//boroughing//
Spring 2018
Lecha Dodi, the Virgin Mary, and Me
A Friday Night at Romemu
Yaira Kobrin
The rush to get to Kabbalat Shabbat on Friday evening culminates in the welcome sound of familiar tunes and the poetry of the liturgy. As I welcome in the Sabbath, I get the feeling that after a long week of classes and papers and tests and other commitments, I can finally stop, stand still for a moment, and take a breath.
Though I have experienced a variety of Kabbalat Shabbat services, they’ve admittedly looked pretty similar to one another, give or take the swapping out of a tune or the addition of a prayer. Tired of this uniformity, I jumped at the chance to attend Kabbalat Shabbat at Romemu, a Jewish Renewal community on the Upper West Side, which is unlike any other synagogue I had previously attended for prayer services. My background is Modern Orthodox; at Columbia, I am Gabbait—one of the organizers of the community’s prayer services—for Yavneh, Columbia/Barnard Hillel’s Modern Orthodox group. So, while for the most part, I didn’t know what to expect at Romemu, I did know one thing: it would be radically different.
It wasn’t.
Well, in some ways it was. The Romemu community affiliates with the Jewish Renewal movement, which, as they explain on their website, “is a phenomenon, not a denomination…[one that] resembles Reform Judaism in some ways, Reconstructionism in other ways, and even Orthodoxy — especially Hasidism — in some ways…” As such, the prayer service did not conform to any sort of familiar format. Kabbalat Shabbat was accompanied by beautiful live music, the cantors were both wearing microphones, men and women sat side by side, and the community meets in a church, where pictures of the Virgin Mary along with other Christian icons are prominently displayed.
These pieces were not, for me, uncomplicated. I consulted a rabbi before attending, unsure if or how my practice of halakha (Jewish law) would impact my ability to sit in a service that included live music and microphones on Shabbat, when I consider both of these things forbidden. The experience of praying in an egalitarian environment was also new to me, and my immediate reaction, to my own surprise, was one not of discomfort, but of disconnect—it simply didn’t feel like shul.
That feeling of estrangement lasted through the first third of Kabbalat Shabbat. I was moved and inspired by the prayer, which was definitely enhanced by the live music, but during the two minutes of reflective meditation before Lecha Dodi, I opened my eyes and studied the people around me, wondering if they could sense my feeling of difference, if they could feel my staunchly Orthodox identity as acutely as I did in that moment.
And then we began Lecha Dodi. The hymn was written by Rabbi Shlomo HaLevi Alkabetz and popularized after another famous kabbalist, Rabbi Isaac Luria, known as the Ari, added it to his prayer book. According to legend, the Ari would go out into the fields of Safed as the sun set on Friday evenings and greet the approaching Sabbath with this hymn. The Ari’s excited anticipation of the Sabbath inspires me; Lecha Dodi is my favorite of all the prayers in Kabbalat Shabbat. That night in Romemu, Lecha Dodi was the moment when all the difference I felt was overcome by an overwhelming feeling of connection, of belonging.
The microphones were still on, the tune slightly foreign, and the Virgin Mary still eyed me warily from the wall. But I was suddenly surrounded by that same feeling of joy, and it radiated not just from myself, but from all the people around me. I was used to my weekly exhalation being solitary, but suddenly, it was communal. Everyone in the room let out their breath, and then burst into exhilarated praise of the Sabbath.
And then the whole room danced. Slowly, the three or four individuals who had been swaying enthusiastically in various parts of the room became ten, then fifteen, then twenty, and then they were no longer swaying individuals but instead joined hands and danced, forming one giant chain that circled the pews, gaining momentum and new members with every turn. The joy was palpable, pure, and timeless, and it filled the room.
I was overwhelmed by familiarity. Romemu is radically different than any community I had ever prayed with before, but the joy that I and all the people around me were experiencing is the same that I’ve felt at summer camp, praying with five hundred people. It’s the same as the joy that permeates Yavneh services when we fill the room on a Friday night; the same as the joy that compelled the Ari to run out into the field to greet the Sabbath queen; the same as the joy that compelled Rabbi Shlomo HaLevi Alkabetz to capture the experience of welcoming the Sabbath in words.
On Romemu’s website, they explain that they “are committed to helping to birth a post-denominational Judaism that transcends ideologies and labels, that is exultant and contemplative, ecstatic and reverential, connected to our tradition, yet open to truth, wherever it is found.” That Friday night at Romemu, I felt connected to our tradition in ways that I did not expect, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, I felt a deep sense of truth.
I still feel more comfortable in a Modern Orthodox shul. But the religious experience that Romemu creates within their community is warm, and uplifting, and true. It’s the same feeling that I want from Yavneh. The challenge of navigating my personal spiritual journey while managing that of a larger community is complex, but it’s one that I welcome with open arms, and, more importantly, plenty of joy.
