O PINION
The Pandemic Disrupted the Morning Minyan. When Will
Non-Orthodox Jews Like Me Gather Again for Daily Prayer?
BY NEIL KURSHAN
I LIVE IN ONE of the most
concentrated Jewish commu-
nities in the United States, the
Upper West Side of Manhattan,
and I no longer have a daily
morning minyan to attend in
person. Th e pandemic disrupted
the morning minyan. When
will non-Orthodox Jews like me
gather again for daily prayer?
It seems that in my neigh-
borhood, as well as many
others, COVID-19 snuff ed out
the live morning minyan —
the daily prayer service that
needs a quorum of 10 Jews
— in non-Orthodox settings.

Pre-pandemic I had a choice
of multiple minyans I could
attend in a variety of egalitarian
Jewish settings — synagogues
and schools — but none of
them is operating in-person
now. I worry that the minyan
muscle has atrophied in my
community, and the habit has
been lost of rising early in the
morning, getting out the door
with prayer shawl and tefi llin,
and making it inside the beit
midrash in time for prayer.

It’s not that non-Orthodox
Jews in my neighborhood
aren’t praying each morning.

Many are, both alone and
online, where services moved
for non-Orthodox Jews last
March. Zoom services were a
I worry that the minyan muscle has atrophied
in my community, and the habit has been lost
of rising early in the morning.

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letters@jewishexponent.com 14
NOVEMBER 25, 2021
necessary accommodation to
a public health crisis, and it is
unquestionably easier to tune
in to services from home, but
it hasn’t worked for me. Fift y
disembodied faces on a screen
feel less like a community to
me than the 15 bodies draped
in prayer shawls who huddle
around the amud (leader’s table)
at a typical in-person minyan.

Th e on-key solo voice of the
shaliach tzibur, the leader of the
service, inspires me less than the
multiple off -key voices of those
gathered live for prayers.

As Shabbat and holiday
services have resumed, with
precautions, in person, I thought
the morning minyan would,
too. But they have remained
resolutely online. I am sympa-
thetic to the reasons why, and to
the diffi culties of reconstituting
the in-person morning minyan.

It is hard work in many
non-Orthodox synagogues to
assure that 10 people will be
present early in the morning six
days a week. It is much easier
and more convenient to get
out of bed, hit a button on the
computer and be transported
instantly to the minyan. And
without question Zoom has
made it possible for those unable
because of physical limitations
and other reasons to attend an
in-person minyan.

Yet there is so much that has
been lost and that I miss. I miss
my fellow “minyannaire” who
each year before Rosh Hashanah
brings me honey from the
beehives on the rooft op of his
apartment. I miss the frail elderly Russian
gentleman who stands to say
Kaddish for himself because he
is convinced that none of his
children will say Kaddish for
him aft er he dies.

I miss the mother and her
grown son who start their day
together sitting side by side and
who kiss one another goodbye
as they leave the minyan and go
JEWISH EXPONENT
their separate ways.

And I miss the easy banter
with my fellow minyannaires
with whom I share vacation
plans, exploits on the pickle-
ball court and the most recent
achievements of my grandchil-
dren. I miss how the in-person
morning minyan magically
imbued the minute details of the
mundane with the signifi cance
of the sacred.

But above all, I miss what
Abba Kovner, the late Jewish
resistance fi ghter, called “the tug
on the sleeve.” Kovner would tell
the story of going to the Western
Wall his fi rst week in Israel aft er
the end of World War II. He was
about to leave when he felt a tug
on his sleeve as he was asked to
join a minyan that was forming
for prayer. He tells of being
inspired, not so much by the
prayers, but more by the sense of
belonging. More than anything
else, I miss knowing that my
physical presence is needed to
make a minyan.

For more than 40 years, I
was responsible for making the
minyan happen in my suburban
Long Island synagogue. Th ere
were many nights I did not sleep
well worrying that 10 people
might not show up the next
morning, and I took too person-
ally the days when only nine
people attended and a mourner
was unable to say Kaddish.

Looking back at all the worry
and frustration, I nevertheless
feel that I was engaged in worthy
work. Many people, religious and
not, yearn for places where
they can gather, connect and
socialize with other people
outside of the home and
workplace. Sociologists call
these settings “third places,”
and so many of them closed
during the pandemic — bars,
coff ee shops, gyms, libraries —
that experts fear the impact on
people’s mental health and social
well-being. As a psychology professor at
the Graduate Center of the City
University of New York put it
at the height of the pandemic,
“What’s lost is the sensory sense
of being with other people. I
don’t think we know yet what
the consequences of that will be,
except that I think people are
going to remain more fearful
and anxious.”
Many years after Abba
Kovner was called to be the 10th
for a minyan at the Western
Wall, a museum known as Beit
Hatefutzot, the Museum of
the Diaspora, was built on the
campus of Tel Aviv University.

(It has now been overhauled and
renamed Anu — Museum of the
Jewish People.) Kovner designed
a corner in the museum known
as “Th e Minyan” represented by
a variety of fi gures preparing to
pray together.

Just before the museum
opened its doors for the fi rst
time someone noticed that there
were only nine fi gures in the
model. Th e museum frantically
reached out to Kovner, but he
calmly responded that nine was
the correct number: Th ere was
supposed to be a missing person.

Th e missing person was a call
to each person who visited the
museum to become the 10th.

When I do join the Zoom
minyan of my synagogue
community, I note the faces and
names of my fellow participants.

When it is a day I am observing
a yahrzeit, the anniversary of
a loved one’s death, I dutifully
tap the “raise hand” button so I
can be called upon to mention
the name of the person for
whom I am saying Kaddish. But
I yearn to feel again the tug
on my sleeve, and to be told to
come inside because there are
nine people who need me as the
missing 10th. ●
Neil Kurshan is rabbi emeritus of
the Huntington Jewish Center in
Huntington, New York.

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