Confronting our Dysfunction: Pernicious Page-Calling RHII, 5775, Beth Am Synagogue Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg

I’m going to do two heretical things these High Holy days. Both of them are not heretical to Jewish tradition; they’re heretical to Conservative or Liberal Judaism and to Beth Am Synagogue. The second experiment, if you will, will take place Yom Kippur. So, you have nine days to make arrangements at another shul. The first experiment is one of dialogue, namely our dialogue – yours and mine. You see, I fear our relationship has become marginally unhealthy. Not catastrophically, mind you, just marginally. And it's not that we have different values. It's not like we squeeze the toothpaste a different way. No, I think we both want the same thing, but there's something I keep doing and that you keep letting me do that, in my view, gets in the way of our shared aims. I want to change that thing. It may seem small, but by the end of this talk I hope I'll have convinced you that this small thing is indicative of our larger dysfunction. What is this awful thing I do? I call page numbers.

Now, my guess is you're reacting in at least one of two ways. Either you're thinking, "Isn't that the rabbi's job? I mean, why else do you go to five years of rabbinical school?" Or, you may be thinking, "What a jerk! I thought this guy was progressive and inclusive. I thought he wanted to make the service more accessible!" So, before we go on, I'd better reassure you. Yes, I like to think I’m inclusive. I value synagogue participation as does Cantor Greenstein. Oh, and I got top marks at Seminary in all three semesters of page calling! So what's the problem? I want to claim that while calling page numbers certainly enables more of us to follow the service, ironically, it’s a deterrent to prayer. Looking at the same page is not really the same as praying. Or as my teacher, Bradley Shavit Artson, has said, “We have obfuscated actual prayer in favor of reading a book together.”

How does the siddur function? Well, for one thing it’s filled with words, beautiful words but someone else’s words. That’s okay, because the fixed liturgy connects us not just to God but to generations past. And the siddur, being more or less the same as in other synagogues, is a tether to congregations around the world. In Pikesville, Pasadena, Poland or Petah Tikva, today is Rosh Hashanah. Avinu Malkeinu, Uneh Taneh Tokef, t’kiat shofar all feature. Our liturgy is unifying.

But while, aspirationally, we pray as a community from the same page, ironically and tragically, most of the prayer we actually do doesn’t happen in shul and I would argue, doesn’t occur on the Yamim Noraim. And that’s sad, because this is the time when we’re all in shul. And it’s tragic because it sells short the belief we Jews have that prayer can be not just meaningful but transformative, even dare I say, life-changing. I promise you when our forefathers got together and determined that Jews ought to pray three times a day, and when the editors of the siddur arranged elements of the oral tradition into some sort of written codex from which Jews were meant to daven, they didn’t think that two or three days a year, the Jewish people would come together and largely go through the motions of those prayers, internalizing few and struggling with understanding. If you think that's harsh, here's what Heschel had to say about the modern synagogue: "It suffers from a severe cold.... the services are prim, the voice is dry, the temple is clean and tidy…no one will cry, the words are stillborn."

Ouch. Is it that bad? Of course not! One of the reasons I love this shul is that we push against some of these tendencies. In many ways, we challenge ourselves to learn and pray differently. Last year's visit with musician-in-residence, Joey Weisenberg, is one example of many. Our services aren't so "prim," Ira's voice surely isn't "dry" and, despite Henry and Warren's best efforts, Beth Am 1

is not all that "clean and tidy." But, a mentor once taught me "if it ain't broke, break it." And while hopefully I don't quite match Harold Schulweis' foreboding description of what he calls the "lugubrious tones of the ritual master of ceremonies intoning the Siddur pagination," there’s still room for improvement.

Now, lest you begin to think I’m one of those rabbis who likes to stand on the bima wagging my finger, judging my congregants, I want you to know I take full responsibility for this – or at least most of the responsibility… okay, some of the responsibility. Conservative rabbis, liberal rabbis, have done a disservice to our congregations for decades. Harold Kushner tells the story of one of his professors from JTS, an Orthodox Jew, who visited a Conservative synagogue for the first time. “He was shocked,” relates Kushner, “by the custom of the rabbi announcing pages for the benefit of those worshippers who could not follow without help. He said, it was like going to a dinner party and having the host announce, ‘We will now all eat the salad with the small fork to your left.’” When we walk into a nice restaurant, we accept the probability that there will be some patrons who don’t know the different between the dinner fork and the salad fork. (I won’t say anything about the shrimp fork).

And yet rabbis, this rabbi, incessantly call pages numbers as if it’s the rule and not the exception that everyone in the room is ignorant about what’s going on or, worse, can’t learn by watching or asking others. You know there’s a story in the Gemara (Pesachim) about a certain rabbi, Rav Ashi, who visits Mahoza, a town in Babylonia, and they ask him to lead Kiddush. (This kind of thing happens all the time when you’re a rabbi!) The only problem is it’s Shabbos morning and where he’s from, they only make Kiddush at night. Well, the kiddush on Friday night has a whole paragraph of text after it. So, he chants the first line of kiddush and stretches out the last word – borei pre hagafennnnnn. He fudges it, and while he’s doing so, he looks around the room. And sure enough he sees this older guy in the back who begins to drink. So Rav Ashi takes the cue, finishes his prayer and drinks his wine.

