Showing posts with label tradition. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tradition. Show all posts

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Is Davening for Us or for God?

The follow is an article published in Kol Hamevaser, The Jewish Thought Magazine of YU's Student Body.  

Worship: For Us or for Him?
By Yakov Danishefsky | Published: December 26, 2012  

On one level, believing Jews must live in accordance with the divine will just because it is the divine will. We accept our role as servants of the King, each one of us obeying His laws as “metsuveh ve-oseh,”“commanded and performing.”[i] This is the level of “na’aseh,”“we will do.”[ii] There is, however, another level, that of “nishma,”“we will listen,”[iii] understand, and become engaged. It is from the point of nishma that we depart into the following discussion of understanding the role of our avodat Hashem.[iv],[v],[vi]

Radically different forms of worship emerge from the proponents of Jewish philosophy and Jewish mysticism, respectively. To be sure, these two groups have many diverging opinions within each of their general doctrines. What follows is not a comprehensive analysis of all approaches, but an outline of key approaches, to serve as a springboard for further study. I hope that this simplified presentation does not blemish the truth and depth of this lofty topic.

A hallmark of a sincere oved(et) Hashem (servant of God) is a determination to constantly increase the meaning and vibrancy of his or her service of God. It is therefore worthwhile for such an individual to explore different perspectives of avodat Hashem developed by the hakhmei ha-mesorah (sages of the tradition). By exploring different forms of worship, an individual is better positioned to identify the form that energizes and empowers him or her to better serve God. We will begin by looking at sources portraying a man-centered view, then move to those who adopt a God-centered perspective, and lastly, we will explore two forms of synthesis found in later sources.

For Us
One perspective maintains that worship of God is primarily “for us,” namely the worshipers, not for God. This approach is clear in the well-known mishnah at the end of Makkot: “R. Hananya ben Akashya says, ‘[God] wanted to give Israel merit, therefore, He gave them much Torah and mitsvot.’”[vii] This view is also found in a passage from Midrash Rabbah that asks the rhetorical question, “Does God care if man slaughters an animal in the front of the neck or in the back?” The Midrash seems to accept the premise of this question, namely, that God does not care, and therefore offers the explanation that it matters not for God but for man: “The mitsvot were given [by God] only to enfranchise (le-tsaref) the creations.”[viii] Lastly, the Gemara records the following statement of R. Sheshet: “Does God need [the Temple menorah’s] light? For all forty years that Benei Yisrael traveled in the desert, they followed His light![ix] Rather, [the menorah] is testimony to all the people of the world that God’s presence dwells with the Jewish people.”[x]

The chief medieval proponent of divine worship for man’s sake is Rambam. For example, he understands that the prohibition against harlotry is intended to ensure that all people belong to a family, since children of harlotry are considered strangers to everyone. An additional reason for the prohibition is in order to limit the lusts and desires of men, and to reduce strife between men for one woman.[xi] Both these reasons focus upon man himself, not God. Similarly, Rambam suggests that the commandment of berit milah (circumcision) is intended to limit the physical pleasure of intercourse and counteract excessive lust.[xii] In another context he explains that the reason for burning ketoret, or incense, in the Temple was to remove the odor of the slaughtered animals and preserve people’s respect for the Temple.[xiii]Lastly, his proposed reason for the prohibition against eating pig is that it is a dirty and unhealthy animal.[xiv]  Rambam believes that mitsvot are focused on their impact on man, meant to perfect the human intellect and enhance one’s character traits. As he wrote in Moreh Nevukhim, “all the commandments and exhortations in the Pentateuch aim at controlling the physical impulses.”[xv] And in Iggeret Teiman (“Epistle to Yemen”), he wrote, “The true divine religion does not have a single positive or negative precept whose essence does not contain aspects that aid the human being in his striving for perfection.”[xvi]

While Ramban fiercely rejects many of Rambam’s utilitarian and contextualized reasons for mitsvot, he too promotes a man-focused purpose ofavodat Hashem. In his commentary to the mitsvah of shiluah ha-ken (sending away the mother bird),[xvii] Ramban writes that the reason for the mitsvah is for man to develop a more merciful nature. He then expands his discussion to all mitsvot and asserts that “the purpose of mitsvot is not for [God Himself]. Rather, the purpose is for man himself to avoid harm, evil beliefs, or disgraceful qualities, or to remember the miracles and wonders of the blessed Creator and to know the Name … all [the mitsvot] are for our sake alone… and this is something agreed upon by all the sayings of our Rabbis.” He explains that the midrash quoted above suggests that God gave the mitsvot only for the sake of developing and molding man. The word “tsiruf”(literally “formation”) is used here in the same way regarding man as it is with regards to making a coin. Ramban’s opinion is actually more complicated, though, as will be noted below.

