hustle and flow in prayer

Writer Jay Michaelson recounts the experience of a friend, “a Jewish academic from New York who had relocated to a midsize Jewish community in the South.” Formerly members of a Conservative congregation, this family had great difficulty finding a meaningful prayer experience, and eventually joined an Orthodox shul far away. What makes it hard to create powerful prayer experiences? I hope to offer ideas for a more engaging service.

I think back to my experiences as a jazz radio deejay. An important thing in radio is “tight air.” The DJ has to play the next song right after she announces it, follow quickly on the heels of that song with another, and eventually back announce what she played before leading into a commercial break, and another set of songs. A gap, or “dead air,” is the time when a listener will change channels, so a break in service is deadly. Likewise, “dead air” in a prayer service is the time when congregants are most likely to tune out. “Filler” like interruptions, shuffling, asides and other pauses are distracting and take away from the prayer experience, and that “dead air” adds up, making for a longer service. So, our service should be all service and nothing but the service. We can tighten the seams, and avoid lags between prayers or parts of the service. If we keep the pace going, and build prayers on top of each other in rhythm, the excitement and attention build. This doesn’t necessarily mean that the service is fast or slow, just that it has a continuous pulse and dynamic flow.

For this to succeed, we all have roles to play. As a rabbi, I can offer guidance on the macroscopic level, akin to an orchestra conductor or radio station manager, setting the tone, program, and playlist, while ensuring that Synagogue “air” is tight. I can also model devoted prayer and help build the energy in the “pressure-cooker” of the sanctuary. Prayer leaders become independent DJ’s who can program the individual musical sets, setting the pace for particular sections of the service: by turns gentle and meditative, or ecstatic and joyful. You have a role when you pray, as well. In addition to being prepared when you time comes for an aliyah or other ritual role, you can contribute you devotion, energy and persistence. True, traditional prayer takes some getting used to, but so does marriage, parenthood, a career, an education, learning a language and most other things worth having. “Things that come cheap usually feel that way,” Jay Michaelson says, “Having a meaningful spiritual experience, whatever that means for you, takes learning, practice and dedication. Just like anything else worth acquiring.”

the wisdom of the body

What lessons do our bodies teach us about God? Presumably, we are incarnate for a reason. God could have made us of ether, undifferentiated energy, or pure thought. Why arms, toes, lungs, teeth, bone and sinew? Why a physical form with a limited lifespan? There must be some reason. What might we learn about spirituality from our physicality?

First, that body and spirit are not separate things. There is no duality. What we are is inseparable from who we are. We are not souls held captive by flesh; rather, our souls grow with our body, and they are embodied by it. My colleague and havruta (study partner) has a rare enzyme deficiency that makes it painful for him to walk long distances or do strenuous exercise. The year we spent studying amid Jerusalem’s hills was nightmarish for him. As he slogged up those hills every day to pray and learn, he displayed outstanding courage and perseverance. His soul expanded as his body grew strong. On the other hand, we can surpass our bodies. A congregant with Multiple Sclerosis found his body drawing ever constricting limits on his movement. As even reading and writing became arduous, another part grew from deep within him. He found inward resources he had not imagined.

Second, the body can be a source of revelation to us. Like lightning-bolts of insight that Maimonides described, our bodies flash messages from God. Another colleague was destined to become a professional dancer, but on the eve of her acceptance to a prestigious New York ballet company, the bones of her foot splintered from repetitive stress. Even after major orthopedic surgeries she could scarcely walk, let alone dance, for months. The experience shattered her relationship with God. For years, she had to reconstruct that Divine partnership, just as she reclaimed her ability to walk. Eventually, she decided to become a rabbi, and help others find their path to God, even when the ways seem barred or scarred.

So, is there a converse relationship? If our bodies can teach us about God, what can God teach us about our bodies? Particularly, what can prayer teach us about our body? Jewish prayer can seem like a very calm, complacent and sedentary process, far removed from our bodies. It does not have to be. The Talmud says that when Rabbi Akiva would pray by himself, a person might leave him praying in one corner of a room, and come back to find him finishing his prayers in the opposite corner, such were the intensity of his bowing and prostrations. In our prayer, by shuckling (swaying back-and-forth), breathing deeply (during the recitation of the Sh’ma, for example), or simply becoming aware of our physical bodies while sitting, rising, and dancing during the morning blessings, we can make our bodies a vessel for holiness. Our prayer can reverberate through our flesh.

open source judaism

Our sages loved parables, short stories to illustrate religious principles. For example, rabbis of the Talmud and Midrash often described God’s incomprehensible majesty by comparing God to a flesh-and-blood King. Here is a modern parable: A healthy synagogue is comparable to an Open Source Software program. Open Source Software is a computer program for which the source code – its recipe or blueprint – is publicly shared. Unlike proprietary software by Microsoft or Google, for which the program’s code is a trade secret and users are legally forbidden to make changes, Open Source Software is publicly distributed – anyone can see the lines of code, the DNA, that makes the program run. Everyone can see how the program was written, and like Wikipedia, anyone can modify or re-write the program in a process of continual renovation and innovation.

Open Source Software is developed in the public domain. The “source code,” building blocks of computer life, is freely accessible, and everyone has the same rights to use it or evaluate it. Since no one can own the copyright, everyone can study, edit, copy, and improve it in a collaborative fashion. For this to work, the code and the program must be rigorously clear; it cannot be deliberately vague or confusing. An Open Source Jewish community is one that hashes out ideas in public, in collaboration. Everyone’s task is to improve the communal “code.” All Jewish information is available to each member, but no one member can “own” it. A rabbi’s job is simply to ensure that source code – Bible, Talmud, Midrash, Halakhah, Philosophy, Chassidut – is clearly presented.

