Why Don't we Pray for Happiness?

It's a good question and one that I never noticed much about before.  Except for on the High Holy Days, when we say "Simcha b'Artzeka" asking for 'Happiness in our land', there aren't too many places in the siddur where our tefilla requests happiness.

Someone on Mi Yodeya asked the same question and there are several good opinionated answers there, including one that points to the special nature of Yom Tov that has a joyous element to it.

To this point, I once heard a great idea by Nechemia Coopersmith who asked, what is the opposite of happiness?  Most people immediately suggested pain or negativity as paradoxical emotions.  I remember, now 15 years since I heard this, how he eloquently argued the natural opposite of happiness is the inability to feel anything, total numbness.  A marathon athlete or anyone who has a drive or passion for a sport or activity pushes through a difficult period of pain, frustration and negativity.  This is a (healthy) part of the process to growth and the exultation of happiness upon crossing the finish line or succeeding to launch a venture is the highest of emotions.  Having no feelings is to miss out on emotion, the highs and lows, and to be indifferent to the context and climate around you - a very scary reality.

Perhaps this is why our tefilla exclude a notion of happiness.

Tiered Tefilla Options

The following was posted on Lookjed on July 15th asking an important question of educators to reapproach how davening happens in schools.  Please share your experiences and ideas:
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As an administrator in a middle school, I am sure I share a passion and concern with many others to consider new options that might help engender a more interested and involved connection for our students to have during Tefillah. While individual programs, speakers and Yemei Iyun have certainly brought about short term interest, I am eager to touch base with anyone who has seen or used an approach that has brought about a more sustained and inherent growth, relative to what they had previously observed.  

In our school, we are currently considering offering three tiers of Tefillah options. One would be designed for those students who feel most ready and capable of being self-motivated throughout Tefillah. Perhaps there would be 1 teacher on each side of the Mechitza to facilitate, but the students would really run the Minyan. A 2nd option would be for the group of ms students who benefit from reminders to open their siddur, not to have side conversations etc. This group would benefit from the largest presence of teachers. A 3rd option would be for those students that have real difficulty or disinterest in the concept of Tefillah and would possibly benefit from a shortened Tefillah enhanced with more discussions, readings, etc.
If anyone has tried a similar approach and could help guide our attempt by sharing your successes or challenges met, I would greatly appreciate it.  

Tavi Koslowe
tkoslowe@yeshivatnoam.org

Sefati

Sometimes a word or nickname becomes synonymous with an object and a part of our traditional practice. A great example of this in the Jewish world is a shviti - a meditative plaque usually placed in front of the shaliach tzibur in a synagogue.

Some siddurim have them on inside cover as an place for inspiration or direction and despite the variety of the verses or text on a page, they all have the verse from Psalms 16:8 - "I have set (shiviti) the Lord always before me".

Today I'd like to offer a similar conceptual leap to share a 'sefati' - from the verse that opens every davening:

אֲדֹנָי שְׂפָתַי תִּפְתָּח וּפִי יַגִּיד תְּהִלָּתֶךָ

 Hashem open my lips and let my mouth declare Your Praise

In reflecting about much of the Jewish political atmosphere around Tisha B'Av I was really reminded about the power of our words.  Two Haredi voices here and here really pointed out how there is a significant element lacking in the language used between religious Jews - urging great caution and care.  With this in mind, and looking forward to the introspective days of Elul and Rosh Hashana (spoiler alert: they are six weeks away), I recommend pausing and asking for some divine help to get the right words out of one's mouth before decrying, criticizing, or even commenting on the public domain.  Perhaps if we had that everpresent feeling that a judge or recorder of all of our thoughts and actions was in our very midst - always before me - we would be more careful to make this world a better place. 

A Fancy Copy of Kinot

As it is the season, I have dusted off my copy of Kinot to get ready for Tisha B'Av.  My copy of kinot is old school - all Hebrew, no commentators or pictures; there is barely any punctuation and directions. I personally like it simple.  

