I would like to welcome everyone who has come out this morning to pay tribute to our Cantor Emeritus, Harry Gelman. It was about a year ago that some of us gathered to honor Harry and to present him with a plaque in honor of his retirement, but we’ve long awaited this opportunity for our community as a whole to express our appreciation and affection for Harry.

There is a famous passage in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice (V, i, 83-86)that goes as follows:

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, …
Let no such man be trusted!

Judged by this standard, Harry, you can certainly be trusted. You’re a lover of music and you’ve devoted thirty six years to bringing music into our liturgical consciousness here at Temple Aliyah.

Music is critical in the transmission of Jewish identity. For many of us, the image of lighting the Hanukkah candles is indelibly associated with the melody we use to chant the brachot, or with the melody for Maoz Tzur. And when we think of celebrating a Pesach seder, as much as we can taste the charoset or the bitter herbs, we can hear the tunes of Dayeinu or Echad Mi Yodea or Had Gadya.

Melodies, in fact, sometimes are even more enduring than words. I am sure that most of us are familiar with the traditional melody of Shalom Aleichem; you know, the one that goes, “ . . . “. I remember, once, on our synagogue retreat, I led Shalom Aleichem to a different melody. Someone later came up to me and said, “You sang it wrong!” Not, “You sang it differently,” but “You sang it wrong!” (Cantors are used to hearing that kind of response.)

We see from this example how powerful our associations with particular melodies are. That’s why there is great value in maintaining fidelity to what we call “nusach”—the traditional melodic modes which, when we hear them, subtly remind us that it is a weekday or a Shabbat, or a Yom Tov or one of the Yamim Noraim. Harry, you have long been a champion of nusach, and have tried to educate us to maintain those distinctions.

And yet, it is also true that there is a place for innovation in melody. Were it not for innovation, we would never have gotten that familiar Shalom Aleichem melody. For even though it sounds as if it’s been around forever, or at least since Sinai, in fact it hasn’t. It was composed by Rabbi Israel Goldfarb who graduated from the Jewish Theological Seminary, in Solomon Schechter’s first graduating class in 1902. He composed that melody in 1918 and it quickly caught on and now is sung all over the world. (I often wonder whether Rabbi Goldfarb’s decision to compose that particular calm and pacific melody for Shalom Aleichem; in that particular year, 1918, was influenced by the fact that World War I was drawing to a close—and in fact concluded that same year on November 11th.)

We can say that the motto of the Conservative Movement, “Tradition and Change,” is a useful guide in this regard. As important as it is to be loyal to traditional modes, it is also important to recognize that Jewish music has evolved, and should continue to evolve.

There is another quotation from the Merchant of Venice that I would like to share:

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music creep in our ears.

That is what will happen now. Given the centrality of music in our collective Jewish consciousness, it is only appropriate that most of this morning’s program is devoted to songs—songs sung in your honor, Harry. One of them is particularly apt. It is a setting for a familiar passage from the Book of Psalms, “Ashira la-shem b’hayai, azamrah l’elohai b’odi.”—“I shall sing to God throughout my life, I will praise him with all that I have.” Harry, I can’t think of words that better describe what you have brought to your cantorate. With all your gusto, with all your energy, with all your “od,” you have sung out. And so it is only appropriate that, in response, we sing with gusto as well.

Let me wish you and Phyllis and your loving family many, many years of health and happiness. May you go from strength to strength, me-hayil le-hayil.