An Open Source Community is managed in a grass-roots fashion. In his 1997 essay The Cathedral and the Bazaar, Eric Raymond says that Open Source Software is not built like a cathedral, using an architect. Instead, he suggests that software should be developed by “a great babbling bazaar of differing agendas and approaches.” In Open Source Software, each user is a “co-developer,” each reader is a an author whose contribution gets constantly integrated into the program. A healthy Synagogue treats each person as a co-developer in the future of Judaism, whose ideas are constantly integrated into the living organism that is dynamic Judaism. As a result, Open Source Judaism is decentralized, and roles are loosely defined and flexible. The person who sold melons at the bazaar last week may sell leeks next week. Likewise in the Synagogue, members try on and learn from different roles throughout their spiritual lives.

The process that underlies Open Source Software may appear to be chaotic, but it is ultimately fruitful, because there are far more sets of eyes looking for problems and making fixes. The key is that users and customers of Open Source Programs can, should, and do offer advice to improve the program. Mistakes are a vital part of the process – it is only by trial and error and learning from mistakes that Open Source Programs become heartier, and more robust – and the rule of thumb is “Plan to throw one away; you will anyhow.” Open Source Judaism requires making mistakes, and learning from them. We try out new policies, customs and practices in an continual experiment to discover what makes a better Jewish community. Some fly, some fall. In an Open Source Jewish community, a rabbi’s role is to listen and try to recognize good ideas. I am, after all, just another co-developer of this wonderful program we call being Jewish. You are the most valuable resource in Open Source Judaism.

calling out

Sixteen centuries ago, Rabbi Isaac looked for ways to repair his actions. He thought about moving to a new town. Maybe leaving or being chased out of a bad place could break the cycle of mistakes. As a new arrival, I can tell you that travel has shaped my character, but I never escaped my past by outrunning it. Wherever you go, there you are. We can only grow, and thereby change the shape of our destinies. Yet sometimes, it is hard to take even the first step.

Rabbi Isaac had a suggestion for when we are stuck in that rut. Since no one may know that we are stuck, and we cannot get out without help, we may need to let God and others know that we are down there. “Calling out” can break the spell of our bad habits, Rabbi Isaac said. Pour your heart into making God listen, then ask God to turn toward you to help you up. As the Ashrei tells us three times a day: God hears our cry and delivers us (Psalm 145:19). To my mind, this is the most important way to pray: let your heart spill out of your mouth.

Cry out to God for help. Put your tears, your desire, your hurts and your song into prayer. There are many ways to do it. Think of all the ways a guitar solo can “cry”: sometimes an electric guitar wails, other times it touches you with notes as gentle as rain, or it makes you feel joy to tap your feet. Like a great musician, make your prayer cry from the soul, with all your passion. Be vocal, say it loud, and shout your praise, your pain, your gratitude and your pity to the rooftops. This is the season of calling out.

How can we do this during the High Holidays? There are already so many words on the page: ancient, medieval, and modern poems and praises written by others. Sometimes it can be a chore just to get through them all. When they are not our words, how can we make them sing?

First, no one is limited to the words on the page, or to the order in which they were written. If you find yourself stuck on an incomprehensibly wonderful or frustrating phrase, pour your song into that single phrase. Or, find your own prayers between the printed lines. Second, do not sell the printed words short. They have life in them yet. Dvorak’s cello concerto is over a hundred years old, and many cellists did and still do express themselves in those notes, each one finding the accents, phrasing and timbres to make it unique. Likewise, think of all the songs written by Bruce Springsteen, Prince, Dolly Parton or Bob Dylan that new singers made their own. Our liturgy is no less rich, no less capable of nuance and no less full of undiscovered moments.

Now, Rabbi Isaac’s task is in your hands: make these prayers your own – find your own song, and your own call to God.

pierced

We are entering Elul, the Hebrew month leading into Rosh HaShanah, our New Year. This month begins the season of t’shuvah. The word t’shuvah is often translated as repentance, but comes linguistically from the Hebrew root of turning or returning. In Los Angeles, I worked as a counselor at Beit T’shuvah, a Jewish treatment facility for alcohol, drugs and other addictions that translated its name as “House of Return.” In fact, that is what happened for successful clients there: they returned to the life they knew before using, and returned to the path to which God had been calling them all along. Elul is an auspicious time to turn and return, to recover and restore, and to remake ourselves in God’s image. It can be an intense time of soul-searching, reflection, prayer and meditation on our missteps of the past year, and the ways we want to improve in the coming year, 5771.

For it is ever possible to be more honest with our colleagues, open to our friends, or loving for our spouses and partners. We are each achingly aware of our short-comings. The Talmud says that the wicked are full of remorse, but truth be told, so are we all. We may not have been wicked, but perhaps we have been wickedly hard-headed or even hard-hearted. Surely, who among us has not hidden behind shields of arrogance, fear or anger? And, since we are sensitive creatures, we feel remorse and regret, even shame or guilt. Which is a good thing, when it motivates our repentance and moves us to return to the path we are supposed to travel.

The Tanya, a masterwork by Rebbe Shneur Zalman of Liadi, says that even the “wicked, too, are forgiven.” Those pinpricks of doubt and the fullness of regret are usually enough to motivate change for the better. Some find t’shuvah and forgiveness by making amends or mending their ways. Others just need to be open to change the smallest bit. “There is hope,” the Rebbe reminds us, “for goodness surrounds them, waiting for even the slightest crack by which it might enter.” Maybe this year we will feel remorse, and turn to change our ways. If not, do not despair – maybe this is simply the year that we will be penetrated by the goodness waiting all around us. We may be hardened, but we are not too hard for God to reach.