Dvar Tefillah: Avot

My initial reflection about Avot is that it is one of the prayers that I learned at a young age, which has certain effects: First, I can't read the words without hearing the Shabbat major nusach in my head (the way I learned this prayer at summer camp), and secondly, it's extremely hard for me to see this as a text that is made up of words that mean things, rather than just a collection of extremely familiar syllables. Just now I was trying to read it and pay attention to the meaning, and I find that indeed, all the words are Hebrew words whose meaning I know, but it's quite difficult to hold the meaning in my mind and not just slip back into the meaning-free oblivion of "this is a very comfortable set of sounds that I like to chew in my mouth." (I feel similarly about Adon Olam, Birkat, and perhaps Lecha Dodi, the most prominent specimens of ur-liturgy from my early childhood.)

It is interesting to notice that, but also good to take this opportunity to try to really read and understand the meaning of the words. Which seem to be a combination of power (גדול, גבור, נורא, עליון, קונה, מלך) and love (גומל חסדים טובים, באהבה) and then a couple things that are maybe a combination of power and love (עוזר, מגן, מושיע, מביא גואל) and then a couple things I'm not sure how to categorize (זוכר חסדי אבות and למען שמו). Also it is interesting that it is מביא גואל and not מביא גאולה, which brings me back to something I mentioned last week: the question of human versus divine leadership of the Jewish people (and specifically in bringing redemption / liberation). And maybe that's the key to the two things that I didn't know how to categorize -- maybe both of them are ways of bringing human leadership into the picture while still "hekshering" that leadership with a divine seal: חסדי אבות names the ability of humans to act for love -- but G!d still has a role in that action, by being the זוכר of it; and as far as למען שמו, the phrase is referring to the bringing of the גואל -- G!d is bringing a human hero (arguably) but it's still למען שמו.

So I suppose I could (elliptically and freely) translate the bracha this way:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה' אֱלקינוּ וֵאלקי אֲבותֵינוּ. אֱלקי אַבְרָהָם. אֱלקי יִצְחָק. וֵאלקי יַעֲקב. הָאֵל הַגָּדול הַגִּבּור וְהַנּורָא אֵל עֶלְיון. גּומֵל חֲסָדִים טובִים. וְקונֵה הַכּל. וְזוכֵר חַסְדֵּי אָבות. וּמֵבִיא גואֵל לִבְנֵי בְנֵיהֶם לְמַעַן שְׁמו בְּאַהֲבָה: מֶלֶךְ עוזֵר וּמושִׁיעַ וּמָגֵן: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה', מָגֵן אַבְרָהָם:

Blessed are you G!d of our ancestors -- great and mighty G!d of power and lovingkindness. You remember the lovingkindness of our ancestors, and you cultivate powerful human leaders who do Your work with love. Blessed are you, G!d who uses Your power to protect Your people.

Dvar Tefillah: Mi Chamocha

I looked at the context in liturgy and in Tanakh (Shmot 15, Shirat Hayam), both of which make it clear that this cry is a cry of awe about God's power, in its reflection in the drowning of the Egyptians in the Sea of Reeds. I've been thinking about the issue of what God does to the Egyptians through the plagues (and especially in hardening Pharaoh's heart to extend the plagues). So my first reaction is disappointment -- "Ugh, why can't this cry of awe just be an uncomplicated celebration of God's power, instead of being a celebration of God's violence?" But then looking at the text of Mi Chamocha itself, I can see that the words itself reflect this complicatedness -- נורא clearly emphasizes the fearfulness, and even נאדר and עושה פלא emphasize God's scary, unfathomable, unbearably radiant aspects. In that sense, it actually feels less complicated to me to cry out in awe in response to this incredible act of violence, because the words of this cry truly express awe -- not celebration, but fear and wonder and perhaps some doubt about whether it's safe to be in relationship with a God like this one.

Dvar Tefillah: Shema

The Shema is a prayer that I have struggled with, mainly because of its centrality – I've felt a sense of pressure to experience it a certain way, and also a sense that it embodies all my tension about whether or not I am Jewishly connected enough (and specifically how I am or am not connected with the type of Judaism that I grew up with). I also often feel irritated by the practice of saying the Shema with one word per breath, because it can feel like “enforced kavanah” (and also maybe kind of fake or performative kavanah) in a way that I don't necessarily want to buy into, but also can't find a way to opt out of, when it arises in the service. Finally, I've felt a sense of overwhelming energetic charge in the words because of their association with deathbed confession and martyrdom – their connection to “the last moment – what if you don't do it right?”, similar to the energy of Neilah (which also makes sense considering that Shema is one of the repeated phrases at the end of Neilah, again marking this moment of “last chance”).

