Guest Post: Kosher Gospel

While I was watching gospel videos the other day, I could not help but to be struck by the verve, vitality and vigor with which the singers and their parishioners encouraged one another one to reach crescendos of spirituality. Their outpouring of emotionality was stirring even from the barrier of my computer screen.

Was it the awesome voices, the rousing choir, the energized music or all of them combined? Or was it the experience of coming together for the sole purpose of prayer, without a predetermined text or a G-d given mandate to attend?

Whatever the cause, the collective result of a congregation engaged in their mission of praising the L-rd and electrifying one another was, as an observer an honest and pure experience.

Is that what it was like for us with the Leviim and Pirchei Kehuna? Was that akin to the atmosphere that we sing about in Mareh Kohen on Yom Kippur? The question of where did we lose it or why did we lose it interests me less, but more of why have we not brought some of it back. I do not see an openly emotional prayer session being dependant on bringing sacrifices or being housed on har habyit. Is our yearning for uplifting prayer experiences why we have seen a proliferation of Carlebach minyanim around the modern Orthodox world?

My purpose at this time is not to propose alternatives, though I have some up my sleeve, but rather to present the thought that within the realm of our daily or Shabbat minyanim, there is a way to rise above the monotony of the experience that plagues most of our kehillat and to activate a more meaningful, uplifting, non kitschy service that will have us leaving our shuls inspired, uplifted and fulfilled. Why have we not pursued it?

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Avi Silverman holds a BA from Yeshiva University in Psychology and Speech and Drama, an MS from The City College of New York in School Psychology and has Rabbinic Ordination from Yeshiva University. In his professional career, Avi has worked as an Upper School administrator and Retreat Center Director in America, and at Bar Ilan University and various elementary and high schools in Israel. Currently, Avi is the Advisor for Education and Communities at Nefesh B'Nefesh and lives in Ramat Beit Shemesh with his wife and six children.

Temple Minded

Believe it or not, a great many of Jewish rituals were designed to transmit the rules and habits of the Beit HaMikdash, the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, to those that never lived to see its glory.  For example, the custom of washing hands before eating bread (or even wet fruit) was established to recall the behavior of the priests in the times of the Temple.  When you preform this act do you think of the Beit HaMikdash?

During an impromptu discussion with a colleague today about the intensified mourning during the 9 days of Av, I asked this same question. He replied, "No, do you think most people when they say, 'Baruch Atah Hashem...' they often think of Hashem?"  

This cynical response - and perhaps accurate - reminds us that to teach davening is to teach sensitivity and awareness to time, space, and people.  In my early Jewish education, I often heard the word "holy" bounced around but never really understood what the word meant.  One good translation is to define it in terms of being separate, apart.  I think it is appropriate to translate the word kedusha as intimacy, a sense of unique closeness that is somewhat private and distinct to specific time, places, and people.  When teaching (or preaching) the importance of tefilla one must be conscious of the many layers of educational, ideological, and historical that are packed into each individual act - and many are actually routed in the service from the Temple.

The Worst Kind of Prayer

The prophet Isaiah said it best, in his rebuke to the Jews:

The multitude of your sacrifices—what are they to me?” says the Lord... “When you come to appear before me, who has asked this of you, this trampling of my courts? Stop bringing meaningless offerings! Your incense is detestable to me ... I cannot bear your evil assemblies. Your New Moon festivals and your appointed feasts my soul hates. They have become a burden to me; I am weary of bearing them. When you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide my eyes from you; even if you offer many prayers, I will not listen.

Reading this passage I wonder if not praying is better than these types of offerings?  Pushing people to shul or to daven is not our goal - let's remain strident and focused to create a dynamic movement to daven!

UN-Original Words of Comfort

Presently I am researching a class that I will be giving on Tisha B'Av on the topic of personal vs. national loss. A kind reader of the blog, with this knowledge, sent to me the following text from Baruch Feldstern (on the faculty of Machon Pardes).  I wanted to share this powerful piece in part because I think it identifies the modern's struggle with ritualized prayer.  Let me know your thoughts:
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Last September, a friend sent me an e-mail to say that she was sitting in the congregation of her new synagogue on Rosh Hashana when the rabbi illustrated a point in his sermon with "a story that I heard from my teacher, BaruchFeldstern," some thirty years ago. I am not sure where he went from there, but already there are two important messages here for those of you entering the field of education: you never know who among your students is paying attention; and neither you nor they can be sure which casual remark that may or may not resonate at the moment, may become relevant and significant at the right time and place many years later.

