Here, Alden Solovy shares a poem reflecting upon this terrible event.
Oh, my people, What have we become as a nation? And what will we become, In the wake of violence and insurrection, In the face of armed assault against our democracy? Rioting. Criminality. Attempted coup. Domestic terror fomented By the lies, fear, and anger of a president. Death and destruction in the Capitol. This doesn’t happen in the United States. But it did. And it can again.
Woe to the land that teeters on the brink of fascism. Woe to the people who stay silent. Woe to the politicians who cannot stand against this outrage. Woe to us all as the tide of history turns against our Republic.
Shame on those who have hardened their hearts, Shut their eyes, Closed their minds, And empowered those who Attempt to banish justice And free elections from our midst, Those who bring swords and guns Against our sovereign land.
Source and Shelter, Grant safety and security To the people and democracy of the United States of America. Protect us from violence, rebellion, intimidation, And attempts to seize our government. Save us from domestic terror. Save us from leaders who cannot say no to attacks On our legacy and our future.
God of nations and history, Let truth and justice resound To the four corners of the earth. Let the light of freedom Shine brightly in the halls of power, As a beacon of hope For every land and every people.
Jerusalem, Nisan, 5780/April 2020: I’m sitting at my desk, sheltering in place due to the coronavirus. In fifty years, when the coronavirus is a distant memory, please God—or perhaps by then all disease will have been wiped off the globe—some readers won’t know what I’m talking about. You do. Many of you, perhaps most, are doing the same thing in this precarious and surreal moment: protecting the preciousness of all human life—yours, your family’s, your neighbor’s—by drawing back from the world outside into the world within the walls of your own home.
The walls of my writing studio are covered with Jerusalem stone. My desk is a rickety home-office model, a put-it-together-yourself wood-simulation item purchased before IKEA was a thing. One wall of the study is lined with Jewish books, mostly siddurim, Torah commentaries, and other books of Jewish wisdom. Half of the bottom shelf is Hebrew-language books, a testament to my continued and only partially successful efforts to learn the holy tongue. The window faces east, my view through a tree-lined alley to a busy street that follows the 1949 armistice agreement line. The Old City is to the north. To pray, I swivel my chair ninety degrees to the left. The art on the wall behind me is Jewish, including a framed, hand-crocheted “Shalom” made by my Grandma Ida z”l, and a blessing for the home purchased with my wife, Ami z”l, too long ago to remember. My window ledge is full of family photos. As of this moment, everyone is healthy. Let it stay that way.
Some of you may have been sick or seriously ill with coronavirus. Some of you might be ill even now as I write or will, God forbid, become ill soon. Others may be grieving the death of a friend, a family member, or dear one. Some of you are walking into harm’s way to serve us: doctors, nurses, health-care professionals, police, fire, public safety, sanitation, food-chain workers, and more, all of the people in vital services. Each one of us is being asked—perhaps required—to consider what gives our lives meaning. What we value. Our connections. Our contributions. Our legacy. The past. The future. This very moment. This precious life. The place in which we encounter the Divine.
This is a book of prayers, poetry, and meditations inspired by divine encounters. The first half of the book draws from divine moments in our sacred texts, mostly Torah, but also the Prophets and the Writings. Written using a modern voice and a contemporary imagination, the text invites you to enter into these holy moments as experienced by our ancestors and to reclaim them as our own. The second half of the book focuses on holy moments in our daily lives, divine encounters that occur simply because we are human beings imbued with divinity. Divine encounters that occur because we’ve been given souls.
This book is a testimony to the preciousness of life. In the first half of the volume, you’ll walk with God in the garden, calling out to Adam and Eve. You’ll stand as witness to the moment of Creation, the Flood, the Tower of Babel, Jacob’s ladder, and the Golden Calf. You’ll hear the voices of Abraham, our father, and Sarah, our mother. You’ll leave Egypt, dance with Miriam by the sea, build the Tabernacle, and experience prophecy. You’ll encounter the Divine through experiences of our forebearers.
In the second half of the book, you’ll also be asked—perhaps challenged—to experience the Divine in your daily life. You’ll be asked to imagine flying between two horizons, step inside the light, and ride the river of life. You’ll encounter spiritual vandals. You’ll be asked to find the ethics in your eyes, the ethics in your hands, the ethics in your arms, and the ethics in your heart. You’ll experience the Divine in the poetry of living.
