Reuven Stagler had a different vision for Alameda Gardens and its shul

None of these calls were easy, but some were impossible.

Rabbi Klarberg was polite, even warm, but completely disinterested. “Look, Mr. Stagler, forgive me for being blunt, but you seem sincere about helping your kehillah. The sort of rav you’re looking for — the perfect pedigree, the perfect experience, and the perfect age — doesn’t exist. The ones who already lead a kehillah aren’t usually looking for that sort of workload and achrayus, they’re a bit tired. At least I am,” he said and laughed easily, which made Reuven more determined to convince this man to give them a try.

But Rabbi Klarberg wasn’t budging. “You need someone fresh and young, someone who will throw themselves into the task with excitement. Sounds like there’s work to be done. Go for someone young.”

Reuven shook his head in frustration. They had tried it. For a month, they’d had a succession of eager young talmidei chachamim walking in for Shabbos davening from one neighborhood or another. Reuven could see these candidates’ faces as they took in the scene — the large, spacious shul and big crowd — the way they reassured themselves that the walk hadn’t really been that long, that this was a serious, mature tzibbur who would be interested in hearing what they could offer, and that it would be short-term, one job leads to another after all, and then they could get a job that really interested them.

It never worked. Inevitably, once the derashah was over and Reuven had smilingly sat through the small talk at kiddush and then walked the would-be rav to the edge of the development and offered a little help with directions — if you cut through the parking lot behind the kitchen supply place you could save five minutes — he would walk back home with a sinking feeling.

Not once had there been any connection. People in their sixties, worried about married children who always seemed so tired and vacant, wondering how their grandchildren would remember them, concerned about investments meant to ensure a peaceful retirement, didn’t have much in common with a 40-year-old superstar who had delivered a brilliant shiur on the various shitos of poskim in regard to techeiles b’zman hazeh. It had been interesting, but none of these men were really invested. They had all joined different shuls, at a different time, given heart and soul — and now they were retired. They weren’t going to connect emotionally to a new rav in this new neighborhood in a brand-new shul that still smelled of paint. Even when it came to money, though many of them had the ability to give, they weren’t that inclined.

Reuven understood. They had all already given, served on boards and committees, gotten emotionally involved in a hiring or firing, and they were done.