NEW YORK — A story I enjoy hearing (and retelling) deals with a synagogue in which two factions can’t agree on whether everyone stands when Kaddish is recited or just the mourners. At an impasse, they finally decide to consult the oldest member of the congregation, whose mind is still sharp, about which custom is the synagogue’s tradition. A committee is formed to visit the gentleman.
The chairman asks, “Is having everyone stand for Kaddish the shul’s tradition?”
“No,” the senior member replies, “it is not.”
“Then we can assume that just the mourners standing is the tradition,” the chairman says.
“No, that’s not the tradition either.”
“But the two factions are constantly arguing.”
“That,” says the old member, “is the tradition.”
If not the specific issue,what the anecdote illustrates is an all too common failing: we Jews argue a lot. You know the old saying — ‘ask two two Jews a question, get three opinions.” As to whether we argue more than other people do, whether disagreements are part of our DNA, the jury is still out. We can argue about the premise. But…
You know the oft-told story of the man who’s been shipwrecked on an island for years, and shows a rescuer two structures that he’s built.
Pointing to one, he says, “that’s the shul that I belong to.”
“And the other building?” the rescuer asks.
“That’s the shul I don’t go to.”
As a kid,I alternately attended two Orthodox shuls, which were just a few blocks away from each other. One man in particular — there may have been others — was easily slighted. If, say, he was passed over for an aliyah, or he didn’t like the new tune the chazzan was using for a familiar prayer, he’d pick himself up and stroll to the other synagogue. No violation of the prohibition against riding on Shabbos, though some might fault him on other grounds.
Also in those days, before air conditioning, when I heard Jews being characterized as “a stiff-necked people,” I was sure the reference was to the group of congregants who complained vociferously about the window being opened, and lost the battle to the overheated majority willing to risk their necks to the drafts.
There’s something about congregational life — non-Jewish friends have spoken about similar conditions in boards at their houses of worship — that can bring out less than the best in people.
Long ago, at a (no-longer-functioning) shul I belonged to, committee people spent nearly half an hour enthusiastically and emotionally arguing over whether the dessert at the annual luncheon should be fruit cup or grapefruit. Not an unimportant topic, to be sure.
Board meetings were especially frustrating, with some of the nicest people displaying some very unlikable tendencies.
When one of the most civil board members said he wouldn’t be able to attend future meetings because he had volunteered to work at bingo games for a local Yeshiva the same night as our monthly conclaves, some of us suggested we change our board meeting to another night, so we would not lose this calm voice, Surprisingly, the change was agreed to.
But the man we’d made the change for was transferred by his company to Australia. For years, the meeting took place on the night we’d changed to, for him.
The worst-case scenario I ever heard of concerned the board of a shul I didn’t belong to. They were having a vote on a major issue (even more important than what dessert to serve), and one faction was making phone calls to every member to get them to come down to vote a certain way on the issue. So the opposing faction simply cut the wires. (The man who told me the story was quite proud of the wire-cutting.)
Happily, that’s an extreme case. But to whatever degree we’re guilty of being too argumentative, too opinionated we should, especially at this season, vow to curb our enthusiasm or excessive zeal.
And, in that spirit, if I’ve offended anyone, through this column or in any other way, I sincerely apologize.
(But, really, don’t you think fruit cup is a nicer annual-luncheon dessert?)
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Cohen is a freelance writer based in New York.