This Precious Life: Encountering the Divine with Poetry and Prayer is the third book in a trilogy with This Joyous Soul: A New Voice for Ancient Yearnings and This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day. This Grateful Heart focuses on time and seasons, providing prayers and meditations for our days, both the holy and the mundane. This Joyous Soul turns to the siddur, the prayer book, offering alternative readings for our classic liturgy. This Precious Life examines divine encounters in sacred texts and in our daily lives. This Precious Life is intended for personal meditation and communal prayer, as well as religious and spiritual counseling. As a book of meditations, it offers depth and breadth of emotion. As a spiritual guide, it brings intimacy and tenderness, humility and gratitude, supported by a foundation of strength, faith, and hope.
My goal in writing This Precious Life is to open you, the reader, to deeply experiencing moments of divine encounter using the liturgist’s hand and the poet’s eye to illuminate holy connection, to help you uplift your prayers and sing in praise. Along with those lofty ideas, there are practical uses for this volume. Use these offerings in your daily prayers, in writing divrei Torah, and in learning about and discussing the weekly parashah. Clergy and Jewish educators might consider using them as part of adult, teen, and Hebrew school education, as well as in Torah classes, sermons, conversion programs, counseling with congregants, and interfaith dialogue. Most importantly, my hope is that you are inspired to write new prayers in your own voice, based on your experiences of the Divine.
From here, sitting at my desk in Jerusalem, sheltering in place due to the coronavirus, it’s impossible to know what the state of the world—or the state of our worldview—will be when we return to the world or when you hold this book in your hands. What will happen to our trust, social interactions, the economy, our lives? How will we move through the world, day by day? How will the generation of children who sheltered at home be shaped by these precarious times?
This much is clear: This is a precious life. Your life. My life. Our lives. All precious. May we all live with a grateful heart and a joyous soul, sanctifying this precious life.
These days, witnessing and receiving acts of kindness makes me cry. In this strange time of coronavirus, most of those tears come from witnessing something online. They are gentle tears. Only a few tears at a time. Almost imperceptible to others.
I know these tears. They are the tears that weave joy and suffering
with the holiness of witnessing. The kind of tears that, until now, I’ve
experienced only during Kabbalat Shabbat
when the shaliach tzibbur – the prayer leader – captures the essence of
the Sabbath in the song. To me, the tears themselves are a prayer.
A few days ago, in one of those moments of holy tears, I understood that getting through the COVID-19 isolation will be easier for me if I seek out moments of gratitude. (Here’s my CCAR One Minute of Wonder on gratitude.) But how? I already write a gratitude list every day. Perhaps by sharing my gratitude with others, and reading about the gratitude of others. The idea jumped out as a way to strengthen my own practice of gratitude while simultaneously helping others.
As a result, I launched a new Facebook group, Grateful Heart, Joyous
Soul, Precious Life, which offers the opportunity for members to post about
gratitude in our daily lives. Within a day, more than four hundred people were
on the page posting and reading about each other’s moments of gratitude. To
help her congregants cope, Rabbi Lea Muhlstein of Northwood and Pinner Liberal
Congregation in London invited her members to join and to share their gratitude
in the Facebook group.
I’m posting a daily “gratitude prompt” to help us all see different ways to be grateful. Gratitude prompts will be wide-ranging—words, music, and images. For example, there will be a song gratitude day in which people are encouraged to post links to their favorite songs. We’ve already had a flower gratitude day, in which people can post photos of beautiful flowers to create an online bouquet. There will be prompts for gratitude for safety, security, family, friends, favorite appliances, favorite memories, and many more.
The name of the page was a blinding flash of the obvious for me. It’s the combination of the titles of my two current CCAR Press books—This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day and This Joyous Soul: A New Voice for Ancient Yearnings—as well as the working title of my next CCAR Press book, This Precious Life: Encountering the Divine with Poetry and Prayer. Gratitude leads to joy. Joy and gratitude lead to a deeper understanding of the preciousness of each moment of our lives. Grateful Heart. Joyous Soul. Precious Life.
You are invited to join. And you are invited to share the link with your
congregation, as Rabbi Mulstein did.
