By Aaron Berner
When in Rome, do as the Romans do—so the saying goes. For my first time in Tzfat, the mystical city, I decided I wanted to immerse myself as much as possible.
One of the great things about Cohort 2 of the Nachshon Project is our incredible diversity, and one of the times when this is most evident is on Shabbat. We are given options for tefillah, and Rabbi Cohen and Zeff always do their best to make sure there is a service everyone would be comfortable with, no matter their affiliation or personal preferences. While in Tzfat, an ancient, holy city tucked into the mountains of the Northern Galilee, the options were as wide-ranging as they were plentiful. There were Modern Orthodox services, Reform services, Carlebach services focused on singing and a large Breslov Hasidic shul all within blocks of our hotel.
As we gathered in the hotel lobby to walk to our different tefillah options, I still hadn’t decided where I wanted to go. I knew I wanted to do what the locals did, but with so many options of authentic Tzfat experiences, how could I choose just one? I felt I might be missing out on something notable either way. This was my prevailing feeling until Rabbi Cohen and Zeff went through our tefillah options once again.
Oftentimes the most unique, perspective-altering experiences come with the most anxiety and apprehension attached to them. Sometimes you just have to jump in (We are on the Nachshon Project, after all.) As the Breslov service was explained once more, I felt a bit of apprehension in the pit of my stomach. A Hasidic service? Just look at me, I’m certainly no Hasid. The girls who are coming have to go up to the balcony, through a different entrance? I won’t have any idea what’s going on—I only just became comfortable going to a shul with a mechitza, and now I’m going to a Hasidic service? I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it. My mind wandered, my thoughts clouded and confused.
But maybe you don’t need to be able to wrap your head around it. Maybe this is the way to truly grow and explore. There’s no use trying to cushion the fall. So, apprehension and all, I walked along up the hill, through a beautiful setting sun to the Breslov shul.
It turned out many of my peers were preparing to jump in as well: a large group of about 12 of us, male and female, arrived at the shul, and we gathered around in a circle outside the entrance, talking amongst ourselves. ‘What do you think it’ll be like in there?’ ‘Will we be able to see what’s going on?’ asked one of the girls. Rabbi Zeff and Miri’s husband, Gabe, who had joined us for the weekend in Tzfat, ushered us in through the men’s entrance and into the large room of the sanctuary. Walking through the entrance to the sanctuary, I felt as if I was entering a different world. I was immediately thrown off as the entrance spit us out right next to the bimah. In a conservative synagogue, it would be incredibly embarrassing to find oneself standing next to the bimah while services were going on.
In the Breslov shul, no one seemed to notice the group of us standing confusedly by the bimah. I quickly realized that I would need to shift my expectations for the service here. The emphasis was not on order, external beauty, family, or even community the way it would be in the services I was used to. The sanctuary was a massive floor, with people praying in different directions, in different ways, and with different amounts of feeling, noise, and mannerisms. Some were clapping and chanting loudly on their own, some sitting by themselves studying the siddur, and some were davening quietly in the corners. Old Hasidic men sat next to children as young as 5 or 6 davening on their own. There were no pews or lines of chairs; only benches facing front and back around rectangular tables. The congregants seemed as if they weren’t paying the slightest bit of attention to the man leading the service; it seemed to be total chaos, every man for himself. This may have been the furthest thing I had ever experienced from the services I was used to, and we hadn’t even found a place to sit (or stand) yet.
I couldn’t yet muster opening my siddur. There was so much to look at, so much to observe before I could even think about trying to participate. Gabe and Rabbi Zeff could sense our confusion and led us toward the back, but in the mess of people we could only get towards the back corner of the room. It felt strange pushing past people who were obviously engaged so deeply in prayer. While I wanted to experience the service for myself, I didn’t want to get in the way.
As I edged my way past person after person on the wide floor, however, I felt the same realization I had in my experiences in other crowded, seemingly confusing places in the past. Just like walking through the Shuk in Jerusalem or the crowded sidewalks of Manhattan, the only way to keep from getting in the way is to walk like you have somewhere to be. So I opened the siddur I had brought along, received as a gift from Nachshon. It is filled with beautiful pictures of Israel, commentary in English along with the Hebrew and explanations of the prayers. It quickly became blatantly obvious that this was not the right siddur for the occasion, so I grabbed one of the siddurim from the shelves which covered the walls around the sanctuary and did my best to follow along.
After a few minutes of craning my neck and peeking to figure out what prayer everyone around me was on, I decided to go on my own. I knew the part of the service that was being said, so I focused on myself and my own prayer. As hard as it may have seemed moments earlier, simply focusing on my own prayer experience allowed me to dim the overwhelming sights and sounds around me into the background. I was beginning to feel proud of myself for coming to the realization that experiencing something new and special doesn’t mean standing on the outside with a camera and a fanny pack. You need to get in the thick of it and participate to try to truly understand.
All of a sudden I was pulled out of my trance and tugged along into what became a conga line as the singing and chanting got louder and echoed throughout the shul. The congregation as a whole seemed to be spinning as we moved in alternating circles around the floor, stranger next to stranger, all singing and smiling. In the midst of the wild celebration I looked up towards the balcony and caught a quick glimpse of a little girl, no more than 4 years old, pulling back the curtain on the balcony and peeking into the wild abyss of spinning revelers below.
I hadn’t yet worked everything out in my brain: the women set apart from the men, families split apart during prayer, the lack of ushers or a formal welcome into the prayer space. But that could all come later. The energy in the room was simple and focused—not interested in any of these social questions. Still, as the service ended and throngs of people streamed towards the exit, these questions lingered in the back of my mind. I felt bad for the young girl on the balcony. I wished she could be able to experience the service for herself one day, like I had. The ability to participate and not just observe had been so valuable for me.
I wondered if this could be the lesson in trying to understand something so different from what I am used to: I had to acknowledge that all of my big questions about different manifestations of Judaism and Jewish prayer, mysticism, and religiosity would not be answered by a single service in one Breslov Hasidic shul. If I could open my mind to the experience, however, and find my place to participate, I had a chance to experience something unique and find some understanding with those who felt so different from me.
For just a few minutes at the Breslov shul, I felt myself enter that place of understanding. The big questions could wait—I was there, living it.
