By Rich Schwartzman
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I never wrapped tefillin when I was younger. I didn’t do it until 2023, right before a Kol Nidre service. I was already in my 70s by then.
As with many of us, my formal Jewish education stopped at my Bar Mitzvah. Even before then, my education was rocky. It was my first or second year in Hebrew School when we came across the double Yud. The teacher said we couldn’t pronounce the word. I had no idea what she meant. I thought she meant we didn’t know enough Hebrew to pronounce it, so I raised my hand and said I could. Well, she jumped ugly on me.
She was in my face, screaming, “No, you can’t,” and kept on railing to the point where I had no idea what she was saying. Needless to say, I never raised my hand or volunteered again.
Shortly after that, my parents let me stop going, for a few years anyway. Then I was told I needed to go back because I was going to have a Bar Mitzvah. So, I went back to Hebrew school at another synagogue and, eventually, had my Bar Mitzvah. And that was that. I never hid my Jewish identity, just never bandied it about. As I moved into my adult years and middle-aged years, I started thinking of myself as an agnostic Jewish Buddhist who likes contemplating the Tao. Then, in 2023, I met a Hassidic rabbi, Yudi Gerber, on Facebook.
I learned he was having a Shavuot picnic at a park in Delaware County, and I decided to go even though I had never met him. I got to the park and saw a group of people, and one guy had a beard and his tzitzit were hanging out. I said to myself, this must be the place. It was. I found it to be a pleasant evening, but nothing really grabbed me. Or so I thought.
Later that year, in October, I heard he was conducting a Kol Nidre service and decided to go. I got there early and Yudi asked if I wanted to do a mitzvah with him. I had no idea what he meant, but I said yes. That’s when we wrapped tefillin that first time. I didn’t feel anything special at the time, but that was OK.
After that, since I’m a writer/photographer, I took photos of his menorah lightings at a local shopping center, but even then, that was my limit. That changed last year.
I had gotten sick over the summer with a severe case of shingles that shut my left eye down for a month and a half and had me totally out of commission for almost three months. I later learned that Yudi had parsha discussions at his house on Saturday afternoons and so, after the outward symptoms of the shingles were gone, I started going. One-on-one, we had some good conversations, and I mentioned to him that there were many things I had either forgotten or never learned. He suggested I meet with him during the week, and I agreed.
From the beginning, it was, “Do you want to do a mitzvah together?” I said yes, and it was tefillin wrapping time—every week.
Somewhere along the way, I went through some old things and found a set of tefillin that my father had given me. They belonged to his grandfather, someone I had never met. But there were two sets of these old tefillin. I think I wound up with the second pair after my father died. And no, I never saw my father wrap tefillin.
These tefillin are old, more than 120–150 years old, with tiny boxes. I took them to Yudi, who said he knew a tefillin scribe in New York who would make sure they were still good, still kosher. He told me it would take a few months.
These tefillin are old, more than 120–150 years old, with tiny boxes. I took them to Yudi, who said he knew a tefillin scribe in New York who would make sure they were still good, still kosher. He told me it would take a few months.
So, I kept going to his house, wrapping tefillin with him, then reading from the Tanya (the foundational text of Chabad Hasidic philosophy).
Then I got the tefillin back. The scribe had cannibalized the sets and made one clean set. I was leery about wrapping on my own at first, not wanting to do anything wrong, but I finally went solo with them. The first day I did, I almost started crying. I don’t know why. But I’ve been wrapping tefillin every day (except for Shabbat) since. And I choke up every time.
There’s something special about the practice. What that is, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t need to know. It just is.
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About the Author
RICH SCHWARTZMAN grew up in Philadelphia and attended Hebrew school in a conservative synagogue. But, like many people, he didn’t continue his religious schooling after his Bar Mitzvah. He never lost his connection to Judaism, even though he never really practiced. Rich resides in Kennett Square where he wraps tefillin every day (except Shabbat and other biblical holidays), and there’s no longer any pig or shellfish, and definitely no pepperoni pizza or cheese steaks.
