From The Brakhot Cycle

 

One whose dead lies before him

May be in no position to pray
or to converse comfortably
or even to make plans
for the funeral,
reschedule his haircut,
inform the book group

or the bowling league.
No matter the circumstance
(even if the death was
long in coming, if everyone
saw that angel peeking
through the bedroom keyhole)

it's a slap in the face,
a splash of cold water
that leaves the mourners
gasping. Don't expect
the behavior the movies
have led you to imagine.

Bring him simple food
-lentils
and hard-boiled eggs
are customary-
and let him grieve.
If he tries to offer blessing

hush him gently. There's time
enough for praise
in the infinite stretch
of time remaining
in the world now lacking
one more familiar soul.

*

What blessing does one make over fruit?

 

"Who creates the fruit of the tree," recognizing
the wild Kyrgyz ancestry of the Jonagold,
the Macintosh, the Empire, how trunks
twisted and gnarled bear something wondrous
and strange. "Who encases our tough hearts,"

palming a mango, tight skin almost bursting
over the flamboyant and succulent flesh
and the pit with its sharp edges. "Who
ripens holiness in its time," as berries ripen
by ones or twos or sevens, each cluster

the lifecycle in microcosm, from pale green
to the red of bitten lips, wanton and inviting.
Some say, "Who gives us diverse appetites,"
thinking breadfruit and carambola and durian.
Some say "Who helps us remember Eden."

 

*

Three who have eaten

Are obligated to look across the table
and see one another as facets
of the Holy Blessed One. To offer thanks
for companionship. To notice too

the cook, and thank him.
If in a restaurant, to greet the waiter
and the busboy, even if
he has dark skin and speaks no English.

Three who have eaten food
grown in the soil, or in coconut shavings
or even in air should note the source
and be thankful for it. Should

sing the praises of the factory
that milled the flour to bake the bread,
the truckers who carried lettuce
all the way from Argentina.

Some say "May all be fed, may all
be nourished." Some say "For this table
and all who are seated around it."
Some say "Bring us peace, speedily."

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You might have noticed in previous years that the father imagery is big in High Holiday liturgy. God as a father is all over the place in the machzor, but perhaps most notably in Avinu Malkeinu, Our Father Our King. This is one of those songs you learn as a kid and it gets stuck in your head for years at a time, and because the tune is serious and kind of dirge-y people don’t always pay attention to what it’s really saying, they just get emotional regardless.
Barbra Even Does A Version of Avinu Malkeinu: really makes you wish there were more consequences in life, doesn't it?
But if we're going to get all up in arms about this prayer, can we take a look at it for a minute. Here we have a whole significant section of our service where we preface every statement with Our Father Our King. Does anyone else see a problem here? Aren’t we the religion that doesn’t think God was a father? Isn’t this whole father/king thing rather Christian?

And the king thing seems rather quaint to most Americans. Prince Charles is going to be the King of England one day, and I’m not the least bit afraid of him, nor would I request anything from him except maybe local produce, since he seems interested in that.
Prince Charles: Not my father, not my king.
The point is, this whole thing is rather oldschool, and I wouldn’t expect it to seriously affect me but every year it does.

So how to compromise the daddy stuff with Judaism? There are actually some nice discussions of this elsewhere on the internet. MyJewishLearning has a nice article. And there’s a great post over at the Baraita blog. LeadershipU has a discussion of gender and God which is pretty interesting, too.

Here’s my take: Even though I’m all for egalitarian liturgy, I think that the idea of God as a father is an important thing to have in mind during the high holidays. Too often we think of God as this warm comfy mommy figure who will comfort us and always be there for us when we’re having a hard time. God as nurturer is a big thing in contemporary Jewish practice. Nurturing, after all, is considered very noble. But discipline and fear—those are harder to get next to in such a crunchy new age world. It’s hard to know where they really fit in to the kind of spirituality that a lot of people practice. And so, on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and all the days in between, we get this reminder that God isn’t just there for us when things are rough. God also expects things of us when we’re doing fine. God has demands. I know people who really worry about this every day, and are constantly viewing the world from a lense of what God demands of them, but far more of my observant friends immerse themselves in Judaism because it’s reassuring in some way. It’s familiar, or it simply feels good. And I think that’s fine—and certainly it’s true of me much of the time—but I like that every year I start off with this reminder that it’s not all about me being comfortable. It’s stressful, but it’s also helpful, I think.

You know how going to a concert is way more fun if you can sing along with every single lyric? Being able to chime in without having to think about it is a really big deal. It makes it easier to enjoy yourself and get caught up in the music.

I’ve recently found that the same is true for prayer. I’ve been praying every day for almost eight years, and though I’ve had most of the siddur in my head for ages, it wasn’t until recently that I actually tried putting the book down, closing my eyes, and going on autopilot.
This Is What I Look Like When I Daven: kind of...
Part of the reason I never tried was because praying without a siddur is strongly discouraged by the rabbis, who are terrified that you’ll forget the words or inadvertently slip up and say something along the lines of “Thanks for Jesus, and Mohammed, too. Rock on, God.” Since I only ever pray in Hebrew, and we all know how I feel about Jesus, this isn’t a big risk for me. Still, I was always nervous to close my eyes. It feels somehow scary, and too sincere to pray with your eyes closed. You know those people who gesture wildly when they pray (cantors are often guilty of this one)? I roll my eyes at them. Watching someone else pray with her eyes closed seems like spying, and if she gestures to God I just get embarrassed on her behalf.

Despite all these paranoias, I recently set down my siddur and began praying from memory, at least for the Amidah. And it has been liberating. There’s something about not having any optical distractions that really helps my concentration, and I think that closing my eyes, even though it makes me feel kind of naked, is a nice way of forcing myself to be less self-conscious with prayer. Not seeing the words on the page lets me get behind the words, if that makes any sense.

So I highly recommend memorizing as many prayers as possible, and seeing if reciting them by heart makes them any more effective for you. Looking for more prayer strategies and explanations?

There’s a really interesting article over at Daily Om about how to keep worrying from being your most intense prayer.

USCJ has published a piece about grand hand and body choreography for davening which sounds interesting, but which I’m sure I could never bring myself to do in public.

The BBC’s site about Jewish liturgy is surprisingly well done and informative for a beginner. Good for someone who wants to know what’s behind everything we do at shul.

Catholic liturgy works in a similar structure to the siddur, and A Nun’s Life has a nice analysis of the benefits of saying the Liturgy of the Hours.