For the past six weeks I have been struggling to get to grips with my latest challenge. Through no fault on my part I find that I am now President of Beit Knesset Hanassi, a largely Anglo synagogue in Jerusalem’s lovely Rechavia. One of my first tasks is that of serving as liaison officer, as it were, between our shul and our local Chabad chasidim.
Why, you may wonder, is there any need for liaison? The
answer is this: during the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, when
attendance for prayer runs at higher-than-usual levels, Chabad set up a
splendid white marquee in the parking lot adjacent to our premises. We set up a
channel of communication, since careful neighbours make good neighbours and so
that neighbourly issues could be speedily and amicably resolved. For example,
would Chabad’s tent-dwellers need to use our already inadequate bathroom
facilities, and would our late-comers be able to sneak beneath the canvas in order
to catch the sounds of the shofar?
Well, I’m pleased to report that, after two days of
neighbourly davening, we and they are still on cordial terms. Indeed, in theory
is no reason why things should be different. We pray to the same God for much
the same things. Yes, some of us do pray a little earlier in the day, some of
us do so in rather louder voices and we are not entirely on the same page sartorially
speaking, but essentially we have much in common and we subscribe to the same
Torah.
Several people have however pointed out to me that there is
a major difference—and it’s not a doctrinal one. Our shul charges everyone who
prays with us on the Yamim Nara’im while Chabad, I have been given to
understand, does not. “How is it that
they have free seats”, I have been asked several times, “but you don’t?”
I have thought about this question a great deal because it
seems to me that Pirkei Avot points me to an answer.
Our synagogue covers most of its running costs through
membership fees and through what is effectively a High Holy Day tax of 200
shekels per bottom per seat. Chabad covers its running costs by other means.
Both we and they are conscious of the need to balance our books or, if we can’t,
of the need to find a way of meeting any shortfall. We just do it differently.
In this context I am reminded of the teaching of Rabbi Akiva
at Avot 3:20:
הַכֹּל נָתוּן
בָּעֵרָבוֹן, וּמְצוּדָה פְרוּסָה עַל כָּל הַחַיִּים, הֶחָנוּת פְּתוּחָה,
וְהַחֶנְוָנִי מַקִּיף, וְהַפִּנְקָס פָּתֽוּחַ, וְהַיָּד כּוֹתֶֽבֶת, וְכָל
הָרוֹצֶה לִלְווֹת יָבֹא וְיִלְוֶה, וְהַגַּבָּאִין מַחֲזִירִין תָּדִיר בְּכָל
יוֹם, וְנִפְרָעִין מִן הָאָדָם מִדַּעְתּוֹ וְשֶׁלֹּא מִדַּעְתּוֹ, וְיֵשׁ לָהֶם
עַל מַה שֶּׁיִּסְמֽוֹכוּ, וְהַדִּין דִּין אֱמֶת, וְהַכֹּל מְתֻקָּן לִסְעוּדָה
Everything is given on security, and a net is spread over all living things.
The store is open, the storekeeper extends credit, the account-book lies open,
the hand writes, and all who wish to borrow may come and borrow. The bailiffs
make their rounds every day and exact payment from man, with his knowledge and
without his knowledge. Their case is well founded, the judgement is a judgement
of truth, and ultimately, all is prepared for the feast.
Granted, Rabbi Akiva was
not thinking of tents in Rechavia—but the principle is similar. Everything gets
paid for in the end, and everyone pays for what they consume. We should never
allow ourselves to imagine that life is just a free ride at others’ expense.
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