Ritva, in his commentary to Masekhet Kiddushin seems to invoke a man-centered view in his explanation of the principle that “greater is the one who is commanded and performs than the one who is not commanded and performs.”[xviii] Ritva writes, “The mitsvot are not for God’s pleasure but rather for our own merit.”[xix]  Interestingly, Ritva states this explanation in the name of Rabbeinu ha-Gadol, which usually refers to Ramban. Considering the other statements of Ramban quoted in this article, this source becomes even more noteworthy.

Lastly, the Sefer ha-Hinnukh in his Shorashei ha-Mitsvot (“Roots of the Mitsvot”) often explains the mitsvot as they pertain to the betterment of man. To cite a few examples, he explains that the mitsvah of sanctifying firstborns (“kiddush bekhorot”) is meant to remind man that everything is God’s and that man has nothing in this world other than that which God provides.[xx]He further suggests that the purpose of the mitsvot surrounding the korban Pesah is to remember the great miracles that God performed for the Jewish people in order to take them out of Egypt.[xxi] Finally, the goal of the mitsvah to sanctify Shabbat with words (“kiddush Shabbat be-devarim”) is to remember the greatness of the day and to instill faith in our hearts that God created the world.[xxii]

For Him
In stark contrast to the ideas presented above, Zohar states very clearly that divine worship in this world is intended to create unifications of the sefirot (divine attributes): “And for all of [the mitsvot], we need to perform the action below in order to arouse above.”[xxiii] Similarly, Moses is praised by Elijah because, “in every single commandment, your effort was to unite the blessed holy One and His shekhinah.”[xxiv] In contrast, man’s negative actions cause negative effects in the upper realm: “[Sins] separate the Queen from the King, and King from the Queen. Thus He is not called One, for He is only called One when they are together in union. Woe to those sinners who cause separation above.”[xxv] In a particularly strong explication of this view, Zohar interprets the verse, “Tenu oz le-Elokim,” “Give strength to God,”[xxvi] in the most literal sense: “When the Jewish People does improper deeds, ki-ve-yakhol (as if this could be) they weaken the strength of God, and when they do good deeds they give strength and power to God, and this is what the verse says, ‘Give strength to God.’ With what? With good deeds.”[xxvii]

Ba’al ha-Tanya advocates this position when he states that the greatest worship is“not only in order to cleave to Him, blessed is He, to quench the thirst of the soul thirsty for God… but rather, as is explained in Tikkunei Zohar… to unite [God]and His Shekhinah.”[xxviii] He further argues in favor of such an approach in his Sha’ar ha-Yihud ve-ha-Emunah, “It is known to all that the purpose of creation is in order to reveal [God’s] kingship, for there is no king without a nation.”[xxix]

However, it is necessary to offer a minor caveat within this view. It must be made very clear that a distinction exists within the world of mysticism between God’s essence and the manifest aspect of God.[xxx] Any discussion predicated on man’s actions affecting God refers only to the manifest aspect of God; God’s essence cannot be affected by man. Even this duality, however, is more complex and is considered beyond human comprehension.[xxxi]

The Nefesh ha-Hayyim seems to take this position as well. He writes, “The foundation of our holy faith is that our entire intention in all our blessings, prayers, and requests is only the One of the world, the single Master and endless One, blessed is He.” But he then makes a crucially important point: 
However, we are not talking about the essence of God on the level that He is completely expanded and separate from the worlds … It is only that after He showed us that His will is to connect to and be King over the worlds that our request is that He be King over the worlds. Furthermore, on the level of His essence, without connecting to the worlds, there is no space for Torah and mitsvot at all … because all the deeds of man, be them good or bad, do not affect this sense at all, God forbid. [xxxii]

