Rabbi Janet Marder

May 8, 2007

Developing a Spiritual Practice: A Reform Perspective

            How do I understand spiritual practice as a Reform Jew? Tonight I will speak not academically but personally and from my heart.

            Jewish spirituality and spiritual practices are at the center of my life. So I should probably start by defining what I mean by those terms. I understand Jewish spirituality and spiritual practice as a striving to live in the presence of God; a disciplined effort to become aware of God’s presence in this world, and to respond to that presence. In other words, Jewish spiritual practices are designed to shape consciousness, and to inspire holy action.

            One verse in the Tanach, the Hebrew Bible, is especially important to me. It is Psalm 16, verse 8: “Shiviti Adonai l’negdi tamid  – I have set Adonai before me always.” Sometimes that verse is inscribed on a decorative plaque, called a “Shiviti,” which is hung in Jewish homes and synagogues as a reminder of God’s presence. I think of my spiritual practices as my personal form of Shiviti: they are the ways I try to maintain my consciousness of God, to keep that consciousness before me always, and to let it define the way I live.

            My practices are not esoteric – not part of a secret or hidden wisdom known only to an enlightened circle. They are part of my daily life, because I want to carry the sense of God’s presence into everything I do – a trip to the supermarket; a phone conversation with my mother; a walk down the street; a pastoral counseling session in my office.

            It is hard to do this. Hard to maintain an awareness of the Divine in the midst of the everyday. Everything, in fact, conspires to keep us from perceiving beauty, order, oneness, mystery. Everything conspires to keep us from hearing the call of the holy. This is captured in a famous saying of Rabbi Nachman, an 18^th century Chasidic master who spent the last part of his life in Breslov, a small town in Ukraine . Rabbi Nachman of Breslov said: “As the hand before the eye conceals the greatest mountain, so our little earthly life hides…the enormous lights and mysteries of which the world is full.”

            We can block out the sight of a mountain by holding our small hand up to our eyes. In the same way, the small tasks and preoccupations that fill our days can block out a sense that there is more to life than this, that we are part of something greater, that something significant is asked of us in this life. Jewish spiritual practices are designed to open the portals of perception; in the simplest language, to wake us up from the dull stupor of habit, routine, and narrowness of mind.

            So what are some of my spiritual practices? Here are four snapshots:

One – I am sitting in the Gamble House Garden on Waverly St. in Palo Alto . There are big white peonies in bloom, golden California poppies and purple irises, roses of every hue. I sit in the stillness of this place, taking in the colors and fragrances, the soft breeze on my face, the quiet hum of bees, the sounds of birds in the branches. I sit quietly and do nothing.

            Two – I am visiting one of our members who has advanced Alzheimers’. She is living in an assisted living facility – a small, comfortable, home-like residence. She is neatly dressed and looks much the same as she always did, but we can no longer have a conversation. She responds to my questions in monosyllables, or not at all. Finally I remember that she used to belong to our choir, so I start to sing some Jewish melodies to her. When she hears the familiar sounds she smiles and joins in. We sing together for a long time.

            Three – I am preparing for the weekly Torah class that I teach every Shabbat. I’m sitting in my kitchen on a quiet morning, surrounded by books spread out around me on the table. I spend an hour reading and thinking about the meaning of the text, pondering what I can learn from it. Sometimes sparks go off in my mind. Sometimes I am simply buried in a reverie. Sometimes I lose all track of time.

            Four – I’m saying the Sh’ma during a morning service. I close my eyes. I focus my thoughts on a person with whom I feel some conflict at the moment, and picture the face of this person. I remember that we are one, as God is one. I think about what unites us; I try to remove the barriers between us; I try to reach out to this person in my heart.

            Four Jewish spiritual practices that are important to me. They are, first – the experience of spending time alone outdoors; second -- the experience of music and singing; third --  the experience of study; and fourth -- the work of tikkun middot (self-improvement) and, by extension, tikkun olam (repairing the world).

            Let me say a bit more about each of these.