Nowadays there are more sophisticated copies of kinot - with Koren publishing one in the teachings of Rabbi Soloveitchik and Rav Neventzal of the Old City publishing his own 'mahzor'.  I am more partial to the cover picture on this edition.   

But the concept of a special mahzor is worth appreciating (as there is a greater trend to specialized siddurim; for shabbat, holidays, or even Yom Ha'atzmaut).  Perhaps kinot are the exception to the rule.  Consider that Rabbi Soloveitchik was reported to teach the following

“There is an old Jewish custom not to collect and put away the Kinot book for next year. I remember this as a child. They did not save the Kinot books for next year but read through them and put them in the shaimos collection to be buried later in the cemetery.  Every Tisha B’Av they would buy new ones. (Of course, the Kinot books were not as expensive as they are now, particularly those with commentaries and translations.)  But the old custom was to buy new Kinot booklets every year. After all, after this year we will no longer need them.”

Shared-Post: Giving Prayer a Prayer of a Chance

The following article was published on the 25th of May by Aryeh Ben David in the Times of Israel.  It offers a honest, pointed, and pedagogically sound theory - so why won't administrators and teachers try this approach?  Cliches are reflection of an effectual prayer and I am thinking more and more that we need to reboot our teaching of tefilla.
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Giving Prayer a Prayer of a Chance

Rav Kook writes that one of the signs of the coming of the Messianic Era is that people will begin to hate rabbis. I think we’re getting pretty close.

Why hate rabbis? Because they will still be consumed with the small stuff, the details – and people will want more.

Organized prayer is an example. It’s just not working.

The overwhelmingly widespread disaster of organized prayer in religious high schools and synagogues is impossible to ignore – yet the rabbis keep offering the same worn-out clichés.

It’s not the system’s fault – you just have to try harder

This is how we've always done it and it worked for our grandparents

It’s a slippery slope and if we tamper with anything, the whole system will fall apart

From “lo l’shma – ba l’shma” (doing without connection will eventually bring connection)

It provides community-building

The system is not working – and we’re living the Emperor’s clothes story by choosing to ignore the extent of the problem.

As educators, we know that if one student fails a subject, it’s his fault. But if the whole class fails – then it is the teacher’s fault. Well, what if the whole school fails? What if the whole district fails? What if the whole city fails? Then there is a systematic problem going on which is bigger than any individual student, class, school, or district. That is what we have on our hands.

I was shocked by one particularly ghastly personal educational experience. I asked many orthodox rabbis and educators the following question: If a kid was having trouble connecting to organized prayer and you could look into your crystal ball and saw two potential alternatives – which path would you advise him?

Either: The boy could take a month off from praying the prayer book and just sit, meditate on God, look for God’s footprints in the world, and then after a month begin to say just a few lines – but only lines he was personally connected to and had meaning for him. Then he would keep slowly adding lines for the next months. And your crystal ball told you that this would dramatically improve his prayer focus and depth for the rest of his life.

Or: He would keep praying, trying harder, but there would be no significant deepening of his prayer life for the rest of his life.

To my shock and dismay – EVERY single rabbi and educator answered me that they would not advise taking the first route, even if they knew 100% that it would have positive effects for the next 50 years!

Well, I guess I am a heretic or maybe just an apikoris – but I don’t get the educational wisdom of that approach.

Personally, I took the first route, stopped davening for several month. I sat in tallit and tefillin, reflected on my relationship with God, and very slowly began to add selected words and phrases from the prayer book. The effect on my prayer life has been astounding. I really look forward to praying now. It is personal, meaningful, and from my heart.

The Talmud itself says that the core prayer experience should be “the work of the heart.” We have to bring our hearts into prayer – and today, a vast majority of guys keep telling me that they are just going through the motions.