Although Ramban, as quoted above, clearly adopts a man-focused view of mitsvot, he elsewhere hints to a different perspective. Shemot 29:46 states, “They shall know that I am Hashem, their God, Who took them out of the land of Egypt to rest My presence among them (le-shakhni be-tokham). I am Hashem, their God.” The commentators to this verse debate how to understand the lamed prefix of the word “le-shakhni.”Ramban rejects a number of explanations and endorses the view of Ibn Ezra: The lamed means “for the sake of.”[xxxiii] Thus, Ramban argues, the Torah indicates that God took us out of Egypt in order that He dwell among us. Ramban then comments that “[Ibn Ezra] explained well, and, if so, there is a great secret in the matter. For according to the simple understanding of this verse, God’s dwelling in Israel is for human sake and not for divine sake, but [this verse] is similar to “Through you, Israel, God is glorified.” [xxxiv] The verse thus says that God took Benei Yisrael out of Egypt in order that He dwell among them, the emphasis being not on their gain, but rather on His. Admittedly this is not explicit in the verse, even according to Ibn Ezra’s reading, but it is nonetheless alluded to as a “great secret.”

This approach can also be found in later Hasidic sources. For example, R. Levi Yitshak of Berditchev wrote in his commentary on the Torah: “God, blessed is He, created the world in order that He have pleasure … This pleasure comes from this-worldly things, from men.” [xxxv]

For Us and For Him
While I have outlined two conflicting approaches above, one need not consider these viewpoints as mutually exclusive, especially not from a mystical perspective. Although many philosophical authorities reject certain mystical doctrines, and some mekubbalim dismiss philosophical positions,[xxxvi] there are those that advocate for some form of synthesis. What follow are two different forms of synthesis. The first reconciles the different views by creating a two-tier structure. The second offers a blend of the seemingly different views and shows that they are, in fact, one.

R. Shlomo Elyashiv, the great Torah scholar and kabbalist of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, in his magnum opus, Leshem Shevo ve-Ahlamah, claims that Rambam’s view is entirely correct with regards to understanding God as transcendent, while the mystical doctrine of the mekubbalim speaks within the other, manifest, aspect of God.[xxxvii],[xxxviii] In this way, he maintains the seemingly exclusive opinions by allowing them to function on different levels.

Ramban, as well, views these two approaches as not mutually exclusive. As noted above, Ramban clearly states that the purpose of mitsvot is for man and not for God, yet elsewhere he presents a God-focused view as his “great secret.” While his opinion requires further investigation and analysis, it is likely that Ramban operates on multiple levels. On the peshat (simple reading) level, he considers the mitsvot to be for man’s sake, but, on the deeper “sod” level, avodat Hashem is for God. The two views are entirely different, but Ramban seems to comfortably adopt a multilayered worldview. Although it is purely speculative, it is possible to suggest that these layers of Ramban are similar to the claim of the Leshem.

A second form of synthesis is a profound idea found in the writings of R. Abraham Isaac Kook. Binyamin Ish Shalom of Beit Morasha of Jerusalem presents R. Kook’s discussion of the struggle between freedom of the self and subjugation to the Divine.[xxxix] Ish Shalom shows how R. Kook often stresses his loyalty to the importance of human will and the human self, yet other times speaks of complete subjugation to the Divine. He further argues that the complete picture of R. Kook’s view not only contains no contradictions but actually reflects a stunning attempt at synthesis. Freedom, writes R. Kook, is for one “to be true to his inner self, to the spiritual quality of God’s image within him, and in such a quality he can consider his life as worthy and purposeful.”[xl] Elsewhere, he explains further that “man is destined to rise to recognition of his will, to self-consciousness, to the highest perception of happiness in doing his own will as the will of his Maker, for his will is none other than his Maker’s will” [italics in the original].[xli] He explains that the human will is “a single spark of the blazing flame of the great Will in all of being, the manifestation of the will of the Master of the World, blessed be He.”[xlii] In this way, R. Kook explains that when a person develops his own self (within the guidelines of Torah and Halakhah), the divine will that is expressed within man is further developed. And when one subjugates himself to the divine will he truly finds the deepest level of his own will. This unique perspective sheds light on our discussion as well. We can propose that acting “for us” is acting “for Him,” and acting “for Him” is acting “for us.” As the Mishnah states, “make His will your will in order that your will become His will.”[xliii]

It is often difficult to maintain a constant excitement and vibrancy within one’s avodat Hashem amidst the repetition of daily routine. Thankfully, and not by chance, Judaism contains a variety of different outlooks. At times the “for us” type of worship will take the stage and, at other times, the “for Him” may be featured. For every person this combination will form itself differently and it is our challenge to each find our own synthesis of views. By developing both deeper understandings and appreciation of a wider scope of opinions a person can attempt to have a constant flow of substance and stimulation giving life to his or her avodat Hashem.

Yakov Danishefsky is a senior at YC majoring in Jewish Studies.


