[In this week's Torah portion, Parashat Pekudei, Moses records the materials used in the Tabernacle (the portable temple that the Israelites carry in the wilderness). Betzalel and Oholiab make the special garments for the Hight Priest—the ephod (apron), the breastplate, the robe and the headpiece. Moses erects the Tabernacle and arranges and sanctifies the instruments of sacrificial worship within it. When Moses completes the Tabernacle, the cloud of God's Presence fills it.]


I opened the door for my beloved...
—Song of Songs 5:6

Beloved,

That little house was the first home of our love—our secret refuge of joy. How long did you spend arranging all our treasures in those cramped rooms? The chandelier sprouting arms like tree branches, the table made from ancient wood, the dishes from your mother's cabinets—I see them sparkle and shine with the far-away colors of remembered light. 

I picture you arrayed in old-fashioned finery—clothes that seemed comically grown-up, gaudy jewels that sparkled on your breast, a gown that flowed like moonbeams to the floor. A shudder takes me as I remember how your sight thrilled me.

We dined in that house on meager meals with the aroma of feasts. The spice of our love drifted through the rooms so thick that we would be sated licking air. On the day we moved in, we looked at each other and no other moment could exist.

In years since, we have lived in many rooms and travelled continents. I have known your sighs in the night, and I have been comforted by the song of your voice in my sorrow. Yet, that little house, the one in the middle of the wilderness of hope and discovery, will always be our best. It was the place where I opened the door to let you in—radiant, young, beautiful—and collapsed with you onto the couches of ecstasy.

Earlier this week, I posted a commentary on the Torah portion, Vayakhel (which, it is worth noticing, means, "He gathered the community"). I wrote about how when people come together creatively, the result can be a miraculous unity in which disparate parts join to form a whole that appears to be the "work of one hand."

Surely, you have experienced this. Most people, I think, have had the experience of a collaboration in which no one person can claim responsibility for a creation that is far greater than any one contribution.

That is the kind of experience that can make Jewish communal life truly joyful. It is the experience of being part of something larger than oneself and of seeing  oneself deeply interconnected with others that can make a Jewish community feel like a holy place.

What are the specific examples of this experience that we can promote in our communities to make contemporary Judaism more joyful? I have three examples below and I'm curious to hear about your own.

1) Group Singing. It is no coincidence that almost every religious tradition in the world has some practice of group singing. There is something hard-wired in the human psyche that makes the experience of hearing ones own voice amid the voices of others feel deeply calming, joyful and fulfilling. It is as if, in the moment of singing together, we lose ourselves in the ocean of sound we make with a community. This has to be part of the reason why volunteer choirs often have such a passionate following. But group singing should not be limited to the people who rehearse and perform together. Anything that promotes more communal singing during services—for example, choosing musical settings that are easy to learn, using repetitive chants, taking time to teach a new melody, handing out rhythm instruments—all enhance the joy that people can experience in worship. Also, it is important to remind the congregation that the quality of their vocal skills is irrelevant; when everyone sings, there is no "audience" and every voice, no matter what it sounds like, adds to the joy.

2) Chavruta Study. Study partners working in pairs is an ancient Jewish practice. The partners share a text and argue its points to each other. The curious thing about studying in chavruta (or chavrusa) is that new insights about the text arise between the partners that, it often seems, would not have occurred if each of the students had studied alone. Traditional chavruta study can be expanded into groups of threes, fours or fives. Also, it need not be limited to the study of traditional texts, but can be expanded to the study of modern commentaries, poetry and other texts. When it works well, people find that part of what makes chavruta study rich and rewarding is learning about another person through a text, and learning a text through learning about another person. It is an experience of lifting yourself out of your own being and learning to see with the eyes of another.

