Breathing Praise: Noach

Parshat Noah, 6:9-11:32

This week’s parsha, Parshat Noach, is another one of those jam-packed parshiot in which we can spend days or weeks thinking and discussing it, still not completing the discussion or immersing ourselves fully into the text. However, just like any other parsha, we spend a week studying it, with the culmination being on Shabbat.

Speaking of Shabbat, Alyssa Gray, a Talmudic scholar writing about Shabbat liturgy in Lawrence Hoffman’s My People’s Prayerbook, Volume 10: Shabbat Morning, comments that the words נשמת כל חי (click for English translation) (found at the end of פסוקי דזמרא, as the introduction to the concluding blessing) literally mean the breath of every living being. However, That breath is not just referring to humans. Rather, it refers to all creatures that breath the air of the earth. The proof text for that comes from our parsha this week. In Genesis 7:22, it is written that the Flood destroys everything with a “breath of life.” The very same breath of life with which every living being praises God in נשמת כל חי(Nishmat Kol Chai) (Follow link for Hebrew and musical versions of this prayer).

So then, what do these contrasts mean, especially relative to this part of the prayer service, which is all about enumerating praise for God. It would seem, that Genesis 7:22 is pointing out that God needed to destroy every living thing, even the animals, because they too were capable of doing evil and wrong. Maybe God made a mistake. In Genesis 6:6-7, we read: "And God repented that God had made man on the earth, and it grieved God in God’s heart. And Adonai said, "I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth, both man and beast, and the creeping thing and the fowls of the air, for I repent that I have made them.” It would seem that God made a mistake and now is attempting to rectify it through the Flood and destruction of the earth. The classic commentator, Rashi (France, 1040-1105) has a suggestion about this: "Although it was known to God that [humans] will sin and be destroyed, God nevertheless created them for the sake of the righteous who will descend from them.” (Berashit Rabah 27:4) In that sense, it would mean that God didn’t make a mistake and instead needed to “redo” creation in order to give people a better chance to become righteous. In that sense, every living being needed to be reformed, so that their breaths could indeed praise God.

The contrast is in the praising. Everyone on earth, save for Noah, his family and then all the animals, is destroyed. The rest of the peoples had become so wicked that they could not feasibly praise God with their living breath. Therefore, God needed to render everyone incapable, by wiping them out, in order to afford them the opportunity to learn and grow again. From that, people begin to praise and acknowledge God, recognizing that God does have a place in the world and in their lives. Through the praise of God, both in this introductory segment of our morning service, and throughout our daily lives, we keep the world good and eliminate the need for another Flood or negative action of retribution by God.

Shabbat Shalom.

“And my House shall be a House of Prayer for All People”

            Yesterday morning offered me a very strange, but incredibly moving opportunity. Sam, Max and I were at our Truma project and had the chance to perform a Mitzvah by being part of a minyan for an adult-woman’s Bat Mitzvah ceremony. We were more than willing to comply, both for the experience and for want to help out!!

            The service was beautiful in its own right, but it served as a reality check for the three of us, a reminder of what we will face in the congregations we (they) will be facing next year (and I will face the year after that). Our congregants will be people who want to put their foot in the door and be met where they are, without the necessity of learning and knowledge. Not all of them are like that, but many American reform Jews carry baggage from their childhood, of being forced into shul and Hebrew school and therefore don’t have the desire to remain involved.

            However, that was not the point on which I wanted to dwell. Instead, I was interested in what I experienced in the synagogue yesterday morning. We used the old Gates of Prayer: Gray gender sensitive edition, which I haven’t used for at least 5 years. Looking through the service, I noticed that the Hebrew came first, than the italics, and then the English. It was as if the prayer book was saying that Hebrew was more important, that Reform Jews had a responsibility to learn Hebrew, that if they didn’t, they were somehow Jews of a lower caliber. Obviously the format of the prayer book was thought through in thoroughly, but this just struck me as an odd occurrence. In Mishkan T’fillah, the Hebrew and the transliteration are side by side, at least allowing the reader to choose a knowledge of Hebrew or the language of transliteration. This option simply feels more egalitarian, more inclusive.

