efore the pandemic, Shabbat for me meant a break from screens. My synagogue, housed in a century-old building on a residential street in a quiet Toronto neighbourhood, observes the ancient laws that prohibit the use of technology on the Sabbath. A few Saturdays a month, I used to dress up, walk to shul (synagogue), and leave the frenetic demands of the secular, wired world behind. Since the pandemic shut the doors to my synagogue, I reluctantly turned to online shul to fill the void. Shabbat by Zoom, it turns out, is unexpectedly nourishing. Last month, the leaders of the conservative movement of Judaism gave rabbis the green light to livestream on Shabbat. Thousands of Jews around the world are just now discovering the joy of virtual worship, known to more liberal Jews for years. In fact, Zoom Shabbat has some distinct advantages over in-real-life congregation. If a sermon is boring, I’ll hop over to a different one. If I don’t like the voice of one cantor, I’ll close the tab and find another. Attendance is anonymous. No one notices if you show up late or leave early. I’ve dropped into synagogues all over North America. Virtual shul helps me mark the passing of time. Because I no longer drop my kids off to school or ride the subway to work, the days tend blend into each other. Virtual shul helps make Shabbat morning feel special. On Saturdays, we sleep in. My husband works on a cryptic crossword. Mid-morning, I recite Shabbat prayers with other people, just like before the pandemic, only now I don’t dress up or leave the house. I open my laptop at my kitchen table in my yoga pants, or sometimes in bed. My seven-year-old daughter colours beside me, and the two of us sing along to familiar melodies. Something else I like about livestream shul: it can be more intimate than in real life. You’re invited inside the private living rooms and offices of clergy where you can see their art, bookshelves and furniture. When the cantor Julia Cadrain, from Central Synagogue on the Upper East Side in Manhattan, sings from her apartment with a guitar on her lap in front of a wall of hanging plants, I feel like her personal guest. Sometimes her toddler joins her. I avoid the congregations that require Zoom password, which can lead to awkward situations. On a recent Saturday morning, I logged into a service held by Romemu, a progressive congregation on the Upper West Side, and in one of the little Zoom boxes, I saw the face of an old high school friend I hadn’t seen for over 20 years. I wondered if he’d seen me, if my hair looked OK, if I should follow up with an email. Flummoxed, I quickly logged off. If I’m lucky, I’ll stumble upon the bar or bat mitzvah of a stranger. Bar or bat mitzvahs are my preferred genre of reality television in the age of Covid-19. Inevitably, I cry from start to finish. I admire how, in the face of a disappointment, the kid, wearing fancy clothes, in the company of just immediate family, with a scroll placed on a dining room table, found a way to create a meaningful ritual. If she can do that, I think, maybe I can survive this, too. Sometimes the faces of the grandparents are Zoomed in from Florida, their knickknacks proudly displayed on shelves behind them. Captured on the screen is the sadness of the pandemic, the forced separation of grandparents from their grandkids, but it’s also an act of hope: despite the circumstances, the Jewish tradition is being passed from one generation to the next. When this is over, will I go back to attending synagogue in real life, or will my new virtual habit satisfy my needs? I’m not sure. Thousands of years ago, when Judaism shifted from being a temple-based religion to a bunch of communities spread out across the diaspora, synagogue ritual was invented as a kind of placeholder, until the temple in Jerusalem can be rebuilt. What we’re witnessing now is another great adaptation. I still miss my old synagogue. I miss the sound of voices singing together in spontaneous harmony. I miss the drama of the wrapped-up Torah scroll processing up and down the aisle and I miss the warm, wood-walled room that holds many happy memories. But Zoom Shabbat will do until the real thing comes back. Shabbat gives the week a rhythm. There’s a crescendo leading to Shabbat and a bittersweet denouement when it’s over. Without it, I’d be lost. Even though we can’t congregate, even though we can’t meet, Zoom shul reminds me that we’re all in this together.