Why Do We Become Religious If We Forget to Be Kind?

I have always loved Brighton Beach, Brooklyn. It is my old neighborhood, a place filled with memories, familiar streets, and the voices of a community that has been part of my life for many years.

These days, I often return to Brighton Beach to attend a local synagogue and recite Kaddish for my beloved father, of blessed memory.

One of the things I appreciate about this synagogue is that there is always a minyan for Mincha and Maariv, the afternoon and evening prayers. The break between them is usually only fifteen or twenty minutes, making it very convenient for someone who wishes to attend both services.

For a Jew saying Kaddish for a parent, having a reliable minyan is a genuine blessing. And for that, I am grateful.

But during my visits, I have also experienced a few moments that made me reflect on something much larger than the incidents themselves.

Recently, after completing my prayers, I was carefully putting away my tefillin. As is customary, I was wrapping and placing the tefillin shel rosh, the head tefillin, into its bag first. Meanwhile, the tefillin shel yad, the arm tefillin, was resting safely on the table.

Because my leather straps are rather long, the very end of one strap happened to hang over the edge of the table and lightly touch the synagogue’s beautiful, exceptionally clean wooden floor.

I was simply finishing with the head tefillin before turning to the arm tefillin.

Suddenly, a fellow congregant shouted at me from across the room, demanding that I pick up the strap.

Before I could finish what I was doing, he hurried toward me and repeated his demand in a loud, commanding voice.

“I said, pick it up immediately! This is disrespectful to tefillin!” he declared, or words very close to that effect.

For a moment, I felt as though I had returned to a Soviet military barracks rather than a synagogue in Brighton Beach.

The tefillin itself had never been on the floor. Only the end of its long leather strap had touched the clean wooden floor.

Of course, tefillin deserve respect. Their leather straps should also be treated with care. But an accidental touch of a strap against the floor is not the same as dropping the sacred boxes themselves, nor does it demonstrate a lack of reverence for the mitzvah.

Having attended synagogues for more than thirty years, including Orthodox Chabad congregations, I have seen such accidental occurrences before. Usually, someone simply lifts the strap, and life goes on.

Yet this time, a small matter became a public confrontation.

And I found myself asking a simple question.

We were so concerned about the dignity of a leather strap. But what about the dignity of the Jew who was putting it away?

Unfortunately, this was not my first such experience.

On another occasion, while I was praying in the same synagogue, the gabbai loudly called out across the room that I should keep my feet together during prayer.

Now, there is indeed a beautiful Jewish teaching concerning the position of one’s feet during the Amidah. The Talmud, in Berakhot 10b, discusses standing with one’s feet together in prayer, reflecting the reverence with which we stand before the Almighty.

But surely there is a difference between teaching someone how to pray and publicly correcting a person while he is praying.

Could this not have been mentioned quietly afterward?

Would that not have been more respectful to the person, to the prayer, and to the atmosphere of the synagogue itself?

For decades, I have attended another Chabad synagogue, where I have observed a different approach. People are careful about Halacha, deeply committed to Jewish observance, and respectful of tradition. Yet when someone needs guidance, it is generally offered quietly, gently, and without creating a public spectacle.

That, too, is Torah.

These experiences have made me think about a particular challenge that sometimes appears within Jewish communities whose families came from the former Soviet Union.

I speak about this as someone who comes from that world myself, and with affection for the people and the remarkable revival of Jewish religious life among them.

For generations, Soviet Jews lived under a political system that restricted religious practice and often discouraged independent spiritual life. Many grew up in an environment where authority was expressed through commands, public criticism, and rigid expectations of obedience.

Of course, not everyone behaved this way, and such habits are hardly unique to the former Soviet Union. But some of us may recognize this manner of speaking from our own experiences.

Sometimes old habits follow us into new places, even into the synagogue.

A person begins studying Torah, learns a few laws, becomes more observant, and develops a sincere desire to do everything correctly.

That is wonderful.

But there can also be a temptation to correct others too eagerly, particularly in public.

And sometimes the person being corrected may have been studying and practicing Judaism for many years, perhaps even longer than the person offering the correction.

We never really know how much another person knows.

Nor should we assume that a small difference in practice reflects ignorance.

But the deeper issue is not who knows more.

It is why we study Torah in the first place.