This is a room of really smart people! Why do we assume that if the rabbi doesn’t call page numbers, nobody’s gonna know what to do, or that no one can figure it out. What’s my sin? I really don’t think I’m overstating this: each Shabbat, each Rosh Hashanah, I underestimate your resourcefulness. You may think it benign, but when I say, “We rise and turn to Page 280 for Hatzi Kaddish,” I am at least in part diminishing your davening experience.

Now I know some of you are feeling uncomfortable. Sometimes you walk in late and would prefer to know where we are in the service. What’s wrong with that? Or perhaps you don’t know Hebrew. Perhaps you converted and are still learning the language and flow of the service. Some of you aren’t Jewish. And more, this is supposed to be a safe space. This is where we come to take refuge from or find inspiration for the convulsing and confusing world outside these walls. Isn’t it my job to help you feel comfortable? Isn’t it worth being more didactic for the sake of those who know less, or risk alienating many of you altogether? I’m not unsympathetic to these concerns, quite the opposite. But I guess the answer depends on what we’re giving up to gain universal participation. Hillel says, lo habayshan lamed, “a shy person cannot learn.” What he means is that if we’re too embarrassed to ask for help, we never challenge ourselves, and learning can’t happen without stretching.

What’s wrong with asking someone next to you what page we’re on? My guess is some of you do this already. Or what if we provided you with simple resources, another way to know where we are. 2

Like a bookmark, for example, with page numbers on it? But instead, to forestall embarrassment, or because we haven’t been very creative pedagogues, we in modern synagogue life have set up a strange dynamic. You sit with dozens, or hundreds of your co-congregants with words in front of you addressed almost entirely to God, but you relate primarily to me, or the cantor. Our service, I think, has become too much like a show, our siddur too much like the Stagebill. And rabbis, who are supposed to be teachers, have become Masters of Ceremony. Maybe if I focus less on page numbers and stage directions I’ll have more to say about other things, about the content or meaning of the prayers. I don’t know, but I sort of want to find out. Don’t you?

So, now comes the part where I talk about your role in our dysfunction. Because you, my friends, are complicit in this too. And not just you, but many Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist and even Modern Orthodox Congregants in the Western Hemisphere today. You see, I’ve been paying attention. Lately, on Shabbat, I’ve been seeing what happens when I don’t call a page number or don’t tell you when to stand and when to sit. Often the cantor jumps in and does it, ‘cause he’s a nice guy and cantors have the same tick as rabbis, a well-intentioned need to keep everyone comfortable. But when no one says “you may be seated” or “we rise and turn to page 280 for Hatzi Kaddish,” all kinds of people (whom I know) know when you’re supposed to stand or when you’re supposed to sit don’t do it, because unfortunately, you’ve allowed yourselves to be dependent on me for something you can do without help. Or you’re not paying attention at all – which is hardly an unforgiveable sin. But it sort of proves my point. Because if the people who know how to daven, who understand the Hebrew and come every week are zoning out, chances are we’re all doing something wrong. Prayer, at its best, is about being engaged, inspired, not just when the rabbi speaks (though I hope you are) or by the choir’s harmonies, but by the words in front of you, by the people around you and by God. And one more thing- For those of you who are less familiar with the service, I fully recognize you have many priorities in your life, many demands on your time. But I want you to know this year we’re offering a Learning Minyan monthly on the first Shabbat of each month when we have our Sanctuary service. It’ll happen in place of the Torah class at 8:45. Join us and build your comfort and competency. There’s no reason you should have to feel less qualified or less comfortable here than you do everywhere else.

All this brings me to my heretical experiment. From now until the end of services today, I will not call page numbers. And I’ve instructed the choir members to kick the Cantor in the shins if he does. You have this bookmark. It’s only for today and only for Musaf and the concluding prayers. It should be fairly straightforward, but if you get lost or confused, please quietly ask someone nearby. And we’ll see how it goes. Experiments are just that. I want to know how this was for you. And we’re doing this on the second day of Rosh Hashanah because I know that this crowd is a bit more of a shul-going crowd (don’t tell the others I said that). Assuming this works, I’m hoping that you might be my ambassadors going forward. I’m not saying we’ll go cold turkey on the page-calling. But even incremental change is hard, and I’ll need people to help me say, “while tradition is important, just because we’ve always done something one way doesn’t make it best.” This Yom Kippur afternoon, at the Open Forum, I’m gonna ask you about it. And I’m gonna to tell you how it felt for me. And then we’ll think about how best to go forward.

So, in the spirit of fostering a healthier relationship, I want to conclude with two stories of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hassidut. And I’ll give you the punchline in advance: The first story is about my responsibility to you. The second is the inverse.