            Another issue of interest is that I was able to see all the parts inexplicably missing from the siddur. Okay, not unexplainable, but without an explanation. The editors simply chose to leave out certain parts that didn’t follow the Reform movement’s ideology or that we just had stopped doing over time. The Reform movement is the only sect of Judaism I know of that actually GET’S RID of liturgy instead of adding more, like the Orthodox seem to have done over the years. The problem however, is that there are whole generations (mine included), that grew up not knowing that there were other options. At least Mishkan T’fillah allows me the opportunity to understand what we do not use, and to actively decide what I want to include in my prayer and what I don’t.

            Also, Gates of Prayer tells us where to stand and sit, separating the Shema from the V’ahavtah, separating Kedushat haYom from the prayers that conclude the Amidah. Truthfully, I just want to know where this idea came from and why.

            The contrast between the chapel, which fully embodies the Israeli community feel, and the service itself was surreal. The chapel was complete with micrography on the walls and ark which symbolizes the seven species of Israel, as well as a room that is incredibly comfortable and welcoming, but not necessarily what would ever be found as the main place of prayer for a congregation in the states. However, had I closed my eyes, I could easily have been in a learners service in the states. I appreciated the service and the way Miri wove together a T’fillah experience rich in narrative and story for this family. Yet I was struck by the place where I was sitting and the community by which I was surrounded.

Bulgarian Blessings B'yachad

The chairs are set up in a square, a table laid with green tablecloth and Torah stand in the middle of the room. People flow in, quickly filling up the seats, despite the fact that services do not start for another ten minutes. By six thirty, the room is full, yet the service handout has not arrived in the hall. As soon as it appears, we begin singing, a building round of Shalom Alechim.

Oddly, the beautiful synagogue with elaborate Sephardic artwork and woodwork, stood cold and dark, empty but for the side chapel where three men and just as many women, many not even Jewish, sat rushing through the Kabbalat Shabbat service. I left quickly, eager to join in the magic of what would soon follow. The Bulgarian synagogue remained a museum, frozen in the chasm that segregates the community and closes their hearts.

Between translations, I lead the congregation in worship. We follow the outline of the service, only bare bones for these people who have not stepped foot in a synagogue for maybe sixty years. We are the Judaism they haven't experienced or don't know how to identity with.

 

When V'shamru comes up in the service, dad and I belt out an off-key version of the traditional. Yet, the congregation sits silent. An older gentleman speaks up, saying now they will do the Bulgarian traditional prayer. A singer in the congregation begins and immediately everyone chimes in. Dad and I sit there awestruck. This congregation not only knows the liturgy, they can sing it! Were we to give them an opportunity to open their hearts and sing, who knows what would come from their beautiful voices!

 

As the service comes to a close, dad suggests that individuals mention the name of a family member of friend who they are remembering. Every person minus the children in the room said a name. Each name was a family member, a friend. As my father's hand and eyes passed around the room, each person first met his eyes, then mine, demonstrating their desire to connect. Yet each name had not been said, had not been remembered with Kaddish for many years, if not ever. It brought tears to my eyes, making me recognize the importance of community, of helping people open their hearts and their minds. And, coming to the words of Kaddish, the rest of he congregation stood with us and recited what they knew from memory. The words washed over us and seemed to lift up the congregation, buoying us into the conclusion of the  service. This was truly beauty at its finest.

Pain, Passion, and Prayer

I’m supposed to be reading, in order to have all my sources read by the end of tonight, in order to write my Israel Seminar paper tomorrow. Hwoever, my stomach has decided it does not want to cooperate, so instead, I will write about the past few days (really 24 hours or so).

            Sam, Max and I were all sitting in services, ready to participate in our own unique way. We had already lit the Hanukkah candles as well as the Shabbat candles, and were each doing our own individual review of the week. I was looking around the Beit K’nesset, surprised by how many people were there, but only until I realized that there was a Bar and Bat Mitzvah class and most of the kids and families were from that. My eyes settled on the door, where I saw Someone standing, looking frantic. She gestured at me and I came immediately, unsure why I was being summoned.

            In the fore room to the Beit K’nesset, Someone’s 8-year-old daughter was throwing a fit. She was screaming and hitting, seemingly miserable with something. However, this is not a typically developing girl. Rather, she has PDD and therefore doesn’t always express herself in the most proficient way.

            I immediately knelt down, to be on her level and tried to talk to her. Although my Hebrew is not great, I can communicate with a child in meltdown. She wasn’t happy, so slammed herself in the bathroom. Fortunately, she doesn’t yet know how to lock doors, so I went in and sat on the floor with her. Eventually, I restrained her, to keep her from both hitting me, herself, and her mother. We sat there, in a stand still, each waiting for the other to make a move. Every time I slowly released her, the girl pushed against me, flailing her fists.

