What is the greatest resistance against the forces that attempted to fully eradicate us? The most fantastic sign of resilience to the erosion of Jewish identity? Kabbalat Shabbat in a flexibly egalitarian shul in the heart of Berlin on a sweet July evening. A congregation that rewards its children for saying Kiddush with white chocolate. A minyan that lets its voice crescendo and pour over wooden pews, despite hesitations and hiccups. Whispers of welcome scuttle between psalms and siddurim. To sit, united on a warm Friday evening, with a shared enthusiasm and longing for the respite about to come. We exchange stories and salads in stews of hopes and second languages. We pour cheap wine and drink up memories of places we call home. We flirt shamelessly with the premise of staying in this room forever, jam-packed on wooden benches and falling in love with a synagogue that resuscitated its cautious heart. Freedom is sticky fists banging rhythmically with gratitude. Authenticity is laughter over our stumbled words and oversung blessings. Some of us strangers, some of us family, all of us one people. How delightful it is to observe Shabbat in the reimagined and reinvigorated Jewish Berlin. As it was in Warsaw and Vienna, Shabbat felt so completely utterly shalem – so incredibly whole. Radiant, vibrant community enveloped us all this Shabbat — friends old and new — and we huddled in the hope that this night would not be our last together. We Jews were, are, and always will be so fully alive.
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