delray beach orthodox rabbi

                                                                                           
                                                                                                  B"H

 Do You Know Who’s Sitting Next to You?
 by Rabbi Jack Engel

This week I had one of those “aha” moments—though it came with a healthy dose of discomfort. You know, the kind where you suddenly realize the world doesn’t revolve around your assumptions.

For a few weeks now, I’ve been noodling over this thought: how little we really know about the person sitting next to us. Whether in shul, a board meeting, or at the bakery counter where the guy ahead of me buys six bagels and only two schmears (which frankly makes no sense), we make quiet judgments. Not mean-spirited ones—but the kind that tuck people into neat categories. We look at their age, their attire, their attitude, and think we know the whole story. Spoiler alert: we don’t.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not accusing anyone of being judgmental. Heavens no! We’re all “open-minded,” “inclusive,” and “accepting”—at least in the mirror version of ourselves. But then life throws us a curveball, and we see just how narrow our peripheral vision really is.

Case in point: yesterday I found myself in a setting that my more conservative instincts would usually avoid. Young people, some smoking, others sipping drinks, many with piercings and clothing choices that aren’t sold in Boro Park. I assumed I had walked into a den of iniquity. Turns out, I had entered something far more sacred.

These weren’t aimless kids killing time. They were survivors—literally. Survivors of the Nova music festival. People who had looked evil in the eye on October 7th and lived to tell the tale. But they weren’t just telling stories—they were building a community. A trauma center run by the very people it serves. Because they understood that while professionals can guide and support, healing begins with those who share the pain.

In that moment, I realized my eyes had been open, but my vision was blurred. The outer appearances distracted me from the inner holiness. These weren’t lost souls—they were the very definition of kedusha (holiness): broken vessels that still shine.

We do this more often than we’d like to admit. We smile politely at the person in the next seat but never really ask how they’re doing. We talk about embracing others, but when it comes time to actually stretch our arms, we hesitate.

Not long ago in shul, I gave a talk on the importance of inclusion—particularly toward those in the LGBTQ+ community. I emphasized that people don’t choose their identity, and it’s not our role to reject what we don’t understand. Rather, it’s our mitzvah to welcome, to embrace, and to support. The response stunned me. A number of people came up afterward to share that they had children or relatives who are LGBTQ or transgender. Their gratitude was genuine. But their stories? Heartbreaking.

This isn’t about abandoning our values—it’s about understanding them more deeply. We’re told v’ahavta l’re’acha kamocha—love your fellow as yourself. But here’s the catch: you can’t love someone if you don’t know them. And you can’t know them if you’re only looking at the surface.

So the next time you sit down—whether in shul, at a wedding, or even in a waiting room—ask yourself: Do I really know this person? Or am I just comfortable assuming I do?

You can go through life sitting in a single seat, thinking only about your own view. Or you can choose to sit beside someone and open your eyes to their reality. And in that shared space, in that holy togetherness, maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of the Divine.

Hineh mah tov u’mah na’im—how good and how pleasant it is…when we actually try sitting together.