The Hebrew word avodah has a powerful history, embracing domestic service (Jacob for Laban) and enslavement (Israelites in Egypt), as well as ritual, sacrifice, and prayer. Avodah is often translated with the complex and highly ambiguous English word service, which has implications in the United States of military service, servitude, and religious gatherings.

The concept of a relationship with God that is based upon service is challenging to our thinking, and has been explored throughout many eras. In 5763, in his comments to Parashat Behar, Rabbi Matthew Berkowitz, director of Israel Programs at 91�첥, wrote:

Yehudah HaLevi, a prolific poet of the Golden Age of Spain writes, ‘The slaves of time—slaves of slaves are they; the servant of God—that individual alone is free, (Eved Adonai hu levad chofshi). And so when every human seeks his portion—my soul says, “My portion is the Lord’s.”

May each of us have the insight and gumption of Yehudah HaLevi—understanding that our freedom derives from the precious and treasured boundaries with which God has circumscribed us. From within the confines of Torah, life is always the richer.

Hazzan Jack Kessler, a graduate of 91�첥, has composed a beautiful original setting for this poem, which can be heard .

Recall the old story of a young child encountered by the hazzan late one morning, as the boy stares at a list of gold-lettered names on a beautiful memorial board. Placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, the hazzan gently explains, “These are the names of temple members who died in the service.” The child stands in shared silence for a moment, and then asks the obvious question: “Was that service for Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur?”

To the extent that people still laugh (or chuckle), there is perhaps a recognition that, for some people (perhaps more than we would like to imagine), there is a feeling that “they’re dying at services.”

Our Movement has two strong sources of religious and spiritual power. First, the hundreds of synagogues filled weekly by (often) hundreds of people drawn by the power of the experience; the wisdom, joy, and love in the teachings of their rabbi and hazzan; and the warmth of their community. Second, we are aware of new approaches—of new and emerging communities—that are gathering and exciting crowds of young (and not so young people). These are not small things, and we give thanks for them.

A newer sound of the cantorate can be heard in  from 91�첥’s 117th Commencement Exercises, while a sense of abiding tradition of divine service is captured in  (Ata Yodea) from the High Holiday liturgy by Hazzan Jack Mendelson, beloved teacher of hazzanut at 91�첥.

The Torah tells us the People brought offerings to Moses in the desert to support the service (avodah) of the Tent of Meeting (Num. 7:5). We see that, from the earliest times, funds and resources were needed to sustain and beautify the service of God. These parallel and crucial needs of beautification and sustenance remain vital for even the emerging generations of today. The Talmud (Ta’anit 2a and elsewhere), facing the reality of the destruction of the Temple service (avodah), innovates the radical concept of avodah shebalev (service of the heart and mind). This idea was refined over millennia, and is still “in process.”

Can we follow in the footsteps of the congregations, rabbis, and hazzanim who serve God faithfully and full heartedly, engaging and exciting the spirits and minds of those who participate with them? There is such great beauty in our sacred texts and poetry, in the music—ancient and modern—of our People. Our work together as rabbis, hazzanim, synagogue leaders, and daveners will bring about a generation that will not “get” the story of the child and the memorial board. For they will love to come together to serve God with joy.

It has been my honor to open this conversation with the profound hope that, in the coming months, this series of teachings, melodies, and explorations will become a source of inspiration and solutions

Within the arena of Jewish liturgy, one of the great advantages of the matbe’a tefillah (the traditional fixed texts of prayer) is their antiquity. We see them as a received body of text, and even in most liberal circles there is a sense of “innocent until proven guilty”: the traditional words will remain untouched unless they are seen as presenting an acute theological challenge. Most denominations share at least 90 percent of the words of the ‘A�����岹��, with only a few changes driven by the theological or philosophical foundations of that movement. For example, the Reform movement tends to avoid the phrase that affirms God as mehayei hameitim (reviving the dead), replacing those words with an expression that God gives life to all.

Contemporary prayers are subject to far greater scrutiny and demand great care. In these challenging weeks, the dangers facing our brothers and sisters in Israel weigh deeply upon hearts, minds, and souls, and there have been many prayers written that engage us directly with the dangers faced by Israelis, and in some cases also the dangers faced by Palestinians. The import of the words and ideas chosen for these prayers is substantial, and I am sadly aware that communal distress and even anger has arisen over the words, and associated values, that are set out in these prayers.

