My shul was established by the very first hasidic rebbe who ever set foot in

by Yori Yanover

’ll admit I’m not the most dependable member of my little shul. There have been a few discussions of this aspect of my devotion. It’s not something I’m proud of, but, somehow, I can’t make it to shul on time. Oh, I get there eventually. And if the folks who had arrived at 7:00 am are still without a quorum of 10 by 7:30, when I sashay in, they’re usually too overcome by gratitude to rebuke me. But I know they’re rebuking the living daylights out of me in the dark recesses of their minds. I can tell. Also, on those rare occasions when I’m on time and some irresponsible bloke walks in late, I turn on the self-righteous, subterranean rebuke. So I know. But this piece is not about my timeliness. It is about benches.

My little shul was established by the very first hasidic rebbe who ever set foot in America. It took guts. America was known as the land where Jews sailed in with beards and yarmulkes, only to become clean shaven and hatless in the mean streets of the New World. This particular rebbe settled down on East Broadway and for nearly 50 years shone his light of benign wisdom around the neighborhood and beyond. But this piece is not about the rebbe, who passed away more than 30 years ago. It is about benches.

Wooden benches are the most efficient way of seating large numbers of people. Old wooden benches are most elastic that way, stretching and contracting, enveloping each person with their soft, fabric-like woodiness and making room for as many people as deign to force themselves in. Wooden benches are the most near-living things I know. In the middle of silent prayer, when only my knees touch the bench, I can sense the vibrations made by all the other people standing beside me. I can tell if they’re in deep meditation or in nervous anticipation. I can feel their peace and their irritation. It’s all communicated through the old benches. But this piece is not about the spiritual qualities of old wooden benches.

Some of the old benches in my little shul came from other shuls which had either upgraded to newer furniture or became defunct. Some of those benches bore distinct marks of a former use by a competing monotheistic religion. None of those old benches were in what you might term “good shape.” In fact, they were falling apart. They creaked. They had the evil habit of catching the fringes of your prayer shawl and stripping you of it as you got up and walked away. Some were showing the kinds of signs of disrepair that engineers include in their reports when they recommend tearing something down and replacing it with something new. But this piece is not about the sturdiness of old wooden benches.

When I first arrived in my little shul, I sat down at the far corner of one of the benches, near the farthest window from the entrance. It’s a warm and safe seat, on the edge. You could slouch there, your back against the massive arm support, one foot half-raised on the bench, head lolling over the back support.

Little did I know that this section of that bench was one of the most highly prized in the whole shul (which is the size of three common elevators). The man who had inherited the sitting rights to that section from a member who had passed away, was on vacation when I arrived. Little did I know that the whole shul was anticipating with baited breath the confrontation between us, when the rightful owner returned.

No confrontation ensued. The man instructed me to keep his seat, and went and got himself another spot. He said it was worth it, to hand his seat down to a worthy new member. I felt grateful beyond words. I still do.

Then one day last month a rich guy offered to replace the old, rickety wooden benches. He went into great expense. Everybody was very appreciative. Except when we came in one morning to find the old wooden benches gone, replaced by new ones, our hearts sank.

The new benches are constructed of solid pine wood, stained in butcherblock style. But instead of the stretch of uninterrupted wood of the old benches, these come with individual wood flaps, hanging off steel frames. To pray standing up you must lift the flap and insert yourself within the steel frame. To sit down again you must withdraw from the frame and bring down the seat. Very functional and very rigid. These new benches don’t come with armrests. You can’t slouch back, or you’ll end up sprawled on the floor. When we get up for the silent prayer you hear the hard knocks of wood on wood as all the flaps are being raised. And while our fringes are no longer caught by the wood, we bang our shins against the steel frame every time we get up.

But this piece is not about my complaints regarding the insensitivity of replacing old furniture with new, without consulting with the congregation. Changes like that are almost always introduced by decisive individuals who take matters into their hands and get things done. If they were to ask everyone’s opinion, we’d still be having the old benches.

And that is precisely what this piece is about. I simply want my old bench back, with the contour of my body practically imprinted in the wood in a slouching angle. The truth is that if I wanted new shul furniture I’d have probably gone to one of those big synagogues, where furniture-care is stressed more sternly.

The truth is that I just want my little old bench back.