P(l/r)aying with the Shofar

Continuing with Rabbi Phyllis Sommer’s #BlogElul2024 prompts, today’s theme (Elul 16) is “Pray.”  Yesterday’s was “Plan” – and my tired brain conflated the two into “Play.”  Since I am quite a fan of Rabbi Sarason’s liturgical principle (describing the formation of our prayerbook) of, “why choose when you can keep both!,” here’s a few thoughts on the intersection of ‘pray’ and ‘play.’  (And a shameless plug to come to Prayer and Play tomorrow night at Temple, 5:30pm – and for those without younger children, there’s almost definitely going to be some extra pasta if you want to come early, I am a Jewish mother after all.)

Back on topic: There’s a fairly well-known story of a boy, either too young to read Hebrew, or older with learning difference, who cannot read Hebrew, going to High Holiday services with his father, but bringing along his flute.  In the middle of services, he begins playing his flute (which is forbidden by “traditional” Jewish law on a holiday or Shabbat).  Of course, his father and other congregants are appalled, angry, and the like; but the Rabbi smiles and says the boy’s music is the purest prayer from his heart, and because of the intensity and purity of his prayer, the rest of their prayers have been carried on the notes up to Heaven, and to let the boy continue to play with all his heart.  I think of that image, of Hannah pouring her heart out for a son in Yom Kippur’s Haftarah from Samuel.  I think of some of youth, who shall remain nameless, who shamelessly belt out melodies to prayers at services, or make happy baby sounds, or otherwise “pray” in ways that don’t fit the mold of sitting quietly with a prayerbook and staying on the “correct” page. 

Prayer and Play, at its essence is intended to channel the energy of our youth into prayerful play – play that is prayer, and prayer that is play.  Maybe that’s why my brain conflated these two words.  We pray from our heart, with sounds and emotions, as much as with words.  Years ago, I learned of a tradition to give the honor of sounding the shofar to someone who has had a particularly difficult year.  This (not wide-spread) custom seems to be based on a story from the Ba’al Shem Tov, wherein his disciple meticulously studies the hidden meanings of the Shofar calls before Rosh Hashanah, and then his mind goes blank during the service, he is devastated, thinking he’s lost this powerful intention behind his shofar sounding, but the Baal Shem Tov tells him that from the power of his devastation – his broken heart – all the gates of Heaven burst open.  Sometimes, our most powerful, prayerful, moments are when we think we’ve done it all wrong.  The ultimate intentionality behind our words is when the precision of the liturgy is not front and center.  It’s when we spiritually play: when we let the words of our hearts pour forth, when we let the music of our souls flow out, when we let out that imperfect wail of the shofar that we can connect deeply with each other and with God. 

In these last weeks before Rosh Hashanah, may you find opportunities to play, to pray, with all your heart and soul.  Maybe you try to sound the shofar and don’t get it on the first try.  Maybe your child leads a prayer at Religious School and its imperfect – God is not looking for perfection – God made us human, and expects us to be human.  This is my challenge to you: find a way to make your prayer a little playful, or your play a little prayerful in the week ahead.