[i] See Kiddushin 31a.
[ii] Shemot 24:7.
[iii] Ibid.
[iv] It is important to remember that Benei Yisrael were praised specifically for putting “na’aseh,” we will do, before “nishma,” we will listen (Shabbat88a), ostensibly implying that commitment to avodat Hashem exists on its own, with or without understanding. Divine service is enhanced by understanding but not hinged entirely on it.
[v] This is in addition to the inherent value of knowing and understanding these issues as a fulfillment of the mitsvah to study and understand the Torah.
[vi] Not all halakhic authorities agree to the project of rationalizing themitsvot. For example, R. Jacob ben Asher states in Tur, Yoreh De’ah 181 that “we do not need to search for the reasons of mitsvot because they are commandments of the King upon us even if we do not know their reason.” Many authorities, such as Rambam and Sefer ha-Hinnukh, however, seemed to invest a great deal of time into understanding the mitsvot. This question is ostensibly connected to the debate in Sanhedrin 21a as to whether or not“doreshin ta’ama de-kera,” “we extrapolate the reasons of verses.”  
[vii] Makkot 3:16. All translations are my own unless otherwise stated.
[viii] Bereshit Rabbah 44:1. A very similar statement appears in Midrash Tanhuma, Shemini, chapter 8.
[ix] This translation follows Tosafot’s understanding of this passage. Tosafot record another view, however, that the question is not referring to God but rather to the kohanim performing the avodah in the Temple. In other words, the Gemara is asking, “Did Aharon really need the light of the menorah for his service? The shekhinah itself provided light for all forty years in the desert!”
[x] Shabbat 22b.
[xi] Moreh Nevukhim  3:49.
[xii] Ibid.
[xiii] Ibid 3:45.
[xiv] Ibid. 3:48.
[xv] Ibid 3:8.
[xvi] Rambam in Mishneh Torah (Hilkhot Teshuvah 10:2) defines serving God out of love as “doing the truth because it is truth.” A similar expression appears in his Peirush ha-Mishnayot (Sanhedrin 10:1). This does not seem to be the model we are presenting for Rambam here (nor does it fit exactly with the “for Him” model). Rather, this seems to be a third view that advocates doing the mitsvot because they are true. Ostensibly the assumption is that truth is intrinsically valuable; see Michael J. Zimmerman, “Intrinsic vs. Extrinsic Value,” Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. by Edward N. Zalta (Online: Winter 2012 Edition), available at: plato.stanford.edu.
[xvii] See Devarim 22:6-7 and commentary of Ramban, ad loc.
[xviii] Kiddushin 31a.
[xix] Ritva to Kiddushin 31a, s.v. de-amar. It is unclear how to understand what exactly “for our merit” (“li-zekhuteinu”) means. It could mean that man merits reward in this world and/or in the next world, or it could mean something along the lines of Ramban above, namely, that man benefits by developing better character and faith in God.
[xx] Sefer ha-Hinnukh 18.
[xxi] Ibid. 5.
[xxii] Ibid. 31.
[xxiii] Zohar 3:105a.
[xxiv] Zohar 2:119a.
[xxv] Zohar 3:16b.The King and Queen refer to different sefirot.
[xxvi] Tehillim 65:35.
[xxvii] Zohar 2:32b.
[xxviii] Tanya, Likutei Amarim, 10.
[xxix] Tanya, Sha’ar ha-Yihud ve-ha-Emunah, 7.
[xxx] This is more or less stated in Tikkunei Zohar 70 and explicated in theAsarah Kelalim of the Gra: “A great principle in Torah is that all that themekubbalim (kabbalists) have said and all that the Torah says is God’s will, providence, and actions and they did not speak, [God forbid], about His physical essence at all.” (Kelal 1).
[xxxi] R.A.I. Kook explains this concept in a fascinating and insightful way: “Thus one discerns within the absolute perfection of Divinity two paradoxical features. The first is that God is absolutely perfect. It is impossible for there to exist, whether in this reality or in imagination, a perfection greater than His. This aspect of Divine perfection cannot become more perfect for there is nothing beyond it; there are no further levels to attain. And yet, this excellence conceals a deficiency that mars the very perfection that it purports. Perfection that lacks the possibility of becoming even more perfect is no longer completely flawless, for it is missing something. It is perfection minus one small detail, the experience of dynamic perfecting. Consequently, Divinity must also possess this latter capability. This second feature, the possibility of positive transformation, when applied to human beings, has certain fulfillments and gratifications and even superiority over its more distinguished counterpart, the supreme (though static) expression of absolute perfection. There is a particular type of exquisite joy that comes from self-improvement, and every soul longs for its sweetness. The exhilaration of personal transformation, of ‘ascending from strength to strength,’ must also be a divine satisfaction. It is impossible for the Creator to lack this virtue.” (Orot ha-Kodesh 2; transl. by Sarah Yehudit Schneider in Sarah Schneider, You Are What You Hate: A Spiritually Productive Approach to Enemies (Jerusalem: Still Small Voice, 2009).)
[xxxii] Sefer Nefesh ha-Hayyim 2:4. The Tanya also addresses these two levels. He speaks about God as the “mesavev kol almin” – “the One Who surrounds all worlds.” He surrounds all worlds, He is removed from them, and “everything is before Him as nothing.” And He is the “memale kol almin” – “the One Who fills all worlds,” and thereby He manifests in this world. SeeTanya 3-4.
[xxxiii] Ramban to Shemot 29:46. s.v. le-shakhni.
[xxxiv] Yish’ayahu 49:3.
[xxxv] Kedushat Levi to Bereshit 2:6, s.v. ve-eid.
[xxxvi] See Daniel C. Matt, “The Mystic and the Mizwot” in Jewish Spirituality: From the Bible Through the Middle Ages, vol. 1, ed. by Arthur Green (New York, NY: The Crossroad Publishing Company, 1986), 367-404.
[xxxvii] This is not to say that Rambam himself would agree to that claim. Many philosophers reject mystical doctrines, but many mystics accept aspects of philosophical perspectives and add to them.
[xxxviii] This idea surfaces in a number of his writings. One explication of it appears in Likutim at the end of Hakdamot u-She’arim.
[xxxix] Binyamin Ish Shalom, Rav Avraham Itzhak Hacohen Kook: Between Rationalism and Mysticism (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1993), 108-113.
[xl] Ish-Shalom, 101.
[xli] Ish-Shalom, 111.
[xlii] Ish-Shalom, 111.
[xliii] Avot 2:4.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Which Way to Pray