3) Social Action Projects. We don't usually think about how we personally benefit from working on a social action project that is designed to help others. However, when we send relief to disaster victims, collect and distribute food for the hungry, or build homes for the homeless, we are fulfilling a basic need within ourselves, too. Human beings need to feel useful. There have been many studies that show that people prefer to work for nothing on a project that is useful than to receive pay for work that is useless. When we make ourselves useful to others in a project that we do in collaboration with others, the experience of connection and fulfillment is doubly fulfilling. In every social action project, include lots of opportunities for volunteers to get to know each other, to talk about the meaning of what they are doing, and to connect it to Jewish teaching and values.

What have been your best experiences of joyful community building? Please share your ideas about gathering people together to discover that they form a sacred whole that is greater than the sum of their individual contributions.

“Lazybones, go look at the ants. Study their ways and become wise. Without leaders, officers, or rulers, they prepare their stores in the summer, gather their food at harvest time" (Proverbs 6:6).

An ant can spend an entire day, or many days, doing nothing but moving grains of sand from point A to point B. Sometimes, an ant will do this without even noticing that another ant, simultaneously, is moving the same grains from point B back to point A. 

A colony of ants, though, can do remarkable things. Leafcutter ants, for example, plant, feed and harvest a fungus that provides for all their food. They make adjustments in the care of the fungus in response to factors like temperature and their nutritional needs. Other ant species can build tunnels underground starting from two distant points that meet, incredibly, at exactly the right place in the middle.

Taken individually, ants are mindless. Taken as a community, they are miraculous. In a way, this is what this week's Torah portion is about.

Parashat Vayakhel begins with Moses instructing the Israelites about Shabbat: "On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a Shabbat of complete rest..." Moses gathers the people to remind them (they've heard this before) about how to observe the sanctity of the seventh day. "...You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on Shabbat" (Exodus 35:1-3).

Then, abruptly, the subject changes. In the very next verse, Moses instructs the Israelites about the materials they should donate for the construction of the Mishkan, the tabernacle for God they will carry through the wilderness. Moses tells them to bring metals, yarns, skins, stones, and incense. 

What does Shabbat have to do with building a portable temple?

The Isbitzer Rebbe (whom I quoted in one of last week's post) states that the connection between Shabbat and the building of the Mishkan has to do with bringing people together. In the collection of his teachings, Mei HaShiloach, he says, "The building of the Mishkan brought all of Israel together in their hearts, with none raising his or herself over a fellow worker." This is like Shabbat, he says, because Shabbat is all about connecting ourselves to something greater than our own individuality. 

The Isbitzer explains that when the Israelites would look at the things they themselves had done to build the Mishkan—attaching an animal skin to a frame, beating a golden fastening ring into shape, or carving a tent peg—they would be suitably impressed by the careful and loving work of their own hands. However, it was only when the Israelites saw the Mishkan assembled as a whole—how the frames all fit together and how the skins and tapestries came to form a unity—that they realized how each piece belonged to the others. 

The Israelites had the simultaneous experience of great humility for the smallness of their own individual contribution and great pride in what they had done together. Each saw that this particular sum was composed of more than their individual human parts. In allowing themselves to come together in holiness, holiness itself provided the crowning glory for their labors.

The Isbitzer says, "The Shechinah [God's indwelling presence] would not have been able to dwell within Israel if even one tent peg had been missing. Therefore, none could think him or herself as higher than any fellow worker—not even the one who made the Ark over the one who made the tent pegs for the courtyard."

When we seek a spiritual life, we strive to discover personal meaning. We want to know the purpose for which we were made and we want to know how we can reach toward God. We sometimes forget, though, that living a spiritual life is not, so to speak, an individual sport. We are most able to see ourselves as part of something larger than ourselves when we do it as part of a community. We see the path toward our own individual life's meaning when we see it reflected in the eyes of others.

As you go through this week of Vayakhel, take some time to consider how community plays a role in your spiritual development. When you are feeling that you are lost in your life's  journey toward meaning and purpose, when you are lost in seeking God's presence in your life, do you allow connection to community to guide you back? Do you (perhaps privately and quietly within yourself) believe that you have to "go it alone" to find spirituality? Just think about those tent pegs.

