The Value of Various Forms of Prayer

My most recent seminary question asked me, "Whether or not you include them in your own prayer life, what can you see as the value in the following types or forms of prayer:

Spontaneous, personal prayer:

Clearly, this is a guiding force in my own life, and I believe it can be of tremendous value to everyone for our daily lives. Since prayer is not talking to some Other Beyond, but is a connecting point with G!d, our Higher Selves, and a sense of being part of a much larger whole, spontaneous, personal prayer will instantly re-connect us to that Source, that sense of Oneness, tapping into the Energy of Being. 

Spontaneous prayer helps me clear my mind, breathe in G!d, feel connected and not alone, to appreciate the vastness of which I am a part. It shifts my vibrational energy, and in that moment, it can shift everything in very subtle ways.

One example of this is with the word kriya. The Sanskrit word kriya literally means action or completed action. In this way, it is like a seed that eventually leads to a bloom, a thought into actuality, a desire to commitment. In Kundalini Yoga, a kriya is a series of postures, breath, and sound that work toward a specific outcome of shifting our mind, heart and soul and bringing our breath into alignment. We become more complete, more whole. The author Julia Cameron stretches this a bit, and describes kriya as “a Sanskrit word meaning a spiritual emergency or surrender.” In Cameron’s definition, I am struck by it’s similarity to the Hebrew word, “kriah,” meaning “tearing.” It refers to the act of tearing one’s clothes or cutting a black ribbon worn on one’s clothes upon learning of a loved one’s death. It serves as a striking wordless expression of grief and anger at the loss. 

 

Sometimes my spontaneous prayers have been moments of kriyah, of my soul crying out because I am overwhelmed with emotion. Other times, my spontaneous prayers are as simple as a breathtaking view of nature, or one of the one hundred blessings a day in gratitude for the wonders of creation.

Clearly, spontaneous, personal prayer is a vital link for our individual souls to re-connect with the greater Oneness of All. We should practice it with great frequency.

Collective, group, or community prayer:

This type of prayer carries great energy with it, for it is the collective intention of several, and not just the individual. One of the great blessings of Judaism is that it mandates our interactions with, and as, a community. Many prayers require the presence of a minyan of ten adults. Even for many prayers which do not require a minyan, Jews often pray together. In fact, most of the prayers in the standard liturgy in our siddurim are in the plural form, using “we,” “us,” and “our.”

The most common examples of community prayer, of course, are the life-cycle events. Births, bris/baby namings, deaths, weddings, b’nai mitzvah celebrations, and of course the major holidays, especially the High Holy Days, all are important to gather as a community and pray. We find strength in coming together for a common purpose, whether of sadness or great joy. As I often say, a burden shared is a burden halved and a joy shared is a joy doubled.

It is said that, “the letters of the word tzibbur, “community,” represents the first letters of the words tzaddikim (“righteous”), beinonim (“average”), and resha’im (“wicked”). This indicates that our communities are comprised of the many, from the righteous to the wicked, and when we pray together, we become one, and our prayers become one united in voice to the One.

Judaism values community so much that the Torah has multiple words for groups, congregations, and communities, including shevet, tzibbur, edah, kehila, and kahal. In fact, in Hebrew, only two letters separate the community, kahal, from congregation, kehila: the “yud” and the “hey,” letters that spell out one of our names for G!d. This is a fitting metaphor to remind us that when the kahal community gathers to pray, it becomes kehilat kedusha a holy congregation, and yud-hey G!d is in our midst.

Saying traditional prayers (e.g. found in prayer books of organized religions):

After the destruction of the First Temple and the ensuing Babylonian Exile in the 6^th century B.C.E., the Rabbis decided that prayer would serve as a substitute for the previous sacrifices outlined as mandatory in the Torah. Hence, our synagogues serve several purposes, one of which is to be a beit ha’tefilah, a house of prayer. The synagogue usually follows a scripted liturgy, a form of public worship, developed centuries ago by the great sages and rabbis of Babylon, and have been collected and organized into siddurim, which means “order” or “arrangement.”

In his book, To Life!, Rabbi Harold Kushner describes why traditional prayers and prayer books are helpful to us. “A fixed liturgy confronts us with thoughts and affirmations that might not occur to us if we relied on our own imaginations, and says them better than we could phrase them ourselves. The very first page of the Jewish prayer book prods me to express my gratitude for having awakened alive to the new day, for the fact that my mind works, my eyes work, my arms and legs work. I give thanks for having clothes to put on and things to look forward to that day. Would I remember to be grateful for all these things every morning, especially on cold, gloomy mornings when I had not slept well and my body was stiff and sore, if I didn’t have the prayer book to structure my thoughts for me? Could I express either my gratitude or my dependence on G!d more eloquently than do the psalms I recite each morning?”

