Shabbat-Induced Anxiety

It seems ironic to be using the words “Shabbat” and “Anxiety” in such close proximity, but that’s exactly how I felt as I walked to Kabbalat Shabbat services on Friday night.

I had told Dina, one of the JTS Rabbinical students, that I would meet her at a specific intersection at 6:45 to attend services at Yakar. She had invited me to Shabbat dinner at her apartment, which is conveniently located around the corner from the shul.

My Jerusalem Street Atlas has essentially become my Bible here, to the point where I almost feel guilty that I’ve been studying it far more closely than my Tanakh (aka the Hebrew Bible). But, as I discovered on Friday, it has its own set of flaws. Even though I double and triple-checked what seemed like the best route to the shul, some of the streets were mislabled, causing Rebecca and I to get hideously lost. A friend of ours later told us that the only good place to find good maps of Jerusalem is in Tel Aviv. Go figure.

It would have been so easy if we could just call or text someone for more clear directions, or at least to let Dina know that we were running late. But, of course, we’re not supposed to be using the phone on Shabbat. 6:45 came, and then 7, and I began to feel so badly about the fact that poor Dina was probably waiting for us. I had no way of telling her to go ahead without us and that we’d catch up eventually.

Since so many others were also walking to shul, we asked several people for directions on the way. I was very proud of the fact that I was able to conduct an entire “conversation” in Hebrew, even though it was completely simplistic:

Me: Afoh Rechov HaPalmoch? (Where is HaPalmoch Street?)

Woman: Sham (There – and she pointed towards the left).

Me: Todah Rabah (Thank you very much).

Woman: B’vakasha (You’re welcome).

Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not REALLY a conversation worth writing home about, but at least it got us to the right place – well, sort of. I asked a teenage boy to confirm that the building that we were standing in front of was Yakar, and his response was “Which one?” Turns out that two minyanim meet at Yakar – a Carlebach-style service with lots of music and a more “traditional” service. 

Dina, of course, had thankfully given up on us and had already headed into services. I took a gander that she would be upstairs at the Carlebach service, so Rebecca and I followed the sounds of the music. Since Yakar’s website notes that the congregation is “traditional and creative,” I was somewhat surprised to find that there was a mechitza separating the men and the women. My immediate knee-jerk reaction was to leave. But then I noticed the ruach (sprit) amongst the women in the congregation. There were so many people that some were even spilling out onto the balcony.

We looked around for Dina but didn’t see her right away. We didn't want to be disruptive, so we decided to wait outside, where we could still hear the music. It actually didn’t seem any different than it would’ve been had we actually sat behind the mechitza!

But all anxiety disappeared once we actually got to dinner at Dina’s gorgeous apartment. She cooked us a feast accompanied by wonderful company and conversation. It was definitely worth all of the "anxiety" it took to get there, and despite the fact that we got lost yet again on the way home, it was nice to get into the Shabbat mode. Every single person we passed while walking home wished us a "Shabbat Shalom," including both the "secular" Jews and the Haredi, which added a great sense of community. 

But Shabbat anxiety/frustration returned once again on Saturday morning. I learned the hard way that when services in Israel are called for 8:30am, it means that you actually need to get there at 8:30am. It’s not like back home when you can saunter in at 10am, which is about when Frani and I arrived at Shira Hadasha. Shira Hadasha is described as a “Halakhic Egalitarian Minyan,” which basically means that women are permitted to read Torah and lead certain parts of the service, even though they sit separately from the men. Unlike Yakar, this mechitza was relatively non-threatening -- it was a thin curtain that could actually be pushed out of the way, as it was during the D'var Torah. It seemed to serve more of a symbolic purpose than anything else, and while I'm generally opposed to the overall idea of a mechitza, this one was honestly not so bad. Would I have preferred there to have been mixed seating? Of course -- but if this mechitza made it comfortable for more people to participate in the service, then so be it. 

But that's not what frustrated me. Since Frani and I got to services late, we ended up sitting in the very back of the women's section, beyond the end of the mechitza. We had such a clear view of the men davening next to us that it almost defeated the concept of separation. It also meant that we were sitting amongst several young mothers and their screaming children -- and instead of encouraging their kids to calm down and be quiet, the mothers themselves were gossiping up a storm! Such yentas! The noise was so distracting during the Amidah, one of the most sacred parts of the service, that Frani asked two of the biggest offenders to be quiet. The women, of course, were not happy. "You're telling ME to be quiet?" asked one of the women in Hebrew. It boggles my mind how some religious Jews can go through all the trouble of doing things like covering their heads while sitting separate from their husbands, but they don't respect the crux of one of the major prayers in Judaism. It's like they're going through the motions without having meaning in their traditions. Needless to say, we were both pretty upset. What good is ritual if there's no feeling behind it? I actually have a lot to say on this topic, but I'll save that for another day. 

Thankfully, my Havdalah experience was ripe with feeling, tradition, community, and ruach, which I personally believe are four of the major things necessary for Jewish continuity. A group of us ventured to the Old City and bid farewell to Shabbat at the Kotel -- or at least as close to the Kotel as we could get without separating the men in our group from the women. 

I have mixed feelings about the Kotel. You may recall from a previous post that when I visited the Kotel on Birthright, I was disappointed that I couldn't experience all the singing and dancing that was taking place over on the men's side. The post-Shabbat feeling at the Kotel is different from anything else I've ever experienced - there are no tourists, no beggars, and the mood on both sides seemed generally consistent -- or at least it was this past week. I'll have to go back to find out if it's the norm or not. Either way, I have proof: I snuck a picture of the men's side of the wall through one of the slats in the mechitza!

The rituals surrounding the Havdalah service require three things: a braided Havdalah candle, wine, and spices. Thanks to an unfortunate bug scare in our spice cabinet (I'll spare you the gory details...) we had to improvise on the spices by using a tube of scented lotion. But my philosophy is that it's the thought that counts more than the specific way that a ritual is carried out, and I'm just happy that we were able to put together an impromptu service that was both meaningful and unique. We attracted a curious crowd of onlookers, which made me slightly concerned that some of the more Orthodox Jews in earshot would take issue with the fact that both men and women were davening together so close to the Kotel, the Western Wall, the holiest of all holy Jewish sites -- but no one seemed to openly object. And the best part? The Muslim call for evening prayers came right in the middle of our service, and while some people in our group found it distracting, I loved hearing the Islamic melody enmeshed with our own songs of prayer -- to me, it signified the essence of coexistence and the hope that we'll all be able to share the land of Israel in peace.

Our crew, as pictured above, finished off our evening with falafel and frozen yogurt on Ben Yehuda Street. The frozen yogurt alone is seriously enough of a reason to visit Israel -- it's kind of like Pinkberry in New York, only they let you choose as many toppings as you'd like without charging an arm and a leg. They also blend the fruits right into your yogurt rather than putting them it on top. I've found a few places in the US that have similar concepts, but not with the variety of fruits you'll find in Israel. I've gotten pretty adventurous with my flavor combinations -- who knew that dates and halva could work so well together? Watch out, Ben and Jerry! :)