In the Talmud, when the rabbis didn’t know how to settle the law for the community, they said, “Tzei ul’meid,” go and learn. In effect, go and see what the people are doing, and that’ll be the law. The result was “minhag hamakom,” or the custom of the place. It’s a familiar term we still use, today.

In Greater Houston, there are about 14 synagogues, large and small, old and new, representing nearly every Jewish stream. Any Jew is welcome to attend a synagogue, but the question often asked before entering is, “What’s the minhag hamakom?” or simply, “What’s the minhag here?” It’s a Jewish way of asking about the customs that bind the congregation as a community in that particular place.

For example, do men and women sit together or separately; are there tallitot (prayer shawls) available; do you daven as orthodox or non-orthodox Jews; do you sit or stand during Shema; do you use the Sephardic or Ashkenazic Hebrew pronunciation; and what do you serve at the Oneg Shabbat? The last question is optional, but the other questions might be answered differently at each synagogue. There are no wrong answers to these questions, and no reason to be critical as long as they meet the needs of the people. What these synagogues have in common are Torah, Ten Commandments, a Ner Tamid, a Bimah, and a Menorah—all the essential elements for a sacred worship space.

If we extend the concept, then our identity is also bound to customs as Houstonians, Texans, and Americans. We live freely but bound to customs and norms that make us many peoples of one nation. Such “minhagim” enable us to find our place where reliable rules of civility, dignity, and humanity are honored. If they’re not honored, then our system breaks down. Then we fear anyone who isn’t part of our faith community, is a stranger in our neighborhood, or who holds an opposing opinion. To avoid fear, we have to rely on customs and norms that bind us as civil people.

At one time, America was called the great “melting pot,” because America appeared to blend everything into one stew. But it was a mistake. America never lost its multicultural and pluralistic textures. It never happened on its own and it couldn’t be legislated away. There are houses of worship and areas of cities that are unique to an ethnic or cultural group. Today, that’s a virtue in a city like Houston, which is already one of the most diverse cities in America.

The strength of our country isn’t in the past where homogeneity was the hope of a pot that stewed for hours. The strength of our country is reflected in what we, the people, are doing. We’re living, working, playing, worshiping, and loving together in ways that highlight the desire of human beings to find the humanity that our Creator created in all of us. To do anything less doesn’t honor the One in whose image we are all created for good and for blessing. It begins in ourselves. How do we demonstrate our humanity? How do we identify humanity in others? Are we civil about differences we observe? Do we honor those differences as God’s creative works instead of narrow human judgments?

The hard work isn’t in finding differences. We’re very good at that. The hard work is identifying them as God’s handiwork. I, for one, am not qualified to pass judgement on God’s handiwork. Are you? Let’s agree to see in others what we can, and ascribe to God’s mystery and awe what we cannot easily understand. Let that person blossom in ways that brings awe to God, and then, maybe one day, to us.

L’Shalom,