The Holiest Things I’ve Seen Weren’t in Synagogue

The holiest thing I’ve ever seen wasn’t a Torah scroll being lifted at Neilah. It wasn’t a perfectly chanted Haftarah, or a soaring rendition of Kol Nidre. It wasn’t even a moment in synagogue at all.

It was the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone—standing at the edge of something so vast, so humbling, so ancient, that all I could do was whisper Mah rabu ma’asecha Adonai—how great are Your works, God. I didn’t say it aloud. I didn’t need to. The canyon itself was saying it for me.

Another time, I found myself in a Texas laundromat on a Thursday night, worn out and halfway across the country, trying to keep my week on track. I was traveling on USY on Wheels, exhausted, and still had Ma’ariv to say. And in that moment—amid the lint, fluorescent lights, and the smell of detergent—I felt oddly connected. Grounded. Holy.

Or the sunset I watched in silence last summer, my son curled under my arm, no phones, no service, just sky and flame and quiet. It was, in every way, a religious experience. No sermon, no minyan, no ark.

And yet I’m a synagogue rabbi. I’ve spent fifteen years building sacred community, defending its value, arguing that physical presence matters—that Jewish life rooted in time and space is essential.

So what do we do with this truth: that some of the most powerful spiritual moments of our lives happen outside the walls of the synagogue?

How does that square with the centrality of shul?

Let me be clear: I still believe in synagogue life. Fiercely. Not because it’s always transcendent (it isn’t), or because everyone always feels at home (they don’t), but because the very idea of showing up regularly to try—to pray, to learn, to wrestle, to be seen—is one of the most countercultural and holy acts a Jew can commit to in 2025.

Synagogue isn’t designed to compete with sunsets. It’s not supposed to match the majesty of Yellowstone or the intimacy of a parent and child. It’s designed to give us language for those moments. To build the muscles of awareness so that when the grandeur hits us—on a mountain, in a hospital room, or even a laundromat—we know how to say: This is holy. This is real. This is God.

The synagogue teaches us how to notice.

It gives us the tools to shape awe into gratitude, fear into prayer, loss into memory, and joy into blessing.

The problem is not that we find holiness outside the synagogue. The problem is when we think that because we’ve felt something powerful in nature or in solitude, we no longer need community, ritual, or shared space.

But we do.

You can have breathtaking moments in isolation. You cannot build a people in isolation.

The majesty of Yellowstone doesn’t visit you when you’re sick in the hospital. A sunset doesn’t say Kaddish with you. A mountain doesn’t hold your hand at a funeral or teach your kid to chant Torah.

Community does.

The holiness we find outside the synagogue is real. But the holiness we build inside it—that’s the glue of Jewish continuity. That’s the difference between spiritual highs and spiritual life.

So yes—the holiest things I’ve seen weren’t in synagogue. But the reason I could see them as holy is because I’ve spent years walking into sanctuaries with people who taught me how.

That’s why I still show up. And that’s why I hope you do too.