Pew Research
In my work I travel a lot. While occasionally I go for pleasure to places where I can enjoy the silence and anonymity, much of my work is travel related, whether for crisis consultation, lecturing, or rabbinic work. And as such, I’m accustomed to being a stranger in town and do not mind davening in a shul where I am not known.
I remember when, as a young man, I joined a kollel and lived in a new neighborhood. The zman had not yet begun, so I sampled some of the local shuls. I noted to my chagrin that the place where I davened Shacharishad a nice davening, but after more than two weeks, not one of the members had greeted me or given me analiyah. One day, an older man caught my eye and said, “New here?” I told him that I had been coming for several weeks after moving to town the previous month. He asked me where I was from and when I told him, he asked me if I knew of a certain person. I told him I knew him well and he said, “Well, that’s not his real name. He changed it when he came to America.” That was the first and last conversation I had with that man. Not by design, but because he went back to his usual routine, which did not include me. That was fine with me as I was accustomed to solitude and observing others.
Recently, I flew abroad and a friend met me at the airport, ready to drive me to an early Shacharis. I told him that I needed to say “Birchas Hagomel” and he said that we needed to go to a later minyan because the earlier one was not welcoming. I asked him to explain what he meant and he said, “I have davened there for years and have never once been given an aliyah.” I told him that in the interest of time, I would opt for that minyan since I did not need to have an aliyah in order to say Birchas Hagomel.
On another occasion, I davened in another city and when I walked in and asked where I might sit, a man told me that I could sit in a certain place. I did as he instructed, but twenty minutes later, a gentleman came over and told me that I was in his place. I moved. Another time while I was traveling abroad for the simcha of a close relative, I was given two seats in a certain shul, one for me and one for my son who had accompanied me. As the Torah was being read, someone walked in (obviously very late) and ordered my son out of his seat. At the time, my son was only eleven and froze. I motioned to my son that we would both relocate so as not to anger the man further. We made our way to the back of the shul where we stayed and prayed.
By far my most amusing experience was in a certain foreign country where I longed to hear the choir and chazzan in a large synagogue. I walked for close to an hour to get to the synagogue, early enough to find a seat. There were some 2,000 seats in the shul, but fewer than thirty of them were occupied. Given that I had my choice of seats, I chose a spot in the middle of a sea of empty seats. Even after davening began, no one else came to shul. I embraced the quiet sanctity of the place until I had reached the middle of Shema, when an older, intimidating man tapped me on the shoulder and growled, “You’re in my seat.” I struggled not to laugh as I glanced around the empty building, thinking that from the thousands of other seats, surely, he could choose another, at least until I finished Shema! But the halacha is that while reciting the Shema, one cannot make gestures or motions, so I had no choice but to move to another empty row.
One year when I was saying Kaddish, I ventured into a synagogue and stood in the back in order to recite Kaddish along with the regular members. I had planned to be in that town for a few days, and davened there each time until one of the shul officials approached me and said that if I planned to continue coming and saying Kaddish, I would need to pay for membership. Fortunately, my trip ended shortly thereafter.
Another time, I stepped into a small synagogue—more to study Torah than to strictly pray. I asked where I might sit and learn and one of the young men showed me to a table and asked if I needed any specific sefarim, and whether I would like a cup of tea. That was and still is a memorable day. I would enjoy going back to that shul again should the need to travel there arise. Another time, while in a far-off land, I discovered that in order to daven in the local synagogue, I needed to fill out forms for security purposes. I did that online, listing my name, address, and email. When I arrived, the rabbi beamed and asked me if I would speak Friday night and again Shabbos afternoon. Bewildered, I asked him what led him to approach me. He explained that their security service checks out each person who registers, and my name came up as a public speaker through my various affiliations. That feeling of being welcomed will always be a warm memory.
In my own shul, we have an unofficial greeter. He approaches each newcomer, offers his name, asks their name and place of origin, and makes sure to reserve an aliyah or another honor for them. This has rubbed off on most of us, and we usually join in welcoming the visitors, making sure that they have a seat and a siddur, and ensuring that davening incorporates them. In earlier years, our houses of worship were called a “Beit Knesset,” a Place of Assembly or Gathering. They were open to the public and although the members had their reserved seats, there were always places for the occasional visitor. It is sad to think that in our generation, this longstanding tradition has changed somewhat. While some of us are comfortable in our solitude, lonely strangers and visitors who are just passing through would love a friendly greeting, a Shabbos meal, or any other welcoming gesture. What a tremendous mitzvah it is to reach out and connect to a fellow Yid who has his own dignity and worth, and likely has a story to share with us.
Rabbi Dr. Dovid Fox is a forensic and clinical psychologist, and director of Chai Lifeline Crisis Services. To contact Chai Lifeline’s 24-hour crisis helpline, call 855-3-CRISIS or email [email protected]. Learn more at ChaiLifeline.org/crisis.
