Worship in the synagogue is roughly 2000-years-old.  The prayerbook (siddur), however, is only about 1100-years-old.  One reason for this time gap is that in the days before the printing press, the creation and distribution of a large number of siddurim was simply impractical.  More to the point, the competing notions of keva (consistency) and kavanah (devotion) tended to tilt toward the latter in the early centuries of worship.  The prayer leader (sh’liah hatzibbur) had a good deal of latitude in how he wished to express established rubrics that determined the order of worship.      

With the creation of a siddur, however, keva began to overtake kavanah.  People prayed the words that were before them.  Further, the siddur itself began to expand.  Jewish communities were comfortable with including new prayers and readings, but uncomfortable about dropping established ones.  By the middle of the nineteenth century, a standard siddur (now printed and widely distributed) had become rather long and unwieldy.  Many of the additional prayers and liturgical poems were thematically repetitive.  Thus, began the era of prayerbook reform.      

From the start, Reformers made two important changes in the siddur.  They began to cut down the length, particularly eliminating redundant prayers and readings.  And they introduced a translation of the service into the vernacular (German, French, Yiddish, and English, among others).   Reducing the size of the siddur also reduced the length of a service.  When combined with increasingly larger portions of worship being recited in the vernacular, a tacit understanding within the congregation was achieved.  Congregants would make a point of being present at the start of the service, and staying through to the end.  The pace of worship would be dignified; not excessively fast, and virtually all of it would be recited aloud.      What happened to kavanah? 

Classic nineteenth and early twentieth century Reform Judaism put a great deal of stock into idealist reason; that is, a non-metaphysical rational understanding of the world about imbued with a progressive spirit.  Jewish liturgy was therefore translated or paraphrased to be both scientifically sound and socio-politically optimistic.  The liturgy was designed to say just what most of the congregation already believed.  Kavanah was built into the service, rather than being something brought by the individual to worship.      

Toward the latter half of the last century, Jewish optimism in the inextricable progress of civilization began to be shaken.  A liturgy that exuded idealist reason began to ring a bit hollow.  Even after the experience of the Holocaust, however, it was not shattered.  Reason and progress still animated most of those who joined Reform congregations, but it could no longer be the sole basis of kavanah in a Reform service.  The Movement responded to a new reality – it reformed! – and created a new type of prayerbook (Gates of Prayer) that attempted to tackle a variety of approaches to worship with a variety of prayer themes.      

The newest siddur, Mishkan T’fila, has made an important modification.  Gates of Prayer offered a variety of services, each one of which was thematic consistent.  Kavanah could be brought to bear on the service, only if the theme of that day’s worship resonated for you.  Mishkan T’fila, on the other hand, brings a variety of themes together on each two-page spread.  A worshiper has a choice.  You can read (or sing) along with the prayer leader.  Or, you can read to yourself one of the alternative prayers.  Or, you can meditate and create a prayer of your own.  Public and silent worship is combined; kavanah is preserved.    

Vassar Temple’s late starting Shabbat service maintains this more conventional approach to Reform worship.  It is a reform of classic Reform.  No doubt, future congregations and siddurim will modify the approach in order to suit yet unknown developments in Jewish thought.  From near the start of the synagogue worship service, Jewish prayer has been a combination of keva and kavanah, achieved through a combination of public and silent worship.  Vassar Temple employ two ways of preserving this most basic element of the service

If you went to an American public school, you began each morning with the Pledge of Allegiance; day in, day out, five days a week for thirteen years (Kindergarten through senior year of High School).  This regimen comes to over 2300 recitations.  I would wager that you can recite the 31 words (29, if you went to school before 1954, and did not say “under God”) to this day.  It is pretty well burned into your memory.  But, what did it mean?      I am not referring to proper definitions of the words of the Pledge, but rather to what import did have on you; what was the overall aim and purpose in reciting it daily?  Did it work?  If one of the purposes was that you would remember it, it probably was successful.  Has the Pledge actually reinforced a sense of allegiance in you, to either the flag or the U.S.?  Maybe!  I am certain, however, that one purpose was indeed achieved: the school as an institution had publicly bonded itself to the country and its flag.      

This last assertion is important.  Reciting the Pledge may or may not create within you a sense of patriotic loyalty, but your saying the words established that loyalty for the institution in which you said it.  Thus, from the institution’s point of view, not everyone actually has to speak the words of the Pledge.  Somebody does, but you might be exempt.  During the recitation, you might let your mind wander.  Occasionally, you might even focus on the words of the Pledge – not all the words, perhaps, just a phrase or two – and ponder what they really mean to you.      

