This End Up

Chasing the dragon:

One thing I have asked of the Lord, this I seek, that I may dwell in the House of the Lord all the days of my life, to gaze upon His beauty, and to visit in His sanctuary. ~ Psalm 27

Walt, in the comments below, suggests that in my "chasing the dragon" I am, in reality, chasing my tail. Having given this some thought, I disagree. I am chasing G-d.

I understand that all paths on this earth lead to G-d, whether conscious or unconscious. Yet I think that the beauty of revelation is that your life doesn't turn out in any way that you imagine when you're just treading the conventional path of hopes and dreams, a path that most people happily embrace. It's something else when you end up struck in no uncertain terms by the pull of G-d, and you know it is real and then your life, as I have written many times before, becomes no longer your own.

It isn't like you've given up your life to G-d. It's just that things happen to you, events take their course and you're basically yanked along, off the beaten path, because at some point there was a "yes" and some binding to G-d. So you end up following some mysterious Divine plan instead of the one you imagined for yourself. And all without the comfort of Abraham's G-d, who promised him so much.

The notion of "success" as we understand it goes out the window. You end up being what you were meant to be and having to live with its implications and consequences, which are considerable and quite grand. It is overwhelming and can be unsettling and intriguing at the same time. This is what the experience of awe is like. All of this, coupled with a destiny of obscurity.

So, if I'm in shul, davenning away, and suddenly and surprisingly I find myself in some other space where I've entered G-d's plane, a heightened, charged place of infinite freedom and possibility where you can really breathe, and can see myself through G-d's eyes, and what I see is that davenning is what I was meant to do, that is my sole reason for being, that is who I am, it throws one for a loop. I hadn't read that on the list of approved occupations.

What does one do with this sort of knowledge? It's not as if there is some secular blueprint for how to be uniquely what you were meant to be in the world. It's not like prayer as identity can be proffered on the world stage as something valid when we identify ourselves with our secular jobs and roles. I suppose one could say, "I meditate" "I contemplate" but that's pretty amorphous and insubstantial. I suppose one could become a rabbi or join a monastic prayer community in an attempt to legitimise one's identity to society or oneself. Other than that, there really are no other adequate descriptors. How does one tell: I was created for prayer.

Some say we were meant for praise, which indeed defines prayer beyond supplication. That's the beauty of Judaism for me, there is much room for praise. We begin in the morning with blessings. And we are expected to say at least 100 blessings a day. It takes mindfulness to a whole other level, and legitimises it within an acceptable and sane religious structure. It gives us words when we lack them. It directs us to the divine moment. All we have to do is know that this is what we seek, for to pray is to become praise. You become something else, you enter the flow, the realm of the Divine. It is a being at one with the boundless.

And it's not as if the Divine has not always been there. It just takes a change in consciousness to see what has always been here, the Garden of Eden. And if you've tasted that and seen yourself through G-d's eyes, why would you not want to chase what in essence is the ultimate reality? The mitzvot were created for just that purpose, as was prayer. They make all things right and good and true. In the midst of great suffering within and without, it is sanctuary and respite and the bliss of knowing. It keeps one focussed on what matters and gives strength to bear all things and do what is necessary. Torah addresses the ultimate reality in great detail and the psalms address the chasing.

On the downside, you may start out destitute, abandoned by parents, with no family, feeling displaced until G-d finds you**; I think it's safe to say that most people would find this too high a price to pay, but it isn't something willed. Then having tasted the good and the pleasant, you end up relentlessly and exquisitely sensitised to the venal and ugly and to evil. On their heels come an all-encompassing sorrow and hatred of evil, and an overwhelming desire, part selfish, part selfless, for everyone to see what you see. It's the promise of prophets:

The earth will be filled with the knowledge of G-d, like the waters cover the sea. ~Isaiah 11:9

What can one do, though, to make that happen? You toil in the dark soil of G-d with your chasing and deeds hoping someday the world is flooded with the knowledge of G-d. And at the end even praise ceases to be and you fade away and nothing will be left except the nameless work of your hands, the ultimate reality, here.

