She spoke quietly in his ear. “No less. No more.”
He brushed her hair back from her face. Ethan would have given her anything in that moment.
“Okay,” he said, voice artificially amplified, as Naomi stepped back and ushered him toward the crowd. She’d switched his mic on again. Minx.
The bar’s occupants graciously returned their attention, eager for Morey’s promised conclusion.
“I’m sure most of you had a lot of questions the first time you heard about a Modern Intimacy lecture series sponsored by a synagogue. Maybe it didn’t make sense to you—the overlap between ancient practice and contemporary courtship. Honestly, maybe even after seven lectures it still doesn’t make sense to you. But for me, the connection has always been clear: I wanted us to learn, together, how to be good to one another. The course isn’t called Modern Love or Modern Sex, though I know some of you—Craig—occasionally forget that.”
Craig waved away a burst of whooping at his expense.
“Judaism’s enduring theme is the pursuit of a good life. ‘To do that which is right in the sight of man, and good in the sight of God.’ And you know, before this seminar series started, we talked about the love of God every day at Beth Elohim, but we weren’t reaching enough people. We weren’t reaching all of you.”
He wouldn’t exchange his ragtag, sometimes smart-mouthed new congregants—new friends—for anything.
“It’s easier to share behavioral ideals, to have them take root—especially in people who haven’t grown up with a firm commitment to practicing Judaism—through concrete, everyday examples. In other words, it was my hope that in helping you find connection with each other, I might introduce you into the wider community of our synagogue. That love of man might beget love for God.”
Ethan had always known that he wouldn’t succeed in winning over everyone who came to Naomi’s lectures. He’d considered it, like so much in his life, a great experiment, another chance to learn and grow, not only for the participants but for himself.
“I would like to say to all those members of Beth Elohim who didn’t join our course—for whom, perhaps, my ways of living and working and loving seem strange and unfamiliar—I hope that you will find comfort in the assurance that our course was built on the same foundation as the synagogue you hold dear, and my commitment to our shul and our congregation remains—whether I am your rabbi or not.”
There was no obvious cue for applause. So Ethan offered a lame “That’s all I wanted to say. Thanks for listening, and uh... Jimmy”—he waved at the bartender—“I’d like to buy everyone a round.”
At that, there was a clear cheer as everyone turned away from Ethan at once.
He gave Naomi a shrug. He’d done his best off the cuff.
She raised her chin at something over his shoulder.
“Ira,” Ethan said, shocked to find the board member making his way through the throng toward him. “What... what are you doing here?”
Naomi answered, “I might have added the board members to the Modern Intimacy email list. I figured we ought to give them the opportunity to experience the lecture series for themselves, since they were so up in arms over it.”
“But...” Ethan sputtered. “How did you know anyone would come? After everything, it was such a shot in the dark.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why Judaism complements reason with faith, right? So that they might compensate for one another’s limitations.”
Naomi pushed his slightly gaping mouth closed with two fingers on his chin.
“Ethan,” Ira said, finally having broken free of the thirsty patrons. “That was quite the speech—almost a sermon, one might say.”
“Thank you, Ira.” Shock had stolen most of Ethan’s vocabulary.
“May I take that little declaration at the end to mean you’ve changed your mind about resigning? We haven’t had a chance to fill your position just yet.”
Ethan’s heartbeat kicked into overdrive, but he needed to make something clear. To Ira and Naomi both.
“The seminar series may be over for now, but I’m not going to stop trying to bring people to Beth Elohim in nontraditional ways, not least because we know it works.”
Ira nodded. “I understand. I wish I could tell you that the board has reversed their vote on the Modern Intimacy series, but I can’t.”
Ethan lowered his eyes. He hadn’t really expected to hear differently, but the news still hurt.
“The reason I can’t,” Ira said carefully, “is that Jonathan resigned from his position in protest when I proposed we reexamine the issue. We couldn’t vote without a full board.”
“Jonathan resigned?” After almost thirty years as a member of the shul and fifteen on the board?
“Yes,” Ira confirmed, looking grave.