Why I Came Back to Shul |
For years, one of the absolute best perks of returning regularly to synagogue has been rediscovering a very specific, distinctly Jewish superpower: our humor. It’s warm, deeply self-aware, and forged through millennia of practicing the art of the collective eye-roll.
Take, for instance, a Shabbat morning not long ago. Right before the Mourner’s Kaddish, the rabbi solemnly read the names of deceased congregants whose yahrzeit fell that week. Finishing the list, he looked out at us and asked, “Are there any other names that should be added?”
I leaned over to my neighbor and whispered, “I can think of a few… though they’re all still breathing.” We exchanged that perfectly restrained, knowing laugh we’ve spent centuries perfecting: dark humor wrapped in total affection.
Our clergy get in on it, too. During a long Presidents’ Day weekend, our rabbi dryly observed that latecomers to services generally split into two distinct political camps: the “FDR crowd,” who arrive just in time for the big speech—for da rabbi—and the “JFK crowd,” who aggressively slide in at the final buzzer—just for kiddush.
That humor isn’t just filler; it’s a survival mechanism. It proves that beneath the solemn rituals and lofty architecture lies an wonderfully imperfect, deeply human community.
The Buffet of Observance
Over time, I’ve come to accept a glaringly obvious truth: the synagogue is not populated by angels. It’s filled with ordinary humans struggling, striving, occasionally gossiping, and trying their best. A friend once bitterly complained to me about the “selective observance” running........