Rabbinic lore tells the story about a time, thousands of years ago, in the 2nd century, when there was a serious drought in ancient Israel. The people turned to their powerful and pious leader, Rabbi Eliezer, asking him to pray the prayers for rain. Having previously demonstrated the efficacy of his prayer, Rabbi Eliezer wanted to prove that he could make God act. So, he spent days in meditation, fasting, and preparation for praying for rain. When finally the time came, the community watched as he recited his prayers. But, no rain fell.
Suddenly, another rabbi, Rabbi Akiva appeared in his place, crying: "Avinu Malkeinu, ein lanu melech ela Atah, Avinu Malkeinu, aseh imanu lama'an shmecha - Our Father, our King, there is no other king but You. Our Father, our King, do with us for your name's sake."
So is the story of how one of our most well known High Holiday prayers with its stirring melody found its way into the fabric of our Yom Kippur liturgy.
Some study this incident from the Talmud convinced that Rabbi Akiba's prayer was the one that was answered because he deliberately and successfully prayed the prescribed words of an already fixed liturgy. Others are convinced that what compelled God to respond to Rabbi Akiba was the kavannah (the intentionality), the passion, the spontaneity with which he poured out his heart in authentic prayer and that it was because of that ecstatic prayer experience that Avinu Malkeinu later earned its position of primacy in our siddur and mahzor.
With the High Holidays around the corner, I already find myself humming Avinu Malkeinu, anticipating the connection I always feel through its stirring images and spiritual combination of words and melodies. So, perhaps it should not be surprising that this story of prayer is on my mind as I read this week's Torah portion, Ki Tavo, where the Torah describes another set words of prayer that was to be offered as the bikkurim, the first fruits.
When the people entered the land of Israel, the "land of milk and honey" and settled there, they would bring their first fruits to the Temple each year as an offering (minus, of course, the poor tithe which was reserved for the stranger, the widow, and orphan every third year) at the precise time and to the specific place that Torah says God will designate. After placing the basket on the altar, each pilgrim is to recite his scripted prayer which began with the words familiar to some from the Pesach seder: "Arami oved avi - My father was a wandering Aramean..." (Deuteronomy 26:5-10). Each time, the individuals would recite this prayer that summarizes the history of the people: our ancestors wanderings, slavery in Egypt, liberation, and entry into the Promised Land.
This prayer offered is one of a very few fixed prayers in the Torah (another being Birkat Kohanim, "May God Bless You and Keep You....," in Numbers 6:24). And, as we know, today we are the inheritors of a great collection of fixed rabbinic formulas and words for prayers. There are expectations of what we pray, when we pray, how we pray, the order of our prayers. We have fixed words, fixed times, and often it seems fixed places. This is what makes each of our services predictable - Torah reading on certain days, the Amidah in each service, the placement of the shema. We know what to expect and when to expect the words, prayers and melodies. At the same time, prayer is supposed to be service of the heart, a passionate outcry of our deepest emotions and feelings, an experience that can only be accomplished through kavannah (intentionality) that is by definition individual and unpredictable.
Keva - fixed prayer, and kavannah - personal intentionality and focus, can at times be two competing purposes, at odds with one another. So, how do we integrate the two? How do we become prayers who can experience both, without having to give up on either?
Many have written and spoken on the need for personal meaning, the drive to infuse modern prayer with more connection, spirit, and life. So, perhaps some will find it comforting to know that this tension between reciting prescribed words at prescribed times and experiencing them as meaningful is not new. From community to community, there have always been different customs and practices around prayer. And, even as the mishnah reported the order of prayers and the words that should be said, they also cautioned: "One that makes his prayer a fixed task, his prayer is no supplication." (Mishnah Brachot 4:4). Or, in another place: "Be heedful in reciting of the Shema and when you pray make not your prayer a fixed form but plea for mercy." (Pirke Avot 2:13).
Keva and kavannah are not, and have not ever been, mutually exclusive. Finding the time, accessing the words of prayer can be difficult; and left to our own devices we might forget to even try. So, as we recite the shema and amidah, (or any other prayer), our liturgy prompts us, reminding us of our history - from where we have come and to where we are going. The liturgy of the siddurassembles our collective destinies and aspirations, and provides space for expanded emotional and spiritual vocabulary, enabling each of us to pave our own paths. As Abraham Joshua Heschel taught us: "Prayer is a perspective from which to behold, from which to respond to, the challenges we face. Man in prayer does not seek to impose his will on God; he seeks to impose God's will and mercy upon himself.... To pray is to open a door, where both God and the soul may enter." This type of prayer is indeed prayer of the heart, prayer that expresses our deepest yearnings and concerns; it is prayer that is heartfelt and transformative. And, it is full of kavannah.
Sitting in synagogue on a regular basis and especially in the upcoming days of the High Holiday season, it can be difficult to remember and access the impact the words on the page can have on us. So, this year, I will bring with me this reminder from Chaim Grade, the Yiddish Writer whose work Yeshiva was translated into English (and whose smaller work is the basis of a well known plan called The Quarrel):
There are those who don't understand how a man can recite the same prayers all his life. The worthy people maintain that even a poet who sings his own songs must continually produce new ones. Those who don't pray themselves, can't imagine that when a Jew recites a psalm with all his heart, the ancient poem becomes the worshiper's own brand new poem, just as all of creation is made new daily for the man of faith. Every sensitive man has a day in his life when he awakes and looks at the sun as if he had never seen it before. Of course, no one dreams that a new sun would actually materialize before his eyes. Similarly, new prayers aren't necessary for the person who prays with all his heart and soul.
With blessings for your own combination of keva and kavannah and with personal wishes for a Shabbat Shalom and Shanah Tovah,
Shabbat Shalom!