuss about it!”
Days later, over two thousand worshipers arrived at United Reform for the morning service on Yom Kippur. Among them were Congressmen, Senators, local officials, Yankee players, business leaders, humanitarians, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Jains, heck, even Scientologists, you name it. Everyone was there. There were Grammy winners holding signs that read “MAY THEIR MEMORY BE FOR A BLESSING,” Little League baseball teams in matching kippot, craftsman selling dream catchers, conspiracy theorists conducting interviews, journalists live-streaming on their iPhones, and influencers filming in the social hall.
All the while, Rabbi Eckleburg — surrounded by three makeup artists — sat in his office and fantasized about his big speech.
“That is ENOUGH! Enough! Thank you, now you all must go!”
The three ladies quickly collected their things and dispersed.
“Ridiculous! I don’t need all that!” he thought. “It’s the speech — that’s the only thing that really matters, yes indeed, without a good sermon, all this balagan would be for nothing! But, what if…what if it’s bad…second-rate? No, it won’t be (it can’t be!). Yes, that’s a fact, I know it is!”
Eckleburg stared at the nearly 25-page packet sitting on his desk. He had still not read a single word, a single syllable, or even a single letter of it. No! That would make him too nervous! He heard a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” he snapped.
“It’s Irving.”
“Oh, to hell with it!” Eckleburg thought. “What does he want?”
“I’m here to wish you good luck,” Irving said, pushing open the door. “I know we’re all still recovering from the tragedy (I’m sure you are still, too), but I want to let you know that I can’t think of a better leader — no — a better man! — to lead our synagogue forward during these trying times. Gut Yontif, and oh, Hatzlacha Rabbah, Rabbi!”
***
The clock struck 11:15 a.m. Eckleburg watched the cantor wrap up her song, close her book, and sit back down. The podium was open for him. The crowd, once so disorganized, now sat in neat, orderly rows.
“Ahem. Gut Yontif.”
“Gut Yontif,” the crowd responded.
Eckleburg could hear their heartache. It awoke something powerful inside of him; these worshipers were here for him — his words — whatever was written inside his packet was to be their one and only source of salvation. “Poor things,” he thought, “I hear your calls! ‘Lead us to the promised land!’ Well, worry no more, I am here, yes, I am here!”
A big grin spread across his face. Less fearful than ever (and excited to show off), he finally looked at his sermon.
“Well…erm…actually…”
The first page was blank. “It can’t be!” he thought. He turned to the next page, and then the next. It was a clean slate — endlessly empty. Eckleburg scanned the crowd. Where was Steinbrenner? He began to panic, “Everyone looks the same!”
“I…uh…I’m sorry about this,” his voice quivered, high-pitched and shaky. He saw, in that moment, his entire future splayed out in front of him (and what a dreadful sight it was!). So fantastically mortified, he just couldn’t take it anymore. Eckleberg clutched his chest, slumped against the pulpit, and — without courtesy or ceremony — abruptly died. He was, for one final, fleeting moment, as stunned as everyone else.
Writer | Tobey Rosewater ‘28 | trosewater28@amherst.edu
Editor | Clara Chiu ‘27 | cchiu27@amherst.edu
Artist | Amy Zheng ‘26 | ahzheng26@amherst.edu