Fair Lawn—Once upon a time, there was a little gray shul smack dab at the edge of the shtetl of Fair Lawn. The shul wanted to make friends, so one day it called out to a little boy. “Hey,” the shul said, “Will you be my friend? I want you to daven in me and learn Torah and do a ton of mitzvot like a mensch!”
The boy looked up at the little gray shul, about to say yes. He wanted to be friends forever with the shul! Then he abruptly remembered that he was in a newspaper column, not a children’s book or nursery rhyme.
Ahem. So as you’ve probably guessed from the little fairy tale snippet above and the title, today my thoughts are directed towards my little gray shul. To be honest, I don’t usually call it that; I call it Ahavat Achim. The thing is, my shul is…just that, a shul. (I’ve never found any secret passageways or hidden treasures, at least not yet.) I go there on Friday night for Mincha and Kabbalat Shabbat. On Shabbat morning I daven in the Youth Minyan starting at 8:20 (which is over three hours after my school wakeup time, not to brag) and get some Entenmann’s donuts at Kiddush. I walk over on Shabbos afternoons for Mincha and Maariv, occasionally staying for Seudat Shlishit to talk with a nice crowd of friends. (Side note: My dad and I have never understood why everyone calls that meal “Shala’Shudos.” As nicknames go, that’s got to be one of the stranger ones. [Ed. note: Shalosh Seudos—in solid Galicianer Yiddish].) I usually go for the speedy 8:15 a.m. Shacharis Minyan on Sundays, and sporadically head to weeknight Mincha and Maariv. And, well, that’s pretty much it, isn’t it? I don’t have too much to do with the shul otherwise, do I? It’s just that to me—a shul. Right?
Were I to stop this story here—the reaction I would get from the shul members notwithstanding (I’d probably have to start trekking to Teaneck each Shabbos for a Minyan)—would, thankfully, be extremely false. My shul means far more to me than I once realized.
First off, one of the main tenets of Shabbos is rest—and to me, Ahavat Achim is perfect for that. I spend my weeks usually rushing around in massive, crowded places—whether it’s the bus terminal jammed with thousands of tourists and travelers, or in school, with students and teachers hurrying around and rushing to classes. Ahavat Achim is far calmer and more peaceful, whether it’s during the Friday night davening or the morning Kiddush. I feel I actually get some breathing room in my busy life. True, this is partly because it’s a small shul, though I do believe it has room to grow. But its atmosphere is definitely one of its strengths.
In addition, Ahavat Achim must be one of the places where I’ve truly developed my Jewish identity. While it’s not like in school where I’m actively learning, in my shul I’ve learned davening and being closer to God just by immersing myself in the atmosphere and services.
As I’ve grown up, I’ve transitioned from Youth Groups to Junior Congregation to Youth Minyan, learning more davening and developing myself as both a Chazzan and a Ba’al Koreh along the way.
The Youth Minyan—coordinated by my amazing father, I should mention—is a place where I can stand before the congregation and lead the davening or leyn without any pressure about causing an issue if I make a mistake. (I also mentioned the donuts earlier; that’s a nice bonus.) Then I can gain the confidence to occasionally lead the Mincha service in the afternoon, which is a chance for me both to feel like I’m doing something important and show off my singing without being disqualified by any judges.
Speaking of judges, there are none of them in Ahavat Achim, which is bad if you thought it was a courthouse, but good if it’s a shul. That is, the environment and people in the shul are so welcoming and friendly that it’s easy for anyone to feel comfortable, no matter if anyone’s customs or religiousness are different from those of others in the shul. And speaking of people in the shul, I have friends in Ahavat Achim whom I only see on Shabbos and yet can talk to as if we’re close classmates. And giving a “Shabbat handshake” to the adults whom I’ve known in shul for years, even if I don’t see them much outside it, is a highlight for sure.
Is Ahavat Achim a perfect place? No. Are there things that could be changed about it? Yes, but that could apply everywhere. And right now, that’s not the point. The point is that overall my shul has probably made more of a difference in me than I once thought. It seems so normal…it doesn’t look too fancy from the outside or anything…but it really is a place where I belong, where I’ve developed my identity and gained confidence to put myself out in front of everyone. And that’s what matters.
And the little boy and the little gray shul lived happily ever after. The…beginning. It’s not the end, because he was still growing up.
Oren Oppenheim, age 16, lives in Fair Lawn, New Jersey and attends Ramaz Upper School in Manhattan. He spends his free time writing and reading, and hopes to become a published novelist. You can email him at [email protected].
By Oren Oppenheim