For example, our Masorti (Conservative) Movement in Israel has published  by Rabbi Simcha Roth (��”l), recited in many congregation in Israel in times of danger. What is especially moving is the way Rabbi Roth’s words speak not only of finding success for the endeavors of those serving in Tzahal (Israel Defense Forces), but also of their returning safely to their homes and loved ones.

On July 17, my colleague Rabbi Menachem Creditor posted “” on his blog while visiting Israel.

Many among the leaders of the Jewish community have been challenged to find a way to recognize the suffering of Palestinians in their prayers, even though that suffering is attributable to the callous decisions of their leaders. The Reform Movement has included  by Yehuda Amichai among its resources. Many others have looked to find the words that will embrace our care for the well-being of all people simultaneously with our special concern for Medinat Yisrael (the State of Israel) and those who dwell within her borders.

We have presented before the recording of the , recorded by Hazzan Shai Abramson, chief cantor of the IDF.

Listen to an English rendition of  (Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem).

There are extensive discussions about whether it is permitted to insert these poetic additions into the core texts of our prayer book, and, ironically, many great authorities have taken the view that these poetic insertions are prohibited (for example, Arba’ah Turim OH 68 and Beit Yosef [ad loc.]). Clearly in this matter the “will of the people” (at least in the past) to include these piyyutim has prevailed over rabbinic analysis, and by medieval times and in modernity, a canon of piyyutim had become established in our liturgical tradition.

The halakhic sources address the question of insertion of piyyutim from the perspective of whether it is permitted to make any variation at all in the liturgical texts established in antiquity. Much of the medieval and modern scholarship on the texts of the piyyutim is (reasonably) concerned with establishing the layers of meaning found within these profound and subtle poems, many of which weave allusions from biblical, rabbinic, and mystical sources to illustrate and adorn a poetic message. Volumes of commentary have been published, and as only one example we should celebrate, an English translation of the substantial volume by Professor Reuven Kimmelman, devoted entirely to the text of Lekha Dodi is forthcoming.

There is little inquiry in the halakhic sources about the reason(s) why it might be desirable to include these poetic additions into our services; in fact, the current trend in many synagogues is to minimize (or eliminate) many of these texts. So I would pose a slightly different question: how does the addition of poetry impact our experience of community prayer? It would seem to me that the question then is all about meaning, spiritual experience, and engagement.

Rabbi Menachem HaMeiri, in his essay Meshiv Hanefesh, writes of the addition of piyyutim into the liturgy: “It seems to me that this is a wonderful custom, because it is natural that a person will be excited (engaged) by a new item . . . more than by the routine, customary texts. So because of this point, especially in our times, it is necessary that each person find something to engage and arouse themselves in each blessing.”

I would suggest that the Meiri frames this matter quite wonderfully in the structure of keva/kavanahthat we have discussed before, looking at the inevitable tension between fixed texts and the experiential needs and desires of each individual. The piyyutim that were under discussion in medieval times were, for those authorities, contemporary—even if we now see them as medieval. I therefore suggest, based upon the approach of the Meiri (and many others), that our experience of communal prayer can be greatly enhanced and adorned by the addition of poetry (and the diverse associated musical settings), but only if the selected poems are likely to be arousing and engaging to the congregation. It seems to me that the poetry of our own generation, whether in Yiddish, Hebrew, Ladino, English, or French is no less worthy of inclusion in our worship, and likely far more spiritually engaging for our communities than many of the intricate but sometimes arcane and inpenetrable compositions of earlier eras. It is greatly encouraging to see the array of contemporary poetry found in new liturgies published by the Rabbinical Assembly under the creative guidance of Rabbi Ed Feld and his team, as well as in other modern publications. I lament, however, that these poems are too often relegated to the margins or “anthologies of readings,” rather than placed authoritatively in the “main” texts of our prayers. Our predecessors took their own “modern” compositions and placed them in the middle of the ‘A�����岹��. Might we not follow in their footsteps?

It is well known that the first verse of the Shema’ is seen as among the most important utterances of Jewish life, traditionally seen as the individual “accepting the Kingdom of Heaven.” These six words are traditionally chanted aloud, in Hebrew, with great precision—with an aspiration to attain kavanah (a complex concept perhaps to be understood here as “meaning,” “attitude,” or “significance”). It is widely observed that many people who are aware of and responsive to certain traditional practices will cover their eyes with their right hand for this line.

