I have been a shul-goer for as long as I can remember. Family lore has me attending Shabbat services as an infant, sitting on my father’s lap, well behaved and attentive. Growing up, I knew of only two valid excuses for missing services on Shabbat morning: illness and blizzards. Arriving late was also frowned on; my father, z”l, was meticulous about his davening, but his Hebrew skills were not strong, and once he fell behind he could not catch up. “On time” with my father meant walking into the sanctuary several minutes before the shal’iah tzibbur began. Unlike other children, I did not leave the sanctuary to play, preferring to remain by my father’s side throughout all of services. I loved to sing along with the familiar Shabbat tunes and prided myself on my ability to follow along carefully during the Torah reading. When we were done, my father often took me with him to a shiur or learning group before we went home.
This is not to say that everyone I knew went to synagogue on Shabbat – far from it. In my own family, only my father and I went. Many of the women in our community came late, if at all. My father and I attended the early service, and for the most part, I was surrounded by men. When, at the age of 11, I was strongly encouraged to take my place behind the mehitza, I did so grudgingly and adjusted to the idea slowly, with the help of a few wonderful women who also made prompt attendance at the 7:30 minyan a priority. Despite the elaborate meals and a restful home environment, whenever I missed my hashkama minyan, I felt that I had somehow “missed” Shabbat.
This focus on the synagogue as the defining aspect of Shabbat left me unprepared for a Shabbat experience that has since become centered around my home and my personal spirituality. Even after my first son was born and attending synagogue became more difficult, I struggled to retain some sort of regular shul-going schedule. In Jerusalem, where we lived last year, our friendly neighborhood synagogue made it easy: their two minyanim allowed us to tag-team our Saturday morning shul experience. My husband went to the early service and I left the house as soon as he returned home, allowing us each to have a full davening experience without the demands of an impatient toddler. Unfortunately, not all communities have this option. I know that even those synagogues that provide some child care usually have children’s programming during only part of the services, making it difficult for parents of young children to attend services in full. During our recent job search process, when we traveled to different communities and tried to imagine ourselves as a part of their synagogues, we were very aware that almost all the options would leave me at home for at least some part of Shabbat. Wherever we chose to live, we hoped to help create a community that would allow every woman to participate as much as possible in a public Shabbat experience.
Now for a reality check. This September, my husband and I became educators at the Center for Jewish Life at Princeton University. As part of the Orthodox Union’s Jewish Learning Initiative (JLI), we offer a resource for Jewish students on campus. We each teach shiurim, learn b’hevruta with students, provide guidance when needed, and host students in our home for Shabbat and holiday meals. Our job is to provide educational opportunities for students and to enhance their religious life on campus.
Shabbat at the Center for Jewish Life is a special time, and we try hard to be a part of it. The complicating factor is that the town of Princeton has no eruv. With three children under the age of three – our twins were born in August – this means an adult always has to stay at home. As a rabbi and a teacher in the community, my husband feels a responsibility to be at services. As a nursing mother who cannot carry her babies with her on Saturdays, I feel that I need to spend most of Shabbat at home. Our home is too far from services to even risk trying to get our two-year-old to walk it, so my children and I see Daddy off to shul in the morning, and we stay in.
Building a Shabbat celebration around a private rather than a public experience has not been an easy adjustment for me. I often enjoy davening on my own, without a congregation to distract or rush me, but not on Shabbat. Reading the parasha on my own somehow lacks the force and drama of hearing it read aloud in synagogue. I try reading it to myself, even studying the mefarshim to get myself excited about it, but, on Shabbat morning, it feels flat and empty without the voice of the ba’al koreh to bring it to life.
My attempts to redefine what it means to me to celebrate Shabbat are focused on the mitzvah of hakhnasat orhim – welcoming guests, trying to make our students feel comfortable and well fed, and creating a Shabbat atmosphere in our home that is both inviting and inspirational. Intellectually, I know that this is an important mitzvah. My mother raised me to be sure that there is always extra food on hand in case someone needs a meal. I know and believe in the value of this mitzvah, but I struggle with the idea of structuring my entire Shabbat around it. Can this be spiritually fulfilling for me personally in the way that davening and shul have always been? And what about my children? My son Noam is almost two and a half, old enough to begin to appreciate the concept of Shabbat. What values are we imparting to him by keeping him home all day? What does it mean to him that only Daddy goes off to shul on Shabbat morning? What will be the defining features of his Shabbat memories that set the day apart and make it holy?
The Talmud in Shabbat 127a says, “Welcoming guests is greater than welcoming the presence of God.” Nonetheless, Kabbalat pnei ha-shekhina – welcoming or receiving God’s presence – is what we do when we celebrate Shabbat. The restrictions of Shabbat and the commandments associated with it are all geared toward strengthening an appreciation of that presence in our lives as Jews. In our house nowadays, the presence of Shabbat comes in the form of the many guests we host. Ask my Noam, “What do we do on Shabbat?” and he does not hesitate to answer, “We have guests!”
I also worry now about what I am modeling for my students. The women in our university community take prayer very seriously, and I am sorry that I cannot join them at services more often, be a presence on their side of the mehitza, and actively inspire them to keep up their participation in davening. I enjoy all the ways in which women take leadership roles in Princeton’s Orthodox community, and I want to encourage them and to make them believe that a lifelong commitment to communal prayer is possible, even if it is difficult for me right now.
In my mind, I am still the regular shul-goer, a person who is part of a public observance of Shabbat. Someday I am sure I will actually be that person again. But I have to believe that the private parts of Shabbat also have the ability to inspire. For some students, the meals that we serve are a welcome addition to their Shabbat on campus. For others, eating a meal with us is the totality of their Shabbat experience. If our meal can contain more Torah, if we can facilitate more relationships between Jews, if we can simply make people feel Shabbat as a welcome presence in their week – if any or all of these things happen, then we have accomplished something important. Trying hard to create a meaningful Shabbat for others is what gives shape to my day.
When my babies begin nursing less frequently, I would like to go back to shul on Shabbat. I am looking forward to taking on some of the public roles that right now are open only to my husband, such as speaking at se’udah shlishit or on Shabbat morning, helping facilitate a communal lunch at the Center for Jewish Life, or giving a Shabbat afternoon shiur. At that future point, my husband and I will have to decide whether it is appropriate to leave our children at home with a babysitter, or whether we should take turns attending services. If my husband were the rabbi of a synagogue, there would be no possibility of his not attending. Even in a university community, there is a strong expectation that he will be there – to help make the minyan, if nothing else. Indeed, the few times on Shabbat that I have gone without him, rushing in for an hour here or there, people ask me when he will be arriving and if he is alright.
For our students as well as for ourselves, we would like to model a family life that expresses our mutual respect for each other’s religious needs and obligations. Figuring out how to balance that desire with the needs of our children and of our community challenges us to think deeply about our priorities as parents and as Jewish leaders.