UNDER CONSTRUCTION, PLEASE EXCUSE OUR DUST...

Kehilat Hadar

Hospitality is central to the Jewish tradition, something I was pathetically grateful for when I found myself in NYC with no clothes, no hotel room, and no desire to drive back to Connecticut at 1:30am. I had met Asia and Amitai across Rebekah's Shabbat dinner table. When they offered me their couch for the night, it was with one was jesting caveat - I had to attend Kehilat Hadar with them in the morning.

Kehilat Hadar holds its services in the basement of the Second Presbyterian Church of New York. The walls had a mural of drably colored rainbows and balloons, and the floor was institutional linoleum. It was raining outside, and the peeling paint of the basement gave the same impression indoors. Until the sheliach tzibbur began to sing.

Kehilat Hadar is closely linked to Yeshiva Hadar, and the voices around me where trained, strong, ecstatic. Here too, as at Romemu, there was pure joy. But without expression through dance and yoga, it burst directly from the mouths of the congregation, in the strongest recitation of liturgy I had ever heard. Harmonies echoed off the walls while the prayer leader held the melody, standing in the middle of the congregation, directly to my right. I stopped trying to follow along, and stood with my eyes closed. When we reached the Kedushah the congregation held and harmonized the final note of each phrase. Again, as at Romemu, there was a sense of meditation, but also flavors of organs, and orchestras.

The D'var Torah was short, but evocative. Our speaker, a former IDF patrolman, recalled scenes from his time in the force - of doors of Palestinian homes welded shut for security reasons, forcing the family to enter and exit through windows, of 2:00am invasions of terrified households. He likened the Israelis and Palestinians to Isaac and Ishmael, brothers who can only come together to grieve. If not reconciliation, he called at least for tears. Walking out into the rain, towards the Jewish Museum on 93rd, I thought about how much of Jewish history has been filled with tears. And was all the more grateful for the joyful voices of this shul, and the kindness of the friends who had brought me there.

Kehilat Romemu

Erev Shabbat at Kehillat Romemu, an Eastern-influenced liberal shul based in the West End Parish House, was a vivid reminder of high-school days filled with my own version of the Age of Aquarius. We sat cross legged in a circle on the temporary synagogue's floor, at the feet of Rabbi David Ingber, who's deep baritone filled the vast space. To our left was the percussionist, somehow shaking the bells strapped to her ankles.

Again, I was the new kid. Being in the church made that all the more clear. Part of me wanted to laugh at the Flower-y Children around me. The whole thing felt contrived - the inevitable swell of drum beats, predictable surges in singing. And yet... The people around me had now leaped to their feet, and were weaving and swaying through the aisles. The joy, the sheer joy, was contagious. I was laughing. I began to explore the physical space around me, stretching my fingers towards the ceiling, swaying and twirling. And when the Amidah came, I bowed for the first time, because the movement finally felt natural and humble.

The sudden stillness of the Shema caught me by surprise. The vibrant congregation was now calm. Each word was called out, and held, humming through the space until its natural completion. It was meditation. It was medication for the week. I realized I had tears in my eyes.

After the service, I walked through New York City with my friend Rebekah to the Shabbat dinner she had arranged - kindly funded by Birthright Next. The fifteen guests filled the space, and we piled onto small tables and one another to make room. As the hours passed, each guest shared a literary or artistic piece relating to this week's Parsha, "Chayyei Sarah". I chose "Departure" by The Velveteen Rabbi, a wonderful Jewish blogger and poet. Alisha, created the piece below.

I got lost three times on the way to Romemu, in part because because their address - 165 W 105th St., NYC - is nowhere on their website. But once there I found some things too: a new lens through which to view tradition and faith, and new attitude about what does and does not constitute prayer. And maybe, a newly re-kindled desire to wear paisley.

East Rock Havurah

Havurah wasn't a word I knew. Neither, apparently, was "saute." The first - an informal group of like minded Jews who assemble for the purposes of facilitating Shabbat - was one I'd come across studying for my conversion. The second, well, that was the task I was given as I walked into my friend Ilana's house this past Shabbat. Sauteing. With fire. Clearly, this wouldn't be my first fully observant Friday. I stayed in the kitchen while the other members arrived. Being the only non-Jew in the room can feel a little overwhelming. And now I was going to burn the asparagus. Great. Somewhere in the living room I heard a guitar being tuned, and then, the soft hum of voices. We were beginning.

East Rock Havurah is an egalitarian, songful (read: guitar, drums, even a saxophone!) worship group that meets a few times a month in the homes of its members. It has a full liturgy service, and that night I was excited to find Hebrew letters I knew hidden among the strangers - Shin, Tav, Bet, Mem Sofit. Finally, the D'var Torah - this week, a simple exploration of hospitality by my darling friend. Could the strangers we meet on the street carry news as great as that given to Sarah, if only we show them kindness enough to warrant it? I found myself still teasing out the answer as we walked into the dining room. Hands I didn't know passed me plates, opened jars. An arm slipped around me as we recited Kiddush. And then I got it. The importance of hospitality. Of making the stranger feel at home.

And really, the asparagus? It didn't turn out half bad.