** Compare with The Varieties of Religious Experience

Prayer and The Vengeance Demon

I cannot pray.

I was watching an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer yesterday. In it, the Scoobies were having a birthday party for Buffy. What they did not know was that a Vengeance Demon had cursed them, compelling them to stay together inside until they died. If they attempted to head for the door they were not able. They were stuck. Even with the greatest effort, with the greatest intent and will and desire, even when knowing they were stuck, they could not move. They could go upstairs and downstairs and all around the house, but could not manage the smallest gesture needed to orient them to the door. When they tried to talk about it, it was as if their beings were encased in molasses, the effort was so great to break even the smallest aspect of the spell. Paralysis would set in.

And that sums up my current life and my prayer life.

I am frustrated.

We preface the Amidah with, "Open my mouth, O Lord, and my lips will proclaim Your praise".I never understood what this meant until now. I used to think it was rather ridiculous. Of course prayer is easy! What could possibly hamper my heart and my soul, my will and my speech- to pray to G-d is unalloyed joy! In prayer, I was carried along on wings, gliding along a ribbon of words, swooping over and diving into a river of words, an ocean of words, becoming skylark, singing like the skylarks sing, wheeling, descending and ascending.

And now I try to move in a sea of glue. My mind is encased in amber, and I am running up and down within, and around and around. I have difficulty concentrating, but if I make a real effort, I can focus. But then davenning Shacharit becomes overwhelming. I anticipate all the words before me. If I start from the beginning, I am looking at the Sargasso Sea. How to break the curse?

Well, there are many opinions, or ways, some suggested by tradition. The standard response to my dilemma would be that we are obligated to daven 3 times a day, no matter what. On the outside edge of this response are those who think that merely saying the words, making sounds, is enough-your obligation is fulfilled. A variation on this theme is to daven all the words and perhaps something will happen, even if you are not connecting; at least there is anticipation. Another suggestion is to daven the important parts. There is even an abbreviated version of the Amidah for those who haven't the time to do the whole thing. Or one could work with a variation on the morning prayers- there is Sim Shalom(C), Gates of Prayer (Reform), the Artscroll Edition (O), Kol Haneshama (Reconstructionist), a siddur with commentary by Rabbi SR Hirsch, and the Hasidic siddur, all of which I own and have used (unfortunately they all are presently in storage except Sim Shalom). There are also Tehillim (Psalms). All-in-all a vast and fertile well of words, abounding with possibility. Yet, I cannot move towards the door.

The Vengeance Demon is summoned by her old VD pal, Anya. She refuses to break the spell. Until she realises that she cannot leave either! Now that she is inside, she is trapped as well. She knows that in order to release herself, she must release them. Instantly, she waves her arms and says, "Okay, you can all leave now". Huh???? It was so easy! No fulsome incantations? No disgusting admixture of "eye of newt and tongue of gerbil"?

I somehow do not think that there is a single magic key to breaking the spell- that is for fairy tales and TV shows. Some of the early Hasidim would actually spend an hour in meditation just preparing for prayer, fulfilling the words, "Open my mouth, O Lord, and my lips will proclaim Your praise". There is a story told of the Baal Shem Tov, who refused to enter a particular synagogue. When asked why, he said it was "too crowded". "But", pointed out the people, "there are plenty of seats". "No, it is too crowded with prayers, from floor to ceiling- dead prayers, stale prayers, prayers of habit".

Then along comes Nachman of Breslov, another great Hasidic master, who enjoins Jews to go out into the fields and just talk with G-d- out loud. In this marvelous little book, The Empty Chair, he advises:

As often as you can, take a trip out to the fields to pray. All the grasses will join you. They will enter your prayers and give you strength to sing praises to God.