In the spirit of joy, gratitude, and the preciousness of life, here’s “Prayer
of Gratitude” from This Joyous Soul:
Prayer of Gratitude
Today is a gift,
O my God,
To know Your world,
To receive Your blessings.
Rock of Ages,
Your works surround us,
Daily signs of awe and wonder,
Daily guides to joy and service.
Bless me with hands of strength,
A heart of courage,
A mind of understanding.
Bless me with a voice of praises,
A life of gratitude,
Days filled with hope and love.
Isadore Finkelstein z”l taught me how to pray. I was a youth. He was
ancient and timeless. My very best Shabbat mornings in synagogue as a teen as occurred
when I sat near him.
Mr. Finkelstein didn’t teach me the words of the prayers. He didn’t
teach me the halachot – the legal structure – of prayer. He didn’t teach
me the stories of the siddur, our prayer book. In fact, he never once
instructed me in t’fillah. I learned how to pray by watching him, by
listening to him, by feeling his prayer.
Born in 1894 in Bogoria, Poland, Mr. Finkelstein brought to his prayers
an old-world yearning for God and a deep passion for the Jewish people. From
Mr. Finkelstein I learned how prayer sounds, both in the ear and in the heart.
From him I learned how to move in prayer, both the physical motions and the
spiritual choreography. From him I learned how prayer connects heaven to earth,
how prayer connects God to humanity.
Here’s the secret to learning how to pray: sit next to someone whose
heart is filled with the love of God. Then listen. Your prayers will never be
the same. Listen to how that voice shines, listen to the sparkling moments of
love, the harmonies of hope, the undertones of grief, the hints of shofar resonant
in that voice ready to pierce the highest heavens, and the yearning for a
better world. You are climbing the mountain to Sinai. You are are carrying the
Ark of the Covenant. You are witnessing miracles.
All you need to do is to find an Isadore Finkelstein. Sit nearby and listen
with your inner, most vulnerable, open, heart-centered being. Then, go to a
classroom, to a book or to a beit midrash to learn the details. There, the deep
indescribable experience of prayer will meet the fountain of wisdom that is our
siddur.
This is a paradox. The inner life of prayer – the indescribable,
ineffable essence of prayer – is strengthened by our knowledge of the words
themselves, their history, the intention behind them, the classic understandings,
the new interpretations, the seasonal rhythms, and the thinking that called
these prayers into being. That knowledge, however, gets prayer exactly nowhere
without a heart, without a soul, without the deepest desire to do God’s will.
Not one bit of prayer ‘book learning’ has, by itself, ascended to the gates of
mercy.
The problem for Jewish educators is that no classroom learning – no
matter how it is presented or disguised – will substitute for the experience of
hearing and praying next to an Isadore Finkelstein. If the experience in the synagogue
is flat and uninspiring, no amount of study will make up for it. The Beit
Kenesset must pulse with love and the worship of God.
Traditional worship is often long on technique and short of God. The prayers
exquisitely follow the Siddur and the rules, but there isn’t enough
‘Finkelstein.’ Liberal worship is often long on spirit and short of God. The
prayers are beautifully sung and enjoyed, but there isn’t enough ‘Finkelstein.’
A technically perfect service is not necessarily prayer. Neither is a joyously
sung nor a wondrously inspired service.
The ongoing conversation about how to teach and inspire prayer will
simply vanish when enough people aspire to become Finkelsteins, masters of t’fillah,
fountains of devotion in articulating prayer.
We don’t have enough masters of prayer to station one strategically at
every synagogue, temple, shul, Hebrew school, day school and beit midrash. We
don’t have enough Finkelsteins to go around. My hunch is that the Jewish
centers that are thriving in robust prayer are attracting – or were created by
– modern-day Finkelsteins, davening masters, lovers of the art and the act of
yearning for heaven through prayer.
Jewish prayer masters pray from the most secret, sacred place within themselves. They pray a uniquely personal combination of prayers of the heart and traditional liturgy, in community with others, with the desire to be in conversation with God. They bring a deep understanding of the Siddur, and the desire to deepen that understanding. They are unconventional traditionalists, speaking the inner voice of prayer. This is not as daunting a task as it sounds. All it takes is a willingness to learn and a commitment to pray.
