To Life: Seven Points of Guidance for The Synagogue Service-going Experience

Erev Rosh Hashanah, Society Hill Synagogue, 5784

Judaism is not a religion that is often closely associated with math; most of us rabbis got into this business precisely to avoid it, but I want to get into just a little bit of addition with you. Ready?

Tonight’s service is approximately an hour and a half. Tomorrow morning’s, the first day of Rosh Hashanah is, if you’re there from start to finish, four hours. The second day of Rosh Hashanah, which we modify a bit to shorten it, is three. Next Sunday night, Kol Nidre Erev Yom Kippur, is about two and a half hours; the following morning, Yom Kippur morning is four and a half, and Yom Kippur afternoon into neilah is another two and half. All told that’s, let’s see, some of you know my joke here, carry the one, that’s 18. 18 hours of services here at Society Hill Synagogue for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

No, this is not a disquisition on the significance of the number 18, which represents chai, life, in Jewish tradition; that is truly a coincidence though a pretty auspicious one. How beautiful it is that we notice the sacredness of life even in math.

No, this is to hold some space for a moment to say, wow. That is a lot of time in services.

I sometimes tease us Jews for the “no pain, no gain” approach to religion. We don’t necessarily find ourselves in services often, but when we do, it better be long, and it better be painful. This is the season of atonement after all; how could we make proper atonement, make penance for our transgressions if services aren’t painful. They’re supposed to be, right? That’s how we get credit in the Book of Life—we sit through long services, we fast, and then we’ve earned some redemption.

There’s an internal logic to that that makes sense; and I’m not sure it’s a recipe for success.

So what I want to with this D’var Torah is to talk about these 18 hours, different ways we might approach them that don’t involve a sheer grin and bear it approach, but rather invites us to see them as opportunities for holiness, reflection, and love.

I adapt this teaching in part from a list that my wife Caroline discovered years ago from Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz entitled 10 Spiritual Tips for Rosh Hashanah Services for the Spiritually Complex. Which is all of us. I promise you; we all have layers of complexity to us, depths of the soul that need to be tended to, even while there is sometimes a virtue in keeping it simple.

So let me offer seven tips—seven is another good Jewish number; seven, shabbat, a full cycle of creation and rest—seven points of guidance for how to, hopefully, not only endure the roughly eighteen hours some of you will spend with us, but to thrive within them; how to experience them not only as a necessary part of the rhythm of the year, but as an call: for reflection, holiness, nourishment, and reconnection. An opportunity to tend to our foundation and to set a course for the year, aligning ourselves on the path down which we feel called. These lengthy services have been part of the rhythms of our people for this long for a reason; let’s see what meaning we can make of them that will speak to each of our souls here and now.

Echad. Number one. (I love a good list.) Let’s start with the liturgy itself. One option (in some ways the classical option) is to just immerse yourself in the liturgy itself. 

There are a number of ways to look at following along with the traditional liturgy. One is as though the mahzor, the High Holy Day prayer book from the word lahazor, to return—we return to this point each year, year after year—to understand the mahzor as your script: you are an actor and you’re invited to recite these lines. But like with any actor reciting words from a script, its power is connected to the actor’s (your) investment in the part, and in fact to the actor’s spiritual and emotional connection to words they are reciting. Good acting and therefore a powerful experience, happens when the actor, as best as they are able, identifies with the words they are saying—when they connect the words they are saying with something that has happened in their lives or to which they can relate. One way to approach these hours, one way to approach the liturgy is to invite ourselves to identify with the experiences articulated in the words themselves. When we say the shema, we feel our sense of connection to others, to the universe, and to God; when we sing a psalm we tap into the marvel, the awe we feel when looking up at the night sky, and its source described in the psalm. We use the liturgy as our script connecting to its underlying meaning.

An even more traditional understanding of the liturgy is that it’s not just an exercise; we’re actually living the liturgy. We are participating through prayer in a ritual, a ritual that is a mitzvah, a sacred calling that it is incumbent upon us to fulfill; we are called upon to say these particular words. That’s the most traditional understanding. Under this understanding, the mahzor is an instrument of revelation—the ancient, and then medieval rabbis, deduced these words in the mahzor through an interpretive process akin to revelation, akin to interpreting what the divine wants from us. And we give them life by chanting them. Here, too, our connection to them helps invest them with meaning and holiness.

For some of us, prescribed words like this, a prescribed ritual is preferred. If you’re like me, and you like following a dinner recipe to a T; no deviations from the prescribed measurements; or you like—before playing a board game—to read all of the instructions, to make sure you totally understand it, that noone deviates from the rules before playing, that that’s how it’ll be fun, then this may be the approach be for you. Immerse yourselves in the rhythms of it all, let go, and let the experience work in the way it’s been classically constructed. This can be a powerful, classic approach to these hours together for the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe.