            The popular image of Jewish spirituality is that it’s all about the indoor life, and that it’s communally focused. We picture a group of yeshiva students bent over their books, or a congregation joining in prayer, or a family gathered around the Shabbat table. All of these are true and authentic images of Jewish spiritual practice. But there is also a deep strain of teaching that exalts the power of spending time alone as a way of opening the mind and heart to God.

            The Jewish creation story, describing the primeval encounter of human beings with the Divine, takes place in a garden paradise. The Biblical Song of Songs, understood by our tradition as a love poem about the spirit’s yearning for God, is also set in a garden. The word “paradise,” comes from the Persian word for “walled,” or “enclosed,” as Persian gardens were beautiful, tranquil places of greenery, flowers and clear pools of water walled off from the surrounding desert.

            Today we have great need of such places that are set apart from the dry, sometimes desolate terrain in which we live our lives.  But we are not the first to discover the healing powers of nature.  The mystics of 16^th century Tzfat (Safed) were sensitive to these powers as well. Before sunset on Friday, they would dress in white and go outside the walls of the city, into the open hills and fields, to greet Shabbat, imagined as a beautiful queen or bride.

            They knew that the transformation of spirit that we yearn for on Shabbat is best accomplished through a physical transformation, a turning away, a stepping outside the narrow walls in which the work week is spent. As they faced westward, watching the golden glow of sunset behind the beautiful hills, they would sing psalms and bow in welcome, creating the Kabbalat Shabbat service that is still practiced today.

            Hasidism especially stressed the importance of regularly spending time in solitude, preferably outdoors, under the open sky. Here, for instance, are the words of one of Rabbi Nachman’s famous prayers:

Master of the universe, grant me the ability to be alone.

May it be my custom to go outdoors each day,

among the trees and grasses, among all growing things,

there to be alone and enter into prayer.

There may I express all that is in my heart,

talking with God, to whom I belong.

And may all grasses, trees, and plants awake at my coming.

Send the power of their life into my prayer,

making whole my heart and my speech

through the life and spirit of all growing things,

made whole by their transcendent Source.

            It’s not necessary to stand on the lip of the Grand Canyon or on the shores of a great ocean to feel the power of nature. We can sense it in the most ordinary encounters. As one mystical text teaches: “Be open-eyed to the great wonders of nature, familiar though they may be. But people are more apt to be astonished at the sun’s eclipse than at its unfailing rise” (Orhot Tzadikim, p.15c).

            How does being in nature affect the life of the spirit? Richard Louv, author of “Last Child in the Woods: Saving our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder,” reviews research that has shown the profound effect of spending time in green places upon children’s level of tension, stress and depression. Being outdoors soothes, renews and restores the depleted soul. Here is one personal testimony from the book:

            “Growing up, I lived in a house that had a fairly big back yard and a creek across the street. It was when I was by myself that the environment meant the most to me. Nature was the one place where, when everything in my life was going bad, I could go and not have to deal with anyone else.

            “My dad died of brain cancer when I was nine. It was one of the most difficult times for my family and myself. Going out into nature was one outlet that I had, which truly allowed me to calm down and not think or worry. I really believe that there is something about nature – that when you are in it, it makes you realize that there are far larger things at work than yourself. This helps to put problems in perspective. And it is the only place where the issues facing me do not need immediate attention or resolution. Being in nature can be a way to escape without fully leaving the world.”

            Anne Frank, a girl who lived imprisoned on every level, summed it up most eloquently when she wrote: “The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be.”

            It is no accident that she wrote the phrase “nature and God.” Being outdoors, in a quiet place of beauty, is a doorway to the Divine. And when I can’t be outside, I try to create a garden within – an internal oasis of calmness and tranquility. I close my eyes and picture such a place. I take some deep breaths. Sometimes I say a simple prayer for strength and peace.  For a moment I escape the tensions of the present without leaving the world.

            A second practice – music and singing. Deeply embedded in our tradition is the notion that these can alter our consciousness in ways that bring us closer to God. The psalms were created to bring us into God’s presence through the act of lifting up the human voice in song. In the Second Book of Kings, chapter 3, the prophet Elisha longed for a moment of revelation. He called for a musician to come and play the harp for him, and as the musician played, the text says, the hand of God came upon Elisha” (3:15).