Author’s Note: This essay is dedicated to the memory of Angela Gold,
z”l, whose neshama and harmonies blessed everyone she met.
I sing to myself. Not the “singing-in-the-shower” variety. Not the “sing-along-with-my-playlist-while-I-clean-the-apartment”
variety. It’s the moment of “this-is-the-song-in-my-heart.” A song too big to
hold in.
The song is always the same. Over and over. Usually under my breath, but if I think I’m alone in a staircase – which almost exclusively happens as I head to classes at the Pardes Institute of Jewish Studies – I might belt it out, just to hear the echo. I sing:
Here in
Israel, especially in Jerusalem, I suspect that anyone who overhears knows what
I’m singing: “One thing have I asked of Adonai, how I long for it, that I may
dwell in the house of the Adonai all the days of my life, to behold the
graciousness of Adonai, and to dwell in the palace.” It’s the fourth verse of
Psalm 27, the essence of the Psalm. I sing the Paul Schoenfield rendition.
This
spontaneous a cappella vibrates with my faith, a paradoxical faith, at
that. On one hand, I believe with a perfect faith that – at any moment, perhaps
the very next one – the glory of God’s presence might just appear. Perhaps
right there in the stairway, on the next landing. On the other hand, regardless
of whether I see it or feel it in the moment, God is right here, right now. Yes,
God is here, and I’m still seeking God’s house, knocking at the gates of mercy,
seeking the throne of holiness.
This contradiction is the essence of my yearning as I sing the line: knowing that I’m already in God’s presence, and yet knowing that I only can remain there by continually seeking God.
In her forthcoming book from CCAR Press, Opening Your Heart with Psalm 27, Rabbi Debra J. Robbins writes: “Sit in the house of God. It’s the one thing that I really want. But now that I’m here, what do I do?”
Opening
Your Heart with Psalm 27 is a guide to using Psalm 27 to prepare for the high
holidays. Every day from the second day of Elul, through Shemini Atzeret – including
Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot – traditional Ashkenazi prayer includes
the recitation of this psalm.
With this
book, Rabbi Robbins has created a guide to prepare spiritually for the Days of
Awe by examining phrases from each line of the psalm each of the 50-plus-day
period. Nine of the phrases she uses in this intentional spiritual practice,
nearly one of every five days, come from 27:4, my walking tune.
Of the words “achat sha’alti” – “one thing I’ve asked” of God – she wonders: “If I can ask only one thing of God, what would it be?” Of the word “u’le’vaker” – “and to dwell” – she notices the connection to the word “boker,” or morning. Am I ready, aware and eager, each morning, to witness God’s presence? About the words “b’veit Adonai” – the house of God – she asks: “This is God’s house. But is God home?” We are invited to explore each phrase with a series of steps, including prayer, meditation, journaling and blessing.
Fifty days of reciting Psalm 27 as part of the High Holiday season is a
practice that’s relatively new in the history of Jewish liturgy, beginning
about 200 to 300 years ago. Rabbi Robbins has turned that daily recitation into
an opportunity for spiritual growth before, during and just after the Days of
Awe, the entire holy season from Elul to Shemi Atzeret.
For me, Rabbi Robbins has added new ways to think about – and to sing –
my ‘go to’ spiritual walkabout song.
Click here for a guitar rendition of the Schoenfield setting for this verse. Here are settings by Chava Mirel, and Beth Hamon.
For two weeks before Shabbat Chanukah, four black boards with a question at the top and multi-colored chalk in the chalk trays were placed in the entrance commons of Rodef Shalom in Pittsburgh. The question: “Chanukah means Dedication. What do you (re-) dedicate yourself to this year?” All who visited the congregation had the opportunity to write on the boards their answers to the question.
On Thursday before Shabbat, I took those answers and created “Rededication, A Hanukah Prayer from Pittsburgh,” which Rabbi Sharyn Henry and I edited together. At Friday night services, I read the prayer at a joint service of Rodef Shalom and Tree of Life / Or L’Simcha. The goal: add a bit of healing by using the hopes and ideals of the community as the core of a new piece of liturgy.
The week before, the Pittsburgh community marked the shloshim — the thirtieth day of the post-burial mourning process – following the October 27 attack that left 11 dead and seven injured as congregants of Tree of Life were gathering for Shabbat morning services.
