One spring morning, on the eve of Holocaust Remembrance Day, I woke up with the gnawing feeling that while we've been living in Ramat Hasharon for nearly six months now, we're basically stuck inside our own bubble. Either we're at home or at the synagogue or on the way to Jerusalem, and maybe that's not so good. An enlightened person needs to get to know the surroundings in which he lives. The people, the landscapes, the centers of culture. So we took the baby, three diapers and a package of baby wipes and headed to IKEA.

How lucky we are. There are people who, if they want to go to IKEA, have to plan well ahead and take time off work and deal with all kinds of logistics, but for us Ramat Hasharonites, it's practically right outside the door. You drive nine minutes on the coastal highway, turn right, and before you know it you're already on the second floor, debating whether to buy two, three or maybe four ice cube trays. It just so happens that today there's a huge sale on arrow-shaped ice cube trays.

Now don't worry, this isn't going to be another one of those classic IKEA columns. That is, it could easily be an IKEA column full of insights about the complicated purchasing method whereby in the end you don't buy anything because by the time you reach the shelf with the flat packs your initial enthusiasm has faded, and about how it's a shame they don't employ the same system in every supermarket, since then you wouldn't buy so much chocolate and carbohydrates.

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"But fear not, ladies and gentlemen, for this is a column written by a dos*. And with dosim, it's always different. On any ordinary afternoon, for instance, thousands of Israeli men might pass by the IKEA children's furniture department and end up gazing in despair at their wives who are completely entranced by the new, bi-level pull-out bunk bed, but only the dos will notice that next to the bunk bed stands a Jew searching desperately for a tenth man to make a minyan for the afternoon mincha prayer service. His name is Weinberg, he has a long beard and a name tag and humbly says that he's "just the kashrut supervisor here." But take it from me, folks - this fellow holds one of the most illustrious titles in the entire rabbinic world: He's the chief rabbi of IKEA.

Mincha? Actually, we still have plenty of time until the sun sets, but you're right, Rabbi Weinberg, perhaps I ought to pray right now to Hashem to have mercy on me and save me from this place. I am so weak, so tired, and my legs.... Oh God. Okay, so where do we pray, I ask him, is there a quiet corner somewhere? Still, it's not so comfortable right here in the midst of this secular crush. We're not on an airplane, after all. Follow me, the rabbi whispers to me mysteriously, and leads me to a hidden door, between the recliner department and the sofa display. We go down one floor, he opens a door, and I am totally stunned. Not a corner, not a small prayer room, but a synagogue. An honest-to-goodness synagogue. The Great Synagogue of IKEA.

Little by little, more good Jews gather in the secret bunker. Some work in the store, others are customers - the rabbi has assured their wives that he will personally see to it that they return within 15 minutes to the same mirrored shelf unit in the same model bathroom. I go to check out the bookshelves and am bowled over. Everything is so neat and spiffy. Every synagogue should be so orderly. Printed on each book is "Property of IKEA." There's an IKEA-siddur, and IKEA-chumash, a new set of IKEA-Rambam and even a Torah ark with a velvet curtain on which the following is embroidered: "For out of Zion shall go forth the Torah and the word of Hashem from Jerusalem. Donated by Yehiel Moshe (Edgar) and Matityahu Bronfman."

As I pray I recall reading about a year ago that Matthew, I mean Matityahu, Bronfman and his brother bought IKEA Israel, together with Haredi businessman Shalom Fisher. Ah, now it all makes sense. Including how IKEA's restaurants suddenly went from non-kosher to strictly kosher. Nu, if only they would buy Ramat Hasharon, too, and build us some synagogues with beautiful prayer books and transform Reviva and Celia into a cafe.

The brief prayer service ends. I bid the chief rabbi a fond farewell. On the way out, on the steps, I hear someone ask him: "Tell me, Rabbi, if I buy the Torah ark does it come assembled or do I have to put that together myself, too?"

*Dos: a derogatory term for religious Jews.