It was 21 years ago this month, although to me it seems like yesterday.

We were in the midst of transitioning from a mixed seating, microphone-using institution to a full-fledged Orthodox shul. Obviously, there were many opinions as to what could be maintained for the sake of a peaceful transition and prevent undue distress to the small crowd of old-timers — and what must be completely discarded. There were especially heated debates in regard to parts of davening some of the younger crowd were uncomfortable with.

One major issue revolved around Adon Olam — “to sing or not to sing,” that was the question.

I recall clearly the Monday morning in January before I was scheduled to meet with the naysayers in the afternoon.

Arriving in my office, I listened to my messages and heard an unfamiliar male voice saying, “You don’t know me, however, please call me back.”

Completely in the dark as to what to expect, I called back.

“Rabbi,” the voice on the other end said, “you once officiated at the funeral of Mr. Sam Fields [all names changed], an aged congregant. I attended that service, and I was duly impressed by your sensitivity. Yesterday, my first cousin Albert passed away in a nursing home. He was of limited abilities. I am undertaking the funeral arrangements. Are you available for a service tomorrow, at two?”

I understood the importance of the mitzvah and I quickly agreed. After confirming details for the following day’s funeral, I girded myself for the great Adon Olam debate, scheduled to begin in one hour.

I was staunchly in favor of maintaining the singing of Adon Olam at the conclusion of Shabbos davening.

The practice is cited by the Mateh Moshe, an oft-quoted work of halachah from the late 1500s. The Mishnah Berurah quotes the Mateh Moshe innumerable times.

The Mateh Moshe endorses the practice to say Adon Olam after davening to show how now that we have finished davening, we’re already starting to daven again. He compares it to leining Bereishis on Simchas Torah.

I reasoned if it was good enough for the Mateh Moshe in 1591 in Przemy?l, then it was good enough for Rabbi Eisenman in Passaic in 1998.

Nevertheless, Moishe Brachberg was leading the charge to dispense with it. He claimed it’s not yeshivish and only “modernish” shuls say it. Moishe was correct that many yeshivish shuls do not say it. On the other hand, the Mateh Moshe clearly endorses it and it certainly makes the old-timers feel good.

I listened to him and told him I would give him an answer the next day. That night at Maariv I davened to Hashem to send me clarity about Adon Olam.

The next day, I moved the Adon Olam question to the back burner as I arrived at the cemetery to officiate at the funeral.

Surprisingly there were just two people present: the niftar’s cousin and a woman in scrubs. She was a caregiver at the home, and although she was not Jewish, she felt close to the deceased.

I recited Tehillim, a Keil Malei Rachamim, and we proceeded to the grave.

Surprisingly, the aide asked if she could speak.

I nodded and watched as she removed a small tape recorder from her purse. She then said, “Albert never spoke. However, he enjoyed listening to Jewish music. He specifically loved listening to this song before going to sleep.”

And then loudly, shockingly, as if emanating from Shamayim, the majestic words of Adon Olam reverberated throughout the small cemetery.

“He always loved his Adon Olam,” the aide commented.

I smiled. “So do I.”

Hashem had sent me the clarity I’d davened for.

Adon Olam would proudly remain in our shul and it is still sung every Shabbos.

I bet Cousin Albert is shepping nachas.