“What is it that makes you want to go to the synagogue so badly?”
In answering my daughter-in-law’s question I thought back to my childhood. My parents had raised me to view our Friday night temple service attendance as a privilege. If I didn’t behave there one week I would stay home with a babysitter the following week. Of course, it was fun going since following the services, I was treated to petting from my parents’ friends, comradeship with my religious school buddies, and a fantastic spread of the best homemade goodies imaginable.
My attendance was never required and when I entered high school I was torn
between being at the weekly sports events or going to services. One week the
former would be more important to me, the following week the latter. So it
continued until, in university, I made the commitment to be totally Shabbat
observant.
In the beginning I went to the synagogue every Shabbat morning, even in the
height of the Phoenix desert heat. Then my first child was born and it took
over twenty years for me to return to regular synagogue attendance. By then I
was living in Israel and called it going to the Beit Knesset.
During the week my praying was done by myself. As my Hebrew improved and I
learned more and more about the prayers’ meanings I was satisfied to talk to my
Maker in the privacy of my own home. For Friday night, Shabbat morning, and all
the holidays I had my special spot in the Beit Knesset.
If my daughter-in-law had asked me her question six months ago I probably
would have told her it was because I craved the comradeship and support of my
sister worshippers. Most likely I would have mentioned how nice it was to
socialize after services were over. And, certainly, part of my answer would
have been the importance of hearing the weekly Torah portion and some of the
prayers that can only be said with a quorum of ten.
Corona made me contemplate my answer more carefully. There have been many
weeks when I stood on the sidewalk, sometimes in a cold wind and others with a blazing
sun, straining to hear the word of the Torah and recitation of prayers. Most of
the time I was by myself, visited by flies and distracted by birds. Indeed, I
missed seeing my friends but the prayers continued to call to me. I think it’s
a call that my soul craves. And I’m blessed to be able to listen to its
message.
As I write these words I’m in the week of the ninth of Av, the date on the
Hebrew calendar reserved for mourning both the first and the second Holy Temples.
I know that my soul should be longing for the third Holy Temple as much as it
yearns to go to the Beit Knesset but it’s hard to miss something I never knew.
I never saw
the Holy Temple is its splendor. I never heard the Kohen Gadol announce
HaShem’s name in the Yom Kippur service. I never smelled the unique scent of
the incense. I never tasted the flavor of a holy sacrifice. I never felt the
special stones as I prostrated myself in the Courtyard of the Holy Temple. No, I
have no idea the extent of what I am missing and therefore my soul has many
layers covering its desire for the Temple to be rebuilt.
What my soul
does long for is an end to the Corona plague. It longs to be able to hug my
grandchildren without worry, to sit in a room with friends unmasked, to know my
neighbors have enough to eat and the economy isn’t falling apart, to be assured
that all are healthy, to live without fear. Can I take that same longing, along with my
longing to pray normally in the Beit Knesset, and channel it into my prayers?
Prayers for true redemption, true peace, and the rebuilding of the Third Holy
Temple that I’ve only learned about and never seen. Can my one prayer tip the scale? I don’t
know. I can only try.
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