Coronavirus: Balcony prayers give chance for consistent praying

Not since I had to say kaddish when my mother died some 35 years ago have I prayed so consistently – and at every service – in a minyan.

By HERB KEINON
Praying on a balcony (photo credit: Courtesy)
Praying on a balcony
(photo credit: Courtesy)
Almost a quarter-century ago, when The Wife and I were in the market for a bigger apartment, after the birth of our fourth child made our two-bedroom flat a bit cramped, we weighed the pros and cons of moving from our mixed neighborhood into a religious one.
Among the pros: not having to hear my next-door neighbor’s stereo or television blasting on Shabbat, and being able to let the kids play in the street on Saturday because there are no cars. The cons: it is unwise to raise children in a monochromatic neighborhood, and bad for society if every different group lives behind high walls in their own comfortable bubble.
After lengthy and deep philosophical debates, The Wife and I opted for the bubble – polychromatic society-building be damned.
In these passionate debates, one argument for moving into a religious neighborhood that was not raised, but which could have been, is that during a pandemic when all the synagogues in the land close, it would still be possible to pray three times daily in a minyan (prayer quorum of 10 men) from the balcony or a bedroom window.
Who’da thought?
Like everyone, I will carry with me for years the memories of this odd period of time. Some of those memories will be bitter and painful, while others will be – well – not that bad.
The bitter memories will be the daily bad news of deaths, of more than a million of my countrymen out of work, of a Passover Seder alone, of not being able to see my kids or grandsons for weeks on end.
And the more positive memoires: no traffic, a much slower pace, not feeling as if I had to battle the crowds and go somewhere on Yom Ha’atzmaut, and those balcony minyans.
I LOVE those balcony minyans.
Not since I had to say kaddish when my mother died some 35 years ago have I prayed so consistently – and at every service – in a minyan. And why not? They are so convenient.
In fact, from my apartment I have not one but two minyanim to choose from: one to the east I can join from my balcony, and one to the south I can access from my bedroom window. And that’s very special, since that gives me one minyan to go to, and one I can pointedly avoid.
Here’s how these minyanim work: the prayer leader, preferably with a booming voice, stands in his garden or balcony, and everyone from buildings nearby – some across the street, others next door – join and answer him in prayer. Now, finally, I appreciate the contractor for building our buildings so close together.
These minyanim, with the sound of the birds chirping and the sky clearly visible above, are simply a pleasure.
First, I am no longer conflicted every morning about whether to get out of bed and go to shul, whether it is just too hot or too cold to trudge out. I get up, slip into slippers, don my tallit and tefillin, go to the window and – boom! – the minyan’s 10th man has arrived. It’s five minutes – not 30 – from bed to pew.
Second, the prayers are quicker. Oftentimes a synagogue venue influences the pace. For instance, a big, fancy, cavernous shul invites the prayer leader to drag things out, to engage in unnecessary operatics. But not when the minyan is outside. Not with the sun beating down, the wind whirling, or a drizzle on the horizon. Then it’s no nonsense davening – just the way I like it. No unnecessary singing, no schlepping things out, little waiting, no announcements. All business.
Third, no one sits in my seat – ever. I’ve been traumatized over the years by seating arrangements in synagogues: first as a guest in shuls where some people would make me feel most unwelcome by telling me I was sitting in their seats, and then again by guests in my own shul who actually had the gall to sit in my permanent place. No more. I control the door. No one can even get inside my house, let alone eye my precious seat on the balcony.
Fourth, I’ve got full control of the temperature. If I’m hot, I open the window. If I’m cold, I close it. No unpleasantness, no disagreements, I don’t argue with myself: “How dare you open the window, you inconsiderate lout. Don’t you see the breeze is bothering people?”
There are a myriad other ways that my minyan at home has turned into my ideal one. For instance, I never feel slighted if I don’t get called up to the Torah for an aliyah. When the Torah is read on the street below, there is only one guy who goes up for the blessing – and that’s the guy reading from the Torah. One guy. No need to ever feel snubbed or disrespected.
Furthermore, the bathrooms are clean and tidy, there is always an abundance of soap, there are no beggars in the morning who make me feel guilty, nobody talks, no kids cry, and nobody blows their nose behind me.
And the very best part? When someone gets up to give a 10-minute talk on Friday night, I don’t have to feel bad as my eyes close – which they inevitably do at that particular time of the week – and my head jolts back and forth.
Nope, now I can stretch out on my bed while he talks from down below and take a no-head-jolt snooze without being seen by a solitary soul.
The downside of these minyanim: I have to pay for the Shabbat kiddush every week. But even that has an upside: the kitchen serves only what I like.
Over the years I’ve often sat in synagogue and thought to myself, wouldn’t it be great if I could completely control the environment? 
I finally got my wish. And it’s all I ever hoped it would be.


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