The intensity of our communal connection
Rabbi David Teutsch teaches us that “the vitality of the Jewish people requires intensive community.” It’s a simple (in the best sense) point, but a controversial one.
Many Jewish communities believe that biggest is best, and pressure to grow membership is as old as the Bible. For example, the book of Proverbs (14:28) teaches, ״בְּרׇב־עָ֥ם הַדְרַת־מֶ֑לֶךְ״ – “The glory of the Sovereign is found in many people.” One could (and people do) read this verse to say that it’s the number of congregants, not the intensity of their connection, that is wanted.
However, the Zohar couldn’t disagree more. The medieval school that composed this famous Jewish mystical book felt their differences from other Jews keenly, and they often lamented that others could not see the splendor obvious to the mystics themselves. But they weren’t afraid to assert that it was the quality of connection that meant more than the quantity.
In one of the introductions to the Zohar, we get a blueprint for what will become Tikkun Leil Shavu’ot — the all-night study that occurs on the festival of Shavu’ot. At the Tikkun, everyone who manages to stay up and study is described as part of the bridal party as the Shekhinah is wedded to the Kudsha Brikh Hu, the wedding between different aspects of the Divine. For those who study, their study is what the Bride wears as jewelry at the wedding, and when She steps under the huppah, the wedding canopy, The Holy One notices the students and blesses them (1)Zohar Introduction 14.
This is all to say, it’s what people give of themselves in the context of spiritual community that the Zohar treasures.
Programs that increase communal connection
In our community, Adat Shalom in Bethesda, Md., the idea of intensive communal living long preceded me. It was built into the community when Rabbi Sid Schwarz founded it, and it grew further under the leadership of Rabbi Fred Dobb and Rabbi Hazzan Rachel Hersh.
In the first days of the congregation, everything was done intensively by community, for community. Neil and Lisa Makstein, the very first founders, had the synagogue’s telephone number ring in their house. When the High Holidays came, two members, usually a married couple, were assigned to plan all the logistics themselves. Some of us are shocked that they survived the process. There are more stories like that than there is space on the page.
But the question that Rabbi Teutsch asks of us isn’t then, it’s now, and luckily, our community has retained many of its bedrock commitments to itself.
Oneg at Adat Shalom
The biggest way this shows up is through what we call oneg, which is a bit of a misnomer considering the size of the operation. When I grew up, oneg was the bagels, egg salad, good cookies and terrible decaf coffee following services. At the Adat Shalom oneg is a full lunch for upwards of 200 Shabbat service goers, prepared by community members. In order to feed such a crowd, teams of members work in concert to prepare and bring food (always vegetarian, store bought is fine), and to make it work, members sign up for oneg duty twice a year.
Every Shabbat, parents receive the gift of the pleasure of each other’s company, with their children close by, but taken care of.
People can contribute financially in place of oneg duty, not least for accessibility concerns, but most members choose to take part.
Volunteer oneg captains coordinate those on oneg duty beforehand. On the Shabbat morning, they all gather together for an orientation. I’m mostly on the bimah, but I’ve managed on occasion to witness these morning gatherings. As they organize to prepare the lunch — to prepare to serve the community — the feeling in the room is powerful and profound.
Children and parents in the building
When the community was founded, there was an insistence that our synagogue school meet on Shabbat morning. I sometimes wonder if those who made the decision could have imagined just how much it would redound to the community’s benefit. What it means is that every week that school is in session, our children are with us on Shabbat. They fill our halls. They run outside. They run around the sanctuary. We have to have meetings about them not running around the sanctuary, and that is the kind of problem I’d choose any day. Requiring kids to be at synagogue on Shabbat fills our space with life.
Added to that was a decision to require one parent to stay on campus as long as school was in session, and I’m not sure which idea was more brilliant. Not only do we have the kids; we also get the parents, who generally set up with a coffee maker, a selection of pastries (brought by them) and do an intense amount of crocheting while talking politics (who knew that they went together?). The vast majority of these families stay through oneg, and the children play for a couple hours after services.
I’d say that this model isn’t for everyone, but I’m not sure that that’s right. I can certainly understand parents’ temptation to drop off their child in order to have a few blessed moments to themselves, but as a parent myself, I’ve found that mostly illusory. What these parents have is the pleasure of each other’s company, every Shabbat, with their children close by, but taken care of. When a person’s kids are a certain age, there is no greater gift than that.
Lay-service leaders
Lastly, there’s an expectation at Adat Shalom that community members will make our prayer happen. Our gabbais, Torah readers and haftarah readers are community members, as well as the chanters of the scrolls of Esther and Eikhah. And, in just about every service, there’s a partnership between professional clergy, and lay singers and musicians, to lead together. Honestly, the bimah gets a little crowded, what with the three to seven people we have leading and playing at every service, but there’s nothing quite like it.
These incredible lay musicians and spiritual leaders vastly reduce the distance that can sometimes exist between a rabbi or cantor and the community.
We sometimes forget that what we call “leading” a service actually means building a bridge of connection to the people in the room and reaching heavenward or heartward together. It’s not about shepherding people through the pages of the prayerbook. It’s more about creating the conditions that let them pray. And these incredible lay musicians and spiritual leaders vastly reduce the rather useless distance that can sometimes exist between a rabbi or cantor and the community. More importantly, they are the best examples of what prayer is: the giving of one’s soul to the power that makes for redemption.
When that happens, a person senses what Rabbi Teutsch is speaking about, for the room and the hearts in it are filled with a profound sense that this is vital. It’s why I’m lucky to be the rabbi of Adat Shalom.
