DECEMBER 30 • 2021 | 5

essay
Praying in a Holy Place
A

round two weeks ago, the 
Heavens blessed us with our 
first grandchild. Our grandson 
surprised his parents by coming seven 
weeks early. Thank God, he is strong and 
getting stronger by the day. He remains 
in the NICU at Shaare 
Zedek Medical Center in 
Jerusalem, until such time 
that the medical staff deems 
him healthy enough to go to 
his new home.
I spent this Shabbat in my 
yeshivah with our gap-year 
yeshivah students. Staying 
in yeshivah enabled me to spend the 
morning in the hospital, only 20 minutes 
away. I walked through the light rain to 
the hospital just as the rays of the sun were 
beginning to pierce the early morning 
clouds and rain. The quickest way into the 
hospital is through the covered parking 
lot. The entrance granted me the chance 
to lower my hood and escape the rain, 
exposing my ears to the sounds around me. 
I quickly slipped past the red-eyed people 
in the parking lot, hearing them crying or 
speaking on their phones. One can only 
imagine the terrible news they received 
about loved ones who passed away during 
the night.
Leaving the Shabbat-mode elevator on 
the eighth floor, I met a few fellow travelers 
on their way to the synagogue. The space 
was already filled with those who arrived 
for the sunrise service. With the others 
attending the 7 a.m. minyan, we went 
outside until the first service could finish 
reading Torah. At that point, we could 
“switch sides” like an elaborate religious 
baseball game.
Inside the crowded shul, we prayed. And 
what prayers they were.
I have lived in Israel for almost 30 years 
and, in the time, had wonderous prayer 
experiences. I have worshiped at sunrise 
on Masada in the shadow of the last-ditch 
defense against the Roman legions during 
the Great Revolt. I have recited penitential 
prayers in front of the Western Wall with 
tens of thousands during the period of 
the Jewish High Holidays. Looking out 
at the Old City of Jerusalem, I have sat 
on the ground on the Haas Promenade, 

crying in lament with hundreds of others. 
I have rejoiced with throngs reciting the 
Hallel prayers on Israel Independence Day 
and prayed with thousands who stayed 
up all night both on Shavuot and Yom 
Yerushalayim. But nothing was as holy for 
me as praying in that crowded room in the 
hospital.
Every type of traditional Jew was present. 
Chasidim and Misnagdim, Zionists who 
stood for the prayer for the State of Israel 
while many more looked sheepishly around 
while remaining seated. Knitted Kippot, 
shtreimels and every other type of head 
covering were present. All were praying 
together. All were hoping together and, in a 
way, embracing one another.
During the Torah service, a baby 
naming for a newborn girl or prayer for 
the newborn boy followed each aliyah. As 
the Torah service concluded, others lined 
up bearing the name of a loved one for the 
leader to include in the prayer for the sick. 
Each name represents someone fighting 
for their life. The air filled with tears. One 
could feel the prayers cutting through the 
clouds reaching upwards — prayers of joy, 
of fear, and of sadness. Holy prayers shook 
the heavens. One can almost imagine the 
angles stitching the various words together 
into a giant quilt to bring before the Holy 
One blessed be He. “Here, O Lord, are the 
hopes and fears and heartbreak of your 
people. Take them with care. Be enrobed in 
the glory of their holy words.
”
As we finished, a lavish kiddush with 
hot Yerushalmi kugel was waiting. The 
person handing out the steaming hot 

pieces declared that someone donated the 
meal in the name of an ill person. May 
the patient merit a speedy recovery with 
the blessings uttered over the cakes and 
pastries that filled separate tables for men 
and women, as is the custom of some 
Orthodox Jews.
When grandparents’ visiting hours 
arrived in the NICU, I held my grandson, 
who quietly slept on my lap under a warm 
blanket. I thought of the words of Victor 
Hugo as I gazed into his tiny, premature 
face, “To love another person is to see the 
face of God.
”
In the halls of that hospital and that 
small synagogue and the faces of the 
hospital staff and patients — Jew and 
Arab, Chasid and secular, Zionist and 
non, I could feel the presence of the 
Almighty.
Two of the Middle Ages’ greatest sages 
debated the origin of the obligation to pray. 
For Maimonides, the Torah commands 
daily worship. Like the Tamid sacrifices of 
old offered twice each day, the Jew must 
offer worship as a sacrifice to God. A 
generation later, Nahmanides argued that 
God demands prayer only when the Jew 
needs it most, at times of great sorrow or 
perhaps emotional difficulty. Rabbi Joseph 
Dov Soloveitchik suggested that at times 
the two combine. During the daily prayer 
service, when the Jew finds him or herself 
in times of suffering and travail, both sages 
would say, we fulfill the Torah command to 
pray. In Shaare Zedek hospital, during the 
Shabbat morning service, it was clear both 
interpretations of the obligation applied.
As my grandson and I rocked for the 
two hours of allowed visitation, I prayed 
His people’s prayers should also move God 
above. The halls of that hospital felt as holy 
as standing on the Temple Mount.
May God grant a speedy recovery to the 
sick, comfort the mourners, and rejoice in 
the hopes and dreams of the new parents. 

Rabbi Todd Berman is the associate director at 

Yeshivat Eretz HaTzvi. In addition, he has held 

numerous posts in education from the high school 

level through adult education. He founded the 

Jewish Learning Initiative (JLI) at Brandeis University 

and served as rabbinic advisor to the Orthodox 

community there for several years. This essay first 

appeared in the Times of Israel.

Rabbi Todd 
Berman
Rabbi Todd 
Berman and his 
grandson.