But I want to focus on the story itself that this rabbi remembered. It concerned an occasion that had an impact on me - both at the time and in retrospect.

I was at a shiva where the bereaved was one of my teachers, and nearly the whole Jewish Theological Seminary faculty was present, including the esteemed Abraham Joshua Heschel. For those who have not read any of his works, let me explain that the most prosaic of Heschel's paragraphs blossoms with poetry; the spiritual strength of his Hasidic origins lifts the heaviest of his ideas to heavenly spheres. When Heschel was about to leave the shiva, he approached the mourner and I thought to myself - now Heschel, who is so articulate and profound and full of pathos, will surely say something original and deeply meaningful. When he stood face to face with the bereaved and merely recited the customary (Ashkenazi) expression, HaMakom yenahem otkha b'tokh sh'ar aveilei Tziyon Viy'rushalayim - May the Ever-present comfort you among the rest of the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem - I was deeply disappointed. What a let-down; what a lost opportunity.

Later, after more reflection, it seemed to me that it had actually been an illustration of the genius of Jewish tradition. Often, no words are adequate - even for a Heschel - to alleviate the mourner's grief, and the traditionally sanctioned formulation reduces the distress of the comforter's departure. Like so much ritual, often denigrated as mindless rote (Heschel himself warned of the dangers of what he called "religious behaviorism"), such traditions enable us to deal with tension-fraught occasions where our own instincts, imagination and creativity leave us speechless and helpless. In a sense, the formulaic words of the consolation blessing are like a hug in words; but whereas a hug, beyond saying, "I care," is infinitely open to interpretation, the prescribed formula ensures that the brief exchange will express not only the comforter's feelings but also the tradition's interpretation of the occasion to mourner, comforter and observer alike. In this case the message includes affirmations that (1) comfort comes from God, (2) as profound as the grief in this room is, we are still part of a larger community, (3) which has its own tragedies, and (4) among them is the national tragedy of destruction and displacement. As a result of this one-line farewell, whenever a Jew exited a house of mourning during the past 2000 years, s/he was prompted to express the national dimension of our mourning: Jerusalem is in ruins and we are in exile.

This evocation of the tragedy of the entire people was intended in no way to deny the real suffering of the bereaved. Rather, it aimed, on one level, to prompt mourners to contextualize their own loss, to remind them that they were not alone and that, just as the Jewish people had found a way to continue living despite catastrophic loss, so will they.

At the same time, it reminded all who counted themselves as members of the Jewish people that one component of the destiny to which they aspired was the restoration of national existence, a sentiment that found expression not only in a house of mourning but on every joyous occasion and, in fact, repeatedly in the daily liturgy. These prayers continue to give voice to an age-old longing for a home, proclaiming the Jews' own "right of return."

Your discussion about the defined structure of the discourse, with all the traditional layers of meaning from individual grief to the historical destruction and displacement resonates very deeply with me. The prescribed forms and stages of mourning/grieving are profound and comforting. They help define the very essence of what being Jewish means to me. Even when we are beyond words, there are words to sustain us, as part of a wider community.

To Daven - The Purpose

I am addicted to davening.

Don't get me wrong. Sometimes it is boring and often I day dream and my mind wanders to the most random subconscious tasks that I have neglected to do over the last week. But I stand by what I wrote - I am addicted to davening.

Having started my day with prayers for the last 16 years, I cannot seemingly get my brain going until I have muttered, mumbled or chanted from my prayer book. Just yesterday I had to get up at 4:30 to go the airport. Although I was up and drove the car, conversed with passengers and negotiated over parking fees, I wasn't really functioning until I spent 15 minutes saying my prayers.

Post-prayer, I smiled more. I was more pleasant to people and felt more myself. My davening wasn't anything so 'special' but over time I have realized that for me, davening is a ritual that gets me ready for the day ahead, almost regardless of what I actually say. The 'almost' is the key part, because even when I am half asleep, I have highlighted in my siddur verses that will tug at me and push me to be better, to not operate like a robot, and to make this prayer slightly different then the last.