Jerusalem's synagogues are great attractions, and Safed features historic synagogues dating back to the 16th century.

But after my visiting U.S. friends have already seen all the varied Sephardic (Moorish and Arabesque style) and Ashkenazic (European style) Synagogues, they will turn to me and say: "C'mon Matthew, what are you hiding from us? Why don't you show us where you pray!"

The truth is that I'm a little embarrassed. My little no-frills Synagogue is not physically impressive. Spiritually, it is very dear to me. It certainly makes up in meaning what it lacks in polished pews and mahogany.

However, since the tourist guides aren't likely to point my shul out to you, I will go down and show it to you myself.

This may sound strange, but I pray in a Bomb Shelter. The American reader may think of it as a Cold War relic, but here in Israel bomb shelters are still, unfortunately, part of life. Peace has yet to come to the Middle East, and Isaiah's vision of the lion dwelling with the lamb is yet to be fulfilled.

Every Israeli apartment complex is built with a bomb shelter, so we use the vacant structure as a synagogue. Better for this purpose than the emergency for which it was intended.

Follow me down the steps as we enter the gray steel utility doors instead of furnished portals.

Look up. Instead of high imposing domes and dazzling chandeliers, all we have are bare light bulbs hanging off a low ceiling.

Look ahead. We have no awe-inspiring ark with ornate sculpted lions. Our Torah is housed in a simple floor-level wooden cabinet.

Note the lack of colored stained-glass mosaics. Why, this place has no windows at all! And we have long hard benches instead of comfortable cushioned theatre seats.

Look down. No plush maroon carpeting underfoot. A little worn rug lies on the hard concrete, poured thick for maximum protection.

Literally, my Shul has depth. The Bomb Shelter's stark reality, relating to matters of life and death, reminds me of the Psalm, "From the depths I call You." Its theme is most appropriate to the seasonal prayer that reads: "G-d is my fortress from whom shall I fear... For He will shelter me in his booth in a bad day, hide me in His tent..."

Wrapped up in my tallit and enveloped in my prayer, this shelter provides me with spiritual security from the big threatening world outside.

A Shul deserves to be beautiful, but the essence of prayer is the person himself. Can a building exterior or interior make prayer meaningful? Many sages, notably the Baal Shem Tov, prayed outside in the woods. In fact, services are held al fresco at our holiest place, the Western Wall.

Above all, or rather beneath it all, 'davening' here gives me a genuine and sincere feeling. I love the enthusiastic personal participation by everyone in our little shul. In contrast to Synagogue-in-the-round, where the audience watches passively as the Rabbi sermonizes and the cantor performs; here you can barely hear the cantor's voice over the sound of the active worshippers.

I'd be pretty surprised if our synagogue has an official name like "Beth..." or Bnai..." something or other. Our shelter is informally known as "the shteibel." which means 'little house' in Yiddish, where you don't need a High Holiday ticket to get in.

Simply, if you're Jewish, you belong. We have a nice mix of Ashkenazic and Sephardic, plus some Chassidic folk (the ones who look like the Pennsylvania Dutch), and others who don't even know how they got there, like myself.

We have a diversity of languages. Before services, we have little study groups on the weekly Torah portion. Five fellows in the back speak French. Four on the other side learn in Russian. There's a Yiddish group up front and another bunch who actually speak Hebrew. My own crowd studies in English.

Clapping and swaying are as much of the prayer as are the words, Though the rules of prayer are kept to a T, the customs are mixed and varied. At any given time, you will see some people standing, some sitting, but we're all praying to the same G-d.

Other congregations reserve rooms to contain the children so they don't disturb the decorum, annoy the adults or interrupt the cantor. But here the children feel at home. An elderly 'candy man' hands out sweets, and as the service winds down, the kids help bring in the kiddush food.

Ah-h-h, the smell of heavenly hot cholent wafts through the air, and the acoustics are enough to send even a tone-deaf soul soaring.

On the High Holidays, our shul is packed solid, yet the congregation parts to let in an elderly man in a wheelchair escorted by his son.

When the shofar blows its 100th blast there's not a dry handkerchief in the house. By then we are all melded into one, united and excited by the opportunity of a new year filled with hope and dreams.