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.