During the 2nd weekend/Shabbat of January, Temple Beth Am hosted, for the eighth time, our Kol Tefilla conference, a national cross-denominational shabbaton focused on creative approaches to prayer, spirituality and ritual life. The conference emerged as a potential antidote to some of what is staid, even stagnant, in the sanctuaries of many American synagogues, even vibrant ones. To paraphrase Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, our pews may be filled with people, but not so often with fervent prayer. There are deadened zones in our houses of prayer, likely as a result of and also contributing to deadened spiritual zones in our hearts.
The weekend was filled with workshops, “how-to”s regarding curating joyful prayer experiences, repeat-after-me sessions on new niggunim/tunes, plenary sessions about the role that music, intent and choreography play in the development of the spirit.
In some ways, I cherish and applaud every idea, suggestion and tactic shared by the brilliant presenters.
In some ways, we are overthinking things. It is, or it can be, so much simpler.
This was reinforced to me by the deeply spiritual experiences I had on the next two Shabbatot. First in the rural, impoverished hills of Kenya. Second in Mbale, Uganda, the center of the 2000-strong (and growing) Abayudaya Jewish community. Both weekends were replete with rich, organic, spirited uplifting prayer. I will focus on the second one, as some details stand out that are worth mentioning, and emulating.
First, the room itself. I am exceedingly proud of the sanctuary that we redesigned at Temple Beth Am, and dedicated in September 2019. It is in-the-round. Bathed in light. With meaningful Jewish iconography filling the room, including 54 “parsha panels” that are intricate artistic midrashim on each weekly reading, which are lit up on the appropriate week. We spent years and millions on this project, so as to craft a space both grand and intimate, that beckoned and amplified song. I love praying there.
And … did we need it? The “main sanctuary” of the Abayudaya community, at the top of a hill in Mbale, seems more like the “beit am” at a Camp Ramah than like a standard “Beth El” American synagogue. Simple wooden benches. A concrete floor, utterly unadorned other than stencils in the shape of a Magen David (Jewish star). Ninety-five degrees outside, the heat inside only mildly ameliorated by some fans. The room was absent all of the accoutrements that American Jews tend to associate with “beautiful sanctuaries.” And this room, and the praying within it, could not have been more beautiful.
How? A combination of learned liturgy, planned spontaneity, the simple but energizing rhythm of two drums played by two young members of the community, and a certain unmistakable local spirit which lacked the ubiquitous self-consciousness that holds back many American Jews from “letting go.” They all sang. Including the ones who did not yet know the words. That’s how they learned the words. There was no “repeat after me.” There was just, “open your mouth and sing.” Many men and women around the room engaged in a soft, gentle “rocking,” of the kind that you’d find in nearly every black church in America, sort of a cousin to a more Western Jew-y shuckling.
They were smiling in prayer. Isn’t that how it should be?
The tunes, most of which were composed locally by Abayudaya Jews (and some were right out of the American Jewish “songbook”) were simple, repetitive, soulful. And, again, they were sung with volume, with a sense of release. Even abandon. This room, unlike our sanctuary in Los Angeles, had no acoustician working to ensure the right directionality of the sound waves. But this room erupted in joyous song.
There were many kids. But no kids’ service. No Tot Shabbat at the Abayudaya. Just all the generations of the community together, in one space, having a shared religious experience. The children learn osmotically, reminding me of the great quote by the extraordinary Jewish educator, Dr. Shlomo Bardin z”l (of the Brandeis-Bardin Institute): “More than Judaism is taught, Judaism is caught.” Yes, there is a role for didactic learning in our tradition, a matrix in which complex thought is transmitted by master teachers. I am proud of my own engagement in that phenomenon. And, there is a reason why camp works. Why kids come home with their hearts and faces ablaze with ruah/spirit. On the top of a hill in Mbale, in a community starved of resources (not “just” the Jewish resources we take for granted in the U.S., but actual human resources that even make subsistence challenging), I observed a room in which the next generation of this country’s Jews are absorbing everything they need to, from their elders, from the sounds and the movements around them, from the unbridled Jewish joy and pride … to help them become the parents, grandparents and leaders of generations to come.
To be clear, I am proud of all that our community and so many communities do to revivify and reenergize local spiritual life. Niche-programming for children and young families. Breakout learning sessions. Truncated and creative liturgies for learners. Special sessions to teach new tunes. Etc. … Part of our American Jewish culture demands such a sacred approach to innovation balanced with revered inherited tradition. At the same time, we could learn something from the Abayudaya in Uganda, and their much-smaller, even-less-resourced “sister” community in Kenya: Get people in the room. On time. Encourage them to sing. Keep the children present. Do it over and over and over again. Release. Let yourself go. Feel yourself lift and rise. To a higher spiritual plane. Perhaps even to God.
On Shabbat morning, when it came time for Shema, the Rabbi Gershom Sizomu (the Chief Rabbi of Uganda, raised as an Abayudaya in Mbale, ordained at Ziegler in LA) motioned for everyone to make a circle. And hold hands. And allow the love we were about to profess to God in the V’ahavta prayer radiate throughout hands to one another, so that we could feel it. In our bodies and hearts
Friday night’s Kabbalat Shabbat service was particularly sweet. They chanted one simple, beautiful, local tune to Lekha Dodi. Throughout the recitation of the Psalms, which thanks to the ecstatic Kabbalists of Tzfat from centuries ago are, aside from Lekha Dodi, the signature liturgy of Friday night, we kept repeating versions of the same phrase: Shiru ladonai shir hadash. “Sing to God a new song.”
It wasn’t a new song. It was the same song we sing every week. But it was so very very new. It was a moment to model. It was joyous. Raucous. Holy. It was even ecstatic. As it should be.
Maybe Kol Tefilla 2027 should be in Uganda?
Rabbi Adam Kligfeld is Senior Rabbi at Temple Beth Am.