The relationship with God is a core Jewish and human experience. The morning conversation creates a template for all the other conversations during the day. When kids (and adults) begin the day by having a mindless, unfocused, mumbling, “how long is this going to take and why is the shaliach tzibur taking so long” conversation with God – how does this portend for all of that day’s succeeding relationships?

Fixed and organized prayer serves a need to bring the community together and provides a structure for the formal, external exigencies of prayer. But now kids and adults are wanting more – wanting something that also evokes and responds to the inner voice of their heart and soul. Something that they are connected to and has personal meaning.

If we do not stop and consider how to give it to them – they will simply check out, or go somewhere else. It’s happening all around us.

Let’s not be consumed by the details – the time has come for more. The slope isn't that slippery. Isn't it time we started recognizing that we have a systemic failure on our hands and start seeking beyond the cliches?

A Picture of Prayer - Worth a Thousand Words

There is a wonderful new sidur out called Nehalel, published Nevarech and Urim Publishers, devised by Michael Haruni.  Many readers have probably used the Nevarech bentcher, which I think was really a groundbreaking change to the conceptualized forms of bentching. This new sidur brings that approach to Shabbat davening.

The introduction by Zvi Grumet is an outstanding essay on the conceptual journey of Jewish prayer and desire for visual images.  Grumet dubs this siddur a "visual midrash on the liturgy" to provide a "new avenue for helping us access our inner selves".  While I don't imagine using this siddur every week, it is a great trigger for teachers and parents on how to use the liturgy for everyday prayers and increase kavannah.

The siddur is a perhaps the most under appreciated books on the Jewish bookshelf and I believe Michael Haruni's siddur is a bold step to refresh our relationship to the text inside.  His "cautionary" introduction addressing his motivation for creating this siddur offering educators a fascinating and honest confrontation with the limits of photographs and images to conceptualize prayer.  It is a must read and a great springboard for students to begin to see their own prayer as less fixed and rote.

Watching you Daven

I have been travelling for the past two weeks which has led to a decline in posts/tweets and increase in variety of davening experiences.

One thing that struck me along my travels was how affected I was by my self-awareness that people were staring at me while I was davening.  I am hesitant to lead tefillot partially because of this discomfort, and partially because I have a terrible voice (I inherited that!).  Knowing that someone is watching you I think highlights the performance aspect of the ritual to the detriment of the spiritual pursuit, and thus I think it is an under-taught skill is how to focus to the extent that you lose an awareness of your environment and audience. Sometimes the spotlight forces you to do it right, to have proper kavanah; I presume different people react differently.  In many schools, educators are often watching kids daven instead of davening themselves which leads to a more fundamental questions, do kids like being observed as they pray?  

A further refection that I had while away was regarding the "Siddur Party" - a seminal event in all Jewish educational institutions hold to mark a coming of age moment in which a child gets their very own prayer book.  I still have mine!  I was there when my son got his in first grade (the head rabbi of the school and a internationally well known scholar encouraged the parents to be personal examples and take out their siddurim). What happens between the siddur party and the departure from school system?  The central goal of this blog is to pursue a greater awareness of how to the evaluate the teaching of tefilla.  The educational message that is delivered with the siddur - it is a guidebook to the Jewish library, it opens one up to spiritual pursuit of Torah learning, it posses the fundamental search of human beings and their relationship to God - but what is sticking with students as they get older?

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 for the President

Yesterday, Rabbi Sharon Brous delivered a blessing at the 57th Presidential Inaugural Prayer Service in Washington, DC.  A rabbis' presence at a multicultural (interfaith) service does not always go without controversy, especially when its held in a church. (It could be considered a similar situation to Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks attendance to the Royal Wedding in 2011).  But one thing is for sure, such an event does call for prayer and blessings - as it is truly an amazing part of living in a democratically free country.