Jews are not ants, but we can learn something from them. As human beings, we need to be more self-reflective than an ant is capable of being. Ants don't have egos, but we need to allow our ego to assert itself within us from time to time. Yet, we can follow the ants in learning to let go of the illusion that we are isolated beings, independent from each other. Like the ants, we can see our own smallness in contrast with the miracle of being part of something larger than ourselves.

Here's another thought about Parashat Ki Tisa, which we read this week. It has to do with drawing more pleasure from our food by eating with mindful awareness.

In Mei HaShiloach, the Isbitzer Rebbe comments on the verse "Let Aaron and his sons wash their hands and feet in water drawn from [the copper laver]" (Exodus 30:19). He states that the the priests cleanse themselves with water to remove the layers of their own personal desires and interests from their service, so that everything they do in worshiping God is for the sake God's will—not their own.

My study partner, Cantor Bob Scherr, pointed out that this is like the intention of the ritual washing of hands before eating. This act is called netilat yadayim, the "taking up of hands," and that is the phrase used in the blessing recited after washing. Why is it called "taking up hands"? Why not "washing hands"? One answer is that, before we eat, we should elevate our consciousness about food. 

Have you ever hungrily gobbled down a meal only to realize, afterward, that you missed the pleasure of tasting and experiencing it? If we eat just in order to satisfy our hunger, we will draw no lasting satisfaction from eating. The experience of deepest pleasure comes from mindfulness and self-awareness. When we eat just to satisfy a craving, like scratching an itch, our pleasure is limited to the moment of consumption. But, when we eat with a real awareness that the food we eat is a gift, and that by eating it we become part of something larger than ourselves, there is a possibility for a lasting pleasure that enters deeply into our souls.

This is the teaching of the Isbitzer extended from the ancient Kohanim to our daily lives. When we take the time to wash away the layers of our immediate and momentary cravings, we lift ourselves up into the joyous realm in which we allow God to enter into us.

If there is one Jewish holiday that screams out "joy," it has to be Purim. Yet, I'm sure that there are things we can do to make Purim an even better expression of joyous Judaism.
Instead of going through another year of  the same old youth group carnival, the same old spiel of Broadway retreads, and the same old dry Megillah reading, we can learn from each other to create a Purim of real, heartfelt joy. Come on, people, I want to hear your best ideas!

My friend, Rabbi Riqi Kosovske of Congregation Beit Ahavah in Northampton, Massachusetts, has a couple of ideas that I really love. Her congregation is currently planning its third annual "Queen Esther's Drag Ball," a Purim night event for adults held at a local dance club. The following day they will have their fourth annual "Megillah Reading and Purim Justice Fair." Rabbi Riqi says she got the idea of a "justice fair" from IKAR, the joyful and innovative congregation in Los Angeles. 

She explains that, in her congregation's Purim fair, there are no junky plastic prizes. For an entry fee of two to five dollars (discounts for those in costume), participants play games to win "Mitzvah Money."  The Mitzvah Money is awarded freely at the booths where participants play different kinds of games. After playing, participants take their winnings to the "Justice Table" where they can divide it any way they wish by placing it into six large tzedakah boxes. Each box has the name of a social justice organization and a poster that explains what the organization does. At the end of the evening, members of the youth group count the Mitzvah Money in each box to determine the percentage that each organization will receive of the money raised at the event.

I love this idea because it gets right to the heart of what I mean when I say that we need innovative ideas to make Judaism more joyful. It promotes broad community participation in an activity that is fun, memorable and makes people feel good about being Jewish. Most importantly, it gives meaning to the holiday and reinforces the mitzvah of Matanot LaEvyonim—making gifts to the needy on Purim.

