B'Chol Yom Tamid .... (Every day, continually)

So! My last posting was about this notion that the 'containers' for prayer -- words, music, silence (or, for that matter, dance or art) -- are not the prayer itself, but only a vessel for the prayer. When I look back to the texts from the spirituality workshop I see, over and over again, the word "practice." We practice meditation. We practice our prayers. By practicing, the understanding is that we will, gradually, get better at something, that it will become a habit. But if prayer and meditation become habitual, doesn't that make them predictable? Boring? Old? I want familiarity with prayer, but I don't want to find my prayers becoming rote. In a way, I want non-habit-forming habits. I don't want to be a prayer-junkie, mindlessly jamming in prayers.

A text from Degel Machane Ephrayim -- written by a grandson of the Ba'al Shem Tov -- comes to help us renew our prayers:

If you do not believe with complete faith that the blessed Holy One renews the act of Creation each day, then you will see prayer and the mitzvot as aged and commonplace, and you will scorn the recitation of the same words every day. This is what my grandfather said regarding the verse “Do not cast me off in old age” (Ps.71:9). This means that we must not let our practice get old. Just as old age causes weakness in our limbs, because of diminishing powers and thinning of the circulation of the blood that keeps us alive, so it is with matters of the spirit. That which is old [e.g. prayer by rote] gives us neither great pleasure nor vitality. This is not the case with something new. This is the meaning of “Consider them” – the words of Torah – “each day as new,” for “they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness” (Lam. 3:23). Because “they are new every morning”, because God renews each day the acts of Creation, we experience in turn “great is our faithfulness in You”. Thus faith is the foundation of prayer and the commandments.

So, if we have faith that each day, indeed each second is a new thing, if we are clear in our vision that God renews creation one instant at a time, then our prayers are also being renewed by our act of saying them. I have been trying to pick out one or two phrases at a time in my every-day prayers, and focusing on only those words. I don't need to re-invent the prayer-wheel, so to speak! I just need to alter my relationship to what I think about the words. To renew, each day, the action of creating a relationship with God.

I promise, not every post will be quite so ... intense! But here's where I am at the moment.

The Glass is Not the Water ....

This is the first of what I think might be a series about prayer. I'm still buzzing from the meditative part of my experiences at the Cantors Assembly convention. I've always been intrigued by the Institute for Jewish Spirituality and its training for rabbis and cantors. At the CA convention I had the opportunity to spend 6 hours experiencing the mix of meditation, Chassidic texts, and self reflection that form the core of IJS programs.

My personal meditations this week have centered around the nature of prayer and the meaning of service. Tefillah and avodah are frequently used to mean the same thing; service of the heart. Prayer in the place of animal sacrifice. But they are, in fact, two different but related actions. And for my money, prayer is the more elusive of the two.

We pray with words, with music, with silence. But the words and the music and the silence are not the prayer. It's a little like a glass, one with no ripples or imperfections, filled to the brim with water. When you look at it, you see the water, but you could not have the water, you could not hold it without the glass. Prayer is something that exists beyond words or music. It lives within the intention to pray, even when that intention is subconscious. We use the words in the same way that we use the glass, as a container.

It's understandable that we might mistake one for the other. That we might put such importance on the words that we miss the prayer. Saying the correct words, saying them correctly or rapidly or with practiced proficiency, these are the outward symbols of prayer. But they are not prayer. In the synagogue I serve -- and I dare say in most synagogues -- there is a tension, maybe a competition, between the "Chick-Chock" davenners -- the ones who mutter their words as rapidly as possible on both the exhale and the intake of breath! -- and the "Every Syllable Matters" guys, who sound out every single vowel and consonant with exquisite precision, even if the davenning lasts long into the night! But it never occurs to either of these groups to stop and just 'live' with a word or a phrase and let that be the prayer they pray. They fall into the trap of imagining that the glass is the water!

Our relationship to the language of prayer could use a little re-focus, a new definition, a prayer make-over! But it requires that we believe that prayer is more than an obligation. We have to decide that prayer matters.

More on this thread next blog!

It's been a long time since I posted on this blog. Now I've decided to make it the 'home base' for my Monday Morning Message from the cantor. I make a promise not to post more than once a week, and not less than three times a month. Let's not get too crazy, right?

So! Here I am in May 2013, at the Cantors Assembly convention in NJ. It's a joyous annual gathering of hazzanim from all over the world, and we come together to learn, to be inspired by each other and by the amazing teachers -- both musical and other -- who come to teach and learn with us. I am supported by friends, greeted with love, and I greet my colleagues and friends with much love and affection. (By the way, that brings up a story about my grandmother, my mother's mother, but I'll tell that another time, I promise!)

We have the opportunity to spend four sessions, a total of 6 hours, with one teacher or one kind of practice, and I've chosen to be with Rabbis Jonathan Slater and Lisa Goldstein from the Institute for Jewish Spirituality. It's the perfect blend, for me, of text study, meditation, and shared reflection, and it has given me renewed hope, especially at this time in my life. And so I wanted to share this hiddush, this new teaching. It comes from a Chasidic collection of Torah commentaries called Me'or Eynayim -- 'light of the eyes.'

"For YHVH is a devouring fire" (Deut. 4:24) ... What does this mean? Whatever we become accustomed to ceases to make an impression on us. [so how do we wake up?] ... Torah warns, "Let the words of Torah be new to you as if they were given new today."

On the one hand we strive to become fluent in the language of prayer. Speed davenning is a competitive sport in my shul! But this text says, no! Approach each word as if it had been created fresh each day. Only by seeing each word of prayer or of Torah as newly created can we continually find meaning in it. That's my ongoing practice; to come to the text - and the music - as if it's a revelation, even though I've worked hours and weeks and years to master it!

