I've always been something of a “davening voyeur:” as my mind wanders from the words uttered by my lips, my eyes wander from the words on the page to the expressions, stances, and murmurings of those around me. Though nobody is quite sure how any individual chooses to daven the way he or she does, like handwriting, no two people express their physical selves during prayer in exactly the same way. Also like handwriting, however, prayers manifest themselves in certain discernible patterns. Over the years, I've become an astute observer of the various modes and styles of shokeling (swaying).
Most favor a simple forward-and-back motion, with a wide range of speeds and extension. Some have adopted a side-to-side movement, rotating at the hip in arcs of varying degrees. A third group, unsure of which custom to adopt, choose a combination of the previous two, dipping at one or both of the extrema of their arcs just to make sure that they have been yotzei lekhol hadeot. Yet another popular approach is one of no motion at all, in which people, as statues, engage in the worship of the heart. A final group has eschewed the traditional approaches in favor of a free-form flurry of rapid motions, flailing limbs, and (usually) swinging tzitzit. Beyond these basic movements – any one of which needn't necessarily be maintained for the entirety of the service – the permutations of the other factors are endless: eyes can be open or closed, in varying degrees of tightness; the head can be held up, down, or level; one or both hands can be held at the side, clasped in back or front, at the chest, or extended in front (fist clenched in encouragement or palms open in supplication). Et cetera.
Though the practice of swaying during prayers is not without its own interesting history (and requisite controversy, see Mishnah Berurah 48:5), in my travels, I've found the shokel to be universal in Orthodox Jewish prayer. One can imagine my surprise, then, upon turning around to examine the gathered assemblage at Charleston, South Carlina's main Orthodox synagogue, Brith Shalom Beth Israel (BSBI) and finding none of this. Of course, every once in a while, a congregant would restlessly rock back and forth from one leg to the other, but most simply stood there staring or reading or chatting with a friend. They would rise when the congregation was “asked to please rise,” and they would sit when they were told that the “congregation may be seated,” but for this largely traditional crowd, davening was mostly a spectator sport. This description is not meant to malign the fine Jews of one of America's oldest Ashkenazic congregations. On the contrary, strangely enough, I – and, hopefully, the congregants of this wonderful synagogue – found this experience both meaningful and enlightening; so much so, in fact, that I think YU should make it their business to send every capable and committed student to do something similar.
The Maccabeats (Yeshiva's male a cappella group) were invited by the Orthodox community of Charleston to lead this past September's High Holiday services. Hired with a mandate to replace the cantorial style of years past with a more “spiritual,” harmonious, and more popularly consumable service, we eagerly accepted the task and got to work. Though we had never done anything like this before, after a couple of weeks of late night practice sessions (and some advice from friends, relatives, and cantorial schools), four of us were ready to fly down and show Charleston why the High Holidays are a yeshiva-boy's favorite time of year. Little did we realize then that for as much as were to give, we would also receive – and I'm not talking about the generous monetary compensation.
Anyone who has been to Charleston can tell you that it's simply charming. The architecture of the historic downtown district is unparalleled (my wife put it aptly when she said that every house looks like the White House) and the waterfront at the Battery is a sight to be seen. Just as important as the place, however, are the people: beyond the greetings from strangers as you pass them in the streets – par for the course in many places, but still shocking to my New York City sensibilities – the demeanor of everyone I encountered was pleasant and well-mannered. Gone are any traces of Confederate grudging (other, less refined locales still proudly fly the Southern Cross), but the standards of southern hospitality and propriety are strongly maintained.
The Orthodox community presents no exception to these norms, simultaneously providing a fascinating culture (see our own Professor Jeffrey Gurock's Orthodoxy in Charleston for details) and impeccable middos. The Maccabeats' gold-glove treatment included being housed right in the middle of the historic district at the Kosher Bed and Breakfast, a 19th century edifice which is just as pleasant on the veranda-spanned outside as it is elegant inside. Eager congregants shuttled us to and from wherever we wanted to go, and though Charleston's selection of kosher eateries seems to be limited to high-fat food (a Krispy Kreme, a Coldstone Creamery, and a bakery), we made sure to sample each. Finally, as many of the four-hundred-plus members of the synagogue greeted us with their drawled “yah-sha-ko-ach”s after each prayer service, they made sure to invite “y'all to come back.”