Here is the text she shared (and a video):

Elohei ha-ahavah, God of Love. Help us widen the boundaries of our hearts. You know us better than we know ourselves: the distinctions we make, the biases we hold, the ways in which we fail to manifest our greatest potential as we diminish ourselves and others with our impatience, lack of compassion and vision, lack of hope. Give depth to our faith; let our actions bear witness to the expansiveness of your mercy. Grant us the grace to love our neighbors and to love ourselves. We pray that you bring your presence among us, as light, as life and as holy inspiration.

I am always amazed at the creative abilities of those who compose prayers as I am a davener that is much more comfortable in a well worn siddur.  Also, I feel that spiritual meaning is naturally in Hebrew and thus personally feel disconnected by the English liturgy in prayers (I recognize that this is my personal stance).

One final comment - I think that the blessing shared above, although targeted to the Creator, captures the sentiment of the blessing codified by the Shulchan Orach to be recited upon seeing a non-Jewish king which may be appropriate to say upon seeing the newly inaugurated President:

ברוך אתה ה' אלוקינו מלך העולם שחלק מכבודו לבשר ודם 

Blessed are You, Lord our God, who has given from His glory to (humans of) flesh and blood.

The Art of Davening

In my effort to share a variety of tefilla resources, I wanted to post the following Tefillah Tip (from May 2012) and acknowledge that is part of a program run by Rabbi Ephraim Epstein as part of the Orthodox Union Department of Community Services and their Tefilla Initiative.

To experience meaningful prayer is an art and a skill. There are many different portals towards meaningful prayer. For some, it is the music, the niggunim, which lift their souls and join the hearts and voices of many in unison, to praise and demonstrate gratitude to Hashem. For others, it is the poetry and beauty of the language and expressions in our prayers that inspire attention and reverence to G-d. After years of tefillah study, one of the portals I enter to achieve potent prayer is concentrating on the sources of the verses referenced in our Tefillot. 

Last week, we explored the verse Mi Kamocha extracted from the Song of the Sea, when our ancestors, together with the entire world cried out in joy ‘Mi Kamocha’ – ‘Who is like You G-d’, girded in holiness and glory. In this Tefillah Tip, I intend to examine the concluding phrase before the blessing of redemption – Baruch Atoh…gaal Yisrael. 

We are taught that our enslavement and dramatic exodus from Egypt is not only the seminal period in the formation of our nation Israel, but also the prototype for all future exiles and redemptions. Therefore, so many of our mitzvot and prayers refer and reflect upon our 210 years in Egypt and our miraculous departure that we reenact each year on Pesach. The mitzvot of tzitzit, tefillin, shema, kiddush, pidyon haben... are all related to our Egyptian exile and exodus. 

The challenge of the prophetic architects of our siddur was not only to invoke our past glory, but to provide genuine palpable hope and faith for Jews throughout the millennia in difficult and trying times as well as in pleasant and joyous times – always keeping it relevant. The way they accomplished this in our tefillah, was to include the verse from Jeremiah 31:10, ‘Veneemar ki fadah Hashem et Yaakov’… As a summation statement it says, ‘G-d will redeem Jacob from an even stronger enemy’ before concluding the blessing Gaal Yisrael –who redeems Israel. Chapter 31 in Jeremiah, tells of the great Exodus of Egypt (like our prayer) and then states that just as G-d redeemed us from Egypt, so too He will redeem us again anew. In 31:3 Jeremiah writes, ‘Evneych Venivneyt Betulat Yisrael ’ – I, G-d, will build a divine Third Temple that will never be destroyed. So in one moment of prayer during Maariv we invoke the euphoria of the splitting of the Red Sea in Egypt 3300 years ago and then fast forward 1000 years to the redemptive prophecy of Jeremiah in Jerusalem in 630 BCE. While praying we literally travel through history and express longing for our destiny.  

It is the usage of a perfect shade of color amid an array of colors that creates its stunning beauty within a painting. The perfectly timed correct chord amid a full concert of flowing music releases the beauty of the entire symphony. So too in our prayers, invoking a specific verse creates the perfect moment to acknowledge our past and future redemption. 

