On this day, Shabbat, abide
A middle-aged woman with short, curly hair walked through the aisle of cushioned seats until she stood in front of me. Her sharp eyes and slight frown gave off the impression she would ask a retail worker if she could speak with the manager if she wasn’t getting what she wanted. She quickly scanned me in my seat near the back of the room.
“You don’t look Jewish,” she said before she even introduced herself.
I immediately felt like an impostor and wanted to apologize for attending the service, but the comment took me by surprise.
I thought of every Jewish person I knew. One had green eyes, and another had blue. Some had dark hair while the rest were blond. I tried to find a feature they all shared but couldn’t come up with any.
“I’m not,” I said, “but what does Jewish look like?”
There was a pause, and then she smiled. Her laughter filled the air as she leaned over the seats and stuck out her hand for me to shake.
“I hadn’t seen you here before, so I was just joking,” she said. “Shabbat Shalom. I’m Tobi.”
About 50 people were at the Cape Coral Shabbat service, and only about 10 were men. The rest were elderly ladies with sweet smiles who hugged everyone they saw, including me.
The stained-glass windows in the sanctuary didn’t lead to the outside world, but they were lit from behind. The glow made the room feel ethereal, and I loved the atmosphere instantly. The decor was beautiful without being too extravagant.
At the religious services I was used to, there were rigid wooden pews and sharp looking crosses. The environment was cold, and it was hard to feel anything except anxious. Temple Beth Shalom, however, felt joyful and welcoming.
The rabbi was a recurring theme whenever one of the ladies introduced herself to me.
Before the service began, five people told me how wonderful the rabbi was. The first two didn’t mention specifics about the rabbi, but when I talked to the third person, I discovered the rabbi was a woman. I had only heard of men being rabbis, so I was excited to hear from her.
After 7:30 p.m., a petite older woman with thick-rimmed glasses and a kind smile walked onto the sanctuary’s stage. Once Rabbi Devora Buchen started the service, it was clear why everyone loved her. An 8-month-old boy was in the crowd, and if he yelled, she would sing softly until he stopped.
“Isn’t that the most beautiful sound in the world?” Buchen said whenever the baby cried.
Halfway through the service, she went into the audience and danced with the boy while she sang in Hebrew.
At the end, she mingled with the attendees and spoke with me. I learned she was the congregation’s first female rabbi. She was also the cantor, which I should’ve guessed myself because her singing voice was lovely.
She hugged me three different times before she left.
“Come back anytime,” she said. “You are always welcome here.”
It shocked me someone so loving was also a religious leader. I was used to male pastors who were unapproachable or callous and acted superior to everyone around them. I felt more comfortable with a rabbi I knew for two hours than I had my entire life with those pastors I knew for years.
My experience in the synagogue was warmer than anything I had encountered in Baptist establishments, especially the church I used to attend. At that church, I quickly found out your net worth determined your importance. Because of that, I almost didn’t want those people to accept me. At the temple, no one cared who you were. If you were present, you were treated like family.
When people from the Shabbat service found out I was a Christian, they asked if I wanted to see their horns.
“Did you come here to see what a Jew looked like?” a man named Larry asked.
“No,” I said, a bit confused. “I wanted to experience a Jewish service.”
“But we have horns!” Larry said in a jokingly overzealous way.
He then explained how the idea of Jews having horns started in the Middle Ages. Artists from that time depicted Moses with horns on his head after a verse from Exodus was misinterpreted, and people began to think all Jews had horns.
Reida, an older lady who talked with me throughout the service, walked over.
“Tell her more about Passover instead of horns,” she said. “You don’t want to scare her away.”
Larry laughed as he put his pointer fingers on either side of his forehead and wiggled them. Reida rolled her eyes.
“Passover is next week,” she said. With a hint of glee in her voice, she added, “But I’m still going to eat bread.”
“Jews can’t eat bread?” I asked. That didn’t seem accurate since there were two industrial sized plastic bags filled with donated bagels from Einstein Bros on the counter next to me.
“Not during Passover!” The words were gasped out in disbelief.
Even though I wasn’t Jewish, I knew about some of the traditions during Passover. That wasn’t one one of them. Reida was more than happy to talk with me about unleavened breads, which were acceptable to eat during Passover. Any other products that used yeast, or something similar like baking powder, were off limits.
Only a handful of the women said they wouldn’t eat leavened bread. One thing they seemed to all agree on was not eating kosher. Each person I talked with had been kosher before, but none had been able to keep up with it.
“It’s much easier in places up north,” Reida said. “Down here I don’t even try.”
When I decided to participate in Jewish practices, it was Tuesday and the Shabbat service wasn’t until Friday. Since I had time, I wanted to try eating kosher for a week.
I failed.
I ate kosher for about two and a half days, and it wasn’t even official since my kitchen, utensils and plates were cross-contaminated with dairy and meat. I lasted as long as I did because I stayed later at school those days, so I only had almonds and dried fruit. Also, jalapeño Pringles are apparently kosher.
By Friday, I felt guilty whenever I ate something that wasn’t kosher.
The ladies at the service, however, said I was crazy.
“We’re a Reform congregation, so we’re pretty lenient about eating kosher,” Reida said.
If I wanted “the full Jewish experience,” I would need to go to Conservative and Orthodox services, according to another woman named Marsha. Despite only attending a Reform service so far, I greatly enjoyed my experience. It was refreshing to be surrounded by people who were nothing but open about their culture and religion. Even though I was an outsider, the women I met didn’t let me leave the temple until I swore I would return the week after Passover.
