Blessed are you, Hashem, who listens to prayer

One of my favorite prayers in the daily Amida is Shema Koleinu – Hear Our Voice.  It comes towards the end of our daily requests for knowledge, justice, prosperity, etc, and it essentially asks God to listen to what we have to say.

Listen to our voice, Lord our God.
Spare us and have compassion on us,
and in compassion and favor accept our prayer,
for You, God, listen to prayers and pleas.
Do not turn us away, O our King,
empty-handed from Your presence,
for You listen with compassion
to the prayer of Your people Israel.
Blessed are you, Hashem, who listens to prayer.

Within the context of the service, this makes quite a lot of sense.  We have just spent close to forty minutes (or more) saying psalms to warm up, praying introductory prayers reminding us of our obligations, and praising God for God’s wonder and majesty manifest in so many different ways.

However, sometimes, I don’t feel worthy enough to say this prayer.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t say it, but when I do, I feel a little twinge of guilt.  Who am I to compel God to listen to me?  Why are my thoughts and dreams any more important than someone else in the next pew or on the next block?  I have especially found this feeling when I know that I haven’t been totally sincere in my previous prayers.  Why should God listen to me if all I have just been going through the motions to just get on with my day?

And then, I look at the language of Shema Koleinu again, and I realize why.  The key is that the entire thing is plural!  It is not about me at all.  In fact, it is more about me ensuring that God is listening to the guy next to me! “Hear our voice… have compassion on us… accept our prayers.”

Just like in the confession of the High Holydays (we have sinned – al chet shechatanu…), it is about our actions as a collective, not as individuals.  Maybe this is why we are supposed to pray with others.  That way its not just me alone with my thoughts.  If I am standing next to someone else who is davening intently, I am going to be more likely to be sincere in my prayers, since I know that my actions will reflect on him (and his on me), both in the moment for each other, and also on a higher level.

I think that Shema Koleinu also encourages us to think beyond ourselves.  It helps us to see the bigger picture, and remind us that the world is larger than our own bubble.  I hope that in the future, as I say these ancient words, my merit will help others needs be met, and  others will be able to help me.  That is the true power of community.  Being able to support each other in a time of need and working together to create a brighter world.

Marks On My Arm

Mitzvot leave marks on us, literally and figuratively.

This thought came to me earlier this week as I was unwrapping my tfillin, and I saw the lines that it had etched into my skin.  Later that day, I had rolled up my sleeves for something and, surprisingly, the lines were still there!  A physical reminder of my mitzvah.

Our skin is a tough layer.  It protects us from the outside world and it keeps us whole and safe.  However it is also maleable.  It changes and grows throughout our lives, it reacts to the choices we make, and it is endlessly flexible.  We also have an inner, mental, skin.  This barrier also protects us from the world.  It is our filter that doesn’t let bad thoughts out, and it keeps harmful influences from getting in.  Yet we have the power to affect this barrier, to open it and to close it.

Daily, tzitit and tfillin remind us of the mitzvot.  They are constant physical signs of our obligation to live Jewish lives and to do good in the world.  Mitzvot, in turn, are what affect our inner layer.  Mitzvot help us to make decisions, they affect our outlook, and doing one mitzvah will lead you to do more (“mitzvah gorreret mitzvah – wooh!”), creating more and more good in the world.

“should I not raise my voice, so that my [troubled] spirit may be calmed?”

The story is told of a man who always regretted not having read Scripture nor recited Mishnah.  Once, as he was standing in the synagogue and the reader before the ark reached the [Kedusha] the man raised his voices, responding loudly to the reader, “Holy, holy, holy is the lord of hosts” (Isa. 6:3).  People asked him, “What impelled you to raise your voice?”  He replied, “I have not had the privilege of reading Scripture or reciting Mishnah.  Now when I get the opportunity [to respond], should I not raise my voice, so that my [troubled] spirit may be calmed?”  Not one year passed by nor a second, nor a third byt that [good fortune came to this man].  He went up from Babylonia to the land of Israel, was made an officer of the Roman emperor’s army, and was appointed supervisor of all the fortresses in the land of Israel.  Then they assigned him an area where he built himself a town, in which he settled.  And he, his children, and his grandchildren until the end of all the generations came to be recognized as coloni [citizens of Rome - this is a play on words, the latin word colonus means settler or citizen of Rome, however the Hebrew word koloni means "one who raises his voice in prayer" (see Numbers Rabbah 4:20)].