A great post was published yesterday on TorahMusing.com by Gil Student titled Pray This Way - I not only encourage you to read this short musing on the direction of our synagogues but to check out the 34 (so far) comments that are 'trending' on the article.

The easy way out for someone unsure about the proper direction is to "direct one's heart" towards the Creator and/or Jerusalem - but what I think the author raises are greater questions about design, tradition, and meaningfulness that cannot be taken for granted upon entering any synagogue.  Now with compass apps for your phones, it is easier than ever to be certain.  What is the cost for questioning assumptions and traditions?  In my humble opinion, it is the method of not making your tefilla 'keva' - regular or fixed.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Guest Post: The Amidah Project


This post is originally from Chicago Carless, a blog by Michael Doyle, address many important issues for tefilla educators.

_______________________________________

For the past few months, my Reform synagogue has done something most Reform synagogues don’t: we’ve stood and recited a partially silent Amidah, Judaism’s sizeable central prayer. You find the Amidah–which means “standing” in Hebrew, because you stand when you say it–in every Jewish service, whether shacharit (the morning service), mincha (afternoon), or maariv (evening.) Tradition suggests most if not all of the Amidah is recited silently, and most Orthodox and Conservative congregations follow suit.

Yet even with the traditionalizing trend of the past three decades, many Reform congregations pray an abbreviated form of the Amidah, always out loud, and often seated for the prayer’s latter parts. Meaningful passages in Hebrew are often skipped in favor of English intepretations or, simply, left out entirely.

Aside from a few seconds for “silent prayer,” there isn’t often the same opportunity our Orthodox and Conservative brethren have to really be alone with your heartfelt intention.  In fact, a typical Reform Amidah can be far from heartfelt. It’s hard to really go deep with your tradition’s central prayer when your denomination seems afraid of it’s deepest parts.

When we decided to test out a partially silent Amidah (we still chant the first three, long blessings out loud), several people pushed back. Some were afraid they wouldn’t understand the “new” parts in Hebrew. (We use Mishkan T’Filah, Reform’s latest, fully translated and transliterated prayerbook.) Some were afraid they wouldn't know how long to stand or when to sit down. (We sit when we’re individually done.) Some said they’d miss formerly chanted or sung parts. Overall those who pushed back were afraid that they’d miss, essentially, meaning.