            Finally, I needed to let her go, because holding her simply wasn’t working. She simply crawled outside, howling. Getting to her feet, she walked around the bushes, seemingly desiring her mother’s and my attention. Neither of us were going to follow her, but nor were we willing to let her sounds out of our awareness. After a little bit of coaxing (and a short walk with her brother), she came back, not calm.

            Deciding to ignore her, I zeroed in on her little brother. He was being ignored and the two of us had fun playing games of Hebrew language and communication. Finally, the little girl came back, pouting and desiring attention (as well as still frustrated). This time, I treated her like I would any other child: teasing her and then throwing her on my back. That one caught her by surprise, so I then just ran with it, almost literally, and we walked around the Kibbutz for a while. We walked and talked, me mostly making sure I wasn’t going to drop her and focusing on understanding her words. She was having a blast, away from the commotion of the Beit K’nesset and getting individual attention.

            Once we returned, I was able to re-enter the Beit K’nesset, with my little monkey firmly attached to my back, for the noisiest part of the service. She sat on me quietly, simply observing, knowing that I would protect her. When I tried to set her down for a quick moment, just to receive a glass of juice, she balked and almost began screaming again. Picking her up, I quickly replaced my hand on her back and she calmed almost immediately. We remained until the end, where I made a retreat back to David and Miri’s house (after Sam decided to do the one bite sufganiyah challenge that Em Hy, Rachael, and Max had done the night before and Max dared Sam to do).

            Dinner was, fortunately, uneventful. Well, minus the fact that it was absolutely spectacular and that the dinner guests included someone with whom dad attended ELEMENTARY school! She didn’t have any good stories, but she did know him, and his siblings, which was really neat!

            After dinner, someone ended up looking at the news and we found out that there had been a shooting at an Elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut. I was stunned. It seemed strange, that something like this affects people, even from halfway across the globe. We turned on the television around 11pm, all remaining glued to the screen until around one in the morning. I was fascinated and distraught by the destruction, both in the same instant. I wanted to do something, but knew not what. We talked about it, about the fact that this was breaking news, yet very little information was actually available. We discussed that parents would hug their children a little tighter and a little longer, just to ensure that they get that hug. Truly, we were in shock.

            This morning was typical, spent reading, running (for me), and relaxing. During lunch we talked about Zionism, the separation between church and state, whether the Israeli army should be an army for all Jews or just for the state of Israel, and much more. Within David and Miri’s home, life is constantly revolving around discussion and discovery, with people always finding new ideas and impressions. David is never without something to say, and often offers profound words to prod and provoke, attempting to help people shape their opinions.

            Later in the afternoon, after Alon had finally returned home for the first time in a year (everyone was INCREDIBLY excited), we settled down and were waiting for our afternoon activity. The television was turned on, simply to find out if anything new was happening. Honestly, not much had changed nor had more information been released. People were grieving, parents were preparing to bury their children, families were in shock. But no new information on the shooter or the people who were actually killed within the school was released.

            Sam and I talked about this kind of reporting, where the reporter is on the scene and has to keep talking, to keep people interested, even though no new news is actually being released. They interview parents, teachers, friends; trying to ascertain both who the shooter was and what actually transpired within the walls of the school on Friday morning. The talent that it takes to report on that is unbelievable. Even more incredible is that a viewer truly sees the rough edges, recognizes that this is not all polished and pretty, but rather, the reporters are also straining to keep themselves together.

            At some point, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got my phone and called dad. It just wasn’t a situation I could process alone, while I was stuck in Israel, finishing school. Something about the fact that I was halfway across the world, but felt a need for action propelled me to call dad. We discussed the fact that there is nothing I can do from here, nor would there be anything I could do in the states. In fact, I am in the right place, in a place where I will gain the tools in order to help in this kind of situation if, God forbid, it happens again.

            And then, we packed up and went off to the Emmaus Catholic Monastery at Latrun. We watched a prayer service that they performed in their beautiful chapel (with a painting reminiscent of medieval Christian art, incorporating biblical imagery (Jacob’s ladder and the angels), high and low Jerusalem, Mary Magdalen, and many more biblical figures like Abraham and Isaac and more. The entire service was beautiful, but felt very strange. Regardless, I was glad to be able to experience it.