Take Home Tip:
When we notice in our prayers an array of verses from disparate sources let’s consider why they specifically have been inserted together. This will lend new meaning to our prayers.

I think as educators, you hope to teach and appreciation and knowledge for the depth of of history held within the binding of a siddur.  I am eager for more resources and ones that are active, so if you do know of any please feel free to email us at davenspot.info@gmail.com.

The Children's Siddur to Buy or Not to Buy

So I have small children and my wife and I are trying to educate them to be connected to tefilla.  We started with the basic one used in our shul:

It has its advantages and disadvantages - one disadvantage being that it doesn't have "Ashrei" - one of the most popular parts of tefilla.  Another disadvantage is that the spine is very thin and won't survive intensive prayer nor play davening. Meanwhile the graphics are good and my kids love to use it (while it lasts).

Koren Publishers came out last year with a more developed version of a children's siddur.

Seems to me like similar graphics and approach to tefilla, but with some more structure and meat to the siddur.

Today I came across what I must think is the worst siddur that I have come across yet, and that is saying much considering the two dimensional nature of Artscroll publishing.

Apparently Dudu's Fisher's siddur comes with an CD (featured above - same cover on the siddur) and lots of spirit and excitement. I am in some very weird way embrassed by this siddur and its efforts to solely teach the peformance of the prayers without much mention of a self-reflective or mediatiive dimension.  Indded my frustration may stem from my more exclusive focus on teenagers and adult tefilla experiences, but oh how I loathe that this approach is exclusivley pushed as if prayer is a team sport!

Of relevance is Daniel Rose's query in today's Lookjed in which he is reseraching about children's siddurim:

I am doing some initial research into Jewish Day School Siddur use. I am interested in understanding what a school looks for in a siddur for grades 1-4 (ages 6-10). Which siddur do use in your school in these grades? In your school is the siddur primarily used for its text (to learn the tefillot) or do you (or do you think you would like to) use a school siddur as a teaching resource for teaching tefilla? What do you/would you teach from the siddur (Reading? Tefilla skills? Hilchot tefilla? Tefilla themes and ideas?) Does the siddur you use (or would you like it to) come as part of a curriculum with a teacher's resource packet/booklet?

Any feedback you could give is gratefully received (rose.danielj@gmail.com).

I encourage you to share your expreinces of what your kids or students may be using to daven and hope that it will benefit other parents and teachers.  And if you are in the process of writing or publishing a new children's siddur, let us know!

Tefilla Question of the Year

My seven year old son asked the following question tonight, right before bedtime:

I know that there is a 'song of the day' for each of the days of the week in our siddur, but why isn't there different davening for each day - why do we daven the same thing each day? 

Good questions - any good answers out there?

Do You Write in Your Siddur?

Some people think it is wrong to write in a siddur - sacrilegious was the word I recently heard.  The approach I presume is to treat a siddur like a Torah - we do kiss both and abstain from letting them touch the floor.  I rather think this is one effective way to teach your students how to respect and personalize a prayer book.  Part of the great innovation that the Artscroll siddur brought to the marketplace was incredibly clear (calisthenic) instructions and historical or meaningful notes to gain context. What about personalizing the instruction, to highlight important words or draw focus to themes, motions, or grammar?  Perhaps part of disconnect felt by some young people today at tefillot is a feeling of a it all being scripted and repeated over and over again.

This is my siddur, well worn from daily use over the past 15 years.  I find that each of the marks I made still resonate with me even now and causes me to pause or focus as I scan them. The additions I made were to add to the holiness (kedusha) and context of my personal prayers.

Did you ever write in your siddur?  What did you add?