What are your best ideas for making Purim even more joyful? Please respond with your comments so that your ideas can be planted like seeds in Jewish communities everywhere to create  a more joyful and meaningful Judaism.

This week's Torah portion, Ki Tisa, includes the story of the Golden Calf, Egel HaZahav, the idol which the Israelites built and worshipped at the foot of Mount Sinai, even while Moses was receiving the tablets of the Ten Commandments. 

At this point in the story, of course, the Israelites had just heard (from the very voice of God, no less) Commandment Number Two: "You shall not have any other gods before Me. You shall not make any sculpted image of what is in heaven above... You shall not prostrate before them or worship them, for I, Adonai, am your God..." (Exodus 20:3-5). Talk about bad timing...

The Golden Calf is the central image in the Jewish imagination of idolatry and the way that our dark side can separate us from God. Yet, the Golden Calf pops up in some very unexpected places in Jewish tradition. In the very places of the highest sanctity, we sometimes see reminders of the Golden Calf.

The first hint of this comes right in the story of the Golden Calf itself. In two swift verses, this week's parashah describes how Moses responded to the Golden Calf:

As soon as Moses came near the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, he became enraged; and he hurled the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain. He took the calf that they had made and burned it; he ground it to powder and strewed it upon the water and so made the Israelites drink it (Exodus 32:19-20, JPS translation).

Now, why would Moses force the Israelites to drink the idol they had made? While dramatic, it seems odd. Was Moses trying to prove to the Israelites that the idol was not a god but just a thing? Perhaps. (But, you know, there are some religions in which people do ingest what they imagine to be the body of their god...)  Maybe, Moses wanted to remind the Israelites that, even after the Golden Calf was destroyed, it continued to live on, within their very God-given bodies.

Many traditional commentators have noted that the story of the Golden Calf appears in an unlikely place within the narrative of the Torah. Parashat Ki Tisa follows two weeks of Torah readings that describe the design of the Mishkan (the portable tabernacle used by the Israelites to worship God in the wilderness) and the ritual objects used in it. Ki Tisa is followed by two more Torah portions that describe the actual construction of the Mishkan. Why is the Golden Calf standing, figuratively, right in the middle of the Mishkan, God's holy dwelling place?

As if this were not enough, there is another symbol of the Golden Calf sitting in the middle of one of Judaism's holiest objects. By tradition, the box of the tefillin worn on the head (bayit shel rosh) contains four scrolls that are rolled and tied with the hair of a calf's tail. One end of this little strand of hair passes through the bayit so that it is visible from the outside. According to the Zohar , this strand of hair is a representation of the Golden Calf (Zohar II 237b; with thanks to my teacher, Melila Hellner-Eshed, for pointing this out). We place the Golden Calf as a symbol between our eyes, in the midst of words of Torah and outwardly for the world to see. Why should that be?

The Golden Calf is a reminder of the darkness that lies within us. Rather than reject and deny the part of us that keeps us distant from God, Judaism keeps it right in front of our eyes where we can see it. It is the darkness from which holiness is able to emerge. Without the Golden Calf, it seems, we would not be able to recognize or realize holiness. That is why it is sitting there, right in the middle of the Mishkan, right between our eyes.

And here is a simple truth: You cannot be happy while you are cutting off your limbs. We do not prostrate ourselves or worship the Golden Calf, but we do acknowledge it and accept that it is part of who we are. We are called upon to live joyfully in the peace of knowing that we are made with conflicting instincts and inclinations. There is no shame in having a dark side, dark feelings, and dark instincts—indeed, it is the thing that enables the light to emerge from our souls. That should be a source of joy, not guilt.

Judaism is not a religion for those who profess themselves to be all-pure, all-knowing, or infallible—which is really just a denial of our nature of light and darkness. There is something very close to the heart of Judaism that rankles against the certainty of fundamentalism. Our peace and our happiness come in accepting the idea that we are all struggling to find the path that leads us toward God because we are made both of holy stuff and the stuff that hides us from holiness. With some resolve, devotion and hard work, we can begin to know the difference between the two. 