Many books and commentaries will offer the explanation that this is le‘orrer hakavanah (to arouse kavanah), and we find in the Shulhan Arukh (OH 61:5) a slightly different nuance that this practice is to prevent the individual from gazing upon anything [external] that might preclude or diminish kavanah. It is interesting, then, to recall the talmudic origin of this custom, and some remarkably diverse analyses found in the traditional commentaries. In BT Berakhot 13b, we read, “This was the Keriat Shema’ [recitation of the Shema’] of Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi . . . When [in the middle of his lesson] he would pass his hand in front of his face, he accepted upon himself the Kingdom of Heaven [implying recitation of the first verse of the Shema’].”

The Talmud is concerned with whether Rabbi Yehudah later recited the remainder of the text, but in looking at “embodied” elements, we might reasonably surmise that if it were his intent to interrupt his class for a brief moment (all that would be needed to recite six words), he might cover his face (eyes) for a moment in order not to be distracted by his students. With this reading, he might or might not cover his face in a less distracting environment.

An interesting alternative approach is offered by Hai Gaon. He suggests that Rabbi Yehudah would be entirely capable of reciting these words with full kavanah under almost any circumstances, and that the goal of covering the face was for Rabbi Yehudah to conceal his eyes from his students. There is a suggestion that one should direct the eyes in each of the six spatial directions while accepting the Kingdom of God so as to accept Divine Sovereignty throughout the world. The precise eye movements of the master should not be casually revealed to the students, and the covering hand assures spiritual privacy.

So we find the same “protective” act is (like so many things) ambiguous. Is it to protect the inner world from outside distraction, or to protect the outer world from the depths of the inner? Or perhaps both?

Beyond these insertions into the traditional liturgy, many communities, schools, and congregations experience challenges in finding the “right” way to celebrate. There is no universal ritual beyond the Israeli tradition of a family barbecue at a beach, lake, or forest, where possible. In the United States and around the world, there are often gatherings to hear speakers, eat Israeli food, and share Israeli music and dance. Some major Jewish population centers hold impressive celebrations, offering music, food, kids’ programs, and debate and discussion. New York City, for example, holds such gatherings on the Upper West Side and in Park Slope, Brooklyn. But very often in our Yom Ha’atzma’ut programming, we struggle to find ways to touch and engage the soul.

Discussions about Israel can easily become divisive and vitriolic (or worse), as there are many views and opinions about what will be best for Israel, what the Israeli government should do, and how the Jewish community should and should not speak and behave. A true sign of promise is the steady increase of quality programs that create safe spaces for discussion and exploration, such as , cofounded by 91�첥 graduate Rabbi Melissa Weintraub (RS ’06).

As a liturgist, I believe that it is through rituals and “religious” ceremonies that we move beyond intellectual and political debate, and engage the heart and soul as partners with the mind and intellect. My parents made aliyah (moved to Israel) in 1946 and my father fought in the War of Independence, so the visions and dreams out of which Israel was born were a natural part of my early years. The stories and dreams, the songs and images, must be told and retold so that we understand the very real challenges of Israel today in the light of spiritual, personal, and “objective” history.

In many homes, discussions of contemporary freedom and slavery, sex trafficking, and oppressive work environments are a part of our Pesah seder. I suggest it is time to adapt this powerful and ancient ritual model to Israel and to create Israel “seders,” where we ask questions and tell stories. We can hear the dreams of the Chovevei Tziyon (lovers of Zion) of the late 19th century, sing the songs of those who were in the earliest part of the Yishuv (Jewish settlement in Palestine), and recall the critical moments in which Israel was born and the ways in which she has grown. Such seders have been attempted now and again, and several versions of a “Haggadah” have been created over the years. Media and technology now make possible a more direct connection with some of these moments, and I have been delighted to work in the past year with 91�첥 students and with colleagues to create a new Israel seder. These seders have been held at 91�첥 and at synagogues from Florida to California, and even at Kibbutz Lotan in the Negev. More information can be found at the website of the , a program that I direct.

Teens and adults alike have been moved by the archival footage of ; by the haunting singing of Shuly Natan with the original version of “,” which speaks of the absence of Jews from the Old City; and the footage of Israeli forces entering the Old City in the . The compelling lyrics of Naomi Shemer’s “” (“The Eucalyptus Grove”), about the house that an immigrant built for his wife in the early years, give a sense of that time, and the powerful rap “” by Matisyahu offers a starting point to the dream of Jerusalem going back to the Babylonian Exile.