Siddurim reflect every facet of human life, and remind us of the love, compassion, and mercy of G!d to all of us. Having standardized siddurim means that we can walk into any synagogue and be part of the congregational prayer. A siddur, or any book of common prayer used by other faith traditions, allows anyone to pray along with those gathered. Beautiful and often poetic forms of prayers can inspire us, move us, and help us focus. When we are without words, our prayerbooks can speak for us; when we feel less than eloquent, our prayerbooks can again lead the way. Especially at times of our deepest grief, when we are lost in the shock and loss, the prayerbook is the flashlight that can bring us through the darkness to the other side. As well, prayer books keep us mindful that all of us share common needs, hopes, illness, pain, loss, and joy. 

The essence of prayer is for us to connect with the spiritual, to be reminded that there is more to life than this material and physical reality alone. The words in our siddurim, or any prescribed words formalizing prayers, are a guide. They constitute a framework, but not the totality of praying. Even those wise rabbis involved in collecting, organizing, ordering and arranging our prayers, establishing the times and words, also said, “Do not make your prayer a fixed thing.” Saying the words by pure rote, kevah, will be less meaningful than bringing our full attention and intention, kavana, along with us. Form, but not just form. Maimonides said that “prayer without devotion is not prayer.”

Singing, chanting, dancing, etc.:

There is a common saying that “singing is praying twice.” This is certainly true for me. It also bears out scientifically, because when we sing or chant or dance, we engage both halves of our brain simultaneously. We fulfill the commandment to love G!d with our whole body, our whole mind, our whole heart, and our whole soul, our entire being, when we can sing or chant or dance or move to our prayers. Even the traditional davening or shuckling movements is like the string on a musical instrument with brings forth music by the mere process of vibration.

I will never forget the very first time I joined the Sisters of Perpetual Adoration in their Clyde, Missouri monastery for a two week live in experience, and my first time singing the Psalms in community. I didn’t stop laughing and smiling the entire two weeks. Long had I prayed the Psalms by myself; never before was I fully immersed in a “surround sound” experience of the Psalms in community with other holy women. 

 

When I gathered on sacred land with other native people, we would chant and drum and sing and dance around the fire well into the night. I again felt myself to be whole during those holy moments. I was given the name “Singing Drum,” for I have both song medicine and drumming medicine, and I was gifted with special songs to bring back to the tribe on my Vision Quest. 

 

When I first began learning Hebrew, something deep in my soul clicked, as if this had been the language my soul knew eons ago. Once I began putting those Hebrew words into chant form, I knew I had again found a way to put together the two halves of my brain, and be present with G!d in an entirely new, and more whole, dimension of relationship.

Chanting, singing, dancing, drumming, breathing, speaking.... it is all very vibrational. Bereshit affirms that G!d created everything through the vibrational energy of words. I strive to be attuned to the highest vibration I can reach. I do this best when I sing, chant, drum, dance, breathe mindfully. It is my whole self prayer. Like the Bushmen of the Kalahari, I sing in order to climb, aware that each step up and down the ladder is related to the vibrational energy I experience. That ladder is a vibration. Jacob wrestled with G!d all night and was given the name Yisrael, the night he dreamed of this ladder of vibrational energy.

Which is all to say, I see immense value in these forms of prayer, and would not be who I am at all without them. Prayer is our “service of the heart,” as we read in Ta’anit, 2a. We bring everything we are to the Everything That Is. There is no single way, no one right way to pray. Our requirement is only kavana. And even if this wanes and we cannot muster intention, then our presence to the task will be enough for that moment. 

 

My favorite story about prayer comes from a story about the Baal Shem Tov (Besht) and Yom Kippur eve. The Besht traveled to a small town, and found a poor innkeeper who was the only Jew in his entire village, and throughout the year he had to pray without a minyan. During the Noraim Yamim, he would travel to the neighboring town in order to pray in its synagogue.  

This year as well, on the eve of Yom Kippur, he got ready to leave his home and travel to the neighboring town. Everything was set, and the innkeeper and his family left. In fact they had already traveled most of the way when the innkeeper remembered that he had forgotten to lock the door to the cellar of his inn. He hurried back, only to be met by customer after customer clamoring for drink, keeping him too busy to leave. 

In walks the Baal Shem Tov, and the innkeeper is despondent, because the only thing that this innkeeper knew by heart were the letters of the alef-bet. He tells the Baal Shem Tov this story, that he therefore began to read the letters one by one as a torrent of tears streamed from his eyes. “Sovereign of the universe, please accept these letters,” he said in his heart. “Assemble them into the proper words and intentions, and grant me a good year.” 

He goes on to exclaim, “Rebbe! I guess that you came here to reprimand me for my sin,” he concluded as he turned towards the Baal Shem Tov. “I know that I didn’t act properly. Please show me how to repent.” The Baal Shem Tov replied, “No need to worry,” he warmly told the innkeeper. “Many years have passed since such a sincere prayer ascended to Heaven on this Yom Kippur.” 

Even the simple alphabet can become a true service of the heart.