And if we ever forget, there is always that calf's tail waggling between our eyes.

I thoroughly enjoyed morning services this Shabbat, led by my friend, Rabbi Rachel Barenblat. In the study session she led after services, she brought her wonderful teaching for Parashat T'tzaveh, in which she points out that the recurring phrase, "an offering of fire for a pleasing odor to Adonai," can be read in a number of ways. The anthropomorphic image of God smelling the aroma of the offerings should be understood metaphorically—God does not literally have a nose, you know. 

Rabbi  Rachel shows how the word "rei'ach" (odor) is used metaphorically within the Torah itself (e.g., Exodus 5:21) to mean something like "the lingering ethical and spiritual effects of a person's actions." (It's not so different from the metaphors we use in English when we say that something is "sweet," or that it "stinks.") In the parlance of the Torah, our good and reverent actions result in leaving a pleasing rei'ach for God. Our bad actions make God reach for the metaphorical gas mask.

For me, the real payoff of our study, though, came from another insight from a member of our group. Mrs. R. observed that smells are effortless. Things that smell good need no effort to spread their fragrance and they don't expect anything in return. So should it be with our prayers. Prayers offered in joy are not like cosmic purchase orders submitted in anticipation of the delivery of our wishes. They are offered freely with no desired outcome.

This should be true even of the bakashot, the prayers in which we make requests of God—for example, prayers for healing, for sustenance, or for the coming of redemption. We offer up our words of yearning, but we don't expect God to hand us what we want like gift-wrapped presents. We leave it up to God to shape our yearning into the outcomes that reflect God's will—not our own.

This got me thinking about Shabbat and the exclusion of bakashot from Shabbat prayers.  The thirteen request blessings that form the backbone of the Amidah during the week are replaced on Shabbat by a single blessing of appreciation for the sanctity of the day. Shabbat is a time when we distance ourselves even further from seeking outcomes from God—we don't even ask for what we want on Shabbat because to do so would move us further away from the ideal of a free "offering of fire for pleasing odor" to God.

This is a bit of an inversion of the usual reason given for omitting bakashot on Shabbat. Often, we are told that it is inappropriate to ask God for things on Shabbat because God should get to rest on Shabbat, too. It is as if our requests on Shabbat would only "noodge" God on Shabbat. That explanation rubs me the wrong way. Psalm 121:4 says, "The Guardian of Israel never slumbers or sleeps," and I'm not convinced that God needs "a day off." I am much happier to understand that the reason for not making bakashot on Shabbat is  for the sake of our rest, not God's.

We spend so much time during the week considering and analyzing the possible outcomes of real and imagined scenarios. Our minds are busy, busy, busy all week thinking about what we want  and how we will get it. Like the hungry wild animals we used to be, we instinctively focus on grasping for the things we want. That's good, to the extent that we strive for things that truly benefit us and others, but we also know that we often overdo it. We hunger for things that we cannot have, or which would be bad for us. We create desires and expectations for ourselves that, ultimately, leave us unsatisfied and unhappy.

Shabbat is a time for letting go of our attachment to outcomes. It is a time for letting go of our desire to direct the universe toward the things we think will benefit us. We make no requests of God on Shabbat because we need to have a time that is just about being—not doing, making and striving.

In truth, our overall happiness—seven days a week—can be improved by using Shabbat as a time to train our minds and our souls to let go. By releasing ourselves from the anxious striving toward outcomes that are not really under our control, we can release ourselves from suffering and the needless distancing of ourselves from God.

And there is also this: Happiness does not come from getting what we want. Happiness comes from receiving the world as it is with equanimity and peace. "Who is rich?" asks Pirkei Avot (4:1) and the answer can only be, "Those who are happy with what they have."  When we let go of pursuing outcomes, we allow ourselves to receive God and God receives the pleasing odor of our happiness.

