The Torah column is supported by a generous donation from Eve Gordon-Ramek in memory of Kenneth Gordon.

Balak

Numbers 22:2–25:9

Things are starting to feel a bit more normal. Or, rather, I should say — nothing feels normal at all, but I’m starting to remember what normal life used to feel like.

Just the other day, I actually shook a stranger’s hand for the first time since March 2020. “Nice to meet you,” he said and extended his hand toward me. Prior to the pandemic, a handshake was a rather common gesture in our society; it didn’t require a lot of thought or decision. We all understood it to be friendly and polite.

But last week, when faced with an extended hand, I just stood there, unsure how to respond.

Of course, I knew what I was supposed to do. Or, at least, what I used to be expected to do in the days before I had ever heard of Covid-19.

As things are beginning to open up for us, here in the Bay Area, there is so much to redefine, to rethink and to reimagine.

When will life start feeling comfortable again?

Will I ever stop carrying a giant bottle of Purell in my purse?

Over the last 67 weeks, I have spent most of my time at home — or out on a walk.

Weeks went by when I didn’t enter the synagogue at all. Or, if I did, I had to make sure no one else was planning to be in the building; on those rare occasions, I would go up to the sanctuary to visit. I’d sit down in the space, lit only by sunshine coming through the stained glass. Though it was beautiful and peaceful, it was eerie — too quiet, too empty.

In the last few weeks, we’ve begun to gather in the sanctuary again. We’ve had our first few b’nai mitzvah ceremonies. Though they were small, they were very meaningful.

At our first in-person Shabbat service, I told those gathered that, for 67 weeks, I had been insisting that community could be built anywhere — and that the space didn’t matter.  It is true that our ancestors built both community and portable sacred space bamidbar (in their wilderness). During the Covid era, we all managed to do this, too. We created new portable and sacred spaces, ones that our ancestors would never have believed possible.

We all made it work — a modern wilderness for us to navigate, a new society for us to build.

But as I stood in our sanctuary during that return Shabbat service and looked up, up, up into the center of our historic dome, I couldn’t help but think how wonderful it was to be back, together, in a more tangible, physical space.

I stared into the dome and I began to sing words which come from this week’s Torah portion: Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael … How good are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel!

These words can be found in our Shabbat morning service. I always love the beginning of the service. The music of the early prayers wakes me up and reminds me how lucky we are to be together.

But these particular words take on a whole new meaning after 15 months of a pandemic that has caused us to shelter in place and separate ourselves from friends, family and community.

Now, as we contemplate the challenges of reopening, these words beckon us to return — to community and to life together.

Like in ancient times, our “tents” are central gathering places for people. And they are dwelling places, where God can dwell among us.

While it is true that sacred space can be created anywhere — even on Zoom — there is something fundamental to human connection that can only occur when we are together in one space.

As we reopen and re-envision the future, many opportunities to build community await us. What do we want our communities to be like?

The words of this Torah portion can inspire us to think about the inherent importance of our “tents.” And the blessing that is living in community.

Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael … How good are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel!

These words resonate now.  As we rebuild and reopen, this ancient blessing comes to life again.