Sefer HaAggadah / The Book of Legends

Bialik and Ravnitsky 528:212

This story jumped out at me this morning as I was looking through the Sefer HaAggadah.  I was thinking about power and how it is manifested, and the index led me to this tale.  Often, one thinks that to be in power one must have mastery over what they have learned.  And yes, mastery is the ideal, what we should always be striving for and looking to achieve.  But sometimes, it isn’t possible, or we just haven’t achieved it yet.  And this story reminds us that its coming, down the road someday, and we just have to keep trying.  Our protagonist had never studied before, but he prayed with all of his heart, and justified his motivations before the community.  Many years later he came into his power, and he was able to gain acceptance in society, as someone who is sincere in his prayer.

Hear Our Voice

Recently, I was davening in shul, and something really profound hit me, praying out loud and praying silently feel completely different!

In truth, this is something that should be inherent knowledge.  People often feel better after shul when there has been lots of singing together, beautiful harmonies, and banging on the chairs.

But I think that it is more than that, because I get the same feeling from vocalization, when I am davening by myself.

One of my favorite sounds in the world is the sound of multiple people praying at the same time.  A few years ago, I was walking across camp, visiting various units tfilot.  My coworker, who I was walking with, made a point to stop in a spot where we could hear three different groups singing and praying, all at different points in the service. I get a similar feeling each week in shul, usually somewhere in Pseuki D’Zimrah or Shacharit, when many different daveners are in different places, and everyone is mumbling along at their own pace.  It is such a beautiful sound.

But the act of vocalizing your prayers, taking the words you are thinking and making them real, is so powerful.  Whether through song, mumbles, hums, or just saying them out loud.  When you say a prayer out loud, there can be no doubt that you said it.  You have taken your thoughts and dreams, hopes and loves, and most fervent wishes and placed them within the context of your words, and sent them out into the world.  When you say something out loud, you are putting the power of your hopes into your words, and you are enabling someone else to hear your prayer.  God is definitely listening to the prayers in your heart, but there is something particularly special about saying a prayer out loud, making it that much easier to be heard.

Shacharit on the Sand

Living and working in the city, I don’t get to spend a lot of time outside. So it is very rare that I get to appreciate the wonder of the sunrise. In fact, most days I don’t wake up until the sun has already risen, and I daven in the darkness of the subway on my morning commute. I’m not complaining about this, but this week I was incredibly lucky.

This week I spent three days on the eastern tip of Long Island, at a staff retreat about a 30 second walk from the beach. Now, I’ve never really been a beach person. My only beaches growing up were crowded and dirty along long island sound. I didn’t like getting very sandy, and swimming in salt water was unpleasant.

However I have always appreciated the ocean, and since we were so close I thought it would be a new experience to daven at sunrise on the edge of the Atlantic. And wow, I was really blown away.

I timed it well and was in the middle of Birkot HaShachar, the morning blessings for the miracles of life as the orange ball of sun leapt out of the ocean. There was something about the magic of the timing, the sun fully up over the horizon and the waves lapping against the shore just as I said “…rokah ha aretz al ha mayim” – who separates the land from the water. It was a really powerful moment.

And it renewed in me the yearn to daven every morning. Even if I’m not able to fully appreciate a wonderous sunrise or the beauty of the ocean every day, there is so much magnificence in the glory of all of creation, and I am so incredibly lucky that I am able to live it every day.

This is Atlan-Tic!

This morning, I had a really powerful experience.

Here in New York, and probably in most other cities, it is not uncommon to be confronted with homelessness.  In fact, this was the second time that I had encountered this particular gentleman.

I was  already in a pensive mood, and I was just going through the motions of davening, but my heart wasn’t really in it.  My train pulls up to Atlantic avenue, and I hear from the platform someone shout, “This is Atlan-Tic!”

“Oh no,” I think to myself, “please don’t get in my car.”  A few weeks ago I was on the way to work, and this same man stepped on the train, and proceeded to loudly exclaim, over and over again, “This is Atlan-Tic! This is Atlan-Tic! Yes it is!  Sho-ping Mall!  Going to Lexing-ton! This is Atlan-Tic!”

