Last month, I saw the legendary jam band Phish as part of their annual four-night New Year’s Run at Madison Square Garden. I went as a fan of their music. I came away with new insights into how to be a better rabbi and how to make the shul experience more meaningful.
For those unfamiliar with them, Phish has an extraordinarily devoted fan base, often called Phishheads, that rivals even the Swifties. For Phish fans, the New Year’s Run is something like their High Holidays, a can’t-miss ritual. In fact, on New Year’s Eve, Phish even plays three sets instead of their usual two, a liturgical addition that feels reminiscent of Yom Kippur’s Neilah service. While we may joke about the comparison, many fans, myself included, have genuinely spiritual experiences at these shows. There is often a palpable sense of oneness with everyone in the room and a feeling of transcendence.
I’m still relatively new to the scene, having attended only five shows, which in the Phish world is hardly noteworthy, as many devoted fans have seen the band 200 to 300 times. The Jewish connection to the band is well documented, but as a rabbi, I found myself learning something deeper. One of the elements that makes each show so distinctive is that the band performs an entirely different setlist every night, unlike most touring bands, which typically repeat the same songs from show to show. In 2017, Phish played 13 shows over 17 days without repeating a single song, performing 237 different songs in total. Even the songs themselves are shaped by the moment. The music is deeply improvisational, with jams following whatever direction they need to go, stretching or contracting based on the energy in the room.
This creates a genuine sense of unpredictability within the show. Not knowing where the music will lead is precisely what draws so many fans in and keeps them coming back. This is, of course, difficult to replicate in shul, which is often associated with nearly the opposite: fixed structure, familiar liturgy and repetition. When people come to shul, they largely know what to expect, including specific melodies for certain prayers and even the expected length of the service.People are quick to voice concern when someone uses the “wrong” tune for “Adon Olam” or when a cantor stretches out a melody.
And yet, the Phish concert show made me wonder whether shul, too, might benefit from a more intentional balance between what is fixed and what is organic, between structure and expressive spontaneity. If shul ever becomes entirely predictable, we may lose something essential about the very nature of prayer itself. And if we cannot spare an extra eight minutes because the congregation adds a few more nei neis — those extra melodic refrains that emerge when the room is alive — we should ask ourselves what we are really doing there in the first place.
Another striking element of the show is the deeply nonjudgmental atmosphere and the genuine friendliness of the people in attendance. Trust me when I say this: people get weird at a Phish concert, and that is precisely what makes it so powerful. It is a space where people feel safe to dress, move and dance in whatever way feels most authentic to them. Whether someone is swaying gently with eyes closed or jumping up and down, there is room for everyone to be exactly who they need to be at that moment.
The ease and warmth with which strangers connect is especially notable. At the Garden, I sat next to a physics professor from the University of Colorado Boulder. In between sets, I found myself in conversation with a brain surgeon. In an age when it has become increasingly rare to even speak with strangers — when we are often looking down at our phones, earbuds in, or simply keeping to ourselves — the openness and friendliness of the crowd felt deeply refreshing and moving.
Again, it made me wonder what it would look like if shul felt a little more like this. Imagine if shul became a place where people felt safe enough to show up as they are, without worrying about whether they are standing at the right moments, singing the right way, or wearing the right clothing. How much more alive — and interesting — might shul become? If we lean into this, I believe warmth and friendliness will naturally emerge.
Shul can sometimes feel insular or hard to break into, especially for newcomers, but if we cultivate a spirit of authentic self-expression, I’m confident that genuine friendliness and heimishness will follow. At its basic level, shul should always be a place where people feel truly seen when they walk in. And if we cannot offer that, then we may have deeper work still to do.
In the Torah portion to be read in synagogues this week, Moshe discovers Hashem in a lowly bush in the desert, teaching us that God can indeed be found anywhere. My experience at the Phish show reaffirmed that same idea of expansive spirituality — moments of Godliness can emerge in the most unexpected places if we are willing to listen more closely, see more deeply, remain open to the unknown, and allow ourselves to be fully who we are.
I don’t want shul to turn into a Phish show. After all, it is a synagogue, not a rock show at Madison Square Garden.
But if shul cannot offer what that space does — a sense of presence, openness, belonging, and aliveness — then we may need to ask whether we are truly living up to what shul is meant to be.