The Pledge of Allegiance is an apt model for traditional synagogue worship.  There is a fixed liturgy, and from the point-of-view of the institution (in this case, the congregation in the synagogue), the words ought to be said.  They need not be said by everyone.  Classically, congregations have selected a sh’liah tzibbur [literally, the congregational representative] to recite the liturgy.  (The sh’liah tzibbur can be a volunteer, or a professional like a cantor [hazzan] or rabbi.)  The rest of the minyan is then free to recite the prayers along with the leader, or to focus on something else.      

As a matter of practice, the sh’liah tzibbur does not recite everything aloud.  Much of the service is carried on in silence, or near silence, as it is not unusual to hear congregants singing or reading softly to themselves.  The sh’liah tzibbur generally only announces through bits of liturgy where the minyan is in the service.  Congregants are confident that the sh’liah tzibbur is actually reading the liturgy, freeing each of them to do what they wish.  One would expect that many, having chosen to attend the service in the first place, would take this opportunity to meditate on the personal meaning of the liturgy to themselves.      

In Part I, I introduced the key concepts of keva (consistency) and kavanah (devotion).  Through the employment of a sh’liah tzibbur  and the liberal use of silent or personal reading,  Jewish liturgical practice takes the rhythm of prayer, its rote repetitiveness and familiarity, and allows it to be turned into the possibility of personal devotion.      Actually, kavanah is not possible with keva.  Services move by too fast, making reflection and meditation nearly impossible.  When the service becomes really familiar – like the words of the Pledge – mostly through regular attendance, then one is free to pick and choose among the prayers; to spend the silent stretches creating a personal bridge to the divine through bits and pieces of the liturgy.    

 When Vassar Temple holds its early evening Shabbat service, it is offering each congregant to bring kavanah to the keva of the liturgy.  Clearly, the practice works better for those already familiar with the service.  When, however, the Temple conducts a later evening service, it employs a more classical Reform Jewish approach to the liturgy.  In Part III, I will discuss the reasoning behind that style of service.

Regular attendees of Vassar Temple’s Friday evening services note a substantial shift in how worship is done when the service is moved from 7:30 to the pre-dinner 6pm time during the winter months. The change is that we substitute the public reading of the central portion of the service – the Amidah – with a silent reading. An important reason for that change is to facilitate a somewhat shorter service in time. It also represents two approaches to worship based in Jewish tradition and practice. Here, in this and the next two blog submissions, I will explain the sources of the two approaches.

Jewish worship is a strange thing. When does one pray? Whenever you feel the need or urge to pray: in the morning, evening, the middle of the night. And where does one pray? Wherever you are at the time you feel you ought to pray. At home, at work, on vacation, in the car. So, what is prayer that is recited at a fixed time and in a fixed location? Informally, Jews do not refer to this activity as prayer, but rather as davening. But, does this mean that when you show up at the synagogue on a Friday evening for services, you are not praying?

From the earliest days of the worship service, this issue concerned Jewish religious leadership, the classic Rabbis. They responded to the problem by suggesting that one must approach the service with two attitudes: keva and kavanah; with consistency and devotion.

Keva, its literal meaning is “rhythm,” is similar to the attitude you might have when you brush your teeth, take the dog for a walk or catch the 6:32 train each morning to work. These are repeatable activities, but they are not merely habits. You do them because they each have an intrinsic value, and thus you do them even when you are not particularly in the mood. Sometimes you simply wish to forego brushing your teeth, but you do it anyway. You do it not just because you are concerned about cavities or bad breath, but also because you sense that you are going to feel bad later on if you did not.

Such is the keva of Jewish worship: a regularly performed act made up of a consistent set of prayers and readings, to be recited in community (the minyan) at a particular location (the synagogue) and a set time. You go and recite the prayers, occasionally even when you do not feel particularly interested in doing so, because you also sense that it is important, and because you will miss it later if you neglected it. The keva of Jewish worship requires merely showing up.

Kavanah [literally “intention”], on the other hand, does pertain to attitude. The liturgy of Jewish worship is, after all, prayer. It is supposed to speak to the heart, to your hopes and dreams. To this end, Jewish worship demands more than merely showing up. It asks you to wring meaning out of the words set before you on the page of the siddur (prayerbook), and to make them your own.

As you can see, keva and kavanah are in tension. The sheer obligation to recite prayers at a set time and place works against doing so with feeling and devotion. The classic Rabbis did not expect individuals (including themselves) to resolve this tension. Such is the reality of life. They did, however, offer some techniques that made the melding of the two distinct elements of worship more possible. In the next post, I will discuss what the Rabbis suggested.