What we’ve found is instructive. Some people still want the “old way” back. And, frankly, I would prefer our newly silent Amidah to be one arrow in an overall quiver of ways to approach the Amidah–including our “old way.” Especially in Reform, there’s no reason to leave anybody out. (And I happen to feel quite touched when our cantor sings R’tzei.)

But overall, people seem to like our newly silent Amidah. Why? Because in those long, pungently silent minutes of silent prayer, we are finally (and in Reform, for once) rendered alone–with our thoughts, with our prayer, with our tradition. The experience has knocked many of us out, initially rendering some of us to tears. And that outcome was totally unexpected. Wonderful. Incredible. A blessing. But unexpected.

Maybe that’s how far as Reform Jews we’ve let ourselves become removed from the meaning behind the words we pray–no matter what language we choose to pray in. But the meaning is there if we just listen for it. For some in my congregation, taking ourselves off of our liturgical autopilot for a little while was enough to start to sense why we say the Amidah in the first place. The prayer is truly an emotional journey if you let it be.

I don’t blame any Reform Jew for feeling disconnected from an Amidah recited silently in Hebrew. It just hasn’t been our practice, and not a lot of us talk about our prayer experience publicly. So I will. Over the next few weeks I intend to post a series of blog entries that lay out the Reform versions of core Jewish prayers, beginning with the Amidah (both the Shabbat and weekday versions), in Hebrew transliteration and English translation, accompanied by my thoughts on my emotional experience during each specific blessing or rubric of the liturgy. (Perhaps with video, as well.) After all, I definitely feel an almost exhausting emotional journey during the Amidah. It’s a feeling worth sharing–and most of all, describing. As you may have guessed from the title of this post, I’m calling my new series “The Amidah Project.”

We can’t all be Debbie Friedman, z”l, able to find the most miraculous meanings in seemingly hidden Hebrew corners of the liturgy and set them to catchy modern music. But we can all pause, and read, and listen, and then write and talk about our experience. I invite all of my Jewish readers to do just that. Open your nearest siddur–on Shabbat, the one covered in dust in your closet, or online. Find a part where you always tune out. This time, though, tune in. Read it slowly. Sit with it. Consider what those words might really mean–from Deity, to you. You might come up with nothing. But you might come up hearing that still, small voice.

The basis for our entire tradition.

This post is part of my Amidah Project series–an attempt to examine my personal experience of the core prayers of the normative Reform Jewish liturgy. For more, please browse my Amidah Project archive.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Passover is in the Air

I knew that Passover is around the corner when the pediatrician today, prior to checking on my daughter's throat, asked her to recite the 4 Questions.  Since it is already the month of Nisan, I thought I would get the readers in the mood with a rousing rendition of והיא שעמדה by Yaakov Shwekey and Yonatan Razel (composer) - originally sung in Caesarea in 2009.  Words are from the Haggadah:

וְהִיא שֶׁעָמְדָה לַאֲבוֹתֵיֽנוּ וְלָנֽוּ. שֶׁלֹא אֶחָד בִּלְבָד, עָמַד עָלֵיֽנוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנֽוּ. אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר, עוֹמְדִים עָלֵיֽנוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנֽוּ. וְהַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא מַצִּילֵנוּ מִיָּדָם
And He that has kept our fathers and what keeps us surviving. For, not only one arose and tried to destroy us, rather in every generation they try to destroy us, and Hashem saves us from their hands.
The song is amazing, IMHO, and I think rings especially true today, especially for me as I live in Israel.  Putting aside the rhetoric of the Iran threat, I think we must always capture the message and story of Pesach - our determination to keep the tradition alive and help it thrive.


This song always makes me think of the Israeli soldiers, past and present who are sitting at uncomfortable places and during a pivotal time in their lives that allow me the comfort to sit in my living room and educate and enjoy my family.  May our prayers be answered and we not have to rise in defense but rather only in celebration of freedom.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Ripped from the Headlines..... The Problem with Dynamic Rabbis

This article appeared in the NY Jewish Week and its reprinting here is not an endorsement, but rather I wanted to share it because it relates directly to our ongoing conversation about teaching tefilla.  How much to change, how much to preserve, and how to excite students to engage in this ancient and sacred practice.  Please share your thoughts on this piece:


Rav Kingfish
The problem with ‘dynamic’ rabbis.

