Sheket

My brain is always going: a near-constant stream of words and thoughts, snippets of melodies, images of family, sudden flashes of Hebrew, lists of tasks I need to accomplish. In moments when I can find it, I really appreciate quiet—in Hebrew, sheket.

This morning I was awakened by a whistling noise I can’t quite identify or locate—I’ve narrowed it down to either the old radiator in my Jerusalem apartment or a bird nesting directly outside my window. Occasional traffic up and down nearby Keren HaYesod buzzed up and down the hill. My roommates, as usual, rose earlier than I, making their morning preparations. And then there were the nervous and excited conversations, sporadic because many of us are not used to rising at such an early hour, of my classmates and I as we made our way to the Kotel.

Today is Rosh Hodesh Adar, the new moon of Adar, the beginning of this Hebrew month. This morning, the Women of the Wall met, as they do every Rosh Hodesh, to pray the morning prayer and to sing the celebratory verses of Hallel, songs of praise to God.

At the Kotel, there was sheket. It was the quiet I always feel by the ancient stones—the quiet hum of history, the supplication of the prayers stuffed into the cracks, the voices of Jews of the past and the present expressed in whispers and in wails. Normally, it is a quiet, on the women’s side, only occasionally broken by the recitation of Hebrew verses, while the men’s side more regularly includes chanting and communal prayer. But when the Women of the Wall meet, their voices echo off the stones in joy, and in protest, sometimes in fear and pain, and always in praise of God.

As you can read in an Israeli news source, our group this morning included dozens of Reform women rabbis from North America, but the core of Women of the Wall is a small group of Israeli women who come here each month without the comfort of such a large, joyous crowd. Donning tallitot (prayer shawls) and bringing our own prayer books, we huddled together at the back of the women’s section of the main prayer plaza at the Western Wall. Most of our prayer happened very quietly, barely audibly, as each woman chanted the words to herself. But, sometimes, we sang aloud.

I took a deep breath in the quiet before we began each communally sung piece. We sang verses of joy and gratitude that declare God’s desire for song: God is “the one who chooses songs and hymns.” We chanted, as all Jews pray every morning, “All that has breath shall praise God.” And so we did, b’kol ram, in a loud voice—mostly loud because there were so many of us, standing there so close together on the hard Jerusalem stone, with the wall, the place where God’s Presence is said to dwell, magnifying our voices. I closed my eyes, and I felt that God was listening, rejoicing in the gratitude of the Jewish people for having reached this season, the month of Adar, a time of celebration.

“Sheket! Lo lashir!”—“Quiet! No singing!” Our voices angered some of the Orthodox men and women gathered that day to pray. And I have to admit, I remain ambivalent about that anger and about my own reaction. In the moment of praying, I felt sadness and fear, though I understand, too, that these people spoke out of the fear that women’s voices threaten their religious and spiritual reality. But the Wall is a powerful place in Judaism, and Judaism includes all Jews. How can we ensure that all Jews feel welcome expressing their relationship to Jewish history, the Jewish people, and, most crucially, to God, at this emotionally charged site? Shouting that our way of prayer is a "desecration," spitting at us, and throwing pebbles our way ensures only division.

Ultimately, I keep coming back to the words we sang: Sing to God, praise God with verse and hymns, all that has breath shall praise God. Our prayer didn’t last very long, and for the most part it happened in quiet, personal moments. But in reciting verses of praise and celebration, verses about the collective joy of the Jewish people in reaching this season, the month of Adar, in which we will celebrate the festival of Purim, a topsy-turvy day when the persecuted Jews triumph over their would-be-annihilators, it just seemed right to sing out b’kol ram.