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).