This is our second collaboration using black boards. In 2015, we used the same blackboards for an “Elul Memory Project.” The goal: gather memories from the community to use as the basis of customized Yizkor prayer.
Rabbi Henry was inspired to conceive these black board projects by the work of artist Candy Chang’s international public art project “Before I Die.” In that project, artist Chang created large outdoor public blackboards with a series of blank lines inviting passers-by to fill in the end of the sentence: “Before I die I want to _______.”
For both of our projects at Rodef Shalom, I wrote the initial draft of the liturgical combination of the responses, then we edited the pieces together. I also read both pieces from the bima. In both cases, after services, people approached us both to share how they felt hearing their contributions included in the prayer.
Part of the success is a thoughtful approach to the formulation of the question. For the Elul Memory Project, Rabbi Henry and I tested two different formulations of the question with staff, asking how the structure of the question might change the answer.
The blackboards have proven to be a useful means of capturing both community memories and congregational hopes and dreams. It is a project that can be easily adapted to a variety of holidays or community experiences.
Here is the prayer we created for Shabbat Hanukkah:
Rededication, A Hanukah Prayer from Pittsburgh
The oil, That one cruse of pure oil, Made holy for the dedication of the Temple, That should have lasted only one day, Lasted for eight days Until new, pure oil for the Eternal Lamp Was prepared. We rededicated holy space To God and the people of Israel.
That light shines now in Pittsburgh. The ancient light, 2,000 years old, Shimmering across millennia from the dedication of our ancient home, Mingles with the glow of the lamps we light tonight, Our rededication to:
Family and friends, Patience, Empathy, Sympathy. Health and sobriety. Meeting neighbors. Learning from each other. Petting more animals. Hugging. Listening. Breathing.
We rededicate ourselves to kindness, Building a more peaceful world, Combating hate, Acts of compassion to one another. Tikkun olam, repairing the world. Tzedakah, giving charity. Taking risks and being vulnerable. Being the action of love. Simply… being.
This is not easy With broken hearts. Yet this is who we are. Inspired by the past, Inspired by our faith, We rededicate ourselves, In this new generation, To holiness and sacred convocation.
We will be vigilant in support of Jews, Judaism, and Jewish education. We will be vigilant in advancing the dignity and the rights of all people. Positive thinking and openness to new ideas, Considering other points of view, Trusting the mystery of life. Paying forward these gifts.
To speak gently, with fewer words, Criticizing less and helping more. Simply doing the right things, With dedication to truth. With dedication to understanding. With Peace – Saalam, Shalom – Udo, Paz, Vrede, Mиp, Paix, Friede – In every language, In every land, Peace.
The flame from that oil, That one cruse of pure oil, Still shines upon us, Within us, From those days To this season.
As wildfires burned in California, hundreds of missiles rained down on Israel from Gaza. Fire on the ground and fire from the air, with people I know and love in both places. Just a week before, 12 people were murdered in a mass shooting in Thousand Oaks, California. A week before that, the largest-ever U.S. antisemitic massacre was perpetrated at Tree of Life – Or L’Simcha Congregation, Pittsburgh. All this occurred against a backdrop of growing anti-Semitism world-wide and contentious U.S. mid-term elections.
My pen has been grieving, the ink pouring out prayers with titles like these: “Missiles from Gaza,” “As Fires Rage” and “Taharot in Pittsburgh.” In those 2.5 weeks, I wrote a baker’s dozen of ‘responsa prayers,’ dealing with immediate concerns in the wake of news events. Writing ‘responsa prayer’ is one of the roles of a modern liturgist, to give our shared experiences a voice of prayer.
There’s a reason why these pieces resonate. Our prayer book, the siddur, has tuned our ears to the many voices of prayer. We know the voice of grief and the voice of yearning. We know the voice of joy and the voice of hope. We have been praying some of these prayers for more than 1,000 years. The prayers call out to us, as they did to our fathers and mothers.
There can also be a disconnect. While the siddur gives us the spiritual foundation to connect to our inner hearts of blessing, at times the language doesn’t fit. Another role of a modern Jewish liturgist is to bridge that gap, opening doorways back into the prayer book. The goal is to capture the familiar cadences and themes – and at times the familiar idiom – in a way that is true our current sensibilities and language.
