Getting Selichot

My apologies for not sharing or publishing more often, but the blog as been unofficially been put "on hold" and I hope to have more clarity of the future of this resource in the new Jewish Year (if you like or feel strongly about this blog, please feel free to comment and/or share so that I can pass on the feedback).

However I did not want to miss the opportunity to share a wonderful perspective on selichot - which begin for Ashkanzim tonight, the motzai Shabbat before Rosh Hashana. Rabbi Benny Lau made a fascinating point this evening about the uniqueness of the selichot service.

There are specific rules governing tefilla, which often call upon a rabbi or gabbai to arbitrate what should be said under specific circumstances.  One such questions arises regarding the kaddish titkabel - the full kaddish. Rav Benny noted that this is only said after davening the Amidah - which the gemara really considers tefilla.  Interestingly, kaddish titkabel is said at the end of the selichot service, despite the very absence of the Amidah.  His argument was that we are to treat this service with the similar level of preparation and intensity, as the structural hope of the kaddish asks for Hashem to receive (titkabel) the requests and prayers, and follows with our desire for peace to come upon us and all of Israel.  Rav Benny cited a source (I think the Levush Malchut) arguing that selichot are structured like a normal mincha service, starting with ashrei, followed but a hatzi kaddish, and ending with tachanun and then kaddish titkabel. The motivational goal here is for each of us to reapproach our selcihot to the core text, the 13 attributes and to see them as an opportunity to a recharge our divine sparks.

I want to humbly add on to Rav Benny's words by noting that the essence of Neilla on Yom Kippur is the furious recitation of selichot and our plea's for mercy rooted in the heritage of the covenant of the 13 attributes as the gates of the day close.

I hope that you have a meaningful preparation for the High Holy Days.

The Burial of Prayer Books

The following Times of Israel article, picked up from the JTA, shares the sad fate of many old siddurim.  Whereas we live in a generation that thinks new is better, perhaps in the spiritual world, old has more history and heritage than the new.  So too for siddurim.  There is something very special to me about a well worn siddur, with pages having seen holidays, travels and tears.

This article also brings to mind a passage from Leon Wieseltier's Kaddish, about the prayer podium at the front of Kesher Israel in Washington, DC.

The shul feels so worn. A red velvet cloth is thrown over the rostrum at the front of the room, directly before the ark in which the Torah scrolls are housed. Here stands the precentor, that is, the leader of the service, that is, the mourner; and as I place my hands on this cloth, which is the color of wine, I see the traces of the hands that preceded mine. There are stains in the velvet. In places it is threadbare. This is an exquisite erosion. It is not neglect that thins these instruments. Quite the contrary. The more threadbare, the better. The thinner, the thicker.

This is the thickness of memory that is in the ever old siddur - now to be a buried treasure.

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Debate over old prayer books goes underground

US synagogues face grave decisions about whether to bury holy texts

By CHAVIE LIEBER February 17, 2013, 1:27 am

NEW YORK (JTA) — After years of watching synagogue members die or move away, the Sephardic Jewish Center of Canarsie made the difficult decision to downsize.

The 50-year-old Brooklyn synagogue had been a thriving center for the area’s Sephardim. But after accepting that it could no longer pull together enough money to cover expenses, let alone muster the 10 men necessary for daily prayer, the synagogue disposed of most of its belongings and began holding Shabbat services in a nearby Ashkenazi shul.

But what was the center to do with its prayer books? It owned several hundred volumes in the Spanish-Portuguese liturgical style — some tattered, some like new and some belonging to older members that may have had significant worth.

“We donated some to a local shul, but we had to get rid of a lot of them and bury them,” said Rabbi Myron Rakowitz. “It was difficult because we didn't just want to throw them out or claim them unusable. We want other people to use them, to give them purpose when we no longer can.”

What to do with the old books — it’s a growing problem for synagogues across the United States.

In the past six years, the three major American Jewish denominations have released new prayer books. More than 1,500 synagogues have purchased the books, in some cases making older versions obsolete.

More than 700 congregations have bought copies of the Reform movement’s new Mishkan T’Filah, and hundreds more are expected to buy. The Conservative movement’s new High Holy Days prayer book, the Lev Shalem Mahzor, has sold nearly 260,000 copies to some 500 congregations since its 2010 release. And more than 200,000 copies of the Koren siddur released in 2009 have been purchased by more than 300 Orthodox synagogues.

Some congregations buy pricey lots in a Jewish cemetery; sometimes a gravedigger is hired to do the work.

The problem isn't going away. The Reform movement is working on a new High Holy Days prayer book, or machzor, that it expects to release in 2015.

According to Jewish tradition, prayer books are holy and cannot just be thrown out. Traditionally, they must be placed in a geniza, a repository for holy books awaiting burial. It’s the only religiously acceptable way to dispose of them.

