Find Your Minyan

Leading up to this past zman, when the SVARA Faculty was deciding what text we might teach in a moment of growing fascism, increasing hostility towards queer and trans people, and the normalization of ICE abducting our neighbors, we decided to reacquaint ourselves with the first page of the first masechet, Berakhot. When in doubt, start at the very beginning. (Of course, the “beginning” is only a beginning when we make it one.) Each week in chevruta, we were struck by the bold moves unfolding on these early pages and curious about what the redactors were trying to teach us through their editorial choices. Why start here?  

Our sugya contained a decent chunk of narrative as it sorted out exactly what was happening on G!d’s side of things when we offered sacrifices in the Temple, and what changes for G!d when we transition to lifting our voices in prayer. The scene begins:

Rabbi Yosei said, it happened once that I was walking on the road and I entered a ruin – one of the ruins of Jerusalem – to pray. Elyiahu haNavi, may he be remembered for good, arrived, and watched me at the door, and waited for me until I finished my prayer. After I finished my prayer he said to me, “Shalom aleichem, my teacher.” And I said to him, “Shalom aleichem, my rabbi and teacher.” And he said to me, “My son, for what reason have you entered this ruin?” I said to him, “To pray.” And he said to me, “It is [best] for you to pray a short prayer.” And I said to him, “I was afraid to, lest I be interrupted by passers-by.” He said to me, “It is [best] for you to pray a shortened prayer.”

Over the course of the zman, many of our students brought a trauma-sensitive lens to this text, offering the interpretation that Rabbi Yosei’s inclination to pray in the ruin is an attempt to return to what’s familiar even as the world around him has fundamentally changed. At every scale, whether deeply personal or global, we saw our text as an answer to the question: What can I do when the world is crashing? 

Though I’ve translated  היה לך להתפלל תפלה קצרה as, “It is [best] for you…” we could take it waaaay outside and read it as, “this intervention was made just for you and what you are feeling right now.” Eliyahu doesn’t chastise Rabbi Yosei or challenge his motivations for choosing to pray inside the ruin. He is a curious and patient teacher. He is insistent on giving over the halakha of this new temple-less world, but only in the context of his student’s emotional world, which longs so deeply for what was. 

Rabbi Yosei then summarizes what he learned from this exchange. But they don’t stop there. Aware of the Divine voice that emanates from these walls even after they’ve been laid to ruin, Eliyahu inquires of him, 

“What voice did you hear in the ruin?” 

Rabbi Yosei answers that he heard the bat kol, the divine voice — hushed and lamenting the destruction of the Temple and exile. 

The voice that Rabbi Yosei hears is divine. Eliyahu doesn’t deny that. The voice that Rabbi Yosei hears carries an echo of truth that existed before him and will continue to exist after him. But it’s muted, frozen in time, confused. Where does the voice of G!d live? How can we access it in its fullest and most dynamic expression? Eliyahu is clear, saying that whenever we gather together in shul or in the beit midrash (or on the streets or at our dining room tables), and we offer the refrain from kaddish, y’hei shmei hagadol m’vorakh…may the Great Name be blessed, G!d answers, ashrei haMelekh shemkalsim oto b’veito kach…happy is the King who is praised like this in Their house!

In short, Eliyahu tells Rabbi Yosei, “Take yourself and your fears and go find a minyan.” The way out of fear and towards connection with the Divine is through each other. 

Learning and teaching this sugya this time around, it has felt like a prooftext for my own life. I have been feeling my way through for some time. These days, I’m usually up for praying on the road, but sometimes I want to run and hide in the ruins. Thank G!d my minyan found me. They stood at the door and waited for me. They asked me what I was doing (I had no idea, dear reader). They listened and listened, and then listened some more, even as I talked myself through the same scenarios over and over again. They answered, “We love you, and we won’t let you stay here.”