Some of you may remember the group of Christians who visited our shul before Tisha b’Av from Living Water Bible Camp in rural Wisconsin. This Christian camp had a summer program devoted to comparative religion and the participants visited Chicago, experiencing first-hand some of the religious diversity that our city can offer, and that is completely absent in their corner of Wisconsin. I got a lovely card in the mail this week from the counselor who organized the trip. They enjoyed their visit to Anshe Sholom very much, and were extremely appreciative that so many of you hosted them in small groups in your homes on Friday night.
I had a chance to speak to them following tefilot on Shabbat and after I shared some basic ideas about the essentials of Judaism, I asked them if they had any questions for me. They had joined our congregation for Friday night and Shabbat morning and I was curious to hear what they were curious about. And I was confident that I would be able to answer whatever questions they had about Jews and Judaism. I’ve been a rabbi for six years, before that I was a full-time yeshiva student for six years. What question would a group of Christian visitors ask that would challenge me?
Someone from the group raised his hand to ask a question and as the words of the question came from his mouth I could tell that he was somewhat embarrassed to ask the question. It was clear that he didn’t want to offend me, but he also didn’t know how to phrase the question in a way that wouldn’t risk offending me.
“We didn’t expect,” he said, “to find the atmosphere in the synagogue to be so lively and… talkative.”
“We’re used to churches and other houses of worship that are solemn and reverential. Can you explain why people were having conversations during the service?”
I didn’t have a good answer for them.
I first explained that, as visitors, they were not sensitive to the different elements of the service, those parts which had greater religious importance, like the amidah, and Torah reading, and those portions that had less importance, like the haftara and “Aleinu.” Because we know how to evaluate the unique status of the various portions of the service, we focus our attention on the most serious portions of the service.
But, that isn’t true. There is no question that halakhic sources forbid talking, for example, during the repetition of the amidah, which is a time when many of us take part in side conversations.
I also tried to offer an historical explanation: When the Reform Movement emerged in the 19th century, they tried to make synagogue services more refined, more European, and more respectable by introducing “decorum” to synagogue life. In response, Orthodox congregations embraced the lack of decorum as a badge of honor. Our shuls were heimish, we don’t pretend to be Lutherans; we reject decorum as proof of our authenticity.
But that explanation is also unconvincing. Rabbis have been preaching and writing in opposition to talking during prayers for centuries before the Reform movement. Rabbi Yom Tov Lipman Heller, author of an influential Mishnah Commentary the Tosfot Yom Tov, from the 17th century even wrote a special MiSheBerakh blessing on behalf of those few individuals who refrained from talking.
I then explained that we are more than just a community that prays together, but we are an actual community. We share meals with each other, our kids are in school together, we share deep bonds of friendship and love and mutual responsibility for each other and when we convene on Shabbat morning, we are so happy to see each other that we begin schmoozing with our friends. This is a sign of our community’s strength, there are real relationships between us that exist throughout the week, outside the walls of this building, and that make it so tempting to talk when we find ourselves together with so many people we like.
This is an explanation, but it is not an excuse. And I left that meeting feeling uncomfortable with the answer that I gave.
Something surprising happens in this week’s Torah portion. A mitzvah is introduced that was not expected and was extremely challenging to our ancestors:
כִּי אִם אֶל הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יִבְחַר ה אֱ-לֹהֵיכֶם מִכָּל שִׁבְטֵיכֶם לָשׂוּם אֶת שְׁמוֹ שָׁם לְשִׁכְנוֹ תִדְרְשׁוּ וּבָאתָ שָׁמָּה
…
.לֹא תַעֲשׂוּן כְּכֹל אֲשֶׁר אֲנַחְנוּ עֹשִׂים פֹּה הַיּוֹם אִישׁ כָּל הַיָּשָׁר בְּעֵינָיו
.כִּי לֹא בָּאתֶם עַד עָתָּה אֶל הַמְּנוּחָה וְאֶל הַנַּחֲלָה אֲשֶׁר ה אֱ-לֹהֶיךָ נֹתֵן לָךְ
וַעֲבַרְתֶּם אֶת הַיַּרְדֵּן וִישַׁבְתֶּם בָּאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר ה אֱ-לֹהֵיכֶם מַנְחִיל אֶתְכֶם וְהֵנִיחַ לָכֶם מִכָּל אֹיְבֵיכֶם מִסָּבִיב וִישַׁבְתֶּם בֶּטַח
.…וְהָיָה הַמָּקוֹם אֲשֶׁר יִבְחַר ה אֱ-לֹהֵיכֶם בּוֹ לְשַׁכֵּן שְׁמוֹ שָׁם שָׁמָּה תָבִיאוּ אֵת כָּל אֲשֶׁר אָנֹכִי מְצַוֶּה אֶתְכֶם
“Only towards the place where the Lord your God shall choose, from all of your tribes, to place God’s name there – You shall seek God’s presence and you shall go there. In that place you shall bring all o four sacrifices. And you shall eat them there.
