By Ariel Glueck
My favorite part of the week is Kabalat Shabbat. I’m interested in liminal spaces within Judaism, spaces that are neither here nor there, the journey from one status to another. I love the spiritual transition that occurs during the transitional period of the day. Kabalat Shabbat is the space between Shavuah and Shabbat, between the mundane and the holy.
On the Thursday afternoon of our Jerusalem Shabbaton, Nachshon had the unique pleasure of spending over an hour with the delicate and genius Rabbi Tamar Elad Appelbaum. Rabbi Appelbaum eloquently and elegantly blessed our ears with her ideas of intra-Jewish pluralism and the unique challenges facing Israeli identity. The only way I can describe Rabbi Tamar Elad Appelbaum is as the rabbinic version of the elf queen in Lord of the Rings. I think she was floating. I decided immediately I would attend her unique congregation for my favorite time of the week. I wanted this magical rabbinic queen to welcome in the Shabbat Kallah for me.
On Friday afternoon, Nachshon was blessed with the unforgettable experience of singing with Hadas Pal Yarden, one of the cantors for Tzion. We sang with her for what felt like hours, leaning into her unique Sephardi sound, complete with the correct pronunciations of the letters “ע” and “ח”, an experience rare for my Ashkenazi ears. I couldn’t believe the Kabbalat Shabbat service I would be going to that night would bring me in the same room as both these amazing women at once.
Nearly skipping with anticipation, I finally arrived at the door of Tzion. My appetite had been wetted by the appetizers of Rabbi Tamar Elad Appelbaum and Hadas Pal Yarden, I was ravished for the main course that this Kabalat Shabbat experience was sure to be….and then I walked into the room. As I walked down the stairs, my heart sunk. I sat in one of the many empty white plastic lawn chairs and tried to keep the excitement on my face and the spark in my eyes. I was sitting in what felt like my high school gym, but with worse lighting that was somehow dimly lit and fluorescent at the same time. The other Nachshon fellows I was with filled up a majority of the audience there so far. I sat back in my uncomfortable chairs and waited for a service that would surely be as dull as the environment I was sitting in.
But slowly, slowly, the room started filling up with people and with energy. Fellow congregants greeted each other with hugs and smiles and kisses and genuine questions and love. Slowly the love and kehilah buzzed around the room. My spirits had no choice but to be lifted up with the spirit that slowly, but then exponentially swirled around the room. The lights suddenly seemed less fluorescent. Then Rabbi Tamar Elad Applebaum walked in and brought the light of Shabbat in. As she glided down the stairs in a white dress, all faces turned towards her like flowers to sunshine. The humble queen had arrived to her palace and it became a palace around her. Before she sat in her rightful seat among the crowd, she stopped at a few congregants, engaging them in genuine conversations with concerned questions and easy joy. I smiled inwardly and laughed outwardly at my own foolishness. The service continued to be a moving one, I melted into the Kabalat Shabbat melodies I knew, and appreciated the people-watching time during the melodies I didn’t. One woman’s joy across the room brought tears to my own eyes. By the time of Rabbi Applebaum’s Dvar Torah, the room was left with standing room only. We had to open all the windows because the warmth of the community and the bodies was overwhelming. I’ve never felt a more uplifting and meaningful transitional experience from week to Shabbat.
The question that I held onto during my Shabbat into the next week and weeks since has been “What makes a great Jewish space?”. I’ve been in countless gorgeous synagogues in the United States, the architecture and artwork of which could be their own museums. But many of these marvellous containers for the Jewish spaces felt empty. A community cannot rely on the aesthetic beauty of its home alone. A plastic bucket running over is more beautiful than a drop of water in an expensive goblet. My experience at Tzion, aside from being a transformative and truly liminal one, has forced me to question the allocation of resources in the Jewish world. Aesthetics can be helpful in creating a full Jewish space, but we should focus on fostering the community that fills the space.
