Prayers in the time of coronavirus

Since isolation restrictions began, Israeli synagogues have been closed by law. Initially, people were permitted to pray outside, in open spaces. Leaning out of my window, I would watch my neighbors stand in the parking lot on Shabbat evening, scrupulously two meters apart from each other in the drizzly pre-Passover weather. I spied two minyanim (quorums). The men in one wore the haredi uniform of black hats and suits and sang traditional melodies; the other group wore sweaters over white shirts and crocheted kippot, and tended towards Carlebach. Then full lockdown went into effect, and the improvised minyanim dispersed, each man to pray in his own apartment. Jews wishing to form a minyan had to think creatively.

It’s late Friday afternoon. Softening daylight signals it’s time to slow down, get ready for Shabbat. Red streaks run through the western sky, street lamps wink on, and the men come out on the balconies. Each stands under a balcony light switched on beforehand. Wrapped in their white prayer shawls, facing toward Jerusalem in the dusk, these figures begin to take on the appearance of hovering angels. They sing from apartment to apartment, and the voices meet almost visibly in the air. The beautiful “Lecha Dodi” prayer rings across the tree-lined alley that separates the buildings. Another balcony minyan, and then another, form in nearby streets. The sounds of prayer are dissonant now, waves of melody clashing and washing up against the stone walls. Evening gives way to night, and in a suddenly quiet space, one man chants a prolonged, Yemenite-tinged “Shema Israel” with full force and fervor. Israel’s synagogues are closed, but the balcony minyan phenomenon made a synagogue out of the street.

NOAM, 21 years old, post-army and studying at a hesder yeshiva: “At first, I wouldn’t do the balcony thing. I like to take my time, and welcomed feeling no pressure to keep up with everyone else. I felt I could put stronger intention and depth into my prayers. But after a few times, I felt something missing. The feeling of belonging isn’t there when you’re praying alone in your room. The daily prayers give structure to the whole day, and people need that. I found that I need that.

“It’s challenging. The separate minyanim don’t keep pace and eventually the conflicting prayers become a big overwhelming noise. At the same time, something beautiful is happening: the prayers ring and echo throughout the area, so that even the sidewalks and trees seem to pray. On Friday nights, it’s really special, outside at nightfall it feels like we’re physically bringing Shabbat in toward us. It’s not what you experience when you’re shut inside the shul. It’s hard to explain, but it’s what I feel.” 

Interviewing my neighbors by phone, I learned that in our area, the balcony minyanim were originally organized by one family down the street. The word spread by WhatsApp from family to family; people joined the group and balcony prayers began. The group meets on Zoom for weekday prayers and to discuss upcoming issues.

Although forbidden during complete lockdown, mourners saying kaddish ventured outside between the buildings, in order to see and be seen. It happened one Shabbat that the police came around inspecting the street for people breaking isolation. A policeman tried to issue a ticket to a man praying kaddish alone in the alley while amens echoed from balconies above. The errant neighbor was at a place in prayer forbidden to interrupt. He couldn’t answer the policeman pulling at his sleeve, asking for his name and address. Was he ticketed? We may never know.

NATAN, MY next-door neighbor, is a young father who works in hi-tech. He places a table on his balcony on Shabbat day, unfurls a Torah scroll on it, and reads the entire weeks’ section out loud for whoever can hear. 

“It’s hard on the voice,” he admits. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll give out. But someone brought me the Sefer Torah and asked me to read for everyone, so I feel obliged to do it.” Now that restrictions allow praying on the street again, Torah readings will again be divided among several men. 

As for this writer, it’s marvelous to step out on the balcony and watch not only men, but wives and entire families sitting and rising as the balcony service moves forward. Truly the shul floats in the air. I live in a national-religious part of town, but have been told that haredi families also pray together in public, so to speak. 

TZVIKA ALSO works in hi-tech. He said, “It’s great to see the men appearing on the balconies, one by one, all clean and in their Shabbat clothes. And the wives, too, who you don’t normally see. I expect that balcony prayers and other leniencies will disappear whenever things go back to normal.” 

Weekday shacharit (morning) prayers have passed on to Zoom. Now that restrictions have partially lifted and many go back to work, shacharit starts at 7:30. Of the weekday Zoom prayers, Tvzika says ironically, “There are always a few who show up late to shul. It makes no different now that the minyan is virtual. The same guys still need their cup of coffee or whatever they need first, even if the prayers are happening right in their living rooms.” Tzvika’s wife, Chavi, adds, “It’s a lovely thing to wake up on Shabbat morning to the prayers. I lie in bed and hear the service coming into my room.”

Restrictions change with changes in the COVID-19 statistics. By the time this is published, we may be forced to retreat into our apartments again, or hopefully continue to pray in a semblance of normalcy, in public spaces. We don’t dare guess when life will return to normal. But one thing is sure: we won’t forget how we reached out to God with all the fear and courage and hope we carry in our hearts, praying separately, yet strangely together, on our balconies.