Jonathan Mark
Tuesday, November 29, 2011

I’m a traditional Jew. I like my religion straight up, neither shaken
nor stirred. I’ve been saying Yizkor, and seriously, for years, but
when rabbis don’t trust the power of Yizkor and feel the need to add
an English call-and-response, they lose me. At the Passover seder, I’m
thinking about the leaving of Egypt; I don’t need dynamic rabbis
comparing the seder to the Civil Rights movement, the Arab Spring, or
global warming.

Is there a synagogue website that doesn’t describe their rabbi as
“dynamic”? Rabbis looking for jobs swear they’re dynamic. And yet the
more that we have  “dynamic” rabbis, the more Jews tell pollsters that
they find Judaism lethargic.

Perhaps the problem is exacerbated by Newsweek’s “Best Rabbi” surveys,
in which rabbis are seemingly judged by “dynamic” criteria that have
little or nothing to do with the job that so many rabbis actually do,
and do well: teaching, counseling, and being a community’s gentle
shepherd. Though even rabbis on the Newsweek list have disparaged it
in private, Newsweek’s list has become used by those same rabbis for
fundraising and prestige, leaving unlisted rabbis somehow diminished.

What’s attractive to Newsweek, and other media, even Jewish media,
gives a new generation of  rabbis incentive—even pressure—to do
something, anything, to make their synagogue and Judaism more
exciting, more Newsweek-worthy, when all along the most beautiful
moments of Judaism are the quiet moments that are hardly dynamic: the
Blessing of the Moon; or a subtle chasidic insight, exchanged in
passing; or an intimate exchange with a rabbi in a hospital corridor.
The best rabbis do what is timeless, rather than dynamic activity that
is innovative and flashy but untested and often fleeting.

Like baseball or chess, Judaism is slow and boring—until it isn’t, or
until the observer learns to see the beauty and understand the
mysteries inherent in the cerebral stillness and anticipation. Why is
the experience of a game at Wrigley Field—where there is no rock
music, the scoreboard is dull without animation, where it rains and
gets cold—nevertheless so treasured while the weather-controlled
Astrodome, once called “the eighth wonder of the world,” designed to
keep fans forever dazzled, is now empty, put to pasture? When dynamic
innovations fail or grow stale, and they often do, what then?

As at the Astrodome, there is some evidence that the more rabbis are
dynamic and attempt to dazzle, the more the people stay home. For all
of the modern innovations in recent years, the pews are emptier than
before.

Rabbi Charles Simon, executive director of the Conservative movement's
Federation of Jewish Men’s Clubs, recently wrote a paper in which he
noticed that “smaller percentages of men are currently active in our
synagogues,” despite decades of  dynamic change that was supposed to
fill the pews, not empty them.

Similarly, among the Orthodox, the more dynamic the shul, the easier
it is to find a seat. In the famously dynamic Hebrew Institute of
Riverdale, home of the first Orthodox woman “rabba,” membership has
plummeted, from an announced high of 850, according to New York
magazine in 2010, to just over 600, according to a letter to The
Jewish Week from that synagogue’s president.

There are many theories going around about how to be a more successful
rabbinic leader, and here are two. The first is the Stewardess
Theory—be less of a pilot and more of a flight attendant. You walk up
and down the aisles, “Do you need a blanket? Are you OK? Are you hot?
Cold? Do you need help with your life preserver?” Do that well and you
can “fly” your shul anywhere.

The second theory of rabbinic dynamics is the Seven-Percent Solution.
If a rabbi is seven percent ahead of the congregation, that rabbi is
brilliant, terrific.

At 17 percent, you’ve probably lost the congregation.

The Seven-Percent Solution accepts that there is room for being mildly
dynamic, but rabbis who are mildly dynamic rarely stay that way. The
problem is that dynamism inevitably becomes predictable, much as Ed
Sullivan’s audiences grew tired of seeing the once-exciting vaudeville
trick of balancing spinning dishes on a pole.

Instead of trusting the congregation to appreciate basic, no-frills
Judaism, the dynamic rabbi’s inevitable mistake is to be more “look at
me,” always more dynamic, not less. The dynamic rabbi starts
resembling nothing so much as the Cat In The Hat, with the fish and
the dress and the cake and the rake, fearing that the congregation
will grow bored if ever the sun wasn’t shining.

Perhaps it would be easier to show how this leadership dilemma works
out in politics, how a dynamic politician can hit a brick wall that he
never sees coming.

Let's go back to 1937. No one was more beloved than Franklin
Roosevelt. Though a child of the upper class, FDR was a populists'
dream, humbled in his wheelchair, as crippled as the country. And then
it went to his head.

