The Practice of Prayer--Rosh Hashana, 5780

The Practice of Prayer

Rosh Hashana, 5780

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Shana Tova.

            Let me ask you something. Why are you here today? I mean that as a serious question. Why did you decide to come here today? Some of you just answered in your heads something along the lines of, “Well, it’s Rosh Hashanah. I have to be here.” But, unless you’re a kid, you didn’t have to be here, at all. The truth is that you had plenty of choices of how to spend your morning. And, we know that in part because so many people are making choices different from this one. More and more people are not joining synagogues, and many who are members of synagogues choose not to attend services, opting for work or school, instead. I’m not saying this to shame them, at all, just to point out that you really did have other options about what to do with these few hours. So, why are you spending them here, doing this?

            It’s especially worth asking because this is a pretty difficult day, and Yom Kippur is even more so. High Holy Day services are long. And, more importantly, they are philosophically and theologically difficult. The prayers of the season talk about God literally deciding who is going to live and who is going to die during this next year. Writing down in a book what our fate will be, but giving us one last chance to change that decree, if we just pray hard enough. It’s incredibly difficult for many of us, maybe most of us, to take this idea literally. It’s pretty hard to even take it seriously. Do I really think that God is making a list? Do I really believe that, based on how fervently I pray today, I might be able to get God to change the column in which I find my name scribbled down? No. I don’t believe that we’re here to change God’s mind. I don’t believe that we’re here to change God, at all. Through our prayers, we’re here to change ourselves.

            A 17th century sage, Rabbi Leona Medina, taught that we should understand prayer as if it were a boat. Imagine a person standing in a boat, holding onto a rope. The other end of that rope is anchored to the shore, and that person is pulling on the rope, pulling herself in. If I am standing some distance away, and if I completely misunderstand how physics works, I might mistakenly believe that that person is actually pulling the shore towards herself, not herself toward the shore. They look pretty much the same. Of course, they are not the same. When we pray, it sometimes looks like we’re trying to pull God towards us. Really, we’re always trying to pull ourselves closer to God.

            It’s what we might call a “devotional practice.” It’s a practice which is meant to increase our love of, our closeness to, God. If the God language is confusing or off-putting to you, as it is to many of us, then it’s a practice which is intended to make us more aware of holiness in this world, and in ourselves.

            That language of holiness, rather than of God, is important. Some of us believe in God, and some of us don’t. Many of us have questions. That’s all a good and important discussion for another day. But, for right now, if you don’t believe in God, or if you aren’t sure, just ask yourself if you believe in holiness. Do you believe in the possibility of transcendence? Have you ever had the vague, unnerving, unnamable sense that something larger than yourself, larger than the simplest reality that we see around us, was happening? I’m not talking about some mystical, astral plane. I’m just talking about a way to see this world, but to see it suffused with meaning.

            That’s one of the great insights of Judaism. We don’t actually need to believe in God, per se, to pray, and to pray honestly, and deeply. In fact, people who think that we do might have it exactly backwards. We don’t pray because we believe. We pray because doing so helps us to believe. And, when I say “believe,” I don’t mean that we are trying to accept a reality that we don’t think we really agree with. I don’t mean that were trying to trick ourselves into thinking that there’s actually some Being who once created the world, and who is deciding our fate today, if that’s not what we really already believe. I’m using “believe” in the sense which the Hebrew conveys, which is the sense of being aware of, and connected to, a holiness which seems to suffuse reality, and transcend our selves, and our sense of the ordinariness which dominates most of our waking hours.

            That’s the key. Our awareness of the sacred. Rabbi Art Green defines the sacred as, “an inward, mysterious sense of awesome presence, a reality deeper than the kind we ordinarily experience.” This world can either be “just this world.” Or, it can be a place of astounding beauty, and power, and meaning. A sunset can simply be the result of the rotation of the planet, which it is. Or, it can be beautiful. Or, it can be more than even that. It can move us in our deepest places, the places which, for lack of a better word, we’ve always called “our soul.”

            Who here doesn’t want to be moved like that? Who here doesn’t need to be moved like that? The world around us is so broken, so damaged and so damaging. We read the news and we see story after story of human cruelty and indifference. We see environmental disasters and hear ominous reports of more to come. Disease, hatred, evil, anywhere we look. It sometimes feels as if the world is on fire, and many of us suspect that, when it doesn’t look like that, it’s only because we’re not paying attention. If we have any awareness, and the least bit of sensitivity, we will see so much pain.

            Sometimes, we need to see the world that way, because that’s real. We can’t hide from it. But, sometimes we need to be able to see the world not just as it is, but as it could be, as well. Sometimes we need to see ourselves not just with our myriad flaws and failings, but with our endless, holy potential. Sometimes, we need to search for the hidden sparks of holiness, buried in the ashes which too often fall around us.

            Last night, I told the story of some artists trying to paint a picture of true peace. The best of them wasn’t a perfect, idyllic scene, but rather a picture of a mother and her baby, huddled against and protected from a raging storm. In a storm tossed world, each one of us needs to find a sanctuary from the storm. We need some space for peace. Not permanently — I am not suggesting that we hide away from the world, and that we pretend that everything is all right. This isn’t about being a Pollyanna; it’s not about hiding from our obligation to engage with the world, to make the world better. But, we do need a sanctuary to which we can retreat, from time to time.

            We need that sanctuary in part because we need to restore ourselves. We need to restore our strength, and we need to restore our hope. This world is so terrible that it can lead to despair. We need to recharge, and just feel good again, if we want to keep doing the hard work that the world is calling us to do.