            We all know the story of King Saul, who suffered from recurrent bouts of depression mixed with paranoia. As it says in the First Book of Samuel (16:23), “Whenever the [evil] spirit came upon Saul, David would take the lyre and play it; Saul would find relief and feel better, and the evil spirit would leave him.” Many cultures have discovered the healing properties of music. It is no accident that Apollo was the Greek god of both medicine and music.

            But music is not just a form of therapy for the wounded spirit. The Merkava or “chariot” mystics of Talmudic times used sound as a meditational technique to bring on a trance-like state, to empty the mind of ordinary preoccupations. They created highly repetitive hymns and prayers which were chanted or sung, often in solitude, to open themselves to the Divine.

            The Hasidim were especially sensitive in recognizing the powerful, mood-altering effects of music upon the soul (and dance as well, incidentally). Essential to Hasidic teaching is the idea that we do not approach God, we do not reach peace and wholeness, through reason alone.

            Music lifts us up into joy, they said, and joy is the frame of mind in which we are most likely to encounter the holy. Thus they saw music as a profound path to God – sacred words sung or chanted, or at an even higher level, the wordless melody, the niggun, which takes us to a place beyond verbal expression. As one text puts it, “With song one can open the gates of Heaven.”

            How does music affect the spirit? Maureen Draper, in a beautiful book called “The Nature of Music,” describes its healing properties, documented by scientific research. Internal rhythms of the body are responsive to external stimuli; thus, slow music can help stabilize the pulse and heart rate, and affects the speed of brain waves. Music helps to release emotion. Pleasurable music increases the release of endorphins, the body’s natural painkillers. Music can also promote a cathartic release of grief, unlocking tears that are frozen within us.

            Maureen Draper writes movingly of how she has used music and singing – sometimes simply a chanted tone – at the bedside of the dying. Hearing is the first sense to develop in the womb, and it remains with us as we reach the end. “At times of loneliness and fear,” she writes “a vibrating tone is the connection between one soul and another, a bridge of sound between life and death.”

            Music of all kinds offers me a spiritual path that I love: playing my piano, listening to CDs, singing alone or with a group. It is a deliberately non-rational activity that lifts me outside of myself, submerging my individual consciousness in the sense of a larger unity, a structure greater and more powerful than myself.

            A third practice: the study of Torah. At first we might not imagine that a cognitive act such as learning would have anything to do with spirituality. But in our tradition there is no hard and fast split between mind and heart, between the cognitive, emotional and spiritual faculties. We are whole persons, and we approach God with all of ourselves – body, mind and soul. Hasidism teaches, in fact, that one of our central tasks as human beings is to discover our own personal path to the service of God, and then to follow that path with joy.

            For many Jews, and I include myself most emphatically, immersing ourselves in the study of sacred texts is a way of drawing nearer to the holy. Several beautiful texts suggest the spiritual power of this activity. The book of Exodus records that when Moses descended from Mt. Sinai , after receiving Torah, the skin of his face was radiant and beaming. The Talmud records that the Sage Rabbi Abahu went to Caesarea and from there returned to Tiberias, his face shining. When the students of Rabbi Yochanan saw this, they came and told Rabbi Yochanan, “Rabbi Abbahu has found a treasure!” Rabbi Yochanan asked them, “How do you know?” And they answered, “Because his face is shining.” Rabbi Yochanan replied, “Perhaps he has heard a new interpretation of Torah.” And so it was. Rabbi Yochanan applied to Abbahu a verse in Ecclesiastes: “Wisdom makes the face shine” [P.Shabbat 8:1,11a; Eccles.R.8:1].

            Another story in the Talmud: a pagan saw Rabbi Judah bar Ilai with his face aglow and accused him of being drunk. “Heaven forbid!” said the Rabbi. “It is Torah that makes my face radiate light” [Ibid.]. The morning prayer that celebrates God’s gift of teaching says “V’ha’er eineinu b’Toratecha – enlighten our eyes with Your Torah.”