Do we become religious simply to master a collection of rules? To know when to stand, where to place our feet, how to wrap a strap, or how to correct someone else’s mistakes?

Or do we become religious because we want to draw closer to the Almighty and become better human beings?

Our sages have already answered this question.

In Pirkei Avot (4:1), Ben Zoma asks:

“Who is honored? One who honors others.”

Notice what he does not say.

He does not say that the most honored person is the one who knows the most Halacha, corrects the most people, or speaks the loudest in synagogue.

He tells us that honor comes from honoring others.

And in Pirkei Avot (2:10), Rabbi Eliezer teaches:

“Let the honor of your fellow be as dear to you as your own.”

What a beautiful teaching.

Imagine if we remembered these words every time we felt the urge to correct another Jew.

The Torah itself commands us to offer correction when necessary. In Leviticus 19:17, we are told to rebuke our fellow, but not to incur sin because of him.

The Talmud, in Arachin 16b, discusses the danger of embarrassing another person while offering rebuke.

Maimonides, in Mishneh Torah, Hilchot De’ot 6:7–8, teaches that correction should be offered privately and gently, with genuine concern for the other person’s welfare.

In other words, even when we are right, we must be careful about how we express ourselves.

A correct religious observation delivered without kindness can lose much of its spiritual value.

And there is another danger: ego.

Ego can sometimes disguise itself as religious enthusiasm.

We may believe that we are defending a mitzvah when, without realizing it, we are also enjoying the feeling of correcting someone else.

This is something each of us must examine within ourselves. I include myself in that responsibility.

Our sages understood the danger of pride long before modern psychology gave it a name.

In Pirkei Avot (4:4), Rabbi Levitas of Yavneh teaches:

“Be exceedingly humble in spirit.”

Humility is not a decorative virtue in Judaism. It is part of the foundation of spiritual growth.

The more Torah we learn, the more humble we should become.

The more mitzvot we observe, the more compassionate we should become.

And the closer we seek to draw to God, the more carefully we should treat those created in His image.

The Talmud in Berakhot 19b speaks of kavod habriyot, human dignity, and its importance within Jewish law.

That dignity does not disappear when someone makes a small mistake.

It does not disappear because a tefillin strap touches the floor.

And it certainly does not disappear because someone stands with his feet slightly apart during prayer.

There is a well-known saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It is not a teaching from the Talmud, but it reminds us of something our sages understood very well: good intentions do not excuse every action.

We may sincerely wish to protect the honor of a mitzvah. But if our manner of doing so unnecessarily embarrasses another person, we should ask ourselves whether we have chosen the right path.

I do not know what was in the hearts of the people who corrected me. Perhaps they genuinely believed they were helping. I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Nor do I wish to identify them or the synagogue. My purpose is not to criticize individuals or embarrass anyone in return.

I am writing because I believe that all of us, myself included, can learn something from these small encounters.

The Jewish people have endured so much. For Jews from the former Soviet Union, the opportunity to return openly to Torah and Jewish life is a precious gift.

What a beautiful achievement it would be if, together with recovering our religious traditions, we also made a conscious effort to leave behind habits of unnecessary harshness, public criticism, and authoritarian behavior.

A synagogue should be a place where a Jew feels welcome, not constantly examined.

A person who comes to pray should not feel that someone is waiting to catch him making a mistake.

And someone who comes to say Kaddish for a beloved parent should be able to stand among fellow Jews with peace in his heart.

Our sages teach us that Torah study must lead to action. But that action is not limited to the mechanical performance of rituals. It includes the way we speak, the patience we show, the dignity we preserve, and the kindness we bring into the world.

We do not become religious merely to become more knowledgeable.

We become religious to become better.

Better neighbors. Better friends. Better members of our communities. Better human beings.

And perhaps, through these small acts of kindness, we can help make the world a little better as well.

I sometimes imagine what a wise old rabbi might say upon witnessing the incident with the tefillin strap.

Perhaps he would smile gently and say:

“My friend, it is wonderful that you care so much about the tefillin strap. Just remember to care as much about the Jew who is wearing it.”

And perhaps that is the whole lesson.

There is kavod tefillin, respect for the sacred objects.

And there is kavod habriyot, respect for human dignity.

Both are important. Both belong to Torah.

A tefillin strap can be lifted from the floor in a moment. But a person’s dignity should never be brought down in the first place.