Okay, I get the picture. Prayer by rote is less than useless. Kavannah is essential. How to reconcile, then, all the facets of this Jewish picture? I have so much choice. Lately, I have found that even though I can be less than disciplined, there is something to the standard exhortation to fulfill the obligation of prayer, though as I understand it, it is not from the Torah (it is a Rabbinic injunction). Often, I think, the Sages were wise and divinely inspired. So, discipline is good and worth the effort. Davenning every day informs my Jewishness and gives sacred structure to my life.

Yet, I think that it is better to speak the words with at least an anticipation that something will happen. I have tried rote, just to fulfill the obligation, but I find myself incapable of an act that seems so unnatural to me. If I add hope to it, that something will happen, I am making the effort. Even prayer at its most fundamental- largely by rote, shows the davenner is making an effort. But I think being aware that something changes when we pray enriches even the dreariest moments with possibility.

Some days, I can barely speak in prayer. Some days I am mute. Some days all I can say, besides the Shema, is "help". Other days, I pray a passage from another Breslov book, The Gentle Weapon. I have walked in the fields and talked to G-d, and cried in my room to G-d. I have found some comfort in Tehillim in the middle of the night. Sometimes, I am aware that simply one's being is a prayer, if it is turned towards or back to G-d. I have davenned all of the morning service for fairly long stretches. I have the least trouble davenning when I am in a minyan, which for the moment, is not available to me on weekdays. At Shabbat services, I have no problems focussing. G-d is getting a scattershot of prayer from me- sometimes structured, sometimes chaotic, but never, I realise, weak or indifferent, and always- me. So, I guess that, even within this petrified world I seem to inhabit, I am doing something besides banging noisily against the bars.

I want to have light bones, hollow bones; I want to sing. The only thing I have not been able to accomplish yet is to find the words or action to break the curse- the emotional and psychological paralysis that makes my prayer and my life seem so heavy and sluggish. I know the words will be simple. And the act will be simple. As purely as I know that the Vengeance Demon is me.

Temple of Judaism Lite

The other day I was talking with my temporary counsellor. She knew I was not happy here. Part of my difficulty has been in not finding a Jewish community that I can relate to. Actually, it really has more to do with davenning (praying).

I am a davenning fool. At my previous (C)synagogue, I attended morning minyan almost every day. I attended services every Shabbat, both Friday and Saturday and every festival. I complain that the services are too short. The highlight of my life has been the hours I spent davenning barefoot during Yom Kippur at Chabad one year.

I am particularly enamoured of Hasidic philosophy. I remember once reading that everyone is gifted in some manner- some have a gift for davenning, others for studying Torah, and others for tzedakah (charity). And, I would add, some are gifted in chesed (deeds of lovingkindness). Well, I have the gift of davenning. I took to it like a duck to water. The first time I opened the siddur and prayed, I was transported- such extravagant, ravishing poetry.

Many Jews I have known, usually disaffected, have complained that they do not know Hebrew and prayer is meaningless to them, not to mention, boring. I find this hard to comprehend. I daven in English. Perhaps it is as meaningful as one makes it- it all depends on what you bring to it. If you do not bring yourself, then how can you be engaged? If you do not believe that you can connect with G-d, then you are mouthing words to nothing. To a rational person who does not believe in the possibility of connection, indeed, it would seem absurd.

It also requires focus. Strong concentration. This is something that comes naturally to me. Jews have been looking to other religions, other kinds of meditation, to fill the gap in their connection to G-d, and sometimes, to Judaism. I think that the fixed prayers are a genius system for meditation and contemplation. There is a logic to the structure and content. The result can be that you traverse different levels of consciousness until your entire being becomes one of praise and the words do not really matter any longer. You simply become... Praise.

At the synagogue I usually attend here, the rabbi has added niggunim (wordless melodies) in various places after having chopped off almost everything up to Shacharit (morning service). Instead of preparing for the central prayers, the Kriat Sh'ma and the Amidah, after a brief niggun we are plunged right into Shacharit. To me it feels shockingly abrupt. No dipping your toe into the waters- damn the torpedoes!