After wining a second landslide, in 1936, controlling 77 out of 96
seats in the Senate, he figured he should be even more dynamic in his
bid to end the Depression, which was still raging after four years of
dynamic legislation.

In the book "Supreme Power," Jeff Shesol writes that according to
Roosevelt, “If it was necessary, it was right; if it was right, it was
legal." (A logic that most dynamic rabbis apply to Judaism.) And so it
was that when the Supreme Court ruled that several of Roosevelt’s
dynamic innovations were unconstitutional, FDR tried to get the
Senate—where he had that massive majority—to let him "pack" the court,
in which he would add as many as six new justices (who’d support him,
of course) for every elderly judge who happened to stand in his way.

Was Roosevelt wrong? After all, the idea that there must only be nine
judges was not from Sinai or Philadelphia. The Constitution left it to
the Senate to decide how many judges there should be, and in the 1800s
(not that long before Roosevelt, if you think about it) the number of
justices was fluid, ranging from five to six, to ten and back to nine.
If Madison or Jefferson had thought of it first, no one would have
thought Roosevelt's plan inherently unethical or immoral.

The same with dynamic halachic change. If the Talmud’s founding
fathers decided that it was OK to have women rabbis, or patrilineal
descent, or any one of a dozen other modern innovations, no one would
object today. There is nothing inherently wrong, unethical or immoral
about these innovations.

So why do these changes, meant to excite and respond to the people,
result in fewer people in the pews? Why did Roosevelt's idea for the
court, meant to benefit the New Deal, get so battered?

The answer is simply that tradition has more of powerful hold on our
hearts than the innovators understand. Whatever baseball’s problems,
declaring two strikes to be an out, the better to attract the
“unaffiliated” fan, would more likely lose the committed fans rather
than turn the uncommitted fans into committed ones. As much as fans
love the home run, or might think it clever to light eight candles on
the first night of Chanukah (who could object to more light?), putting
baseball or religion on steroids has only left baseball or religion
the sorrier.

Roosevelt stopped thinking that he was bound by the rules of
consultation, compromise and the political process, which is the way
that tradition validates change. He didn’t see the virtue of going
slow, the wisdom of the Seven-Percent Solution. People still loved
Roosevelt but flinched at the idea of such an Imperial Presidency.
Modern Jews may love an individual rabbi but don’t love an Imperial
Rabbinate.

In the 1930s, down in Louisiana, Huey Long was as dynamic as a
politician could get. Was he a dictator, as some said? Hardly. He was
elected time and again by  secret ballot, and all his laws were passed
by freely elected representatives of the people. He did everything
from leading the marching band on football Saturdays to initiating a
series of terrific and populist bills, and the legislature permitted
him everything that a shul's board of directors and committees permits
a strong rabbi.

At first, Huey Long was all that was good about a dynamic leader. He
lifted spirits. He cheered people up, had them singing "Every Man A
King," with lyrics about "every neighbor a friend." His admirers
happily called him "Kingfish," after the character on the Amos & Andy
radio comedy.

And then comedy turned tragic. He started calling himself  Kingfish
just a little too often—acted like a kingfish, too. He felt he had to
forever top himself, only to become synonymous with arrogance and
authoritarianism, which is how a dynamic leader can be misunderstood.

Today, what should a Rav Kingfish do? He should start by trusting
tradition, the magic inherent in the old and slow ways of doing
things. He should trust a  congregation’s need for quiet and
meditation. Most people have a whole lot to think about, and talk to
God about, without needing a rabbi’s dynamic impositions or
distractions. What people crave even more than innovation is a rabbi’s
ability to simply teach the subtle mysteries of faith, to facilitate
introspection in visits to the sick or to the forgotten—and aren’t so
many of us forgotten, more than anyone knows? There is something holy
about the Flight Attendant or Stewardess Theory, simply walking the
aisles, noticing if someone is missing from their seat, if someone
might need a blanket, or need help with a life preserver, or how to
find the emergency exit.

Anyone who has loved a baby, or loved a dying friend or an elderly
parent ravaged by age and incapable of speech, knows that the most
dynamic love can exist in silence, in stillness, in a soulful place
beyond language, where love and relationships are about nothing so
much as modesty and compromise.

That kind of leadership, through selflessness and a sense of grace, is
not only for the hospital or crisis but every bit as needed for a
healthy congregation, one that comes together to be with a beloved
God, who Himself knows when to hide His face.

Jonathan Mark is associate editor of The Jewish Week.