You Don't Need a Synagogue (or Church, Mosque, or Temple) to Pray, But It Helps

There are a lot of one-sided conversations happening in the news and on social media. Everything seems one-sided nowadays. Most recently, a discussion has centred around houses of worship after churches and synagogues in the US and Canada have sued to be allowed to hold services in person. 

In Toronto, the only Conservative synagogue holding an in person minyan is Adath Israel. Sean attends almost daily. I attend a few times a week. All distancing regulations are observed. The sanctuary seats 1100, not including the bima. We are ten people spaced throughout the room. We provide a minyan base to be streamed to others. 

As a rabbi, I am thrilled that so many have found a home in live-streamed and meeting app minyanim. I regularly speak with with people for whom it is meaningful. One woman saying Kaddish joins her nephew at his shul in the US. Another enjoys attending minyan online because she couldn't fit it into her day of dropping kids at school and heading to work. With everyone home, she's able to simply log-in. Another man thought he'd never be a daily mainyan attendee while reciting Kaddish, but has found great comfort in joining everyday, where he sees his father and others on the same mourning journey.

As a Jew in the pews, online minyan depresses me. I'm okay, even ecstatic at helping others find their prayer space, but when I'm seeking my own, I can't get comfortable. I am distracted, frustrated, and lonely. Online minyan emphasizes my solitude in a way neither social distancing nor praying on my own can. After closing out Mom's house I returned home to quarantine and online minyan. Nothing made me feel more separate than reciting Kaddish alone in my room unable to see others except through the screen. Maybe it was the added layer of quarantine that finally broke online minyan for me, but I couldn't go back after that. It depressed me, making me feel numb. Kaddish, previously healing became a painful endeavour. After about a month I realized something had to change. I needed a minyan to help pull me out of that dark space.

When individuals post or write articles pitting religion on one side against caring about controlling covid on the other, they create a syllogism asserting that those who want fairness in the application of laws or feel a need to pray in the presence of others do not also care about preventing the spread of covid. 

Control of covid is not a simple matter. If it was, we would have done it already. But if one examines the affects wrought by closures in different areas, one thing is clear - it comes down to the responsible actions of individuals. To pray, with masks and social distancing, without singing, but in the same room, in synagogue, church, mosque, or temple when all protocols are observed dies not increase viral transference. Those who don't care are gathering anyway. I see it in the small minyanim exiting homes in groups without masks. I wonder if they even keep records of who attends for contact tracing. Ten people in a very large room is not the same as ten in a small space. Square footage matters. 

It's not only prayer. It's being able to see another person without a screen, even from six or more feet away. It's letting people know they won't lose their livelihood, their house, or their ability to put food on the table. It helps to create one rule that is clear for all. Use square footage. Figure out how to give people hope instead of just pulling it away.

Covid will be around for a long time to come. We cannot begin to know what the new strains will bring to us. The vaccine may let us see the end of the tunnel, but doesn't tell us how long the tunnel will be. In the meantime, we all need an outlet to make sure that, when we reach the tunnel's end, we're still okay.

I Am Linus - 'Cause Security's Something We Never Outgrow

 I just finished davening Shacharit. I am not a morning person. Shacharit takes a little more concentration and focus, but that's a good thing. Years (and years) ago, at my rabbinical school entry interview, one of the rabbis on the interview committee asked me how adding Shacharit had added to my day. I responded that I needed to be more awake and aware. If I wasn't, my tefillin strap would get tangled in my tzitzit, and I'd need ten to fifteen minutes to untangle them before I could proceed. It may not have been the most practical answer, but it was honest. It improved my davening and my morning. The committee laughed and, later that day, accepted me into rabbinical school.

I've come a long way from worrying about tangling my tefillin straps (although it still happens every once in a while as a cosmic reminder to attend my prayers). I now have multiple tallitot for different days and places. I wear my father's z"l white tallit for the High Holidays. I wear my JTS tallit when representing the community. At home and on the road I wear a smaller red tallit. It's smaller. It's light. It's simply easy.

I also have a large, loose-weave, blue tallit I made one summer at Camp Ramah. No matter what tallitot I get or make, I always come back to this one. It wasn't my first. It was my fourth. It wasn't even the first I chose for myself. But it's my favourite.

What's so special about this tallit? I can say that I loved the fabric from the first time I saw it. I can say it's because I made it by hand. I can say it's because the loose-weave keeps it from sliding. But the real reason is ephemeral. Though I love all my tallitot, this one feels right. It feels right the way a worn-in pair of jeans or a favourite sweatshirt feels right. 

That's in normal times. These are not normal times. We are amidst a pandemic. Now, when I wrap myself in that tallit, I feel the warm, solid weight of memory in its weave. I feel the comfort of every moment shared with family and friends in shul and at camp, in mornings before building with Habitat for Humanity, and at shiva minyanim. Its fibers are like the embrace of the community around me. This morning, I wrapped myself in my tallit, and as I felt it settle onto my shoulders, I heard in my mind a lyric from "Snoopy," by Steve Krause, "though his blanket may tatter he'll still hold it close 'cause security's something we never outgrow." Covid has made my mornings times to reflect. To look back to that interview question, how has it changed my davening? Tefillot are a quiet oasis of comfort and memory in a world I don't fully recognize.

There's another lyric from the song, "and then there's Charlie Brown falling down again." No matter what, Charlie Brown continues to hope. "This time," he thinks, "this time I'll make the kick. I'll succeed." We're all Charlie Brown right now. We need that security. But just like one season passes into another, like one year turns to the next, this too will eventually come to an end. For now, "memory shines like the spring coming just around the bend." I hope Snoopy will save me a dance.

To check out more of Steve Krause's music click here or like his Facebook page. Steve is a friend from years ago. He is a gifted musician and a good human being. I highly recommend his music. I receive no benefits through this endorsement.