“This problem is just rampant because now is the greatest time for creativity in writing new prayers and liturgy, and it’s going to get worse when the new machzor comes out,” said Rabbi Elaine Zecher of Boston, who is leading a committee working on the new Reform movement prayer book. “But our solution to bury them shouldn't be looked at negatively. This is an intentional disposal, not a mindless disposal.”

Some synagogues have sought alternatives to the burial option. Congregation Beth Israel in San Diego takes its old books and those of several nearby congregations, and mails them to Jewish Prisoner Services International in Seattle. Congregation Netivot Shalom in Berkeley, Calif., sent its old prayer books to Hillel chapters throughout the state two years ago when it bought new machzors.

But finding a new home for all the leftover books, some of them decades old, can be difficult.

“Our machzorim we’re looking to get rid of now are usable, but they are from the 1940s version,” said Rabbi Philip Scheim of Beth David B’nai Israel Beth Am in Toronto, which is planning to upgrade to the new Lev Shalem machzor this year. “The English translation is incredibly hard for people to get through.” For most synagogues, if the books don’t eventually find a home, to the ground they go. Some buy pricey lots in a Jewish cemetery; others bury them near their synagogue. Sometimes a gravedigger is hired to do the work.

“It’s really a shame if we have to end up burying our books. They’d be of good use, but we just can’t find anyone to take them in,” said Marjie Cogan of Congregation Beth Shalom in Seattle, which has been trying unsuccessfully for years to unload 700 old machzors. “It’s a huge problem for us because we don’t have the means to store them.”

That’s not true of Beth Am, a Conservative synagogue in Baltimore. The synagogue’s rabbi, Daniel Burg, says there is space to temporarily store 1,200 books that are no longer used by the congregation. Burg hesitates to bury the books because he feels it would be wasteful.

A congregation in San Diego mails its unused books to Jewish Prisoner Services International

“On the one hand, we don’t want to destroy God’s name or have it fade by the books just sitting there,” Burg said. “But on the other hand, there’s a concept of ba’al tashchit, of not wanting to just waste things. And it’s difficult to just get rid of things that could still have use.”

Daniel Freedlander, the vice president of the Union for Reform Judaism, says his movement is confronting the problem of book disposal for at least the third time: first in 1975, when Gates of Prayer replaced the old Union Prayer Book; in 1990, when a new gender-neutral version was released; and again with Mishkan T’Filah.

“No weeks pass by without us being contacted by people looking to get rid of their old Jewish books,” Freelander said. “A good majority of them get donated, but we’ve come to terms that many will get buried, and the ceremony can actually be educational for kids. Those books can’t just sit in your attic forever.”  At Temple Emanu-El in Dallas, the congregation gathers each year before Passover to collectively dispose of unused books. A communal prayer is recited, as is the Mourner’s Kaddish, and there’s a moment of reflection.

“We gather together at the synagogue where members bring tattered prayer books and other sacred books that can no longer be used,” Rabbi Debra Robbins said in an email. “We developed a creative liturgical ceremony for families and members of all ages to participate in together, and we have a special grave site labeled sifre kodesh,” or holy books.

Zecher noted that Jews have been burying books for centuries to make room for new ones, and the practice will continue to grow as the religion continues to evolve.

“It might seem wasteful,” Zecher said, “but like everything we do, it’s with intention.”

Prayers Have Been Cancelled

The following email was sent to a shul during Hurricane Sandy:

Dear Community,
In light of the deteriorating situation resulting from "Sandy", and based upon the directives issued by local authorities for people to stay home this evening and thereby protect themselves from the teeth of the storm, in my capacity as Posek for our community, I have instructed the shul to cancel tonight's Maariv service. Pikuach Nefesh is a consideration that allows even for Shabbat violation in order to preserve life so that future Shabbatot can be properly observed. It stands to reason that Tefilla B'Tzibbur, even when one has the obligation to say Kaddish, should be governed by a similar consideration. What is of paramount importance is that everyone stay safe and current conditions constitute a real danger to life and limb. May we all get through the next few days so that we can once again resume our normal lives and serve HaShem as we are meant to.

There are two main arguments about the source of the commandment to daven.  One argument links us back to the patriarchs who each is credited with establishing a tefilla - the other approach connects to the practical worship of the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.  While I am more inspired and perhaps persuaded that the Avot started the davening project, I think that the formulated worship, ritualized practices with codes and dogmas are more powerfully connected to the historical experience of the Temple.  One of the key concepts underlying this service was the tamid offering, that it was perpetually brought regardless of the weather or political conditions, and reflected the community's ideals much more than the individual's personality or situation.

I think that the above email reflects the spirit of davening even if it reflects an interruption of the community's service to Hashem. It also serves as a good reminder that form and function are the ideal combination for a tefilla.  Wishing everyone the best of weather and a speedy return to normal life to those effected by the storm. 

A Special Siddur

This Shabbat, I read an article in this week's NY Jewish Week and felt the need to share it with the readers here.  The author touches on many significant themes relating to tefilla, from the struggle to be comfortable with the text to the opportunity for transcendent moments. Your responses are welcome.