Adonai passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and broke the rocks in pieces before G-d; but G-d was not in the wind; and after the wind, an earthquake; but G-d was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake, a fire; but G-d was not in the fire; and after the fire, a thin voice of silence [ a still, small voice] (I Kings 19:11-12).

The other thing guaranteed, it seems, to leave me in misery, is the rabbi's little moments of guidance. The genius of the fixed prayers is that they provide a structure and encourage and nurture an inward flow- all prayer leads to an inner silence, perhaps directly to that "still small voice" that Eliyahu (Elijah) met. The rabbi, however, will comment on a bit of the Torah portion, or on middot, or on "mindfulness", wherever he sees fit, all the while, pulling me out of either my reaching for G-d, my connecting to G-d, my conversing with G-d, my contemplation of G-d, or my standing mute before G-d- out of the flow. When I am barely through half of the Amidah, another niggun begins. So, often, I feel as if I am back where I started.

I suppose that everyone who davens with kavannah (devout intent) has a singular purpose that meets their needs. In my case, that time davenning helps me to renew and refresh my pursuit of holiness. Cleaving to G-d is a reality. Even when it does not seem to happen, the effort sustains me. It is hard to be a Jew. It is important to drink from the Source in order to live a holy, Jewish life, with purity of heart. Wrestling with G-d and with my own proclivities seems to be my lot in life. I cannot simply sustain myself with affirmations. Nor, I think, can anyone. I come away from services, frustrated , annoyed and disappointed.

Currently, I have this dilemma. There is a temple with more traditional services across town, where sometimes, the davenning makes me feel at home. The rest of the time, I have to move several times because of all the talking. On the other hand, the synagogue I usually attend (Temple of Judaism Lite), provides me with a community I am getting to know- I am not anonymous. Neither satisfies my most fundamental need.

The counsellor said that I should look at what I can bring to it and she is right. However, I have no family, I have no friends here, I have no one and I don't even want to be here. I have no earthly foundation to raise me up and keep me strong- no bedrock of prayer and sacred community to assuage my misery and give me a reason to spread my wings- somewhere I can hang my kippah and call it "home". Without that stability, I feel lost and adrift. The counsellor said that I should not look outside but inside myself- self-reliance. I said, that is not the Jewish way. I am not self-sufficient. Frankly, neither do I think that G-d is enough, though He is the final comfort and hope when all else fails or disappoints. A Jewess without a community striving for holiness is like a limb without a body.

Catherine Madsen sums up my dilemma quite well in a letter of rebuttal to the charges of "art-snob hyperbole" regarding her essay on the watering down of words, Kitsch and Liturgy. Madsen writes:

Arlene Goldbard is, of course, right that working on substantive matters with people we may or may not like is the essence of communal religious life, and that we can do it with or without wholly satisfying liturgy.

....But there's a point Goldbard misses: kitsch, when used publicly and set above criticism, doesn't remain a matter of personal taste. It becomes genuinely demoralizing to certain serious and committed people who badly want to become stronger people and can't manage it on a diet of liturgical mind candy. The operative words of the sentence she takes as quintessential "art-snob hyperbole" are abjectness and humiliation: it's painful when the writers of liturgy consistently heap contempt on our needs and on the intelligence of the people we pray with—even the people we may not like. I call it "the worst humiliation" because the rest of religious life really is full of honor and purpose; where is the capacity of new liturgical writing for honor and purpose?

I am wrestling with the question of "should I leave or should I stay"? In addition, I know the rabbi is trying to bring disaffected Jews back to the fold, and is succeeding in terms of numbers. One person stated that she loved the liturgy because it was not "intimidating". He is using the tools of Jewish Renewal mixed with simple Hasidic philosophy as a framework. And yet, there is no heart to it, I feel. It seems a dish served cold, and the elaborate and demanding sumptuousness of Jewish thought and questioning has been diluted into what I think of as "Judaism Lite". If water does seek its own level, then, currently, I am wracked with thirst. Moreover, to paraphrase the wondrous Auntie Mame, it seems to me that "Judaism is a banquet and we poor suckers are starving to death".