Down trendy Lincoln Road, across from Victoria’s Secret and in the thick of the Sunday South Beach brunch crowd, Michael Herzfeld found spirituality. Better said, spirituality found him. Herzfeld, a businessman who lives in Bay Harbor Islands, hadn’t gone to services in months when suddenly a synagogue pulled up to him on Jefferson Avenue. There it was, Chabad on Wheels, an airy 26-foot bus, for Jews who sometimes don’t have time for Judaism in a city that sometimes doesn’t have time for religion.
I hope the Pope doesn’t get wind of this innovation.
So Herzfeld boarded, wrapped the leather straps of the tefillin around his left arm, placed one leather box on his forehead -- and prayed. ’’It’s not chance you met a rabbi on Lincoln Road,’’ Rabbi Zev Katz told Herzfeld above the drone of the air conditioning. ``God works in mysterious ways.’’ God, it seems, has been kind to Katz and his ’’Mitvah Tank,’’ believed to be the only such synagogue-on-wheels in South Florida. Just a month ago, Katz, a stout, bearded bundle of energy, purchased a new Ford bus after two years of scraping together donations from Jews. On Sunday, he’ll hold a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new vehicle. Katz, 29, who belongs to the Chabad Lubavitch movement of Orthodox Hasidic Judaism, graduated from rabbinical training in New York six years ago. He returned to his native Miami Beach, wracking his brain for ways to shed the image of the boring, long-bearded rabbi who presides over tedious services. ’’I knew I didn’t want to be a pulpit rabbi,’’ he said. A traveling synagogue. Now, that made sense. They had come to prominence in Israel in 1967 during that country’s Six Day War, when rabbis provided services for soldiers in the field. Later, bus-based synagogues became common in New York and other big cities.
The plot thickens.
South Beach, where a younger population was steadily replacing the older Jews who for so long defined its streets, was a perfect fit, Katz reasoned. Jews these days, he knew, had plenty to keep them busy in Miami Beach. Maybe he could pull them in, if just for a minute or two, in between a movie or drinks. So Katz’s synagogue began in a donated beige 1986 RV, which he parked on Lincoln Road on Sundays. He enthusiastically beckoned Jews to come inside, for a prayer or to buy religious books. It was cramped -- inside were a bed and a kitchen. The air conditioning rarely worked, so in the suffocating summer months, the sweaty and brave could stay inside for only a few fleeting moments. The idea worked well, thanks to Katz’s infectious personality and ability to chat about everything from the Torah to football. Soon, people began inviting him to their homes, for dinner or to affix a mezuzah -- a small holy scroll -- to their doors. Vacationers who dropped by the bus began e-mailing him, from as far away as Hawaii and Nova Scotia. ’’He chases people down, but he doesn’t discomfort them,’’ said Sascha Gamel, a jovial businessman who first met Katz a few years back on Lincoln Road and often drops in on Sundays for prayers.
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