“Was it something I said?”
“Thanks for joining us – it wouldn’t have been the same without you!”
Just throwaway lines, said in jest with no intention of embarrassing anyone, certainly not the four lads as they walked out of Shul just two minutes into my Shabbat morning sermon.
The packed crowd laughed, catching the wry smile on my face. They could see I was taking it lightly, and they appreciated the humour of the moment. The young men, of course, were already gone, blissfully oblivious that my gentle barbs had been aimed at them and their early exit.
If proof were needed that no offence was taken and that they hadn’t felt shamed, it came not ten minutes later. Bold as brass, they came strolling back into Shul while I was still speaking!
But despite not taking personal umbrage at their lack of courtesy, here’s the point to which I always find myself circling back when something like this happens:
We wouldn’t behave that way at the theatre, during a lecture, or at a concert venue. Call it respect or just common decency, there’s a certain convention, a set of social norms that tacitly govern how we act in different settings. There seems to be an unwritten consensus about what’s appropriate and acceptable, and anything that falls beneath that standard is naturally frowned upon.
Now, of course, as I’ve made the case before, Shul is different, it’s not the theatre, a lecture or a concert, and I’m the first one to want people to feel appropriately relaxed and at home in this communal space.
In fact, my rabbinic approach is geared to correcting the misconception that Judaism is stuffy and outdated and that rabbis are old fashioned and out of touch with the “Jew in the pew”. But there’s still a line, granted it might be a fine one, but it’s one that shouldn’t need to be enforced with ropes or signs.
We all know that while Shul must be welcoming, it’s also not our front lounge nor is it the local pub and it’s certainly not the football terraces. It’s a uniquely holy place, a spiritual sanctuary of the spirit, an oasis of inspiration and meaning in a confused and noisy world.
So, when we step inside Shul, we’re not just entering any building, we’re slipping into a different reality – a special reserve where the soul can breathe, where eternity brushes up against the everyday, and where, if we let it, something greater than ourselves can speak to us.
And that’s where personal responsibility comes in. Because respect isn’t some dusty museum relic. It’s not about rigid rules or nostalgia. It’s about remembering who we are, what we’re doing here, and the value of treating certain spaces and moments with dignity.
Each of us, through our actions and attitude, either elevates the space or diminishes it.
It’s easy to forget in the rush of everyday life, but respect isn’t old-fashioned, it’s revolutionary, it’s counter cultural. In a world that teaches us to put ourselves first, choosing instead to honour something beyond ourselves, to show care, to create a space of dignity and holiness, that’s an act of spiritual courage.
It doesn’t require grand gestures. It’s the small choices: the extra moment of quiet, the patience during a long service or sermon, the decision not to let the Shul become a café without the coffee (and only Kiddush at the end!)
So to those lads and to anyone who’s momentarily forgotten where they are, I say:
“Please come again. I guarantee you a warm welcome. This isn’t about embarrassment or rebuke. It’s an invitation to all of us to remember what this space can be.
A sanctuary. An oasis. A place of meaning in a busy, distracted world.
I’m not here to berate. I’m here to share that with you. So don’t walk out, stay in and let’s create it together.”