            Clearly, there is nothing dry or academic about the activity that our Sages are describing in these texts. They knew, because they had experienced it for themselves, that Jewish study, approached with an eager, loving spirit, can light up your face and light up your life. Torah study, like immersion in nature or music, takes you out of the present moment and the narrowness of your current concerns. It lifts you to another realm, where you grapple with deep and meaningful issues, and feel connected to a conversation that has been going on for many centuries amongst all those who care for Torah.

            Rabbi Yochanan describes in some remarkable words what his own experience of study was like. Here is the Midrash: “Said Rabbi Yochanan, God drew out the Torah for me as a nursing mother draws out her breast for her child” [Pesikta D’Rav Kahana].

            Torah was given at Sinai with thunder and lightning and fire and smoke – and often we expect that spiritual meaning will be found only in extraordinary experiences, intense moments of enlightenment seated at the feet of a charismatic guru. But Rabbi Yochanan gives us a beautiful image of study that is entirely different. Perhaps the experience of learning Torah can be as quiet and natural as a child nursing at her mother’s breast, receiving life-sustaining nourishment that gives her the strength to grow. That, at least, is what is has been for me, giving to all the stages of my life a sense of structure, coherence and meaning, helping me to find my small story in the great story of our people.

            The fourth spiritual practice I want to discuss is perhaps the hardest to talk about. The example I gave, of saying the Sh’ma while focusing on the face of a person with whom I’m in conflict, is just one instance of a larger category of action – one that I will call “tikkun – repair.” There are two basic types of tikkun – tikkun middot, the inner work of refining and improving our character; and tikkun olam – the external work of repairing this world. Integral to both types of activity, for me, is the idea of mitzvah, religious obligation, the sense that something is required of me as a Jew; I am responsible to God.

            Too often people tend to focus on one or the other type of tikkun. They may take a psychological approach, working to develop within themselves greater reservoirs of patience, love, forgiveness, selflessness or integrity. Or they may turn instead to the work of social justice, seeking to create a world that more closely reflects our Jewish ideals. But in truth there is no separation between the two. Both forms of tikkun are spiritual acts, and the two are deeply intertwined. Those who labor in the fields of social justice without  paying attention to their own spirit often run dry after a few years, feeling exhausted and disillusioned with the slow pace of change. And those who focus only on the inner work of character development lead lives that are, in the end, sterile and self-involved. In the ideal Jewish life, both kinds of tikkun are practiced regularly.

            We all know the many prophetic texts that stress the spiritual imperative of creating just and compassionate communities – communities that embody Jewish notions of holiness. But many people don’t know that there is a vast Jewish literature on the discipline of tikkun middot, developing and refining our own personality in accordance with these same teachings about holiness. Sometimes this work is done in solitude, through reading, reflection and experiential exercises. Other times it is accomplished in groups. A small number of people may come together on a regular basis, for instance, to work together on forgiveness, or on controlling anger and channeling hostility in more fruitful and creative directions.  This is a time-honored practice developed within the Jewish movement known as Musar (moral improvement), led by Rabbi Israel Salanter in the 19^th century. Both kinds of tikkun, like the act of connecting with nature, music and study, bring us out of narrow self-interest. Perhaps this teaches us an important truth about the relationship between spirituality and the conquest of the ego.

            To sum up: spiritual practice, I said, is for me all about striving to live in the presence of God. Or, to put it another way, it’s about living in such a way that I make God more present, both to myself and to others. Every word and every action, no matter how ordinary, can be performed in a way that makes God more present in this world. Kabbalah teaches that our feeling that there is a gap between us and God is an illusion; in truth, God is present in every place, at every moment – it’s only our perception that is clouded.  Whatever we do to increase awareness of this reality is a spiritual act.

            The most important Midrash I know teaches this essential lesson. It begins by quoting a verse from Isaiah: “You are My witnesses, says the Lord, and I am God” [Is.43:12].  Which means, our rabbis teach, “When you are My witnesses, I am God; when you are not My witnesses, I am not God” [Midrash Tehilim 123:1]. Two thousand years ago we were taught that it’s up to us. We have the power to make God manifest in this world – by opening our own eyes to order, beauty, mystery and the essential oneness of all things; and by bringing God’s justice, love, and compassionate care with us wherever we go.