Though I have experienced a variety of Kabbalat Shabbat services, they’ve admittedly looked pretty similar to one another, give or take the swapping out of a tune or the addition of a prayer. Tired of this uniformity, I jumped at the chance to attend Kabbalat Shabbat at Romemu, a Jewish Renewal community on the Upper West Side, which is unlike any other synagogue I had previously attended for prayer services. My background is Modern Orthodox; at Columbia, I am Gabbait—one of the organizers of the community’s prayer services—for Yavneh, Columbia/Barnard Hillel’s Modern Orthodox group. So, while for the most part, I didn’t know what to expect at Romemu, I did know one thing: it would be radically different.
It wasn’t.
Well, in some ways it was. The Romemu community affiliates with the Jewish Renewal movement, which, as they explain on their website, “is a phenomenon, not a denomination…[one that] resembles Reform Judaism in some ways, Reconstructionism in other ways, and even Orthodoxy — especially Hasidism — in some ways…” As such, the prayer service did not conform to any sort of familiar format. Kabbalat Shabbat was accompanied by beautiful live music, the cantors were both wearing microphones, men and women sat side by side, and the community meets in a church, where pictures of the Virgin Mary along with other Christian icons are prominently displayed.
These pieces were not, for me, uncomplicated. I consulted a rabbi before attending, unsure if or how my practice of halakha (Jewish law) would impact my ability to sit in a service that included live music and microphones on Shabbat, when I consider both of these things forbidden. The experience of praying in an egalitarian environment was also new to me, and my immediate reaction, to my own surprise, was one not of discomfort, but of disconnect—it simply didn’t feel like shul.
That feeling of estrangement lasted through the first third of Kabbalat Shabbat. I was moved and inspired by the prayer, which was definitely enhanced by the live music, but during the two minutes of reflective meditation before Lecha Dodi, I opened my eyes and studied the people around me, wondering if they could sense my feeling of difference, if they could feel my staunchly Orthodox identity as acutely as I did in that moment.
And then we began Lecha Dodi. The hymn was written by Rabbi Shlomo HaLevi Alkabetz and popularized after another famous kabbalist, Rabbi Isaac Luria, known as the Ari, added it to his prayer book. According to legend, the Ari would go out into the fields of Safed as the sun set on Friday evenings and greet the approaching Sabbath with this hymn. The Ari’s excited anticipation of the Sabbath inspires me; Lecha Dodi is my favorite of all the prayers in Kabbalat Shabbat. That night in Romemu, Lecha Dodi was the moment when all the difference I felt was overcome by an overwhelming feeling of connection, of belonging.
The microphones were still on, the tune slightly foreign, and the Virgin Mary still eyed me warily from the wall. But I was suddenly surrounded by that same feeling of joy, and it radiated not just from myself, but from all the people around me. I was used to my weekly exhalation being solitary, but suddenly, it was communal. Everyone in the room let out their breath, and then burst into exhilarated praise of the Sabbath.
And then the whole room danced. Slowly, the three or four individuals who had been swaying enthusiastically in various parts of the room became ten, then fifteen, then twenty, and then they were no longer swaying individuals but instead joined hands and danced, forming one giant chain that circled the pews, gaining momentum and new members with every turn. The joy was palpable, pure, and timeless, and it filled the room.
I was overwhelmed by familiarity. Romemu is radically different than any community I had ever prayed with before, but the joy that I and all the people around me were experiencing is the same that I’ve felt at summer camp, praying with five hundred people. It’s the same as the joy that permeates Yavneh services when we fill the room on a Friday night; the same as the joy that compelled the Ari to run out into the field to greet the Sabbath queen; the same as the joy that compelled Rabbi Shlomo HaLevi Alkabetz to capture the experience of welcoming the Sabbath in words.
On Romemu’s website, they explain that they “are committed to helping to birth a post-denominational Judaism that transcends ideologies and labels, that is exultant and contemplative, ecstatic and reverential, connected to our tradition, yet open to truth, wherever it is found.” That Friday night at Romemu, I felt connected to our tradition in ways that I did not expect, and perhaps most surprisingly of all, I felt a deep sense of truth.
I still feel more comfortable in a Modern Orthodox shul. But the religious experience that Romemu creates within their community is warm, and uplifting, and true. It’s the same feeling that I want from Yavneh. The challenge of navigating my personal spiritual journey while managing that of a larger community is complex, but it’s one that I welcome with open arms, and, more importantly, plenty of joy.
//YAIRA KOBRIN is a first year in Columbia College. She can be reached at yk2761@columbia.edu. Photo courtesy of the Romemu Livestream.