The Reform siddur, Mishkan T’fillah, addresses these opposite forces with a faithful, contemporary translation of Hebrew texts, as well as a broad set of alternative readings on the left-hand page of two-page spreads.
This is the goal of my new book, This Joyous Soul: A New Voice for Ancient Yearnings. Structured to reflect the morning service found in Mishkan T’filah, this collection provides a new set of ‘left-hand pages’ to enliven our worship. The prayers in This Joyous Soul invite a deeply personal prayer experience that strengthens our connection to Jewish tradition. It’s written to inspire each of us to make the traditional daily liturgy our own. So, my hope is that it will be used both by individuals as part of their personal prayers and will be adopted for use in congregations throughout the Movement.
For generations, the siddur has given voice to our deepest desires. Every generation has left a mark on this great book that spans centuries, continents and cultures. This Joyous Soul is one contribution to that great endeavor: keeping the prayers of our ancestors vital and alive, with a new voice for these ancient yearnings.
At Neilah, the closing service at the end of Yom Kippur, we imagine ourselves standing at the gates of heaven, urgently pleading for forgiveness until the final second of the day expires and the gates close.
The moment is one of great solemnity. We cry out: “Open a gate for us when the gates are being closed, for the day is about to fade” (Mishkan HaNefesh, Yom Kippur, p640). This is it. A last chance to plead our case.
Each year, surrounded by hundreds of congregants, in the urgency of prayer, I imagine myself standing alone at an ancient stone wall. There are two large wooden gates with iron adornments. One of the gates is already closed, the other slowly closing by an unseen force. They look more like the outer gates of a city than the gates of a castle. My prayer enters through these gates. The day fades. The shofar blows. I haven’t passed through the gates, but I haven’t walked away, either.
In this visualization of the metaphor, there’s a gate for each of us. Each gate is different. It’s the gate created by our own triumphs and our own challenges, our own misdeeds and our own acts of tikkun olam. In this version of the metaphor, each year the gate is different, shaped by our lives over the past 12 months.
We are, in truth, always standing at the gates of heaven. In each moment, we have the chance to build or destroy, to love or to withhold love, to bless or to curse, to be brave or to live in fear. Each moment is both a barrier and a portal.
This is what makes “gates” an enduring metaphor. The metaphor is potent with possibility. It’s a reminder of the challenges ahead.
As the sun fades, as darkness sets in, we pray one final viduii, one last confessional before that closing blast of the shofar. Then it is time to go back into the world, renewed and refreshed with the blessing of forgiveness.
Repentance Inside
This I confess:
I have taken my transgressions with me,
Carrying them year by year into my hours and days,
My lapses of conscience
And indiscretion with words,
My petty judgments
And my vanity,
Clinging to grief and fear, anger and shame,
Clinging to excuses and to old habits.
I’ve felt the light of heaven,
Signs and wonders in my own life,
And still will not surrender to holiness and light.
God of redemption,
With Your loving and guiding hand
Repentance in prayer is easy.
Repentance inside,
Leaving my faults and offenses behind,
Is a struggle.
In Your wisdom You have given me this choice:
To live today as I lived yesterday,
Or to set my life free to love You,
To love Your people,
And to love myself.
God of forgiveness, help me to leave my transgressions behind,
To hear Your voice,
To accept Your guidance,
And to see the miracles in each new day.
Blessed are You,
God of justice and mercy,
You who sets Your people on the road to t’shuvah.
Contemporary liturgy is a response to the call of the siddur and the call of our hearts.
The siddur carries the weight of history, the wisdom of our ancestors, the yearnings of humanity, the fears and the glories of our existence, and the resounding call of the shofar still beckoning from Sinai. The voices of the bereaved, the exalted, the confused, and the faithful, the voice of exile, the voice of redemption, and the voices of our parents, blend in the siddur’s unshakeable faith in God and the Jewish people.
So, too, our hearts desire modern language to capture our yearnings, ancient yearnings as old as humanity. Instinctively, we seek to pray with a contemporary voice, while understanding that our hearts’ desires are as old as life itself. In our time, some question both faith and history. Many struggle with concepts of God.