            We all walked down the hall (made me feel like I was in a haunted house, with the cracked walls and old floors and doors), entering a giant dining hall. We did Havdallah in a circle, all these people from all over the world, representing the Czech Republic, France, Poland, an East Asian country, Israel, America, German, and likely more. It was pretty incredible to be with so many people, many of whom didn’t really know the ritual, but participated in the song. After that, we all joined together in lighting the Hanukkah candles for the Eighth and final night. The beauty of the light shone in everyone’s face and emanated throughout the room.

            The holidays are supposed to be a time of family, of love, of joy, of beauty. Yet tragedy struck a small, well-to-do down in Connecticut yesterday. One girl asked her mother if this was her 9/11, as she had not been born at that time. Although I do not recall the mother’s answer, the question is poignant. We all turn to those around us who are wiser in times of need, of pain. Some turn to spirituality, some to parents, some to inflicting pain on others. I choose to write, to reach out. Today, I wish peace on this earth. For Israel, for the citizens of Newtown, Connecticut, for the families who are grieving. But most of all, for everyone. Everyone deserves peace. I don’t expect this planet to suddenly wake up and embrace everyone who walks among it. But at least, learn what tolerance looks like. Learn that love is powerful, much, much more powerful than hate. Amen.

Connecting to God through prayer

Honestly, we often just go through the service without looking at what the words mean. although I do it, and feel something from the practice, I don't necessarily feel as though I am connecting to God. Because for each person, God looks and seems different.

To me, I get release, a sense of calm from praying the Amidah. When beginning, I often question why I am there. Praying is silly and I don't know that I believe in it. However, going through the process means I have a specific outline which I can follow as reference. When I reach the end, with אלוהי נצור, i feel that weight lift. Whatever has been bugging me and therefore weighing me down is no longer as pertinent. Each time I reach this part of the Amidah, I say this prayer to watch my speech and then head into a personal, silent prayer. In this prayer, I always request aid for those in need of God's help and support. Continuing, I acknowledge the blessings in my life and thank God for those blessings. Even more than that, I ask for assistance in finding the tools to keep my life and self in a good place.

Before I began Rabbinical school, I wasn't sure I believed in God. Yet, I continents to engage in worship and silent prayer. My prayer did not include the name God. Yet now, God is the entity at which I direct my prayers. Although personal connection may not exist (God has never spoken through me or anything like that), I do find that determining that connection is important. And now, the words penned by a 17th? Century rabbi make up the bulk of that. It reminds me to guard my lips, making sure I am remaining true and not speaking ill of others. However, God is the one indicated here. I am not one to say God does all and I have no free will. I cannot take the will away from myself, because then, why bother? All ability is then detached from my onus. That onus is what allows me to continue to work, to follow this path. My path is in conjunction with God, not because of God's will.

This prayer gives people a starting off point, a place to find support for prayer without completely taking away the desire for free will. Congregants can use it to come to terms with a lacking belief in God, or a confused one, and use it to engage in conversation with clergy or self

Sweet as honey: the blessings of the Torah

I participated in both Torah study and Saturday morning T'fillot this week, as is usually my custom. During each activity, I came across a different aspect of the text that spoke to me. Although not initially intended to read like a D'var Torah, that is what I ended up coming out with. These are not polished thoughts, but rather ideas I wanted to place in cyberspace in order to gain insight from my family or friends. Please let me know what you think!


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Last week’s Parsha, Ekev, was jam packed full of verses that make up important aspects of our liturgy. Two verses in particular stuck out to me. The first one comes from Deuteronomy 8:10, reading: “when you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Eternal your God for the god land given to you” (translation from Plaut Torah commentary). This parek (verse) is used as the proof text for the blessing of food after eating. Moses, speaking about God’s command, has just told the Israelites what they will find in the land flowing with milk and honey. He is espousing the glories of the land and telling the people just what wonders they will find. However, he ends his comments with a warning: be mindful that what you have came from the hand of God and therefore וברכת(you shall bless) to God for it. The Hebrew translation is literally to bless, but the English translation often is to give thanks. The first question that occurs is whether blessing and thanking are the same thing? Can they occur simultaneously or is there a way to do one without the other. A blessing is often related to thanking in some way, but thanks are not always connected to blessing.

