By Michael Wilner
The Torah. | Photo courtesy of The AP.
On a rainy Friday night, two young men in their mid-twenties arrive early for prayer at Congregation Ramath Orah on 110th Street off Broadway in Manhattan. The synagogue’s main sanctuary, lit by four brass, twelve-pronged chandeliers, is painted a warm eggshell, divided along the middle by a thin white fabric, translucent enough to see the shadows of the other through the gender divide. There are 21 rows on each side, and the men fill them comfortably as the service gets into full swing; 35 men attended at its peak, with only six women showing up to pray on the other side.
As it was the beginning of Shabbat, the Torah remained dressed in its ark at the front of the room, protected by a grand red-velvet curtain with gold trimmings. Two gargantuan medieval chairs stand on the left of the holy vessel. The scroll will emerge the next morning; but in preparation, between Kaballat Shabbat and Ma’ariv, Rabbi Moshe Grussgott would give remarks to the congregation on the parsha of the week.
In opening his speech, Grussgott quotes a favorite film of his: Phil Alden Robinson’s 1989 “Field of Dreams.”
“I usually start off with an anecdote or a story to hook people and get their attention,” Grussgott says after Shabbat.
For this particular parsha, on Terumah, Exodus 25-27, evoking the image of Kevin Costner walking through a cornfield has surprising resonance. “If you build it, he will come,” Grussgott reminds the congregation. This is a key message in the movie, but more importantly, the message of the week. “Meet God halfway,” Grussgott repeats, “and He will come.”
This week’s Torah portion was on the building of the mishkan, or Tabernacle, in the desert after the exodus from Egypt. “Jews were struggling about the elaborate plans of building this temple,” Grussgott explains. “Rabbis usually find allegorical meaning in these parshas.”
In his speech, Grussgott describes two different interpretations of the parsha: one that is figurative and one that is quite literal. Figuratively, Rashi, a medieval French rabbi who wrote extensively on Talmud interpretation, said Jews have a duty to make the home a hospitable place for God to reside, and that the mishkan represents that. But literally, Grussgott explains, Jews have historically built separate rooms for God, fully equipped with a desk, a chair, and a menorah for light.
And yet no bed is ever included in these rooms, he emphasizes.
“Do you know why?” he asks the crowd with a chuckle. “This is how rabbis make you feel guilty! They say, ‘you just read it! You don’t realize!’”
Grussgott finally gets a raised hand from the pews, and the participating gentleman answers correctly: it would be an insult to imply that God requires rest.
“When you have a beautiful Friday night meal, and the kids don’t have their smart phones with them and everyone is dressed beautifully, you create a structure that invites religious peace,” Grussgott explains. This is how Jews today can build mishkan in their own lives.
Grussgott’s lesson is short, and he speaks quickly. But in teaching his congregation through a miniature lecture, the weekly prayer is elevated to a practical education in how to live a more religious and spiritual Jewish life. It’s an opportunity for rabbis to connect the Book, usually separated from its people by ark doors and velvet curtains, with every day living.
“Not everyone there is going to be on that level,” Grussgott says. “I know that I have to be conscious to translate every Hebrew word. But I also want it to be challenging to those who are fluent, and active.”
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