Seats and sushi: the five-star shul review

There are two kinds of people in shul. The first comes to daven. The second comes to audit. The first wants a minyan, a siddur, and silence. The second wants lighting, flow, vocal texture, childcare ratios, and a kiddush that says, “We’re humble … but liquid.” 

In the interests of communal honesty and because we’re already doing this anyway, I’m formalising what has long existed in Jewish life: 

The shul critic 

Let’s not pretend we don’t review shuls. We just do it in the parking lot. Or in the car. Or on the way home. Or in that beautifully sanctified opening line, “I’m not judging, but …” 

I’m merely adding structure. 

For legal clarity, none of this refers to any specific shul. If it sounds familiar, that’s between you and your board. 

Atmosphere and décor 

Some shuls aim for transcendence. Soft light. Clean lines. An ark that whispers eternity. Others look like they were furnished by a committee who won a Morkels bulk discount in 1987 – way past its ”two-year guarantee”. 

There is, as we know, a fine line between “timeless” and “hasn’t been updated since the release of Dirty Dancing”. 

You should walk into a shul and feel uplifted. If you walk in and feel like you are at a Home Affairs office which has just gone “offline”, something has gone wrong. 

And if the carpet pattern gives you vertigo during the Shema, that’s not mystical experience. 

Seating 

Let’s talk about the chairs. Who designed them? A chiropractor with unresolved childhood trauma? A medieval monk? The Star Chamber from the Spanish Inquisition? 

By Musaf, you are no longer praying. You are bargaining. “I promise to be a better person if You let me walk again.” 

And then there’s seat ownership, the only active property market left in Johannesburg. That said, there’s nothing more astonishing than a man who arrives 23 minutes late and looks personally betrayed that someone is sitting in “his” seat. 

We lost the Beit HaMikdash. Twice. We survived exile (mostly). But heaven help the visitor who occupies row 3, seat 6! 

The chazzan 

A good chazzan elevates. A mediocre one experiments. A bad one launches a residency. 

There’s a difference between soulful and self-indulgent. If the Shemoneh Esrei has key changes, we are in trouble. 

Tempo is everything. Too slow, and people begin planning their wills. Too fast, and the congregation sounds like they’re speed-reading a disclaimer before investing. 

And if your niggun requires hydration breaks, reconsider. 

The dvar Torah 

A dvar Torah should illuminate, not colonise. Seven minutes is inspiration. Fifteen minutes is ambition. Twenty-five minutes is hostage-taking, and no-one should be surprised if the chairperson starts to hand out yellow ribbons. 

If you need three unrelated anecdotes that never happened, a childhood memory, a Greek philosopher, and a figurative PowerPoint, perhaps the thought isn’t yet fully baked. 

Judaism has survived for millennia. It doesn’t need a weekly keynote address. 

The congregation 

Here lies the truth. A shul isn’t a building. It’s a tribe with a WhatsApp group and unresolved aircon issues. 

The test is simple: if you disappeared for three weeks, would someone call, or would they just quietly upgrade their seating situation? 

Community is built on simchas; shivas; car-pool negotiations; and the sacred Jewish art of knowing someone’s entire biography without ever having met. 

Kiddush 

Kiddush is where theology and capitalism meet over a table. 

You can tell everything about a community by what happens when there are four pieces of chocolate cake left and 12 grown adults pretending they are “just looking”. 

Some shuls believe in minimalism. Others believe that if there isn’t sushi, smoked salmon, and at least one suspiciously expensive pastry, morale will collapse. 

Kiddush reveals character. Who hovers. Who lunges. Who says, “I’m not hungry,” while triangulating. 

Security 

There’s one section of the review that isn’t funny. 

The need for security is painful. The fact that we handle it with dignity is defiant. And yet, we still gather. We still sing. We still argue about the thermostat and the prizes at children’s service and the chazzan’s tempo. 

That, in itself, is resilience. 

Overall rating 

Shuls, like marriages aren’t about perfection. They are about showing up, even when the chair is medieval, the sermon ambitious, and the sushi suspiciously vegan. 

We critique because we care. Because we are passionate about every facet of Jewish life, and will fight to the death to live and not simply endure. 

And if you disagree with my assessment, please don’t approach me at kiddush. 

Rather, send a long, carefully worded WhatsApp to someone else, and let it reach me organically. Just as we have always done. 

Next week: How rabbis secretly review their congregants. 

Spoiler: you’re not getting five stars.