How can it be that an “old, tired play,” one seen by everyone so many times, can still be performed so well and spark Jewish identity anew?

I had that thought Tuesday night after taking my 11-year-old daughter to the Hippodrome Theatre in Baltimore to not only see “Fiddler On The Roof,” but to see the lead role played once again by the iconic Haim Topol in what is likely the last run in the role for the 74-year-old.

The Israeli-born actor is of course not quite the young father he could easily portray back in the mid-60s when he started in the role. But that did not matter one bit. In fact, I think his beard and age simply made his message transcendent. And the play was straight forward. Fortunately, it did not get lost in a bizarre array of special effects. Rather it was – and is – the story that captivates so many. In fact, I was thrilled that the crowd seemed not to be heavily Jewish, no doubt due to season ticket holders. But every one knew how special a night this was, cheering for Topol when he first appeared and then leaping up to give him a standing ovation at the curtain call.

But most important was to see the reaction of my daughter. She laughed and cried and was captivated by a three-hour production that was well-paced and well-acted.

What happened after the play, however, was even more important. We began talking about my great-grandfather, the Ukrainian-born pauper (Nisan Shlomo Wolf) for whom I am named. Then we spoke of life in general for Eastern European Jews, so mixed with the joys of klezmer and the tragedy of pogroms (the latter suddenly, frighteningly shown in the play).  Then, of course, came the topic of intermarriage. I explained to her how “back then and until not long ago,” some Jewish families would sit shiva when a child married a non-Jew.

That led to the conversation every Jewish parents needs to have with their children. “What would you do if I married a non-Jew?” I have a standard response for this, one that that has been appropriate until now: “That’s not going to happen sweetie, so I’m not worried about it.”

Of course, I know that she’ll go off to college and there is a chance she’ll meet a non-Jew and fall in love. (However, with a day school education and a kosher home, I’m hedging my bets as we’ll have her eat at Hillel.) Nonetheless, I told her, “Remember that non-Jews do become Jews. If you love someone who is not Jewish, you need to look long and hard as to how you want to go forward. Personally, I cannot understand how any Jew would not want to be part of the Jewish people.”

She agreed. And the night was even grander.

So if you have not taken your children to see this “old-new” play (to steal a phrase from Theodor Herzl), do so here or elsewhere. It is a fabulous way to start meaningful conversation. And I promise you, you’ll be humming the songs for days. And Jews talking, well that’s the essence of Tradition, Tradition!

Funerals are not supposed to be enjoyable, and I would not call today’s final send off for Rabbi Mark G. Loeb a party. However, it certainly did provide as many profound and reflective moments as chuckles and warm feelings.

That’s because Rabbi Loeb – a man as complicated as he was diverse – touched a remarkable amount of lives. I’ve written my own reflections in this week’s column. CLICK HERE

But I want to describe some of the scene inside a very crowded Beth El sanctuary today, one that seats about 1,700 people.

I arrived around noon – an hour early to make sure I could be in the main sanctuary. I was about 10 rows back on the left-hand side, which gave me a chance to see much of the room. There were already several hundred people there. Cars were already lined up on the street outside, no doubt many people not wanting to be stuck in the huge parking lot behind the congregation for a ceremony likely to be anything but short.

The hallways were already filling with people, many of them pausing to sign the 10 or so tables from Sol Levinson & Bros. Funeral Home. Rows of black kippot sat next to the books. Inside the sanctuary, people would occasionally approach the coffin, bow their heads and move their lips. A few people hugged each other. Most, however, were comfortably talking, often sharing their stories about their late spiritual leader.

More than one person noted that only 17 months ago many of us had been in the same room for the amazing retirement weekend the congregation had hosted for our late friend. I looked up, stage right, and imagined him as he was that night – sitting in a comfortable chair as he listened to outstanding performances, whether the penetrating clarinet of Dr. Eyal Bor, or the amazing singing of Cantor Thom King or the riveting speaking of Pulitzer Prize winner Doris Kearns Goodwin. Mark smiled a lot that night. He hugged as many of us as possible in the mob scene afterwards that was the reception.

Now he was lying in front of us in a plain pine box.

After starting – surprisingly on time – for 90 minutes no less than eight speakers told their stories. Former assistant rabbis, a congregant and colleagues. The choir’s voices were soothing.

No one moved. No one seemed antsy about being late for a meeting. A few tears were held back. Finally, when it was his turn Beth El Senior Rabbi Steve Schwartz related that his predecessor had of course left specific instructions as to how the funeral was to go. That was in a note given to him a year ago, one with instructions to open only in case of death. Rabbi Loeb, you see, planned out everything.

Rabbi Schwartz apologized for not keeping within the 45 minute time frame that Rabbi Loeb had requested. Rabbi Loeb even jokingly had written that if this wish were not fulfilled “I will haunt you forever.”

Then, after describing their own profoundly close relationship, Rabbi Schwartz read the last line of that note: “All the best for the future I would have enjoyed seeing. My love to all.”

I was not able to go to the cemetery, so I waited outside for the limo carrying Rabbi Loeb’s body to leave. In the traditional way, I took a few steps behind it to follow it as it began driving off into a fittingly rainy, dreary day. As I headed back to my car on nearby Brooks Robinson Avenue, I thought of how the weather’s gloom had just been overwhelmed by the love and admiration that oozed from the many people who had gathered to honor a very special man, one of whose likes we may never see again.