Those of you who know me personally may know that I'm home recovering from a bit of surgery this week.  (No worries, nothing serious). I found myself, at the end of the procedure, lying on the operating table feeling very happy to be alive and very happy not to be feeling much in the way of pain. 

Yes, I know that the wonderful drugs the doctors inject into their patients do a lot to create that sense of elation at the end of surgery.  However, I think there is also something more. 

As the surgeon was finishing his work, and as I emerged from sedation, I took  in my surroundings in the operating room. Then, I was surprised to hear myself uttering a blessing that I had not previously planned on reciting. I said (in Hebrew), "Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Source of all being, who has performed a miracle for me in this place!" 

When we face those moments in which we are forced to look at the miracle of our existence, we also are forced to recognize how incredibly lucky we are--no matter what the reason--that we have been given this gift of life. The experience of life awakens wonder and joy.

I've been thinking about this because several of my readers, both in the comments of my previous post and in other conversations, have told me that they think that meaning is the thing that is missing in today's Judaism. In order to stir the interest and enthusiasm of today's Jews, Judaism needs to answer "the big questions" of life and offer people a sense of their life's meaning.

I'm all for that. I do believe that for Judaism to be fulfilling, it needs to offer its followers a sense of personal meaning. Those questions—Why am I here? What is the purpose of my life? Why does it matter what I do with my life?—do need to be answered if Judaism is to avoid becoming a "dry as dust" religion. Judaism cannot be joyful if it doesn't help us to see our own lives as being meaningful.

However, I think that the quest for meaning is only part of joyful Jewish living. Specifically, finding meaning in life is the response of the intellect to living life with joy. When our lives are in balance and we feel at ease in the world—when we feel that the universe is a place to which we belong—our intellect responds by filling the chasms of the world's seeming randomness with order and meaning. The mind responds to the soul's repose with answers to basic questions about who we are and what we are meant to do.

Judaism is more than a philosophy, and it is not enough to have a Judaism that answers "big questions." At the foundation of Judaism is the admission that we cannot always have answers to the mystery of the universe in which we live. Judaism is a faith and it calls us to wonder at a world that is beyond our ability to make sensible.

In the book of Job, the biggest questions are left unanswered. God says, "Where were you when I laid the earth's foundations? Speak if you have understanding" (Job 38:4). Job is left (and so are we) with the challenge of finding equanimity in a universe that he cannot understand—a universe that defies the limits of meaning. He can only say, "See, I am of small worth; what can I answer You? I clap my hand to my mouth" (40:4). 

There are those moments in which we can only admit that our power to find meaning is useless. We clap our hands to our mouths and discover that our sense of equanimity in the universe to which we belong is far more than an intellectual idea. It is a repose of the soul that we gain by living a life in harmony with God and the world around us. It is the soul, not the intellect, that cries out joyfully, Blessed is the One who has given us a world filled with miracles!

It's time to talk tachlis ("brass tacks") about creating joyful Judaism. What are the specific things that Jewish communities can do to create services that inspire meaning, joy and fulfillment?

My experience as a leader of Jewish worship is that prayer is most meaningful—and joyful—when it is connected to people's lives outside of the synagogue. If worship is just a ritual people go through, without any reflection or relevance to their daily lives, then it will wash away from their awareness the moment it is done and it will never really have the power to engage or move them. The challenge for the worship leader always is to connect the worshippers—to each other, to God, and to their own lives.

Here are some specific techniques I've tried that seem to work:

1) Make each aliyah in the Torah service an invitation to self‐reflection. I first saw this technique in the Renewal Movement and it seems to be spreading. Each aliyah is a group aliyah in which the gabbai (the person leading the Torah service) announces a theme connected to the reading. For example, on this coming Shabbat, there will be an aliyah in which we will hear a description of the Urim and Thummim, the ritual objects used by the ancient High Priests to discover the hidden will of God. This aliyah might become an opportunity to invite to the bimah "those who are struggling to find out what God wants from them right now." In this way, the experience of the aliyah becomes more personally meaningful and it becomes an opportunity for the worshipper to connect his or her worship experience to the events happening in his or her life.

