Praying for the Reality We Seek
What follows is the sermon I planned on delivering at Yom Kippur evening services.
When Jordan’s King Hussein traveled to Israel for the first time soon after the signing the peace accords between Israel and Jordan, many Jews ventured to the airport to recite a blessing. They came to say a blessing that few Jews ever have the opportunity to recite. It is the blessing for a king, prescribed by our tradition millennia ago. It reads: “Baruch Ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, sh-natan m’kvodo l’vasar va-dam. Blessed are You Adonai our God ruler of the universe, who gives some of God’s glory to flesh and blood.”
Although this story is admittedly a legend and I could uncover no proof of its veracity, it does illustrate an important Jewish principle and one about which I would like to ponder this evening. And that is the meaning of our prayers for our country and for Israel. Why does our tradition mandate a blessing for the government and in this case for a king? Perhaps it is to remind us that true glory only comes from God and that everyone needs to say out loud that there is only one true Sovereign. Then again perhaps it is because by saying a blessing we strengthen our souls. Even though the king might not be such a good ruler, or might even oppress us, our souls can resist oppression if we fill them with blessings of gratitude.
This has been the Jewish response to the world for thousands of years. Let’s shout a blessing to the world even though Tevye has been right for so much much of our history. In that famous line from Fiddler, he remarks, (say it with me) “May God bless and keep the Czar… far away from us.” On this Yom Kippur evening I would like to meditate on the meaning of our prayers for our country and the prayer for Israel.
In our own day and age our relationship to the government and its rulers has changed. Here in this country, we enjoy unprecedented freedoms. The Jewish community has flourished in America in large part because of the separation of church and state. Religious creativity has benefited from our constitution’s first amendment and the guarantees it affords. Many people become weary when religion becomes too much a part of the public square. We worry that public religious expressions will become exclusively that of the majority religion. And so, we fight to keep religion and state separate. Religion in here—in the synagogue. The state out there—in the public square. Still most feel little or no conflict offering a prayer for our country. Even though in any given year, half of us did not vote for the president, we persist in offering this prayer. We understand the meaning of the prayer for our country to be about asking God’s blessings for all and that the current government might rule wisely and fairly.
Most synagogues, such as ours, proudly display an American flag on the bima. But this was not always the case. This practice began after World War I when a wave of patriotism swept the nation. Likewise, the Israeli flag became prominent in American synagogues after Israel’s Six Day War victory when the American Jewish community was swept up in the euphoria that followed the overwhelming worry preceding that war. Today, I wonder what the future will hold given that flying the American flag has become increasingly associated with one party over another or that in many circles there is growing ambivalence about our relationship with Israel and its current government. But our prayers have never reflected our politics or our relationship with the state.
For millennia we have offered a prayer for the government. No matter where we have found ourselves, whether we enjoyed the blessings of American democracy or as in Tevye’s case were oppressed by the czar, we prayed for our country.
What is most fascinating is that this prayer’s origins date back to times when Jewish life was not flourishing, when we could not even trust the government and the state even caused us great harm. Take the first example of this prayer in our tradition. After the first Temple was destroyed and the Jewish people were exiled to Babylonia in the sixth century BCE, the prophet Jeremiah advises, “And seek the welfare of the city to which I have exiled you and pray to God in its behalf; for in its prosperity you shall prosper. Dirshu et hashalom ha-ir.” (Jeremiah 29:7) Pray for the peace of the city.
What is our first impulse after finding ourselves outside of the land of Israel. Let’s pray for where we find ourselves even if it is in the very place that is the very home of the guys who brought all this destruction upon us. Wow. You would think the prophet would advise us to throw curses at the Babylonians not blessings. The Jewish impulse is that no matter what our circumstances we pray. Even if we should not be grateful, we fill our souls with thanks. It is to stave off the oppression of the soul.
The rabbis adopt Jeremiah’s philosophy when they advised that we should pray for the Roman government who destroyed the second temple, although they added an interesting, and perhaps prophetic, caveat. The rabbis advised, “The government appears friendly when it is their own interests but does not stand by you when it is your hour of need.” (Pirke Avot 2:3) Still, the rabbinic impulse is cursing never serves our spiritual interests. Only shouting blessings serves the soul’s hunger. Cursing denigrates the soul. Blessings uplift it.
