The following essay was sent to us by Am Echad, the
American organization that promotes Jewish unity through an
appreciation of the common tradition shared by all
Jews.
I felt like a sociologist in a documentary
film. Surrounded by at least a hundred dark-suited and for
the most part black-hatted and bearded men, ritual fringes
hanging at their sides, I -- a comfortably Reform Jew from
the suburbs -- definitely stood out in the Friday night crowd
at this particular synagogue.
I was out of my element, though, not for any professional
reason, but simply because of a sense of adventure -- and
because I wanted to learn more about parts of the Jewish
religious map distant from my own.
I had befriended a rabbi on the Internet and, after meeting
him once at a lecture (and being surprised by his distinctly
"right-wing Orthodox" dress), accepted his invitation to me
and my family to drive up from our Virginia home to join him
and his family in Baltimore for a Shabbat.
We arrived somewhat curious, a bit excited and petrified. We
knew that the Orthodox world had countless Sabbath rules, and
had heard there were prohibitions against a host of mundane
things from turning on lights to tearing toilet paper. And we
wondered how we would deal with them all. But we also knew
that Shabbat in an Orthodox environment would, more closely
than anything we had experienced, resemble the Jewish day of
rest as my ancestors -- and the ancestors of all Jews --
observed it.
Our host was not a pulpit rabbi; we were attending services
at a shul a few blocks from his home. As services were
about to begin, he explained what I should expect:
recitations, spirited singing, the reading of the Shema
and the silent recital of the Amidah. As things
got under way, I could almost see the documentary's opening
credits scroll down my field of vision. I tried to keep my
eyes on the siddur but could not help but check out
the scene. I was just about the only one present not wearing
a black hat (other than a handful of obvious visitors -- come
to think of it, I was probably an obvious visitor myself).
For a while I had a hard time figuring out what page people
were on, but then I realized that most everybody was on a
different page. I decided to focus on the page before me.
"Lecha Dodi," the poetic "welcoming the Sabbath"
portion of the service, was wonderful. The crowd fell into a
spontaneous and enthralling three-part harmony and a warm
feeling began to overtake me, the documentary giving way to
my experiencing the moment as a participant.
And then, suddenly, services were over. In my temple Friday
night services were considerably longer, and I was left
wishing there would be more. The rabbi then stood up and
announced: "No one should be alone for a Shabbos meal. So if
you need a place to eat, please let Mr. Schwartzbaum
know."
At that moment, a man behind me turned to his friend and
said, "Wow! This is great! Whenever I need --"
I completed his sentence in my mind and was stunned by how
shameless a schnorrer could be. I couldn't believe the
fellow would admit his miserliness to his friend.
And then, as I stole a peripheral glance at the speaker, who
was dressed in the native costume, black hat and all, he
finished his sentence: " . . . whenever I need a guest, I can
just come here!"
His friend responded, "Well, yeah, but you gotta grab 'em
quickly. They go fast."
I was flabbergasted. I knew that hospitality to strangers was
a Jewish ideal. But seeing it taken so seriously, seeing it
so eagerly embraced, was a revelation to me. As I marveled at
what I had heard, my host turned to the men behind us and
introduced me, explaining that I was visiting from Virginia
with my family. The fellow I had thought was a schnorrer,
turned to me and said, "You know, I don't have any guests
this Shabbos. Would some of your family like to come over for
dinner?"
My host stepped in to make the case for keeping my family
together and the stranger yielded, but insisted that "Please,
next time you're in Baltimore, you should come over for a
meal."
In the two and a half years since, my family and I have grown
considerably in our Jewish identity and observances. I have
no plans to buy a black fedora and don't think we can call
ourselves "returnees" to the beliefs of Orthodox Judaism. But
we have come to harbor a deeper respect for Jewish tradition,
and to accept that the Torah and its laws are marvelous gifts
to the Jewish people.
And when I think back at our long strange trip, I think I
have to mark its genesis as the surprise ending to the
comment I heard behind me that Friday night in a Baltimore
shul.
[Eric Simon, who served as a UAHC Regional Board member and
as a member of the Executive Committee of the UAHC Commission
on Synagogue Affiliation, is currently active in Jewish
outreach and educational activities in Northern Virginia.]