How To Teach Davening So Kids Will Daven

The following is a passage from the national bestseller How To Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk:

Most of the books on child-rearing tell us that one of our important goals as parents is to help our children separate from us, to help them become independent individuals who will one day be able to function on their own without us. We're urged not to think of our children as little carbon copies of us or extensions of ourselves, but as unique human beings with different temperaments, different tastes, different feelings, different desires, different dreams.   

Yet how are we to help them become separate, independent persons?  By allowing them to do things for themselves, by permitting them to wrestle with their own problems, by letting them learn from their own mistakes.   

Easier said than done.  (p.136)

Are you happy with how your students are davening on their own?  Have you observed them in shul on Shabbat or a holiday?  Perhaps the problem is that they have been encouraging them to daven politely in public and not necessarily prepared them for their separation from an adult led environment?

I know that teachers are not to blame for the lack of davening happening outside of school hours (parents do have a role - at my son's first grade siddur party at his religious school the head rabbi not so subtly encouraged even the parents to take more of an opportunity to use their siddurim as well), but I fear that one of the big problems of the prevalent tefilla pedagogy is that students are not being engaged to do so on their own terms and time. It is indeed easier said than done - but I think that the current model is doing just that - modeling behavior and norms and trying to create carbon copies.  Schools need to be laboratories for children to trained to tackle their present and future spiritual challenges, in their own unique way but within a broad and strong tradition and semi-public atmosphere.

Save One Prayer?

A good question came through my twitter feed from Dov Emmerson and wanted to share here to see if we could cull some responses:

dovemerson5:08am via HootSuite

great exercise 4students via @dpelcovitz - if all world's prayer books destroyed & u could save1 tefilla, which 1 & why? #jedchat @davenspot

Guest Post: The Vietnam of Day School Ed

You read the title correctly!  This post is authored by Michael Feuer, who is on the faculty of Sulam Yaakov and whom I recently met teaching a course titled Prayer: the inner journey that leads outward.  I welcome your reactions.  

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The Vietnam of Day School Education

When I heard a respected educator apply these words to prayer, my jaw dropped. But after the shock faded, the precision of the phrase started to play on my imagination. Given that I share the sorrow and fear over the “field situation” which provoked the comment, but not its hopelessness, I figure some reflection is in order,  so – why Vietnam?!

Educators and community members rule the day, unengaged students rule the night. Our children are not absent from prayer; we can make a minyan and the shuls are full on Shabbat. But we grade prayer as attendance, and praise the appearance of focus. It’s true, sitting quietly is a praiseworthy habit in today’s culture. But we are not teaching them to cultivate silence, but to pretend to say words.

What are we fighting for anyway? Only a real soul-search after Gd and a lot of prayer can answer this question. How many teachers and parents have a mature, living relationship with Gd and an active engagement with our soul? How many of us find strength in prayer and have tasted its pleasure? If these are absent from us, or not deemed relevant,  then what are we asking from our students? Teacher’s prayer groups are the weapon of the next generation.

In context of the liturgy, this conversation becomes a minefield. Tracing a path through questions of doctrine, obligation, authority and tradition without losing your company seems hopeless. And yet, these very issues form the backbone of the Eighteen Blessings. Perhaps prayer is the primary context created for this struggle and we should encourage our students to take the fight there. If they don’t feel safe struggling with Gd, Torah and Am Yisrael then what kind of relationship can they build?

In asymmetrical warfare, victory is not achieved through force. Prayer is not an act to be imposed, it is a lifestyle to be cultivated. Teaching it is a battle of hearts and minds. We must invest in the context of prayer as well as its content. This means devoting more time for praying and more resources for learning. It means developing a model of mutual awareness and spiritual mentorship between all members of a school – staff, faculty and students. At its core prayer is the pursuit of relationship, and as such is the ultimate communal effort.

Awakening the emotions in service of prayer is essential. Are our classrooms vessels where students feel safe to share their hearts? To we encourage journaling, spiritual chevruta, giving and receiving of blessing?