By the time, we arrive to the medieval period, and most likely in the years preceding our expulsion from Spain—again the list of bad stuff is quite long, we find the form of the prayer that we still recite today. I do not wish to offer a history lesson about the nuances of this prayer for our country, but it is important that we have been praying for the government regardless of whether we liked it or not, loved it or not, or in our own age, voted for it or not. Most importantly, we have prayed for the government whether it was good to us or not and even really, really bad to us.
Shout blessings to the world has been our motto from our earliest days and also from our earliest pains. And so, every Friday night, we say, “May we never be lazy in the work of peace; may we honor those who have died in defense of our ideals. Grant our leaders wisdom and forebearance. May they govern with justice and compassion. Help us all to appreciate one another, and to respect the many ways that we may serve You.” Those are the words of our prayerbook’s prayer for our country. The prayer’s dreams have not been realized, but we offer them nonetheless. Does reciting the prayer help to bring its ideals to fruition? I would like to think so. Does saying it week in and week out remind us about our nation’s highest aspirations? I really, really hope so.
And this brings me to the second prayer about which I would like to dwell. The prayer for the State of Israel, called in Hebrew T’filat L’sh’lom medinat Yisrael. The prayer for the peace of the State of Israel. Obviously, this prayer has not been recited for millennia and entered the prayerbook soon after the establishment of the state. In fact, it was authored by the first chief rabbi of the state, Rabbi Yitzhak HaLevi Herzog, the father of Chaim Herzog who served as Israel’s president beginning in the 1980’s and the grandfather of Isaac Herzog, its current president.
The words to this prayer were first published in Haaretz on September 20th, 1948, during a cease fire in the War of Independence. It is almost as if its concluding line is a prayer that the current cease fire might not prove fleeting as history so often suggests. “V’natata shalom baaretz, v’simchat olam l’yoshveha. Establish peace in the land and fullness of joy for all who dwell there.” Its words remind us that peace is not just for the Jews who make this their home but for all. Let every person who lives there feel joy. May the land know peace.
The prayer is recited in every synagogue in Israel. It is said by secular and religious Israelis. It is recited at public events and private affairs. It is not however universally said at all of the world’s synagogues. Many Reform synagogues only offer this prayer on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I am proud to say that our congregation is apparently unique among Reform synagogues because we recite the prayer for Israel at every Shabbat service. It remains my most fervent prayer that the land of Israel might know peace. That all its inhabitants will dwell there in safety and security. We pray for peace.
The prayer for the State of Israel begins, “Avinu shebashamayim, tzur Yisrael v’go-alo, bareich et medinat Yisrael, reshit tz’michato g’ulateinu.” Its literal meaning is: “Our Father in Heaven, Rock of Israel and Redeemer, bless the state of Israel, the beginning of the flowering of our redemption.” Our prayerbook renders it differently and reads, “O Heavenly One, Protector and Redeemer of Israel, bless the State of Israel which marks the dawning of hope for all who seek peace.” But the Hebrew echoes our tradition’s prayers. There is the resonance of the Avinu Malkeinu prayer from these High Holidays. We can hear the words we chant before the Mi Chamocha, Tzur Yisrael. Please bless the state of Israel. For 2,000 years we longed for our return to this land. May the State of Israel realize our most fervent hopes. May this unparalleled blessing of sovereignty prove to be the beginnings of our redemption.
And yet since October 7th, we seem even farther and farther away from this promised redemption. War, and violence, appear to be an ever-present part of Israel’s, and our people’s, reality. Are our prayers helping to mix religion and politics into some toxic brew? Does this prayer in particular give license to the violent extremists among our people? The traditional version continues beyond our prayerbook’s words and invokes the words of Deuteronomy and says: “And the Lord your God will bring you to the land that your ancestors possessed, and you shall possess it; and God will make you even more prosperous and more numerous than your ancestors.” (Deuteronomy 30:5) I become uncomfortable and ill at ease when we ascribe divine license to our own actions. Violence, and murder, are then sanctified by God. It is not as simple as editing these words out.
