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.