There’s a classic story about the elderly Jew who had been blowing shofar for years in his shul. He was dedicated, reliable, and proud of his role. But as time passed, the once-powerful, resounding blasts of his shofar grew weaker and weaker, the once-mighty tekios now barely a whisper. The gabbai, tasked with keeping order in the shul, finally had to break the news. He sighed, shifted uncomfortably, and spoke with as much diplomacy as he could muster.
“Reb Yankel,” he said, “I’m afraid we have to give the shofar to a younger member of the kehillah this year. You just don’t have the koach for 100 kolos anymore.”
Reb Yankel was aghast. His eyes widened with disbelief. “I’ve been blowing the shofar for fifty years! Fifty years! And you have the chutzpah to take it away from me?!”
The gabbai tried to console him. “Listen, we still want you to blow the tekiah gedolah at the end of davening! That’s the most choshuveh one of them all!”
Reb Yankel wasn’t moved. He shook his head, arms crossed. “That’s only one tekiah!”
The gabbai, an experienced negotiator in the world of shul politics, responded in a flash. “Don’t worry. Once you have the shofar in your hand, you can blow as much as you want!”
Some people never know when to stop.
Purim is over. The last mishloach manos was delivered, the final lechayim was clinked, and even the most ardent Yidden who insisted that mishenichnas Adar marbin b’simcha should last at least through Nissan have begun to accept that maybe, just maybe, it’s time to move on. Or maybe not.
I remember visiting Rav Chuna Spektor in Givat Shaul, Yerushalayim, some fifty years ago. He was one of the ziknei Breslov and a relative of mine through the Spiegel side of the family. It was the day after Shushan Purim, and the remnants of the simcha still hovered in the air like the lingering scent of a spilled bottle of Slivovitz. I sat down, expecting a simple visit, when suddenly Rav Chuna poured me a large lechayim.
I looked at him in wonder. “Reb Chuna, Purim was yesterday.”
He smiled knowingly and said, “The Gemara’s hava amina that you could lain the Megillah on the sixteenth and seventeenth? Oichet emes!”
Indeed, some Yidden never really leave Purim behind. I actually received a few more mishloach manos on Sunday night.
Even Purim itself has its “ad kan hakafah alef” moments. Of course, there’s the grown adult who simply cannot stop his Haman-related noisemaking. It starts off innocent enough—a respectable few turns of the gragger, a well-timed bang on the table. But as the Megillah progresses, things start to escalate. By the tenth Haman, he’s already pulling out the backup gragger from his coat pocket along with his horn, whose decibel rating is worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records. By the twentieth, he’s standing up, waving his arms like a conductor leading an orchestra of chaos. By the time we hit the grand finale, when the last Haman is read, he goes all out—stomping, clapping, and spinning his gragger with the enthusiasm of a man who has waited all year for this very moment.
This year, with Purim Meshulash in Eretz Yisroel, I am sure that so many chutznikers needed to feel a kesher with those across the ocean.
On the Shabbos after Purim, I am sure that some of us experienced aftershocks of excessive marbim b’simcha or even ad delo yoda. Lecha Dodi always seems to take the brunt of it, with niggunim and antics that may have been pick-pocketed from some comedy scenes or music festivals that are lehepech from the way Chazal explicated sasson v’simcha.
A fellow in one shul, whose Bo’ee B’shalom aftermath niggun was raging for 25 minutes, started getting nervous. His wife, in post-Purim exhaustion mode with six kids waiting for Totty, was surely waiting with consternation for her husband to come home and make Kiddush. He whispered to a regular at the minyan, “Uh…when will they finish Kabbolas Shabbos here?” The regular, seasoned in these affairs, simply shrugged. “Eh, depends. If Moshiach comes first, we may just go straight into geulah.”
But it’s not just Purim or Lecha Dodi. There are those who take simcha shel mitzvah to a whole new level, refusing to let go even when the moment has clearly passed.
Then there’s the wedding that refuses to end. The music winds down, the chosson and kallah look ready to catch their breath, and the caterers are peeking in, hoping to start serving the main course. But then, some overly enthusiastic bochur yells, “One more time!” The band picks up again, the chosson is hoisted onto shoulders, and the circle erupts with renewed energy. The caterer sighs, watching the clock. “We’re never getting to the chicken soup, are we?” And of course, the overtime is not on that bochur’s cheshbon. At least monetarily.
And let’s not forget Hakafos on Simchas Torah. Of course, the gabbai vs. bochurim struggle is part of the repertoire, but my stomach has definitely churned when the pushing and shoving transformed from horseplay to beheimah shpiel.
Then there is the drosha that does not end. Of course, there are those we would all wait hours on end to hear. Then there are those whose overstayed welcome ensures that no one else will be listened to.
One of my favorite Reb Shmuel Kunda characters was a fellow in Anshei Kartofel named Mr. Genuck Shoin. Reb Shmuel, unfortunately, is no longer with us, but this Litvak would not mind if his character would appear in real life once in a while.
There is a delightful story about a distinguished rov who was given a twenty-minute slot in what would be a long night of speeches. Known for his penchant to go overtime, he was handed a note ten minutes into the drosha. “Lechvod harav, please, just ten more minutes.” The rov took the note and, instead of reading it, grasped it in his flailing hands as he expounded on his drosha.
After 45 minutes, twenty-five minutes past his allotted time, he was about to end when he stopped abruptly and said, “I was given a note. Let me read it.”
He smiled and exclaimed, “Ah! Lechvod harav, please, just ten more minutes!”
The truth is that Yidden love enthusiasm. We love passion. And sometimes, when we love something so much, we don’t want to let it go. Whether it’s Lecha Dodi that won’t end, Purim that bleeds into Shushan Purim (and beyond), a bar mitzvah speech that could double as a Shabbos Shuvah drosha, or the Hakafah that feels like it will outlast golus itself, we see it as a ma’aleh, not a chisaron.
I certainly don’t want to be the stick-in-the-mud Litvak version of Mr. Genuck Shoin. Maybe, just maybe, the gabbai had the right idea after all. Once you have the shofar in your hand, you can blow as much as you want. The only question is: When do you finally put the shofar down?
