Let's Not Give Up on Prayer

I was in a hospital recently with a family whose loved one was nearing the end of his life.  The family asked that I say a prayer and I recited the prayer traditionally reserved for those moments.  The prayer begins with a request for refuah, for healing, but goes on to say, if this is the end, if healing is not to be, then take this person gently, lovingly.

One of the people who heard the prayer is a native Hebrew speaker and she noticed the sudden transition in the prayer – from requesting healing to requesting a gentle end to the person’s life. 

We talked about that a bit and then we all recited Shema Yisrael together, sensing that the neshama, the soul, of their loved one was already in a different place.

Experts in Jewish tradition and community-building lately have focused on the reality that prayer is hard for people to relate to for lots of reasons. 

They go on to say that there are many ways to engage Jews and we should be emphasizing those, which include Jewish learning, Jewish culture, social action.  Since prayer may not be compelling for people, we should be placing more emphasis on these other areas.

To which I say yes, but...

Yes, I’m all for Judaism as a civilization – for culture, politics, social action – for midnight runs to feed the homeless, for programs like we had recently, one featuring a film about a non-Jew that advocated for Jewish lives during the Shoah and another presenting the narratives of Palestinian peace activist and an Israeli settler. 

We have film series and classes and lectures and on and on, as we should.

BUT.  If we downplay the importance of prayer, if we fail to do the work necessary to enable people to experience the power of prayer, then we will do ourselves a huge disservice and you can enjoy that pun if you’d like.

Prayer is difficult.  It’s easy to say, let’s not talk about it.  Let’s plan around it.  But it’s too important to give up on – so I want to devote some time to talking about it this morning.

First of all, why is it so important?  It’s important because, as the poet Yehuda Amichai wrote, while our souls are professional, our bodies are amateurs.  Prayer is important because it helps us navigate the terrain between who we are and who we wish we were, between life it is and as we wish it would be.

It’s important because it gives structure when our lives are crumbling.

It’s important because it provides words when our hearts are about to burst with joy.

It’s important because it can help us feel a little less lonely than we otherwise might.

And I’m sure we can each find other reasons too.

One of the difficulties of prayer is that the traditional words can get in the way. 

In an analysis of why we have a traditional liturgy, Maimonides wrote that the purpose of prayer is to be עבודה שבלב avoda shebalev, the service of the heart.  He went on to write that originally people would just pray from the heart, but that wasn’t so easy and people had a hard time coming up with the words, so fixed prayers were created.

The problem is that those words aren’t our words. 

I propose two things this morning.  First – that we become comfortable with the traditional words.  Because they can help us to express what’s in our hearts.  And second – that we become comfortable with offering our own spontaneous prayers.  They are not incompatible and they each require some effort.  So here goes.

Regarding comfort with the traditional words.  If you are so inclined, learn more.  Learn how to lead parts of the service, learn what the prayers mean – and we have opportunities for both.

But don’t let this book get in the way.  You don’t have to say every word in the book.  Think of it as a cocktail hour.  You’re not likely to eat every piece of food at a cocktail hour.  Saddle up to the liturgical equivalent of a single lovely hors d’oeurve. Size it up, get to know it, and enjoy.

If you want to sing along at a particular moment, great.  If you want to find a few words, or a verse, in the siddur that means something to you at a particular moment, feel free.  You certainly have my permission. 

Our rabbis understood that there is a delicate dance between keva and kavana, structure and emotional intensity, when it comes to prayer.  If we just wait around hoping to find the words to express our emotions we likely won’t say anything; on the other hand, we can easily get intimidated, overwhelmed or just plain bored when confronted by all these words.

So sing along or focus on a few words or both.  Allow yourself to find the words that speak to you.  For example, sometimes I just think of the words וטהר לבנו לעבדךבאמת v’taher libenu l’ovd’cha be’emet. 

Purify our hearts so we can serve you truthfully.  What does it mean to serve God truthfully?  What exactly is a pure heart? 

Sometimes I get more out of sitting with those few words than trying to say all the words.

We don’t have to say the traditional words in order to pray.

Our bat mitzvah this morning spoke about Moses’s prayer on behalf of his sister – אל נא רפא נא לה el na re’fa na la.  God, please heal her.  Simple words.  No iambic pentameter, no acrostic, no sophisticated references.

With full appreciation for how complicated our emotions can be around prayer –  all we may wonder and even doubt God and how God works and if God answers prayers – I think many of us have felt the power of saying a few words to ourselves or out loud when we are frightened or hopeful or thankful. 

We can in those moments say traditional words like “shehecheyanu,” thank you for keeping us alive or רפאנו refa’einu – heal us.  Or we can just say what comes to our minds.  Or we can expand the definition of t’fila b’lachash, silent prayer, to include focusing on our feelings at that moment without giving them words at all.

A few summers ago, I was sitting with a group of rabbis in the basement of a building in Jerusalem.  We were singing a verse from the Psalms – הודו לה׳ כי טוב  hodu ladonai ki tov ki lolam hasdo.  Give thanks to God; God’s love endures forever.

And we were asked, if we wanted to, in the music in between the words, to share things we were thankful for.

Please understand that rabbis get cynical and we wonder about God’s love, believe me, and we build our own defenses and we come up with many reasons not to succumb to this kind of thing.

We had our eyes closed, so we weren’t looking at each other, which may have made it easier.  One person jumped in.  And shared something.  And then another. 

And here we were, and it felt like we were really praying.  Ultimately we let it happen.  It happened with us together; it could also happen alone.  It happened with words; it could also happen without words. 

What we realized when it was over is how much we needed it.  How much we needed to pray. 

Rabbi Yannai, centuries ago, said that we don’t understand the suffering of the righteous or the tranquility of the wicked.  I would go further.  We don’t understand why we live or why we die or why we love or why we lose.

Where understanding gives way to uncertainty, where the paved road ends and the dirt road begins, that’s potentially a fertile place for prayer. 

We need to explore culture and politics, we need to encourage social action.

But we also need to make room for prayer, avodah shebalev, even if it’s difficult.  We can ignore it, but then we will lose out. 

In the synagogue during kedusha or עץ חיים היא etz hayim hee, at a meal with family and friends, at a hospital bedside, alongside our children as they learn to walk or ride a bicycle, when we face financial uncertainty, when a friend offers support, in the place where certainty ends and anxiety or wonder or hope begin - we need to make room for prayer.

Originally delivered at Temple Israel of Great Neck on 6/6/15