We are all familiar with the concept of sacred space. Everybody knows that there are physical spaces that stand out because something special happened, or continues to happen, there. Certainly, for Jews, the Kotel, the Western Wall, is a sacred space, the focus of millennial dreams. So is Jerusalem in general. But there are many other spaces that have become sacred by virtue of our experience of them. For baseball fans, it’s the ballpark that’s the “field of their dreams.” I have heard people describe walking on the turf at Yankee Stadium as “their first experience of heaven.” And there is a rabbi who insists that he wants to be buried with dirt from his precious Brooklyn Dodgers’ Ebbets Field mixed with the traditional dirt from Israel. (In the early ‘90’s, a small vial of dirt from Ebbets Field sold for $500. Not exactly “dirt cheap”.) But a sacred space doesn’t have to be that elaborate. Grandpa’s study will do just fine. Sacred space is all around us, and certainly in our synagogue.
As attuned as we are to sacred space, we are much less adept at experiencing sacred time. In Judaism, though, sacred space is at least as important as sacred space, if not more. Shabbat, for example, is 25 hours of sacred time, and there’s hardly anything more sacred than Shabbat. But what distinguishes sacred time from profane time? There are no visible boundaries, no red velvet ropes dividing profane outside from holy of holies inside. The only thing that marks sacred time is our attitude. Our internal posture. Our consciousness. Developing that consciousness is no easy task. It is not something we can simply do like flipping on a switch. In a sense, we must be directed to it, called to it.
And that is exactly what the Barchu is about. In the morning service, we spend some considerable time praying that we will be able to pray. And then, the moment comes, when our preparation, our (often feeble) attempts to focus, our kavannah (intentionality) is brought to bear. It is time for us to enter that realm where we can declare the Truth of the Shema and access the palace of the King during the Amidah. The Cantor declares: “[Now] bless G-d Who is meant to be blessed!” To which we bow and respond, “Bless G-d Who is meant to be blessed forever and ever.”
As our Christian brethren would say, “Many are called, but few are chosen.” Being called to prayer does not magically move us all into a spiritual realm. But it does open a door for us. When the ark is opened, we are reminded that there is divine wisdom just inches away. So, too, the Barchu is a reminder to us that there is a portal in time, a doorway on the other side of which is eternity. There we find the realm where our daily stresses and challenges can be left behind, even if only momentarily, and we can (re)connect with the timeless Source of All.
Rabbi Robert L. Wolkoff