The siddur is a complex and powerful tool for awakening the soul, connecting to Am Yisrael and turning to Gd. It must be engaged as an instrument to be mastered, and not as a book to be read. Repetition becomes practice when the students sense they are picking up a relationship where it left off each time they pray, and just not doing it all again. 

The attempt to reduce prayer to a deliverable educational product is bankrupt. It must be replaced by a critical dialogue meant to cultivate consciousness over the question of prayer. In order to accomplish this we have to be prepared to take risks, and even lose battles. But that’s what you do when you’re committed to winning the war. 

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Michael Feuer has rabbinic ordination from the Sulam Yaakov Yeshiva, under the guidance of Rav Dov Channan and has spent much of the past two years thinking intensively about the topic of tefilla. Since making aliyah in 2001, he has been Program Director of a post-high school yeshiva, taught history, Jewish thought and Bible in several Jerusalem yeshivot and midrashot and halacha at the Pardes Institute.

To Learn or to Daven

Within Judaism, there is a significant tension between these two primary acts, to learn Torah and to daven.  The Babylonian Talmud, in Shabbat 127a states:

אלו דברים שאדם אוכל פרותיהם בעולם הזה והקרן קימת לו לעולם הבא, ואלו הן:  כיבוד אב ואם וגמילות  חסדים והשכמת בית המדרש שחרית וערבית והכנסת אורחים ובקור חולים והכנסת כלה ולווית המת ועיון תפילה והבאת שלום בין אדם לחברו ובין איש לאשתו ותלמוד תורה כנגד כולם.

These are the precepts whose fruits a person enjoys in This World but whose principal remains intact for him in the World to Come:  They are: honoring one's father and mother, acts of kindness, early attendance at the house of study morning and evening, hospitality to guests, visiting the sick, providing for a bride, escorting the dead, absorption in prayer, bringing peace between man and his fellow, and the study of Torah is equivalent to them all.

Clearly the status of Torah study (on simple reading of this text) trumps all, including the delving into the depths of davening.  To this note, I once heard this story told over about Rabbi Soloveitchik which I found a version of here: 

Torah learning would be more beneficial than saying Tehillim during the spare time on Rosh Hashanah. Rav Y. B. Soloveitchik states that once, his father, Rav Moshe Soloveitchik, zt”l, saw him saying Tehillim on Rosh Hashanah and took the siddur from him, replacing it with Maseches Rosh Hashanah. He then said to his son, “My father (Rav Chaim) would learn the laws of shofar, etc.,  because that is what the day represents (and on Yom Kippur he would learn the rituals of that day) because that is where Hashem’s world is today.” 

Some see this approach as appropriate only for the most elite Torah learners which can be best expressed by Rabbi Ovadia Yosef's statement, also from the above article: “The talmid chacham should go as his heart desires, as it is said ‘the ones who learn Gemara, there is nothing greater.’”

For those of us who are not giants in Torah or Talmud - are we left just to chant tehilim?  After a recent conversation with a family member (@bradinsky) who shared with me a fascinating class on superstition and Jewish customs, I have been thinking deeply about which comes more natural, studying or davening? Which is more powerful and transformative on the individual? Which is easier and which is more difficult?  I am in the process of writing a longer post on this subject, but I wondered what others thought?  

Blessings For Not Making Me A .....

One of the most fascinating aspects of tefilla for me is the simultaneous tensions between past and present, tradition and change, structure and passion, and the individual vs. the community.  I am reminded of this struggle each morning when I arrive in the siddur at birkot ha'shachar, the morning blessings that begin with a thank you for not making me a non-Jew, a slave, or a woman.

Yehuda Mirsky published last March a brief scholarly review of "The Three Blessings".  I encourage you all to read it and share what and why you say what you say in the morning.  The history of these blessings are complex and cloudy but I think reflects the agency to which people adopt, adapt or resist change in their tefillot.

Guest Post: The Amidah Project

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

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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.

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.