A second closely-related approach is to let the liturgy be a springboard, a jumping off point. To stick with the artistic metaphor, rather than thinking of liturgy as a script, think of liturgy as its own specific artistic genre. There are movies, there are paintings, there is poetry, there is nonfiction, and there is liturgy: it’s its own genre. 

Is a painting true? That;s not an adjective we usually ascribe to a painting. A painting is in some ways measured, to the extent we need to measure it at all, by the effect it has on us. Here, allow the liturgy to be encountered from the perspective that it is an invitation to be affected by it—what brushstroke captures your attention this year, what phrase. Is it B’sefer Chayiim, May we be called to mind and inscribed for life, blessings, sustenance and peace in the book of life. Is it chaneinu va’aneinu-ki ein banu ma’asim—have mercy on us, answer us, for our deeds are insufficient, is it v’taher libenu lovdechah b’emet, purify our hearts to serve you in truth. Let the parts of the liturgy that speak to you, speak to you. Linger on them—turn them over in your mouths and in your heart. Let certain elements of the liturgy be a portal to the divine spark in the soul however you feel moved.

Third, is to approach a Jewish text like Jews have always approached Jewish texts, which is to let the text around the text serve as your guide. If you’ve ever seen a page of Talmud, a page of the primary text that Jews have studied over the generations, it’s one text, surrounded by another text, surrounded by another text like the rings on a tree. It’s a text surrounded by a commentary on that text, surrounded by a commentary on that text, each new commentary becoming a part of the canon, a part of the sacred literature. Each new generation’s entry, weighing in on what came before it, becomes sacred to the next generation, and so on, and so on. Our Mahzor, our lev shalem—a phrase which means full heart—contains just that very practice of a commentary around the core text, and in our tradition the commentary is in many ways no less sacred than the original text. 

So if you feel so inclined, you’ll read the right side margin of the prayer book, which contains historical, linguistic and religious commentary on the texts, and/or you’ll read the left side margin of the prayer book which contains, shall we say, poetic, homiletical, and spiritual reflections, and you won’t consider these texts any “less than” the core texts in the prayerbook. The commentaries are part of the ongoing flow of sacred Jewish conversation, to which we each may make our own contributions in different settings throughout the course of our lives.

Fourth is to let your mind, your heart, your spirit wander literally off the page. This has potential for a few reasons. One, as a congregant recently shared with me, these long hours in high holiday services are something he looks forward to each year, in no small part because it’s the most significant time that he spends away from…? You guessed itL His phone. And I know what some of you are thinking; if it’s that desirous to get away from your phone, why not just put it down. A lot of us know it’s not that simple. In this day and age you’re making yourself available to your spouse, your co-parent; you’re making yourself available to your co workers, and then once its on there’s the perpetual suck of news and social media and entertainment, constant notifications interrupting your flow of thought, literally designed to not get you to put down your phone. 

But for better or for worse, you’re putting it down here. And that gives your heart, your mind, your spirit the chance to mull over all those important things that come up over the course of a year that you haven’t given sufficient time to. As my teacher Jacob Staub writes, “hasidic rebbes teach that when ‘distractions’ arise during prayer, one should pray with one’s distractions rather than shooing them away… The thoughts that arise out of left field, however unpleasant or unwelcome,” he writes “often come from places buried deep within us, almost as if they are a gift from God, an invitation to look directly at them. It is as if they are a reward for getting our minds to settle down sufficiently in prayer, thus having allowed them to emerge from the shadows.”

So don’t think of letting your mind wander as not praying—that’s one of the central features of prayer—to let the mind, the heart, the spirit, go where it’s going to go, and to bring a sacred intention to your thoughts, your memories, your reflections as you encounter them. Give yourself time and energy to unpack them in God’s presence. That’s one way to think about prayer, and a perfectly appropriate—and Jewish—way to spend your time in services.

Five: a related practice, one I often tout is known as hitbodedut, a hasidic practice which literally means self-disclosure, and which refers to the honest, transparent pouring forth in conversation—to God whoever and however we understand that, in the language, the Hasidic rabbis say, that is most comfortable to us, English, for most of us. We just talk. No matter where a person is coming from, Rebbe Nahman of Breslov says—even if he is totally and absolutely distant from God—they should speak about it all. 