            But, we also need this sanctuary from the storm in part because we deserve it. As human beings, beings created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God, beings created to be just a little bit less than divine, we deserve to lead lives of meaning, to lead lives of blessing, of happiness. Lives of dignity. The world is set up in a way which makes this just so difficult, and so unlikely. If we just go about our way, let life and the world unfold as they will, we’ll almost never have the opportunity to explore the transcendent. To search for, to encounter, the sacred. Days will turn to months will turn to years will turn into a lifetime, and we’ll have lived it without ever having fully lived a single day of it.

            We deserve, and we need, a space in which we can ask ourselves the deepest questions. What really matters in this life? What was I put here to do? What kind of impact am I having on this world, and what kind of imprint in my leaving with my life? That’s how I want to go through this world, asking myself those most essential of questions. Usually, I don’t. I’m pretty sure I’m not in the minority with this. Life is so busy and overwhelming. Even in a job like mine, ostensibly focused on holiness, I can go days, weeks, without ever asking myself those sacred questions. I can live a life unconcerned with holiness. It would be quite easy to do so. But I don’t want to. So, how do I do that? How do I get myself to focus on those questions, and that holiness?

            In a word, prayer. Prayer is a way — not the way, but a way — to move ourselves. To change ourselves. To pull ourselves closer to that shore. Prayer and religion mean something different to each of us, but whatever it means to you, it got you here today. Something in you is calling you toward religion, or you’d be somewhere else right now. You may not be able to fully identify or name it. But, it’s there, inside of you. Why are we here if not to make ourselves somehow better? “Better” doesn’t only mean “more moral.” It can also mean better functioning. More fulfilled, more fully realized. That’s what we’re here to do. That’s what prayer is supposed to help us do.

            It’s not easy. It’s not always clear exactly how prayer can actually accomplish this. Especially if you read the translations — what they’re saying can sometimes feel very remote from anything meaningful. Just coming into the room, sitting down, and singing along isn’t going to do much for most of us. This isn’t magic, and it’s not even medicine — it doesn’t work just because you take it in. It takes work.

            So, how to do it? How do we pray in a way which might actually move us, inspire us, change us? There isn’t a single way, of course. But, think about taking time during services some Shabbat, or some holy day, picking one prayer from the prayerbook, and approaching it like a poem. Read it, slowly and closely. Ask yourself what it means, and then ask yourself what it stirs inside of you. If you can’t find a prayer which resonates that day, look at the alternative readings. In our weekly siddur, and especially in our High Holy Day mahzor, there are some truly stunning pieces of spiritual writing. Read them. Use them.

            Try sitting down, closing your eyes, and listening to the music as deeply as possible. Feel what happens when you let yourself sing along without worrying about what anyone else is thinking. Or, just take a few moments to breathe — use this time as a meditation practice. There isn’t one right way to do this, and what works for me might not necessarily work for you. Which means that we have to be willing to try a few different things to see what clicks. Try coming by some Shabbat morning when there isn’t a bar or bat mitzvah, and our services are small, friendly, and more personal. Drop in for our monthly Making Prayer Real sessions before services. It’s just a group of us willing to take an hour to think about and talk about what’s going on inside of us when we try to pray.

            I’ve come to realize that physical exercise is an almost perfect metaphor for spiritual exercise. In part, that’s a reminder that none of this “religion stuff” is required. Nothing is mandated, and nothing is forced. If you don’t want to get physically stronger, then you don’t have to go to the gym and lift weights. Not working out most certainly does not make you a bad person. There’s no penalty for staying home, other than not getting the potential benefits. If you don’t want to come and pray, then you really don’t have to come and pray. It doesn’t make you a bad person, and you’re not going to miss out on a place in the afterlife because your Shabbat attendance wasn’t sufficient.

            But, if you’re looking at the brokenness around you, and asking how you can deal with the overwhelm that you feel, this could help. That’s what we’re here for, or, at least, it’s what we’re supposed to be here for. And, you’ve got nothing to lose by trying — there are no negative side effects to prayer. It’s no guaranteed magic bullet, either, but then again, nothing is. The only way to know if it will work is to try it. Tsemah HaShalem Li-Tzevi teaches that God is like a source of water, and prayer is a pump. When we first start to use it, nothing happens.

Then, we might get a tiny trickle. It’s going to take at least a little while to really get things moving. God is always there. Holiness is always on tap. But, if we want to draw anything from it, we’re going to have to try. Don’t be surprised when it doesn’t work at first. Giving up when our first attempts at prayer don’t give us the results that were looking for is a bit like someone going out for their first run and saying, “Well, that felt terrible. I’m never going to do that again!” This is a discipline which, if we’re willing to stick with it for a little bit, truly can transform our lives.

            And, don’t forget that there are ways to do this outside of the synagogue, as well. Some of us need the gym, some prefer to work out on our own. If you’re not sure which is right for you, come talk to me — I’m happy to help you create your own spiritual workout plan.

            But, get started, because this is the perfect time to start. Today, Rosh Hashanah, is the birthday of the world. The anniversary of the world’s creation. Our sages, and our prayers, tell us that God did not create the world once, 5780, or 6 billion, years ago. God creates the world anew every day, every moment. We, too, have the ability to re-create the world, at least our own world, the world that starts within. Every day. Every moment. Today is the first day of your life. As it always is. Let’s make this first day, and every day which follows, a holy one.