Most people’s immediate reaction when someone like this is on your train is to ignore them at all costs.  I have seen people get off and wait for another train, in order to avoid confrontation.  In fact, I thought about doing the same this morning, all I wanted was peace and quiet so that I could be grumpy to myself.

But I was already running slightly late, so I stayed on the train, and continued davening as the man next to me exclaimed, ”This is Atlan-Tic! This is Atlan-Tic! Yes it is!”  However, then something different happened.  He looked at the cover of my siddur, and seemed puzzled for a minute or two.  Then he looked at me again and said, “You speak Ara-bic?” I start to say that no, this is Hebrew, but he interrupts and says “I speak Ara-bic!  Saalam Aleikum! Saalam Aleikum! Peace!”  And then he shakes my hand.

“I speak French too!  And Span-ish!  Como Se Va!  Buen-os Di-as! Good Mor-ning! This is Atlan-tic!”  He then moved away to another part of the car, talking about all of the languages he speaks.

All in all, I’m not really sure what to make of the situation.  At the time, I found it really hard to keep davening, not because of the distractions, but because my heart wasn’t in it.  Seeing this man, who clearly has some sort of disability and lives on the streets, and having him speak directly to me while I was in the middle of praising God’s goodness, was a very jarring experience.

The center of Pseukei D’Zimrah, or the morning verses of praise, is Psalm 145, commonly referred to as Ashrei.  There are two lines that really stuck out to me this morning, as I was davening and listening to this gentleman.

The Lord supports all who fall, and raises all who are bowed down.  All raise their eyes to you in hope, and you give them their food in due season.  You open up your hand, and satisfy every living thing with your favor.

What?!  How can it be OK for me to say this, when clearly this man, among millions of others, is destitute.

So I’m not sure what to make of any of this.  On the one hand I want to cry out against the injustices of the world.  How can we thank God for all of these wonders, and at the same time acknowledge that the world isn’t anywhere near perfect?  How can my contributions matter, when there is still so much more to be done?  How can God just sit around, and let these awful things happen?

But what I really can’t get over, is that this man, the entire time, was as happy as a clam.  He wasn’t begging, he wasn’t sad, and he wasn’t angry.  He was just happy to go along his way, telling us all where we were, and what was next.  If I have one wish for today, it is that this gentleman, wherever he is in the bowels of the city, is still happy, and that someone else will notice him and choose not to ignore him or turn away.  And maybe that person will be able to help.   And that would be the real proof of the opening of God’s hand.

Transit Museum Time Machine

I’ve been wanting to go to the New York City Transit Museum for a long time, and so I was really excited when I went with my Girlfriend for my birthday last week!

I’ve attached some pictures from our adventure here.  In retrospect I wish I had gotten a lot more, now I know what to do next time.

The transit museum is really cool because it is located in an actual working (although not active) subway station.  Essentially, its a station that they don’t need anymore, but instead of closing it to the public, they have opened it and put a number of older subway cars there for people to visit.

One of my favorite parts of the museum (as you can see in the photos above) was seeing some of the old advertisements in the car.  Today’s ads are pretty bad: language classes, trashy novels, dermatologists, and lap-band surgery.  However these older adds actually had some class to them.  Free concerts, home remedies instead of harsh laxatives, and of course, subway tips like not using the subway as a freight line, and remembering to cover your mouth when you sneeze.

These ads, and the cars that featured them, were a neat glimpse into the New York of the past.  I wonder what it was really like back then.  When I was a kid, I loved going with my family to the Shorline Trolley Museum and other train attractions around the country.  When I went to the Trolley Museum with my grandmother, she would always talk about how she used to take the trolleys to work, and how they weren’t anywhere near as fun as they were today.  They would always break down, or they would detach from the wires, or they were a mess.  I bet the same is true for these nostalgic trains.  In fact, when I am riding the subway around the city, I find myself hoping that a newer train comes up to the platform, the old trains make a lot of noise and are dirty.

Our visit to the transit museum reminded me that I need to appreciate my daily train rides more.  I am so lucky to be able to live and work in a place where public transportation is available for my use, and it works!  Even now, I still get that same thrill that I got as a kid, seeing the lights of the train coming up to the platform.  I hope that it stays that way forever.