I am reconstructing this story from blessed memory. I have no choice. It was Shabbat, after all, so my pen was down. And this was not just any Shabbat. I’m talking Shabbat in Jerusalem with two dozen singing rabbis around the dinner table.
Last month I joined the Northern California Rabbis Mission to Israel. Twenty-seven rabbis, to be exact.
They represented all denominations — Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist and Renewal. Their one-week itinerary included meetings with government officials, but their main objective was to show Israelis — and each other — that pluralism works.
I accompanied the rabbis to the Knesset, the Israeli Supreme Court, a West Bank yeshiva (for some Torah study), an electric car company and the Kotel — well, under the Kotel, for the “tunnel tour” of the Western Wall’s subterranean vestiges.
I already knew many of the rabbis and had cordial relations with them, but I had never actually, you know, hung out with them.
So let me tell you about rabbis.
They are a peculiar subset of the Jewish people. As Allen Bennett, spiritual leader of Temple Israel in Alameda, noted, traveling with 27 rabbis can be like “herding Katz.”
They are opinionated and witty. They have strong egos, yet are unfailingly kind. They press hard when it comes to issues they care about, yet possess a refined sense of courtesy. They are smart enough to know what they don’t know. And are they good at Torah study.
In the past, I had always addressed them with the honorific “Rabbi,” to keep things formal. As our trip went on, and as they let down their guard, I shifted to first-name basis with them. Yet my respect for them grew immensely.
It culminated on Shabbat. With the sun setting, Rabbi Moshe Levin (of San Francisco’s Congregation Ner Tamid) and I went to Shira Hadasha, an Orthodox shul in the German Colony. We arrived in time for Kabbalat Shabbat.
I’ve attended few Orthodox services in my life, so Moshe served as my spirit guide, helping me follow along in the all-Hebrew siddur (no transliteration training wheels this time).
It was an hour of joyful noise. With 200 voices ringing all around me, I thought about the numberless Jews exiled over centuries in the diaspora, all of them longing to stand where I stood, praying what I prayed.
Topping that was my dinner at Mem’s.
We all joined up later at the home of Mem Bernstein. A macher’s macher, Mem has devoted her life to Jewish philanthropy (her Avi Chai Foundation built San Francisco’s Jewish Community High School of the Bay).
She was also a gracious hostess, welcoming us to her home near the Montefiore Windmill. Over a sumptuous meal, the rabbis shared impromptu drashes on the Torah portion. Others recounted the week’s adventures.
Mostly, they sang, while I swooned (keep in mind, my spirit was fueled in part by the ever-flowing wine and an icy shot of vodka).
At one point, Reconstructionist Rabbi Rosalind Glazer and Orthodox Rabbi Shlomo Zarchi led a wild niggun, sung molto vivace. For me, that’s when the line crossed from conventional time to Shabbat time.
As the two rabbis led us in song, I felt the true spirit of the moment. I felt I had come face to face with the Shabbat Queen herself. It was for me the happiest, holiest moment of the trip.
Of course, conventional time came roaring back soon enough, followed by a long journey home. Sadly, that amazing Shabbat slowly faded to white.
But not permanently. Writing about it here, I find I have the power to fully conjure the memory of that night in Yerushalayim, and it warms me still.
Someone once described war as “long periods of extreme boredom pierced by moments of extreme intensity.”
I sometimes think regular life is like that. Daily routines may bring comfort and security, but we long for moments of extreme intensity. Too often people seek them in destructive ways.
But I learned in Jerusalem that Jews long ago solved the problem. And it’s coming soon to a Friday night near you.
Dan Pine can be reached at [email protected].