NEXT TIME: The glass is not the water! (and other thoughts about our daily lives)

Come back every week. Tell friends. Please.

Old School Ties

I had an amazing meeting last week. I got together with seventeen members of my 7th grade class, the people with whom I celebrated bar and bat mitzvah. I've really been trying to process what the reunion meant to me. These were people, some of whom I haven't seen in 45 years.      
What would it feel like to see them again? After all, I wasn't really friends with all of them. Like any other group of kids, we went in different directions, both in terms of how our lives had proceeded and geographically. People came from as far as Atlanta and Maine to meet in Connecticut at the home of two of our classmates. While it's true that we were all Jews (from a Conservative and a Reform congregation in Waterbury, CT), this get-together was secular. Wasn't it?

 Well, yes and no. Except for an impromptu "Shehecheyanu" no one spoke much about our Jewish background. On the other hand, we reminisced about our b'nai mitzvah parties, and our memories of Hebrew school (almost universally loathed). We mostly schmoozed, like friends do. We shared old photos (graduations and party-pics) and favorite moments. It wasn't really "Jewish." Except that among the 18 (yes, I know, chai!) of us there were: one cantor, one rabbi, four synagogue presidents or past presidents, a dozen board members (or ex-board members), and one person who was more dati (observant) than any of us might have guessed when we were kids. Even the people who were in no way involved in Jewish communal life were still linked to the group by that tenuous tie, a Jewish childhood.Our education had taken us away and brought us together again. In every town and city to which we had scattered, we sought out a connection to Judaism.


 So, did our teachers succeed? After all, here we are, confidant Jewish adults, able to navigate at least the periphery and in some cases the heart of our religion. At times in my tenure as a congregational cantor I've sometimes thought that synagogue schools do everything they can to make Judaism seem banal and tedious. But most of the people in that room didn't stop at "pediatric" Judaism. We went on to learn more, to delve more deeply, to assume that 3,000 years of history, liturgy, thought, and ritual was more than what we were taught in 8 years of religious school education. Maybe our teachers, rabbis, and cantors didn't do such a terrible job after all.

Improvisation!

When I was an acting student, I remember hating improv class. It seemed so messy! So undisciplined! But when I really watched what my more talented classmates were doing I realized that the ability to improvise in a believable fashion was the result of being totally secure in the situation. Only when you have all kinds of information at your command can you be free to let go of some of the 'rules' and fly.

The same thing is true about hazzanute - the art of the cantor. It's made up of many rules; the correct nusakh  for each time of day, for each kind of service, the motifs that make a piece of liturgy recognizeable, the melodies that congregants already know, woven with new melodies to keep the davenning fresh. These are the tools of the trade for a cantor. But then one has to go further. It's not enough to keep repeating and repeating. You have to improvise a little. You have to step outside your comfort zone to keep the music of prayer alive.

There is a saying that is attributed to Cantor Max Wohlberg, of blessed memory. He said,  "Nusakh is like underwear; you have to change it occasionally!" Even if he didn't say it, it's a great thought. We like the comfort of the melodies of our youth, but that doesn't mean we can't add new melodies. And for hazzanim it also means we might like the first 'licks' we learned in cantorial school, but we can only soar as prayer leaders when we feel free to bend them and improvise. Davenning is like life: it doesn't go in straight lines!

Debbie

It's impossible to say how much certain people affect you. Debbie Friedman died today, and I am trying to think when I first became aware of her. I think it was in 1993, when I was working at Carnegie Hall and one of my co-workers said I would probably enjoy the concert that night. He said it was "Debbie somebody," and that she always sold out the Hall. I stuck around for the first half of the concert before I had to get to the other concert that I was monitoring. Joyous it was. I was aware that every single person in that hall knew Debbie and loved Debbie. On some songs you could hardly hear her, because everyone wanted to sing along! That concert was a precursor to the famous 2-disk recording, "Debbie Friedman: Live at Carnegie Hall." (1997)

Years later, when I was very involved at B'nai Jeshurun in New York, someone came up to me after I chanted a haftarah and said it was beautiful, and I said thanks. A friend asked, "What did Debbie say to you?" And I asked "Debbie who?" That's how clueless I was.

In years to come I would learn from Debbie, sing with Debbie, schmooze with Debbie, and even introduce her at a concert in New Jersey. I sang with a choir that accompanied Debbie just last year. I was delighted to see her again, and she was absolutely wonderful, pouring her whole self into every song. It's impossible to say how much Debbie has meant to millions of Jews - some who don't even know her name. The memory will last for as long as kids learn their aleph-bet. Zichronah le-shirah v-liv'rachah. May her memory be for a song and a blessing.

What's new in "Nusakh"?

There's a word that gets knocked around a lot. Nusakh. It can mean so many things that it has lost all meaning. For example, it can mean the liturgy of a particular part of the world, like Nusakh Romani, or Nusakh Israeli. That includes any regional or country-specific text. If you think about the dreidle you'll see that in Israel the dreidle has a peh instead of a shin, because in Israel the sentence is "Nes gadol haya poh" -- a great miracle happened here. And other changes between countries or regions just grew up over many centuries.

Nusakh can also refer to denominational differences: Reform nusakh refers to God as "m'khayei ha-kol" -- the One who gives life to everything -- as opposed to "m'khayei mei-tim" -- who gives life to the dead. So here the nusakh reflects a theological difference. Orthodox nusakh - whether Ashkenazi or Sephardi - doesn't include the matriarchs. Yet.

In the case of the music of a service, the word nusakh means something entirely different. So between now and next week (or so) pay attention to the music of the services that you attend, and I'll add the musical bit next blog!