The Israel seder—with four cups of wine (or perhaps, following a recent suggestion, four cups of wine, orange juice, milk, or water), four questions, songs of Hallel, and modern songs—offers a way to plant understanding of Israel in our souls and hearts.

I look forward to seeing this initiative grow and, as always, welcome your questions and reflections. You may reach me at sabarth@jtsa.edu.

As we look back this year, let me share two powerful individual testimonies. The first is the almost prophetic song “” by Mordechai Gebertig. Written after a pogrom in the 1930s, it is eerily prescient of what was to come. Gebertig was deported to the Krakow ghetto and murdered there in 1942. His words are his memorial.

The great poet Binam Heller survived the Holocaust and settled in Israel. He wrote a , set to a haunting melody by Chava Alberstein. The recollection of his sister’s life, appearance, and experience makes us mourn for a murdered generation that would have enriched our people and the world with so many blessings.

The traditional memorial prayer El Malei Rachamim has been adapted for memorialization of the Shoah,  by Hazzan Shai Abramson, chief cantor of the Israel Defense Forces (Tsahal).

I have noted with students that people write books to explain what they do know, but I often stress it is at least interesting, and perhaps important, to make clear what we do not know. Given the importance of the Shema’ as a piece of liturgy, it is striking that we know nothing of the context in which an interesting and even profound text from Deuteronomy became a liturgical text of the Jewish people. Dr. Marc Brettler, a renowned scholar of Bible at Brandeis University, notes, “Strange as it may seem to us, the Sh’ma is of no particular significance in the Hebrew Bible” (Hoffman 86). In other words, no one in the Bible, not Abraham, Moses, Hannah, Jeremiah, or Ezra ever “recited the Shema’.” It would not have ocurred to them to do so.

The first question of the Talmud (BT Berakhot 2a) is, famously, “Me’ematai qor’in et Shema’ ba’aravin” (From what time may we recite the Shema’ in the evenings?). Now, in order to open a discussion by exploring the time for a specific act, it must “go without saying” that the act is accepted and known to all. So the Bible knows nothing of the Shema’, and for the Rabbis, it is already bedrock. To this day, we know nothing of how the love affair with this text was born. Who first thought that this paragraph should be recited daily, and on our deathbed? No one knows. Yet the text has woven itself into the individual and collective souls of the Jewish community. There are myriad customs and traditions, some ancient and some contemporary, that seek to enrich and deepen our understanding of the text, and the understandings that may arise from it. We are careful, even punctilious, about pronunciation and choreography, finding meaning in text and context. In the coming weeks, we will look (and listen) to some of these points of meaning to deepen our understanding and engagement with the Shema’.

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As always, I am interested in hearing comments and reflections on these thoughts about prayer and liturgy. You may reach me at sabarth@jtsa.edu.

It is suggested that Pesah always falls in the springtime, naturally giving occasion for texts and poetry that dwell on fecundity, fertility, and the longings and fulfillments of lovers that seek each other, as through the chapters of the Song of Songs. Jewish tradition sees the text as an allegory of the love of God for Israel, and in a truly bizarre exercise in transplanting sacred mythos into biblical realia, the Artscroll edition of the text replaces almost every reference to human anatomy with a metaphor from theology (for example, the breasts of the beloved are the twin tablets of the Ten Commandments).

Such an approach can only be born from a pious wish to capture the love without the lovers. Landy suggests that the Kabbalists are more faithful to the embodied eroticism of the text by speculating on the way that the human loveplay might be a metaphor for the inner experience of divine love. Perhaps the night of watching and anticipation that precedes the Exodus can be understood as offering some parallel to the anxiety and yearning of lovers awaiting their return to each other. The biblical narrative is certainly clear that it was God, and no other, who “passed over”—and yet came infinitely close to—the people of Israel in Egypt. God is not mentioned directly in the text of Shir Hashirim, but toward the very end there is an allusion in the word shalhevetyah (Song. 8:6) that perhaps refers to a spark or flame of love in which God is concealed. The counting of the days of the ‘Omer connect Pesah to Revelation and the union of God and Israel at Sinai; there are many versions of a ketubbah (marriage contract) between God and Israel dated for the Revelation at Sinai. The most famous is that of the prolific Safed mystic and poet Israel Najara (ca.1550–1625).

The text of Song of Songs 8:6–7 is  by the great Israeli singer Ofra Haza (��”l).

As always, I am interested in hearing comments and reflections on these thoughts about prayer and liturgy. You may reach me at sabarth@jtsa.edu.