The land flowing with milk and honey (at least from Tel Gezer)

            Relating this prayer to the prayer traditionally said after the meal, Birkat HaMazon , we see that a rather long prayer was created to thank/bless God for the food we have been given. Yet all that was asked in this parek was to bless or thank God once one has eaten his or her fill. Why is such a lengthy prayer required to do so? Would not a simple, “Thanks, God” do perfectly satisfactorily? Or, as Jews, do we need a longer prayer to be aware of what we are saying and therefore fully present in our process of acknowledging all that God has given us?

            Honestly, I don’t have an answer. I know what the rabbi’s said, that any meal containing bread necessitates the full birkat hamazon and any eating activities containing more than a measure of an olive must commence with a shortened prayer over the food. However, the question still stands: what is the actual meaning as intentioned by the verse and how can we as Jews, and more globally as people, fulfill that request.

            Another verse that struck me is related very closely to the V’ahavtah (Deut 6:8), Deuteronomy 6:18. God tells the Israelites to …impress these My words upon your very heart: bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead.” This is a claim I understand, but have a hard time with. These words are what we, as Jews, put in our Mezuzot, in our T’fillin that we lay on our forehead and hand during prayer. Instead of placing the “what” of Judaism, what we are praising and remembering at all times, we are constantly acknowledging the how. We are remembering how to do God’s commandments and HOW to live our lives.

            Wrestling with this idea, I posed it to a close friend. Instead of agreeing with me, he posited a different interpretation. Rather than the commandment calling to question all that he does, he saw it as a way to remind us to find what it is in Judaism that is important to remember. Instead of placing the Holiness code or the 10 commandments on a scroll, in a box on our foreheads and arms, we place the description of how to do these things. We are constantly reminded not of what we do, but that we need to do it, and in this multitude of ways. The “what” is for us to discover. As so much of Judaism is about asking questions, this too garners more questions than answers. The verse pushes us to constantly think about what Judaism means to us, about how we choose to live our lives and therefore what we want to represent. Being human, we are fallible and necessitate the constant reminder. We meditate upon the how, in order to discover the why behind our daily actions and beliefs.

            Prayer and Torah often leave me wanting more, frustrated yet at peace with my experience. Judaism is a little like that as well. Just when you think you have something figured out and are ready to fully commit to it, something comes up that stops you in your tracks. However, Judaism doesn’t leave you alone in figuring out the solution. As Pirke Avot I.6.II wisely points out: “set up a master for yourself. And get yourself a fellow disciple. And give everybody the benefit of the doubt.” Judaism wants you to put these tools in place so you can be successful and mind that meaning in life. The purpose is to learn and grow, never to fail. Therefore, I will take this as a lesson to seek out both teachers and fellow learners and continue to learn and grow, to question, ponder, and look with wonder upon this world!

The cycle of our days

Sunset from Kibbutz Gezer

ופרוס עלינו סכת שלומך

The Hebrew prayer Hashkiveinu, asks God to protect us throughout the night, that we may rise the next morning to life renewed, safe and full. The request, and the simple idea of asking God for something that isn’t even tangible, the guardianship of our soul, is an incredible one. We ask daily that good guard us, and in the morning pray again, thanking God for returning our soul to us, for allowing us to continue God’s work.

            The miracle of the morning is indeed incredible. Awesome, some might say. To me it surly is. Life is about each day, about the adventures we take and the people we will find. Who are we to take advantage of the time we have here on earth, to mess with the amazingness that is each one of us. Our unique qualities, combined with those around us, create daily blessings, ones we simply have to look for in order to appreciate.

            However, with each life, as with every thing in its time, the final moments arrive. Still, as Jews, we say Hashkiveinu in the evening and Modah Ani in the morning. Whatever opportunity is the last to be given us, we have thanked God for our souls, either for protecting them in advance or for restoring them to us. And in the end, there is thanks. Maybe not in that specific moment, but in some moment. We all matter. We all have souls, Nishamot, worth saving and protecting. We all need to remember to shelter ourselves, to protect ourselves, to nurture ourselves.

            Judaism teaches that if you save a man, it is as if you have saved an entire world. In this case, if you save yourself, you will save whatever might be coming next. Consider it. You too are important. You too are worth saving. Maybe prayer is not the way you need to do it. Maybe words and God are not your modus operendi. But whatever your way of connecting with the world, recognize, even for a moment, the power of you.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?” –Marianne Williamson