After thinking and writing about this last year, I found that I came to a new place with the Shema. Once I understood the arc of shacharit liturgy leading up to the Shema, I understood that saying the Shema could serve as an act of consciously receiving the ol malchut shamayim (yoke of the sovereignty of heaven), which was helpful, since I had not previously found that the words of the Shema held particular meaning for me. After I understood this, I came to understand that accepting the ol malchut shamayim can also be a matter of “submitting to what is,” and experiencing divinity in the sense of the aspects of the world and experience that are beyond human control. Since then, I have had the practice of treating the Shema as an opportunity to come into the present moment, no matter the nature of that moment: to be with whatever my experience is in the moment that the congregation arrives at the Shema (similar in some ways to the shofar blast as a call to presence and consciousness).

Drash: Rethinking T'shuvah in Chodesh Cheshvan

We're a couple of weeks into Cheshvan now, and I've been thinking about Mar Cheshvan, this month without any holidays. This month can be a big relief, or it can be kind of anti-climactic. Our year-cycle offers us build-up to the High Holidays, starting in Elul – or even starting with the three weeks leading up to Tisha b'Av. I tend to think of Yom Kippur, and specifically Ne'ilah, as being the climax of the High Holidays. After that, we have Sukkot, Shmini Atzeret, and Simchat Torah as a way to wind down and wrap up the holiday season. But then Cheshvan comes – and no holidays. So what happens to all the teshuvah we did during the High Holiday season? Does it just fade away? Do we drop back into our old habits?

I was wondering what kind of guidance our tradition has for how we should approach Cheshvan. So I started by looking in the Bible for mentions of Cheshvan. As far as I could find, it is mentioned only four times, under two names: “Hachodesh Hashmini” (the eight month), and Bul, which is an older Hebrew name for the month. It's mentioned in 1 Kings 6:38, as the month in which Solomon finished building the Temple; in 1 Kings 12:32-33, when King Jeroboam ordains a feast day for the Northern Kingdom that is kind of like a second Sukkot for the Northern Kingdom so that his subjects won't go down to Jerusalem for the regular Sukkot and get tempted to stay in the Southern Kingdom; in Zechariah 1:1, which says that prophecy came to Zechariah in the eighth month, and in 1 Chronicles 27:11, which tells the names of the commanders whose army division served King David in the eighth month.

Dvar Tefillah: Barchu

For some reason, I have never really thought about what the words of the Barchu mean. I tend to think much more about the role of the Barchu in the service, as a call to community and to the part of the service where having a minyan is more crucial. While there are many worthwhile questions to ask about the pros and cons of the traditional emphasis on praying with a minyan, I am currently really appreciating the idea of a community that is committed enough to mutual support that it will pull together a minyan for prayer, especially in cases where that has personal significance for a member (such as a shiva or kaddish minyan). I also appreciate halachic aspects of this -- it doesn't matter if we love or even like each other, we are committed to each other and to doing this with and for each other for reasons that go beyond individual chemistry (and therefore into a realm of some kind of unconditional, perhaps divine love).

Sooooo therefore, I am currently thinking about the text of the Barchu in this way:

Barchu et hashem hamevorach:
Let's bless God who is the focal point of our communal blessing

Baruch hashem hamevorah l'olam vaed:
It's awesome that we have God to be the focal point of our communal blessing, hopefully that'll keep being the case forever!

Drash: Haftarah of Parashat Bereishit

The Haftarah for Parashat Bereishit ends two verses before an interesting verse: Isaiah 43:12 (“I have declared, and I have saved, and I have announced, and there was no strange god among you; therefore ye are My witnesses, saith the LORD, and I am God”).

In Pesikta de-Rav Kahana, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai interprets Isaiah 43:12 in an unusual way. The end of the verse reads “And you are my witnesses, saith the Lord, and I am God.” Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai teaches: “If you are not my witnesses, then I am not God.”

This reminds me of one of the irritating habits of English-grammar sticklers, in response to the apparent misuse of a conditional clause. For example, Sam invites Jennifer to a party. “I'm leaving at 8PM if you want to come,” he offers. Jennifer, our hypothetical grammar-stickler, responds victoriously, “What time will you leave if I don't want to come?”