Many know the old joke about the Jew stranded on a desert island. When he is finally discovered after many years, his rescuers find that he has constructed two synagogues. “One, I go to. The other? The other I would never set foot in.” Such is the attitude of most American Jews. They don’t know what they are missing.
In our little shtetl of Squirrel Hill in the eastern part of Pittsburgh, my family has the opposite situation. There are about 10 synagogues in our neighborhood—and we belong to four of them. Not only that: We set foot in all of them, even those to which we don’t belong.
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