Matt Wright warms to the cosy atmosphere of Hackney’s newest synagogue.
It’s just before 10am and the men and women who make up the relatively small congregation of Hackney’s newest synagogue (the old building has just been converted into a Pentecostal church), are shuffling into their respective seating areas. A charming old man passes me a skull cap and Torah, and guides me to a seat by his side.
‘Get comfy,’ he warns me. ‘We’re in for a bloody long ride!’
He wasn’t wrong – I was on the premises for a total of four and half hours. During that time Derek and his friend, a former Mayor of Redbridge, guided me through the liturgy of the oldest of the three Abrahamic faiths (the others being Christianity and Islam).
Cheeky, clever and a City banker to boot, I began to wonder if Derek was playing up to what he might have thought would be my preconceptions of Jewish people. But any tendency towards stereotyping was immediately offset by Derek’s modest account of his own impressive achievements, and by the stern sense of pride which he clearly reserved both for his people and for the Orthodox version of his faith.
The new Hackney Synagogue holds only a modest number of believers, but not because there are decidedly fewer Jews in East London nowadays. Rather, in Britain there are no longer as many young Jews committed to Jewish orthodoxy; hence the small crowd passing through the portal of this synagogue, newly inlaid with Hebrew script, tends to be as elderly as it is also conservative.
Standing at the entrance, however, is a much younger man of African extraction. ‘He’s not Jewish, that chap’, Derek explains. ‘But we need to employ someone to do the things we are forbidden to do on the Sabbath, such as turning on the lights.’
The Gentile servant of the synagogue is not the only black man in attendance. Sitting close to us is someone whose attire combines two traditions – West African robes and a Jewish skull cap. ‘He’s actually a prince back home,’ Derek informs me. I’m not sure if he’s joking.
As the service rolls on with the Rabbi reading aloud from the Torah, the general chatter of the congregation continues to grow. When the Rabbi changes from reading to chanting (so I’m told, this is an arduous task akin to reciting English but without the consonants), correcting his rendition is not only acceptable, but actively encouraged.
I note that during its long and complicated history, Judaism has become nothing if not relaxed about itself.
The congregation seems so confident in its conservatism that it can be laid back and liberal about whether its members are paying attention. ‘We’re Orthodox,’ a woman tells me afterwards. ‘But we don’t all follow it!’
The service ends with something I would never have thought of – a prayer on behalf of the British monarch, and a resounding chorus of ‘God save the Queen.’
Ever the public servant, Redbridge’s former Mayor explains to me: ‘When you’ve been kicked out of as many countries as we have, you become rather grateful to governments that allow you to stay.’
Community is undoubtedly at the heart of the Jewish faith – as in all religions. Following a three hour service men and women meet together again in the outer-hall for food. Mostly fish and bread; and for the men – whiskey.
With the Rabbi still telling old stories and a note passed around from a Rabbi in Manchester asking if anyone has information about a North London Jewish school from a hundred years ago (they don’t), my genial hosts begin to say their goodbyes.
Their holy day is nearly over – until next Saturday.
Matt Wright, a non-believer himself, is doing a tour of East London’s religions, writing about them for Rising East.