The call of the siddur begs for a response. Classic t’filah – the prayers written and redacted by rabbis and scholars in our time and for centuries before – require present-day voices to unpack new meaning from the old verses and to give them renewed power. Jewish prayer is reaffirmed and reestablished in each generation with a dialogue between our siddur and our hearts.
This is one of the goals of Mishkan T’filah, with ‘left-hand’ pages offering alternative readings and interpretations to the classic prayers that appear on the right. Essentially, the prayers in Mishkan T’filah are in dialogue with themselves, inviting each of us into the conversation. The words of contemporary liturgy sing with the ancient words of prayer.
This Joyous Soul provides a modern expression to classic prayers: from Birkot Hashachar to the Shema, from Amidah to Aleinu. It’s organized around the weekday morning service. Although it can be used with any prayer book, it’s structured to fit Mishkan T’filah, with many of the section heads matching that volume.
Many of the themes of the weekday morning service recur in the afternoon and evening services, as well as Shabbat and holiday services. So, this volume provides a versatile tool for daily, Shabbat and holiday prayer. Prayers specific to Shabbat and the holy days can also be found in the previously-published companion volume, This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day.
This Joyous Soul is a natural follow-up to This Grateful Heart. This Grateful Heart focused on days, times and seasons. Essentially, This Grateful Heart, is about the prayer needs of individuals in their daily lives. While many of the prayers in This Grateful Heart have been incorporated into communal worship by synagogues across North America and the U.K., the focus is on our individual prayer lives.
This Joyous Soul is about the prayer needs of individuals in our communal Jewish lives; in particular, in our worship services. Of course, many of the prayers in This Joyous Soul can be used by individuals in their daily lives, as well.
My hope is that congregations will place copies of This Joyous Soul alongside their regular siddur—in the pews or on the rack of prayer books—either as a supplement to communal worship or for congregants to use in moments of silent contemplation.
Deeper still, I hope that it serves as an invitation for each of us to explore the siddur with fresh eyes, that it opens curiosity – of both clergy and congregant – about the themes and intentions handed down for generations.
Even deeper, I hope that This Joyous Soul: A New Voice for Ancient Yearnings becomes a source of inspiration for you to write your own prayers, for you to actively enter the dialogue between our hearts and our prayers, between our souls and the soul of the siddur, between our voices and the voices of ancient yearnings.
Take a moment to be fully grateful for just one thing in your life. That little pause may be enough to change your outlook and your attitude for the day.
At the URJ Biennial, CCAR Press offered that opportunity with a set of stickers and a poster board featuring the book, This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day. Each of the stickers read ‘I’m grateful for…’ and folks who came by the booth could complete that line and add the sticker to the poster. Adults and kids, rabbis and cantors, educators, congregants, and lay leaders joined in. By the end of the convention, the board was covered with individual prayers of gratitude.
Gratitude for family and the Biennial appeared most often. One of my favorites came from a little girl who dictated her gratitude to her mother: “being fancy.” I got a chuckle reading “my puppy (woof).”
This is a prayer based on those stickers. I added the language in italics – as well as the punctuation and a few of my own gratitudes – and arranged the order. The words of the prayer are taken from the stickers written by Biennial attendees.
Biennial Sticker Prayer of Gratitude
We are grateful for so much, All the gifts this world offers. We celebrate:
The URJ, the CCAR and our congregations,
Biennial, the people, the music and the ruach,
The chance to learn and share,
Being a college ambassador
And singing in the Biennial choir.
I give thanks for:
My family,
My wonderful husband, my wonderful wife,
My children, my grandchildren,
My sons, my daughters,
Nephews and nieces,
Mom and dad,
Sisters and brothers,
My amazing boyfriend,
My fantastic girlfriend,
Thoughtful work friends,
My dog, my puppy (woof) and my cat,
My house, bed and toys,
Best friends and conversations,
Being who I am,
My camp, my nanny and my students,
Jewish music and my guitar,
You.
We marvel at the gifts of:
Dreams, spirit and creativity,
Opportunities, expected and unexpected,
Personal passions,
Good health and sleep,
The ability to grateful,
The ability to forgive,
Second chances and
Guardian angels,
Good food and better company,
Water, hugs and coffee,
Doctors, medicines and helping hands,
America,
Torah and Israel,
Books, puns, words and being fancy.
Today, Source of love and light, We are grateful for
Every. Single. Thing.