I hold on to Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s words. He said, “The most basic way in which all people may be divided is between those who believe that war is unnecessary and those who believe that war is inevitable; between those to whom the sword is the symbol of honor and those to whom seeking to convert swords into plowshares is the only way to keep our civilization from disaster.” (“The Moral Outrage of Vietnam,” January 31, 1967) We pray despite our reality. We do not pray to affirm our reality but instead to make our dreams possible. Our prayers do not mirror our lives or even our views. They point heavenward and toward our dreams. We pray for the reality we seek. We pray for the reality God seeks.
Ours is a stubborn faith. Despite historical circumstances, despite the daily cycle of despairing news, despite our precarious situation, despite the world’s tortured history of war, we pray for peace. And so, I focus on our prayerbook’s concluding words, “Establish peace and fullness of joy for all who dwell there.” If we say it enough, and more often enough, maybe we can help to realize its message. That has always been our inclination. Don’t let the world derail your prayers. At least for a brief moment, when we gather, here in this sanctuary, we hold fast and remind ourselves of our noblest of aspirations. We must never allow our dreams for peace to be cast aside.
I think this is why we so love the Hashkiveinu prayer. It embraces our hopes for peace. “Ufros aleinu sukkat shl’lomecha. Spread over us your sukkah—your shelter—of peace.” And it wraps this hope with our most fervent prayer that this peace will come to Israel and in particular our beloved city of Jerusalem, “Haporeis sukkat shalom aleinu v’al kol amo Yisrael v’al Yerushalayim. Blessed are You Adonai, Guardian of Israel whose shelter of peace is spread over us, over all Your people Israel, and over Jerusalem.”
Whenever we think of peace, we think of it beginning in Jerusalem and emanating to the world. In fact, the root of the word for Jerusalem is shalom. It is meant to be the city of peace. I don’t need to point out that present day Jerusalem is a far cry from a city of peace but that’s exactly what makes it a prayer. We have always imagined that one day this city will be filled with peace and to quote the words we recite at every wedding ceremony, “O God, may there always be heard in the cities of Israel and in the streets of Jerusalem: the sounds of joy and of happiness, the voices of grooms and the voices of brides, the shouts of young people celebrating, and the songs of children at play.” As soon as we were expelled from Jerusalem, we started praying not only that we would prosper in the homes we built in other lands but also that our most beloved place will one day know joy and peace. We are stubborn in the face of history. We are defiant against the tides of circumstance.
In 1966 Shai Agnon, the giant of Hebrew literature, was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature. He is the only Israeli author to have ever been awarded this prize. His words constitute a beautiful and exquisitely written speech. He describes his writing as a conduit for the many traditions he inherited, those from the Jewish people, those from all people, and those gleaned from nature. He speaks of his attachment to Jerusalem. And how did Agnon, who also edited the final version of the prayer for the State of Israel, begin his acceptance speech? He began by reciting blessings.
And what blessing did he focus on? It was the blessing for a king. To the Swedish monarch, he pronounced these words, “Baruch Ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, sh-natan m’kvodo l’vasar va-dam. Blessed are You Adonai our God ruler of the universe, who gives some of God’s glory to flesh and blood.” He blessed the king, and I would like to think reminded the king that there really is only one Sovereign. Wow that’s chutzpah. And that’s stubbornness. That’s how we pray. We pray with stubbornness in the face of history and chutzpah in the face of circumstance. And Agnon filled his soul with thanks. His soul soared on the blessings’ wings.
And then the Israeli writer concluded with a prayer. Agnon prayed, “May a redeemer come to Zion, may the earth be filled with knowledge and eternal joy for all who dwell there, and may they enjoy abundant peace. May all this be God’s will. Amen. Kein y’hi ratzon. Amen.”
No matter where we find ourselves, no matter where we stand, we defiantly hold on to peace. This has always been the message of our prayers. This has always been the message of our songs. May we never let go of our dreams for peace—for this nation and for the land of Israel and for the entire world. May we enjoy abundant peace. Kein y’hi ratzon. May all this be God’s will. Amen.