For each volume of Gashmius, the editorial team puts together an introduction that we hope familiarizes the reader with either a main component of neo-Hasidism in general, or the central themes of that particular collection. It often takes on some level of “authority,” as it is attempting to articulate our organization's understanding of ‘progressive neo-Hasidism.’ 

This introduction will be different. 

Prayer is not a topic about which we feel we can speak authoritatively. It is too personal, too resistant to generalizations. 

To that end, this introduction will not be expressed in the third person as an “authoritative” editorial team, but in the first person, as one individual’s reflection on trying to live a neo-Hasidic prayer life. 

Hello. My name is Jonah, and I am the editor-in-chief here at Gashmius.

We chose this topic of prayer as an attempt to bring our publishing from the realm of ideas into the realm of devotional action. After all, Reb Meshullam Feivush of Zbarazh (1742-1794) wrote that “the prerequisite for holy learning is fiery and connective prayer!” [1]

So where does prayer fall into our attempts to embody a neo-Hasidic spirituality?

For me, it is fraught. I share my struggles and yearnings below in hope that my experience might offer some support to others trying to walk this path.

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From the first time I read Martin Buber’s Tales of the Hasidim as a college student, I was struck by its description of higher states of consciousness attained through Jewish practices. It was instantly clear to me that prayer would have to become central to my life if I wanted to encounter God in the way described in those pages.

But first I had to learn how to pray! I spent years alone in my room, relearning my childhood Hebrew, and slowly working my way through the traditional siddur (“prayer book”). Eventually I started integrating myself into textually-fluent communities where I could absorb through osmosis. I believed that I had to know the most traditional version of the prayers before I could experiment with them, or try to induce a spiritual moment through them.

So each morning, I got up and prayed. 

But was I really feeling anything during those prayers? Did I touch any sense of holiness, or was I just going through the motions by rote in an attempt to prove to myself that I knew the “right” thing to do? 

And throughout those years of learning the words of the siddur (which very much continues to this day), I kept reading stories and teachings about the prayer experiences of Hasidic rebbes and teachers.

I read about how the hasidim used prayer as an avenue toward the state of devekus (a “fusing” or “flushness” with the Divine). I read about how this goal of devekus is related to mochin d’gadlus— an expanded state of consciousness — which is the opposite of mochin d’katnus— the constricted consciousness in which we live most of our lives. Practically, Reb Shefa Gold (b. 1954) explains that “when I am in Devekus, my perspective is enlarged; my source is established; my foundation is made firm; my sense of humor is intact; and Love becomes my guide in all actions.” [2] Devekus as a result of prayer therefore becomes the fertile ground through which we experience the Divine, and then we can translate that experience into the rest of our lives. 

But I also learned that there is a precariousness to this intensity. I heard about how Reb Uri of Strelisk (1757-1826) would kiss his family goodbye each morning before going to synagogue, just in case his soul expired during prayers. [3] That’s how powerfully the hasidim say we should be giving ourselves to prayer. Could I really buy into that? Is that even what I want? Is my desire for the Divine strong enough to offer myself without a care if I return? When I read of a bar so high for defining devekus, it is hard to say I’ve ever experienced something so profound.

Most radically— and perhaps, therefore, most intimidating— I read that Reb Pinchas of Koretz (1726-1791) taught that the literal substance of our prayers is Divinity. Since the hasidim teach that our souls are a literal piece of Divinity, [4] then the moment of prayer is understood as the part of the Divine contained within us reaching out and connecting to the part of the Divine that is beyond us. In that moment, “all is united – the one who prays, the Oneness to whom one prays, and the prayer itself, are all God.” [5] I found myself wondering how I could integrate such intensity into my spiritual life and whether I believe in my prayers enough to even attempt to claim that practice.

I learned how Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi (1924-2014) distinguished his neo-Hasidic practice from the English term “praying.” To him, the word “prayer” had too specific a meaning (coming from the Christian Latin, “to beg”) to encapsulate what the rebbes meant when they spoke about the Yiddish term davenen. Although supplication is contained in the term davenen, it could also hold everything from praise, to lament, to joy, and everything in between. Davenen, Reb Zalman taught “is living the liturgical life in the presence of God” [6]— no matter what is present for you at that moment! Depending on the day, different words or themes might jump out during the recitation of our pre-written prayers.

But what about the days —perhaps more common than not for me— when nothing in the prayers jumps out to me? When I’m just going through the motions again? As Marcia Falk (b. 1946) writes, “I cannot pray with my heart if the words I am saying do not ring with truth for me; at the same time, sometimes all the words are wrong, and one must allow the heart to speak with silence.” [7] Sitting with that silence —or bringing in my own spontaneous words— is a skill I am still building.

And Falk raises an important question for me: what if the words are “all wrong”? If they don’t seem true in my life? How can I bless God as the one who “frees the captive” when I open my phone after prayer to see videos of mass deportation in the US? How can I believe that God “grants peace” as war and devastation spreads across the Middle East, South America, and Europe? How can I internalize that a loving God is the substance of my prayer when my davenen is distracted by these worldwide and seemingly never-ending horrors?

I wish I could give an answer.

But know– I am struggling with you. 

And, yet, even as I describe it as a struggle, I smile knowing I can't imagine my life without prayer. It has become a form of home for me; an ever-available oasis amidst the parched desert of our broken world. When I find myself overwhelmed, I open my siddur and lose myself in the flow of my ancestor’s words. 

And when I davven with consistency, then every once in a while…I merit a glimpse. Sometimes it's a single word jumping out to me; other times it’s a bird landing on my windowsill while I put on my tallis; or a single note of a melody sung in community. But suddenly everything clicks. And just for a moment, I know God is in the room with me. And that’s worth all my struggles.

May we all find our unique ways to reach out to the Divine so that we all merit those glimpses.

Endnotes

[1] Meshullam Feivush of Zbarazh, Yosher Divrei Emes, kuntres rishon, 8. 

[2] Shefa Gold, “Devekut: God-Consciousness Imbued with Love YK5780”. Accessed via chrome-extension://efaidnbmnnnibpcajpcglclefindmkaj/https://www.rabbishefagold.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/yk5780-2.pdf 

[3] See Sefer Shema Shlomo, talmidav, 213, avodato. For an English adaption, see Martin Buber, Tales of the Hasidim: The Latter Masters (New York: Schocken Books, 1947), 145.

[4] See Shneur Zalman of Liadi, Likkutei Amarim Tanya, Chap 2 for one example.

[5] Pinchas of Koretz, Imrei Pinchas [Pinchas's sayings] (Tel Aviv, 1974), §123, P. 40. Translation by Rabbi Zvika Krieger.

[6] Worlds of Prayer: A Festschrift in Honor of Rabbi Zalman M. Schachter-Shalomi (Manham, MD: Jason Aronson, 1993), xvi.

[7] Marcia Falk, Book of Blessing: New Jewish Prayers for Daily Life, The Sabbath, and the New Moon Festival (San Francisco: Harper, 1996), 459.