You shall not do as everyone does now – each person doing what seems right in his eyes.
For you have not yet come to a place of rest and permanence that God will give to you.
And you shall cross the River Jordan and dwell in the Land that the Lord your God gives to you and God will give you rest from all of the surrounding enemies and you shall dwell securely. And the place that the Lord your God shall choose for God’s name to dwell there – to that place shall you bring all of the sacrifices that I command you…”
These verses introduce the centralization of worship. These verses tell us that in the future, God will designate a location; we know Yerushalayim was chosen, and from that point on, it was only permissible to bring korbanot, to offer sacrifices, there, on the site of the beit hamikdash. “You shall seek God’s presence…and you shall come there.”
How do I know this mitzvah was shocking? Because it was ignored for centuries of Jewish history. Despite the way that we now speak about Yerushalayim being the eternal capital city of the Jewish people and the focus of our prayers from time immemorial, the truth is, that throughout the period of Tanakh, there was intense opposition to the centralization of worship in Yerushalayim. There were good kings and there were bad kings, but generation after generation, century after century, if you read through the Second Book of Kings, you’ll find that there was a proliferation of private bamot, private altars, and nobody did anything to stop them.
These private altars were not because people were worshiping other gods – people built private altars because it was more convenient to worship locally instead of shlepping to Yerushalayim. Just like it’s more convenient for us to daven in our living rooms instead of coming to minyan. Moreover, private altars allowed people to take care of their religious obligations, check off those boxes from their “to-do” lists, to demonstrate that they were doing what they were supposed to do, all without the destabilizing effects of encountering the Divine presence in the mikdash. “You shall seek God’s Presence – L’Shichno Tidrishu”
That’s a frightening thing to do and that fear could explain a lot of what we encounter today in our synagogues. Talking in shul cannot be explained by halakhah, it can’t be excused by halaklhah. It can’t be explained by history, and it can’t be explained by sociology. But Dr. Irving Levitz, a psychologist who studies the Jewish community has suggested a psychological explanation for talking during shul that I find persuasive. He writes:
“At times of personal crisis, individuals tend to be very conscious of the need to pray for Divine intervention and solace. At other tomes, however, when life is seemingly tranquil and crisis free, it is disconcerting to become conscious of one’s essential vulnerability, for this can evoke the discomforting feelings of existential anxiety…to socialize with friends and enjoy a sense of personal confirmation, community affiliation, a perception of well being and even a temporary respite from vulnerability, however illusory, is yet another way of keeping existential anxiety at bay.”
With this understanding, talking in shul, is an expression of cognitive dissonance, we talk in shul because we are afraid to pray. “L’Shichno Tidreshu” we are called upon to seek out God’s presence, but not only does that search always entail great effort and great struggle, but to recognize that one stands in God’s presence is terrifying.
This week the world is on fire.
After a tantalizingly short respite, rockets are again falling on our brothers and sisters in Israel. To the east, a well-funded and ascendant terror organization has managed to capture the attention of a callous and un-shock-able world through acts of violence so horrific they have caused fear and revulsion around the world among those who had thought they had seen everything. In our own backyard, violence continues to rage in Ferguson, violence that is all the more disturbing because it speaks to decades of repression and injustice that have been ignored for too long.
The world is on fire. Why am I speaking about talking in shul?
I’ve spoken on several occasions about my trip to Israel earlier this summer. I’ve mentioned how much it says about you, that AIPAC selected me for this delegation and their assessment that this shul can become an even greater source for advocacy on behalf of Israel. But, without question, the experience that I was most looking forward to when anticipating the trip, and the experience that has meant the most to me, was the chance to return to Yakar, the Jerusalem synagogue that remains one of the most special places to pray.
At Yakar, every single person in the room recites the tefilot, and sings together. And, those who aren’t singing sit quietly. That alone guarantees a powerful prayer environment. But, there are many places where tefilah happens without conversations and where there is lots of singing. Yakar is unique in the choice of melodies that are used. The songs they sing aren’t only happy songs with peppy up-beat melodies. They sing the tefilot with melodies that express vulnerability, yearning, longing, feelings that are hard to express, yet are at the heart of a mature religious worldview and are necessary for a full evaluation of the human condition.
Yes. The world is on fire. Our vulnerability, as Jews and as human beings, is more apparent than it has been for some time. And I need to pray. I need the help of a supportive prayer-community, a reliable daily minyan, a shul experience where it is possible to cultivate intense prayer, so that I can turn to God and express my fears, my anxiety, and my hopes.
Many shuls, including this one, have signs up on the walls requesting that people not speak during services or otherwise disturb them. At Yakar, there is a different sort of sign, one that asks a question:
Im Po Tidabber, Eifo Titpallel: If you talk here, where will you go to pray?
Rabbi David Wolkenfeld 