2) Use the blessing for the month as an opportunity to reflect on the last month and on the coming month. There is a traditional prayer recited during Shabbat morning service when the new moon will occur during the following week. The words of the blessing wish the community a month of happiness, prosperity, reverence and well‐being. I take a moment before the blessing to ask people to silently reflect on their experiences during the past month before we bless the new month. Those thirty seconds of silence give people the chance to think about what is happening in their lives in the context of holiness. It also makes the blessing that follows more meaningful, because it lifts it out of the realm of abstraction and drives home the idea that the blessing actually refers to the real‐life experiences they anticipate in the coming four weeks.

3) Take a moment after group study to use Kaddish DeRabbanan as a meditation on the coming week. I conduct a text study immediately following services every Shabbat morning. I always end the study with the recitation of Kaddish DeRabbanan—the traditional prayer for the conclusion of study. Before we recite the prayer, however, I ask the congregation to think about our learning together as if it were an offering that we have placed upon the altar to send upwards. In return, I say, we are blessed to receive from above a touch of divine energy (shefa) that will sustain us through the coming week. Our challenge is to take that energy away from the study table and to use it in our daily lives. I ask the members of the congregation, each in his or her own heart, to decide on one thing they will do in the coming week—something that they had not already planned on doing—that will make the meaning of the words we have studied come to life. We stand in silence for a moment before reciting the prayer together.

I should add that, while many Jews are familiar with most of the Aramaic words Kaddish DeRabbanan--its beginning and ending are nearly the same as the Mourner's Kaddish (Kaddish Yatom)—there is one paragraph in the middle of Kaddish DeRabbanan that is unfamiliar to many. For this paragraph of difficult Aramaic, I substitute an English translation that allows people to focus on the prayer's message of sanctifying the act of study. You can download the version of Kaddish DeRabbanan that I use from the "Resources" page. (Props to my teacher, Rabbi Kerry Olitzky for this idea.) 

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These are just a few of the things that I've done to keep prayer connected to the realities of people's everyday lives. I am very interested to learn about the experiments in meaningful worship that other people have tried (and, I presume, so are you). Please think about your best worship experiences and the specific techniques or intentions that have helped you connect your prayers with your life. Please, share them in the public comments below. (You can also leave me a private comment on the "Contact Reb Jeff" page, but then I'm the only person who gets to see it!)


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The idea of keeping worship connected to life is reflected in this week's Torah reading. Parashat T'tzaveh begins with a commandment about the ner tamid (eternal light) that was lit in the Mishkan (the portable tabernacle that the Israelites carried through the desert). Moses instructs the priests to keep the light burning continually. To the masters of the hasidic tradition, the eternal light of the Mishkan was connected to the light of our own souls. We are commanded to keep the fire burning within ourselves, not just when we are praying, but throughout all of our busy days. 

This is how it is expressed by the earliest hasidic masters (Likutim Yekarim 15b, translation by Rabbi Arthur Green in Your Word is Fire):

     A person at prayer is like a bed of coals,
     As long as a single spark remains,
          a great fire can again be kindled.
     But without that spark there can be no fire.

     Always remain attached to God,
          even in those times
          when you feel unable to ascend to God.
     You must preserve that single spark--
          lest the fire of your soul be extinguished.

As prayer leaders, we have an obligation to tend to the fire of people's souls, just as the priests tended to the ner tamid. Our obligation extends beyond the time that they are sitting in the synagogue, and, to do this, we must make sure that the worship experience is something they will carry into the stretches of time between their visits to the synagogue.