By Judy Lash Balint
JERUSALEM — I’ve been reluctant to admit it to all but a handful of close friends, but after a lifetime of pretty regular Shabbat morning shul-going I’ve now substituted long walks through Jerusalem’s almost deserted streets and parks as my preferred Shabbat spiritual sustenance.
Years of erratic prayer experiences in modern orthodox shuls on three continents have left me with the feeling that there are multiple ways of connecting with God, and not all of them are to be found in the confines of a shul. Especially when you happen to be in Jerusalem and it’s a glorious day. Modeh ani,(I give thanks) indeed.
I wasn’t particularly surprised to discover that I’m not alone in this feeling among those of similar age and background. At Shabbat dinner this past Friday, old friends who were once very active in their Jerusalem shul admitted that they too now make much less frequent appearances there. Both our shuls are graced with dynamic rabbis who are exemplary leaders and outstanding orators. The rabbis are not the problem. It’s the difficulty we have maintaining a meaningful prayer experience that’s led us to quietly seek an alternate Shabbat scenario.
Sometimes my early Shabbat morning wanderings take me to the Old City and the Kotel; other weeks it’s through the quiet streets of the German Colony and along the Mesila Park toward the peaceful, flower-framed alleyways of Yemin Moshe.
Occasionally I’lI meet up with a friend, but most weeks I’m happy not to have to schedule a meeting place ahead of time, or plan a particular route in order to get my Jerusalem Shabbat fix.
This past Shabbat, a bright day pierced by a bracing wind, I took the advice of the old friends from dinner the night before, and took off toward the Valley of the Cross. The pathway passes the Monastery of the Cross, an 11th century hulk of a structure that looks slightly incongruous in modern day Jerusalem.
It’s still too early to see any of the few Greek Orthodox monks who live and pray in a small section of the compound, and I’m slightly disappointed that the almond trees in the valley surrounding the monastery leading up to the Israel Museum are not yet in full bloom. On the path I pass several anxious-looking runners who must be training for the upcoming Jerusalem marathon.
Through the pedestrian tunnel that leads seamlessly to Gan Sacher, Jerusalem’s Central Park, I find myself looking over the main lawn where so many concerts and events take place in the warmer months. How many great Israeli performers have I heard there over the years? Everyone from Yehudit Ravitz to Idan Raichel and even a rendering of the iconic Bustan Sephardi musical.
At this hour the park is virtually deserted, with little presence of the dozens of city-dwelling dog owners who will fill the precious urban green space later in the day.
From the park I cross Sderot Ben Tzvi to Betzalel Street, one of the city’s busiest intersections on a weekday. Not a single car is to be seen in any direction at this hour on a Shabbat morning. There are several little shuls on the lower part of the southern side of Bezalel and familiar Shabbat shacharit melodies waft out over the quiet street. I stop for a breather on a bench outside the Turkish shul to watch as a man wearing a tallit, together with his son, scans the horizon to try to hustle up a minyan. It’s now almost 9 a.m and he’s looking a little desperate. A few likely suspects wearing kipot and Shabbat clothes hurry by, politely refusing his plea since they’re needed to make the minyan in their own shuls. Eventually he corrals the four guys he was missing, and he almost sweeps them into the shul with his tallit and a broad smile on his face.
I turn off onto Even Sapir Street that leads into the heart of Nachlaot. Many of the buildings bear faded plaques with the name of the family that built the house, mostly around the early 20th century. Gentrification is slowly encroaching here, but there are still plenty of buildings that could be the setting for any number of movies on religious life in Jerusalem.
An unusual sight catches my eye — two twenty-something women emerge from a side street, dressed in skirts, with no head covering, and one of them is carrying a Torah scroll covered respectfully with a tallit. I follow them as they walk purposefully up the street and disappear around a corner — perhaps heading for the Mayanot Shul?
As Even Sapir hits Narkis Street, I climb the stairs into Hirschenberg, one of those tiny Jerusalem streets that feels so secluded and other-worldly and connects Nachlaot to the Shaarei Chesed neighborhood. Over the past two decades, this network of eight or nine tiny streets and pedestrian courtyards, founded by two rabbis in 1909 to accommodate religious Jews, has become the epitome of Jerusalem gentrification.
Along Parush Street, majestic three and four story homes with shiny new Jerusalem stone facades hide behind ornate iron security gates, while across the street one or two of the original houses still stand in a benign state of neglect. Many of the newer residents of Shaarei Chesed today are wealthy, religious, English and French-speaking Jews who relish the barricades that close off the area to traffic to preserve the Shabbat tranquility.
As Parush crosses Keren Kayemet it becomes Haran Street, and both the properties and the population changes. This is the edge of Rehavia, built a decade or two later than Shaarei Chesed, and originally peopled by the Ashkenazi intellectual elite of Jerusalem. On this sunny Shabbat morning, students are sitting on rattan chairs on the balconies of the yet-to-be-renovated buildings and a few older folks are emerging for a Shabbat stroll.
I make my way across Ibn Ezra to Alkharizi — one of my favorite little Jerusalem streets. Here, behind the greenery lining the narrow street, you can still see a few of the original single-family homes built in the 1930s, complete with the name plaque of the first families that lived there. Far grander buildings dominate the shady street today, home to some of Jerusalem’s most prominent residents.
The signature Rehavia Garden City-style walkways and a little urban park surround the Yad Ben-Zvi Institute, once the home of Israel’s second president Yitzhak Ben-Zvi. In the spirit of this peaceful Shabbat morning and the shul experience I’m passing up, I contemplate the fact that the street names of this part of Rehavia — Abarbanel, Ibn Gvirol, Ibn Ezra, Alkharizi, Ben Maimon — all conjure up the great scholars of the Golden Age of Spain.
My understanding is that both Rambam and Ibn Ezra were insistent that men had the obligation to daven with a minyan. The Talmud asserts that someone (male or female?) who lives in a city that has a shul but chooses not to go is called a shachen ra — a bad neighbor (Berachot 8a).
Are my friends and I who drink in the Jerusalem Shabbat morning atmosphere “bad neighbors,” or can we get away with being a new brand of spiritual seeker, grateful for every moment of Sabbath peace in this holy city?
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Balint is a freelance writer based in Jerusalem and the author of Jerusalem Diaries: In Tense Times.