Dayyeinu – simply being in Charleston was enough to make the trip more than worth it; but we had much more. Firstly, serving as the Yamim Noraim hazzan adds layers of meaning, excitement, and scariness to the tefillot. Besides the fact that I was forced to sit down and read the words and practice the tunes time and again in the weeks preceding the holiday, the emotional dynamic is really quite different from that of a regular worshiper. It's like the difference between watching a game from the bench, and being the go-to man for the buzzer-beater when your team is down by one at the end of the fourth quarter. This, on the one hand, makes the services seem to fly by (and this past Yom Kippur, during which we led Maariv, Shacharit, Mussaf, and Neilah, was the first fast day that bucked the joke and actually went fast) and, on the other hand, makes it feel as if you've really davened for the first time.
Finally, when the entire congregation would break their silence join in for the familiar haunting melodies of Avinu Malkeinu, Hashem Hashem, Berosh Sashana, and Ki Anu Amecha, one got the sense that these people really meant it. Praying with this strongly traditional crowd evinced feelings reminiscent of those conveyed by Haym Soloveitchik in a passage from his magisterial “Rupture and Reconstruction:”
I grew up in a Jewishly non-observant community, and prayed in a synagogue where most of the older congregants neither observed the Sabbath nor even ate kosher. They all hailed from Eastern Europe, largely from shtetlach, like Shepetovka and Shnipishok. Most of their religious observance, however, had been washed away in the sea-change, and the little left had further eroded in the "new country." Indeed, the only time the synagogue was ever full was during the High Holidays. Even then the service was hardly edifying. Most didn't know what they were saying, and bored, wandered in and out. Yet, at the closing service of Yom Kippur, the Ne'ilah, the synagogue filled and a hush set in upon the crowd. The tension was palpable and tears were shed.
What had been instilled in these people in their earliest childhood, and which they never quite shook off, was that every person was judged on Yom Kippur, and, as the sun was setting, the final decision was being rendered (in the words of the famous prayer) “who for life, who for death, / who for tranquility, who for unrest.” These people did not cry from religiosity but from self- interest, from an instinctive fear for their lives. Their tears were courtroom tears, with whatever degree of sincerity such tears have. What was absent among the thronged students in Bnei Brak and in their contemporary services and, lest I be thought to be exempting myself from this assessment, absent in my own religious life too- was that primal fear of Divine judgment, simple and direct.
There's much to be said for the “yeshiva Yamin Noraim.” Many return each year to their places of learning in Israel, and even the various YU services feature the primal screams, 500-voice-strong songs, and tremendous energy that accompany the prayers of a (mostly) newly-pious student body. This year, I gave all that up; I found, however, that as much as we gave up, we were able to give instead.
There's much to be said for having a Yamim Noraim at all. For most Jews affiliated with Orthodox synagogues, these days are less about awe and more about marathon sessions in shul watching some fellow – who may or may not be wearing a funny hat – alternatively chant and belt lengthy passages of unclear significance. Proof of this lies in the common conversations heard after the holidays are over about how late this year's davening went and how long the break was on Yom Kippur. American Orthodoxy's High Holiday services – particularly those of the outlying communities whose exposure to young, frum, modern Jews is limited to biannual Torah Tours missions – need a facelift.
I don't dare propose any serious liturgical or halakhic changes (though if the Avodah were printed in a larger font size I'd be more inclined to say it), but I think if we take our experiences of Yom Kippur in yeshiva and share them with the contemporary synagogue – as the Maccabeats tried to do, by including various popular tunes, making sure davening is as pleasant and harmony-filled as possible, and providing models of Jews who take the services seriously – then we might find that the ubiquitous boredom which seems to hover over the services would dissipate, if only slightly.
The High Holidays are by far the most crowded time of year in every synagogue. In one community to which I was sent for Torah Tours, the disparity between High Holiday and Simhat Torah attendance was literally in the thousands. While I applaud the CJF's Torah Tours for their efforts in spreading the name and values of Yeshiva University (and for sending me to some really cool places for free), we fail if we don't capitalize on the sheer numbers of Jews – affiliated and not – who could be inspired during the Yamim Noraim. It's well worth it, in my opinion, to sacrifice the length and grandeur of our tefillot to ensure that others get a taste of what we've had. Even if this just means going home for the holidays, exporting the “yeshiva Yamim Noraim” out of Yeshiva should be something we strive for.
Opinions editor Julian Horowitz also serves as musical director of the Maccabeats
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