“Anyhow!”

He began to clap. The organist joined in. The drummer right behind him. And off they went, as if a floodlight had just ignited the altar.

“Haaaa-llelujah anyhow…” Henry sang, “…never gonna let life’s troubles get you down…

“No matter what comes your way,

“Lift your voice and say-

“Hallelujah…anyhow!”

His voice was beautiful, pure and crisp and almost too high-pitched, it seemed, to come from such a large man. The whole congregation was immediately engaged, inspired, clapping, dipping shoulders and singing along-all except me. I felt like the loser who got left out of the choir.

“Hal-le-lujah…anyhow!”

When the song stopped, Henry picked right back up with his preaching. There was no line between prayer, hymn, word, song, preach, beseech, or call and respond. It was apparently all part of the package.

“We were in here last night,” Henry said, “just looking around, looking around, and the plaster was peeling and the paint was chipping everywhere-”

“Sure is!”

“And you could hear the water pouring in. We had buckets all over. And I asked the Lord. I began to pray. I said, ‘Lord, show us your mercy and your kindness. Help us heal your house. Just help us fix this hole-’”

“All right now-”

“And for a few minutes, I despaired. Because I don’t know where the money will come from to fix it. But then I stopped.”

“That’s right!”

“I stopped, because I realized something.”

“Yes, Rev!”

“The Lord, you see, he’s interested in what you do, but the Lord don’t care nothing about no building.”

“Amen!”

“The Lord don’t care nothing about no building!”

“That’s RIGHT!”

“Jesus said, ‘Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.’ God don’t care about no building. He cares about you, and what’s in your heart.”

“Lord of Hosts!”

“And if this is the place where we come to worship-if this is the place where we come to worship…if this is the only place we can come to worship…”

He paused. His voice lowered to a whisper.

“Then it is holy to him.”

“Yes, Rev!…Preach it, Pastor!…Amen!…Way-ell!”

The people rose and clapped enthusiastically, convinced, thanks to Henry, that while their building might be disintegrating, their souls were still in sight, and perhaps the Lord was using that roof hole to peer down and help them.

I looked up and saw the red buckets and the water dripping. I saw Henry stepping back, in his huge blue robe, singing along in prayer. I wasn’t sure what to make of him-charismatic, enigmatic, problematic? But you had to figure his mother was right all along. He was going to be a preacher, no matter how long it took.

I begin to read about faiths beyond my own. I am curious to see if they aren’t more similar than I had believed. I read about Mormons, Catholics, Sufis, Quakers.

I come upon a documentary about the Hindu celebration of Kumbh Mela, a holy pilgrimage from the mouth of the Ganges River to its source in the Himalayas. The legend is that four drops of immortal nectar were dropped when the gods fought with the demons in the sky, and that nectar landed in four places on earth. The pilgrimage is a journey to those places; to bathe in the river waters, to wash away sins, and to seek health and salvation.

Millions attend. Tens of millions. It is an incredible sight. I see bearded men dancing. I see holy men with pierced lips and powdered skin. I see elderly women who have traveled for weeks to seek the majesty of God in the snowcapped mountains.

It is the largest gathering of humanity on earth and has been called “the world’s largest single act of faith.” Yet for most in my country, it is totally alien. The documentary refers to Kumbh Mela as “being part of something big while doing something small.”

I wonder if that applies to visiting an old man in New Jersey?

I haven’t said a lot about the Reb’s wife. I should.

According to Jewish tradition, forty days before a male baby is born, a heavenly voice shouts out whom he will marry. If so, the name “Sarah” was yelled for Albert sometime in 1917. Their union was long, loving, and resilient.

They met through a job interview in Brighton Beach -he was a principal, she was seeking an English teacher’s job-and they disagreed on several issues and she left thinking, “There goes that job”; but he hired her and admired her. And eventually, months later, he asked her into his office.

“Are you seeing anyone romantically?” he inquired.

“No, I’m not,” she replied.

“Good. Please keep it that way. Because I intend to ask you to marry me.”

She hid her amusement.

“Anything else?” she said.

“No,” he answered.

“Okay.” And she left.

It took months for him to follow up, his shyness having taken over, but he did, eventually, and they courted. He took her to a restaurant. He took her to Coney Island. The first time he tried to kiss her, he got hiccups.

Two years later, they were married.

In more than six decades together, Albert and Sarah Lewis raised four children, buried one, danced at their kids’ weddings, attended their parents’ funerals, welcomed seven grandchildren, lived in just three houses, and never stopped supporting, debating, loving, and cherishing each other. They might argue, even give each other the silent treatment, but their children would see them at night, through the door, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding hands.

They truly were a team. From the pulpit, the Reb might zing her with, “Excuse me, young lady, could you tell us your name?” She would get him back by telling people, “I’ve had thirty wonderful years with my husband, and I’ll never forget the day we were married, November 3, 1944.”

“Wait…,” someone would say, doing the math, “that’s way more than thirty years ago.”

“Right,” she would say. “On Monday you get twenty great minutes, on Tuesday you get a great hour. You put it all together, you get thirty great years.”

Everyone would laugh, and her husband would beam. In a list of suggestions for young clerics, the Reb had once written “find a good partner.”

He had found his.

And just as harvests make you wise to farming, so did years of matrimony enlighten the Reb as to how a marriage works-and doesn’t. He had officiated at nearly a thousand weddings, from the most basic to the embarrassingly garish. Many couples lasted. Many did not.

Can you predict which marriages will survive? I asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “If they’re communicating well, they have a good chance. If they have a similar belief system, similar values, they have a good chance.”

What about love?

“Love they should always have. But love changes.”

What do you mean?

“Love-the infatuation kind-‘he’s so handsome, she’s so beautiful’-that can shrivel. As soon as something goes wrong, that kind of love can fly out the window.

“On the other hand, a true love can enrich itself. It gets tested and grows stronger. Like in Fiddler on the Roof. You remember? When Tevye sings ‘Do You Love Me?’?”

I should have seen this coming. I think Fiddler on the Roof was pretty much the Reb’s worldview. Religion. Tradition. Community. And a husband and wife-Tevye and Golde-whose love is proven through action, not words.

“When she says, ‘How can you ask if I love you? Look at all I’ve done with you. What else would you call it?’

“That kind of love-the kind you realize you already have by the life you’ve created together-that’s the kind that lasts.”

The Reb was lucky to have such a love with Sarah. It had endured hardships by relying on cooperation-and selflessness. The Reb was fond of telling young couples, “Remember, the only difference between ‘marital’ and ‘martial’ is where you put the ‘i.’”