Davening

Long ago when I was just a kid, when my chin was as smooth as my head is now, the way we categorised someone's level of religiousness was by how often he went to shul. If he’d never seen the inside of a shul, he was a nogoodnik, to be marvelled at and pitied. If he only came when forced in an armlock by his mother to attend his cousins’ barmitzvahs, he was considered estranged. If he went three times a year, he was average. If he went every Friday night he was old school traditional. If he went Friday nights and Saturday mornings he was a pillar of the community. And if he went to shul on Yontifs too, he was as frum as the Rabbi’s children, please G-d Amen.

Going to shul was the celebrity spokesman for the mitzvahs; the public face of our mysterious heritage. It was common knowledge that there were people out there who went to shul every day, but what they did there was never made clear. There’s no brocha during the week.

Shul was a place you attended. You went to shul.  You stood up when everyone else did, sat down when everyone else did, and tried to keep vaguely to the right page number for appearance’s sake. Mainly by discreetly glancing over the shoulder of the guy in front of you. You waited politely until the service was finished, then you went home and took off your scratchy smart clothes. Before they had time to get crumpled on your bedroom floor the experience was forgotten. Shul wasn’t a place where you did anything. You didn’t participate in shul, you endured it.

The main reason was of course the language barrier. If those buzzing words had more meaning to us than background hum there’d have been no need for maternal guilt or armlocks. When you hear and understand the scorching poetry of the Men of the Great Assembly it cannot fail to heat the chambers of your heart. But if it may as well be gibberish you will of course be unmoved.

When I started becoming frum I recalled the idea of davening as the measure of religious commitment, and put huge effort into understanding and pronouncing the unfamiliar holy words properly. Nowadays the fruits of that toil are physical – flowing pronunciation and even simple pleasure in sending the words off my tongue – and intellectual – knowing what the words mean and their place in my daily adventure with Hashem. The hardest part now is emotional – honestly feeling like a participant in a genuine dialog between creation and Creator.

Whatever level you are on, davening is hard. But it’s worth the effort. We shouldn’t mistake it for the only or most important part of religious life, but it can be the front and the first part. Investing time and attention into whatever stage of davening you’re at will not be wasted. Let’s all carry on trying to improve our closeness to Hashem as part of His chosen nation.