My Mother's Siddur
Kaddish prayers, from a book fraught with emotion.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Gloria Kestenbaum; Special To The Jewish Week

On the first day I began saying Kaddish for my mother, I walked into shul feeling uncomfortable and out of place. Although I’ve been an observant Jew all my life, I’ve never been much of a davener. Despite being a regular at Shabbat morning services, I did not perceive the synagogue as a place of prayer — I sang and gossiped quite happily, but davening was simply not part of my agenda. So walking into shul on that weekday morning was seriously discomfiting.

Even finding a siddur was a challenge — they all seemed to be for Shabbat only. Finally, on a top shelf, I caught sight of a large-type weekday siddur. I’m of an age where even large type seems surprisingly small, so I eagerly took it down. I opened up the large siddur and caught my breath — inscribed on the flyleaf were the words, “This siddur belongs to Frieda Pearl Stieglitz” — my mother.

For a second, I thought I had entered some strange magical universe, but a moment’s reflection put those thoughts to rest.  After my mother’s death, we had donated most of my father’s extensive Jewish library to a neighborhood yeshiva, but the odds and ends that were inappropriate there, including my mother’s large-print siddur, we had given to the shul. Still, I sat down in the empty women’s section, somewhat shaken.

I had a difficult relationship with my mother. A Holocaust survivor, her family was killed when she was 9 and she wandered around Poland on her own until war’s end three years later. I never quite understand what that meant, the horrors that entailed, although I heard her story many times. But I do know that she never really lost the wild child that allowed her to survive. She was easily enraged and often angry, at me, my brother, my father or the world. And her handwriting, large and bold, mirrored that rage. 

When I was a child, I would often find her notes, left for us to see — angry, blistering recountings of whatever argument had happened the day before. I came to dread seeing her written notes; even shopping lists gave me an unpleasant frisson. Seeing her name in that familiar, large script conjured up, for a moment, that same queasy feeling. But minyan was beginning and I started to daven.

And that’s where all the years of ignoring the service came to roost. Because although I knew the main tefillot, I had no idea what the speeding locomotive of a minyan was up to. I spent most of that first morning scrambling, trying to keep up with the engine racing through on the other side of the mechitza. My mother’s siddur, with its large type and clear instructions, however, kept me on track. It marked where to sit and where to stand, what to say quietly and what to say aloud.

In the days following, I would take down my mother’s siddur with a growing sense of relief. After a week or two, I was able to keep pace enough to look at the helpful back notes, where the editors had indicated the order of importance of the prayers. When I needed to leave out some paragraphs, which I continued to do in order to keep up, I was able to determine which were integral and which less so.

And for the first time in my life, I was actually enjoying the prayers. The “Pesukei Di’Zimrah,” in particular, with their entrancing, repetitious hallelujahs, were a revelation, magnificent songs of praise — not drudgery, as I’d previously perceived them, but poetry. The English translation supplemented my rusty Hebrew, and when there was a lull, I tried to look back and make sure I understood every word. And my mother’s siddur helped, gently guiding me along.

Every day when I came to shul, I would open up the flyleaf and see my mother’s inscription. And slowly, the inscription lost its negative power. I began to look forward each day to opening her siddur and seeing her words — and soon it became part of my morning ritual to trace those words briefly with my finger before beginning the service. I knew my mother loved me but she wasn’t often able to express it. In the Spielberg tape, which my mother had recorded years ago for the filmmaker’s Shoah Foundation project, and which I could not watch until after her death, she spoke about her regrets in mothering and wish that she could do it over. In the siddur, I felt her positive imprint and it became a way of connecting with the loving and helpful mother I knew she wanted to be. And I was grateful to her for giving me a medium in which to say good-bye to her properly, and to remember her in moments of song and joy, as she would have liked to be remembered.

On the next-to-last day of saying Kaddish — life is never as neat as the movies — I walked into shul, reached up to the usual place, but the siddur had vanished. I searched for a few minutes but with service about to begin, I found another weekday siddur, this time with no difficulty, and sat down to pray. My mother’s siddur was gone, but by now, I was able to find the way on my own. 

Gloria Kestenbaum is a corporate communications consultant and freelance writer.

Go Daven at the Super Bowl?

Have you ever searched for a place to daven when travelling?  Or googled the name of a city and synagogue to find a minyan starting time, perhaps to say kaddish?  The website GoDaven with its slogan "minyanim everywhere", and revamped from when I last surfed it many years ago, offers a database of  davening information for the Orthodox travelling.  Not sure what parameters qualify for orthodox, but I will let the controversy brew there for itself.

There was also advertising for a "temporary minyan" (now past) at Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis, Indiana, i.e. at the Super Bowl. If you are planning to be there, "be prompt" the site warns, it will be 10 minutes after the half ends.  Can anyone report on the attendance there?  How was the kavana?  Mazal tov to the Giants.