“I have no idea where to even start,” one might say. “I don’t even know what I believe,” one might say. It’s all fair game. Whatever is real and is happening for you in that moment. “Even if occasionally a person’s words are sealed and they cannot open their mouth to say anything at all to Hashem, this itself is nonetheless very good,” he says. “That is, their readiness and their presence before Hashem, and their yearning and longing to speak despite their inability to do so—this in itself is also very good,” this classic hasidic rebbe says. So when we say “use the words on the page or the words of your heart,” we mean it. We bring what is on our mind, on our heart to God, however slowly and clumsily we need to as we sort through our thoughts.

My favorite author on prayer, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel writes the following:

“The purpose of prayer is not the same as the purpose of speech. The purpose of speech is to inform; the purpose of prayer is to partake. 

“In speech,” he continues, “the act and the content are not always contemporaneous. What we wish to communicate to others is usually present in our minds prior to the moment of communication. 

“In contrast,” he says, “the actual content of prayer comes into being in the moment of praying. For the true content of prayer, the true sacrifice we offer, is not the prescribed word which we repeat, but the response to it, the self-examination of the heart, the realization of what is at stake in living as a child of God, as a part of Israel. These elements which constitute the substance of prayer come into being within prayer.” 

Finally he says, “Is it the outburst of eloquence which makes the infinite listen to our feeble voice? Prayer is not a sermon delivered to God. In oratory, as in any other work of art, we endeavor to lend an adequate form to an idea; we apply all our care to adjusting the form to the content. But in prayer it makes little difference whether we stammer or are eloquent.”

So in services, we can just talk to God, whatever that means to us, however we know how.

Six-shira. Song. If your primary orientation towards the service-going experience is not the lyrics, but the melodies, you would not be alone. I couldn’t tell you the lyrics to most of my favorite songs, but their melodies carry me away through a language that transcends any particular dialect. 

Our ancestors understood this, too, believing in the therapeutic, and even the theurgic qualities of music—theurgic, a fancy word meaning having the capacity to affect not only us, but God as well. There is a reason that the story of the shepherd boy who knew no prayers and so who played his flute in the middle of synagogue has such powerful effect. We all have the languages we have to communicate with the divine to express our yearnings, our hopes, our dreams, our sorrows.

Music has been as consistent a feature of Jewish, and human, religious expression as any other; easing our souls, like a cool glass of water refreshing a parched body, flowing through our veins and bringing us, and God, peace, the tradition understands. As we cited last year, and as Leonard Cohen writes, “Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord / That David played and it pleased the Lord, the baffled king composing hallelujah.” Hallelujah, crying out loud through song, easing our hearts and God’s.

If song is your primary mode of prayer, more power to you. That too, is a Jewish mode of prayer, no matter the lyrics. Sing your heart out.

Finally, seven. 18 hours is a long time. And we’d love to have you be here for as many of those 18 hours as possible, and in order to do so, you may find yourself needing to step out into the hallway for the occasional break. So let me first say, number 1, I endorse that; and number 2 it’s in those hallways, and after services in our lunches and dinners, where find our our chance to fulfill number seven, what we talked about last week: hachnasat orchim: Welcoming people; connecting with people; helping others feel welcome.

We know one of the sacred parts about Jewish religious experiences, about the service-going experience is the social bonds that form the fabric of our community. God is present, we talked about last week, in those relationships; in those exchanges. Nurture them, even through small talk. When we make another feel welcome we, as we said last week, this is a mitzvah where adam ochel peroteihem ba’aolm hazeh v’ha keren kayaemet lo ba’olam habah, not only do we light a spark in that moment, lifting our spirit and theirs in that moment, but something about the action, according to Jewish tradition, has reverberations, echoes, ripples in time.

But as we’ve also talked about, guests, others aren’t the only ones who need to be welcomed into this space. We also need to feel welcome at home. We need to invite ourselves to feel comfortable, at home in this space, in our bodies, and in our souls. Right here, in this moment, on this earth, we are home, and the seventh and final invitation is to help others, and ourselves, feel at home in who they and we are.

Last year we reflected on a Jewish teaching about this. After concluding a study session, Hillel hazaken, Hillel the elder, one of the foundational teachers of Judaism, was walking along with his disciples. His disciples asked him, Rabeinu, our rabbi, our teacher, where are you going? “To perform an act of hospitality, of love, for a guest in my house.” Strange. The students said: you seem to have a guest every single day. Well, He replied, is not my weary soul a guest in my body—here today, and tomorrow here no longer.

One of the steps we can take, sitting in these pews for eighteen ours is to tend to ourselves with grace and compassion—recognizing our mortality, of which the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, so boldly remind us—and extending compassion towards ourselves as we seek to feel at home in this one precious life.

Life. Chai. 18. Maybe those 18 hours are relevant after all. Let’s make the most of them; let’s make the most of this life. L’chayim. Shanah Tovah.