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One day, Rabbi Yisrael ben Eliezer, the Besh”t, who was about to enter the shul in Mdzibozh, comes to halt saying “Impossible to enter.” The Hassidim ask: “Why not? Most of the seats are empty.” The Besh”t answers: “The building is crammed full of prayers!” Hassidim: “Isn’t it supposed to be?” The Besh”t: “Not like this! You see these prayers are dead pryers. They possess neither the power nor the intensity to rise up to heaven. Instead, each new prayer crushes the ones beneath it.”

Meanwhile, not far away lived a simple shepherd and his twelve-year-old son, Dovid, who was what we would call today developmentally disabled. After years of studying he couldn’t even master the Aleph-Bet. So his father pulled him from cheder and sent him out into the fields with the sheep. One day, in the fields, the boy took a reed and made a flute. He played it for hours on end and took it everywhere with him.

When Dovid turned 13, his father decided his son needed to be exposed to Jewish practice. On Yom Kippur, he took him to shul in Medzibozh. Dovid sat quietly through Pesukey De-zimra and Shacharit. They came to Musaf and he was moved by the voices singing out in prayer, and Dovid said “Abba, I want to pray too.” His father replied: “Be quiet! You don’t even know how to read!”Dovid struggled to be silent through Mincha. Then, fidgety (as kids get) said “Abba, please let me pray.” “You’re embarrassing me! You’ll upset Reb Yisrael!”said his father. So Dovid sat quietly, but was moved by the service. Finally Neilah. People were davening in the flickering candlelight and the Presence of the Holy One was felt. Reb Yisrael stretched out his hands, tallis over his head, shuckling before the ark.

The boy couldn’t contain himself anymore! Not knowing the words, he pulled out his reed flute and began to play a melody. Everyone immediately stopped and stared, horrified by this blasphemy. At Neilah no less- The close of the holiest day of the year! But the Besh”t didn’t scowl, he turned from the ark, pulled off his tallis and rushed over to Dovid, placing hands on his head in a benediction. “Thanks to you,” he cried, “the stagnant prayers have dissipated. At the closing of the gates of heaven, we have been forgiven because your simple but honest prayer pierced the boundaries of heaven!”

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That’s the first story. Here’s the second one: Whenever disciples of the Besh”t gathered for prayer, their Rebbe would be completely absorbed. This was particularly true on Shabbos mornings, when worship continued for hours. At the conclusion, they would gather in a side room for a delectable Kiddush including cake, herring, and schnapps. Each week, the Hassidim finished long before the Besh”t, whose holiness and righteousness kept him entranced by his davening. He would go on and on, tallis over his head, shuckling and singing. His disciples would wait patiently with the allure of the schnapps and the sweet aroma of cakes wafting in. Stomachs were rumbling.

One Shabbos, one of the talmidim said, “we could sneak out, grab a nosh while the Rebbe’s davening, and make it back without him even knowing! What would be the harm?” Other disciples responded, “It’s not right.” That morning, was a particularly long service. Finally, from the aroma of cakes and allure of schnapps…the talmidim’s stomachs were rumbling. They were unable to wait any longer. Silently, the troublemaker motioned to the others to get up. But just as they rose from their seats, the Besh”t turned around, threw off his tallis and cried, “What happened? Where are you going?” The Hassidim were embarrassed! They looked at each other shrugging. “We’re so sorry, we were hungry!” The Besh”t was clearly disappointed. But the instigator/troublemaker was curious saying, “Rebbe, we didn’t make a sound. How did you know?” The Besh”t looked intently at his Hassidim: “When I pray, it’s as though there’s a ladder stretching from earth to heaven and as I pray, I ascend the rungs of that ladder. But you, you hold up the ladder. And when you stood up to leave, I fell.”

Two tales that, together, tell the same story. The first is a story is about how one who doesn't even know how to pray can teach those of us who think we do. It’s a reminder that an honest prayer, even from an illiterate child with a flute, is more beloved to God than a thousand of Heschel’s “stillborn prayers.” My responsibility, the Hazzan’s responsibility, is to enable and celebrate your honesty. The words of the siddur are beautiful, poignant, sometimes exquisite. But how we pray is at least as important as what we pray! Keeping you on the same page is not the same thing as leading you in prayer.

But the second story reminds us that you also have a responsibility to do your part, to hold us up. We work hard up here, to practice and to present melodies that uplift and words that hopefully inspire. The Baal Shem Tov also failed his students. They snuck out because he was so focused on his prayers, on God; he forgot to let his fellow Jews know how much they matter. But the Hassidim also failed their Rebbe. Prayer is many things and takes many forms, but as Jews it’s something we do together. At best, prayer is a trialogical experience. You, me, the Kadosh Baruch Hu. I need you. We need you. I want to climb that ladder, but I can’t do it alone. So won’t you join me?

Please rise and place your bookmarks on page 123. You got it? Ready? Let’s pray!

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