Connected

Restfulness and joy; light unto the Jewish nation.

At first glance it might seem like the Shabbos table of any Chasidic home. The candles are lit. At the edge of the table lies a colored parsha page from a pre-school child and a list of farher questions for the seven-year-old. The smell of steaming cholent wafts in from the kitchen. But some things are off. There’s only one chalah under the blue and gold embroidered chalah cover; the host doesn’t bother with lechem mishnah. And someone’s phone rings.

“Can you put your phone on vibrate?” The hostess says softly. “My son is in the other room.” Her elegant sheitel gives her an air of regency.

Soon the son makes an appearance, a smiling, slightly shy, boy of nine. He seems to recognize the faces around the table, but he knows it’s an unusual group. Three Chasidim with shtreimlech (or at least could potentially be wearing them; they’re mostly abandoned somewhere on a kitchen table or an unoccupied La-Z-Boy), two former Chasidim whose background can only be detected by their slight accents, two Chasidish women – our hostess, and a young mother who changed into a short skirt and sleeveless top before driving over – and three non-Jewish women, our shiksa goddesses.

Someone makes Kiddush. Some do the ritual washing at the kitchen sink – for the children’s sake – but most don’t bother. The meal consists of traditional Shabbos food. But the meal itself is over rather quickly and the children are put to bed.

Other guests come by. Chasidim, former Chasidim, and non-Jewish friends. The banter flows, a mixture of English and Yiddish, and even the non-Jewish guests, who seem confounded at times, get the gist of it. Intellectual discussions overlap arguments of Jewish law and mix freely with Chasidic gossip: Was Bertrand Russel too rational? And if logical positivists were really consistent about us being a mere set of molecules with no innate specialness then I can kick you in the butt, and don’t take it personally. Someone frowns and says that’s too simplistic. Another mentions Voltaire, and yet another counters that he was just a cynical jackass—this particular Chasid despises him for his attacks on Rousseau, his favorite persona from the Republic of Letters. Did you hear of so-and-so who is sleeping with so-and-so? Yes, both from Willi, but one is originally from KJ. And an argument ensues about the exact conditions for a contemporary rabbi to forbid the woman from continuing to live with her husband.

The red wine flows freely, and the environment is relaxed, joyful, infused with the warmth of genuine Chasidic camaraderie. Someone starts a Belzer niggun, and all who know it join in and the others hum along. Another song and another song, and soon all are standing, hands clasped to shoulders, swaying energetically to the rhythm of Carlebach’s Atoh Sokum. The energy rises with the chorus as Chasidim and non-Chasidim alike sing as with one voice, Ki va moed… Ki va moed… For the time has come.

We head to an abandoned staircase out back for a smoke, careful not to raise the suspicion of neighbors; the ramifications could be devastating. But it’s a risk the host is willing to take, for the sake of this once-a-week escape from the agonies of a double life lived for the children’s sake, knowing all too well that once they’re ensconced in the cocoon of the Chasidic world they cannot be easily removed without serious psychological upheaval.

“This is totally bizarre!” one of our non-Jewish friends says. “You guys don’t believe in any of this, live totally secular lives, yet you are attracted to this culture like moths to a fire.” She refers especially to those who’ve left, who would appear to an outsider as having no special connection to this ultra-religious and confining lifestyle.

We try to explain. We’ve left this world in one sense. But in another sense we’re still as attached as ever. She thinks she understands, but she shakes her head. It boggles the mind. She’s slightly overwhelmed by all the Yiddish and the Chasid-talk and the strange songs and the aspects of this unfamiliar culture that have both an overwhelming air of foreignness yet is vaguely appealing. She admires the openness, the generosity, the ease with which we accept strangers in our midst.

We head back and sing Shifchi kamayim libeich. And segue into a top-40 pop song; finally the goyim feel somewhat at home. Many hours have passed, and dawn is nearing. Someone brings out a bowl of cholent and a plate of kishke, and it’s devoured with relish. One of the non-Jewish women claims she loves it—she’s probably just being very polite, some of us tell her, but no, she claims she’s sincere. She must have a Jewish soul, the hostess tells her, obviously pleased. A goy eating cholent is like a Chasid eating lobster; it just doesn’t seem natural. But there’s nothing natural about what we’re doing here. The incongruities are so many that normalcy would’ve been an oddity. But only one oddity more among so many.