This may be a bit of a stretch, but walking into an unfamiliar synagogue -- especially for someone who’s entered very few synagogues in the last few decades – reminds me of my first day as a new kid in junior high school. Everybody else knows each other, they know where the rest-rooms are, how the schedule works, and what to avoid in the cafeteria line. They’re in a familiar environment, they’ve got their friends, and they feel at home. For me, each place is new and a little bit scary.
I realize that my visits over the summer probably don’t capture the real personalities of the synagogues I’ve attended. “Shul shopping” in the summer is akin to seeing a hit Broadway show in an off season: the crowds are smaller, many of the “regulars” and “stars” aren’t there, and routines are often suspended or modified.
Even so, I’ve learned a great deal already. One important question I ask about each place I visit: do I feel welcome or unwelcome? So many details contribute to the “vibe” I get, beginning with the driveway entrance or parking lot, and continuing through the rest of the experience.
For example one synagogue’s front entrance left me with a first impression that I’m sure wasn’t what they intended. Instead of displaying their name, an inspiring phrase, or a seasonal message over the lovely front entrance, they had hung a huge banner reminding everyone to buy scrip to support the synagogue. As a visitor and potential member of the synagogue community, I found this a jarring and off-putting introduction. I’m not even inside the front door, and you’re already haranguing me to buy something? Where’s the spirituality? Where’s the inspiring message?
Just entering the synagogue can be daunting: What if I can’t find the sanctuary? If there’s more than one sanctuary, how will I know where to go? Will I know which is the right prayer book, if there’s more than one? There are so many things regulars take for granted that newbies like me find unnerving -- and that’s even before we get to the service itself
Fortunately, three synagogues we visited had greeters near the front entrance. Two were friendly, wishing us a good Shabbas and handing us books and materials for the service. The third greeter clearly wished she were anywhere else. She made no eye contact, barely said hello, and shoved the handout in our general direction. To be fair, everyone else she “greeted” received the same treatment. Still, it didn’t make us feel glad we’d chosen that synagogue, or eager to return.
The most important factor in feeling welcomed is the human factor, of course. And for me, a feeling of community is a crucially important component of the synagogue experience. Only in two synagogues did anyone other than a greeter speak to us. On one occasion, I was attending services alone. As soon as I was seated, the rabbi walked over to introduce himself. He shook my hand, and asked my name, told me he was delighted to meet me, and asked what had brought me to their synagogue. We chatted, and I felt very welcomed. When I returned with my husband a few weeks later, the rabbi remembered me and greeted us both.
Unfortunately, no one else in the congregation seemed as friendly as the rabbi. People were pleasant, but they were ensconced in their own social groups and didn’t seem eager to include people they didn’t already know. (Didn’t I say earlier how much this reminded me of junior high school? Clearly the intervening decades haven’t resolved my basic discomfort with “not fitting in.” )
One of the most unwelcoming experiences we had was at a different synagogue. The rabbi was unexpectedly ill that evening. The cantor, organist, and two regular congregants gathered up front to discuss how to present the service. We were a small group -- just twelve of us. Someone finally suggested we pull our seats into a semi-circle.
The service began. I realized that we had no siddur and I wasn’t sure where to find one. I vaguely recalled seeing a filled bookcase in the entry hall, so I got up and headed for the hallway. A young woman followed me; she was visiting, too, and was as lost as I. Happily, I was able to find the right books and we went back into the service. Still, it struck me as odd that the eight “regulars” in the room didn’t seem to notice that the remaining four of us were total strangers and fairly clueless. Unwelcoming with a capital “U”.
I’m happy to say that we had an experience that was as welcoming as the last one was unwelcoming. I had chosen a small synagogue almost on a whim. The initial omens were not promising: their website had posted the wrong start time (probably from winter), so we had more than an hour to kill before services began. The place was almost empty when we entered, and very, very dark. Only one room was illuminated, a small sanctuary by the front door. A woman poked her head out, seemed a bit surprised to see us, but greeted us in a friendly way and invited us in. She assured us that there would be a service, but mentioned that the rabbi was just recovering from surgery so it would probably be a less formal service than usual.
Others began arriving, and everyone expressed delight at meeting us. People came up to welcome us and ask how we had found their synagogue. As they exchanged greetings and news among themselves, they would turn to us and explain the context of their conversations. Each one wanted to tell us how he or she had discovered the rabbi or the synagogue, and how much they enjoyed being together. Their sense of community was infectious, and their warmth enveloped us.
Indeed, it did seem to be an unusual service, led with great charm and humility by a senior congregant. And it was a service that glowed with happiness and appreciation. I was taken aback when the leader asked us to come up front and say Kiddush. At first I demurred, but the group waved me up to the front. It would have been rude to decline such a sweetly-offered honor. They smiled encouragingly as I recited the blessing, and seemed so pleased that I had participated.
My husband and I both floated home on a cloud of goodwill and warm invitations to return. Will we go back? You can be sure we will. I’m eager to meet the rabbi who generates such openness and community feeling in his congregation.
Welcome or unwelcome? Feeling welcome won’t necessarily convince me to join a synagogue or group, but it’s a very important first step. Feeling unwelcome will pretty much guarantee that I’ll never come back. And that’s a shame, because that synagogue may have so much to offer that I’ll never discover.
I’m surprised at how much I look forward to my shul adventures, and how each new experience resonates with me throughout the week. I’m only in the earliest stages of this journey, but I’m appreciating every step and looking forward to experiencing and learning more.
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