Okay, I do have to admit that there’s an awful lot of Hebrew…not to mention fierce marketing of the one God idea…and it does go on for three hours. No interval. And to be completely irreverent, one could add no popcorn…but that would drive the point unpleasantly home about no food. In short, it’s Yom Kippur. Or was, the sun having set. And, what the hell, the Book of Life is sealed for another year. And I was there.

People with observant Jewish backgrounds certainly are much more on top of what’s happening. Still, in my liturgical ignorance something happens for me. It’s a hodgepodge. And it’s a bit of work. But I’m glad I turned up. Here are the highlights. Or more exactly, what I liked.

First, I see remarkably little off-putting piety. No one is the Jewish equivalent of holier than thou. At least not visibly. The spirit is down-to-earth. And why not? We are talking 4000 years of people who were all too familiar with camel dung and wouldn’t know a prawn cocktail from Adam. Although they knew Adam. Another story.

Another thing. In Jewish cosmology, it’s what you do, not what you spout. The world is messed up. So pay some attention. I like that part too. As for this congregation, they have some particular attributes. Torah service concluded, a young woman exhorted us to get involved with the congregation…and told her personal history. As she put it, it was only when she left home and entered university that she came to understand that Jews aren’t necessarily queer. Many are in this San Francisco congregation. And for me the upside is that I too am an oddity in my wheelchair. And also I am among those who have a recent and authentic experience with being unpleasantly chosen people. Even today, Jane tells me, transsexuals routinely get beat up on the streets of San Francisco.

And then there’s the elevator. The synagogue has a dysfunctional lift. I briefly got stuck in the thing. And after that I stayed away for months. Still, there was a lesson here. And it looks something like this.

The building manager had warned me that the elevator had limited capacity. If I and my power wheelchair with its lead acid batteries had to descend, he wanted to know first. Because armed with the knowledge of my trip to the ground floor, he would take himself to the basement. And there do something. Like turn the power on and off, enabling the elevator to drop about 10 feet at a time. Which, although it must be said to work, it must also be said it to work slowly. While one is experiencing the claustrophobic confines of a very tiny lift. Not recommended. The alternative? Well, there really wasn’t one. As I said, I stayed away for months. I did exchange emails with a somewhat defensive congregation president. He assured me that the shul was deeply committed to disabled access. That’s why the elevator was there. I despaired of this circular argument and, as I said, stayed away

Until I couldn’t stand it any longer and returned. Whereupon I met the new rabbi. And a new facilities manager. I had discussions with each. The elevator, it seemed, wasn’t strong enough. A new, improved mechanism would boost the power and accommodate me and my heavy chair. Was there money for this? Almost. Either way, they were going to make the elevator work. Which meant calling in an engineer who took a look at things and assured everyone that the elevator had power to spare, but not enough brake shoes to go around. The emergency brakes were kicking in. That was the problem. It had been the problem for years. And the lesson has something to do with group think. And for me, a tendency to expect the worst. No more.