Two Greetings, One People

I have a confession to make. On a long Shabbos walk through Ramat Beit Shemesh yesterday, my wife and I passed through several neighborhoods, each with its own character and population, and with nearly every person we passed, I caught myself quietly profiling them. Not to determine their politics, profession, or precise religious affiliation. I was trying to answer a much more immediate question: Are these “Good Shabbos” people or “Shabbat Shalom” people?

Ramat Beit Shemesh makes this a live question in a way few places do. It is, among other things, a fascinating study in Jewish diversity. Within a relatively small geographic area live Jews representing a wide range of backgrounds, cultures, communities, religious orientations, and styles of dress. Even for someone who tries not to judge people by appearances, it is hard not to notice the differences.

Chazal teach, “לעולם יקדים אדם שלום לחבירו,” that a person should always take the initiative in greeting another. The value of offering a greeting is clear. But on Shabbos in Ramat Beit Shemesh, a practical question remains: Which greeting?

For generations, “Good Shabbos” has been the traditional greeting of Ashkenazic Jews. “Shabbat Shalom” is the prevailing Hebrew and Israeli formulation and is used across a broad spectrum of Israeli society. Some people have a definite preference. Others, myself included, do not feel terribly strongly about it. (There may, in fact, be halachic implications to preferring one greeting over the other, but that is a discussion for another time.)

Still, if I am going to initiate the greeting, I would like to do so in a way that feels natural and comfortable to the person receiving it. And so, as each new person approached, I found myself making a rapid and admittedly unscientific calculation.

Good Shabbos? Shabbat Shalom?

Sometimes I was reasonably confident I had gotten it right. Other times, the response gently informed me that I had not. I would offer a cheerful “Shabbat Shalom” and receive an equally cheerful “Good Shabbos” in return, or vice versa. Thankfully, no one seemed offended by my miscalculation. Perhaps that is because, beneath the difference in language and cultural association, everyone understood the same message. I see you. We are sharing this day. And I wish you well.

To be sure, this experience is hardly unique to Ramat Beit Shemesh. One could walk through Teaneck, or many other Jewish communities, and face the same linguistic dilemma. Yet somehow, here, it felt different. The contrasts seemed more visible, the question more immediate, and the encounter more representative of the community itself.

Much has been said about the divisions among the different populations of Beit Shemesh. Some of those observations are undoubtedly fair. I am new here, and I do not pretend to understand the history, tensions, or complexities beneath the surface. Nor do I imagine that a friendly exchange on a Shabbos afternoon erases genuine differences or resolves serious communal disagreements.

But perhaps it reveals something else that is also true. Unity should not be confused with uniformity. Achdus does not require us to erase our differences, adopt identical customs, or speak in precisely the same religious dialect. It means that despite those differences, we recognize that we remain bound to one another. In fact, our Shabbos walk suggested an even more modest definition of unity: the willingness to greet another person in the language we believe will make that person feel seen.

Of course, sometimes we will guess incorrectly. We will assume we understand another person because of how he is dressed, where she lives, or which community they appear to represent. Sometimes the response reminds us that people do not fit as neatly into categories as we imagine. That, too, may be part of the lesson. Profiling can help us choose a greeting, but it can never tell us everything about the person standing before us. The label is not the relationship. The category is not the human being.

During the Yamim Noraim, we stand before Hashem simultaneously as individuals and as members of a people. The Mishnah teaches that on Rosh Hashanah, “כל באי עולם עוברין לפניו כבני מרון,” all inhabitants of the world pass before Him like בני מרון (Rosh Hashanah 16a). The Gemara explains that although we pass before Him individually, we are all perceived in a single glance: “וכולם נסקרין בסקירה אחת.”

Our tefillos are similarly written overwhelmingly in the plural: forgive us, heal us, remember us, and grant us life. Even our most personal spiritual work takes place within the embrace, and the responsibility, of the collective. That collective is not composed of interchangeable people. It contains different histories, accents, customs, communities, and ways of expressing the same sacred hopes. Achdus is not meant to make those distinctions disappear. It is to prevent distinction from becoming distance.

Perhaps that work can begin with something very small. As another Jew approaches, we can spend less time determining precisely where that person belongs and more time communicating that he or she does belong. Sometimes we will say “Good Shabbos.” Sometimes we will say “Shabbat Shalom.” Occasionally, we will get it wrong.

But if the greeting is sincere, perhaps we will also be getting something far more important right.