When I first started going to Shabbat services, I liked the sermons. I liked the contemporary and progressive Jewish music. And I loved the community. I have since told people that if this had been a badminton club, I probably would have learned to play badminton.

I have visited enough churches in my day to know the difference between people who really want to welcome you, people who are doing it because their pastor told them to as part of a church growth strategy, and congregations where members believe welcoming visitors is the ushers’ job and not theirs.

I did not know anyone when I began attending. Yet people invited me to sit with them. More than once, someone noticed that I was sitting alone during the service and came up to me afterward. They said that the next time I came, I was welcome to sit with them and their family.

There were smaller gestures, too. Someone shaking my hand in a way that communicated more than hello. Catching someone’s eye across the sanctuary and receiving a smile of recognition. A nod. An acknowledgment. The simple affirmation that someone was glad to see me.

One evening, I arrived early for Shabbat. Not knowing where people sat—and worried that I might accidentally take someone’s seat—I chose a place in the back row against the wall.

While I waited for the service to begin, I was looking at my phone, probably reading messages or answering them. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman walking straight toward me.

I knew I was in trouble.

Here I was, working on the Sabbath, in the Temple of all places. I braced myself for what was coming.

She reached me........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)